#I wanted to draw something angry with claws

[willinglymalicioustaco]

I did not sleep last night. Instead:

The mission went to hell fast. My hands still shake from the adrenaline, still buzzing from the fight, the screams, the wet crunch of bone and metal and the kind of blood that’s too dark to be human. Makarov’s soldiers didn’t expect me to shift. They didn’t expect me to bleed and keep moving. One of them stabbed me through the gut, and the other carved a clean line across my palm like he was gutting a fish. I let them. That was the plan. I’m a changeling. I adapt, infiltrate, deceive. They trained me to survive and shift and kill. But no one trained me for this part—the aftermath. The staggering lurch of reality snapping back around me like a noose. The poison in my veins makes my body too fast, too strong, too wrong. The med tent isn’t ready for someone like me. Neither am I.

I make it back to base, barely upright. Soap’s the first to reach me, voice sharp and panicked, hands hovering like he doesn’t know where to touch without breaking something. I can’t focus. I can’t breathe. The blood loss turns the room into a tunnel, narrow and pulsing. Then he touches me. Just a hand on my shoulder. A gentle anchor.

And I snap.

Panic claws its way up my throat like a living thing. My fist lashes out before I can even register the movement, and Soap goes down like a sack of bricks, hitting the floor with a sickening thud. My breath hitches. Horror hits a half-second too late. He doesn’t move. I take a step back, already stammering apologies that feel fake even to my own ears. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—” but my voice is raw and wrong and the air tastes like copper and guilt.

Roach comes next, trying to calm me down, but I don’t hear his footsteps over the screaming in my head. He touches my arm and I grab him—hard, too hard—and slam him into the nearest wall. His breath leaves his lungs in a rush. For a moment, there’s silence. Just the sound of my heart thundering against my ribs, like it wants out of me. Then I realize what I’ve done. Again. I let him go immediately, hands up, stepping back like he’s a bomb I just armed. He stares at me, not angry. Not scared. Just… shocked. I open my mouth to explain—something, anything—but the words die in my throat.

And then I see him.

Ghost.

He’s standing in the doorway, still as stone, arms crossed, the faint silhouette of his skull mask caught in the flickering light. His eyes—dark, unreadable, merciless—lock onto mine. And the weight of his stare crushes the air right out of my lungs. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. That look… it isn’t horror. It’s worse. It’s calculation. Like he’s cataloging what I am. Weighing the threat.

I’ve seen him look at hostiles like this. At corpses. At things beyond saving.

That’s the moment it hits me—he sees the monster. Not the girl I’ve tried so hard to be. Not the one with green eyes and golden hair and a sweet laugh she practiced until it sounded real. He sees what’s underneath. What I really am. White hair. Gray skin. Milky changeling eyes. Sharp teeth and bone-deep wrongness. And he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. He just sees. And I feel myself splinter under it.

Roach steps between us, face flushed with anger. “You let her run, you cold bastard!” he shouts, gesturing toward the tent flap I’d fled through moments before. “That look you gave her—she thinks she’s a fucking monster now!”

Ghost doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his voice is low. Dangerous. “She is dangerous, Roach. You saw what she did. To Soap. To you. What if she doesn’t stop next time?”

Roach’s voice is sharp enough to draw blood. “She stopped this time. She let me go. You’re the one who looked at her like she was already gone.”

The argument keeps rising. Ghost growls something about survival and programming, and Roach fires back about trust and family. I’m not there to hear it. I’m already long gone, blood trailing in the snow as I shift into something winged, feathered, fast. A shadow against the storm-wracked sky. My body isn’t working right. My magic is unraveling. Every shift feels like it’s peeling the skin from my bones.

I dive toward the mountains.

The wind howls around me as I crash into a crevice, bones jarring, magic flickering out like a dying match. The fall knocks the last of the strength out of me, and I shift without thinking, back into what I really am. The skin I never wanted. The one I was born into.

White hair, ragged and soaked with blood. Gray, ash-toned skin stretched too thin over a skeleton that doesn’t quite match human anatomy. Milky eyes that barely hold focus. A mouth with too many teeth.

Wrong. All wrong.

I collapse. Shivering. Bleeding. Hollow. The cave presses in around me, cold and unforgiving. I try to stay awake, but everything is heavy. My thoughts. My bones. The silence. Even the lie that I can fix this.

When they find me, I’m barely breathing. Soap, Roach, and Ghost. I see their silhouettes through the snow-blind dark. Hear their voices, dim and underwater. They’re shouting. Moving fast. I catch glimpses—Soap’s frantic hands, Roach’s pale face, Ghost’s coat hitting the ground beside me as he kneels. Their voices blur together like storm winds in my ears. And then I see Soap. His face. His eyes. And it breaks me. Not because of pain. Not because I’m scared. But because I expected it. That look. That half-second flicker of revulsion. I knew he’d look at me like that. And I tried to hide it. I tried. Even now, I reach for her like I always have—for the blonde girl with soft lips and green eyes and a fragile human smile that makes people relax. I reach for her like a lifeline. Like if I can just get the shape right, maybe they’ll forget the monster curled at their feet.

My magic stirs.

It’s weak. Barely enough to spark. But the illusion comes anyway, flickering like old film. My skin flushes, pinks. The sickly gray melts into warm peach. My hair bleeds gold across my scalp, strand by strand, like light bleeding into a dark room. My mouth reshapes. My eyes glint green again. And their faces—their faces—change.

Soap gasps, relief flooding his expression. “She’s stabilizing,” he says quickly, as if saying it makes it true. “Look—she looks like herself again.”

Roach breathes out something soft. Almost a laugh. “Christ, Em. You scared the shit out of us.”

Even Ghost—silent, grim, still covered in frost—lets out a breath I didn’t know he was holding. “Good,” he mutters. “That’s good. Hold it together, rookie.”

And for a heartbeat—just one—I believe them. Not the words, exactly, but the tone. The ease that washes over them when they see this version of me. The lie. The girl they think I am. Their relief pours into me like morphine. Warm. Sweet. Temporary. It shouldn’t hurt. I should be grateful. I should hold onto it.

But it’s not real.

This girl is a costume. A safehouse. A hostage situation I’ve run for years and no longer know how to end. And they don’t see it. They don’t see me. Not really. They think the soft lines and golden hair mean I’m okay. They think my healing has a face, and that it’s this one. But I’m crumbling beneath it. The magic is unraveling thread by thread, seams popping open beneath their hands. My real skin—gray, sharp, raw—presses against the inside of the mask like it’s drowning.

The illusion flickers again.

Soap doesn’t notice at first. His hands are on my face, trying to keep me grounded, keep me awake. “Stay with me, Em,” he murmurs. “You’re alright. You’re okay. You look alright. You look like you.”

You look like you.

The words dig deep. I want to believe them. I want to stay inside her. But she’s not me. She never was. She’s the lie I’ve bled to maintain. And she’s dying.

I try again. Try to hold her together. My magic sparks, jittery and frantic, pulling skin tight over bone, forcing color into my face like paint on cracked porcelain. I shape my mouth into a smile because they need it. Because I need it. Because I think if I don’t smile, I’ll scream.

It slips again.

A fracture in my cheekbone. A flicker of pale gray at my throat. They still don’t see it. Don’t understand. I see Roach grin through the snow and murmur, “That’s it. She’s coming back.”

They don’t know I’m trying to disappear.

They don’t know I’m dying inside this mask.

I try again.

Harder this time. My fingers twitch. My jaw locks. My eyes roll back from the pain of it—force-shifting a body that doesn’t want to be born. I’m holding the girl’s face together with sheer will. I can’t breathe. My magic is screaming through my veins. It’s too much. Too weak. Too late.

The spell shatters.

Not fades. Shatters. The color rips from my skin in patches like burned paint peeling from walls. My hair dulls, wilts, snaps back into brittle white strands. My hands twist, distort. My mouth slacks open and I feel the teeth push forward again, sharp and foreign and real. My skin grays in splotches, then all at once, and the girl I tried to be dies screaming inside my skull.

A sound leaves my throat that isn’t human.

And I see it then.

See them see me.

For real.

Their faces go still. Soap’s hands drop. Roach pulls back just a little—just enough. And Ghost… Ghost is already standing, already gone behind his eyes. That calculation again. The kind that decides whether to save or end a thing.

And I crack.

Not my bones. Not my magic.

Me.

My body curls in on itself like it’s trying to fold into the rock. I press my face into the cold stone floor and whisper something that barely makes sound. “I can’t… even die pretty.”

Or maybe I don’t say it at all.

It doesn’t matter.

Because the world tilts and tips and vanishes. My magic gutters out. The pain eats everything. And then—

Nothing.

Just the dark.

Narrator:

She hits the ground hard. Limbs slack. Chest barely rising. Skin all wrong. That soft illusion—the one they all clung to, maybe even loved—is gone. What’s left is jagged and gray and bleeding out in the snow, in the silence, in the aftermath of a shattering.

And for a second, no one moves.

Then Soap drops like the sky’s falling. Onto his knees, beside her broken form, hands moving to press against wounds that aren’t clotting, magic that isn’t responding. His voice is a harsh rasp. “No, no—Em, no—stay with me, fuck—Roach!”

Roach is already there, already unpacking the kit, gloves on, sleeves up, jaw set with surgeon’s steel. He doesn’t blink at her skin, doesn’t flinch at the twist of her arms or the way her ribs look too sharp beneath gray flesh. “Her pulse is weak,” he mutters. “But it’s there. We need to stabilize her now or we lose her.”

But Johnny—he can’t focus.

He’s shaking. He’s screaming now.

“You looked at her,” he snarls at Ghost, voice rising like a wildfire over Em’s body. “You looked at her like she was a fucking thing!”

Ghost stands rigid a few paces back, arms still crossed, eyes locked on the blood blooming beneath Em’s ribs. He says nothing. That silence—that silence—is what makes Johnny snap.

“You fucking cold bastard! She took a blade for you last month—ripped through her shoulder clean—and still ran extraction on the kid in Prague. She killed the Changeling King’s heir to keep you alive in Svalbard, and you didn’t even say thank you, just catalogued it like you were counting fucking stats!”

“She’s dangerous,” Ghost says finally. Low. Quiet. But Johnny hears it like a goddamn gunshot.

“She’s family!” Johnny’s voice breaks on the word, throat raw. He gestures to Em—bleeding, unconscious, wrong and perfect and herself—and shoves Ghost back hard, fists clenched. “You looked her in the eyes and killed her with it. And I—I—” He can’t finish. “I saw the flicker. I saw her see me flinch. Just for a second. That’s all it fucking took.”

Roach is working fast, covered in her blood, packing gauze against open wounds, his voice a mantra: “Hold on, Em. Just hold on, alright? Stay with me. You’ve survived worse.”

But Johnny is spiraling, voice ragged now. “She tried to fix it. Tried to put the mask back on for us. For me.”

“You think I wanted this?” Ghost growls. “You think I wanted her to break? I didn’t flinch. I assessed.”

Johnny rounds on him again, eyes wild. “Assessed what, Ghost? If she was worth saving? If she was still useful? If the monster could be aimed like a rifle again?”

Ghost doesn’t answer.

Because that’s exactly what he was doing.

And Johnny knows it. Em knew it. That look in her eyes—that final fucking look before the light went out—wasn’t pain. Wasn’t fear.

It was knowing.

Knowing they’d all rather have the illusion than the real her.

Knowing she wasn’t allowed to break, or bleed, or look wrong without someone writing her off.

Roach slaps a seal on the worst wound, voice snapping like thunder. “She’s not gone. Not yet. I’ve got a blood stim in—magic’s not taking but her core temp’s holding. We can still win this.”

“Don’t talk like she’s a mission,” Johnny mutters, but it’s not aimed at Roach.

He turns back to Em. Falls to his knees again.

The tears come fast, hot. His gloves are slick with her blood. Her chest jerks once under his touch. Barely.

“She’s still in there,” he whispers, voice breaking. “C’mon, bonnie. I know you are. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to see you like that.”

Ghost stays back.

For once, he doesn’t speak.

Maybe because he knows he fucked up.

Maybe because this silence is the only penance he can offer.

Roach doesn’t stop moving. “If we can get her stable in the next five minutes, I think I can—”

But Em’s body convulses.

Just once.

A brutal twitch.

And the magic that’s left in her lashes out—not controlled, not clean, just a surge of heat and shadow and pressure, like her whole body is rejecting itself. Like she’s trying to shift again. Even now. Even dying.

Johnny grabs her face. “No, no, no—don’t. Don’t try to be her. Don’t try to be the girl again.”

Roach backs off a half step, shielding his eyes from the flash as her skin ripples again—this time in panic, not power. The girl tries to come back.

But the spell fails.

Again.

Em shudders and jerks and collapses harder, her real skin bleeding back through the illusion. Gray. Pale. Wrong and right and her. Her mouth falls open, and a sound crawls out—wet, guttural, almost like a sob but too broken to finish.

And this time, her pulse does dip.

Flatlines.

For one horrible second.

Johnny loses it. “EM!”

Roach’s hands are already back on her, frantically slamming more heat into her veins. “Come on, come on—damn it, breathe!”

Her chest rises.

Once.

Shallow.

A heartbeat thuds beneath her skin.

Faint. Fragile. There.

And all three of them—Soap, Roach, even Ghost—are still as statues around her broken body.

Because she almost died.

Trying to be someone she’s not.

And they all let her.

Ghost:

Ghost watches her die.

Not physically, not entirely—not yet. But something in her crumples in that final flicker of failed glamour, and he sees it. Sees the exact second her will breaks.

Sees her give up.

Not from blood loss. Not from pain. But because the lie she always wore—the soft, pretty mask of humanity—won’t come back. Won’t obey. And without it, she doesn’t know how to be alive.

And Ghost realizes, with the slow horror of a man watching his own hands pull the trigger, that she thought she needed it. For them.

For him.

And he had helped her believe that.

Johnny slams into him with both hands, fury in every inch of his frame. “You looked at her like she was fucking expendable!”

Ghost doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even raise his voice.

Because he can’t.

Because Johnny’s not wrong.

He had been assessing. Coldly. Methodically. Watching her shift like a wounded animal backed into a corner, and instead of reaching out, instead of being human, he’d gone silent. He’d let the mask slip from his own eyes. Let her see the math in his brain—asset or threat.

Not friend.

Not family.

Not Em.

“Say something, you cold bastard!” Johnny shoves him again, chest heaving, eyes wild and rimmed with salt. “She would’ve died for you. Hell, she has. And you stood there and watched her fall apart like she was nothing but a tool you didn’t want to fix!”

Ghost doesn’t move. Not this time.

What could he say?

I didn’t mean to?

I was scared?

I didn’t know what to do with her face like that, like her?

No.

He’d seen combat changelings before. The enemy kind. Shape-shifters with dead eyes and smiles that never quite touched their lips. Tactical nightmares. No mercy. No softness. No real center.

He’d spent years learning to recognize the shift beneath the skin. To watch for the twitch in the bone, the warping magic. To identify, catalogue, and neutralize.

And even when Em had proven again and again that she wasn’t them—wasn’t a threat, wasn’t a trick, wasn’t a monster—his first instinct, when the illusion dropped, was to do what they’d trained into him.

Assess.

And in doing so, he watched her bleed out believing that look.

That judgment.

That she had finally shown too much, and now none of them would love her.

“You let her go,” Johnny spits, voice wrecked. “She looked at you for help, Ghost. Just for a second. And you gave her nothing.”

Ghost flinches. Just barely. But it’s enough.

Because Johnny sees it. And steps back.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” he whispers, trembling. “You know. You know you fucked up. That look killed her harder than the blade ever could.”

And all Ghost can do is stand there. Still. Silent.

Roach is working on Em. Blood soaking through his sleeves. Breathing hard, cursing under his breath as he tries to keep her warm, alive, present. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even acknowledge the argument. Because he knows too.

They all do.

The mask had slipped off Ghost first.

Then off Em.

And now?

Now there’s just silence.

And her body. Pale. Quiet. Real.

Johnny:

He’s shaking. He doesn’t know when it started—maybe somewhere between “she’s crashing!” and “we’re losing her!”—but it won’t stop. His hands are fists, white-knuckled and shaking, and he can’t breathe around the way her name is still in the tent, hanging in the air like smoke.

He doesn’t even know how he got from her side to Ghost’s chest, doesn’t remember the moment he moved, but his hands are already on him, shoving, teeth clenched, voice cracking.

“You looked at her like she was a fucking threat.”

Ghost doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

That silence—it makes Johnny want to scream.

Because it’s not that Ghost doesn’t care. No, it’s worse. It’s that he does. He just knows. Knows he’s fucked it, and he won’t even defend himself. Won’t even try to explain.

“You didn’t say a word,” Johnny snarls, spittle catching on his lip. “Not one fucking word, mate. She was falling apart and you—you just stood there! Like she wasn’t even a person anymore!”

Still nothing. Just that goddamn mask. That skull. That void behind it.

Johnny’s stomach twists. Something sour, something rotten. He remembers that look—just a flash in Ghost’s eyes, the moment Em’s skin split into that grayscale hue, all soft illusion stripped away. That inhuman beauty she hated. And Ghost had seen her.

And calculated.

Threat assessment complete.

And Johnny had felt it, like a nail driven into bone.

“She thought it mattered to you,” he whispers, voice fraying. “All that time she spent trying to look like someone you’d trust—someone you’d protect. And you couldn’t even give her a fucking blink, Ghost. Just stared at her like…”

He stops. Swallows. Hard.

“Like you were already figuring out where to put the bullet.”

And that does it.

A twitch.

Not much. A breath. A blink. Maybe less than that.

But it’s enough.

Johnny sees it. The flinch. The crack in the marble.

It lands like a punch to his own chest.

Because it confirms everything.

“You do know,” he says. Soft, but bitter. “You knew exactly what you were doing. And you stood there and let her break. You watched her die, and you didn’t even fucking flinch—”

He breaks off, swallows the scream behind his teeth.

“No. That’s not true,” he mutters. “You did flinch. Just now. After. After it was already too late.”

The rage drains out of him so fast he stumbles. One second a wildfire, the next—a husk.

He steps back. One hand rakes through his hair, the other clenched and trembling at his side.

“She was more than what she looked like,” he says hoarsely, eyes red-rimmed. “More than the face she put on for us. And I think… I think you knew that too. But you were too scared of what that meant. Too scared to look at her and still see the same person. So you didn’t. You shut it down. Shut her out.”

Behind him, Roach is still working. Still swearing, fingers slick with blood that isn’t even warm anymore.

And Em lies there, breath fluttering like moth wings.

She’s dying.

And all Johnny can do is stand there. With the man who helped her give up.

He turns his back on Ghost. Doesn’t say another word.

Because what else is there to say, when someone you love is breaking in front of you—

and the person who helped it happen doesn’t even try to deny it?

Roach:

It’s all slipping through his fingers.

Her blood. Her breath. Her shape.

Roach isn’t a medic. Not really. Not like the ones back at HQ with degrees and clean gloves and warm lights. But he’s sewn more bodies shut in the field than he cares to count. He’s stopped more bleeding with his bare hands than he ever should’ve had to.

But this?

This is different.

This is Em.

This is her.

She’s shaking. Convulsing. Limbs twitching like static’s caught in her nerves, like her body doesn’t know what to be. She coughs once, hard, and blood spatters his forearm. Dark, thick. It sticks, even through the cold.

He should be focused. Should be counting her breaths, checking the depth of the wound, applying pressure. Triage.

But all he can see is her face—no, not even hers. Not the one they know. The one she wears.

It’s flickering again.

Blonde hair curls in one heartbeat, gold and soft. Then it burns away like smoke, strands paling into white. Skin blooms with warmth—human pink—and then collapses into ashen gray. Her lips tremble. Her eyes shift between green and milky-white and green again, before rolling back entirely as pain pulls her under.

She’s trying.

She’s still trying.

Still trying to be beautiful for them.

Still trying to look like the girl who smiles at Soap’s jokes and blushes when Roach sneaks her coffee and flinches when Ghost looks her way.

She’s dying, and she’s still trying to be pretty.

And something in him shatters.

“No,” he whispers, throat tight. “No, Em, don’t. You don’t have to. You don’t have to look like her.”

His hands press into her side, searching for the bleeding, finding it, clamping hard even though it feels like pressing into a wound that reaches through her. Her skin shifts again, gold to gray. Gray to gold. The spell flares—burns. Then flickers out. Her whole body seizes.

“I’ve got you,” he mutters. “I’ve got you, okay? Just hold on. Just stay here. Please.”

But she’s losing it. Losing herself. Her eyes flicker open and there’s fear in them, not of the pain—but of being seen.

And God, that’s worse.

He leans over her. Forces his hands to stay steady, even though they’re shaking.

“Look at me,” he says, louder now. “It’s okay. You don’t need to shift. You don’t need to pretend.”

Her eyes lock on his. Pale. Alien. Raw.

“Y-you’ll look at me,” she rasps, coughing blood again. “A-and hate it. I look… wrong. I’m wrong—”

“No,” he says. Fierce. Final. “You’re you.”

He presses a wad of gauze into the wound, and she screams. But it’s a human sound. Raw and awful and alive.

“You don’t get it,” she sobs. “I was trying. I was. I thought… if I was her, maybe I’d be enough. Maybe I could be something you’d keep.”

Roach’s jaw clenches. His vision blurs.

He wants to scream. Wants to burn down the whole damn war for doing this to her. For making her believe she had to shrink herself down and paint her skin warm just to be worthy of a place beside them.

“You already are,” he says, voice breaking.

“You were, even when you scared the shit out of me. Even when I didn’t understand. You saved me. Again. And again. And I never thanked you, did I? Never once said, ‘I see you.’ Not her. You.”

She’s sobbing now. Silent, hiccuping gasps that seize through her as her magic fails. Not gracefully. Not peacefully. It tears itself apart.

The girl burns away for good this time.

And all that’s left is the changeling. The real one. The gray. Blood-matted hair. Sharp-boned face. Milk eyes full of terror.

Roach doesn’t stop working. Doesn’t flinch.

“You’re not wrong,” he whispers. “They were.”

He presses a final dressing in place. Wraps her side tight. One hand cradles her jaw, light, reverent.

“Stay,” he breathes. “As you. Please.”

Her breath stutters. Her body sags.

And then she goes still in his arms.

Roach doesn’t panic. Doesn’t cry. He just leans in close, forehead pressed to hers, voice low and steady.

“Don’t you dare go.”

Behind him, Soap is shouting again. Ghost isn’t saying a word.

But Roach is still here.

And he’ll keep stitching.

Even if the girl she tried to be is gone.

Narrator:

They carry her like something sacred and broken.

Not a soldier. Not a weapon.

Not even a girl.

Just what’s left.

Her body is light in Soap’s arms, but not because she’s small. It’s the kind of light that means empty. Like something hollowed out. Like the soul’s already halfway gone. Blood soaks his jacket, slick and slow, her head lolling against his chest as they move. His grip is too tight. He knows it. But he can’t loosen it. Not even a little. Because he remembers—he knows—it was him.

He was the first to look at her like she was broken.

And she saw it.

She felt it.

She died for that look.

Roach walks beside him, hands still stained red, cradling gauze and pressure packs, barking orders at the air, at the universe, at no one. Anything to keep from thinking about the way she reached for a face that wouldn’t come. The lie she tried to wear as her body came apart in his arms. She bled for the right to be seen as lovable.

And Ghost…

Ghost follows behind.

Silent.

Eyes fixed.

Expression unreadable.

But the silence isn’t emptiness. It’s a storm locked behind glass.

The guilt hasn’t taken shape yet—but it will.

The things he didn’t say.

The things he did.

Because he knew what she was. From the start. Knew and catalogued it. Threat level. Combat potential. Psychological profile. Like she was just another asset. Another moving part.

He’s always been the tactician.

And that’s why it cuts so deep—

Because he looked at her and didn’t see a reason to stop.

She tried to die pretty for them.

And all three of them—strong, trained, lethal—could only watch as she failed.

The medbay doors slam open.

White light floods the corridor. Bleach. Metal. Sterile order. None of it fits the bleeding, heaving chaos they carry in. Medics shout. Hands reach. Soap won’t let go. Roach has to pull him back. Ghost doesn’t move.

They lay her on the table. She’s not breathing right. Not enough.

Not enough.

One of the medics says something clinical, precise. A laceration to the lower abdomen. Puncture. Internal bleeding. Collapsing lung. Faint pulse. Another asks if she’s stable.

No one answers.

Because “stable” is a foreign language in this room.

And the worst part is—they still don’t see her.

The medics flinch at her form. At the teeth. The pallor. The eyes.

One of them hesitates before touching her wrist.

Roach sees it.

And his voice is iron when he says, “She’s one of ours.”

The room stills.

Orders resume.

But the damage is done.

And it’s not just in her body.

It’s in the space between the three of them.

It’s in the way Soap grips his wrist like he’s punishing himself.

It’s in the way Roach’s voice shakes when he whispers, “C’mon, c’mon, come back to us.”

It’s in the way Ghost hasn’t spoken in twelve minutes and doesn’t plan to anytime soon.

She is not dead.

But something has died.

The girl is gone.

The lie they let her cling to until it tore her apart.

And what remains—the creature, the truth of her—is bleeding out under cold lights, as a team that calls itself a family realizes just how blind they’ve been.

And how much they might lose.

Ghost:

He doesn’t sit.

Doesn’t pace.

Doesn’t speak.

He stands just outside the glass wall of the medbay, arms folded tight, boot heels locked to the tile. He’s barely breathed in hours. Just watches. Waits.

The doctors murmur in low tones. Machines blink. Tubes run from her arms. Her chest rises and falls in shallow, stuttering rhythm—like her body’s not sure whether to fight or give up. She hasn’t moved since they cut away her blood-soaked gear. They had to strap her down when the convulsions got worse. Not violently. Gently. But still.

Ghost watched them bind her wrists. And said nothing.

He hasn’t spoken since the mountain.

Since the moment her magic broke like glass in her hands and she begged for the pretty version to come back.

And it didn’t.

That’s what haunts him.

Not the wounds. Not the blood.

Not even the sound her bones made when she hit the rock face on the fall.

It’s the silence when her shift failed.

It’s the moment she realized she was trapped in the skin she thought they hated.

That he hated.

Because he knows what she saw on his face.

Not revulsion. Not horror.

Calculation.

It was never meant for her. That look. It was the mask he wears when he’s deciding who walks away from a mission. Who doesn’t. The look he gives hostiles and hard calls and dead weight.

And in that moment—she thought she was one of them.

She thought he’d decided.

Soap sits hunched over on the bench across the hallway. His head is buried in his hands. Roach is gone—probably passed out somewhere or vomiting up the guilt—but Johnny stayed.

He hasn’t looked at Ghost once.

Not since he shoved him, fists clenched, screaming “Say something, you cold bastard! Say something! She DIED because of you just standing there!”

Ghost hadn’t said a word. Couldn’t. What was there to say?

You’re right?

That wouldn’t fix it.

Nothing would.

So now he watches. Silent. Still. Stone.

Like he’s guarding a grave.

And he remembers. Every. Fucking. Detail.

The way her eyes found his across the cave. The glint of recognition. The desperate, hopeful shift in her skin as the girl started to come back—blonde hair, green eyes, the illusion she wore for them like armor. And how, when she saw the look on his face—when she really saw it—her whole body faltered. Twitched. Buckled.

Because she believed he was already letting go.

And she tried anyway.

Tried to hold it. Tried to look like someone she thought he could still save.

Someone he might want to save.

And when she failed…

She didn’t just pass out.

She gave up.

He’d seen men die before. Seen the surrender in their eyes. But never like that.

She didn’t go under fighting. She let go.

And now—every beep of the monitor is a fucking confession.

Every shallow rise of her chest is a question he doesn’t know how to answer.

What was she to him?

Not just a teammate. Not just a weapon. Not just another oddity to tolerate.

She was loyal. More than any of them deserved.

She was the one who took a bullet for Johnny. Twice.

The one who tracked a wounded Roach through a blizzard with half her own ribs shattered.

The one who took orders even when they carved her open from the inside out.

She was his.

He just never told her.

Not in words. Not even in looks.

Only in the way he positioned her in a stack. Protected her flank. Checked her six.

The little things.

The ones she’d never see if she was too busy checking for signs of revulsion.

Because she couldn’t believe she was anything else.

And maybe…

Maybe he let that be true too long.

The medics murmur. Adjust tubes. The overhead lights click down into a softer setting. Night cycle.

Hours pass. He doesn’t move.

Soap finally lifts his head, voice low and brittle. “She’s not gonna die, right?”

Ghost doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t know how.

Soap:

Not in some poetic way. Not some soul-bond metaphor.

He hears it because it’s piped through the glass into the hallway.

Through the machines they hooked her up to.

Through the steady, shallow beep… beep… beep… that’s the only goddamn thing keeping him from vomiting on the tile floor.

It’s too soft. Too slow.

Too fucking fragile.

He hasn’t moved from this bench in hours. His back’s cramped. His spine aches. He doesn’t care. He can’t stop seeing it—her face, the way it shattered the second she looked at him. The second their eyes met. The second he flinched.

Because he did. God help him. He flinched.

She had just crawled into her deathbed, choking on her own magic, and she looked at him for hope. Just a second. Just a flicker.

And he—

He fucking flinched.

Not out of disgust. Not out of fear. Out of pure, uncut shock.

Because it had never hit him—not really—what she’d been hiding.

He thought she kept her mask up out of habit, vanity, ease.

He didn’t know it was terror.

Didn’t know that this was what she thought of herself.

That all the warmth and soft laughter and shiny blonde prettiness was a costume she wore just to stand beside them.

He didn’t know that without it, she thought she was unworthy of love.

And his dumb, useless fucking flinch just proved her right.

He punched a wall after they got her strapped down. A real one. Not metaphorical. Left blood on the knuckles. Doesn’t remember doing it. Just remembers Roach screaming for gauze while Em writhed on the table, her skin stuck somewhere between forms, teeth too long for a human mouth and eyes that wouldn’t stay still. Blood came up when she coughed. So much blood.

And she still tried to shift.

Still tried to go pretty.

Still tried to look like someone they could stand to touch.

And Johnny had screamed. Not at her. At Ghost.

At the son of a bitch standing in the doorway like death himself, arms crossed, skull mask hiding nothing.

He’d wanted to make him react. Wanted Ghost to say something. To admit she mattered.

That she wasn’t a monster.

That she was theirs.

But Ghost hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t moved.

Except when Johnny shoved him.

And that flinch—just that one motion—cut deeper than any words could.

Because it meant Ghost knew.

He knew what she saw. Knew what it did. And he couldn’t lie.

Couldn’t tell Johnny it didn’t mean anything.

Because it meant everything.

So now here they are.

Roach is off somewhere in medbay limbo, hands soaked in changeling blood, probably breaking apart on the inside. And Ghost is standing like a sentinel outside the glass. Still. Silent. Stone.

And Soap is slumped on a bench, face buried in his hands, trying not to fall the fuck apart. Because if she dies—

No.

No. He won’t say it.

But if she does…

He’ll never forgive himself.

Because when the time came—

When she looked at him for permission to be real,

to be herself,

to be seen—

He failed her.

And he doesn’t know how to come back from that.

He doesn’t know how he mutters the question to the silent sentinel that is Ghost. But it falls from his lips all the same, “She’s not gonna die, right?”

And the ass has the stone faced facade down enough to just stand there.

Johnny glances up. And finds Ghost’s eyes through the crack in the door, or perhaps the sliver of the medbay window—which one he’s not sure, but he’s silent, and just watching.

Johnny hangs his head again.

Too tired to fight the sentinel this time.

Roach:

It takes nineteen minutes and forty-three seconds to get her from the cave to the medbay.

He knows because he counted. Not on purpose. Not as some trauma-tic tic to latch onto. It was the only thing his mind could hold onto while her body bled out in his arms on the ground of the cave.

He didn’t look at her face. Not at first. He looked at the wound. The writhing skin. The edges where the magic had blistered, clotted, collapsed in on itself like scorched silk. He looked at the tremors. The blood. The mess that used to be a ribcage. He kept his hands moving like that could matter. Like training applied to this.

But the moment that broke him wasn’t the injuries. It wasn’t the convulsions. It wasn’t the scream she couldn’t finish because she choked on her own tongue.

It was when she turned her head, barely lucid, saw him hovering—and tried to look pretty.

He watched it happen in real time. Her skin shimmered like hot oil. Her hair changed shades in patchy, uneven blots. Pink tried to creep into her cheeks. Green bled into one iris, then flickered out like a dying screen. Her lips curled in the beginnings of that fake laugh—the sweet one she always used when she was afraid they were getting too close. Like she was about to say something dumb and deflective like “D’you like the new color?”

But her body couldn’t hold the spell.

And it broke her.

She let out this sound—not a scream, not a sob—just this quiet, rasping moan, like a kid finding out the sun doesn’t come back tomorrow.

And then she coughed blood on his sleeve. A full mouthful. Warm and black and thick.

Roach didn’t speak.

He just cradled her skull, murmured something soft—not a lie, not a promise. Just contact. Kept the pressure on. Kept breathing in rhythm with her. Kept saying her name like if he did it enough times it’d glue her soul back inside.

When they got her on the table, she seized again. Spine arched. Mouth open in that way that meant her teeth didn’t know what size to be. He held her legs down. Didn’t even flinch when the change twisted her feet into something birdlike for half a second before they shrunk again.

The medics started shouting. One of them asked what species. He told them human. He lied.

Because if he didn’t, they’d hesitate. And hesitation meant death.

So he said human, and he worked beside them, and when one of the doctors gagged at the state of her lungs, Roach barked at him to focus or fuck off.

It wasn’t righteous rage.

It was grief.

In slow motion.

Still happening.

Still being stitched.

He could feel Johnny falling apart behind him. Could hear him pacing, breathing, occasionally slamming a fist into a wall like that would bleed the guilt out. Roach didn’t turn around.

And Ghost—

Ghost didn’t even come in.

He just stood in the window. Watching. Always watching.

Like he was still deciding.

Like her life was a puzzle to be solved.

Like the bleeding woman on the table hadn’t saved his life three fucking times.

Roach didn’t yell. Didn’t scream.

He just looked up at Ghost, across the glass, over the blood.

And shook his head.

Not in hate. Not in fury.

In mourning.

Because it wasn’t just Em that was dying.

It was the thing between all of them.

The trust. The tether.

The thing they were.

And maybe—just maybe—none of them deserved her.

[dangermorph]

Flashbacks.

'' What had happened to the builder bot and its "children"? ''

'' Went on a rampage, all three of them apparently. We lost many that day. ''

!!TW/CW!!: Violence, swear words, blood, screaming, panicky-stuff, gunshots.

This is NOT Canon!

This is a fun and silly thing I wanted to write and draw for angst purposes!! Has nothing to do with the main story!!

——————————

Could automatons dream? Apparently Electron could. Their mind spun and swirled with colors and corrupted files, pieces and chunks of them slowly being recovered every time she charged. Earlier that day they and their wonderful Proton had found a sketchbook!! According to Neutron, that's what the almost completely destroyed book was called. They looked through every page and tried tracing some in the dust. An "artist", huh? SOUNDS COOL!!

The swirls of colors slowly formed into a reality for the young-minded automaton. Formed from files.

Oh. Another memory.

Alarms blaring, oh so loud. System errors flashed in their eyes, yelling and footsteps and gunshots—? Why— what was going on? Was she awake? Was she still sleeping—?? Protons yellow and golden worried eyes fixated on Electrons teal ones, his gaze darting around every second. "Electron, come on. We need to go— now." They spoke in a panicked and desperate tone, his clawed hands firmly grasped around Electrons arm, tugging her up quickly.

"Wh— what's going on—?" She asked, looking around and wobbling slightly on her legs. Stupid metal.

"Renna* Fission. We don't have much time to explain— we just need to get out—"

*Renna is a genderneutral term for "Mama" or "Papa".

Proton quickly pulled Electron along in quick steps, ducking behind boxes of scrap metal they had originally been bringing to Fission for them to melt and recycle into better things. Fission— Proton had mentioned their name. Were they the reason behind the loud ringing and flashing red lights? They weren't directly near a Reactor, thankfully. Maybe she and Proton could go to Gamma and maybe he would explain everything— or— fix Fission— something like that. Hopefully. Proton and Electron continued running until a body hit the wall in front of them, a sickening crack escaping along with a thud.

Electron and Proton froze. What..? A human? Staff? Were they okay—? A tall figure with mechanical wings quickly stepped forward, grabbing onto the human like they weighed nothing and.. Proton covered Electrons eyes, but sensors smelled smoke and heard screaming.

".. Renna—?" He spoke up after the screaming had ended, hiis small voice was barely heard over the loud blaring of alarms. Fission whipped their head around, eyes widening. Silence fell over the three, the only sound being the alarms and footsteps. They looked so angry and sad, their usual bright and caring eyes now dark with cold. Blood dripped from their metal. Electron took a step closer to Proton, practically hiding behind him. No no no no no—

System errors flashed in their eyes, a burning sensation quickly following. Pain. So much pain shot through the poor youngling, going through every wire and sensor like a spiderweb of chaos. She staggered, leaning against her brother-figure for support. He immediately wrapped his metal arms around them, holding them up from the ground and close. The pain finally subsided and the tension was so thick that you could cut it with a dull blade.

"Fission, what is going on—" He asked, his voice trembling slightly. They had trusted the bigger bot with their lives. The two had helped them with everything— carrying boxes of scrap metal, helping them with building and getting them to take breaks. Hell, Electron even went to the staff (despite Protons effort to keep her as far away from the humans as possible) to get them to give Fission a break. A break. Is that what the core reason for all of this was? Were they just a time-bomb, waiting to snap—? Had Electron and Proton done something wrong? She tried her best to be the nice and optimistic one, she tried. Why didn't it work, everything was going so well—

"Fission.." Proton repeated, his voice now a whisper filled with desperation and fear and.. betrayal. Fission took a step forward and the two took a step away. Was Fission going to hurt them—??

".. I... I have no words." Fission's smooth and usually calming voice was void of any positivity. They looked so tired—.. "Darlings, do one last thing for Renna okay—?" They kneeled down, their wings lowering to the ground. Electron nodded, but Proton looked hesitant. So much fear for the wrong being.. They weren't supposed to be afraid of their parent.

"Run. Run and never look back. Live your lives, go to fields and use your solar panels to charge— please just leave and never ever come back. Please." What was a field? What were they talking about? Escape? What would the staff think? Electron didn't know what to do, her mind was a mess— like an un-sorted box of metals, so she just nodded. Digital tears formed and fell from her eyes down their screen head and disappeared. The older ones eyes were full of love and regret and sorrow. Why—..

"How..—" Proton asked, his voice still quiet and trembling. "How do we leave this place without turning into scrap metal— you said it yourself. We have no power in this—"

"And that's EXACTLY why I hate every human. They've just been using us because they think we don't have emotions programmed into us, thoughts and feelings and opinions. They just point and order and we're supposed to do it for them." Fission snarled out, cutting the orange bot off. The two flinched away at the display of resentment. Yet... no no no— they cared— humans cared for them— right—? It's why Electron and Proton were "alive"— they owe their creators everything. Aren't they just paying off the debt to them with labour..?

"... I... understand." Proton said after a while— wait— what—?? Electron turned their head around to stare at her brother with confusion and panic. Was he going to hurt everyone too? No, he couldn't, the metal covering their endoskeleton was too weak to really survive anything as intense as that. More burning filled her sensors before falling dormant for now. "That's all I need. Protect yourself and your sister at all costs. I love you two, but you need to leave now." Fission rose to their feet quickly, their strong metal arms quickly grabbing Electron and Proton and carrying them and taking them somewhere. Their grip on them wasn't rough, thankfully they were still sane enough right now to be caring. Electron looked over at Proton, his usual bright and gently caring eyes dull and filled with understanding and regret. She wanted to take all of it away, all of the bad. "Just don't look around.." He mumbled to her, gently holding her hand in a way to offer comfort. They nodded and closed their eyes, yelling quickly following before ending with a slam and a crack. Fission continued forward.

Time seemed to blur as Electron just kept her eyes closed. She tried humming a soft tune to calm herself down, a thing she found people doing. Protons grip on their hand tightened only slightly, tensing here and there. The bigger bots movements fell to a stop and she finally opened her eyes, her gaze flicking around. A.. vent? A thing they've cleaned daily? Why—

One of Fissions wings rose up, the hand on it grabbing onto the metal sheet and tearing it away effortlessly. "Up." The simple command seemed so surreal, but Electron obeyed. As usual. She climbed up into the vent with the help of both their parent and brother, looking back and stretching an arm out to help Proton up and in.

"This leads to the East Reactor. You've been there before, it's where Gamma is along with others. Escape to there and find a way out after. They'll keep you hidden and safe." Fission explained once both bots were in the vent. Their eyes softened at the sight of their fear and confusion, and Electron swore on her short life that the bot in front of them was the same on they knew and loved. Even if staff said after that their programming was completely trashed or broken, that was THEIR Fission. Footsteps, many, approached and the builder bot whirled around, the metal tentacle-like-things [[no idea what to call them BAHAHA]] raising slightly.

"RUN." Their desperate plea worked for Proton but Electron stayed, the sight of humans looking angry and scared making her worried for Fission. Proton pulled at their wrist but she stayed put. "Fission—?" They finally spoke up, her voice trembling and filled with guilt and fear and confusion.

The automaton looked back, smiling sadly. "I'll look for you. I promise. One day. But for now, run." They turned back to the staff which were surrounding Fission at a distance, and the smaller bot reached out, desperate for just more answers.

"Fission— no no nO — FISSION PLEASE— RENNA, RENNA DON'T LEAVE US PLEASE— FISSION— PLEASE—!" Electrons desperate screams escaped their voice box before she could control it, tears streaming down their pixilated face. Humans. They hurt Fission so much that they forced their own children away... how could they..—

Proton continued pulling Electron on, his expression neutral but shooken. The two climbed through the vents for hours. She was lost. Both in her mind and in this maze. Why. They couldn't figure out why the humans would do this. Didn't they care—? Why wouldn't they—? Couldn't they tell that Fission and Proton and her have emotions, had their own thoughts and felt their own pain? Couldn't they understand—? Were all humans like that? The burning sensation came back with even more errors flashing in their eyes, warning that files may be lost and destroyed. She was used to that kind of pain at this point.

.. Fuck them all. Fuck all of the humans, the staff. They didn't matter. They probably didn't even care about them—

The thought alone made Electron pause before they shook their head. Proton looked back in the cramped area, the glow from his screen lighting up the metal walls. "Everything... not worse?" They asked, concern swirling in their yellow eyes. She fell silent, the usual joy and energy seemingly just sucked out of them.

Electron nodded. "Not worse. Just a thought that spooked me..—" She mumbled, looking away slightly. The two continued on..

Electron woke up with a jolt, system errors flashing but all different this time. Where— where were they—? Where was Fission— why was everything so dark and destroyed and—

Clawed hands clasped around their face and her eyes were met with static. "You're in the storage room. With me, Proton, and Neutron. Neutron is our guardian. I am your brother." Protons gentle yet firm voice grounded the panicking bot and she nodded, tears forming. He sighed softly before pulling them close in an embrace. Electron sobbed, trying to from sentences but their voice box and mind just didn't seem to cooperate. Their mind spiraled into the abyss of thoughts and doubts, more tears falling down their face. Why. Why couldn't the staff care. Why were they deemed lesser than them. She couldn't understand. She would never understand.

——————————

Hehehaha. I'm so mean. Sorry for any spelling or grammatical errors, I didn't check after :D

Uh— Quick summarisation:

Electron dreams about one of the corrupted files in their memory bank. The file contains a vivid memory of where Fission snaps due to staff and humans being unkind and treating them unfairly, them causing an outbreak. Fission tells Proton and Electron to run away to the East Reactor and Gamma and them will protect them until they can escape again. Electron wakes up in a panic and finds comfort in Protons grounding embrace.

I have no regret for traumatising the poor babies :). It was getting too fluffy

CREEEEEDITS!!:

THANK YOU THANK YOU THAAAAANK YOU TO @sunnydbeam FOR THIS DELICIOUS AU!! Gamma (mentioned) is their OC and I'm stealing him, he's my son now, HAHA

But genuinely thank you for this AU and these wonderful characters, I couldn't obsess over them less even if I wanted to. :).

[zombiegirl789]

Dw he don’t bite

Cross sans by @ jakei95

[angeltism]

bashing my head into the wall

[cathnospam]

Canon!Katsuki Bakugo does NOT get drunk.

“You’re drunk.”

“‘M not!”

A trip to a bar to catch up with Sero, Denki, Kiri and Deku left you both in an uber and Bakugo’s face red, rowdy, and —-

“I’M NOT FUCKING DRUNK I HAD 3 SHOTS AND I AM NOT A LIGHTWEIGHT!”

You nod reluctantly, he’s as stubborn as a mule and even in his intoxicated state he will not back down from arguing.

Oddly though he never stumbles, his words aren’t slurred, and he is coherent enough to point out his apartment.

“Put me down?!”

And strong enough to carry you around the car.

You lightly tap his broad shoulders that you were now thrown over, you hiss as the painful sting of his warmed up hand swats the lower part of your ass. “Keep squirming. I like it.”

That voice was all too familiar. That raspy voice, deeper than usual.

It was so familiar that you knew he would throw you onto his soft huge bed, licking and nipping your breast all while creeping his hands up your dress his 2 finger tips lightly clawing at your clothed clit, until he draws tight fast circles on it.

“Kat—-wait. I can’t…we can’t have sex if you’re drunk.”

His eye twitches as he scoffs by your neck, “If you aren’t in the mood then just say that, but don’t fucking lie to me.”

“I’m not lying??!! You aren’t sober!”

“I’m consenting to letting me fuck you.” His breath brushes against your lips, he steals a kiss before sitting back on his knees to watch your next move.

You squint you eyes, lips pressed together to prevent biting them after he said that in a way that made you nearly clench, “You know we both don’t have sex if the other won’t remember—“

“Believe me your pussy isn’t forgettable—“

“Can you PLEASE—“ You sigh, “ I just…don’t want to do it if—“

Bakugo kisses you again, but slower, sliding his hot tongue in your mouth before holding the back of your head. He stared into your eyes with a relaxed face, but furrowed brows as if he was focused on something.

You’re actually too good to him. Any other woman wouldn’t have cared and just let him, but you. You didn’t want to.

It’s one of the many reasons why he married you and trusts you with his life the same way you do with yours.

“Fine.” He grumbles, getting off the bed and stripping down to his underwear, “If you think I’m anything less than sober then we’ll sleep.”

You nod, despite him mumbling and grumbling he was far from angry, he held you close, trying a few more times before dosing off the HARD problem he had in his boxers against your ass, but he wasn’t upset.

…

“Mmm…” You moan yourself awake, feeling a tight knot in your lower belly, a familiar sensation all too well but it was just too much. Your breaths were ragged and since you just woke up you were 2 times more sensitive than you usually were and he knew that.

“Told you…” All you can see is his unkept dirty blonde hair shaking side to side in between your thighs, and panties bunched in his closed fist, “I wasn’t fucking drunk I wanted you.”

You couldn’t even argue back his wet lips wrapped around your clit for a harsh suckle, crying out your hands immediately thrown over his hair, “Ka—-“

You changed his name repeatedly as if that were the only word in your vocabulary, the feel of his mouth not missing an inch of your pussy, he began to tongue fuck you while rubbing your clit. He wanted to feel you cum this time while you were awake.

Bakugo groaned inside you, feeling your slit grind slowly against his mouth while you ride out your orgasm, he reached his free hand with yours to hold it and watch you cum undone.

“You’re so pretty.”

“You…”

“I told you.” He mumbles against your lips, making you taste yourself, his kisses distract you as he pulls his own dick out from his sweats and slowly squeeze himself inside you, making you break the kiss with a broken moan.

“I don’t get drunk, and everything I said last night I said it completely sober.”

[ventique18]

Dragon Malleus headcanons

You're used to how he looks in his two-legged fae form. Everyone is, honestly. But the thing is, that's not really how he truly, originally looks like. And though he knows his form of flesh is just as much of who he is as his origin, there are times when he undergoes some sort of withdrawal; a primal need to be back in the skin he was molded in. So he would occasionally spend a few days living his life as a gigantic dragon.

He doesn't particularly like being in his dragon form. He knows he's glorious and takes pride in that, of course, but it's just that it's so inconvenient. He can't fit in places. He can't grab things. He can't make gargoyles. He has to eat an entire town's worth of food just to not be hungry. But most of all, he can't really feel.

He's extremely durable. He's already impervious to damage in his humanoid form, but even more so as a dragon with walls and walls of the hardest material on Twisted Wonderland permanently attached to his body. Which is great, of course-- it's essential to his survival, but it comes with the caveat that no matter how much you touch him, no matter how much you try to show physical affection towards him, he simply cannot feel.

But there is one part of him that's soft. Something that isn't covered inch to inch in scales. His tongue.

So what best to take advantage of this little weakness than to cover you head to toe in slobber, of course?

Take note that him doing so doesn't imply anything malicious (unless you want to, of course). It's just that it's so easy to feel your presence by licking you. He can touch you without accidentally hurting you. And, as much as he refuses to admit it to avoid sounding like a pervert, being able to smell your familiar scent gives him a tender comfort. A sense of welcoming even in this world that refuses to welcome him in his rawest form.

But being covered in slobber isn't exactly the best feeling in the world. When you tell him that, the... fins on his jaw draw back, and he plants himself on the ground; snout partially buried behind his curled claws. Dragons aren't particularly expressive, but you can safely guess that he's feeling guilty of bothering you.

So you offer to help him find somewhere else to touch. He's a bit hesitant-- it seems dragons don't like the idea of exploring their weaknesses, but he agrees because it's you.

And would you look at that. He can feel you when you vigorously rub his belly. The feeling isn't really as detailed as his tongue's, but he can feel something. And it feels rather... Rather... Relaxing. He's huge though, so from your perspective it's like washing a car, but with exaggerated movements as a stroke from your height's head to toe is like scratching a spot for him.

It's tiring, but you persist with the power of love.

So this becomes a habit for you. When he transforms into a dragon, he would ask you to rub his belly, or ask for your permission to be licked if you don't look like you're in a bad mood that day. All of this is done somewhere private, of course.

So when someone would walk in by accident... And witness their prince rolled over like a dog, getting petted on his tummy... It goes to say that the dragon would be gone in a flash; replaced by a very angry, very threatening unit of a man very politely asking the intruder if he saw something. Of course the answer is always "not a single thing, sir!".

You laugh, and ask if he wants to continue with what you were doing. He sighs, refuses, and says he's not in the mood for childish amusement anymore.

"But... I can think of other, more enjoyable things we can do together."

And so the dragon, now in his villainous, irresistibly devilish form, whisks his prisoner away to a place no one knows.

[ilium-ilia]

Chaînés

ballerina reader x gym-rat soap

It's hard for Johnny to focus at the gym when there's a ballerina spinning in a box just for him.

tags: johnny "came back wrong" mactavish, light stalking, non-consensual pictures/drawings, johnny is not mentally sound, references to johnny being shot, choke holds, abduction.

a/n: i keep having dreams about being back in ballet and being forced to dance so i this is my attempt of getting that dream to stop.

There is a new room in the gym. It stares through Johnny like baptism water in the church he attended when he was a child. It burns just as bad as the hellfire his pastor promised would befall him if he couldn’t tell the difference between good and evil. 

He’s watched its construction for the last handful of weeks. Incessant drilling and the cacophonous melody of power tools has made his evenings pumping iron less than pleasant, and his ears ache from how far he has to shove his earbuds into the canal to drown out the noise. The only reason he started coming here was because of his sleeping issues—how his body seems too high strung to relax when the moon rises—and it’s been disrupted by inconsiderate construction workers. Now, every bastard in a high-vis vest has vanished, leaving him alone with nothing but the bar clasped in his palms and the lingering sillage of sawdust. 

For a few more weeks, the room stands empty. It’s nothing special. Nothing that he believes should harbor more of his attention than has already been stolen. Floor to ceiling glass windows offer little privacy for the pinewood floors and dazzling mirrors that line the walls. It is an abandoned box. It haunts the gym with no heart to hold. 

When no one is looking, he wanders through the unlocked door. He is met with only the sound of his running shoes echoing off of the pristine floor and the never-ending image of himself pasted upon the walls. He sees himself from every angle. From the side, like a bystander. From above, like an omniscient god. It only gets worse when the automatic lights trip and flicker to life, buzzing like the dying breath of an animal caught in the constricting ribcage of fear. 

Johnny stares at himself as if he were a stranger. He scrutinizes the tattoo on his forearm and the stretch of his compression shorts over his thighs. Angry fingernails dig into the pink keloid by his temple. His skin buzzes at the bump. Hair follicles attempt to press through the scar tissue, but it follows the old fracturing of his skull. It dies in a star pattern that leaves him naked—a warrior without a weapon. 

As his feet cross the threshold back into the weight room, Johnny promises himself he will never traverse back into that box again. 

On Monday, the room is full. 

Women clad in elastic garments sprawl out on the floor on multicolored mats as they stretch. Their appearance stops Johnny in his tracks, leaving him to stare through the thin window that separates them apart. Yoga, he realizes. The awkward positions and instructor towards the front has his skin squirming within its own confines. There are too many eyes. They echo through the mirror—they all find him. 

Deciding to spend his evening on the other side of the gym, Johnny starts off with cardio. It’s the only way he can satiate the need to flee from wandering gazes without actually vanishing. It’s the only way he can drown out the solicitude that lurks too deep for him to reach in and claw it out. 

Peeved that he has to now change his whole routine, Johnny grumples through the night as he packs up his water bottle and slugs towards the exit. As his feet tread, he reminds himself to request the class schedule for the room from the front desk. He wants to avoid the eyes. The gazes. The pupils that pierce through him worse than a bullet. 

Johnny freezes when he sees something spinning. 

There, through the thin veil, you dance. Rhythmic and fluid. Like a babbling river. Like blood dribbling from a wound. Propped up en pointe, you pirouette with your arms above your head and your head snapping in spinning circles, eyes keeping contact with yourself through the mirror. He witnesses the way your chest expands with a huff—how you refuse to rest before attempting the move again. 

You see him in the mirror. Standing behind you, pack slung over his shoulder as if it were heavy enough to be a rifle. He sees you see him. 

Ignoring him as if he is nothing more than a trick of the light, you continue with your practice. 

Johnny can’t sleep at night. The image of you burns too deeply into his retinas, and he can’t shake you loose. You’re lodged in his psyche. Trapped deep in the tissue of his brain where you nettle—making space for yourself. A bed of brain matter. He envelopes you too readily. His body holds you home and it screeches whenever he attempts to yank you out like a weed from the earth. 

So you spin. 

And spin. 

The next time he goes to the gym, he brings his sketchbook. 

Really, he’s not sure why he lugs the thing around. The only thing it’s full of is pain—bleeding ink that soaks each page like blood on cement. That book harbors the residue of each gun he’s shot and the soil of every country his boots have kissed. It holds the memories of the places he can’t return to. The man he used to be before he was fractured beyond repair. 

Now, he uses it to record you. Committing your image with his pencil, he sits on the bench press closest to the window as you practice again while the night waxes away from the evening. He sketches the curve of your pointe shoes, the delicacy of your fingers as you hold your arms out on either side of your torso—you’re printed onto paper as you present an arabesque with trembling calves and quads. 

Throughout it all, you do not recognize him in the mirror behind you. You give him no hint that you are aware of his presence besides a quiet flickering of your eyes in the reflective surface before you continue to glissade across glistening floors.

It isn’t until the second week of this—of this new routine Johnny has found himself in—that he realizes he never sees you enter or exit the room. 

You’re always there, appearing out of thin air the moment the area is vacated by the yoga class or anyone else who wishes to lurk within those four, painful walls. He blinks, and you’re there, dancing through the windows like a collector’s doll stuck in the confines of her box for all of eternity. Never to be embraced. Never to be loved. Only made to be gawked at while chained down by your hands and wrists, unforgiving zip ties digging into your skin like a honed edge. 

It’s then that Johnny begins to question if he’s seeing things again. Factitious things. After he was discharged (bullet buzz, buzz, buzzing through his skull, cold cement on his cheek, blood, drip, drip, dripping from his teeth), it was troubling to differentiate between what was real, and what was fabricated. Thoughts bleeding into reality—a clear ichor that only morphs his vision, but doesn’t obscure it. 

At home, his fingers brush over his artwork. Tenderly, as if he’s pasted your very flesh onto each page. He tells himself that you have to be real. The proof of it is in his very hands—it’s tangible. This book that holds your likeness. It would be impossible for his disconnected mind to dream up something as lovely as you. There is no morphing here. No shadows twist to contort and confuse his mind. 

He’s sure of it—

—until he isn’t. 

Once more, his sweet ballerina has come to perform for him—to haunt him. You spin before him like a music box doll, steady and without a care for the eyes piercing through the window to look at you. There is not a single soul in the building besides you and him. (If you even have a soul at all). The barrier that separates the two of you seems thinner than ever as he puts pencil to paper and inscribes your likeness as if he fears his mind might forget if there is no physical reminder to follow him home.

He soaks up the view of your feet. The way the arch curves beneath your body weight. The way sweat beads along your collarbones and the line of your forehead. He wonders if the brine is as tasty as it looks. 

When you stop to catch your breath, your eyes find Johnny in the mirror. Sitting, hunched forward on the bench, scribbling down in his journal. His heart ceases to beat, and the tip of his pencil stills against his paper as he straightens himself up. He would open his mouth to speak if it weren’t for the insufferable barrier that separates the two of you—keeping you confined to your own little worlds. Instead, he smiles. 

You stare right through him. 

You do not smile back. 

Johnny is incensed when you continue your routine. You leap through the air without a care in the world, and you leave him sitting there to wonder if you ever even saw him at all. No, you did. When he reaches up and touches his chest, he feels his shirt. He feels the blood pulsing beneath his fingertips. His hand presses forward and it doesn’t punch through his sternum because he’s real. 

He’s real. 

But are you real? Or are you some creature sent to torment him within the confines of his own mind? 

Slamming his journal shut, Johnny tosses it into his bag with a huff. Hot air passes from his nostrils like a bull ready to charge, and he struts up to the glass, so close that his nose nearly presses against it. Fog builds on the surface as his palm lies flat against it. It’s frigid to the touch. Standing, separating. The barrier that traps you is real and algid beneath his fingers. 

But are you real?

Metal bites into his skin as he twists the knob on the door to the room. He promised himself that he would never step foot in there again—where the eyes are plenty and his scar screams louder than he can—but he tells himself he has to know. It clicks quietly shut behind him only to be drowned out by the sound of your pointe shoes tapping against the pine at your feet. It echoes like a hushed prayer. It rattles his eardrum. Tangible. Real. 

But are you real?

Feverish skin bleeds through his hand when he grabs your arm, stopping you in your tracks. Wild eyes look to him, and for the first time he’s able to see what they’re like without the barrier of a reflection to get in the way. Sweet lips part and he sees the way your teeth shine beneath the fluorescent lights that hang over your heads. 

“Excuse me?” 

Bitter. Sharp. Your question pierces through his eardrum and he smiles. Your voice. An alluring melody. His grip only grows more firm as you attempt to wrench yourself free from his grasp. 

Real. 

Your screams are just as corporeal as the rest of you. It reverberates off the walls of Johnny’s skull, and it forces his face to contort at the throb in his brain. Oh, how it aches. How it always aches. He muffles you with the palm of his hand flat against your lips and he presses until he feels your tongue. Rigid nails dig into his flesh as his forearm wraps around your throat and squeezes. He feels the sting of broken skin—real—and the pressure of dull teeth against his fingers—real—and hot tears along the back of his hand—real. 

It isn’t long before your body grows heavy. Johnny lays you on the floor like Ophelia in a river; Odette in the lake; Aurora in her bed. Limp limbs lie helplessly as he stares down at you and rakes trembling fingers over every inch of your body. Every curve he has committed to memory for the last few weeks is now here before him—tangible. 

“Real,” he says outloud. A tender thumb brushes against your split bottom lip. “You’re real. And I’m real. I made you real.” 

Johnny sleeps better now that he’s started going to the gym. Muscles melt just as they should the very moment his head hits his pillow, and his slumber calls to him without issue. Of course, it helps that he has his sweet ballerina to keep him company. Head propped up next to his, tear stains on your cheeks, and eyes squeezed tight as you rest soundly in his bed.

He reaches out and cups your cheek in the palm of his hand. Your skin twitches beneath him, but you do not stir. Grinning in the darkness of his bedroom, Johnny hums, content with his life. Content with knowing that you truly are real. 

After all, the proof of it is in his very hands. 

[kenyummy]

DREAM ꒰⚘݄꒱ NAGI ,, SHIDOU

SYNOPSIS : what do the blue lock boys dream about when they're away from you, training to be the greatest striker?

note: hi! again, this is the same thing i posted earlier, just nagi and shidou versions ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ ) both are mildly nsfw. um actually i just read through it and i take it back shidous one is like hella crazy. I'm not making it as nsfw because its more like super crazy making out but. uhmm... yeah. ˙ᵕ˙

nagi seishiro

There's a bright light everywhere. Nagi can hardly see, through the half-lidded lens of his eyes. He blinks a few times, and there's a muffled sound encasing his ears. It sounds like his name is being called out in a pleasing voice. That voice sounds nice. Nagi wonders who it belongs to.

Through his blurred eyes, he can make out vibrant colours of purple and black encasing the walls of wherever he is. It's mostly white noise—but Nagi can make out a hint of a pop song playing in the background, but he doesn't care for which.

He turns around, vision still hazy, until he meets a pair of eyes. Beautiful, bright eyes that sparkle under this blinding light—a pair of eyes that belonged to...

"[name]?" His vision is suddenly completely clear, and he can see you in perfect detail. You're standing there with a soft smile, a bag around your shoulder and dressed in flowy, casual clothes.

"You finally responded? Did you manage to get the Psyduck?" You walk forward and stand beside him—and only now does Nagi realise where he is.

The arcade, with [name]?

Is this a dream or something? This feels way too good to be true.

Your expression drops and you look at him, annoyed with your hands pressed against the glass—you look mad, but it feels more like an angry kitten rather than anything to Nagi, "You didn't even insert your token?"

Looking down into his hands—he didn't even feel the weight of the full cup of tokens in his grasp until you mentioned it. He blinks, eyes dulling. "Oh. Sorry." He responds dumbly, quickly inserting a token.

The claw machine lights up and blares embarrassingly loud music that draws attention, but you don't acknowledge it and only cheer when he moves the claw around, "Go, Nagi!" You whoop, and this makes the snow-haired boy feel even more determined to win that stupid platypus Pokemon.

He finally gets the claw into the perfect position and sends it down—it grabs onto the plushie, and for the first time ever, Nagi gets it on the first try. It gets sent down the winning hole, and you cheer in joy as Nagi bends down to pick it up.

He stares wordlessly at the plush for a second, looking into its cartoonishly stupid eyes, before looking back up at you, with your wonderfully large smile, and holding it out to you. "Got it for you."

You blink, looking up at him, then the duck, then him again, lips parted so invitingly. Then, you smile, cheeks flushed prettily, and you take the duck from his arms, and into your own grasp. Hugging it into your chest, you lower your face into the head of the platypus, "Thank you, Nagi... you really didn't have to. It's a date for both of us, after all."

A date...

This is a dream.

Nagi has this sudden realisation while looking around. You're here, and you feel like you—but isn't he supposed to be in Blue Lock? Working his ass off to become the best striker? He shouldn't be at some random arcade on a "date" with you. Ego would never let that happen.

So, the last explanation Nagi could come up with, is that this is all a dream. That's the only thing he could come up with. Nagi was never that smart, but even he could point out the inconsistencies that came with this whole scenario.

So... if this is all a dream... I can do whatever I want.

He swallows thickly.

With no repercussions. This is all in my head... and anything I want can happen.

Nagi moves forward and suddenly hugs you close to his chest. You yelp in surprise but do not push him off or say anything—simply accepting his warmth engulfing your figure. He digs his nose into your hair and takes in a deep sniff.

You smell nice. Much nicer than any of the guys in Blue Lock.

But, you simply letting this happen confirms his theory. This really is a dream. You—the real, fleshy you—would never allow Nagi to just hug you without at least hitting him with an iconic one-liner or snarky quip. If this version of you is not real... if this version of you will never remember what he feels...

He looks down and removes one hand from your waist to tilt your head upwards, and with the most innocent look he can manage—he shuts his eyes and leans down. He knocks the breath out of your lungs with an aggressive kiss, fiery hot and burning in your stomach.

His heart churns and his mind is running at a thousand miles per hour, but Nagi can't care. He doesn't care, because this is what he wants—and is it selfish of him to take it within a dream? That is only what a true egoist would do, right?

You squeak, but Nagi does not acknowledge it, engulfing the puff of air in his own mouth when he connects his tongue with your own. It takes a good few seconds for Nagi to pull away—and he only does so when you grab his soft cheeks in your palm and push his head back. A thin string of drool connected the two of you.

You look into his eyes, hazy and misty and his clothes suddenly feel too tight and the room is far too hot. He runs his hands up and down your torso, feeling the creases of the material underneath his electric fingertips, and it's like every sense he has is heightened in this blazing moment. "Nagi... not here..."

Oh. So even his dream version of you had her morals.

"Fine." Nagi mumbles, eyes sunken low. He knows this is wrong. He knows that he should not speak, but the words glide off his silver tongue before he has a chance to stop himself. "But when we get home, you can't expect me to stop."

His heart skips a beat after he sees your embarrassed expression. He can't find it within himself to care that this is all a dream, and in the morning you will never know this has happened. You won't ever know what has gone on between the two of you in his mysterious mind—and this will be a secret Nagi will forever take to his grave.

It's okay if he does this, right? Because it's your Nagi, the one who you adore so much. He's forever yours—if only you'd say the word.

shidou ryusei

"So... you're seriously saying you... want to...?" Shidou asks incredulously, and he can already feel himself twitching. His blunt nails dig into his palms and it takes every last bit of self-restraint he has left in his body to not pounce on you like a dog in heat.

This is the most composed you've ever seen him—and that's saying something. Well, not really, because he still looks like he's going to implode (haha, very funny) on the spot. You swallow thickly, a thin layer of sweat sheens down your back and suddenly the room feels way too stuffy—even if it was freezing cold when you had walked in.

Room... this room felt oddly unfamiliar. A room painted completely white, except for the odd accent of dark blue, proving its existence within Blue Lock. Shidou remembers stomping here after a brawl with Rin and getting extra scratched up this time because Rin ended up landing a good punch or two—he can't recall.

He doesn't remember how long he was out after you shocked him into submission—rather, he only recalls how you started this whole thing, as soon as he woke up in this strange room, you were practically in tears from how scared you were. Usually, Shidou woke up at most a few hours after being tased out, but this time, he was knocked cold for a whole day.

You nearly cried when he finally woke up, sitting by his side in a chair. You're holding onto his hand, but quickly let go in favour of hugging him so tight that he can barely breathe—and he can feel everything—and your voice is wracked with relief.

So now, here's the present, where you look like you're going to melt into a puddle on the floor when you say, "Y...yes... Because... I feel bad. That's the only reason I'll let you do this..." Still, with your pissy prickliness, you fold your arms under your chest, "But... only that, Shidou. Nothing more... I won't shock you this time... but I'll make you regret it."

Ignoring the comment that immediately comes to mind with your last sentence, he grins devilishly and feels his heartbeat increase with the anticipation, "Hell yeah! You're being serious, yeah? You'll let me?!"

Shidou can't quite remember since the last time he'd felt this excited for something that hadn't even happened yet—his goals were a burst of dopamine, but this? This was pure, unbridled excitement.

His leg unwillingly starts shaking up and down and you notice it—clearly, with the large sigh you suck in. You have to turn your head away before you shake your head—lest you see the face Shidou makes, a face you'd prefer not to be seared into your mind.

You walk forward, each step feeling like thousands of hands were trying to warn you—to hold you back—but you continue, right until you're standing in front of Shidou, who's sitting on the edge of his bed with his legs hanging off the side.

You place your things down on the table beside you. Hesitantly, like you're weighing your options—you slide your shoes off, so that the only thing on your feet are socks, and you slowly slide your jacket off, cheeks burning, so that you're only wearing your tank top.

Shidou watches in terrifying silence—you're sure this is the quietest you've ever seen him—and his eyes follow each move you make like he's a predator hunting for prey. Frankly, this scares you, but you have no room to say anything in this moment, so you only take in a deep breath, and lean upwards, placing your legs over his, and placing yourself on his knees.

Perched all prettily for him—shouldn't this be enough? Not for somebody like Ryusei Shidou, especially not just this. This would never be enough, and you were disappointingly aware of it.

This thing—the thing Shidou's been asking for since he met you... is to touch your boobs.

It shocked you just as much as it shocked anybody in the vicinity with his bold request, and you swore to yourself you'd never give in—especially not to somebody like Ryusei Shidou. But here you are now, practically trembling as he stares at you—his hands slowly reaching up.

He's silent... why is he silent? These thoughts run wild in your brain but are quickly shut down like a dead landline when his touch finally reaches your stomach. His fingertips are rough against your untouched skin, and it sends shivers flicking down your spine. Then, they finally came in contact with the lace around your bra, and he almost looked disappointed with the revelation.

But this doesn't phase him, no, not one bit, because as soon as his large palm engulfs one side of your chest, he squeezes. You slap your hand over your mouth and all the humiliation suddenly comes running back to you—crashing your brain like a ten-ton truck. He squeezes, and squeezes hard, like it's a stress ball and not a part of your body.

You bite out through groans, "Don't be so rough. Otherwise... I'll leave."

Shidou, who's been scarily silent this entire time, Shidou, who had his hand wrapped around your tit like a vice, and Shidou, who's looking into your eyes with such a serious look it makes you shiver, "Nah. Won't let ya."

You blink, and for a second, forget your humiliation in favour of blank confusion, "What?" You ask, dumbly.

"Won't let ya," and suddenly, the Shidou you know returns with full force, cheeks a hot stain of red and a demonic grin stretched out across his face—behind his sharpened, pearly teeth is a sense of danger, "I mean... ya gettin' me all worked up over here... and you think I'll just let ya leave?"

His eyes darken, and he grips your waist with his free hand, sliding you into his lap. "No. Fucking. Way. I would sooner quit soccer than let ya leave now."

Basically what he's saying—you're not going anywhere. Your heart races—sadly, you forget that he has a hand right over where your heart lies (even if it is a bit preoccupied with something else), and gets to tighten his hold before you squirm away. Warningly. He's saying—don't you dare fucking move.

He moves his hand from your tit—leaving the other one trapped around your waist—and moves it upwards, to the back of your head, gripping your hair hard in his hand. "You're way too pretty, manager-chan~ All those guys look at ya, but here I am, the one you hate the most having you here perched all pretty in my lap. This is how it should be, yeah?"

He grins, a grin you learned to despise, because of the words and person it was usually paired with—Ryusei Shidou looks so much like a demon. You can't say you hate him, but you don't like him either.

So then, when he crashes his lips into yours with the full ferocity you usually see on the court, do you not push back? Maybe deeply, somewhere in your fucked-up mind, you actually like this. At least, Shidou hopes so—because he can't get enough.

His lips move against yours in a harsh motion you're probably not used to—by the way your hands grip his shoulders and definitely leave marks from your nails. He tugs your head forward, wanting to become even closer—you think that if he moves you any further you'll fuse with him, but maybe, that's what he wants.

Ryusei Shidou loves so violently, so unabashed and unbridled that it scares normal people. Average people—who will never dream of understanding somebody like him. His love is so intense and overwhelming that he can't physically hold it in—but that is Ryusei Shidou, and he has no plans to change himself, especially not with how good it feels.

Dopamine spreads through his veins and he feels like he's about to light on fire from how hot his skin feels—but you're the same. His fingers sneak up the back of your shirt and it's positively burning, like wildfire in a dry forest. The mere thought that you're feeling the intensity he's trying to show you revs him up a gear further, biting down on your lip hard in excitement.

You try to pull back with a wince, but Shidou doesn't let you, kissing you so hard and pushing your head in so much that all you can do is whine against his lips. He fucking loves this. He fucking loves you. His eyes open just the slightest, and the expression on your face nearly makes him explode.

His hand slips down, and he grabs a handful of your ass underneath your sweatpants, nails sinking into the material with how hard he grabs it. This feeling—that spreads from his numbed mind towards the tips of his toes, is a feeling he doesn't think he'll ever be able to get enough of. He's kissed people. He's made out with people. But it's never been like this.

He's never had such mind-numbing excitement right here, in front of him and completely pliant to his doing—Shidou has never been this excited before. It's not just what's happening—it's you. He's so drunk—so high off of you that it makes him want to melt into you and never return. If one day, you decided to make Shidou your own, that would be the day he would die happy and submit to your will.

But until then... Shidou will have the reigns, and control them—until you and him are forever like this.

Finally, after a minute of torture and pathetic gasps for air through your nose, Shidou pulls away, letting go of your sore head of hair and panting, a thin string of drool connects both your lips. He grins at the sight, face flushed and a thin layer of sweat sheened over his face.

But you—with your lips swollen, glossy and plump from being kissed so hard by him, and the sweat beading down your face giving you an ethereal glow—looks so much more beautiful than he ever could, he's sure.

In fact, that look on your face—misty eyes with lids too heavy to hold up, and lashes curled upwards to your brows—is what prompts Shidou to finally flip it out.

You're moved faster than you can react, your back crashing against the sheets before you have a chance to protest. His legs are positioned in between yours, and he's hovering on top of you—his antennae ticking your cheek. You look up at him with wide eyes, lips slightly parted from shock, and Shidou runs his tongue over his bottom lip when he sees his sight. Underneath him—where he believes you should always be.

My heart won't stop pounding. He thinks, a smile spreading at the thought.

The dopamine rushes through his veins and it gives him the energy to lean down, held up by the arms that cage either side of your head, "You're fucking gorgeous."

I love you.

I love you.

I love you so fucking much.

Shidou loves with such intensity that it can blind people—and maybe, you were the only person who could take such love. Even when his lips crash against yours once again, and you find you're now without your tank top—even in a dreamscape such as this, Shidou is sure that you'll just know.

© KENYUMMY 2024

[maskedbyghost]

You ask, I deliver:

The possessive reader AU, I know neither of them can stand the thought of their partner going to the dentist. Laying back, letting someone else know the interior of that mouth, fingers sliding over soft tissue and mapping out the points of those teeth? Possibly drawing blood that should rightfully be theirs? Someone sedate these two like they’re aggressive cats coming in for a cleaning at the vet.

shoutout to this absolute legend who sent me the idea because you unlocked something unholy in me. READ PART 1 HERE cw: smut, possessive/obsessive behavior, semi-public sex (in a car), unprotected sex..

You drive him to the appointment because he hates doing it alone. Still, honestly, the entire time you’re behind the wheel, you’re gripping it hard enough that you’re surprised it doesn’t just snap in half, because the only thing going through your head is the mental image of some stranger putting their hands in Simon’s mouth, tilting his head back, touching him in places that should be yours, places only you should ever be allowed to know, and the tiny noises he makes when he’s uncomfortable.

You swear to god if you think about it one second longer, you might actually commit a felony.

Simon looks over at you once when you stop at a red light, raises an eyebrow under his cap, and says, “You gonna calm down, sweetheart, or am I gonna have to sedate you this time?”

And you smile at him, all bright and sunny like the most normal girlfriend ever, except you know it’s not right, you can feel it pulling at your mouth wrong, too many teeth showing, a smile you have to force out of yourself before you start growling or crying or both.

Simon just shakes his head a little and mutters, “Terrifying,” under his breath like he thinks you can’t hear him.

At the office, you sit together in those shitty chairs, pretending you’re normal people, and you’re almost holding it together until the door opens and of course it’s a young woman, pretty, smiling, fresh little uniform and shiny name tag and all, and your stomach twists itself into a thousand angry knots because now you’re not just imagining some faceless stranger, you’re staring at the exact woman who’s about to put her hands in Simon’s mouth, who’s about to know the little sounds he makes when he flinches, who's gonna touch him, smell him, see him with his mask off, and you grip the chair so hard you think it might crack.

“Simon Riley?” she calls, all sweet and professional, and Simon stands up, but before he can even move, you grab his wrist like you’re going to drag him back down into the chair and refuse to let him go, and he just gives you this look, this calm, amused, patient look that makes you want to bite him right there in the waiting room.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, like he knows you’re two seconds from throwing yourself at the poor woman and clawing her eyes out, and he squeezes your hand once before he goes, and that’s the only thing that keeps you in your seat.

You sit there staring at the closed door, thinking about all the ways you could ruin this woman’s life if she smiles too much or laughs at one of his stupid little jokes or leans too close or touches him too long, because no one should get to touch him but you, no one should get to see how good he is when he’s soft and quiet and letting someone take care of him, and it’s yours, it’s all supposed to be yours, and god, you’re so far gone you don’t even want to be normal about it anymore.

By the time he comes back out, you’re already halfway to throwing a fit, but he just looks tired and a little dazed from the fluoride, and he’s rubbing his jaw like it’s sore, and that’s all it takes for the switch to flip in your brain, from violent to protective in half a second.

You drag him out into the parking lot without a word, shoving him into the passenger seat and climbing over him before he can even say anything, straddling his lap with your knees pressed into the seat on either side of his hips, grabbing his face in both hands like you’re checking him over for damage even though what you really want is to mark him, make him messy, make him smell like you so no one else ever gets any stupid ideas again.

“She touched you,” you whisper, half accusation, half devastation, pressing your forehead to his while breathing him in so hard it feels like you’re trying to pull the air out of his lungs.

“She wore gloves,” he says, voice low and careful like he’s talking to a crazy person, which, fair, because you are, and it’s not even enough, it’s not even close to enough, because he still let her, still let someone else close, still trusted someone else to take care of him when that’s your job.

You kiss him messy and hard, sliding your hands into his hair, tugging at it just to feel him grunt against your mouth, and then you’re rocking your hips against him, grinding down until you feel him start to stiffen underneath you, until you know he can’t even think straight anymore, and you pull back just enough to pant into his mouth, “Mine. All mine. No one else touches you. No one else gets to even look at you like that.”

Simon’s hands dig into your waist, trying to slow you down, trying to catch his breath, but you’re not having it.

You’re already unbuttoning his jeans with shaky hands, already sinking down onto him with a broken little gasp because you need it, need him inside you, need to erase the memory of someone else touching him, need to make him so messy and ruined that no one else would ever dare think he belonged to anyone but you.

You ride him fast and desperate, muttering broken things against his skin, promises and threats and prayers all tangled together — "you're mine, mine, only mine, gonna mark you up so bad no one'll even think about touching you again, gonna make you come so hard you forget everyone else’s name but mine"

And Simon’s already so wrecked, clinging to you, groaning into your neck, hips stuttering helplessly, and when you bite down on his shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise through his hoodie, he spills inside you with a sound so rough and desperate it’s almost a sob.

You don't let up, grinding on him slow and filthy, kissing his throat, his jaw, whispering, "mine, mine, always mine," over and over again until you feel him throb inside you one more time, a second, broken little aftershock you didn’t even know was possible.

And when you finally pull back and look at him, red-faced, breathing hard, pupils blown wide, he just smiles that stupid, wrecked little smile he only ever gives you, and you know you don’t have to say anything else.

Because the way he looks at you — like he belongs to you, like he wants to belong to you — is all the proof you’ll ever need.

-------------------------------------------

fuck me i love them

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate

[revelboo]

Revel my eternal saviour, I plead more tarn and my life is yours. Seriously that cliffhanger!!!!! Aaack!

Sure!

L.G. Fuad Pt 9

Tarn x Reader

• Head lowering, he leans into your space. That anger still sizzling through him and you cringe, chirping fearfully as your head turns away, eyes closing. And you’re repeating something in your language, voice breaking. Freezing when he recognizes you’re trying to say his name amid whatever else you’re saying. Venting against you, he should take some satisfaction in your obvious fear. In scaring you into never trying that again, instead it leaves him unsettled. And still uncomfortably aware of his own frame’s response to you.

• “I’m sorry, Tarn, I’m sorry,” babbling apologies because he’s angrier than you’ve ever seen him. Snarling at you and you shudder when he presses his masked face against your throat and you can feel him venting against you, one of his hands pinning both of yours above your head. And you gasp when he catches your chin and forces your head to turn his way as his own head lifts. Growling something at you that sounds furious. “I’m sorry.” That little glimpse of his face hadn’t been worth his anger or your life. Because he’s that angry. “Tarn, please.”

• “Anyone else who tried that would be dead right now,” he whispers, tapping a servo against your soft cheek until you open your eyes. And his anger fizzles somewhat, those frightened eyes leaking. “Anyone else,” he repeats, voice strained. Still aroused and angry and frustrated with you, everything mixing together into a bitter confusion. And you’re still brokenly chirping his name, breath hitching and leaking even more. “Stop that,” he growls, unconsciously modulating his voice. Using his outlier ability on you.

• It’s like someone cut your strings, body just going limp. Aware of yourself, of the weight of your body in a way you’ve never been before. Unable to breathe. Lungs just refusing to draw in a breath. Unable to twitch a finger or blink. Just staring up at those red optics as panic claws at you. Him. It’s him. Hear him growl as your lungs burn and know without knowing how that he’d done this to you somehow. Trapped you in your own body while it slowly dies because you’d made him angry.

• Freezing when you just stop, eyes staring at nothing. Little chest no longer rising and he realizes what he’s done. Hadn’t meant to no matter how angry he was. Didn’t want this. “Breathe,” he growls. “Live for me.” Pouring his ability into the words, willing you to obey and you take a shuddering, terrified breath. And immediately go wild, trashing and bucking in his grip. Screaming at him as he hooks an arm around you and sits back to drag you into his lap. Pinning you as you fight to escape him, sobbing. He’d lost control. Used his ability without meaning to. That shouldn’t be possible. You shouldn’t be able to affect him like you do. To not only want you that way, but to let you get under his plating. Cupping your head against his chassis, his servos are shaking as it sinks in just how dangerous you are. You’re a threat.

Previous

Next

[stargrillzz]

THAT WAY

SUMMARY: You can’t keep up with Bucky's ways.

NOTE: I changed absolutely everything about this profile, but I love this new aesthetic and vibe. xoxo

There was something haunting about 3 a.m. at Stark Tower.

The entire place, usually pulsing with the low hum of life and tech and Tony’s endless inventions, was completely still. The kind of silence that rang in your ears like a warning — or a memory. Everyone was asleep. Everyone except him.

Bucky Barnes sat on the edge of his bed like a statue carved from history and hurt, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Sweat clung to his temples. His dog tags were cold against his collarbone. The shadows stretched across the floor like they were trying to reach him, pull him back. Every time he closed his eyes, Hydra's claws were waiting. The screaming. The pain. The way he could feel the metal biting into his bones. The way his own hands, coated in blood he hadn’t chosen, still felt too real. His throat was dry. His heart was loud.

And then there was you. His fingers hovered near his door, hesitating. He knew it was late — insanely late — but… he also knew you’d open. You always did. Like a warm light behind fogged glass, you never turned him away. Still, he knocked softly, almost ashamed of himself for needing you again.

The hallway was quiet, and for a second he thought maybe tonight, you wouldn’t answer. But the door creaked open not even five seconds later, and there you were — sleepy eyes, hair messy, wrapped in one of those oversized Stark-branded hoodies you always stole from the laundry pile. You blinked at him, voice still hoarse from sleep. “Buck?”

He looked at you — eyes heavy with guilt, with something softer behind it. “I… shit, I’m sorry. I know it’s late. I just—” You stepped back immediately, swinging the door wider. “Don’t apologize. Come in.” He gave a breathy nod and stepped into your room, his broad shoulders brushing against yours. The air was warm, soft. Your room always smelled faintly like vanilla and something calm, like safety. You closed the door gently behind him, voice quiet. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t even try. I knew what was waiting.” You didn’t push for details. You never did. He loved that about you. You always gave him space when the rest of the world tried to dissect him. You moved toward your bed, crawling under the covers and patting the empty space beside you. “Do you want to stay here?” Bucky looked at you — really looked at you — and then just nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He sat down carefully beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this — climbed into your bed after a rough night, curled into your warmth like it was the only thing that made sense — but this time, it felt heavier. His silence was louder. You both lay down slowly, facing each other under the covers. The space between your bodies was small, but the tension between you? It filled the room like fog. His eyes searched yours — deep, quiet, like they were trying to memorize every inch of your soul. You couldn’t breathe for a second. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t have to. His eyes said so much — exhaustion, pain, but also something… softer. Something almost like longing. His voice broke the silence. “I really don’t know why I have you.”You blinked, brows drawing in slightly. “What do you mean?” His voice was low, almost ashamed. “With all the bad things I’ve done… I don’t know how I’m lucky enough to have someone like you in my life.” Your chest clenched. You reached for him instinctively, your fingers brushing lightly over his vibranium wrist before moving to his jaw. “Bucky… you didn’t do all those bad things. And you know that. With everything that’s happened to you — everything you’ve suffered — you have every right to be angry, to shut down, to give up.” Your thumb stroked gently over his cheekbone. “But you don’t. You fight every day. You try. You still care. And that makes you more of a hero than most people I know.” His eyes softened as he stared at you, quiet and unmoving. Your words wrapped around him like a blanket — not one that fixed everything, but one that soothed the ache, made it bearable. He didn’t look away. His metal fingers moved slowly — brushing your hair back from your face, lingering on your jaw. The coolness of the vibranium against your skin made you shiver, but not from the cold. His hand cupped your cheek as if you were something fragile — or sacred. He whispered it so softly, like it might break in his throat. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Your breath caught. And before you could answer — before you could figure out whether that meant what it sounded like it meant — he tugged you forward, arms wrapping tightly around you, burying your face into his chest. His chin rested on the top of your head, and he exhaled like the weight of the whole world had just let go. Your arms wrapped around his waist, squeezing gently. You could feel his heart — steady now. Safe. Neither of you said another word. But neither of you needed to. Because even though he wouldn’t say it — not yet — he meant it. And so did you.

The air in the training room was warm — not just from your fire-imbued abilities that occasionally flared mid-fight, but from the way your laughter filled the space like sunshine.

“Come on, Cap, you’re losing your edge,” you teased, breathless, as you ducked under Steve’s punch and slid behind him. Your palm tapped lightly against the center of his back. “Point for me.”

Steve turned, grinning wide. “I’m letting you win. You’ve got a reputation to uphold, after all — Firecracker.”

You groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s fitting,” he smirked, circling you. “Explosive temper, hot hands, and an unfair amount of style.”

Your grin widened, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “That was almost smooth.”

“I’m working on it.”

You both lunged at the same time, arms clashing in a flurry of practiced blows and counter-movements, years of sparring translating into something that felt more like dance than combat. You’d always had this playful rhythm with Steve — easy, comfortable. He was the one who had pulled you out of the burning wreckage of that HYDRA facility two years ago. The one who had looked into your terrified, half-conscious eyes and said, “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.” Since then, he'd been your constant, your big brother and sparring partner rolled into one.

But sometimes, the flirting slipped in. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe just how close you always got in combat. Or maybe — if you were honest — it was to poke at a certain ex-assassin’s nerves. Not that he ever gave you any clear reason to.

Not yet.

You didn’t even notice Bucky when he entered. Not at first. You were too caught up in your fight, in the way Steve’s hands had suddenly locked around your waist from behind, your back flush to his chest.

“Gotcha,” he whispered near your ear, breath brushing your neck.

You laughed, your head tilting slightly into his shoulder. “Dirty move.”

“You love it.”

You did, a little. The intimacy of it. The warmth. The way it let you forget everything else for a second — the nightmares, the pressure, the endless missions. For a moment, it was just sparring and shared smiles and sweat-soaked comfort.

But then, something shifted.

The tension in the room thickened like smoke.

Bucky stood across the gym, his hands clenched tightly at his sides, jaw sharp and unmoving. He wasn’t punching the bag anymore. Wasn’t training. Wasn’t pretending to be casual. His eyes were locked on you. No, not you — on Steve. On the way Steve held you.

You could feel it — that slow-burn crackle under your skin, like you were about to combust. And this time, it wasn’t your powers.

You quickly twisted out of Steve’s grip, a little too quickly, and he stumbled back. His foot caught on the mat and he fell flat on his back, groaning with exaggerated pain.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh my God—are you okay?” you giggled, kneeling beside him.

Steve blinked up at you dramatically. “You did that on purpose. Wanted to be on top, huh?”

Your eyes went wide. “Steve.”

“What? I’m just asking how long you’ve been waiting for a moment like this.”

Your jaw dropped, but the shock dissolved into laughter. “Jesus Christ, Captain, I didn’t know you had a mouth like that.”

He grinned, hands behind his head. “You don’t know how I have so many things.”

That was the moment the tension cracked.

A sharp, deliberate cough came from across the room.

You turned. Slowly.

Bucky was standing by the bench press now, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression unreadable. But his eyes — God, his eyes — were molten.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked flatly.

Steve propped himself up on his elbows, still smirking. “Just training.”

You pushed yourself off Steve’s chest, suddenly feeling like a spotlight had been thrown on you. “Yeah, um… I just discovered a side of Steve I didn’t think I’d ever see.”

Steve laughed again. “It’s a shame we don’t spar more often.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. His tone didn’t change.

“Can you get off of him?”

Your heart jumped. You blinked. “We were just—”

“Calm down, Buck,” Steve cut in, casually wiping the sweat off his brow. “We’re literally in the training room.”

“Whatever.” Bucky didn’t wait for a response. He just turned on his heel and walked out the door, leaving a trail of heavy silence behind him.

You stood there for a second, unsure what to do. Your stomach fluttered — not with excitement, but something between confusion and hope. Because Bucky Barnes had looked at Steve Rogers like he wanted to end him. And for the first time in a long time, it meant something.

Steve chuckled beside you, brushing off his shoulder as he stood. “Jealousy, thy name is Barnes.”

You stared after the door, still frowning. “But… why would he be jealous?”

Steve gave you a look, one brow raised. “Seriously?”

“I mean, he’s—he doesn’t act like—”

Steve tilted his head. “He doesn’t act like he’s in love with you?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked away.

“I’m just saying,” Steve added, his voice gentler now. “That man barely speaks to anyone. He barely looks at anyone. Except you. And when he looks at you… it’s like you’re the first real thing he’s seen in years.”

You swallowed hard. The words sat heavy in your chest.

Outside the gym doors, down the hall, Bucky’s footsteps echoed away. But all you could think about was the way he’d looked at you — and the way he hadn’t stayed to explain himself.

You didn’t know what was happening. But maybe… maybe he felt it too. And maybe that was what scared you both the most.

The hallway was silent, except for the soft echo of your bare feet on the metallic floor. You were still wearing your training clothes, an old sweatshirt tied around your waist, your heart pounding as if you’d just run ten flights of stairs. You didn’t know exactly why you felt like this. You just knew you weren’t going to sleep until you talked to him.

You crossed the empty common room, passed the couch, and stopped in front of his door. You hesitated. Just for a second. But then you knocked—twice, quickly, like doing it slower would give you time to back out.

A few seconds later, the door opened. Bucky stood there. Shirtless, wearing the gray lounge pants he used to sleep in, hair slightly damp, like he’d splashed water on his face to calm down. Or to cool whatever he’d been feeling earlier.

His eyes dropped to meet yours, but he didn’t say anything.

“Can I come in?” you asked, voice firm—even though that wasn’t how you felt inside.

He stepped aside without a word, letting you walk in. The room smelled like wood, something clean and warm and his. Dense. Familiar. Like the way he made you feel.

You closed the door behind you.

“Are you gonna tell me what that was about?” you asked, turning to face him.

He crossed his arms, looking down at the floor for a moment. Then he lifted his eyes to yours. They were dark. Intense.

“What was what?”

“What happened in the training room. The way you looked at Steve and me… the way you spoke to me. Cold. Sharp. Like you wanted to rip me out of there.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, his metal arm flexing like it was burning inside.

“I didn’t like it.”

“What didn’t you like?”

“You two.” The words shot out like a bullet. Then, softer: “Being that close. Laughing. Touching. Flirting.”

His eyes locked on yours like he was searching for something—something he couldn’t say yet.

You frowned, feeling a twist in your stomach.

“What do you mean flirting?” you asked, your voice quieter.

Bucky stepped toward you. Then another step. Barely noticeable, like he didn’t even realize he was moving. But by the time you noticed, he was already in front of you. Inches away.

You could see every little scar on his face, the crease between his brows, the slight tremble in his lips when he opened his mouth to speak but bit down because the words wouldn’t come.

“I didn’t like the way he touched you,” he finally admitted. “I didn’t like that you laughed with him like that. That you looked at him like…”

“Like what?”

“Like he was the only one who could make you feel that way.”

The air stilled. Your chest rose and fell fast, like you’d been running. The room felt smaller. He felt closer. Everything felt too intense.

“And why does that bother you?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at your lips. His breathing was quicker. His human hand lifted, slowly, shaking just a bit, rising toward your cheek… then stopped halfway.

“You know why,” he said. Almost too softly to hear.

“No,” you lied. “I don’t.”

He stepped even closer. And now there was no space left between you.

His nose brushed against yours. His breath warm on your skin. His voice, low and broken:

“Because I don’t want anyone else to have you like that. Because when I see you with someone else, something inside me cracks. Because I want to pull you away and tell you that you’re mine, even if I’ve never had the guts to say it.”

Friday nights in Stark Tower had become something sacred. No missions. No training. Just badly cooked takeout, too many drinks, and a dangerously competitive round of Uno or Mario Kart with some of the most powerful people on Earth.

You were curled up on the couch between Sam and Wanda, a blanket draped over your legs, your hand deep in a bowl of popcorn you were definitely not sharing. Steve was across from you, tossing back a beer and trying to pretend he didn’t take this game as seriously as his old war strategy briefings.

Bucky, as always, sat slightly apart from the group—on the edge of the loveseat that no one else dared to sit on, sipping slowly from a glass of whiskey, arms crossed over his chest like he wasn’t trying to have fun, but still... never missed a Friday.

You didn’t mind it. You knew better than anyone: Bucky liked to observe before he jumped in. He always had.

Tonight’s game was Truth or Dare—Tony’s idea, naturally, because if he couldn’t humiliate his teammates once a week, he might explode.

“Alright, Witchy,” Sam grinned, nudging Wanda. “Truth or dare?”

Wanda smirked. “Dare.”

Sam leaned in like he was about to expose a national secret. “I dare you... to tell us your most inappropriate Avenger crush.”

Groans and laughter erupted instantly.

Wanda looked amused. “Seriously?”

“Yes. The people need to know,” Tony chimed in, way too invested.

Wanda took a dramatic pause, then raised her eyebrows in your direction. “You. Obviously.”

You nearly choked on your popcorn. “Me?!”

“You literally set things on fire when you get emotional,” she teased. “That's hot. Literally.”

The whole group burst into laughter, including you. Even Bucky huffed a small laugh from his corner.

You smiled and leaned into Wanda’s shoulder. “Flattered, but also terrified.”

“Alright, alright, your turn,” Sam declared, looking at you.

“Fine,” you said, brushing popcorn salt off your hands. “Steve. Truth or dare?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Truth.”

“If you weren’t a superhero,” you asked, “what would you be doing with your life right now?”

There was a pause. A soft shift in the mood.

Steve leaned forward, suddenly sincere. “Something quieter,” he said. “A quiet life. Maybe painting. I used to sketch a lot before the war.”

There was a collective silence.

“Wow,” Clint muttered. “Way to ruin the mood, Cap.”

That broke the tension, and everyone laughed again.

You leaned back against the couch, smiling, and turned your head toward Bucky—

And froze.

He was already staring at you.

Eyes locked on you like he wasn’t even aware of it. There was no mistaking it this time—not a glance, not a passing look. This was different. His gaze was deep, unmoving, and there was something in it—something warm and aching and maybe even a little broken. Like you were the only thing in the room he could see.

Your breath caught. Your heart stuttered.

And then, in the span of a blink, he shifted. Looked away. Took a sip from his glass like nothing happened.

You stared at him, stunned, your pulse still racing. Did no one else see that? Did you imagine it?

He looked over at Steve, then at Tony, pretending to be part of the group again.

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Minutes passed. People changed seats. Someone spilled beer. Wanda was now trying to get Steve to admit he owned flannel pajama pants. But you couldn’t let it go.

Later, when the crowd finally began to scatter—some drifting to the kitchen, others calling it a night—you slipped away down the hallway, almost without thinking. You didn’t even knock. You just pushed open Bucky’s door and stepped inside.

He was standing at his window, back to you, nursing what had to be his second or third glass of whiskey.

“You were staring at me,” you said softly, closing the door behind you.

His shoulders tensed. Slowly, he turned.

“What?”

“Earlier,” you clarified. “During the game. You were staring.”

He shook his head, too quickly. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Bucky.”

He looked away. “You were imagining things.”

You took a step closer. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend like it didn’t happen. I saw you. I felt it.”

He met your eyes then. For a second, everything dropped from his face—the careful mask, the distance, the safety net he always kept between you. And there it was again. That look. The one that made your knees weak and your heart twist.

But then he blinked, and it was gone. Again.

“You’re my friend, Y/N.”

Your heart clenched. “So that’s all it is?”

“That’s all it has to be,” he said quietly.

It happened one night when everything was almost perfect.

The mission was a success. For once, no bruises. No blood. Just tired limbs and adrenaline slowly fading into the quiet hours of the night. Everyone else had gone to bed, but you and Bucky — as always — ended up on the rooftop of Stark Tower.

You sat beside him in silence, wrapped in one of his sweatshirts you’d stolen weeks ago. Your knees were drawn up to your chest. Bucky had one leg stretched out, the other bent, his metal arm resting on it, glinting silver under the moonlight.

The city hummed softly beneath you. But here, above it all, it felt like time had slowed just for the two of you.

He didn’t speak much. He never did. But tonight, he looked relaxed. Safe, even. Something that only happened when it was just the two of you.

You’d been here before. So many times.

But something felt different.

Maybe it was the way his hand brushed yours earlier and didn’t pull away. Or the way he looked at you when you laughed over dinner, like he wasn’t just listening — he was soaking you in. Like he needed to remember it.

Like he wanted to remember you.

You sighed quietly and leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Do you ever think,” you whispered, “what it would’ve been like if we met under normal circumstances?”

He turned slightly, his eyes soft. “Like if we were just... two people?”

You nodded. “No Hydra. No missions. No Avengers. Just... you and me.”

His mouth twitched in a half-smile, and for a second, he didn’t answer. Then:

“I think I still would’ve found you.”

The silence between you thickened, heavy with words left unsaid. Your heart pounded in your ears.

You lifted your head, searching his eyes.

And there it was again.

The look.

The one that said everything he never said out loud. The one that set your soul on fire and broke your heart all at once.

His hand came up — slow, hesitant — and brushed a strand of hair from your face. His fingers lingered on your jaw, his thumb tracing your cheek like he was memorizing you. Again.

You tilted your head slightly into his palm, eyes locked with his. Inches apart. So close you could feel his breath.

You had been avoiding him for days.

The training room? You didn’t show up. Midnight walks? You made up excuses. And last night, when he knocked softly on your door at 2:47 a.m. — when he needed you, again — you didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because the truth was, you weren’t okay. Not anymore.

You couldn’t keep pretending that the looks didn’t mean something. That the almost-kisses didn’t hurt. That the words left unsaid weren’t killing you.

So when Bucky finally cornered you in the common room the next afternoon — after you'd brushed him off again — your heart was already halfway to breaking.

He stood across from you, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched like he was holding something in. His eyes searched your face like you were a puzzle he couldn’t figure out anymore.

“Are you avoiding me?” he asked, straight to the point.

You didn’t look at him. You were sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through your tablet, even though your fingers had stopped moving minutes ago.

“I’m tired,” you said.

“You’ve been tired for four days.”

You still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Well, maybe I am.”

There was a long pause.

Then the softest, lowest version of his voice: “Why didn’t you open the door?”

You swallowed hard.

Because if I saw your face, I would’ve broken down. Because I’m trying so damn hard not to love someone who won’t let himself love me back.

“I didn’t feel like talking,” you whispered.

“Y/N…” His voice cracked slightly. “You always talk to me. That’s… what we do.”

You stood suddenly, anger bubbling up in your chest — not at him, not really. At this thing between you that kept building and building and never going anywhere.

“What are we doing, Bucky?” you said sharply. “Because this… this thing between us? It’s exhausting.”

His brows furrowed. “I don’t know what you—”

“Yes, you do!” you shouted, finally looking him dead in the eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean when you act like that.”

He blinked, frozen.

“I know your past,” you continued, quieter now, but each word trembling with the weight of unshed tears. “I know everything you’ve been through. And God, I understand why you are the way you are. You have a million reasons to keep yourself locked up. But you don’t get to pretend like I’m imagining things.”

He stepped forward slightly, lips parted like he was about to say something—anything.

But you didn’t let him.

“No. Don’t. You said it was never gonna happen,” you snapped. “You said it with your words, Bucky. But then you almost kissed me.”

He closed his eyes for a second, his jaw tight with regret.

“And we say we’re friends,” you went on, your voice shaking, “but I catch you staring at me all the damn time. You look at me like I’m the only thing holding you together. And then the second it gets too real, you disappear. Or worse, you pretend like it never happened.”

Bucky’s hands had curled into fists at his sides. His eyes — stormy and heavy — never left yours.

You choked on your next breath, your voice breaking now.

“Friends don’t look at friends that way,” you whispered.

And there it was — silence.

The truth, hanging heavy in the air like fog, like smoke, like a fire no one could put out.

Bucky didn’t move. Not toward you. Not away. Just stood there, stunned, wounded, and too scared to say the words you needed.

So you shook your head, taking a step back, like distance would dull the ache.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said softly. “I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with being close to you… but never close enough.”

His voice, when it finally came, was so broken it hurt. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know,” you nodded, eyes burning. “But you did.”

[a-hazbin-reader]

A Alastor x wife!reader where reader has been wanting a family and finally by some miracle she discovers she's pregnant

Just a thought 🫠

You are not even the third person to ask for this and we're all already delusional here soooooo-

Alastor X Reader Headcanons

✅️Romantic

❌️Platonic

TW: Sadness, Reader has baby fever and spreads it to her husband unintentionally, A little angst, Implied baby making 😉

Description: 👆⬆️

Alastor would do anything for his wife, spare no expense for her happiness and it shows

You two have talked previously about your obvious desire for a family with him

He would be willing to give that to you even though he's admittedly not the biggest fan of the idea

Part of him is scared of being a father but he won't ever admit that

You two both knew that sinners couldn't reproduce, and it crushed you that the opportunity was taken from you

You were still happy to have your husband and your found family at the hotel

You just still had that desire to have a baby, your husband's baby to be exact

Alastor hates seeing you so hurt over this, he wants to fix things for you, but this is out of his control

He couldn't give you a baby no matter how hard he tried, and that makes him feel helpless, which makes him angry

Sometimes the longing for a baby and the despair of knowing you can't have one gets to be too much for you and you unintentionally draw into yourself

Not amount of hugging or soothing words from your husband can console you, no matter how hard you cling to him and seek his comfort

You're just so sad sometimes

Which leads to Alastor being frosty and agitated with the others around the hotel, upset that he can't just fix it

He would give you the biggest family if he could, whatever he could do to make you feel whole

It's not like you two are neglecting each other or growing apart, there's just this heavy feeling hanging between you two

Everyone knows something is up with you two, but nobody is brave enough to ask, except maybe Vaggie, but she's respecting your privacy as a couple

Of course, it's Charlie who tries to get to the bottom of things for the two of you, everyone is just worried you two are fighting

So when you finally relent and tell her the truth, she's relieved that you and Alastor only want to have a baby-

YOU AND ALASTOR WANT TO HAVE A BABY!?

Sinners can't reproduce so you're just riding out your baby fever until it's manageable again

But no sinner has had a friend in the Morningstar family before

Not even a day later Alastor is greeted by Lucifer while you're out with Charlie and the others

"Hey man, heard you wanted me to get your wife pregnant! Lucky for you, I happen to have a thing for married women~"

When you come back home you're surprised to see Lucifer and your husband talking amicably, both turning their heads towards you immediately

"Ah! Would you look at the time? I should really get going, things to do, ducks to make-what?"

Lucifer gives you an unexpected side hug on his way out, hand resting momentarily on your stomach before leaving

You rub where he touched, surprised by the sudden warmth that lingers there

Your husband is looking at you strangely too but kisses you in greeting before you can even question it

Alastor acts rather clingy the rest of the day, following you around, asking you how you're feeling, giving affection more freely

You can't deny that you're loving the attention and soaking up every bit of it, the warmth in your stomach having spread throughout your entire body now

If Alastor's sudden neediness is anything to go by, he's feeling the same as you are

How either of you manage to wait until everyone has gone to bed to indulge in each other is beyond you

The entire night is a blur but when you wake up the entire bed has nearly been torn apart

Feathers are all over the place, the blankets have all been kicked away or shredded, the bed frame is clawed and cracked

You would almost feel embarrassed, but when you look at your handiwork on your husband, you can't help but feel proud

Things mostly go back to normal after that, except Lucifer visits more often and seems to pay special attention to you

You feel like everyone is watching you lately and you don't know why, you're never alone anymore, your husband especially is very hovery

But it ends up working out in your favor because one day you wake up, overwhelmed by the urge to vomit, your husband holding back your hair

And it keeps happening for days on end, and you start gaining weight without explanation, and your cravings are suddenly intense and-

Your husband is looking a little too pleased with himself, rubbing your back soothingly as you poke at your mysteriously changing body in the mirror

"You did this to me somehow, didn't you!"

"Why honey, why would I need to babytrap you when we're already married?"

"Because you-what?"

It takes a few moments to register what he said, all the strange things in the last few months clicking into place

"You got me pregnant..?"

He actually starts to look a little embarrassed, suddenly unsure if he really did the right thing after all-

When did he end up on the bed?

Is definitely sure in his decision later when he exits the bedroom, fixing his hair and clothes while he leaves you sleeping in bed

Luckily, the hotel has a lot of people who are willing to help out with your pregnancy because Alastor is worried he's actually in over his head

Your mood swings are more like mood hurricanes and sometimes he needs help knowing the right things to say

"Y/N, don't worry about not fitting into your own clothes, this is uh...just an opportunity to get new ones!"

"T-Thanks Vaggie..."

The cravings start to get fucking weird, Alastor genuinely repulsed by some of the things you're asking him for

"Darling, I can get you fresh meat as bloody as you want but do you really need to eat it with cake and ice cream?"

"Don't you love me..?"

He'll be back in 10 minutes

The bigger you get, the more sore and tired you are, constantly needing help around the hotel as you waddle around

"Thanks for helping me, Husk...I was getting really tired."

"Charlie, is it alright if I sit in that chair? My back is killing me.."

Alastor is scared with how vulnerable you are like this so he sticks close to you but silently appreciates the help from everyone

Even the other overlords come to see your miracle pregnancy, which doesn't help with Alastor's paranoia over how defenseless you are right now

They just want to see

As if Carmilla or Rosie would let anything happen to you anyways, Rosie loves the crap out of you and Carmilla wouldn't hurt an expecting mother

Rosie is constantly visiting and bringing baby gifts, so many that they're starting to pile up around the hotel

"Oh darling, you're practically glowing! Alastor! Have you told Y/N how radiant she is with her pregnancy?"

She wants to be Aunty Rosie so bad

Alastor genuinely admires the changes in your body, feeling pride in the thought that he did this to you

"With a little help from the big boss of-"

"You haven't left already?"

"I want to talk to my god child~ Can you stop hogging Y/N's belly for five minutes?"

"Your what now?

Alastor rubs your belly a lot, baffled by the idea that his spawn is in there and how happily you carry it

How you're so proud to be having his kid is beyond him, he knows what a wretched man he is and you still love him, take pride in him

The first time he feels the baby kick, he's a little unnerved but then you guide his hand back, smiling at him in a way that makes his heart ache for you

"Our baby wants to say hi to you..."

Okay, now his heart is melting, give your husband a kiss right now

Starts kissing and talking to your belly more after that, talking to the baby about anything and everything as if you're not even there

"Now your mother, you have no idea how lucky she is to have me as her husband~"

Confides in you late one night, about his fear of being a father and failing you and the baby

Not him having tears pinpricking in the corners of his eyes as you kiss him and reassure him

He doesn't particularly care about the gender of his child, just that you and the little spawn are okay

But if the baby is a girl, then he would like her to have his mother's name, that's all he would ask really

If the baby is a boy then he'll let you pick the name out as long as it's something fancy sounding

Does all the work when it comes to the nursery and baby proofing but has no idea what that actually entails, so you'll have to help him out

He's so proud to show you the finished look

The closer it gets to your due date, the more out of sorts and anxious he is but he tries to put on a brave face for you

He makes sure you never have to lift a finger, doing everything he can to make you comfortable and spending all his free time with you

Carmilla and her daughters all volunteer to assist in the labor, Zestial coming for the sake of tagging along

Alastor is in genuine anguish when you actually go into labor, the sound of you in pain and him being helpless to help is torture for him

Refuses to leave your side the entire time, blocking out everything else but you and encouraging you as best he can

Focuses so hard on taking care of you that he hardly notices that you've finished, surprised when Carmilla suddenly puts not one but two babies in your arms

You're visibly exhausted but seem to gain a renewed energy at the sight of your babies, looking at them in wonder before giving Alastor a tearful smile

"A boy and a girl, a miracle on top of already being miracle babies. Congratulations, Alastor."

Carmilla pats him on the shoulder before leaving, pulling Zestial and her daughters along with her

Alastor doesn't even register what she said, still dumbfounded at the sight of you cooing at two squirming infants

TWINS!? Lucifer, you sneaky son of a bi-

"Do you want to hold them, Alastor?"

"I would love nothing more, my dear..."

He definitely doesn't immediately fall in love when his babies cling to him like they'll never let go, holding his fingers in their unbelievably tiny hands

A LITTLE TREAT FOR ALL OF YOU WHO WERE BEGGING FOR THIS

[sea-lanterns]

A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET

synopsis: (slasher! AU) the killer that haunts your dreams is real.

featuring: rosaria

rating: 18+ smut (men and minors dni)

warnings: sub! afab fem reader, dom character, character is a serial killer, mentions of blood, mentions of gore but nothing like that happens, rosaria has knives, dark humor, reader is a virg.in, slight degradation, knife play, predator and prey ki.nk, cunnilin.gus (reader recieving), biting, reader gets nicked accidentally, may be ooc.

art credits: tomie

Perhaps it was the paranoia that was gnawing at your chest, but you felt as if someone was watching you from the dark corners of your room ever since you got into bed. For the past few nights or so, your dreams have been haunted by the same, shadowy woman that would chase you down in various parts of your town, waking you up just before she could get close enough to get her hands on you. Every night you would wake up drenched in a cold sweat, heart pounding with adrenaline as everything these dreams did made you feel as if you were living it in reality. You hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in a while, the bags under your eyes prominent and worrying everyone you knew around you. 

Get therapy perhaps? No, no matter what everyone suggested, you knew this was more than simple nightmares and hallucinations. The woman felt real, she is real. The way she would hunt you down with a looming prescience, her tired smile haunting your visions while she dragged her blade-like gloves across the wall, emitting a painful screeching noise that would play on repeat whenever you started feeling anxious. This wasn’t good, you needed this to stop and you needed it to stop now. 

“I’m going insane…” you mumbled to yourself, laughing deliriously from the lack of sleep and staring at the ceiling of your room. Oh goodness, you were tired. You needed sleep but you knew that if you fell into dreamland, that woman would appear again and try to kill you. Every touch, every breath, she drew closer in your sleep, taunting you to close your eyes and let her ravish you in your dreams. 

“I can’t…” your eyes felt heavy, her smile a taunting reminder for you to close your eyes. “I…”

Close your eyes…

It felt as if she were whispering it into your ear, your consciousness on the edge of falling towards her. You wondered if you could do something about this, something that could stop her from tormenting you with her prescience. But alas, you found yourself feeling heavy, the ghostly hands caressing your cheek and drawing you in like an invisible invitation. 

You can’t…

Close your eyes…

The curse you let out was violent. Angry. You wanted to punch yourself in the face for falling asleep so easily, trying to will yourself to wake up before the woman appeared again. As you looked up at your surroundings, you found yourself on the campus of your university, yet there was no one else around and it was pitch black dark outside.

You began walking along the path of your campus, feeling uncomfortable with being out in the open like this. You figured you should probably hide, but honestly it wasn’t like hiding was your best chance of survival. No matter where you ran or hid in your dreams, that damned shadowy woman would always find you. 

A memory of her appearance flashed before your eyes, her tall, looming figure casting her presence in your mind. Rosaria… you remembered her name. How she would purr it in your ear moments before she was about to strike. Rosaria… you wouldn’t dare forget it, her wicked smile stretching ear to ear like a cat toying with a mouse. 

You jolted when you thought you heard the screeching noise of metal against metal. Her claws. Oh how could you forget about her claws? They were the thing that frightened you the most about her. The way they would eerily scratch against the wall to warn you of her presence…

Speaking of her claws, you should probably move faster. It was getting to the point in your dreams where she would make her presence known.

You hurried off the sidewalk and into one of the buildings of your university, hoping you could survive until your brain eventually woke up. Your university looked and sounded eerie without anyone else inside the building, your footsteps echoing on the tiled floor as you kept a lookout for your killer. 

Everything felt straight out of a horror film, each moment of silence building up the suspense. You were surprised you didn’t wake up automatically due to your unusually high heart rate (or die of a heart attack). As you continued walking, you felt as if your footsteps were echoing a little louder than usual…

You stopped. Took one step forward, and the step ricocheted twice as loud through the walls. Another step. Another. You stopped again and felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You didn’t think she would find you so soon. 

Without turning around to see if she was actually there, you bolted. The footsteps behind you breaking into a sprint as well as panic began to settle into your nerves. How does she always find you so fast? You let out a cry and tried upping the pace, not bothering to look back. “Leave me alone!” You cried out desperately, tired of these endless nightmares where you felt like you were in a constant death cycle. 

Rosaria didn’t say anything, but you knew she could hear you. Your mind whirling with ways of how to escape from her and mapping out possible hiding spots. The boiler room… you figured you could hide in there, almost no one ever knows how to get down there except for you and the custodians. 

You took a sharp corner and ran to the door that had a Do Not Enter sign. So, like the rebellious woman that you were, you entered anyway. 

It was darker than usual in the basement. The cinder block walls were covered in a thick mildew that made you cover your nose with your sleeve. You forgot how musty it was in here, but nevertheless you found yourself a nice hidden corner to tuck yourself in and hide. You didn’t know when your body would finally wake up, when this nightmare would finally end. All you could do was sit there and wait, hoping morning came before that woman could find you… 

You recalled the first time you encountered her in your dreams. She had some pretty nasty scarring on her face that came from what looked like a burn, however underneath all that rough exterior, you could make out a beautiful face underneath. 

Damn. For a woman as insane as she was, she was still attractive for your tastes. You rested your head on the metal of some pipe, scrunching up your nose at the thought. Of course you had a thing for scary women, but honestly now was not the time to crush on your killer… 

You heard that high-pitched screeching noise of her metal claws dragging against the wall again, causing you to tense up. She was close. You held your breath and tried to make yourself appear as small as possible, shoving yourself deeper into the corner that you wedged yourself in. The handle of the basement door twisted open, its click reaching your ears and making you freeze in place.

How the hell did she find the hidden door?

The woman’s heavy, intimidating footsteps slowly roamed around the basement. A small hum leaving those cracked lips of hers as she got closer and closer. Well, you were trapped. With your back against the wall, you knew you had no place to run and squeezed your eyes shut.

Her footsteps suddenly stopped, but they sounded quite close to where you were hiding. This was it, this was how you would die. In your dreams, in your sleep, where no one will be able to figure out the real cause of your death in the real world. 

Cold metal lightly traced the bottom of your chin, making you let out a whimper. A small, strained chuckle left the woman in front of you, her face stretching into a grin at the sight of you.

“Open your eyes, girl.” Her voice was raspy and grated, it was like she hadn’t spoken in a long time. Her grip tensed a bit more around your chin, making you yelp pathetically for fear of her claws nicking you. She chuckled at the yelp, gently brushing your cheek with a claw and silently ushering you to obey. 

You did, slowly opening your eyes and focusing on the woman in front of you. Rosaria…

She was just how you remembered her. That same, sleazy smile plastered on her disfigured face, the burn marks and scars running over her skin but failing to hide her beauty. Your biggest fear was standing right in front of you, cupping your face in her hands (claws?) and having you knelt pathetically on the floor for her. You hated it. Hated how pathetic you looked, hated how she stared down at you like the victor of the hunt. She had you cornered so easily and you hated it. 

“You look like you want to bite my nose off.” Rosaria chuckled, gently poking your nose with the tip of her finger. She would pinch it if she could, if not for the knives she had on her fingers. “Like a cornered rat…”

You glared at her, as that nickname was uncalled for. However, it seems that Rosaria didn’t see it as a bad thing, as she continued “petting” your face and making your nerves dance under her fingers. 

“--and to think that I found you in the boiler room too. Don’t look so upset, rats are quite the intelligent creatures, and it took several dreams of chasing you to finally have you in my grasp.”

You gulped as her bladed fingers slowly traced over your cheek, over your lips, and then down your neck. Maybe you were just imagining it, but her eyes almost looked…intrigued. Watching the way a small lump of saliva went down your throat from how nervous you were, admiring the goosebumps on your skin as she traced a blade over the groove of your neck, almost like she was about to slit it. 

“You are surprisingly calm for a woman who has several knives to her neck.” Rosaria comments, finally making eye contact with you again and smiling. “Or perhaps, you’re too scared to say anything to me?’

Well what can you say? Please let me live? Fuck you for ruining my sleep schedule? It didn’t matter anyways, your last words would be heard from a serial killer that only existed in your dreams. There really was no point in talking to her. 

Your lips formed a thin line and you closed your eyes, admitting defeat and knowing when you had been bested. She won. She caught you and wore you down, your body too tired to even fight back after all these days. 

Rosaria simply stared back at you for a while, her face blank as she watched you submit yourself.

“...Silly girl.” she chuckles, licking her scratched up lips and tilting your chin up to look at her. “Are you waiting for me to slit your throat? Gouge out those pretty eyes perhaps? Murder you?” She let out another dry laugh, watching the tears in your eyes make your pupils appear all the more glossy. Gods above you were cute. Quite pathetic, but very, very cute to the killer. “You’d be fun to murder, but much more fun to keep around.”

“...H-Huh?” the word came out quite dumbly, almost instinctively from how tired you were. 

“Don’t get me wrong. I quite enjoy hunting pretty girls like you,” she ran a blade across your head, almost like a caress. “You scream, you cry, it’s adorable. But…I like you, little rat.”

She grinned again when you subtly pouted at her. She would have to keep calling you a rat more often. “You are very resistant, staying awake for as long as you can, drinking all those caffeinated energy drinks so you don’t fall asleep.”

“H-How did you–”

She cut you off before you could question her more, one of her blades moving dangerously quick to shut your lips. She was amused at how quickly you froze up, fear settling in as you were afraid she would cut your lips. “Hush now…” she murmurs, lowering her body a bit so that she is directly in front of you. “Don’t question things beyond your understanding, girl. Your cute brain will hurt too much.” 

She laughed as she belittled you, treating you as if you were some child. You gritted your teeth and wanted to say something back, but the blade on your lips was still there. “Listen…I know how desperately you wish to wake up, to get away from me…” 

She leaned in and purred into your ear, a shiver running down your back.

“So why don’t I help you?” 

You nearly jolted at the implications, your face feeling hot from how much adrenaline was rushing through your veins. Rosaria smiled at your fear, before clarifying herself. “I won’t kill, or harm you in any way. To wake up from my dreams, your heart rate must exceed a certain amount, yes? Then your body will wake up on its own…”

Your breath hitched when you suddenly felt another set of blades trail down your stomach, her other hand making its way to your nether regions. 

“I can accelerate your heart rate in another way.”

Before you could ask her what she meant, she suddenly moved closer to you, her lips dangerously close to yours. A gasp left your lips, having never been so close to your killer before. She was even more attractive up close, every scar and burn on her face simply adding to her horrifying beauty. You couldn’t look away from her. 

“May I…?” she hummed. 

“What?”

“Kiss you.”

She was blunt with her answer, tracing your stomach under your shirt with a blade. “I promise you’ll feel even better than…” she laughed a little, “Say, getting killed.” 

Her humor was dark, but it was fitting for a woman like her. You wanted to say no at first, but the more you thought about it, the more you gazed upon her and her features, you felt a small part in the back of your mind say yes. 

“Okay…” you responded meekly, a bit hesitant but curious. Rosaria’s smile widened, pulling you so close your lips nearly brushed against her on the spot. “You’ll enjoy it.” 

She then pushed her lips against yours, the feeling bringing a burning feeling to your core. Her lips were dry and slightly cracked due to her scars, but even if it felt odd at first, you found yourself almost intrigued by the feeling. Her lips were warm. Somehow comforting in a way as she pushed you up against the wall and kissed you harder. 

Oh…how soft your lips were. Rosaria had long forgotten what soft, unscarred lips felt like. She wanted to touch them, kiss them, lick them, she was absolutely enamored by how sweet and plush they were. 

“Damn…you’re soft…” Rosaria murmured, her lips turning into a grin mid-kiss, before smushing them against you once more. “You might die of asphyxiation because of me instead…”

She chuckled at her dark jab of humor, before growling more hungrily into the kiss and wanting her tongue inside you. As you whimpered at how rough she was getting, you felt her hot tongue lick a stripe against your lips, seeking entry into your mouth. You obeyed, parting those lips she loved so much and allowing her to taste you from the inside. 

Rosaria loved the submission. Her eyes fluttering shut in pleasure while she groaned at the feeling of your tongue meekly pushing back. She parted away and licked the messy drool from the corner of your mouth, smirking at the absolutely dazed expression you gave her as it was clear this was your first time. “Never had another woman’s tongue in you before?” Rosaria hummed, gently tapping the outside of your cheek. “It’s okay, that means it’ll be easier to get your heart pumping twice as fast…”

She dove right back in for another kiss when you weren’t paying attention, dragging her blades down to your shorts. They were the thin kind, just comfortable sleeping shorts you often wore to bed, which made Rosaria all the more happier. “So thin and raunchy…I can’t believe you sleep in these every night.” She smiled and used the tip of her blades to tear the fabric with ease, the sound ripping through your ears and causing goosebumps to form on your thighs. Rosaria pulled away from you, licking her lips as the tatters of what used to be your shorts hung from your knees. 

The woman’s eyes narrowed upon your choice of underwear for the night. Simple, yet very cute cotton panties that barely covered your virgin cunt. She didn’t miss the way your arousal so shamelessly seeped through the fabric of the underwear, clearly turned on by what she was doing to you. “Ah…so wet, hm? Never realized you got all hot and bothered by serial killers?” She grinned at your embarrassment and pulled the elastic on the waistband with her finger. 

It seemed she was gauging how far the elastic would stretch before it inevitably snapped under the sharpness of her blade, enjoying the thrill of seeing more and more of your privates. 

“So pretty and hot.” Rosaria rasped, the growl in her throat prominent as she finally tore your panties to shreds. You let out a gasp and tensed at the sight of her finger blades so close to your cunt, dangerously close as something so sharp next to something so sensitive was making you scared. 

Scared…? Or aroused? You honestly had no idea as that small pulse of heat in your core was difficult to gauge. 

“Mmm…spread your legs for me, pretty girl,” Rosaria hummed, ushering for you to lay on your back and prop yourself up using your arms. You were in such a vulnerable position, legs spread and stomach exposed, looking like a little rodent that had been ensnared under the claws of the carnivore. “Have you ever been eaten out?” 

Your eyes widened and you shook your head no, having only seen that sort of thing in pornos and 18+ films. Rosaria smirked and suddenly got down on her knees in front of you, opening her scarred lips and extending her tongue out almost teasingly. “Well, you’re about to experience it now.” 

She grabbed your hips, ensuring you wouldn’t squirm away –which was pointless because you had nowhere to squirm to– and caged you underneath her mouth. It really did feel like you were about to be eaten by a predator, the way she so hungrily drooled at the sight of you twitching so needily. After savoring the sight of you for a few more moments, Rosaria was finally ready, letting out an almost animalistic growl and licking up your inner thighs.

Just like the rest of her, her tongue was quite rough. Except it wasn’t as uncomfortable as you thought, her rough tongue slowly inching its way to the delicate muscle of your clit, making you arch your back a little. “Mm…down.” Rosaria commanded firmly, making your back hit the floor again as she licked small ministrations getting closer to your heat. With each lick, each hot breath from her mouth, you felt your pussy throb with need, a choked gasp leaving your throat. 

Rosaria smiled to herself at how desperate you looked, having successfully gotten you to submit and feel the pleasures she had to offer you. She took one last look at your pathetically lustful face, before focusing on her next target; your clit. 

She leaned in and finally placed her tongue on your swollen clit, making you jolt and whine at the sensation. Rosaria had to hold you down again, groaning and getting impatient with you for being so jumpy. “Down.” She growled again, gently nipping at your clit as punishment for disobeying her orders. 

You cried out, legs shaky from the stimulation that Rosaria was giving you. She went down again, slowly licking long stripes across your clit before wrapping her lips around it and sucking. Though the noises she was making were raunchy and embarrassing for you, you couldn’t deny the satisfaction she gave you whenever she paid attention to the areas you needed the most. 

Your body heat only rose more as Rosaria traced her tongue more over your folds, sliding the tip in between them and making your heart rate spike. The more gasps and whines you let out, the more Rosaria slobbered over your cunt, getting hungrier and hungrier for your orgasm. 

“Oh…shit.” Rosaria grumbled to herself, slotting her tongue deeper and getting drunk on the taste. “You taste really good…” 

Her tongue continued to make wet slurping sounds, trying to draw you closer to your orgasm. You had never gotten wet or orgasmed before in your life, so to have your virginity taken by a nightmarish serial killer was almost pathetic when you put it into words–

Oh, but what the hell. She felt so good and you couldn’t bring it in yourself to be mad anymore. Your hands made their way to Rosaria’s hair and tangled into her wine-colored hair, tugging on them and bringing her closer to your cunt. She let out an almost breathless sigh at that, smushing more of her face into your thighs. 

“Didn’t think you had it in you to do that to me.” She groaned, enjoying the way you grabbed onto her short hair. “You have guts I’ll give you that.” 

She let you hold onto her like a lifeline, pushing her tongue further and watching you cry out in ecstasy. You didn’t think her mouth would feel so good, and Rosaria didn’t think your pussy would taste this good. Both of you were entangled in a world of pleasure with each other, your whines further spurring Rosaria on and making her want to see you orgasm for the first time. You felt your body getting close, your heart pumping wildly in your chest and making you feel as if you were about to burst. 

“Coming so soon…?” Rosaria hummed, that same sleazy smile stretching on her lips. “Quite pathetic, but it’s adorable.” 

You would normally have something snarky to quip back at her, but the only thing that left your lips was a half-strangled moan. She continued pushing you, edging you with her tongue as she brushed over your entrance with those scarred lips of hers. This, combined with the sensation of her thick tongue maneuvering deep inside you was enough to make you see white. Your walls tightened and your thighs instinctively clamped around Rosaria’s face, causing one of her claws to accidentally nick you in the process.

It didn’t hurt, if anything it felt more like a paper cut, but Rosaria was so stunned by your reaction that she didn’t expect you to suddenly orgasm on her tongue. A loud, needy whine escaping your throat and making her own pussy throb at how much you enjoyed her. As your hot cum spilled out onto Rosaria’s face for the very first time, your heart rate had accelerated at speeds that you didn’t even feel when being chased by Rosaria previously. 

You felt your body go numb from the aftershocks of your very first orgasm, the dreamy world around you starting to fade. 

“Good girl…” Rosaria said under her breath, kissing your clit for the last time, before you closed your eyes. “Next time wear some sexier panties the next time you go to sleep.”

You blacked out after that. 

You jolted from your bed, covered in sweat and with your heart hammering in your chest. Your breathing was unsteady and you felt like you had gone on the wildest roller coaster in your life, the adrenaline still coursing through your bloodstream from the aftermath of what occurred in your dream. 

The cracks of daylight began to seep in through your bedroom window, telling you that you had slept through the night and that it was now morning. The world of reality suddenly didn’t feel too real to you anymore, and you wondered if the dream was a genuine dream that you had, or if it really was the ghost of Rosaria haunting your nightmares again. 

A dull ache made itself known to you between your legs, causing you to wince. As you moved the blankets off of you, you were shocked to see the absolute mess you had left on your sheets; a giant wet spot which formed at where your pussy was, and tatters of your shorts and underwear left scattered around your bed. However, what shocked you most of all, was the small line of red that you saw on the outer part of your thigh, a small trickle of blood that didn’t hurt, nor did you feel when you went back to reality. 

If the mark was anything to go by, you knew that these dreams were definitely real, and that Rosaria was real too if this was the case. You gently traced the red mark with your finger, but didn’t make an effort to clean it up, too distracted with your own thoughts to think straight. 

Slowly, you slide out of bed, but not before looking at the can of a half drunken energy drink sitting on your nightstand. 

You looked at the drink, sloshed the liquid inside it to see how much was in it, before throwing it out in the bin. 

[sleepykas]

"Feeling better, sweetheart?"

Glitch's claws drag lazily along your skin, the pressure pale enough to feel good without leaving any more angry red lines. You have enough littered across your back already.

"Mngh." A grunt muffled by the blanket your face is pressed into draws a low, harmonious chuckle filled with soft static from your partner.

"Still not satisfied? Shall we go a third round?" He teases knowing you're completely done in.

You lift your head from your arms and twist around to glare at him. "Touch me with anything but utter carefulness and I will fry your circuits."

Glitch's smile twitches. You can see the glimmer in his eye that says he wants to bite - wants to take your threat as a challenge and push you further, so you clarify.

"I mean it. Even just this feels like fire ants crawling up my back." You gesture to his still wandering hands, and Glitch pulls them away.

You miss the touch already.

"Overstimulated, then." He shifts his position, hands resting on either side of your head as he leans down and presses a kiss to your hair. The gentle fuzziness of the zap tells you he's toned it down, and you breathe a little easier.

Sometimes you have to be careful. He likes making you beg.

Glitch removes himself from the bed and stretches, joints clicking in odd places that worry you. You don't bother asking, he never answers.

"Water? Coffee? Do you want something to eat?" He asks, digging through his wardrobe and picking through different shirts. You prop yourself up enough to not crane your neck. "A nap."

Glitch glances your way, rays cycling in contemplation. "…I have a meeting in a half hour."

You deflate. "…Oh." Right. Yeah. His high end kind of secret job that you don't really know too much about. You just know it stresses him out a lot. "Okay."

He glances at you, sympathetic. "Sorry, love. I hate to leave but-"

"It's okay." You smile, hoping to be convincing. "I know. Your work is important and you can't just call out. I'll be okay."

Glitch walks back to the edge of the bed and sets a folded shirt on your back - one of his. "I'll be home around ten." He leans in and presses another kiss to your head, and stays there.

You soak up the warmth of his body near yours, reaching out to put a hand on his chest and feel the rhythmic, almost heartbeat-like vibrations of his inner workings.

Metal fingers twice the size of yours curl around your hand and lift it up to his screen, the familiar static kiss touching your knuckles.

You lift your gaze to his and find him already looking at you. Already staring with something heavy and unplaceable. Like worry. Like guilt.

He does that a lot these days. You can't figure out why.

A second passes and carefully you draw your hand along the edge of his screen, feeling the glass rim where it connects to his metal plating.

Something like a shiver rattles his casing and that unplaceable look turns dark.

"…Five more minutes." He rumbles, and you laugh in disbelief as he crawls back onto the bed, tucking himself behind you and curling an arm around your body to pull you in.

"What about your meeting?" You ask.

"I'll just be late."

…Five more minutes, then.

[rafemotherfuckingcameron]

hi can you do another protective rafe x reader, where she wants to escape from abusive boyfriend? 💕

THE CALL

Word Count: 0.8k

Pairing(s): Rafe x Reader x abusive!boyfriend

Warnings: domestic abuse, physical violence, emotional distress

Summary: Rafe saves you from your abusive boyfriend

You sat at the kitchen table, your hands trembling as you tried to keep calm. The tension in the room was suffocating. Your boyfriend’s angry muttering filled the space as he stalked back and forth, his fists clenching and unclenching. You flinched at every sharp movement he made, trying to avoid drawing his attention.

Then, the sound of your phone vibrating on the counter broke the silence. Both of you froze. His eyes darted to the screen just as you did.

Rafe’s name was glowing brightly, the sound of the ringtone cutting through the tense quiet.

“What the hell is this?” your boyfriend spat, grabbing the phone before you could react. “Why is he calling you?”

-

You didn’t answer. Your heart raced as you saw your chance. While he was distracted, you lunged for the phone, grabbing it with both hands and yanking it out of his grip.

“Rafe!” you screamed, pressing the answer button. “Help—”

You didn’t get to finish. Your boyfriend’s hand slammed down on your wrist, ripping the phone from your grasp. He ended the call in one swift motion before turning on you, his face contorted with rage.

“You’re calling him for help?” he roared, his voice shaking the walls. Before you could say a word, he hurled the phone against the tiled floor with a deafening smash. Pieces of glass and plastic scattered everywhere, and the sight made your chest tighten with fear.

“You’re pathetic,” he snarled. Then, without warning, he shoved you hard.

Your back slammed into the fridge with a sickening thud, the metallic surface rattling from the impact. Pain shot up your spine, and you crumpled to the floor, gasping for air.

“You think you can go behind my back? Call someone else to save you?” he yelled, towering over you as you tried to push yourself up.

Blood trickled from your forehead where a shard of glass from the shattered phone had grazed you, and your vision blurred with tears.

Rafe’s Perspective Rafe frowned as he stared at his phone, the call ending abruptly after he heard your desperate scream for help. “Help—” And then… silence. His stomach dropped, his heart pounding as he grabbed his keys off the counter. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. He didn’t need to think twice before running out the door, his hands shaking with fury and fear as he started the truck. You had told him things weren’t great at home, but you had never sounded so terrified. The image of you hurt or in danger filled his mind, fueling his need to get to you.

Your boyfriend was still yelling, but his words faded into the background. All you could focus on was the throbbing pain in your back and the faint trickle of blood running down your face.

Somehow, despite the fear clawing at your chest, you managed to push yourself to your feet, bracing against the fridge for support.

“You don’t get to treat me like this!” he screamed, stepping closer.

But then, the sound of tires screeching outside made you freeze. You heard the unmistakable slam of a car door, followed by heavy footsteps.

The front door burst open with a force that shook the frame.

“Get the hell away from her!” Rafe’s voice boomed, filled with a fury you’d never heard before.

Your boyfriend spun around, his anger momentarily replaced with surprise, but it didn’t last long. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he sneered, taking a step toward Rafe.

Rafe didn’t wait for an answer. He crossed the room in two long strides and swung, his fist connecting with your boyfriend’s jaw with a sickening crack. The impact sent him stumbling backward, crashing into the table and knocking over a chair.

“Touch her again, and I swear to God, I’ll kill you,” Rafe snarled, his voice low and dangerous.

Your boyfriend scrambled to his feet, blood dripping from his nose, and threw a wild punch. But Rafe easily dodged it, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him into the wall.

“Get out,” Rafe growled, his face inches from the other man’s. “Now.”

Your boyfriend hesitated, his eyes flicking to you, but Rafe tightened his grip, shoving him toward the door. “I said, get out.”

The man didn’t argue this time. He stumbled out of the apartment, clutching his jaw and muttering curses under his breath.

The moment the door slammed shut, Rafe turned to you, his expression softening as he took in your bloodied face and trembling form.

“Jesus, Y/N,” he said, rushing to your side. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

Your lip quivered, and you nodded, tears spilling down your cheeks as you finally let yourself collapse into his arms.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured, holding you tightly. “I’m here.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it.

@ilovethekookprince

@anonymouscameron

@rafecameronsgirfriend

🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗🆘❗

[nottivagos]

Porncciardo has my entire heart and self, is it possible for jealous porncciardo 👀

notti's nightly thoughts (18+)

an: anon, me and you are the same. the fun that i'm having with porncciardo is crazy right now!! also, i suppose this is a little insight into the au as a whole?? really wanted to get pornlos sainz in there somewhere, and this was the perfect moment to! <3

daniel was never one to get jealous. he knew that the actors in the agency had flexible contracts so that they had to act out scenes with other actors, but when it came to his rivals? there was a line he had a draw.

at first, he didn't mind you acting with carlos. he knew carlos was up and coming, just like charles and lando were all those months ago, but there was just something that agitated him about the way you were around carlos.

you were daniel's partner. all of your fans knew that. he owned your pussy (in some way, shape or form), and daniel damn well knew your insides more than you knew them yourself, so when he saw carlos was getting more views with you? oh, he had a right to be mad.

"danny, please!" you begged, pathetic tears streaming down your face as he pinned you firmly against the plush mattress, his brown eyes darkened and angry as he looked down at you.

he pinched your clit, causing you to cry out loud as your back arched off of the bed, chest heaving with ragged breaths. "y'know sweetheart," he began, pulling your legs to rest on his shoulders. "if it was anyone else in the agency, i wouldn't mind," he added, "but sainz? of all people?" he chuckled bitterly, "god, you really are a whore."

"d-daniel, you know it wasn't like that!" you pleaded as he slapped your pussy, causing you to yelp and choke slightly on your tears.

"wasn't it, huh?" he questioned with another slap to your cunt, causing you to arch your back off of the bed again, biting your lip as you suppressed pathetic moans. "cause what it looked like to me was that you were having a little too much fun with him."

your cunt weeped, dripping at it stayed untouched, begging for daniel as it usually would during filming. daniel's large hands came to cup your breasts, as he glanced at the tripod with the camera recording you both on it. "i wonder what our lovely fans think," he muttered, calloused thumbs now absentmindedly rolling your nipples into hardened peaks, "knowing that you'd willingly give your cunt to someone else."

you whined, lip trembling as pathetic tears streamed down your cheeks. your whole body was on fire, your lower belly turning into knots as daniel pinched your breasts mercilessly, chuckling at the way you moaned out loud at the sudden movements.

he knew your reactions like the back of his hand, and god, did he revel in the responses you always delivered back. "so vocal for me," he mumbled, brushing his lips over your bare front, pressing open mouthed kisses onto the flesh. "i wonder if you were this vocal for carlos, hmm?"

"n-no, danny. i wasn't," you gasped, hands coming to claw daniel's hair, running through his brown curls as his gold chain hit your skin with every kiss, bite, and graze he made. "please, daniel. you're the only one who can make me feel so fucking good," you mewled as daniel trailed his mouth down to your pussy.

your breath caught in your throat as daniel dipped his tongue into your slick folds, causing you to gasp out loud. your hands clawed his scalp even more as he sucked the sensitive bundle of nerves mercilessly, causing you to scream out loud with pleasure.

"so fuckin' responsive for me," daniel groaned, lapping up your juices like a starved man. "i bet carlos didn't make you scream out his name," he mumbled, your cum now coating his moustache, as he lifted his head up at you, his hungry eyes meeting your wide ones. he then continued his assault on your pussy, mumbling, "only i can make you scream."

"daniel, please." you breathed, glancing at the camera still recording you. "please just violate me," you groaned, hips jerking so that you could feel daniel's nose grazing your hypersensitive clit, "use me like the slut i am. make me yours."

daniel chuckled against your cunt, smirking as he continued to lick his tongue up your slick slit, before pulling away from your cunt ever so abruptly. "oh so now you want me?" he questioned, tutting as he moved himself back into his previous position on his knees.

"please," you begged, your voice merely a whisper. "i need you so badly. make me yours, daniel," you whimpered as daniel repositioned your legs on his shoulders again.

once he'd got you in the position he wanted, daniel came to hold his hard length in his hand. he smeared the pre-cum glistening around the tip with his thumb, letting out a low groan as his jaw locked into place from the pleasure. after fisting it for a few pumps, he positioned the head at your folds, teasing your entrance ever so slightly with a smug grin plastered across his face.

your pussy tried to swallow him whole. tight walls already clamping around the throbbing red tip pathetically, causing you to whine. "someone's very desperate for me, aren't they, princess?" daniel teased, hands coming to grip your hips as he pushed himself into you.

breath caught in your throat again as daniel pushed deeply into you. your thighs trembled as your walls fluttered around his cock ever so hungrily, as daniel groaned lowly at the way you wrapped around him.

"fuck this cunt was just made for me," he grunted, thrusting hard and deeply as his hips snapped forward as your cunt pulled him in deeper. "it was just made for my cock, wasn't it, beautiful? my pussy to violate and claim," he added with a tensed jaw, fingernails digging so deeply into your flesh that it would definitely leave bruises the next day.

"f-fuck, danny, i'm close," you moaned out as he thrusted so deeply, hitting the spot that made you see stars repeatedly.

"you gonna come for me, baby?" he asked as your eyes started to roll back as your body trembled with overwhelming pleasure, "fuck, you feel so good," daniel groaned whilst your walls fluttered around his shaft, pulsating as they clamped around him like a vice.

you cried out in ecstasy as your lips parted, chest heaving as you rode out your high. "such a good girl coming for me," daniel grunted his praises as he thrusted even deeper into you, chasing his own release with gritted teeth.

your walls milked him dry, causing hot spurts of cum to paint your walls white as you breathed heavily, mixed with his guttural moans as he pushed deeply inside, hips coming to a halt, mind hazy as you crashed down from the intensity of his and your orgasm.

you looked at the camera again, smiling before looking up at daniel above you. "are you still angry with me, danny?" you asked ever so sweetly and innocent, despite still trying to maintain some composure that you desperately searched for, batting your eyelashes.

daniel chuckled dryly. "after that? fuck no, sweetheart," he said with a chuckle, pulling you up into his embrace, so he was hugging you. "but i think that pretty little neck of yours deserves a collar so that everyone knows who you belong to." <3