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imagine-darksiders · 2 years ago

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Bowser x Reader - chapter 2.

Rose Soap.

Contains whump.

Read the full story here, on Ao3.

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“Can't believe you'd...--- Mph... Why'd you have to go an'.. Hrnf...”

He's grumbling to himself again, his eyes fixed with deadly concentration on the path ahead. Apparently, he's also content to remain oblivious to your attempts at leaning as far away from his expansive chest as his grip will allow.

All the way back through the castle, he mutters and huffs whilst you glare at any passing koopas who brazenly stare back at you, their eyes on stalks. You're more than happy to let them think the liquid running down your cheeks is merely rainwater that trickles off your hair line.

Worse perhaps than the pain in your ankle is the sheer humiliation of being caught like this.

As hallways and spiralling staircases pass by, you begin to wonder where the simmering king is taking you.

Probably to his dungeons.

Somewhere he can chain you to a wall and leave you there to teach you a lesson.

Fine by you. This isn't the first time you've been held hostage. He'll find you can bend very far indeed before you break.

If it means he stops trying to bother you every hour god sends, a dungeon might actually be worth the downgrade.

You have to admit, the very last place you expect to end up is right back to the bedroom you'd just escaped from, but that's precisely where Bowser carries you, and your heart sinks at the sight of those enormous, wooden doors looming into view as he stalks down the long hallway.

“You there!” the King suddenly barks.

Heart lurching, you jump viscerally in his arms before you realise his glare is aimed at an unfortunate koopa guard who stands quivering at the end of the hall, “Go fetch Kamek. Tell 'im it's urgent.”

Quick as a flash, the guard snaps a hand up to his forehead in salute. “Uh y-yessir, Lord Bowser, sir!” he squeaks. And with that, he's off, scrambling around the corner as if someone lit a fire under his heels.

Heaving out a dismissive grunt, Bowser shoulders open the doors, ever mindful that they don't knock against your foot as he manoeuvres you both into the bedroom beyond and immediately makes a bee-line for the ensuite bathroom.

With your torso twisted away from his chest, you cast a bitter glare at the window and the bedsheets still hanging out of them before your eyes are drawn to a mess on the the floor - one that hadn't been of your own making.

A metal tray lays abandoned on the marble, and all around it are remnants of shattered ceramics, a bowl and a plate, whose contents have also spilled across the floor in every direction, as if dropped in a hurry. There's even an orange puddle of what you presume to be tomato soup splattered near the bed.

Bowser simply steps right over what's left of your dinner and bustles hurriedly into the bathroom, where, with an unexpected gentleness, he lowers you down onto the closed lid of the toilet.

Despite your chattering teeth and the comparatively warm hide you've been pressed against, you're all too eager to shove yourself away from him the moment he pulls back, shooting him a frosty glare.

His response is to chuff brusquely through his nostrils and turn to the bathtub, giving you a glimpse of his mud-spattered underbelly. Scales that had once been a pale, eye-catching yellow are now brown and grubby, hidden beneath the dirt.

Leaning over the tub, he fumbles awkwardly with hands that should be far too large to operate the crystal taps. But after another moment, two noisy streams of water start to glug forth, spilling into the bottom of the pearly basin.

The bath is enormous, more than large enough to accommodate such a vast creature. But you wish he'd go and bathe in his own room instead. Perhaps he's a finicky koopa and can't wait to go to his bath, electing to use yours instead.

Haltingly, your eyes drift towards the door that Bowser had left slightly ajar, giving you a glimpse out into the bedroom beyond.

As if he can read your mind, he promptly swings his tail out at the it and slams it shut.

You can't help but flinch at the abrupt sound.

Silently, you observe the giant koopa as he pushes himself away from the bath and backs up until his shell's spikes hit the door with a thud, then, he promptly slides down it onto his backside, scraping some of the paint off its wood and blowing a weary sigh out of his parted maw.

Frankly, you think it's overkill for him to bodily guard your only exit. It isn't as if you're going anywhere fast on this ankle.

For some time, the only sound that sits between you both is from the water gushing out of the taps.

You watch your captor for any sign of hostility, while he watches the opposite wall, his expression set in a rigid and pensive frown that casts his eyes in the shadow of his furrowed brows.

You expect to sit in this prolonged and uncomfortable silence without a word passing between you, but hardly a minute goes by before Bowser shifts, turning his massive head a few degrees in your direction, just enough that you know he can see you from the corner of an eye.

“Why'd you do it?” he murmurs.

One of your eyebrows gradually makes its trek up your forehead.

The kidnapper asking the kidnapped why she tried to escape... What a question.

Perhaps you're getting too bold, because you dare to give the side of his jaw a hard look, crossing one mud-slaked arm over the other. “I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific,” you intone slowly, “I've had a rather busy evening.”

The king's muzzle curls slightly, showing off more of his gleaming fangs. A warning.

“Why'd you jump?” he snaps, “That was stupid. You were stupid.”

Scared him half to death.

Pain flares in your ankle as if in direct concurrence with Bowser's words, and you find your fuse just a few inches shorter than it usually is.

“I was scared,” you hit back, missing the way his tail flinches towards his thigh, “I'm still scared. I jumped because the alternative was – is – going back to being your prisoner!”

You must have said something profoundly unpalatable because the koopa's head snaps towards you properly, fast enough that you're almost startled you off the toilet seat.

“Prisoner?” he has the gall to scoff, “You ain't no prisoner. You're a guest.”

Now that you will not accept.

“A guest,” you repeat sharply, “A guest who has guards posted outside the door? A guest who can never leave?”

“W-well, I...” You have him on the back-foot, and you know it by the sparking embers that scatter from his nostrils when he exhales and throws a meaty arm out at you, sputtering, “Well - Look at what happens when you do leave!”

At once, your head twitches to the side, eyebrows shooting up to level him with a wide-eyed, unblinking glare that borders on dangerous.

You don't expect a reaction from the oversized koopa. You certainly don't expect it when his lips press back together, hiding his fangs as he ducks, suddenly finding the bathroom tiles of particular interest. Far more interesting, apparently, than your gaze.

Well... Now that he knows exactly what you thought of that little remark...

“The bath is about to overflow.”

You never would have guessed that such a mundane statement could send a koopa his size scrambling to get his feet underneath such a hefty bulk.

“Dammit!” he hisses throwing his hands to the taps and spinning them frantically until the flow finally trickles to a stop with the water mere centimetres from the lip of the tub.

You watch him grumble under his breath, something highly impolite no doubt, before he plunges one of his enormous hands into the water and grabs the plug, yanking it out to let some of the bath drain.

Silence hangs heavily over the bathroom again.

“There,” he promptly declares, shoving the plug back once the tub is no longer in danger of overflowing, “Should be warm enough for you.”

You're suddenly taken aback, darting a glance between the bath and Bowser.

Perhaps in hindsight, it should have been obvious, but blinded as you are by a bone-deep chill and the pain in your ankle, it... jsut hadn't occurred to you that he wasn't running the bath for himself.

“What?” you blurt.

The king's head twists around and he cocks a brow at you over his shoulder. “The... water?” he says slowly, as if you're missing something unbelievably obvious, “It should be... warm enough?”

All at once, something clicks in your brain.

“I sincerely hope you didn't run that for me,” you tell him, eyeing the tub with a wary frown.

Cold as you are, you don't like the implications of having to get in the water with Bowser still in the room.

It would be highly improper.

The koopa however, actually seems surprised at your reluctance, giving your filthy night dress and mud-slaked skin a furtive once-over. “Who else would it be for?”

You spare his own muddy belly a pointed look and quip, “I can't imagine.”

Snorting gruffly, the king takes single step towards you, crowding you against the back of the toilet when he extends an arm, offering you his hand. “Here, lemme help you in.”

Teeth still rattling in your skull, you give his claws a mistrustful look. “If you think I'm getting in that bath with you in the room, you've got another thing coming.”

“C'mon,” he coaxes with a crook of his thick, taloned finger, “You're filthy. And you're cold.”

Cursing the goosebumps that scatter across your forearms, you turn your nose up at his proffered hand and firmly state, “I said no.”

Bowser's lips give an almost imperceptible twitch at their corners. “I ain't leavin,” he warns you. If he were a more honest koopa, he'd tell you that he's not about to let you bear any weight on that ankle.

Jutting out your chin in defiance, you dismiss him with a brusque wave of your hand. “Well then... it seems we're at an impasse...”

If you'd have kept an eye on his expression, you'd see his scorching eyes flash eagerly at the prospect of a challenge.

Your pain, it seems, has leant you hubris. You're on the defensive – angry that your little escape attempt had failed. And now, you're refusing his help. You've forgotten whose castle this is. For your own good, it appears he'll have to remind you.

Shrugging his massive shoulders, the koopa withdraws his hand. “Suit yourself.”

And before you can dissect that gleam in his eye, he suddenly bends down and slides his palms beneath you again, hoisting you up off the toilet seat in one, smooth motion.

You immediately come alive in his grasp.

“I said don't touch me!” you bleat, wriggling like a trapped viper.

Your wayward arm smacks against his muzzle, earning a wince but he remains undeterred as he holds you over the bathtub and begins to gently lower you down towards the waiting water.

“You son of a – ow!” Crying out in shock, you stiffen at the feeling of warm liquid stinging uncomfortably against your chilled, muddy skin.

Bowser drops to his knees with uncharacteristic care, watching your face attentively for any sign of real discomfort, but all he finds instead is ruffled affront.

He'll take it. Better offended than hurt.

Powerless against the giant's impenetrable arms, you find yourself gingerly placed – nightdress and all – down into the warm bath, immediately cringing away from the thick, fleshy fingertips that brush over the backs of your knees as he withdraws his hands.

For a long moment, you stare agog at the water rippling around you, as if you can't quite believe that he really had the audacity to do that. Then, on a creaking neck, you turn a scandalised glower at up at the king, who only peers back at you, unintimidated by your expression.

“Well... Congratulations,” you deadpan, “It seems you've managed to rob me of my last shreds of dignity after all.”

At that, a self-satisfied grin spreads across Bowzer's maw and he lets a rolling chuckle fill the room, pushing himself up off his knees to tower over you and the bathtub once more. “Ah, don't be so dramatic,” he hums, turning to a shelf on the wall and deftly scooping a variety of bottles and pots into one, immense palm, “You still got plenty of that left... I let you keep your gown on, didn't I?”

Highly unimpressed, you slide away from him when he leans over the bath and carefully starts placing his various concoctions along the side in a neat, little line.

“And I suppose you expect me to thank you for that,” you say flatly.

Drawing back, the koopa casts a crimson eye about the room for anything he's missed before he replies, “Heh, it'll make me feel better.”

“Then I think I'd like to decline.”

Despite himself, a sharp bark of laughter causes Bowser's shoulders to jump. “Ha! Thought you might.”

“If I try to get out, will you just put me back in again?”

Dipping his snout, the King meets your eye and offers you a long, languid blink. “Give it a try,” he drawls, “And maybe you'll find out.”

His smouldering gaze watches you intently, waiting for you to make a move, to test the sincerity of his thinly-veiled threat.

Your eyes narrow...

Without warning, you make a sudden move and throw an arm out at random, not aiming for anything, but testing, and sure enough, quick as a flash, Bowser's hand is just there, wrapped firmly but surprisingly gently around your wrist.

You fall still at once.

Good reflexes on him. A little too good for your liking. But it proves he's willing to keep you sitting in the bathtub, wearing your nightdress and a layer of mud, until he deems you ready to emerge.

Mortifying.

You're going to have to surrender this time, though the prospect sends a shiver of dismay crawling down your back.

Several moments pass where the two of you simply stare at one another, he in growing intrigue and you in clear contempt.

It's only when you pointedly clear your throat and give your arm a tug that he blinks, his smile collapsing and his fingers carefully peeling themselves away from your wrist one by one.

“So-” With a deeply furrowed brow, you ask, “Do you really plan on watching me bathe, or can I get a little privacy?”

The immense koopa's demeanour shifts like a switch has been flipped. Ducking his head, he reaches behind his neck to rub sheepishly at the scales beneath his black, spiked collar. “Well... I.. figured you might need some help is all. I mean, you're still wearin' the dress, so it ain't too...” He trails off.

“Clothed or no, I'm still in a bath,” you press, “And where I come from, it's very ungentlemanly to watch a lady while she bathes.”

You may as well have smacked him around the face with how abruptly he wheels about, inadvertently whacking his tail against the tub in the process. “Well, of course it's ungentlemanly!” he professes, “I knew that.”

With his vast, green shell now standing like a makeshift barrier between you and the outside world, you heave a resigned sigh and begin tentatively scrubbing at the mud on your arms. You'd sooner pull your own teeth than admit it out loud, but the warm water does come as a relief to your bones. If nothing else, there's that.

Absently, you stretch out a hand and grab one of the nearby bottles - a modestly-sized tube that fits snugly in the palm of your hand. You cast a glance at the label and your brow instantly quirks when you spot the little illustration of a pink rose on its side.

“I-I wasn't, uh, sure what you'd like... so...”

Your eyes flit up to Bowser, but you find he's still facing away from you, his gaze affixed to the bathroom door.

Letting your stare drift back to the line of bottles sitting along the side of the tub, you breathe out a humourless laugh.

“Rose petals? Cinnamon?” you read aloud, “Shea butter, and Strawberry?” You peer up at the back of his immense skull again. “These from your own personal collection?”

Bowser lifts an arm, shrugging easily. “Nah, don't use the stuff,” he grunts, “Makes my scales itch. But, I thought it'd be nice for you, to... y'know, have a choice, or whatever.”

The flannel stills at your elbow, poised to scrub at the mud splattered across it. One side of your mouth twists up pensively as you scrutinise the king, roving a searching gaze from the fearsome horns on his head, down his shell, to the tip of his powerful tail that lays squashed up against the bath.

Then, once again, your eyes travel back to the scented lotions.

You suddenly recall a few instances, back when you were still a princess and your father's enemies were trying everything and anything to rile him. Once a season, you would often find yourself the unwilling captive of some small time lord who thought he'd make a name for himself by capturing the King's daughter.

He and many others. All making grabs for money, for power or clout...

Why, you've been tossed in cages and locked in underground dungeons, even tied to a tree...

But scented bath soaps? Silk sheets? Three course dinners?

These are decidedly not the norm for the average kidnapping victim.

“You know something?” you pipe up, dragging the flannel over your elbow, “You must be the strangest kidnapper I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

The tip of Bowser's tail slaps haughtily against the tiles. “M'not a kidnapper,” he grumbles, folding a pair of thick, yellow arms across his chest.

“Right...” You purse your lips. “And denial's not a noun.”

There's a pregnant pause as Bowser stews whilst you rinse the flannel out in the now-murky water before he speaks up.

“What d'you mean by that?”

“Well,” you reply, nonchalant, “A noun is something that's used to-”

“Not that!” he gripes, rolling his crimson eyes to the ceiling, “What d'you mean I'm the strangest you've ever met? You get swiped a lot or somethin'?”

You scoff bitterly. “Uh, yeah. At least a half-dozen times this last decade.”

And at that, Bowser is... well... he isn't entirely sure what he is. He struggles to make heads or tails of the molten burst of heat that ignites in his chest at the thought of you being kept by a stranger. Did they take care of you? Were your conditions there better than they are here? How did you escape...?

What did they do to you...?

A curl of smoke drifts between his bared teeth, and his eyes flash to it at once, blinking widely in alarm. He snaps his slips shut to trap the smoke behind them, gulping hard until the taste of sulphur fades on his tongue. 'What was that?'

He's... angry?

Bowser glances down at his hands, almost surprised to find that they've curled themselves into crushing fists.

Huh... must be his competitive side shining through...

Clearing his throat, he adopts a careless pose and plants one of his palms against a brawny him. “Huh, right,” he utters lamely, “So, uh... How'm I doin'?”

“How are you doing?” you repeat.

“Yeah, y'know. I'm – … You like it better here, right? Your room's better? You're okay?”

“Bowser, I'm here against my will,” you retort flatly, “I'm not sure I'd describe any of this as being okay.”

Yeah... He probably should have expected that...

“But,” you sigh, absently flicking the cap off the rose-scented soap and squirting a dollop onto your palm, “I have to admit, I've never been given bath soaps before. So... that's a new one.”

Still facing the door, Bowser perks up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah... And, oh my goodness, there was this one man, some hired thug – he got so angry with me for almost escaping, he broke my leg on purpose-”

Unbeknownst to you, the king's back goes rigidly straight.

“- So compared to that guy, you're not the worst kidnapper I've ever had. Just, as I said, the strangest.”

Bowser doesn't reply. He doesn't trust himself to at the moment. He's unwilling to lose his temper in such a confined space, especially with you in the room.

What nerve...? What unmitigated gall... To deliberately hurt someone too fragile to fight back... To hurt you...

Massive shoulders start to heave, his heart thunders to a breakneck gallop in his chest....

… and the gentle scent of rose petals fills the air, wafting up into his nostrils on the bath's steam.

The maelstrom of outrage recedes a little at the smell, delicate and floral. Bowser's eyes slip shut and he draws in a slow, calming breath, willing his blood back from the verge of boiling point.

No sense in getting himself worked up and inadvertently showing his hand. You're all right now, barring a busted ankle.

You're here. And you're safe, with him, he knows that. He just wishes you'd realise it as well.

You said he wasn't the worst? Well... That's as good a place to start as any...

“You know,” he rumbles softly when he trusts himself to speak without growling, “If you just gave this place a chance, you might actually start to like it here.... Might even see that I'm not so bad.”

He's a bad guy, yes. But beyond appearances, he's not a monster.

The sound of skin being lathered goes silent for a moment. Then, slowly, you say, “You're trying to convince me that you're not so bad.... by taking me hostage?”

… Okay, so his method has flaws! Nobody's perfect!

Nostrils flaring defensively, the King barks, “Yeah! So?!”

“So!?” Scoffing an incredulous laugh, you shake your head. “Do you realise how ridiculous that sounds? Why would you do this?”

Ridiculous? In the face of your insult, the anger he'd tramped down begins to rear its ugly head again, stirring like a beast of fire in his belly. “Be-... because!”

When he doesn't elaborate further, you let out an exasperated groan and press, “Because what?”

The question in itself is harmless enough, really.

But... well... If the koopa King is famous for one thing, it's that it takes very little to set him off. You've touched a nerve, roused a deeply-rooted insecurity that even he is unwilling to examine too closely.

Why did he take you prisoner? Why did he take Peach prisoner so often? Why does he have to force people into his company...?

Without warning, the koopa whirls around, snarling like a wild animal, and you're forced to throw yourself against the opposite side of the bath when a colossal fist comes crashing down on the side, sending all of the bottles toppling to the ground with a clatter.

“RRRGH!!! Because I don't know how else to make frie-!”

But just like that, Bowser freezes, slamming his jaws together so fast that his teeth rattle in his skull.

You're staring up at him, mouth agape, one hand clutched against your heaving chest... The water around you is dark with the mud you've scrubbed off.

Like rain to a fire, his anger extinguishes with a hiss and a wisp of smoke.

“I'm... uh... I..” He can't think properly. Shame is an unusual concept for the King. But he does know regret when he feels it. Clawed fingertips twitch as he tries to raise a hand towards you, compelled by some long-forgotten instinct that urges him to soothe a lady in distress. “Look,” he mutters, “You don't-”

“-Lord Bowser? Are you in there?”

The koopa's muzzle whips in the direction of the door.

“My liege?” Someone knocks on the wood.

Oh... Kamek. Good timing, as always...

“Yeah, yeah... We'll be out in a sec, Kamek,” he calls to the other side of the door, using one claw to lift a fluffy, white towel from a nearby rail, holding it out for you to take.

But at the wide-eyed stare he receives, the King swallows and resolves to drape it over the toilet seat instead.

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It's only a few minutes later that you find yourself laying in a miserable heap on the silk sheets once again – warm, dry ones that have been fetched by Bowser himself from the airing cupboard. Those that had aided in your escape have been hauled back in through the window and tossed to one of the guards stationed outside your room. That same window was subsequently locked, and the key crushed out of shape under Bowser's substantial heel.

Kamek, the wizened, bespectacled koopa, stands beside the bed on your right, contemplating your heel before his king appears to hover vigilantly over his shoulder.

You despise their scrutiny.

“Mm, significant swelling,” the old koopa remarks, squinting at your foot through his glasses as he lifts a hand out towards it, pausing to ask, “Ah, may I, my dear?”

Offering him a weary smile, you reply, “Of course you can. And, may I just say, thank you, Kamek. For asking permission first.”

Over his advisor's shoulder, Bowser peels his lips back, unimpressed, though he doesn't meet your eye or offer a quip in response.

Oblivious, or perhaps apathetic to the exchange, Kamek begins to poke and prod at the skin around your heel. “Now, tell me where it hurts...”

Despite your best efforts, you end up flinching once or twice and hissing through your teeth, though Kamek is always swift to pull away when you do, which, you decide, is good of him.

Although you suppose his caution has less to do with causing you pain than it does with the gigantic koopa rumbling a cautioning growl behind him.

After a terribly unpleasant minute of being subjected to the unwavering scrutiny of the pair, you're offered respite when Kamek finally steps back and adjusts his glasses with a sigh. “Well, the good news is, it isn't broken. It's only a sprain. You're lucky the earth was so wet, young lady. Or this could have been far worse.”

To your surprise, Bowser actually looks even more relieved than you are.

“And... the bad news?” you ask.

At this, the old advisor spins on his heel and cranes his wrinkled neck back to address the King. “The bad news, is that this is not the kind of injury my magic can heal. However, with a little rest and some time, she'll be right as rain.”

Well... There go your escape plans for the foreseeable future.

“So, no strenuous activities. And for goodness sake, stay off that foot.”

And there go your lively play-dates with Junior. Shame.

"If that will be all, Your Majesty?" With a rustle of his long, blue robes, Kamek allows himself to be lead back to the door by an uncharacteristically quiet Bowser, who merely offers his advisor a stiff nod, ushering him outside.

Planting a fleshy palm against the wood, he stands on the inside of your room, waiting for Kamek's respectful bow before he pushes the door shut once more, listening to the older koopa's footsteps recede down the hallway.

Behind the King, staring down at your upturned hands, you let a quiet breath seep from your lungs whilst your shoulders and chest deflate like popped balloons.

You're not quite at rock bottom. Not yet. You're close though. All thoughts of freedom flit away from you, dancing out of reach, and with a bitter resignation and a twinge in your swollen ankle, you turn to face the window and slide yourself down under the bedsheets, expertly ignoring the looming presence of your fearsome captor.

In silence, you wait, keeping your ears pricked for any sounds that will indicate Bowser's departure.

You end up waiting rather a long time, long enough that you're starting to doubt your own senses, wondering if he's even in the room at all, when suddenly, a resonant sigh drifts into your ears, stilling the breath in your chest.

Ears straining, you listen closely to the shifting of a massive body.

There's a 'click' and the room is swiftly plunged into darkness, yet still you don't hear the doors creak open, nor do you hear his heavy footsteps receding down the hall.

He's still in the room with you then, standing behind you in the dark.

A shudder creeps up your spine like fingers of ice.

What is he doing?

It occurs to you that he's probably just trying to be intimidating, which... well... Mission accomplished.

Minutes pass without incident, and all the while you hardly dare to let a breath escape you lest you miss a crucial sound.

You remind yourself that it wouldn't be in keeping with Bowser's behaviour thus far if he were to try and hurt you now, when you're more vulnerable than ever.

With your eyes fixed on the window, you listen to the gentle plinks of rain hitting the glass and vow to stay awake. He won't get the jump on you if you don't sleep...

But exhaustion has made its home behind your eyes, dragging them closed temporarily before you give a jolt and they spring open again.

Every time, it gets a little harder to fight the siren song of sleep.

You're tired. A day of fighting, climbing, falling and panicking is finally taking its toll on you. At long last, with a soft, tentative yawn, you let your eyelids slip shut and this time, they don't flutter open.

In the darkness of your prison, poised like a gargoyle in front of the doors, Bowser raises his muzzle into the air and gives a curious sniff.

He knows exactly when you fall asleep from the sag of your shoulders to the breaths that start coming more naturally.

His mighty heart jumps when you roll over onto your back, but you're only readjusting in your sleep, sinking down into the plush pillows with a long, languid exhale.

Slowly, carefully, the koopa takes a step towards you, stilling at once when his clawed toes click softly on the marble floor.

… Nothing...

He takes another step, and another... and another, tiptoeing across the room as best as an oversized koopa can until he's towering over you while you slumber, oblivious to your nightly audience. A gap in the clouds allows the moon to throw her beams through the window and gives him the chance to look upon your restful face.

It seems so odd to see you without that permanent, troubled frown sitting between your eyebrows.

He realises, with an unknowable throb in his chest, that this is as happy as he's ever seen you, and it's because you've managed to escape into the safety of your dreams.

Away from him.

Bowser's fists, that have thus far been clenched at his sides, slowly loosen, hanging limply in something that feels a little too much like defeat for his pride to bear.

The pace at which he crawls into the meagre space behind you is arduously slow, and he cringes at every squeak of the springs. But you must be shattered, because even when he lifts his last leg off the floor and his whole weight bears down on the mattress, you only smack your lips a little and lift a hand to flop onto the pillow beside your head, palm tilted towards the ceiling.

With more hesitance than he's used to, Bowser lowers his chin down to lay right next to you, close enough that he can easily detect the rose soap lingering your soft, supple skin. Shamefully, he inhales a deep, quiet breath, filling the caverns of his lungs with the smell of you, exhaling it softly enough that it only disturbs the finer hairs that grow around the edge of your face.

The koopa's eyes blink lazily over to your upturned hand. It's so close. Would it be enough to wake you if he...?

As cautiously as he had getting onto the bed, Bowser slides a massive hand up to the pillow and dips his claws beneath your knuckles, holding his breath to see if you'll react. When you don't recoil in disgust, he swallows thickly and continues to slip his hand underneath yours until his own is resting on the pillow, whilst yours sits snugly in the cup of his warm, calloused palm.

Tomorrow, you'll wake up to an excruciating ankle and a king you can hardly stand. A king you'd rather stay away from by letting yourself get seriously injured....

But tonight? Just for a few hours, Bowser can pretend that you're here, happy to lay beside him with your hand grasped loosely, lovingly in his.

#Bowser x Reader #Bowser x Y/n #human/monster romance #super mario bros #super mario #whump #hurt/comfort #bathing/washing #Sad Bowser because I hurt my blorbos #Bowser just wants a friend #Kamek #mario movie

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