#but she has a time machine. she can run away so far.

[goldenkid]

hi guys. has anyone ever thought about an au where martha stayed with 10

[reignpage]

In Sheep's Clothing

Synopsis: in which you're alone in a cabin in the woods during a rough snow storm and an enigmatic, sexy wolf hybrid!Toji turns up at your door providing much more than his handyman service Warnings: plot with a side of porn, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie, knotting, degradation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, masturbation, praise kink, rough sex, manhandling, cowgirl, thigh fucking, hair pulling, slight anal play, biting, dom!toji, blowjob, allusion to shower sex, dirty talk, dry humping, pussyjob, fingering, panty sniffing, cum eating, spanking, titty slapping, pussy slapping, biting, dumbification, primal play to the extreme, !!dark themes!! beware cannot emphasise this enough people (dw there's no gore or noncon or anything, it's just the nature of the plot), acts of violence, angst, fem!reader, romance, barely proofread Word Count: 19.9k (it's a lot I know I know sowwy)

Perhaps running away to the mountains and hiding in the woods wasn’t the greatest idea you’ve ever had. But it was the only one you had at the time. Your grandmother’s cabin is a little run-down, though that was expected considering how many years it had been since she passed, still, it has solid bones and you can’t complain.

It’s a two bedroom bungalow — spacious enough for a family, what with its generous kitchen and hearty fireplace, but far too small for you. Dust has settled on all imaginable surface and it took hours to remove the coverings on every sofa, chair, table, and bed, and even longer to wash everything that could be washed by hand, since the washing machine and dryer in the back room have long since given up on themselves. 

Most of your days since whisking yourself away here is spent dusting, washing, wiping, and cooking. You’ve yet to feel the dent you’ve been chipping away at. There’s still a draught coming from the front door, the main heating system isn’t working, and somewhere, in every corner, is an odd creaking that keeps you up at night. 

Sighing, you glance out of the window, curled up underneath a mountain of blankets, and watch the snow fall. It’s always snowing here. It was barely possible to trek up here as a snowstorm was creeping in; the townspeople were less than eager to even hear you out until you flashed an extortionate amount of money. 

A nice, elderly man took pity, though, upon discovering your last name. He knew your granny. Said she was a sweet soul with a real talent for baking. Having ordered one of his sons to drive you up, he gave you his telephone number, insisting that if you ever needed anything, anything at all, they would come at the drop of a hat. 

That warmed your heart a little. The kindness of a stranger is not something you’re familiar with and thought you’d never get to experience, but there he was, smiling, and waving the cash away like it was the silliest thing in the world and it had no real consequence. 

It had been four days since and you won’t lie, you have considered phoning in that favour. You’re way out of your depth here. With a sigh, you pull a blanket, red and knitted by your grandmother, up to your chin and continue to watch the snow fall. Even though you’re at your wits end with all the scrubbing this cabin needs, you couldn’t possibly call it quits now and beg the man to come up just to take you down. How embarrassing would that be?

You hear knocking. 

There’s someone at the door, pounding. Your heart begins to beat fast. You must have mistaken the sound of the wind howling for a knock at the door. After all, you are miles away from the town and the snow is far too thick for anyone to have gotten up here. Would it be wise to get up from the warmth of your sofa to be sure?

The knocking gets louder, more adamant. Okay, so you weren’t, in fact, mistaken. Something about that noise, unyielding and firm, pierces your heart. You can’t imagine being out in this weather. You’re at the door faster than you can even process the speed at which your feet moved. 

When you fling the door open, the freezing wind attacks, stinging your cheeks and nipping at your skin. Arms rushing to hug the blanket you thoughtfully to drag with you tighter around your body, you squint up through the blinding white of the snow at a hulking beast. 

Broad shouldered and glaring, he watches you cower beneath his gaze. He’s dressed in a simple, fitted t-shirt and baggy joggers, and you feel impossibly colder just by looking at him. His face is hidden behind a disheveled beard, rough and scratchy. He’s a very hairy man. 

“H-hello. Can I help you?”

His nose twitches. He jerks his chin to something behind you. “You’re cooking. I’m hungry.”

Without waiting for a reply, he pushes past you. Pressing yourself close to the door frame, you just about avoid the graze of his arm against you. This turn of events has your head spinning. Who does this man think he is? 

The wind howls harder. You slam the door shut. “Excuse me! You can’t just walk in as you please. This is my home. Get out.”

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even register what you say. Instead, he crosses into the kitchen and lifts the lid of the pot of stew you’ve been working on for hours and grunts. When he fixes himself a bowl, you’re left speechless at how he seems to move on autopilot, opening cabinets and drawers for what he needs without so much as a glance. 

Now he’s sitting at the table, scarfing down your stew and you’re bewildered, spluttering. You’re being Punk’d. 

“Who do you think you are? I told you to get out. I’m gonna call the police if you don’t within the next five seconds!”

He snorts. 

“The police?” His voice is gravelly, seemingly from lack of use. “Ain’t nobody getting up ‘ere in this state.”

That’s what every serial killer says, and you should be afraid, should be running for help. But there’s no hint of malice or cruel intent in his words, only amusement, the way one responds to a child’s whims. 

“Well, you should still afford me the decency of leaving my home when asked.”

“Your home? Didn’t know the old lady gave it away.”

You gulp, clutching the thick blanket even tighter. “You knew my grandmother?”

He grunts. 

Well aware you really ought to kick him out, you’re ashamed at the realisation that you can’t bring yourself to. It’s awfully terrible outside and there’s no doubt the elements would claim him if he he’s left out with no shelter. Though, that really shouldn’t be your responsibility and there is still, of course, the glaring concern of his ability to kill you. One sweep of his figure and you know this towering man, tall and muscular, could snap your neck with one hand. 

Or worse.

Not to mention, he’s a hybrid. You can tell by the twitching of his ears and his nose, like he’s hearing and smelling things inscrutable by the human senses. You wonder what he is. He has no triangular ears or fluffy tail like a dog, he doesn’t have eyes like a cat, no scales that you can see, but his teeth, when he scrapes them along the spoon, you know they’re much sharper than you’d like to ever find out. 

If he wanted to kill you, he could have done that before. And at any rate, it’s too late to do anything about it now. He knows you’re alone and there’s nowhere you can run to before the snow freezes your limbs. 

Settling back down onto the sofa, you just watch him eat. He’s grabbed a second helping, enjoying the meat more than the potatoes and carrots in there but that’s expected of a man. It does mean, though, that he’s not a herbivore hybrid. You wonder if he likes the taste of a woman’s flesh. 

“Is it good?” You ponder. 

There’s something oddly peaceful about observing him — the way he only chews once and twice before swallowing and shoving another spoonful, the way his throat contracts, how his huge hands grasps the bowl and spoon like they could be ripped away from him before he’s finished, and even the way his foot taps, impatient and tense. 

He throws you a cursory glance. “It’s good.”

A second helping disappears. So does a third.

“It seems like you haven’t eaten in days. Or showered. Or rested.”

Huffing, he leans back in the chair, full perhaps. He scratches his stomach under his shirt and you look away at the flash of skin. In a drawl, he concedes, “Y’r right on the money.”

You note how he doesn’t offer more. And you know by the way he’s observing you in return that he’s expecting you to ask for more. You don’t. It’s stupid. Suicidal even. But a little company to weather this snow storm might not be so bad. 

“I’ll allow you to stay here until the snow passes but no longer than that. There’s a second bedroom in the back, you can use that. The boiler’s broken or something so the radiators aren’t working, neither is the hot water in the shower. So, unfortunately, this isn’t going to be a stay at a five star hotel but we’ll both get along just fine if we maintain boundaries and do our part.”

He grunts. That seems to be his preferred way of communicating. Fine by you. You never liked talkative people anyways. “I want a hot shower. So do you by the looks of it. I’ll go down and check the boiler out.”

Startled, you laugh. “You know how to fix things?”

The look he gives you is answer enough and with no further words exchanged, he marches down the hall, obviously all too familiar with the layout of the cabin — did he stay here after she died, when the house was empty and unused? 

Or maybe he stayed with your grandmother and that was how she got along just fine on her own after your grandfather died.

After thirty minutes or so, he emerges, some grease smeared on his face, and he presses the back of his hand to the radiator by where you sit. He’s standing very close. And from your position, hugging your knees under all these blankets, he looks so much bigger and stronger. 

“It’s fixed. For now. Shit’s old so might need regular maintenance,” he explains. “Ya wanna shower first or what?”

Considering he fixed the damn thing, he should have the first go, shouldn’t he? Especially as he’s been out in the cold for goodness how long.

“I’ll shower first,” you say. 

He nods. 

Unfurling yourself from your cocoon, you stumble to a stand. He doesn’t move, doesn’t give you space. Your chest brushes against his. Tingling rushes down your spine at the graze of your nipples. You hastily move past him, embarrassed and suddenly nervous. 

“I’ll be quick. Um, feel free to have more stew and I don’t know if you have any clothes or anything, but my grandmother kept some of her husband’s clothes, you’ll find them in your room — the second bedroom, I mean. Just down the hall, by the bathroom.”

He doesn’t reply and you don’t wait for him to . 

In your rush to save face, you just miss the way his lips twitch in one corner. 

You had forgotten how wonderful a hot shower is. The way you’re enveloped by warmth and your tense muscles loosen and relax under the barrage of water. You take much longer than you usually do, intent on thoroughly enjoying the water like it could grow legs and make a run for it. Eventually, you’re bathed and fresh. Much fresher than you’ve been in the last couple days since you didn’t have to hurry through your routine or curse under your breath at the burning chill of the water, mocking your ineptitude and foolish spontaneity. 

When you come out, dressed in a sweater and joggers, you’re pleased to find the house much warmer than before. The fireplace is even lit, the orange and red flames dancing with as much joy as you feel. More cozy and welcoming, the cabin has completely transformed in what feels like a blink of an eye. Before, the clinical white lights overhead flickered on its last legs, completely and utterly useless, now only the fireplace sheds light, covering the living room and kitchen in a snug ember. 

It feels reminiscent of Christmas evenings you never had. 

Your guest doesn’t look surprised when you approach — he probably heard you every step of the way — but he does push off the sofa and give you a look over, nodding as if satisfied to see you out of the blankets you wore like a second skin. 

Just as he brushes past you, you grasp his arm. Nerves light up. You drop it like it burns. “Sorry. I, um, just wanted to say thanks. And uh, I guess we should introduce each other. Sorry I didn’t do it sooner. I’m not really sure why I didn’t. Maybe I was just mentally prepared to not speak to another person for a while or something.” 

Tilting his head at you, he releases a huff of air through his nose and says, “Name’s Toji. You’re y/n; the old lady talked about you.”

“Oh.”

Likely sensing that’s as much as you’re going to say, he disappears into the bathroom with a pile of clothes and a towel in hand that you didn’t even notice �� maybe because you were far too distracted by how handsome he looks under the glow of the fire or how his skin felt nice, all hard and soft and heated the way only a man could be. 

Or maybe, just maybe, it was because the first thing you really noticed upon entering the living room was not the way it had been transformed or how normal it looked for such a big man to be taking up space here, but rather how this ‘Toji’ was sitting in the exact same spot you’d been making your little home when he came. 

When you awake the next day, you’re surprised he’s still asleep. It was almost midday and there’s no sign of him having walked through the cabin before you. There’s no way you’ll knock on his door. Truthfully, you were surprised, pleasantly so it must be said, to find yourself alive and untouched. You don’t guilty for thinking the worst and you’re not naive enough to think better of him for not being a serial killer, that’s simply the bare minimum. 

But it does mean he’s a man of his word and you can let down a little of your guard. 

Instead of worrying more about what he’s doing in his room, you busy yourself  with breakfast. Toji had finished the stew when you came out of the shower and you were impressed by his appetite, albeit also concerned for your stock; at this rate, your food will run out much faster than you had planned and there’s no telling when the weather will get well enough to call out the old man for help.  

You bake a sourdough, fry up some eggs and sausages and put the kettle on for some coffee — instant, unlike the ones you’re used to in the big city but it’ll have to do. You’re careful not to make too much noise, although you feel a little embarrassed at how thoughtful you’re being. 

Just as you put the plate down, he emerges, shirtless, hand scratching the trail of hair low on his stomach. His hair is mussed up, sticking at all angles, and the plaid pyjama bottoms he must gotten from your grandfather’s box of old clothes hang low on his hips, distinct v-lines peeking in a terrifyingly sinful way. He has fairly thick hair on his arms and chest, the very definition of unkept and wild. 

You clear your throat. 

“Good morning. Sleep well?”

He throws you a look, full of amusement, before he sits down at the table. He must have smelt the food and known somehow you were meaning to share. How presumptuous of him. “Slept fine.”

You serve him his portion, larger than your own, and pour him coffee to which he doesn’t say no. “Not going to ask me how I slept?”

He snorts. “Don’t hafta. You tossed and turned the whole night.”

“You have really good hearing, don’t you? What kind of hybrid are you?”

He eats much slower than yesterday, mulling the taste over rather than scarfing it down, and he seems pleased enough with your cooking skills. For reasons you don’t want to think too much about, you’re feeling pretty proud of yourself. 

“Wolf,” he replies. 

You’ve never met a wolf before. But they are an infamous breed — they needed constant medication to keep their animal instincts at bay, they stuck by their own kind, were aggressive to outsiders, and are known for being fiercely loyal and protective. Toji doesn’t seem to match the description. He’s alone for one and he moves with grace like a deer and not like a clunky predator. 

“How did you know my grandmother, if I may?” You ponder. In all of the letters she’s written to you, she had never mentioned knowing a hybrid like Toji, or any hybrids for that matter. 

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug and shared, “Helped her around during winters just like these. She was too old to get down by herself and there were always things needing fixing.”

“She gave you warm food in return?”

He grunts. 

“How did you know she died?” Raising a brow at your question, you explain, “You said she ‘was’ too old.”

Barking a sudden laugh, you find the noise tickling your skin and you can’t stop staring at the way his face softens for just the quickest second and ever so lightly. You’re ashamed to admit the noise makes you warmer inside than it should. 

“I come sniffing around soon as snow starts to fall. It’s routine. A habit. I was the one who found her. Notified the townspeople and went on my way.” He takes a sip of the coffee, green eyes never leaving yours. “Haven’t been back in years.”

His voice is gruff and now that you’re sat face-to-face with him, it’s clear as day that he’s not used to the sound of his own voice; he furrows his brows and stumbles upon certain words like they’re foreign, as if he’s struggling to reconcile the reality that those words are coming from him. 

“So what made you come here?”

No answer. 

The rest of breakfast passes by in relative silence, the distant moan of the wind outside providing enough noise to wash away the awkwardness of eating with a stranger. You want to tell him you’d prefer if he didn’t walk around so bare but that seemed too big of an ask since it’s likely he runs hotter as a wolf than you do. Eyes falling to your neck and your chest unashamedly, he doesn’t shy away from eye contact. 

You do though.

Then he stands, taking both your and his plate over to the sink. He begins washing up. That actually takes you by surprise. This Toji fella didn’t strike you as the type to partake in house chores. Rather, he seems like the type to firmly believe the kitchen is a woman’s domain. Interestingly enough, his back is marked up, full of scars, and they ripple with his muscles. You want to ask about them but he’s not a man who offers answers and you’re not the kind of woman who should poke and prod. 

“Right, well.” You stand too. “I was wondering if you know how to fix a washing machine. And a dryer. Neither are working and washing my sheets and panties in the bath is a pain. 

His eyes flick to you as you wipe away at a spot on the counter dirtied by flour. You probably shouldn’t have used the word ‘panties’ in front of a man like him but you thought it would be funny. He doesn’t seem to think so. He gives you a half-nod and you feel satisfied enough from that interaction to pad over to the sofa to read a book. 

Toji begins working around the cabin — he heads over to the laundry room and you hear the clatter of metal and thumping against the floor. Upon emerging and giving you the look that says ‘it’s done’, he also starts looking for something in the basement. He carries up a box of lightbulbs in one arm and a ladder in another. 

When you jolt up, to offer help, he cuts you another look that says ‘don’t you dare’, and you sit back down. He seems to have his own way of doing things and he knows you’ll only get in the way. Maybe he noticed that your nails are long and clean and he can somehow, with his wolfy powers, sense your hands have never touched dirt.

Still working on this and that around the house, you serve him his lunch and you eat separately. If this becomes your routine then that’ll be ideal. He does all the cleaning and fixing and you cook. Sure, it might be setting back the feminist movement just a little but things like that don’t matter up here, where it’s freezing and you have no idea how you managed for days without him.

Much more quickly than you could have ever expected, the day ends and night falls.

“Thanks for the help,” you say, handing him a glass of your grandmother’s moonshine. You remember where she kept it from your childhood and now, soon after dinner, just sat by the fireplace, feels as good a time as any to bust it out. 

You’re both leaning against the sofa, right by the fireplace, choosing to be on the rug rather than on the soft couch. You can’t remember who followed who, but you suppose it doesn’t matter. In just one day he had solved most of the problems you’ve nearly cried over. 

Toji grunts. 

He’s wearing a shirt now, thin and plain. Your grandfather was a much smaller man so this shirt is practically bursting at the seams on his huge bicep but he doesn’t seem to mind. You do, though. It’s rather distracting actually. His skin brushes against yours and neither of you move away. 

The flames are the only light here and you feel its warmth settling on your face, lulling you to comfort. Stronger than any alcohol you’ve ever had, the moonshine burns your throat, lighting you up inside. Your companion appears to be unimpressed with the concoction, downing the cup in one gulp. 

Slightly embarrassed by your inexperience, despite being an adult, you ask, “Where were you staying before? You said you come here for winter so where do you stay for the rest of the year? Same place you’ve been staying at since my grandmother died? Or somewhere different?”

Throwing an arm on the sofa, right behind your head, he admits, “Nowhere. Everywhere. Just moved around a lot.”

“Why didn’t you just stay here? If you talked to her enough to know about me, then surely she must have told you no one ever visits since everyone in the family hates the cold. You would have had the place all to yourself.”

“I never stay in one place for too long.”

You skim the rim of your glass, watching the clear liquid swirl with the glow of the fireplace. “Why not?”

He waits until you can’t bear the silence, until you feel that itch to look up, to meet his gaze. And when you do, there’s some intensity in his eyes that seems to make the alcohol in your stomach burn just a little more. A finger of his twirls a lock of your hair and he murmurs, “Never had a reason to.”

Nodding, you settle for watching the fire. 

And when the bottle of moonshine was depleted, you left to sleep and he stayed, a scalding brand marking your back and you couldn’t bear to look back to know if it was from the fireplace or from him. 

That was how your first day went. 

On the second day, you repeat more or less the same routine: you make breakfast, you eat together, he goes and fixes something else, you make lunch, you eat separately, he fixes some more things, you make dinner, and you share a drink or two, and sleep. 

Occasionally, you’ll run into each other and you still struggle to meet his eyes, having to crane your head so far back to get a good look. Sometimes when you do gather the courage to look up at him, he’s already looking at your chest, green eyes slowly rising up to your face. His brow rises in challenge just as hip lip twitches. He doesn’t care at all. The man had no manners. 

But he washes the dishes after every mealtime and he doesn’t really make a mess, so you can’t complain when he takes his visual fill of your body. There’s no harm in looking, only a priest would ever know that you do the same thing; there’s always a sizeable bulge in his trousers that you can’t keep your eye off, totally only out of curiosity. 

The day starts off with an exchange of ‘g’morning’ and a ‘g’night’.

The third day tells the same story. 

On the fourth day, however, only one thing out of the ordinary happens and it isn’t anything to write home about but you can’t get it out of your mind, as you lay in bed wide awake. The wolf hybrid had needed to get past you to get something from the fridge and on his way, he gripped your hips, lightly and barely a whisper, but his finger had brushed a sliver of skin where your shirt had risen up. 

His touch was startling, petrifying, making the hairs along your body stand on edge, but more than anything, it was completely and utterly exhilarating. 

When your hand wandered down into your panties that night, you tried your best to stifle your moans with your pillow, chasing the high that followed you the entire day. You fell asleep sticky, sweaty and unrepentant.

The fifth day goes by just fine too. Appreciative of the little song and dance you two have choreographed, you find yourself less and less anxious about the snow and the world beyond. There’s just something about this Toji fella — he’s quiet in a way that would be off-putting from anyone else, but you find it comforting. It’s different from the way everything worked in the city, where silences are this obscene monstrosity that must be filled with the clattering of a busybody. 

Here, with him, you can just breathe in the hot cocoa and the smoky ash burning in the fireplace as you sit by him, shoulder to shoulder, on the rug and not on the sofa. He doesn’t ask questions about why you never visited your grandmother, why you haven’t talked about your family or your friends, or why you don’t ask him questions. 

You like to think too that he appreciates you keeping your curiosity at bay. 

Maybe that’s why he lets you rest your head on his shoulder, why he doesn’t nudge you off when your breath begins to even out and your lashes flutters shut, and maybe, just maybe, it’s why he carries you to bed and lays you down so gently you dream of solid arms, green sparkles in the snow, and fluffy clouds that brush your hair back. 

What you weren’t prepared for, however, is the sixth day. It started off just like any other day: breakfast, reading on the sofa whilst he fixes something or the other, and then lunch eaten separately. 

But, the hybrid must have gotten oil spilled on him when he was tinkering with something in the cellar because he went to shower during the day, instead of at night like you both do. This fact wasn’t known to you. It really wasn’t even on your mind. And that’s why disaster struck. 

Walking into the bathroom to grab something — you can’t even remember what it was and why you were so focused on retrieving it, you hadn’t registered the sound of running water and the fact that the room was steamier than usual — you were met with a sight no HR training could ever prepare you for. Because, there, right in front of you, was your roommate, buck naked with water dripping down his chiseled body, catching on the curly hairs on his chest and lower abdomen. He was leaning with one arm on the glass of the shower stall, forehead pressed onto his forearm whilst the other made slow, leisurely strokes somewhere low, somewhere the steam gravitated towards. 

Forward and back, forward and back, forward...and…back. 

All while his eyes, like freshly cut grass, stayed unmoving, watching you watch him. Feet sinking deeper into the tiles, you were stuck where you are, heaving chest matching his as he let out a grunt, wrist jerking faster, splashing so much water everywhere you could almost feel them land on your skin through the glass. 

Your phone pinged from your hand. You didn’t realise you were holding it. That was just about enough to break the trance he had you under. Wordlessly, you turned back and left, the door clicking shut behind you, and you busied yourself with preparing for dinner. 

When he walked out, dressed, you could see from your peripheral, you grunted in acknowledgement after he let you know he was going to get some wood from outside. 

Dinner was eaten separately too. 

Instead of watching the fireplace, side by side, sharing whatever drink you’ve prepared, you’re settled comfortably under your blankets, hand rubbing furiously in your panties and eyes shut tightly, chasing flashing images of something sinful, delicious, the very source of your delirium. 

Your orgasm is shallow. It’s why you’re conscious enough to notice, through the gap between your door and the floor, that the hallway light is still on and just as you exhale your last lust-induced moan, it disappears, leaving your senses focused solely on the sound of feet padding away.

You don’t get any sleep. 

“G’morning,” you chirp. 

The kettle is boiling and you’re serving the last of the eggs and bacon onto pancakes you made from scratch. There are still some meat frozen but the vegetables and fruits are almost gone and there’s no other way about it — you’re going to have to go down to get some more food. What had supposed to last you comfortably, at least two weeks, is now on its last crumbs before the first seven days had reached its end.

His green eyes flick to yours and with a small smirk, beard twitching, he asks, “Sleep well?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you try to ignore the burning of your face and the sudden shake in your hands. Of course he had heard. Of course! Because, lost in the haze of the shallow pleasure, you had forgotten that you’re living with a man that is far from ordinary. 

So is his hearing. 

“Oh, great,” you grit out. “And you?”

A snort of what you can only guess to be amusement is released from him and when he brushes past you, his heat only sets those embers ablaze again. He doesn’t answer. 

Once sat down and eating, it’s your roommate who suggests more food is needed — as he should, considering it’s because of his insane appetite that things have turned out so hopeless so quickly. 

“How could we possibly get more food in this weather? No one can get up here and walking down is not an option. I mean, just looking at all that snow makes me feel like death is creeping in.”

“Don’t gotta leave,” he says with a grunt. “I’ll go.”

Spluttering, you practically shriek, “You? Are you insane? You’ll die.”

His green eyes glint. “Will the pretty little city girl be sad if I do?”

“Will the big, bad wolf listen and stay if I say yes?”

Toji barks out a laugh. Breakfast ends soon after. 

An hour passes and, as you read a book, you think that that’s the last of that. But of course it isn’t. Just as you finish a chapter, the wolf in question comes out of his room in a worn out coat too small for him and a firm look on his face. He can’t possibly be serious. 

Ignoring your protests, he heads over to the door and doesn’t spare you a glance. It’s only when you tell him he needs money that he does pause. Typical macho men, thinking with their muscles and not their heads, you grumble in your mind. He waits for you to grab your purse and shove it in his hand. 

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

Your question is met with an eye roll. 

“Yeah, quit worrying. I’ll be back before you know it.” He sounds so sure. You’re inclined to believe him. Something about how sturdy he looks makes him sound convincing enough; Toji’s built like an oak tree, with deep-reaching roots and a thick trunk that could withstand the harshest storms and mightiest blows. But all trees can be felled, if one tries hard enough. 

He must have smelt the doubt pouring out of every pore because then he’s making a sound of pure exasperation. “Alright, listen. I’m a wolf, yeah? I’ve been through worse.”

Eyes darting from the snow and to his deadpan face, you mutter, “Just because you’ve been through worse doesn’t mean you should go through more. You can just stay and keep warm. With me. I can’t help you if you’re out there.”

There’s a silence, like a sudden gust. And then a sigh. 

In less than a second, you find your jaw being gripped with one large hand and your head is pushed to the side just as his face buries itself in the crook of your neck, the rough hairs of his beard tickling your skin. The growl that escapes him pulls a gasp out of you and then he’s gone. 

With the speed at which the door flies open and closes, you barely feel the sharp sting of the cold. Or maybe you do feel the full brunt of it, but it’s overshadowed by the envigorating rush that came from that big man inhaling your scent before he left. 

You wonder if he liked what he smelt. 

Before, it felt like time was passing at a snail’s pace, but now it’s like time isn’t passing at all — you’re stuck in some sort of pathetic limbo where you spend every meaningless second switching tasks. From brushing the floor to rearranging the books on the shelves in the corner to dusting every surface to lying in bed and so on and so forth. It feels somewhat akin to engraving tallies into the walls with a paperclip.

Alone, truly alone, you can do nothing but focus on the feeling of ice creeping into your bloodstream. The heaters are on and you can very easily set the wood burning in the fireplace if need be since he taught you. But you don’t want to; you’re lazy. That’s the excuse you’d tell Toji if he asks, biting down the real reason and never spitting it out.

The shivers wracking your body is what you deserve for letting that man go to get food on your behalf. The quivering of your lips is due to the fact that you could have — should have— gone with him, should have bundled him up in something thicker and warmer, and yourself maybe, so you two could trek together to the town. At least, if one of you were to be injured, there’s someone there to pick you back up. 

Who will pick him up?

Gnawing on a nail, your eyes dart, for the millionth time, outside the window, fuzzy socks rubbing against each other as you shuffle on the floor. Night is falling and he still isn’t here. You’re beyond worried. 

How long does it take to hike down and up anyways? It took about an hour by car, so surely it wouldn’t take longer than a day at the very most, right?

But spending even just an hour in this snow, wearing just a coat, would be fatal for anyone, wolf hybrid or not, right? And he’s attempting to bring up groceries? 

Oh, God. 

You’ve allowed that man to walk right into his death. No, you’ve sent him off to die. You’re a killer. Or maybe he’s not coming back. Maybe this was just a ploy to leave without an awkward goodbye. He got what he wanted — roof over his head, a bed, food, warm shower and even a stupid girl to tease. Now that he’s exhausted the supplies, maybe he’s off to try his luck at another cabin. 

Is this what it was like with your grandmother? 

Did she make sure to stock up as much as possible for the winter to ensure he’d stay the entire time so she can have someone to look after her?

Is that what you’re going to turn into?

A food bank?

You shouldn’t have come up here. You should have stayed in the loud, stifling city in your miserable office job, with your stuffy pantsuits and your overbearing boss. You should have accepted your family’s manufactured smiles and cold hugs. You should never, ever have dared to want more. There is nothing in your entire life you have done, or could have ever done, to deserve more. 

A knock comes on the door. 

You jerk up. 

The blanket falls from your shoulders. Stumbling to a stand, you wipe your hands down your front, trying to steady them, and without waiting for a second knock, you twist the knob that had just been above your head and you flung it open. 

“Could hear ya sniffling from miles. You good?”

In front of you is a very hairy man, broad shouldered, coat darkening with the dampness that weighs him down and flakes of snow litter his beard like an upside down tree. He’s scary, hulking and tense, like a wound up toy, ready to explode at any given moment. An ear twitches when you sniffle, just as he said. This man could kill you. He’s strong enough to have been carrying two big, heavy bags, one in each hand, up the mountain. And he knows the exact layout of the cabin, knows there are no hiding spots, no locks in the basement, knows where the axe is, and that the stoker is leaning against the fireplace, too far to get to in time from where you’re standing.

You jump onto him. “Oh my god! I thought you died. Or that you left me!”

He grunts with the force of your body meeting his, but he doesn’t stumble. Bearing the burden of the bags of groceries and your entire weight as you wrap yourself around him like a koala bear, he walks in with ease, kicking the door shut. He saunters over to the kitchen where he deposits the bags on the counter and leaves just enough room to sit you down, untangling your awkward limbs from his torso. 

“Ya think too much.”

He pats the wetness, that had transferred from his clothes onto you, down with a tea towel. Your shaky hands reach up, threading your fingers through his beard and his hair, and you brush the snow away. He’s still here. And he’s warm. 

“I was so worried something happened to you, Toji,” you whisper. 

Stilling, his green eyes flick up to yours, searching, and when he finds the tears threatening to fall he sighs, and presses his forehead against yours, letting you feel the firmness of his presence. He smells like burnt cedar, the musk of the earth, and the saltiness of sea air. With a gravelly voice, he reassures you, “I’m here. Got enough food to last us another week, and by then the snow will stop falling. We’ll be fine”

Your ‘thank you’ stays in your throat when he pulls away and falls on a chair by the dinner table with a grunt so deep and loud you’re snapped back into action — he must be starving and exhausted. Toji did his part and now you must do yours. 

Sneaking glances at him, you work as fast as you can, cutting this and boiling that. You know as soon as the onions and garlic hit the pan with the sizzle his nose will start twitching. If it smells delicious to you, you wonder how it must smell to him. Maybe the anticipation of a warm meal was what pulled him home. 

You won’t disappoint. 

Every second or so, your eyes drift to him, mostly to make sure he’s still breathing, but also because you can’t help it. He’s snoozing, you surmise, when his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm and his eyes are closed. You move around as quietly as you can. 

Plated, you set the steaming soup, fried meat and loaf of bread he had brought down on the table. It’s not the most appealing of all appearances but you know the recipes like the back of your hand so you know he’ll love every thing. Or at least, you hope he will. 

Checking all the necessary silverware are on the table, you try to gently coax him awake with a call of his name. He doesn’t answer. You look up with a sigh, ready to jostle him from whatever dream is so beautiful he’s in deep sleep, only to find those frustratingly alluring eyes already on you. 

“Smells delicious,” he says, making no effort to gesture to the food. 

You gulp and with a weak smile, you sit down and allow him to serve you. “So, how was it? Is the situation bad?”

Toji rolls a shoulder back. He answers, “Snow’s definitely too thick for a car, but the town hasn’t been too badly affected. No one can get in or out but they’re all making do.”

“And you? Was it a difficult journey?”

There’s a pause as he swallows the spoonful he’s shovelled in his mouth and then he’s shrugging, remarking, “Ya think so little of me? Told you, I’m a wolf hybrid. Wasn’t easy but was hardly difficult, ma.”

Warmth pools in your stomach. 

“Good.” You sip some water. “But you definitely need to get some rest. That’s a non-negotiable, I’m afraid. No manual labour of any kind tomorrow. I’ll handle everything. So, just let me know what I can do for you. It’s the least I can do, after all.”

He snorts. “Yeah? Y’r gonna take care of me?”

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

His fork and spoon clatter on his frighteningly empty plate and when you meet his gaze once more, you’re knocked back by the sheer challenge in them. There’s a glint, like light off a knife’s edge, and it slices from your heart down your body, leaving you open and electrified. 

“Careful, little girl,” he taunts, jaw snapping with a laugh, “when I take you up on that, y’r gonna be whining for days about how sore you are.”

There’s no way you’re going to argue with him, not when he sounds so certain, like you’re missing out on some inside joke. So you finish up dinner, with him having three servings, and after, with the dishes in need of cleaning up, you practically have to shove him in his room when he insisted he’s fine enough to stay up. 

He rolls his eyes and lets you slam the door shut in his face.

As you tidy up in the kitchen, you’re pleased to find the fridge full. There’s a lot of fruit and vegetables and all the possibilities are getting you giddy. You suppose you were a little afraid Toji, being a man, would only buy junk and red meat, but he hadn’t. In fact, he had gotten things beyond food, he had bought toiletries and sanitary products for you. Sure it was a little presumptive, maybe you didn’t have periods, maybe you’re on birth control, maybe you’ve just had it and won’t have to worry until after the snow calms enough for you to deal with your personal bodily functions. 

But, you find the act endearing, if the smile creeping on your face is anything to go by. 

Eventually, you retire to bed, feeling much lighter. There’s lots of food and he came back. He hadn’t left. He had gone through so much trouble — life-risking trouble — that it must mean something, right? 

You fall asleep very quickly. 

Sometime around two in the morning, however, you’re awoken by some dull noise outside. Blinking through the sleep in your eyes, you pad out of your room and into the living room, where the fireplace is burning and casting dancing shadows over your roommate’s body. 

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he grouses. “Go back to sleep.”

Finding the spark to laugh, you muse, “I think that’s my line, no?”

He looks wide awake sitting in his usual spot, on the floor with an arm on the sofa and a leg bent. Shirtless, the fire makes him look like he’s glowing, and you’re mesmerised. Clearing your throat, you retrieve two bottles of beer he had cheekily gotten, and sit criss-crossed by him. He takes the beer with a grunt of gratitude.

There’s something different in the air; silence isn’t enough tonight. All the things that have so far been left unspoken, locked away, are climbing over, ready to be shared — at least from your side. You may never know what he’s truly thinking.

Brows furrowed, you begin, “Did you ever wonder how I ended up here? Well, there’s not really a special or interesting story — I just got tired and bored of the same old thing. It felt like my life was missing substance, y’know?”

Grunt. 

“I hated the city,” you confess. “It’s awful there. Everyone treats you like their enemy even as you’re just walking down the street. No one ever smiles or even looks at each other.”

Huff.

“It’s a good thing I was a workaholic and lived frugally; I can afford to camp out here until…well, till forever, I guess. It’s also great luck that you came by ‘cause I can’t fix a boiler or anything of the sort, so I would have likely died by now.”

For a second you think he’s dozed off, as he should have been doing after dinner considering the strenuous journey he underwent to get some food, but one glance to the side up has you gulping when you find his eyes on you once more, like they never left, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather look at. What a dangerous thought. 

The eye contact has you, or him, or both of you, drawing closer, gazes flickering down and then up and back down again. With the warm glow of the fire blanketing you in the night, you feel so safe and secure; it’s you and him in this cabin and no one else matters. No one else has a say, can interrupt, can ruin this. 

Whatever this is. 

The arm he has behind you shifts and then you feel fingers skimming a lock of hair, following it down from the temple of your head, curving around the shell of your ear, and into the slope of your neck, brushing your hair back and exposing  skin to the sizzling air. 

You shiver.

“I’ve always been the kind of girl who stayed in one place. I like the security, the familiarity. But recently things have started feeling tough, like I’m stuck in quicksand, as dramatic as it is to say.”

Your voice is weak and low; you never knew you could sound like that. 

When you were brushing the snow out of his beard, you weren’t surprised to find it rough, you often catch him scratching there so you know it’s uncomfortable for him too, and yet, you find a bubbling desire within you to feel it on your skin, the way you had briefly felt it on your neck and in your hands. How would it feel in other places? 

“I just needed to get out, y’know?” You’re leaning impossibly close — close enough to see the question in his eyes. “Do something new, something exciting, something…” 

“Wild?”

Toji’s eyes flashes and at your dazed nod, he dives forward, swallowing your gasp in his rough, unforgiving mouth. He shoves his tongue in, licking and tasting, and that arm that laid at the back of your head curls around it, pulling you close by your neck. You’re left with no choice but to cling to him and try to keep up with his merciless pace. 

He tastes like alcohol with something deeper running, like an undercurrent, a ferocity only a beast could achieve. You feel intoxicated. Carrying you onto his lap, you’re overwhelmed by the feeling of something hard jutting up into your core. A growl pierces your ears when you don’t hesitate to grind down onto that hard length. He’s leaking heat hotter than the fireplace, he’s hard and firm everywhere your hands can reach, and his clutch is frightening, gripping you like you could never escape even if you fought against him. 

You’ve never been wetter. 

“I can smell ya,” he rasps. “Been smelling this sweetness every day. You taste as good as you look or what?”

Coarse and prickly, this beard is rubbing deliciously against your skin, reminding you from all angles that he’s kissing you, that he wants you just as bad as you want him, and he can’t get enough. 

Burying your fingers in his thick hair, you moan when he licks a stripe up your neck, sniffing at your pulse point. “Find out for yourself.”

His laugh is sudden and gravelly and it’s the last thing you think about before you’re being thrown on your back, legs spreading to accommodate his girth as he kneels above you, shirt going up and over before he throws it somewhere. With the fireplace highlighting the sharp contours of his face and his rippled chest, his beastly grin spikes your pulse and then he’s pinning you down with his body. 

“I don’t think you understand the position y’r in, little girl,” he taunts. 

Using his claws, he rips up your top, exposing your tits to the air for just a second before he swallows one in his mouth, flicking a nipple with his tongue, all while he’s rolling his hips into yours creating a delicious friction that has your back arching and your jaw dropping. 

“Been dreaming about these pretty tits.” He pinches the other, grinding his cock especially hard against your clit. The revelation falls on deaf ears when he smacks one. “Fuuuuck, look at the way they bounce.”

You pull at his hair and he lets you drag him back up to your lips, your nipples sore and tickled by the hairs on his chest whilst he rises up your body. “Kiss me.”

And he does, swallowing your moans he continues squeezing and groping your tits, but he leaves your lips swollen quickly after as he begins his descent, peppering a trail of kisses. 

Pressing a nose right up at the apex of your thighs, he takes a looooong inhale, a satisfied growl echoing in the darkness. Your face heats up, legs threatening to close around his head but his big paws holds them open, nails digging with the promise of pain if you dare shut them away from him. 

“You been flaunting a scent that’s got my mouth watering more than any of your baked goods,” he huffs, eyes narrowing at the wet spot leaking through. He thumbs at it, pressing down as if he could force everything you’ve got to give out. “’S not fair, ma. Waited so long for you to give in to me, heh, gonna make you regret that.”

“Toji!” 

He rips up your pyjama bottoms too and hooks his fingers into the gusset of your panties before those are flying away, shredded beyond hope, and cool air grazes your sloppy slit. 

Not a single second is wasted before he digs in, lapping up your pussy with a fearsome snarl. The tip of his long, slobbery tongue circles your pulsing clit, tweaking it when you whine. “Fuck, you taste this good and ya been holding out on me? Selfish little cunt, hmm?”

Hands flying up to grip his hair for purchase, you fall victim to his incessant licking and sucking and slurping as he flattens your thighs open, the scraggly hairs of his beard tickling your sensitive skin which grows clammier and clammier with the heat of his mouth, his body, and the fireplace. 

When he curls two thick fingers in, stretching your walls further than you could with your own, your eyes fly open. “No! Ngh, too much.”

Still sucking at your clit, he shoves those fingers in and out, dragging them on his way to really take in the squishiness of your insides, forcing out those loud squelches. You tug at his scalp and he lifts up just a little to snap his maw, missing your clit by a hair’s breadth. 

“Don’t get in the way of my meal, ‘cause this?” He slaps your pussy, juices splashing and he barks a mean laugh. “This is mine now.”

Your orgasm washes over you when his lips sucks your clit with a tongue flicking the little button at the exact same time those long digits curls up and lays successive presses against that smooth part inside of you. 

Toji’s entire mouth engulfs your pussy, sharp teeth grazing your skin whilst he suckles on your sweet essence, drinking like a man lost in a desert, his personal oasis. “Ah, y’r no good for me, ma. Gonna get me addicted on this sloppy fucking cunt.”

Panting desperately, you writhe on the floor, feverish and crazed. He doesn’t give you a break, doesn’t let you catch your breath, before he shoves his pants down and lets his cock spring out. 

Just the like rest of him, his cock is huge — long, thick, and throbbing with veins running up the length, carving a path up to his leaking cockhead which flushes a sinful dark red, promising a painful stretch. At the base, there’s coarse hair, wild and untamed like any other part of his body, and oh, God, those balls, they hang heavy, too heavy. 

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and chuckles before he orders simply, “Suck.”

As if entranced, you scramble onto all fours, crawling forward so you can nudge his length with your cheek, his slit leaving a wet trail. He smells like a beast of the earth and it has your pussy drooling, a fat droplet sliding down your thigh and you shut your legs tight in a pathetic attempt to quell that ache. After all, you are much too preoccupied with this monstrous thing in front of you. 

You peer up at him and stick your tongue out, licking from the very base, catching a little bit of his ball sac, and tilting back to reach his tip where you skim the underside. A large hand slides into your hair softly before it bundles up your hair in its angry grip pulling your head back into an uncomfortable angle so you can face his savage scowl. 

“I know y’r not deaf. Fuck did I say? Huh?” He pushes your face into his balls, smothering you. “Be a good girl and suck, yeah?”

So you do. 

Suckling on his balls, much like how he did with your tits, you try to take as much of him as you can before you can’t bear it any longer and you wrap your lips around his cock head, savouring the salty drops that coat your tongue. Everything about him is strong, from his grip to his scent and especially his taste. It’s as if he was built to dominate, to fill up every senses until you can think of and feel nothing but him.

You gag, overwhelmed by the intrusion. 

He tuts, thoroughly scolding when he drawls, “If ya can’t take me properly with y’r mouth, then there’s no way you can take me with y’r pussy. Wanna prove me wrong, kid?”

You push past the painful stretch of your jaw, gliding as much as of his length into your throat as you can, thumb being pinched by your fist. Not even halfway down, you go back up again, not letting go of his tip before you slide back down, and you repeat that motion, taking more and more of him as you go. 

When you hollow your cheeks to suck him in deeper, you see him throw his head back, his abs tensing and becoming prominent, you scrape your nails down that trail of hair before it finds his balls, massaging in the way you know not even he could resist. 

“Fuck. Tryna -ha- make me cum so soon? Naughty,” he says. 

In a flash, you’re being pulled off his cock and pushed back onto the rug once more. Your ankles are clasped in one of his hand, extending your legs high up in the air. “W-what are you doing?”

Cracking his neck slowly, the flames of the fireplace still as virile as ever, Toji looks downright sadistic with the way he grins at you.

“Just enjoying my meal to the fullest.” He pushes his cock through your thighs, right on top of your slit, lathering the underside with your overflowing juices. He groans, sharp teeth catching on his bottom lip. “We’re both gonna cum like this and then I’m putting you to bed.”

Slightly distracted by the way his cock is catching on your clit with every slide back and forth, you ask with a frown, “But why can’t you just fuck me now?”

He laughs. He fucking laughs. And then he’s bending your legs back towards your chest as he leans in close, placing your calves on his shoulders so you can see his face far too clearly. Rubbing the bristles on his jaw on your skin, he lays a soft kiss on your ankle before he scrapes the bone with a canine. 

“Because I fuck rough, city girl. Y’r gonna be bruised, sore and all chewed up and you can’t complain if you hopped on my dick willingly, no?” You can’t answer. “Yeah, glad we agree. So don’t open that pretty mouth of y’rs unless it’s to moan my name, and keep y’r legs tight for me; no one wants to fuck something loose and limp.”

“Hurry up and get it over with!”

Doing just that, he thrusts like a madman, using you like a rag doll to chase his pleasure. You’re being jostled on the floor, the rug burning your skin and your hair so close to being singed by the embers of that fire he’s been tending to, setting alight and snuffing like clockwork every day.

His balls slap against your ass, as if pounding you too. 

It’s all so dirty, so obscene, so wet any rational thought you should have been having about letting someone who’s practically a stranger fuck your thighs like you’re nothing but a slippery hole fly out the window. 

The slight sheen of sweat on his chest is making you restless — you can’t focus on one thing, not the way he’s holding your legs tight, hugging them to his torso like you might run away, the way the friction of his cock rubbing against your clit is bringing you closer to orgasm, and not how your wetness is making embarrassing squelches that you know his hybrid ears can hear in even greater clarity than you can.

“Oh! T-toji! I think I’m -ngh- gonna -ha- cum.”

He bites down hard on your calf just as his hips stutter and his scalding spurts splash onto your chest, even reaching your chin and cheeks. A drop falls into your mouth which is stuck in an O-shape as you orgasm at the same time, digging your nails into the carpet and thrashing your head around as the euphoric feeling wash over you from inside and out. 

Panting, you manage to breathe out, “Y-you made me all sticky.”

“Not fucking sorry.” Toji licks the red mark on your leg away and presses a kiss right in the centre of the two half moon crescents made by his teeth marks. Your heart beats faster. When his green eyes rove over your body, you both see and feel the deep rumble of satisfaction bubbling from his chest. He runs two fingers down your chest and your stomach, collecting his cum before he smears it on your lips. “Not fucking sorry at all.”

Your eyes threaten to shut and he grunts, realising he must have exhausted you despite the fact that it was he who pushed themselves through the elements for hours and not you.

“Alright, up and at ‘em. Let’s get ya cleaned up, kid.”

Hauling you onto your feet, the rest of the night goes by in a blur — you’re taken to the bathroom and wiped down by a wet cloth, redressed in new pyjamas, and tucked in all nice and warm in your own bed. He leaves. Even half-asleep, you find that act ever so slightly disheartening. 

It feels like you’ve been used, like the act wasn’t as intimate as you might have thought. It leaves you biting your nail and groaning inwardly. Of course he didn’t think much about it. The man looks older than you, he’s probably fucked the thighs of many girls and you’re no one special, right?

Maybe the best thing to do is to take a page out of his book and just be casual, so at least you won’t humiliate yourself by asking something absolutely ridiculous like ‘what are we?’

God, the thought makes you grimace. 

You make a promise to yourself to swear off Toji until the snow thaws enough to get down and up this cursed mountain. The mental fortitude you’ve erected seems so solid, so reliable and firm, you actually believe you’ll have a more than easy time keeping your hands, and your heart, to yourself.

That is until he returns smelling of soap and he slides right in behind you, tucking an arm under your back and pulling you into place with your head resting on his hairy chest.

“Had to cut my shower short ‘cause you’re gnawing y’r fucking fingernail off. Cut it out, will ya?”

Your bedmate swats at your hand, pulling it away from your anxious mouth and playfully bites your wrist. That hand stays in his grip. Heart ceasing its painful clenching, you make yourself comfortable in his embrace, enjoying the heat enveloping you, hotter than any fire.

Clearing your throat, you mutter, “Thanks for today, Toji. Really. I couldn’t have ever done that without you.”

He huffs a laugh, thoroughly amused.

“Wouldn’t hafta if I wasn’t eating up all y’r food.” His voice booms under your cheek, the vibrations lulling you to sleep. You’ve only just noticed how nice he sounds, it’s a captivating timbre, rough and scratchy like bark but comforting and unyielding in a way you’ve never known anyone to sound. “Ya would’ve been fine without me, anyways. Don’t sell y’rself short.”

“I think it’s you who’s selling yourself short.”

Those are the last words exchanged between you before you two fall asleep.

—————————

“Fuck you up to?” Toji grouses. 

His voice is laced with sleep and he’s rubbing his eyes, all bleary and confused. He has every right to be considering you’re under the covers, mouthing at his dick and stroking the morning wood that woke up before him. The duvet gets pulled up, revealing your less than innocent smile. 

Kissing his slit, which prompts a heavy hand to lay on your head, you ask, “Waking you up?”

An arm folds under his head, getting him into a great angle to see you much more clearly. His brow rises up, challenging, and he teases, “Yeah? Well, I’m up, ma, so what now?”

The radiators have yet to be turned on this morning so the air is chilly in your room, but still you push those covers back, showing him how you’re completely bare in the bottom, wearing only your shirt to bed. His spare hand falls on your plump thigh, squeezing and kneading. 

“Last night,” you begin, raising your hip so you can seat yourself down on his hard length, “you told me you’d only fuck me if I hopped on your dick willingly. So here I am.”

You’re rubbing your already soaked pussy up and down on his cock, coating him with your wetness just as he did last night. You feel every delectable ridge catching your clit and you grind down on him with shameless abandon. How could you ever possibly feel shame when it feels so good and he’s not even inside you yet? When he’s looking at you like that? Like you’re the tastiest prey who’s ever walked into his trap?

He pushes a thumb into your mouth, watching your lips wrap around it like you did the night before and this morning, before he drops his hand to the apex of your thighs, massaging tight circles into that bundle of nerves, forcing breathless moans out of you. “Ya gonna ride me, doll? Gonna show me just how willing you are?”

“Uhuh.” Grinning, you let him pull the shirt up and over your head, nipples pebbling immediately. He flicks one, palming the fatty globe to soothe the dull pain.

Steadying yourself with your hands on his abs, you lean forward and steal a kiss. It’s supposed to be a peck, just a polite, cursory smooch but then he stops groping your tit to use that hand to keep your faced pressed to his. Toji deepens the kiss, shoving his tongue inside and exploring your mouth. He’s stealing air from you and the longer he keeps you submerged, the more you moan. 

In the haze of the heat he’s growling into you, you fail to realise he’s let go of your head and is now slotting his cock into your pussy. 

“W-wait, Toji!”

The stretch is overwhelming; you hadn’t prepped yourself enough but neither of you seem to care. It’s hard to when his cock head is already pushing through that tight ring of muscle and is worming its way deeper inside you. 

He hisses. “So fucking tight! Fuck, gotta relax, ma.”

“I’m -ngh- trying!”

Down and down, your cunt swallows as much of him as it can. You’ve pushed yourself upright, using gravity to aid the descent. Nothing else in the room has his attention. Nothing could ever take his attention. “Oh fuck, would you look at that? Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she? Dirty girl heh.”

You bottom out, lips tickled by the hairs at his base. 

“You’re so big, Toji.”

Both of his arms reach for you, gripping your ass and lifting you up just a little only to let go and let you drop down. You screech. He’s reaching every part of you inside, and when you look down, you’re so certain you can see the outline of him pushing through your stomach. You clench.

“Ah, fuck! Don’t do that,” he scolds you. “Start moving before I get bored.”

The threat makes you frown but you do as he says anyways. Mustering all the strength you have, you start riding him, rising higher and higher each time until you get comfortable with his size. You can’t imagine any amount of prep would ever get you to take him with ease, but the overflowing juices coming from you is certainly helping; it leaves his hairs dewy. 

Years past, or so it feels, as you grind and slide down on his length, and he doesn’t seem the least bit affected. That only fuels you harder. With a vendetta, you get up on your knees, keeping just his tip in, before you slam down. 

You both moan. 

“Fuck!”

His hands dig into your slippery flesh, careful of his sharp claws, but threatening to leave bruises just as he promised. The way he’s poking that sensitive spot inside you has you whimpering with every grind at just the right angle. You can’t imagine ever wanting to stop. Squelches after squelches echo in the room but there’s no shame you can muster, not when he feels so incredible.

The pain is quickly spiralling into pleasure and every part of him is pushing you to the edge— his strength, his length and girth, his low groans and hisses, the hairs that tickle your skin, and those eyes, scouring your features and not missing a single thing. 

Embarrassing sloshes and splats! are reverberating against the walls, just as the creaking of the bed frame, and the slapping of skin reach your ears. You’ve never heard yourself sound so dirty, so reckless, so downright pornographic. All of it is pulling you under even as the ache in your thighs from the overuse of them is making your rhythm irregular and jerky.

“Gorgeous -ha- gorgeous girl,” he says through gritted teeth.

His point is emphasised by a slap against your ass cheek, the sting makes you fall over, back onto his chest which is sticky with both of your sweat mixing and mingling. The hairs on his chest brush against your nipples, still sensitive from his rough sucking and biting last night, and you whimper. 

Growling in your ear, he plants his feet onto the bed, and oh god, he’s grabbing your ass in both hands and you know without even having to look at him that he’s grown tired of your amateurish performance; Toji is taking matters into his own hand. 

“Guess I still gotta do the -hah fuck- work ‘round here. Always such a —ngh— princess. Hold on tight, ma, ’s gonna be a bumpy ride.” His laugh rumbles under your body and an eye roll is all you can manage before you’re being pummelled into from underneath, jostling you in all sorts of directions. 

Plunging his cock at an incredible speed, you feel him in your stomach, in your lungs, God it’s like he’s in your head, filling every fold and crevice with his beastly intensity. “Toji! No! Ngh, s-stop! I can’t, fuck it’s so good! Yes! Oh! Oh! Nooooooooo.”

“No, yes, no? Make up your mind, ma. Use that city girl head for me,” he growls out, punctuating his mean question with a cruel laugh. 

Bundling your hair into a careless fist, he yanks you back from his chest, forcing you to confront him. He’s not flushed, his face isn’t crumpled in desperation, he isn’t even out of breath. In fact, there would be no sign he’s enjoying this —you, being inside you, holding you — except for the bead of sweat trailing down his temple, drawing your attention to the way those jade beads are flickering between your eyes and your swollen lips. 

“Kiss?” You ask, breathlessly. 

Toji furrows his brows, something flashing in his gaze, something that resembles confusion, conflict, or hesitation. It’s so quick you wonder if you imagined it but there’s no time to ponder longer because he continues his incessant assault on your poor pussy, kissing your cervix with every thrust, practically rummaging your insides with the way he’s using you like a toy once again. 

It’s filthy, it’s carnal, animalistic and oh so good.

“Yeah.” He licks his lips, pearly white row of knives for teeth on perfect display. “Give me a big wet kiss, baby. Make it worth my -hngh fuck!- t-time.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to stretch forward, he slams his face to yours, smacking his plump lips, gobbling you up despite your moans of surprise. He shoves his tongue in with as much ferocity as he’s thrusting his cock inside your poor battered pussy. That tongue licks and explores like he can’t get enough, like he wants to memorise every curve and edge.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

A huge hand lays consecutive slaps against your ass again, the flesh rippling and burning. He times it with every thrust, heavy balls smacking your skin too. It’s all too much too soon and you feel an orgasm bubbling from your throat and your cunt. 

“W-what is that? Oh my god!” Something thick is attempting to enter your sloppy pussy, round and threatening. You squeal when it pushes in after a particularly merciless thrust and grind from Toji. The extra stretch brings about a sharp pain. You tear up. 

A hand that’s clutching an ass cheek ventures deeper, trailing a finger to a hole you’ve never touched. Smothered in his chest, the onslaught of stimulation from all angles is killing you. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to breathe, no one to turn to for help from the man making good on his promise to leave you bruised, sore, and all chewed up. 

“’s my knot, babygirl. Fuck, you really don’t know shit about hybrids, huh? Well, y’r gonna be educated soon.”

The dark, sadistic tone of his is making you dizzy. In a panic, you hastily say, “N-no! I can’t. Really, Toji! I r-really can’t. Pleaseeee.”

With your hair still in his grasp, your head’s tilted back once again, but this time to bare your slender neck. In one fell swoop, that bulge gets shoved inside your cunt, plugging you up, and his maw clamps down on your neck, so close to puncturing you with his savage teeth.

“Oh! I’m gonna cuummmm! Toji! T-Toji! Stop!” Your jaw drops, eyes rolling back, and your nails dig into his meaty pecs for purchase. It’s like electricity is wracking your body, sizzling every hair strand, tickling your nipples from inside. Grinding against his pelvis, your oversensitive clit is caught in his hairs, creating a remarkable friction you can’t escape. “Oh, fuuuuuuuuuck!”

Broken chuckles emerge from his sinful mouth, “Go on, ma. Cum on my cock, milk me, just like that, oh shit, such a good girl, fuck!”

His brutal pace splutters as he follows suit, balls clenching whilst your walls attempt to push out the invasion of his cock and his knot. A crazed laugh echoes right by your ear, you don’t know what’s so funny but stuttered moans are the only sounds you can make as you chase your high. 

“Ah, fuck, y’r so fucking tight. Practically -ha- choking me heh.”

You feel hot cum paint your insides, drizzling down your walls with nowhere to go. He’s thoroughly filled you and when you attempt to lift your hips to get up, you realise, he’s not letting you go any time soon. 

“Nice try, ma. Unfortunately for you, y’r stuck with me for about twenty minutes or so till it goes down. Probably should’ve bought condoms heh.”

“You should have given me a warning, Toji,” you mumble, pouting. 

Goosebumps litter your arms; the chill of the morning air is settling reminding you just how bare you really are. Thankfully you don’t have to suffer for too long because he’s shuffling so he can throw the covers over the both of you. With his natural body heat, you’re more than warm and cozy, especially as his burning cock is still inside you. 

He licks a dried trail of tears on your cheek. “Sorry. Thought you knew.”

“Well, I didn’t. This is my first time with a hybrid.”

Grunt. 

A beat or two passes, a comfortable silence humming between you. He’s so big and meaty it feels like you’re going to melt into him. Now that you’re not so distracted by cock and cum, and the morning light is shining through the curtains, you can see his scars much more clearly. He’s littered in them, some like slashes and others just scarred-over holes.

You have so many questions, none of them leave the tip of your tongue. 

“Ask.”

You pause. “Can I?”

Huff. 

“Okay,” you trail off. “Why do you have so many scars?”

Tickling your spine with his callouses fingers, he skims your back absentmindedly. You lay your chin on his chest, watching him look at somewhere in the corner of the room, clearly falling fast in an endless hole of memories. This is a rare opportunity to more about the enigmatic wolf-man who showed up at your doorstep in the middle of a snow-storm, claiming to have known your late grandmother. 

More silence fills the air. His fingers have stopped.

You nuzzle his jaw with your nose, burying it in his beard. It seems to snap him out of his daze. He grunts once more, licking your cheek, not to taste the salt on your skin, but as if to say ‘thanks’. 

“Been on my own for a while. For as long as I can remember, actually. It’s…tough out there. Not everyone is as nice as you and your gran.”

Carefully, you hazard a guess. “Were these from people? Hybrids or normies?”

He gropes your ass like a stress ball. 

“Both.”

“I mean, I’ve heard stories of the kind of abuse and discrimination hybrids face from normies, it’s quite prevalent in the city despite recent equality laws but why would your own kid hurt you? Aren’t you all in the same boat? Isn’t there some kind of…camaraderie? Sorry, is that insulting to assume?”

Spanking your ass, he huffs a laugh. “You’re adorable. No, don’t look at me like that, kid. It’s cute of you to think that’s how it works.”

“It isn’t?”

You don’t take offence to his patronising tone; you had expected to be wrong about aspects of hybrid life. Normal, average humans outnumber hybrids at a ratio of four to one. Some hybrids are lucky enough to be passing, kinda like Toji, but others carry visible signs of their anthropomorphic genes. The latter are rarely treated well despite the fact that they’ve existed just as long as normies have. They used to live in their own continents, building large civilisations far more expansive than humans have achieved at that time. 

But war is a cruel mistress.

For many reasons, humans and hybrids stayed away from each other. It was only relatively recently they’ve begin co-existing, even inter-mixing. The change has been hard for many people. Perhaps not most of society, but enough to make the idea of living as a hybrid make you grimace. 

“Nah,” he says, almost finishing his reply there until he sees your inquisitive eyes and he continues, “there’s lots of different kinds of hybrids. We don’t all like each other. And not all of us running the same race. There’s a lot of competition, suspicion and hatred. ’s always been the case.”

Nodding, you prod further. “And your scars? Did they come from bar brawls or something?”

“Some, yeah. Others from professional fights.”

You perk up. 

“Professional fights?”

In a flash, the cover is falling onto the floor and you’re upright once more. Toji’s pushed the both of you up and off the bed, holding you in his arms with his softening cock slipping out of your pussy. You scramble to gain better grip of him.

“Oh my god! Give a girl a little warning. God, Toji! It’s cold.”

He licks your ear. 

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. With ease, he carries you out of your room and into the bathroom. “Let’s wash up and start the day. ‘m starved.”

Rolling your eyes, you let him have this one chance at evading your question; you’re just pleased to have learnt a little more about him. It feels like he’s letting you in, presenting himself openly just for you. For a wild man like him, whose solitary despite his nature, this is the greatest gift he could give you.

Toji’s a thorough washer — he shampoos your hair better than you ever have and not a single crook or cranny gets overlooked. But as soon as you get clean, the so-called day doesn’t get started anytime soon when he falls to his knees and shoves his face into the apex of your thighs, making a loud sniifffff before he growls and laps up the mixed juices of his and your cum. 

In next three days that pass, you notice the dynamic between you shifts. 

For one, he no longer sleeps in his own room but rather in yours. He follows suit after dinner and removes his shirt, freshly showered and completely bare, and hands it to you wordlessly. You wear his shirt, and only his shirt, to bed. 

Lunch is no longer eaten separately. He joins you wherever you are, whether that’s in your room, all warm and cozy under a mountain of blankets, or on the sofa, also all warm and cozy under a mountain of blankets. You watch movies on your laptop and he never argues with your choices. Sometimes he just eats in silence, right beside you, as you read a book or stare out the window. 

Toji’s much more touchy now. Before, he was sneaking in grazes and quick gropes, now he’s lost all reservation and politeness. When you’re cooking, stirring something as you hum to music, he creeps up behind you, pinning your body to the counter with his hips and he wraps an arm around your torso to weigh a breast in his palm, squeezing and massaging for his own pleasure. 

He’ll tweak a nipple, pushing your hair back to skim his nose against the length of your neck, inhaling deeply and stopping to mouth wet kisses on that bruising around the teeth marks he’s left there.  Most times he’ll let you be after he’s had a fill of your softness, but sometimes he kneels behind you and tears apart your pants with a resounding SSSSSNAP! Before he laps up your pussy from behind, food coming out just a little more cooked than you’d like, though he never seems to mind. 

And it must be worth mentioning that the sex is constant. 

Every night and every morning. It isn’t a stretch to say that you eat, sleep and breathe sex with Toji. Which you honestly can’t complain about. It’s always so rough and so good every time. 

However, his insatiable appetite is making it ever so slightly hard for you after — there’s a perpetual soreness in your joints and in your pussy, you find yourself looking behind you to make sure that when you bend down to pick up whatever it is you’ve dropped he won’t be there playing with your cunt with his fingers and/or mouth. 

His hearing is incredible. 

Sometimes you hide just to time how long it takes for him to find your hiding spot. Longest time was three minutes. The cabin isn’t the biggest in the world but there are plenty of places to hide, like closets, under the bed, behind sofas and doors. 

Still hard at work fixing bits and pieces around the cabin, Toji somehow always knows when you’re up to some mischief. Maybe it’s because your heart starts beating faster or because you let out some giggles, envisioning that glint in his eyes and in his teeth when he grins at your pathetic attempts to escape him. 

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because your panties get soaked with anticipation for his rough, calloused hands throwing you over his shoulder and onto a bed, his or yours he doesn’t care, and fucking you into a drooling mess. Sometimes he even gets so impatient, so riled up, he just takes you wherever you are, your face smothered in a pile of folded clothes or against the wall with your panties dangling from an ankle. 

Everything has been great. So great in a way you’ve never known greatness to manifest. It’s somewhat akin to, what you can only imagine to be, the completely liberating sensation of flapping your wings and cruising high up in the sky or running through a stream, chasing a fish with no end in sight. It’s the kind of greatness men strive for all their lives but never reach because it’s a greatness they were already born into and never realise. 

The routine, the mundane, the ordinariness. 

It’s all so great. 

At night, you trace nonsensical words and shapes into his skin, smiling at the soft snores that vibrate under your head. You’ve always thought living every day the same as the day before and the day before that as a labyrinth you’ve been sentenced to die in, a cage or a prison of your own making. But now, you can’t imagine ever wanting more. 

Of course, it hasn’t been perfect.  

You still find some moments a little too boring but those are usually when he’s busy fixing a wobbly chair or grouting the tiles in the bathroom. And you do crave the feeling of driving through a long, empty road, or eating fast food. Those moments, thankfully, are hastily washed away once you feel his calloused hands tethering you back to him.

One other problem you’re having is his beard. As attractive as it is, it’s scratching up your thighs a little too much. You’ve noticed the rash forming between your legs; he has a penchant for eating you out at the drop of a hat and he’s not gentlemanly about it. At. All. You don’t ever want him to stop and the threatening snarl he makes every time you attempt to push him away from your swollen and overstimulated pussy never fails to halt your movements. 

So there’s only one solution.

“Toji?” He lazily drags his gaze up your bare legs, stopping by the hard nipples poking through shirt, and then he meets your gaze with a brow raised. “Would you ever consider shaving your beard?”

The growl of ‘no’ comes before you could even finish the word ‘shaving’. His jaw clenches and a muscle ticks. 

“But I can shave it for you. Being a woman, it’s kinda part of my existence. I’ll do you up real nice.”

“Hell will sooner freeze over before I let anyone put something sharp against my neck again. Even if they’re you.”

You drop it for now. 

At night, after hours of mind-blowing sex, you lay all sweaty and sleepy on his chest once more with a heavy arm slung over your waist. You twist the hairs on his face, rolling a couple strands between your fingers. They’re quite long and thick. You wonder when the last time he had shaved was. 

“Please?”

“No.”

You sigh. 

The next morning, you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the bathtub and attempting to rub some soothing ointment meant for your face onto the irritated skin of your inner thighs. It’s getting worse and you’re at a loss. Making it hard to walk, you’re cursing every god out there for doing this to you. 

Is his aversion to sharp objects near his head because of some trauma or an animalistic instinct? It’s hard to tell with hybrids, as the internet forums you’ve explored lecture — hybrids are both governed by human complexity and base biological instincts. Studies that have been done on them over the year have put forth some credible results but people are quick to put a disclaimer that animals in captivity rarely behave the way they would in the wild.

You sigh again.

Maybe you’ll have to tell him to stop eating you out. You cringe. That won’t go down well, pun intended, and you don’t want him to. Frowning, you carefully massage in the ointment, hissing at particularly sensitive spots. 

“Fine. You can shave it off,” he grumbles. 

You hadn’t even realised he was standing in the doorway, watching, and scratching his beard like he’s noticing, really noticing, the hairs on his face. One glance at the mirror across the room and he’s furrowing his brows, perhaps baffled at the man staring back at him. 

His tone is hostile, but his acquiescence makes you smile. 

About ten minutes later, you’ve sat him down on the edge of the bathtub, right where you were before, and you’ve assembled everything you need: razors, scissors, a comb, shaving cream, towels, and a tub of aloe vera to soothe any razor burns. Everything but the aloe vera is pretty pink, and you can’t help but giggle a little as you take a step back to admire this big, burly man surrounded by utterly feminine products. 

“Alright, I’ll start by trimming it, okay? I don’t want to come at it straight away and spook you, so let’s take it nice and slow.”

He huffs. “Don’t gotta talk to me like I’m a kid. Do what you gotta do.”

With the scissors and the comb, you cut away at his beard, snipping here and there and trying to get it all even. It’s not an easy job — he growls when you venture too low, past his jawline and closer to his Adam’s apple and when he makes that throaty sound, you’re met with images of him biting into your throat, the way a dog does when you step on its tail.

Terrible as it is to compare a biological human male like Toji to an animal, it’s a fair comparison considering his reliance on his animal instincts. It’s been abundantly clear in the way he uses his senses to gain his bearings, how he never expresses a desire beyond eating, sleeping and fucking. There’s no vanity coursing through his blood, he doesn’t stare at himself in reflections, doesn’t fix up his hair or put on clothes that fit or match, and even how he doesn’t ever say pretty words, only what he means, no more and no less. 

It’s nice. 

So used to the way people sugarcoated their complaints or hid ulterior motives in every sickly sweet words, adjusting to Toji’s matter-of-fact way of speaking had been somewhat difficult. 

But change is necessary. Just as the seasons change, so do animals, even humans. With how they adapt to the change in the wind, the drop in the temperature, the quake in the earth, you know without needing to ask questions or to have more time with him, the hybrid in front of you, part wolf and part man, has never had the luxury of being stagnant. 

It was clear when he showed up at your door with no bag, just the clothes on his back and the muddy, worn down boots on his feet. Even fully fed, lounging on the sofa by the fire with his feet and torso bare, you sense the tension freezing his body; he’s always ready to run. 

He snarls and flinches when he feels the cold blade of your scissors touch his skin. And then his hand grips your thigh, both in warning and to tether himself, perhaps to remind him you’re not a monster thirsting for blood, his blood, but rather just a woman. A woman he’s seen completely bare, a woman who’s crawled on all fours and nuzzled her face against the seam of his jeans when he returns from fixing a tile on the roof, and a woman who’s laid it all out for him, starting from what led you here and ending to where you want to be. 

Uncomfortable and on edge, you already know you’re not going to get very far with the way he’s being. He needs a distraction. 

You kiss him. He growls for a different reason this time. Fingers threading in your hair, he holds you down to him, tasting the sweetness you’re offering. He laps it up. “Toji, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Face burying into your neck, he takes a long inhale there. “I know.”

“I’m gonna get started on the shaving cream, okay?”

His grip on you tightens and you know he’s aware that razors are sharper than scissors, much like how his teeth are sharper than yours. You don’t want to know what events he’s lived through to be so hostile against the act of shaving but he isn’t an animal, not fully, anyways. 

He’s also a man. 

And men conquer. 

Even when they shouldn’t. 

You slide your panties down, dangling it in the air for a second, hesitating but you see the appraisal in his eyes, always so suspicious like he’s thinking of all the ways one could be killed with a scrap of lace. Dropping it on his face, you tell him, “I don’t see why only one of should be vulnerable here.”

Rumbling a pure sense of bliss, his eyes flutter shut and he sniffs at your panties. His hand flies up to your slit just as you’re smearing shaving cream all over his jaw, pulling the panties away from him for a second. 

“Seeing me all tense is getting you soaked?” His lip twitches. 

“Hey, now, let’s not even get started on that seeing as you’re pretty hard for someone suffering some internal battle.”

He gives you a rare grin. 

The rest of the torture goes on in relative peace — you shave him bit by bit, going slowly and keeping your touch gentle especially as you near the softness of his neck and when you go over it with the razor, he takes a deep inhale of your panties, trying to shake off that unnatural acceptance of something so dangerous, so compromising, so utterly unlike him. After every slither of skin you’ve rid of hair, you give him a kiss which he insists on deepening, shoving fingers into your cunt just to feel you clench down on him. 

Soon, he’s completely smooth and it’s only when you step back that you take it all in. He was handsome with the beard and he’s just as handsome now. He also looks more youthful, more boyish, and free. 

Toji comes to a stand, staring at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t say a word, neither do you. A barrage of thoughts pass through his mind, flashing and flickering. His fingers feel his skin, jerking at the complete bareness of it all. You can’t tell if he likes it, if he regrets his choice, and if he even recognises the man under all that wild and untamed hair. He had been running so long as a wolf, perhaps he’s forgotten how to walk as a man. 

That’s what you think, until he makes some gesture with his hand and he says, “Got no reason to push me away now, so spread those legs, ma. Let’s go for a test drive.”

You don’t leave that bathroom until hours later, sore, wet, sticky and thoroughly blissed out.

The next day, just before lunchtime, Toji goes to chop up some more wood for the fireplace whilst the snow has stopped falling just for today. You’re watching him through a window, bundled up in a blanket holding a steaming cup of hot chocolate, and not at all envious of him, what with the chilling weather and his lack of a coat. 

You really have to buy him one. He doesn’t look the least bit cold, which you don’t really understand, but still, something about the picture looks off. It’s not fair you get to be all comfortable, lazing around, and he’s hard at work. 

The phone rings. 

Your head snaps to the coffee table which your phone lies on, vibrating against the wood. A new number. When you answer, you’re surprised to recognise the voice immediately. 

“Hi. Yes, I’m managing quite fine.”

The old man sighs. “How glad am I to hear that. The storm has made it rather hard to get a hold of you and I certainly couldn’t make the journey up.”

“That’s quite alright. I really appreciate the thought, it’s very sweet of you.”

Exchanging pleasantries and talks about the various favours he owed your grandmother, over five minutes pass, and you’re itching to urge Toji back inside, fearing that he could drop dead at any second from the chill.

Eventually, and thankfully, the conversation nears an end with him insisting that as soon as the snow thaws enough you come on down for dinner at his home. He says his sons and their wives all love a good, hearty meal as a family. There are even grandchildren for you to play with should adults not be your speed. “Yes, yes, of course. That sounds great, thank you.”

“Alright, bye, dear. I’ll call back again to check up on you and please remember you can always call on me and my kids for help.”

Humming, you’re about to end the call when his tone changes. 

“Speaking of help,” he begins, clearing his throat. “How have you been managing to get on so well?”

Toji’s still chopping wood, swinging that heavy axe back behind his head and down in one smooth strike, cutting the log in a perfect half. You press your legs together, unable to take your eyes off his bulging biceps. You love when he shows off his strength, it comes so effortlessly to him, unlike the men where you’re from whose muscles are all for show, satisfying their own vanity and quelling their insecurities momentarily before they’re inhaling steroids like air. 

“Oh, you know, this man my grandmother befriended over the years came by and has been helping me out since. He’s quite familiar with the ins and outs of the cabin so I really couldn’t have done any of this without him. I’d like to bring him along to dinn—“

“A man?”

You frown. “Yeah, Toji. Surely you must have met him at some point since he and my grandmother were quite close.”

“I knew it! I knew I saw him here days ago. Oh, goodness. I’m so sorry you ran into him, but please stay away from him.”

What the hell is this man talking about?

“No, it’s Toji, he helped my granny during the winter months. He fixed things up for her and helped her get around. He was like a friend to her in ways me and my siblings should have been. He’s really nice, you’ll like him.”

The man in question is scratching his jaw, still getting used to being so bare, and he’s rolling his head around as if bothered by some crick in his neck. He’s got an impressive pile of logs waiting to be fed to the fireplace and you know he’s going to head back in any second now. For some reason, you feel guilty, like you’re doing something you shouldn’t be, talking to someone you shouldn’t talk to. 

“Y/n, listen to me. Please!” The urgency, the insistence, and desperation in the old man’s voice is palpable, a hand reaching through the screen and choking air right out from your lungs. Your heart begins galloping. “That man is a criminal. He’s wanted, a fugitive! H-he’s a killer.”

Confused and somewhat exasperated, you argue, “No, you’ve got the wrong man. I’m telling you, we’re talking about different people here.”

You can’t shake off the abrupt shift in his voice. From caring old man with a shaky baritone to a firm, military like precision. It’s as if you were talking to a completely different man.

A beat passes and you think he’s hung up, that this odd conversation is over and done with but one glance at the screen tells you differently. He doesn’t say a thing, and all you can hear is the rushing of the wind and grunts and thuds outside. 

Irritated by this entire farce, your thumb moves to press the end-call button but then you hear him on the other line.

“Does he have a scar on the corner of his mouth?”

The blood drains from your face.

“H-how did you know that?”

A noise of death and despair reaches your ears. He’s shouting something to someone else, you can hear their alarm, can feel the anxiety, the dread and terror in their voices, muffled as they are. “Get away from him. Get away from him now! Do whatever you can. You mustn’t let him get his hands on you. H-he’s one of them. One of those abominations. A hybrid, a dangerous kind.”

“What are you talking about? Just tell me what’s happening, please, you’re not making sense right now.”

“He killed your grandmother!”

You drop your mug. It shatters by your feet. The creamy chocolate milk pools into a puddle, soaking your socks. There’s ceramic chipping littering the floor and you can’t move, can’t go anywhere without taking a big leap. 

Slowly, you look up from your phone screen, hearing subdued questions of fear and panic on the other end. Through the window, you meet Toji’s eyes. 

He’s looking right at you.

You hang up. 

It takes three seconds for him to get to the door, pushing it open. He shakes off the snow off his boots, banging them against the doorframe, and the axe he had been holding is set down by the shoe rack, the metal clinking, as he enters. Light from the ceiling bulb reflects directly off the sharpest point, shining in your eyes. Are necks harder to cut through than wood?

“Ya alright?”

Plastering a cheerful smile, you nod. 

He doesn’t look convinced. 

In a blink, he’s in front of you, cradling your face in one cold hand. He tilts your chin back and searches your eyes. He doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for so he sniffs the air and his eyes darken. Slowly, like you’re a deer, he asks, “What are you so afraid of?”

“Oh, nothing. Really. I was just reading the news online and stumbled across articles about the war in that country in the East, y’know, the one with the hospital bombing. It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t read it,” he says. “Show me.”

Your heart beats impossibly faster. You know he can hear it. There’s no way he can’t with his wolfish hearing and with a finger on your pulse. Maybe that’s why his other hand, just as cold, wraps around your wrist and he tugs it towards him. His nails scrape against your skin and his hand eats up your wrist entirely, middle finger folding over his thumb. At any given second, he can snap the bone there and not bat an eye. 

Laughing nervously, you tug your hand back, to no avail. With a forced nonchalant tone, you inform him, “I wanna get all cleaned up. I feel a little icky, and all sweaty and sticky from this morning so I’m just gonna take a nice long bath.”

He lets you shake him off but only after he’s taken the phone out of your death grip. He can’t unlock it, he doesn’t the password. But that was never his intention. He doesn’t even look down on the screen. As fast as you can without looking panicked, you stumble away from his reach and towards the door. 

“Y/n.”

Your smile shakes.

“What did they tell you?”

Your smile falls off altogether. 

“Toji,” you begin, “p-please, let’s not do this.”

His scar twitches and when he makes a step towards you, you step back. There. You almost missed it, almost blinked and lost your footing. But his eyes unmistakably flicker from you and to the side, by the door, at the shoe rack. You don’t need to turn back to know what exactly he’s eyeing. Calmly, he asserts, “You won’t last an hour outside. You won’t even reach the forest’s edge before I get to you. You don’t know your way down. And if it ain’t me, it’ll be the elements that’ll kill ya. Be wise, kid.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

With the scarlet blanket still hanging off you, you dash towards the door, pulling the shoe rack behind you and the sound of clattering and a thud forces your legs pumping. 

You run. 

You run and you don’t look back, you don’t stop, not even for a second, not even when your socks are soaked with snow and not melted chocolate. The trees welcome you as you dash in between trunks, lunging over thick roots and dodging low hanging branches. You don’t know where you’re going, where you can go. 

A sob rises from your throat, clawing its way out. 

He was right. You don’t know your way down and the freeze is creeping in, frosting over your veins and seeping into your bones. The movies show the power of adrenaline all the time, how it’ll wash away any and all feelings that aren’t helpful for survival, but it’s not enough. 

Your muscles are aching, your cheeks are burning and your fingers are beginning to itch and tingle. You weren’t meant for survival. You weren’t meant to put up a fight. 

When he gets to you, he’ll snuff the light right out of your eyes with one swipe of his arm. You’ve seen what he can do with those hands, you’ve felt the way they wrangled you into position, hell you’ve drooled over the bruises he’s left on you. And you never once thought you’d be running from the hands that dragged you over a cliff of pleasure, that carried you around, and touched you so soothingly.

Without needing to hear heavy footfall, you know he’s after you. You have animalistic instincts too. 

A dead woman running is what you are. You were dead as soon as you picked up that phone call. 

No. 

You were dead the moment you opened the door. 

“Fuck!” You scream. Ignoring the ache in your legs and the pain in your ankles, you sprint as fast as you can. Your body’s being pushed to its limits; you’ve never ran like this before. Granted, you’ve never been chased by a murderer either. 

The absurd turn of event make you laugh, deranged and broken, and it echoes around the forest. As far as you can see, there’s only trees and snow, perfectly white, pristine snow. There are no roads, no houses, no people. No one to help. No one that can hear you scream. 

You should have stayed in the city, should have never left, should have never gotten bored. Spontaneity isn’t your thing and you’re learning it the hard way. There’ll never be an opportunity to put into practice the moral of the story that’s being engraved into your DNA right now. No one will even notice you’re gone — you aren’t close with your family, and you don’t have friends, not really anyways.

There will be no mourning, no grieving, there won’t even be a goddamn funeral. 

Heart threatening to tear through your body, you collapse against a tree. You’re panting, chest heaving as you gulp down as much air as possible. The bark scratches your forehead but you can’t muster a shred of care, not when every limb is shaking both from the cold and the effort.

There are an array of shallow cuts all over your arms and face from where low hanging branches have whipped against your skin, attempting to get you in their clutches, to slow you down. The forest isn’t your friend. This isn’t your domain, It’s his.

“Y/n!”

You smother the startled cry with the palm of your hand.

He’s near.

Tears stream down your face, falling onto the snow beneath you. Numb, you briefly worry you’ve lost your feet altogether. One glance down disproves that but you’re still not convinced. You hug the blanket closer around you; it does absolutely nothing to keep the warmth in and the cold out. And yet, you can’t bear to let it go. 

“I can hear you.”

Lips quivering, you bite down hard. Iron lays on your tongue. There’s nowhere to go. He had found you so quickly and he knows the forest better than you. How many times had he made the trip to that cabin? How many times had he sought out your grandmother? Had smiled at her, chopped up wood for her, had collected groceries and medicines? How many times had she let him in every time he knocked, every time he emerged from the shadows and soaked up the warmth of her kindness?

What were her last words? 

No, please, don’t! Spare me?

Or why, Toji, why?

What will be yours?

A flash of movement catches your eye. He’s not panting like you, he’s not even sweating. When he steps forward, brushing his hair back, you don’t fail to notice he didn’t come empty handed. 

His eyes glint, sharper than the axe he carries, and he’s roving over your features, watching you tremble. One sniff and his scar is stretching. 

“Y’r afraid.”

“Yeah, no f-fucking kidding!”

Even as he keeps his voice deceptively soft, much like how it is when he’s lulling you to sleep, you can’t stop staring at the axe. That stupid fucking axe he just had to bring with him. You sob. 

“Just leave me alone, please.”

Scoffing, he steps closer once more. “Not even gonna ask if I did or didn’t?”

You shake your head. 

“Don’t do this. Please, don’t do this.”

He lunges, pinning you to a tree with a forearm to your throat. Radiating heat, your body betrays you and presses closer to him, desperate to envelope yourself in that warmth. You want nothing more than to be back in bed with him, oblivious to the rest of the world. You want to go back to before that phone call and make it so that you never found out, so that you never picked up the damn phone. 

Teeth snapping a hair’s breadth away from your nose, he demands, “Ask.”

“Did you?” You scream at him. “Did you kill my fucking grandmother? After everything she did for you? After she showed you kindness and hospitality and gave you friendship? Did you kill her even after she begged? Did you watch the life fade from her eyes knowing she never got to say goodbye to me? To any of us?”

His glare softens. There’s a tenderness swirling in those green eyes, a fervour and understanding that thaws your heart. He looks like the Toji you know, or rather, knew. He looks like the Toji that had pushed himself to trek in the snow for hours so you can be fed, the Toji that kept you company every day, that fixed things without needing to be asked, the one that made you coffee and knew just how you liked it, the one that traced patterns you had drawn him on your skin when he thought you weren’t awake. 

“Did you kill her?”

Scar grazing your lips as he inhales the shampoo from your hair, you feel his answer just as well as you hear it. 

“Yes.”

A gunshot resounds in the air. It’s sharp and startling, cutting through the crisp silence with a violent roar. The sound lingers in the air, echoing and rattling your bones like it had been fired inside you. 

“Get the fuck away from her, beast!”

You turn to the side. A man you don’t recognise is standing metres away holding a shotgun. His face is contorted in rage, creating deep shadows and wrinkles that make him look infinitely older than he likely is. Smoke wisps away from the barrel of his fun, pointed at the sky. A warning shot. 

Toji pushes you behind him as he growls. 

“Fuck off. She’s mine.”

You trip over your blanket. Through his legs, you see that man lower the gun till it points in your direction. You’re frozen in place. 

“Let her go and turn yourself in. An animal like you needs to be muzzled and put down,” the man spits, venom flooding his words. He looks at you. “Come here. My father sent me. You know him.” 

Stumbling to a stand on shaky knees, you back away from Toji, going around the tree and making your way to the other side. He doesn’t stop you, just watches every move you make as if you’re standing in a field of landmines. His grip on the axe doesn’t loosen and he makes no sign he’s going to give himself up. 

“T-Toji, don’t fight, please just come with us. If you give yourself up, maybe they’ll go easy on you,” you plead. 

He growls, grimacing. He’s contemplating it. That means everything to you. In some sick, pathetic joke, you actually pity him. There’s still a huge part of you that cares, that wants what’s best for him, that loves him. But that part needs to be extinguished because he’s a cold blooded killer and he’ll turn those murderous hands on you. 

Leg jerking, he makes a step towards you. It feels so right, you mirror his movement, like this one act, one sacrifice makes up for everything, like it erases the sins of his past and washes away the blood on his hands. 

“Ahh!” You’re yanked back by your hair. 

“Don’t get near him, you stupid bitch! He’s a fucking mongrel.”

The snarl that ripples from Toji’s throat pierces through haze, rustling the branches up above and forcing a flock of birds up and away. He charges towards you, axe raised up high and you shake yourself from the man’s clutches, jumping out of the way just in time before bodies collide and they both fall. 

Rolling away, you bundle up the blanket you’re shielding yourself with and cry into it. The sound of bodies being beaten, arms bent, stomachs kicked and necks bitten into make you cringe. You cry harder. You don’t dare look at who’s winning, you can’t bring yourself to look. It’s because you don’t want to see the violence, don’t want to see blood, but there’s a voice screaming that it’s because you’ll die if the one who walks away from this isn’t Toji. 

“Don’t fucking touch her!”

“Get the fuck off me! You filthy mutt!”

You’re digging your nails into the bark of a tree, flinching with every blow. You hear fists slamming into flesh, each punch a blunt weapon bruising and breaking, bone-crushing swings whistling through air followed by sharp exhales of pain and vomit-inducing cracks and pops. The struggle is relentless, blow after blow, and you hear the gun clatter as it’s kicked to the side. 

SNAP!

“You should have never come back! You should have died on the side of the street after what you did to that woman”

POP!

“Ahhh! Fuck!”

SMACK! 

“Ya don’t know shit!”

The trees are spectators, moaning and whistling in protest at the unholy sight, at the splatters of blood contaminating their ranks. The branches shake in warning but no one is listening.

Whimpering, you hum a song, trying to block out the repulsive sounds of senseless violence. You should have never been here. You never visited because you couldn’t stand the isolation of a cabin in the mountains, couldn’t stand the unconditional love your grandmother gave you, of which you knew then and you know now, you were never deserving of.

If you had been dutiful and even had a fraction of her selflessness, you would have taken care of her so that she never relied on a man with sharp senses and a dangerous smile.

If you had been a good granddaughter, that man would be roaming the world, unburdened by material possession and human attachments. He wouldn’t be beating a man black and blue, wouldn’t be tearing flesh from bone, wouldn’t be debasing himself for your sake, or his. You don’t know anymore.

You turn to yell at him to stop, for him to run instead. But your words are swallowed by a gunshot. 

A body falls to the floor in a dull thud. Crimson dyes the snow, puddling into a shade so dark you could always persuade yourself it’s not what you think it is. Time slows. You can see every flake of snow pause in the air, you can count them, can collect them in your hands. The wind has disappeared, leaving behind a stillness in the air that’s suffocating, choking you from inside. Even the trees have stopped their moaning.

Your heart stops beating.

Someone stands over the body, holding a smoking gun, and it isn’t who you wanted it to be.

“Toji!” You scramble over, hands shaking harder than ever before. 

He’s clutching his chest. Hot liquid drenches your pants. You didn’t realise fresh blood would be so warm and you wish so badly it wasn’t because it means that the warmth that should be inside him is leaving, being absorbed by the ground, by you.

Green eyes, dulling, meet yours. He smiles. “She asked me to. She was in pain. Couldn’t make it down through the snow. She asked me.”

“N-no, stop it. Save your breath, please.” Through your sobs, you turn to the nameless man, pale under the cuts all over his face as the snow and shuddering from the shock of what he had done. “Call the ambulance! Call somebody! Please!”

“C-car. I-it’s in my car.” Staggering back, he drops the gun and fishes out his keys, muttering frenzied apologies under his breath. He limps his way back, weaving through the trees.  

Despite having less cuts and bruises, he’s in much worser state. His chest heaves and you’re trying to press down on the wound like you’ve seen in the movies but you don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know whether you’re supposed to be smothering the hole with a dirty blanket or if you should be performing CPR. No one had ever trained you for this. This wasn’t covered in any of those HR meetings. “Oh, god, Toji. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. Oh. God. I’m so so sorry.”

Lifting a limp hand, he brushes a tear away only for it to be replaced by a hundred more. He huffs a weak laugh at the blood he smears on your face and he tries to brush that away too.

“I’d always wanted to meet you. She spoke of how beautiful, how kind and generous you are. Her favourite. Didn’t believe her, y’know? I thought, no one could possibly be that nice if they never even visit their gran. But I’d always wanted to know for myself.”

You shake your head. He shouldn’t be speaking. He should be saving his breath, should be focusing on keeping awake until help arrives. “Stop. Please, just stop. Don’t waste your energy on me. I-I don’t deserve it. I should have listened, should have heard you out. Oh, god, Toji.”

He huffs an amused laugh. He sounds so clear, so loud, so alive you could actually convince yourself he doesn’t have a bleeding hole in his chest. But you can’t because you can feel the blood flowing out, it’s caking your legs and your hands. 

“You wanna know what I think, ma?” Pulling you close, you don’t fight his grip. Through your whimpers, you press your ear to his lips, holding him close like you could will your own warmth to him, like you could jostle you both back to consciousness. “I think y’r even more beautiful than she said. My gorgeous gorgeous girl. Mine.”

It’s unclear if he said anything else after that; you could only hear your own pleadings and sobbing as his arms fall limp and his body grows cold. There came rustling from all over the forest like they heard a tree fell, a mighty and sturdy tree. They warned you. There are consequences to dirtying the snow’s purity, to upsetting the balance. That’s a lesson all animals know. But the battle that had gone on here wasn’t committed by preys and predators. Just men. 

And men never learn their lesson until it’s far too late. 

The trees cry with you.

For you.

When the marching of people came some time later, all yelling and barking orders to each other, they found you lying on his chest, just as you had for many nights and had imagined you would every night after, with a red blanket pulled over the both of you. 

There, silent as a lamb, you slept. 

A tear-stricken city girl and her big, bad wolf. 

Neither of which would ever live again. 

[anaktoria-of-the-moon]

As an addendum to my last handler/pilot dynamic post, consider the found family dynamic:

You became a handler to find your baby sister, whom you know only was taken from your arms twelve years ago by a man bearing the Collective’s red-winged eagle on his shoulder, whom you’ve never seen again. (That is the way it goes with children who show promise for the pilot program - some call it destiny, others law, still others stealing; you don’t care to put a word to it, but you won’t rest till you’ve seen it undone.)

Your first pilot dies in a day, your second in a week. This too is the way it goes. Not every promising child becomes a proven soldier. Some blades shatter in the tempering: metal too poor, fire too hot.

You say the lines: Hunt there, Go north, Well done, Not yet, Wait here, Go home, Glory to the Collective - a litany in which you don’t believe. Now your pilots last longer before they die (missile strikes, overtaxed reactors, and each time you hurt a little less, and whisper thanks that they are not your sister, at least). Weeks before the next, then months, then years - how many? - you’ve long since stopped counting the days, for each that passes without finding what you seek is one that may as well not have come at all.

Then one day as you murmur the lines in your loyal hound’s ear a shriek pierces the sterile peace of your ivory tower, and your world erupts in flame. They’ve found where you direct from through some trick of triangulation; they’ve brought down an orbital strike, right upon you.

You wake amid the ruins to the screech of missiles, the groan of metal and shattering ceramic plating. And in your ear the first sound your pilot has ever made: a long, unbroken scream.

You watch her pick up the enemy and tear it in half, in a burst of steel and sparks, and then you are gone again.

When you wake next she is carrying you, strangely, gingerly, balanced atop her gun arm and held in place with her machete. You struggle upright and she grinds to a halt. They taught you early on how to work the emergency hatch from the outside; you do, now, and see to your shock that the pilot is just a scrap, a red-eyed white-bleached little thing tangled in too many strangling black cords, crying piteously, starved.

You needed her then. She needs you now.

So you unwrap her from the coffin of synthetics and wiring and carry her, cumbersome, down from the cockpit. While she thrashes in your arms (not used to the touch of mortal flesh, doubtless, not used to being so small and soft and terribly mortal at all), you reach into your still-intact coat and fish for the last snack there and feed it to her (gently, gently, she isn’t used to much besides intubated protein slop) and wait for the flutter of her chest to slow a little before you go on.

The sound of running water nets you a quiet pool to bathe in. She struggles too when you unzip her suit - she is like a wild animal, kicking and biting and scratching - you repeat the same soft assurances from your radio, Wait here, Easy, Don’t shoot yet, and she stills, and though there is a little blood on you you feel it’s a triumph. You guide her to the pool and then turn and walk five paces away, just far enough to know you can run back in case you hear her start to flail too much - or not at all.

It takes a few tries, getting her to figure out how to bathe. But by the fourth night she at least comes out free of that old coating of sweat and tears and machine lubricants, smelling no longer of grease and oil, and by the tenth night she sits and lets you untangle the long fall of her hair.

It is an ugly meager white, this hair, like the rest of her, skin and all, only her eyes that same strange red. This is how you think you know she is not your sister, who had the same rich loam brown skin you do - or perhaps this is just how pilots look; perhaps they are all bleached by their cockpits like plants in lightless winter.

She doesn’t speak, your pilot, they never do, they only ever growl or shriek or hiss or groan. They did not need to speak in the cockpit; you understand that somehow they and the mechs speak without talking, that it must be part of the dullness in her eyes that she has lost that way of speaking, for her mech has run out of fuel after a fortnight and, though you have worked out how to articulate its legs by sheer force and a bit of cleverly tied wire (so that you can walk it alongside the two of you as you go), you cannot manage to get it to wake again. So in the long hungry evening you try to teach her another way of speaking, with her hands and not her mouth.

You speak to her still, of course, as you always have, using the same soft key-in phrases you’ve always done (throwing in new words here and there, signing them at the same time). You understand now that you were never really talking to her to talk, but to soothe, the way you lull babies in the cradle. It is slow going, even so. At first you do not think she even listens. She does not look at your hands. She stares somewhere past you, out at the stars, or the next ridge, and does not move at all.

But on the hundredth day that changes. She looks suddenly, sharply, at you while you roast your catch over the fire, and she signs, Sun.

Sun? you sign back, heart racing.

Sun, she says. Sun rabbit. Sun rabbit food.

Another forty days and you find out Rabbit is the name of her mech.

In winter you come across the burned-out remains of an enemy outpost. Your pilot is off like a shot, and against your instinct you do not call out to her or give chase. Sure enough, she comes back, arms full of thin sheets that glitter like obsidian.

Sun food! she signs, hands shaky (she still is not used to such delicate gestures - in her mech, all her movements were big and sharp and final). Rabbit food!

The next days are spent swaddling Rabbit in the salvaged panels, and then, on the seventh day after you arrive at the ruins - in the midst of the coldest night yet - something inside the mech’s infernal innards chirps, and beeps, and comes to life.

That isn’t the only thing that wakes. Turns out dormant drones in this outpost have sensors tuned to mech handshakes.

It’s too late to run. You yell, RABBIT!, and you throw yourself over your pilot in the middle of her still-open cockpit, right as the drones converge upon you, and your world becomes day-bright.

You wake to find it is still night. Your leg aches. In the light of smoldering embers, your pilot shakes you. Tears glitter on her face like ice. Behind her you see Rabbit - the smoking hulk, having awoken just enough to sync with her pilot and turn and shield you both.

Your pilot signs, You not dead.

I’m not dead, you sign back, and now you begin to cry too, for the first time in twelve years. I’m not dead.

Rabbit dead, she signs. And you cling to each other and her little body (so stunted it is the size of a girl some twelve years old, despite that you know pilots are only enlisted at fifteen) wracks with sobs, over and over.

But in the morning, once her crying has subsided enough for her to fall asleep, you untangle yourself from her and go limping down into the ruins and wrap up your leg, and then you find yourself something approximating a screwdriver.

She finds you deep in the corpse of Rabbit. She is angry, maybe, by the look on her face - maybe she thinks you are desecrating the grave. Hastily you hold up your prize, and she falters - doesn’t recognize it.

Rabbit, you sign. Rabbit head. Rabbit - Rabbit soul.

Soul? She clearly doesn’t know the word. Nobody has ever told it to her. Of course.

You shake your head in frustration and gesture her over, and she comes, haltingly.

You carefully part the hair at the base of her neck. You slip the little black disc into the waiting slot.

It takes a moment. Then - oh then -

She nearly collapses into you. Her sobbing is louder than ever before, and her fingers are a shuddering outburst, over and over, Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit.

You don’t wander anymore. The ruins where you found the solar panels have cans and cans of preserved food hidden in some abandoned Doomsday bunker, turns out, and when those run out there are many animals you know you’ll be able to hunt here - you see their burrows and footprints in the thawing snow already. And as the sun grows stronger, you have noticed a little streak of black in your pilot’s white braid.

She chatters to Rabbit all day, every day. At least you think so - you see nothing, hear nothing, but she wanders the grounds with you (your limp growing ever more sure, thanks to a splint you made in the aftermath of the drones) and she helps you festoon the little makeshift hut you’re putting together with solar panels, and by turns she smiles, or frowns, or laughs suddenly, a bright peal undimmed by the closeness of any cockpit. Down in the middle of the village the old body of Rabbit lies still and steady, a little majestic in a forlorn way, you think.

Come spring you find yourself settling between the legs of Old Rabbit, New Rabbit and Beetle (thus your pilot has named herself, after her other favorite sort of animal) tucked happily against your arm; she has filled out much since you first pulled her from her cockpit and now eats the fish you roast for her with great enjoyment, smacking her lips and humming. When you are done she turns to look up at you.

Yes, Beetle? you ask her, aloud and with hands.

Will they find us? she asks you.

No, you tell her honestly. You lost your trackers that day in the fire, burned out of the tower in which you sat; to the Collective you are as good as dead. So is Rabbit now that her body has been torn apart, her disc removed. And the Collective doesn’t come back for expendables, for rusted blades they can no longer use. (Above you, flowers sway in the hollows of Rabbit’s arm cannons.)

Will you leave me? she asks you next.

You pause. You say, Do you want me to?

This is not in pilot vocabulary, to be asked a question. She has to pause also to take in what you’ve just done.

Then she says, No, never, and, If you do, I’ll go looking for you.

Like you went looking all those years ago, no? When did it change? You told yourself then: She’s lost out there somewhere; I must find her, or die trying. Now you look at the little girl beside you and you think, Maybe you were the lost one all along. Maybe you’ve found each other.

You ask her, Why do you say you’d look for me?

She considers this. After a long moment, she says, You had an order for me. At the end of every hunt. Told me where to go. I could not ever stop going until I got there, and I am there now, and if it goes away from me then I will have to go looking for it again.

She looks at you straight on, now, with eyes that reflect the night sky. It occurs to you that maybe this is her way of, at last, trying to give you a name; you forgot yours the moment you joined the force, for you weren’t interested in personalizing yourself to anyone, especially not the short-lived pilots, who didn’t need your name anyway, only your title, Handler.

You say, What do you mean?

She smiles. It’s you, she says. This place. The place is you.

You know now, but you need her to say it, the way she needed you to say those things back then, to keep her going, to keep her from going mad. So you ask her, What is the place?

She smiles again. In the darkness, an owl hoots.

She says, Home.

[beifong-brainrot]

People will go on about how "Katara's story is a tragedy" because she... ended up marrying the guy she loves, having children and grandchildren which she was always excited about and literally becoming a master waterbender and rising to the top of her field as a healer.

Yes, Katara's story has tragic aspects to it. And there are certainly flaws in how she is written in tlok (Though I will argue that there are actually more issues with how Toph and Zuko are just plopped in there for no reason in later seasons). And her storylines aren't perfect, for example her resolving her trauma around the murder of her mother being more used to prop up Zuko than her own internal turmoil. (Most of TSR is from Zuko's perspective and I hate that actually)

"Katara's story is a tragedy" Why do you have such a hard on for this woman's misery? Let her be happy, man.

You know what gaang girlie's life is an actual onscreen tragedy?

Toph's!

People will fucking downplay Toph's childhood abuse because she wasn't physically hurt, but her childhood was a never ending carousel of abelism, misogyny, neglect and isolation. The way Toph describes her parent's treatment of her as "pressure and pain" is heartbreaking.

Toph's only escape was Earth Rumble and earthbending, but despite her skills, she remained the perfect little lady her parents always wanted her to be. She's never known a different life, and she was only able to be her real self in secret.

And when Toph finally opens up to her parents, when she finally lays her real self bare in front of the people who are supposed to love and care for her?

She is met with what may be, in my opinion, the cruellest rejection in the show.

Despite this, even when Toph runs away, she still cares for her parents' approval. Hell, she's even lured into a trap due to her getting a forged letter from her mom and getting excited because it looked like her mom was finally accepting her.

It's also important to note how determined to be self sufficient and to prove herself Toph is. We can especially see this right after she joins the Gaang, where she refuses to participate in splitting with the rest of the group, insisting on "pulling her own weight". This isn't Toph being a brat, or spoilt, this is her wanting to prove that she can handle herself because people have handled and understimated her her entire life.

Eventually, Toph starts to learn to trust the members of the Gaang and this is a step in the right direction. She's literally making friends for the first time in her life I'm so proud of her.

However, I was genuinely upset when Toph's life changing field trip with Zuko didn't work out. When Toph was trying to connect with Zuko and he blew her off (I'm not blaming him tho they had shit to do), I couldn't help but remember the rejection Toph suffered from Lao.

Post canon, Toph continues to try and prove herself, starting a metalbending school and training new metalbenders.

She also reconciles with her father. Not before Lao disowns he rmultiple times and calls her a rude, ungrateful thing. And while he eventually comes to understand Toph and cherish her, that type of trauma sticks with you.

So it's no wonder really that Toph, someone who went her entire childhood seemingly without even speaking to someone her age, would have trouble forming connections. She has children with two different men, neither of which seem to stick around.

Toph tries to do right by her daughters and gives them the freedom she never got. Sadly, the pendulum swung too far to the other side, since it seems that she started to neglect her daughters, which led to them developing a sleugh of issues of their own.

Toph becomes the cheif of police, which kind of makes sense. Republic City was only slowly emerging as an actual metropolis. Toph took on a role as a protector, and probably as a way to prove herself. But as Republic City grew, Toph probably realised that she became something she hated. A cog in the machine, and started to despise her job.

Searching for a semblance of the freedom and happiness her travels afforded her in her childhood, Toph leaves the city and takes up the life of a hermit in a swamp. She managed to fix her relationship with Suyin to some extent, but still seems reluctant or simply unable to connect with her daughter or grandchildren. Since she apparently hasn't seen Opal, a grown 20 year old woman since she was a little girl.

On the surface old Toph doesn't seem terribly dissimilar to young Toph, still tough and spunky. But she is more jaded, depressed and pessimistic. She comes out to save Suyin from immediate harm and manages to somewhat reconcile with Lin, but then she fucks right back off to the swamp where she seems to literally hide until Wu and Korra straight up force her to come with them.

Toph's story began with her alone and it seems to end with her alone as well. It's a story of a girl who grew up isolated and handled by others, and was woefully unprepared for the real world, which only jaded her further. She lives with the guilt of fucking up her daughters' lives and a belief in the pointlessness of life.

Toph started off longing to experience the world and ended up willingly isolating herself from it.

If that isn't a tragedy, I'm not sure what is.

Mind you, this is not the trauma olympics. I'm not saying that Toph has suffered more than Katara or that Katara's trauma is not as valid as Toph's. Katara and Toph's experiences are completely different, Katara being a victim of genocide and war, Toph being a victim of child abuse. I'm just saying that, objectively, Katara had a happier 'ending' than Toph.

[noctude]

this idea has been in my brain for over 2 months and I finally had time to make it. is this too earnestly cringe to upload? i am beyond the capacity to care. enjoy

now on youtube!

[link to drive folder w/ downloads including instrumental]

Everything was chill back in Hermitcraft 6 (lying)

Then Grian got up to his usual tricks 

The name of the game is kill or be killed

No swords no bows no PVP skills

First Rendog found his inner fish

But he couldn’t stick the landing and his bones went squish

Stress flew through the dares with talent and grace

But she didn’t catch the totem and she fell on her face

Then Ren came back with a sinister vice

Tricked X with a race and blew him up twice

Looks like steel beams can’t be melted by slime

‘Cause Jevin didn’t see Mumbo’s tower in time

Stress set a trap at the shopping district

And dropped Scar right into a pufferfish pit

Cub’s stunt got stuck and X felt robbed

So he got a skeleton to finish the job

This is the Hermitcraft showdown of Hermitcraft destiny

Players, mobs, and explosions as far as the eye can see

And only one will survive, I wonder who it will be

This is the Hermitcraft showdown of Hermitcraft destiny

Tango and Impulse were shopping at the mall

But the store detonated and it killed them all

Grian had a no-good-very-bad-day 

And when he made it back home he got blown away

Then False broke a block and before she could speak

A giant underground explosion sent her into next week 

Cleo signed up for a warehouse tour

But she didn’t read the waiver and she fell through the floor

And TinFoilChef went laughing to the grave

Then without another word went back into his caves

Tango’s game was a race against the clock

And Keralis threw an egg at the most explosive block  

Now revenge is a dish that’s best served cold 

But Bdubs got it boiling as Cleo foretold

And when Joe got the rug pulled from under his feet

He tried to play it cool but he couldn’t take the heat 

This is the Hermitcraft showdown of Hermitcraft destiny

It’s 90% explosions as far as the eye can see

And only one will survive, I wonder who it will be

This is the Hermitcraft showdown….

In another dimension

With danger abound

Mumbo threw his ender-pearl

But missed solid ground

And Doc had played smart

But Grian played mean

He was dead on arrival,

The trap unforeseen

Then one player remained,

One Dragon Head left-

For the ride of his life, 

Iskall auctioned his death

He beat Joe Hills And ZombieCle-o

And every other member of the Dragon Bros:

FalseSymmetry and BDoubleO

And Grian and Mumbo Jumbolio 

Also Rendog, Jevin, TangoTek and Cubfan, 

Stress, Scar, and X just couldn’t beat the Iskallman

TinFoilChef or ImpulseSV

Doc can rock with blocks but can’t flee

So Grian and Impulse forged a team

And together they built a death machine

With a narrative arc from beginning to end

And a wild surprise around every bend

When the show and the ride were finally done

Our champion knew that his course had run

All that remains from the end of this fight 

Is a piece of bloodstained diorite 

This is the hermitcraft showdown of hermitcraft destiny

Just way too many explosions - where do they get all that TNT???

And only one will survive, I wonder who it will be

This is the Hermitcraft showdown

(this is the Hermitcraft showdown)

This is the Hermitcraft showdown  

(this is the Hermitcraft showdown)

This is the Hermitcraft showdown 

(this is the Hermitcraft showdown)

Of Hermitcraft destiny

[ladybyakuya]

| HIGH IN LOW PLACES + shishiba, gaku , uzuki, shin.

+cw. — f!reader, explicit smut content, { s&d dynamics + s&m themes ,fellatio, forced orgasm + f!ngering ( shishiba ) , dry humping + thigh riding ( gaku ), hj + marking, ( uzuki ), kissing, m!oral + f!oral( shin ) }, headcanon + scenarios format canon typical themes and elements.

+wc. — 4k

+syn.— how do they generally spend their off day? Is it any different when you're with them?

+notes. — PART ONE. | redirect to blog navigation.

✦ shishiba.

The last time you saw Shishiba was months ago. When you are free from work, he is busy. When you are at work, he is busy. He is rarely free not that you misunderstand but it sure takes a toll on you, especially when you check in with Osaragi where he is she simply says she does not know which sounds more like “you don’t need to know.” Odd, right?

However, today he is here visiting you at your house. He is sitting on the small sofa as you do the chores. The curtains are reaching out for the room. Shishiba’s eyes are glued on you as you move from one place to another doing chores. He has not spoken a word since he arrived and the silence is creeping you out. The summer heat is unbearable and on top of that, you are sweating buckets because of his scrutinizing gaze. Why isn't he saying anything? Have you done something wrong?

Has Shishiba done something to offend you? He is here as he promised. For someone who lives a normal life and who is going to live a normal life as far as he is aware he is scared of you. He is scared because you make him restless. He can not ever fathom what goes on in your head. He can not read you like he can with others. So, you make him restless yet he waits for you: to blink back when he blinks; to nod back when he nods but today is rather peculiar from your perspective. He thinks you are angry. He feels you are upset. Is he compromised? Have you become a thing to be used against him when all he can give you is background presence in your life?

“Didn’t you miss me?” He finally asks. You halt in your steps, unable to look at him. The clothes in your hands are wrinkled under the tension of your palms.

“I did.” You start to put the clothes in the washing machine as you hear his voice again. It is in a lower tone than before.

“why not do anything about it?” You pause whatever you are doing and grace him with a glance. He is staring at you so intensely that it almost feels like he is starting into your naked body. Keeping up the eye contact he stretches his legs apart, letting his hands run on his trousers watching your eyes follow the movements as Shishiba taps on his thighs. Now, that's something new for the dull monotonous tune in your life. You could match this new rhythm that he is trying to invoke within you. You quietly follow him keeping up the fierce eye contact.

As you sit on his lap, curling one of your arms around his back Shishiba's hand swings towards your face. He squeezes your cheeks giving more pressure than is required forcing your mouth open. It hurts. It feels good too. He pushes his index finger into your mouth, watches you suck his finger, and then waits before he pushes another one. His other arm is by your belly which is holding you on one of his thighs is pressing onto your flesh. You feel him. You feel his touch: by the time he leaves in the morning while you will be waking up empty, he will not be a fever dream. He will leave marks on your body, little shreds of evidence all over your house. He is here with you, for you. How can you forget that?

“Let's see how much you missed me,” His voice rasps against your skin as he pushes his fingers inside your pussy slipping through your short pants. Why are you even wearing pants when he is visiting you? Your hand that is resting on his shoulders grips his dress suit tightly, a shocked gasp escaping from your chest. Maybe he got a little carried away but as your facial muscles start to relax his fingers start to move: in and out. The single sofa has limited the way you spread your legs so you move closer to his body gripping the collar of his white shirt with your other hand that was resting on the handrest of the sofa a while ago. “Looks like you missed me as much as me.” Shishiba huffs out. Oh god. he sure is chatty when not needed.

Actually, Shishiba only talks to throw off someone from their game but he can not do that to you. Even if he does, it backfires on him somehow. He does not want to be compromised any more than he already is. He is an assassin after all. He can not get under your skin. The territory of intimacy is limited just to skin and sex, not love and lust. His thick dextrous fingers have started to get impatient making your grip on his clothes tighter. Your chest has started to bottle the moans and mewls as your breathing gets uneven and erratic. You would love to kiss him now. You know you want it. He knows you want it to. why? because there is just a thread of gap between his mouth and yours. You are practically breathing into his mouth.

Shisiba feels your pussy walls clenching around his fingers as you arch your head back letting out a loud moan. It is a shame that Shishiba was not able to see how you looked as you moaned his name. He has rarely seen that face. Your 'cum-face'. You always seem to hide it behind the clouds of orgasmic high. Either you bury your face in the nook of his neck, or he has to fuck you in doggy style or prone bone. You never let him truly see you and forcing you has always backfired on him.

You the tip up your head wrapping his tie around your palm to pull him closer to your face and put your lips onto his, the tension at the bottom of your stomach getting stronger, and stronger and stronger. The moment you were about to peak he pushed you away breaking the kiss

There is nothing but a daze in your eyes, wetness over his trouser pants, and a superior sensation painted over his face. He saw you.

✦ gaku.

You are being unusually needy today. He has visited your place a couple of times yet the way you act makes Gaku wonder if someone is hiding in your house or not. Indeed, he informed you about his arrival and it took at least fifteen minutes for him to get to your house which is enough for you to let someone hide or someone could easily threaten you to that point. A welcome hug as well as a kiss, that is indeed the first time you have greeted him so well.

“Why is that door locked?”  Gaku points at the brown door of your bedroom.

“It's 'cause the A.C. is on you moron,” you say bonking his head lightly with the food packet you had in your grip. He watches you. You tilt your head and touch his forehead softly saying his name, “Gaku . . .” No! He does not have a fever but he is acting so indifferent today. 

But so are you. You are  . . . worried which is new for him. It has always been his job to worry, to worry about your safety. He knows your melting point much better than you do. He knows where to touch and when to taste you. 

“Gaku, what are you doing?" Your words escaped from your lips as he grazed his nose against your neck while his hands rested along your thighs with an inch of space. 

“What do you think?” his lips barely touch your skin as he retreats slowly from your body, leaving you surprised at his way with you today. But his hands are intact, fingers clamped at the edge of the kitchen counter as his eyes dart all over your confused face. “I saw you, on the other day,” he inches forward his nose nudging yours making you pull away, “So, I couldn't help it. I came to see you.” You try to contain your astonishment but judging from his slight curve at the corner of his lips, you let out a low gasp at his spite. You were so familiar with his ways. His Adam's apple moved as he noticed your parted lips and in an instant, his sturdy hands pulled you closer to his chest making you sharply gasp, your arms resting on his shoulders. 

The eye contact lasted mere a few seconds before he started to place violent wet kisses along your nape. You try to give him the space, the food he so hungrily searches but it is not enough. “Gaku” you gasp feeling his fingers against your pussy lips. You hear him smile agsint your lips. He is pleased because you are not wearing any pants. Aren’t you a sweet little thing? Always so prepared and ready for him. Indeed, he does not have to coax you for sex and intimacy but he feels a little bit of pity for you; the way you seek him even when he is here with you. 

It seems that he has missed you so much that he is impatient and desperate. That’s why the indifference. That’s why the question . . . he keeps rubbing your clit, occasionally pinching it making you squeal against his neck while working his lips around your neck, collar bones. His other hand travels under your top grabbing one of your boobs at first and then pinching your nipple. You return the favor by biting on his skin. The push and pull of pressing each other’s pressure points, finding each other’s melting point goes on until Gaku starts to feel a strain in his pants. He breaks the kiss leaving you gasping. He looks around and finds a stool set against the cabinet. He carries you in his arms but of course still focused on your lips, working his tongue into your mouth. He makes you sit on his thigh. Thank God, he came here wearing boxers and a t-shirt. 

You have already started to move back and fro. At this point, he is not even guiding you. You are moving your hips on your own. His hand is around your waist, it is just there so that you do not lose your balance.

“There.There.” He coos. “You’re almost there.” It is so frustrating sometimes how well he knows you, how used to he is with your body. You do not bother if Kumanomi is the reason behind this confidence. You just wanna feel good, chase this euphoric high till you grasp it. His hands roam under your clothing squeezing here and there, pinching your nipples as you quicken the pace to the peak. It is kind of exhilarating to watch someone, someone he likes, desperately chase orgasm and cum so hard. 

Gaku gives you the time to calm down, reach the ground state, and get back your natural pattern of breathing. The way your sweaty chest heaves turns him on all the more. The top you are wearing has started to stick to your skin here and there.

“My turn.” Gaku pulls your other leg into his lap, making you sit properly on his lap this time. He eyes you to undo his pants. Getting the cue, as soon as you work your hands to unzip his pants he groans loudly. The strain in his pants hurts a little less. He is sure you will help him to relieve the pain.

✦ kei uzuki.

Uzuki did not mean this to happen when he decided to grace you with a visit. It was supposed to be his off day. He was just wandering in your neighborhood and now he is in your drawing room fighting for his dear life as you jerk him off. Had you not chosen to turn on the dim light of your drawing room he would have drowned in shame, because he doubts he would be able to look at you or maintain proper eye contact during normal conversation after you have seen him like this: vulnerable and desperate like a hungry lion pup.

His navel rises and falls at an irregular pace yet so quickly that Kei fails to sneak a glance at you in between his ragged intake of breaths. At this point, how he is panting for air does not make it at par with his body’s necessities. At this point, even if he were to open his eyes he would see you all blurred. But Kei still desires to take a glimpse of you as your calloused fingers are wrapped and busy working on his throbbing cock.  

With each passing moment, he tends to feel his hands lesser and lesser . . . which are resting at the edge of the cabinet; they are starting to feel numb; his fingertips hurt from gripping the wooden surface so hard; maybe by the time he cums, his nail marks will be the only evidence that he was here. 

He partly opens his eyes only to focus on your luscious lips which seem confident, it would be delightful to taste a little, wouldn’t it? Though his vision is all hazy Kei glances at his member finding the tip glistening in pre-cum, at least he thinks so, he feels so.  

“You’re close, Kei. . can you feel it?” and he is forced to shut his eyes out, cease his breathing at the tickle of your voice through his ears embarrassment gushing in his veins. He could practically feel his ears burn, so hot that it hurt, it itches. His right hand flies around your nape earning him a bonus point, and a soft squeal from you. He is brave enough to think you moaned under his touch but not brave enough to open his eyes and cherish the look on your face rather he is thinking. . . thinking how he loves the feeling of his long sturdy fingers perfectly fitting in between your painted ones while he is balls deep inside you hitting your sweet spot with slow strong thrusts, just like you want; the kind that makes you see stars. He needs to interlace his fingers with yours every time he is inside you. He thinks it makes him cum more by doing so, well, quantitatively.  

But when you wrap those pretty fingers around his cock he could almost feel a quick trip of heaven and back. Visions clouding, his grip around your nape growing stronger with each thrust of your hand, his lips being punished by his fierce teeth, those very teeth that have marked you in the most intimate parts— in between your thighs, inner side of the wrist, on your nipples and sometimes on your waistline.  Kei tries to pull you a little closer so that he can bury his face in the nook of your neck thinking of leaving bruises on your neckline than on his lips. You just stop the pace so suddenly that he gasps loudly, pulling you closer as a course of reaction. 

You chuckle as he watches you closely, through the strands of his hair. His lips latch onto your neckline sucking fiercely as if he were to suck the life out of you, followed by squelching noises and his rough, unrefined moans.  ‘Fuck, he is—he is gonna leave marks...’, you tense up and start to pump his cock again. 

This time with slow and full yet strong thrusts. You feel his teeth graze lightly, almost a feather touch.  “Kei, don’t leave marks.”, you remind him; your voice soft enough that he pulls away making you regret your words instantly.   

“do-don't worry. I won't.”, his hot breath hitting your ear-lobe, sending shivers down your spine.  Kei won't since he wants to feel his euphoric high a little longer; He feels his orgasm approaching, his inner thighs quivering, and he bucks his hips up. He could feel the rope of self-control tugging, going tight, and waiting for it to snap rather than sever it by himself. The urge to kiss your lips seemed to overpower the prior, so much so that it might just snap yet he did not want to leave the sight of your pretty hand, refined and polished fingers nails thinking maybe, someday, just maybe he would see a diamond sparkling on your ring finger bearing his name as you give him a slice of heaven, just like how you're doing it now.

✦ shin asakura.

There is never an off day for someone who works at a convenience store but it sure a little less busy during afternoons like these. Sakamoto is probably playing with Hana as Aoi tells him about the customers she attained during her shift. Lu is taking a nap. Thanks to the rotation of shifts Shin gets to laze around a little during his afternoon shifts. He never forgets to let you know beforehand This is how it has always been. The peace of this humid afternoon during summer is surely draining, not to mention mind-wrecking at times when you fail to show up on certain days. Shin understands that; he understands how busy life can be but still can not help but miss you. The rotating table fan is creaking, the fan blades are making noise as it exhausts itself to its sole purpose yet can not be at par with the heat in the air. It is not just summer that is making Shin sweat buckets. You are a contributing stimulant too. Besides, he can endure the sweat as well as heat if you keep working on his cock like that, lips wrapping around his member as you sit under the desk of the cash counter while he sits on the chair, legs spread wide apart from each other. 

You pleasuring him like this on afternoons has become a bad habit of his even though it is occasional. He wants to return the favor sometimes too but you do not let him do that. Why? because he often imagines eating you out by making you sit on the cash counter. He thinks about it way too much to let it slide as a wet dream or even as a ridiculous whim of a loverboy. But now his mind is filled with the sole thought of you sucking his cock. You are just so good at this. He is a little bit jealous of how pleasurable you make him feel, which makes him wonder about how you are so good at this.   

“Hurry up,” Shin pants as you lick and kiss his tip occasionally sucking the flushed leaky tip. 

“Someone might come.” 

No one will come, at least not any customer.  No one ever visits during this time not as long as you are blowing him, not until you walk out of the shop because when you enter the shop you flip the sign board. No! Shin does not need to know this. If he does, he will definitely stop texting you, will not ask you anymore to meet him, and will say things like, “No. no. I'm busy babe.” or “Today? today the store is packed.”   So, you do as he asks. 

Watching you swallow up to the base of his cock into your mouth he is forced to close his eyes. He will have wet dreams if he keeps watching you like that. Your head moves up and down, to the base from the tip in a slow motion. His tummy starts to twitch, breathing becomes uneven you quicken your pace. You start to suck hard and faster making him tip his head backward, hands clamping on the edge of his seat clenching harder as he comes undone followed by a gasp. 

His cum is still in your mouth when he looks at you still catching his breath. You wipe your lips off after swallowing his seed to say, “You're always in a hurry.”  

OH NO! Here it comes.  “maybe I should just move in with you,” you lie. You know that he can read your mind, but you still lie because you've always wanted to know if he uses that against you or not. 

“Why?” He puts his cock into his slacks.  “why are you saying that?”  

“I don't know. ” Shin holds your arm dragging you near the counter. It's as if you want him to read your mind.

 “I wanted you to hurry ‘cause — he cages you as you lean back, against the counter after he drags the chair to take a seat. “because I wanted to do this.” He cups your entrance making you inhale a sharp intake of breath. You sit on the counter as he spreads your legs apart; he holds one of your legs near his shoulders to lick against your calf muscle. “you wouldn't hurry if I just told you so,”  Shin leaves kisses over your calf muscle in an agonizingly slow pace. “Sakamoto-san has gone to an arcade. Lu had gone to visit her family.” Wait. What?  “And I? Shin pushes aside licking your dripping arousal off your skin. It tastes like salt and weed. “I am alone with you inside a locked store” with a smirk.” Shin then proceeds to hook his arms around your inner thighs spreading them apart to bury his face in between your legs. At first, you watch him give you quick licks by using only the tip of his tongue but as you get a little comfortable, rest your legs on his shoulders, comb through the hair strands that were falling on his face ticking you as well as hindering him to taste your pussy, Shin starts to lap against your entrance using all of his tongue.  Come to think of it, this is the first time he is going down on you. He feels so good though seems skittish. When did he get so good?

networks : @interstellar-inn + @underratedcharactercorner

[chocodile]

Worldbuilding time! Let's talk about vehicular travel in modern day Amaranthine, using the snowmobiles from this recent comic as a jumping off point.

"Prowler" - Ironfrost patrol snowmobile - (year of manufacture: 1912)

These half-track all terrain vehicles are used by Ironfrost soldiers to travel long distances over the tundra. Originally adapted from older, four-wheeled automobiles, the half-track Prowler design became increasingly standardized over the years as eternal winter continued to creep southward. They are capable of operating in a wide variety of terrain conditions and are fairly modular. Common mods include removable skis, hardtop and softtop roofs, gun mounts, and towing attachments.

Like all vehicles, Prowlers are steam-powered. The external combustion engine runs on kerosene. In snowy conditions, feedwater can be obtained automatically through a scraper port on the underside of the vehicle, though manual feeding is required in muddy or dry conditions.

Though not as fast, reliable, or efficient as trains, their agile nature have made them an essential part of life in the far north… and, increasingly, in the middle country as well. The Rising Dawn have stolen several Prowlers for their own usage.

"Aspire" - Classic automobile (year of manufacture: 1890)

Four-wheeled vehicles are an unusual sight in the modern day. Ironfrost-made cars were in vogue among the southern rim upper class for many years, but the worsening climate has made them more and more niche as road conditions outside of major cities deteriorate. The majority of higher horsepower automobiles were converted directly into half tracks, while older, lower-end vehicles were generally scrapped for parts.

The Aspire was the last four-wheeled vehicle widely available to the public. Advertised as a stylish, powerful, modern vehicle for the elite on the go, it boasted a sleek, classy aesthetic, a removable softtop roof, and a powerful steam engine with a large kerosene tank suitable for travel between cities. Preorders were advertised to southern rim wealthy in local papers. However, a series of unusually bad winters soon after its debut scared off buyers, shutting down production early and ultimately spelling doom for the entire four-wheeled automobile industry.

One of those Aspire preorders went to Baroness Jocosa North. Though she has since passed away, her son, Theopolis North, still maintains the now wildly impractical car in near mint condition. It is almost never seen outside of its garage.

"'Icebreaker' Class E 250" - Northern cross-country train (year of manufacture: 1903)

The majority of modern-day overland travel is accomplished via train. Massive long-distance rail lines, laid before the world became quite so cold, connect the remaining cities, allowing (relatively) safe travel and trade across vast expanses of tundra.

Southerly locomotives typically operate with only a basic wedge plow attachment. However, trains that run further north must be fitted with gigantic rotary snowplows. These complex machines require significant maintenance. Though they can and will chew up most things that get in the train's way, encounters with particularly large and bony beasts have been known to jam them.

Ironfrost's line terminates in a massive, sprawling rail yard where Icebreakers are fitted and maintained. Those who have visited it tell of a dark, dreary wasteland of twisted scrap metal and ice where coal dust and smoke have turned both the sky and ground black. All northern trains must pass through that place eventually.

"Chariot of the Dawn" - One-of-a-kind luxury automobile (year of manufacture: 1920)

The only place where four-wheeled automobiles still thrive is the City of the Sun. The eternal summers and paved roads are well-suited to cars and trolleys, though they are, of course, still something of a luxury good. Licenses for ownership and operation are ultimately controlled by the church, with His Radiance having the final say. (His most devout followers, of course, tend to get preferential treatment here.)

The City of the Sun manufactures its own vehicles, adapted from Ironfrost designs in a sort of divergent evolution. Freed from the road and weather concerns of the outside world, their automobiles favor sleek, swoopy body shapes, ornamental trim, low-slung bodies with limited ground clearance, and pastel paintjobs. Additionally, the engines are far less powerful and far more finicky, requiring regular maintenance.

His Radiance himself owns several custom automobiles, all of which are egregiously bedazzled to a degree that would look grotesque to anyone who wasn't used to it. Some are open-top, allowing his loyal followers an audience with his beautiful face and glittering halo, while others feature tinted windows. You know, in case he wants subtlety.

[riverbends]

BLUEBIRD

(andrew “pope” cody x f!reader)

part two: flight | mdni | part 1 | MASTERLIST

—For someone who appears so tremendously stoic, you are mystified by the pained shudder in his breath.

tags: angst, stalking, pain kink, mentions of pope's suicidal tendencies, unwanted proximity bordering on assault (not with pope), heavy yearning, canon-typical mommy issues wc: 5.1k cat says: yeah i'm posting this a few hours earlier YES idk why i bother tagging 'angst', i feel like it's an inherent part of anything involving pope cody

This, he tries to tell himself, is better.

Because at least he is contained and resolute outside your house. At least he is here and not in that blinding suburban hell. At least he isn’t parked up on someone else’s street, waiting—desperately hoping—for her to come running back.

No, instead, he placates the memory of that child by watching you from his pickup truck, here and there, throughout the day. Not every day, just some odd ones. Sits opposite your humble one-storey abode and memorises the yard and the low, red brick border and the porch and the font of the street number on your mailbox and the way you sit on your front steps in the morning as you nurse a mug in both hands. Sometimes joined by your daughter, who entertains you like she was born to make you break out into laughter. Sam, he remembers. Of course he does. He remembers exactly what you were wearing the first and second time he saw you. Remembers the charms clinking against your car keys and the press of your hand on his wrist as you tried to shoo his money away last week.

He doesn’t know how you like to make your coffee on the mornings you sit outside. Doesn’t know if you’re even drinking coffee. Not at all privy to the finer details.

But he studies you like he’s planning a job.

There is a day where he finds you at a park around the corner from your house. It seems to be a routine between you and Sam—not every day, just some odd ones. He’s not sure how he manages to keep himself composed at the familiarity of it. A swing set and a girl and something…akin to penance? To a fleeting pardon? He is aware of how foolish it was to think that the love of a child could grant him absolution; could clean him.

This is the picture of innocence, though. With a wide smile splitting your mouth, you pull Sam’s seat as far back as you can while she squeals in the delight of anticipation. You count down, gathering momentum. Harnessing wind. A big push, and your baby takes flight. He is convinced, for a fraction of a second, that Lena is the one suspended in air, her hair blowing out around her like wings. But you’re cheering Sam on as she settles back down with slow, declining kicks.

Pope is gone before he can let himself unspool like an old cassette tape. Like something nobody wants anymore—something everybody has moved past.

You should really pay attention to your surroundings. He thinks you’re too easy to find, too easy to see without being seen himself (or he’s just disturbingly perceptive and he doesn’t like to think about the fact). But he has to remember your life and his are not one and the same. You have absolutely no reason to be as paranoid, as perceptive, as he is. You are not conditioned, he presumes, to go in with all teeth the moment you’ve been found out.

He knows that you pick up double shifts at the diner so your daughter doesn’t go hungry. He knows you sit in your car, before and after work, with your hands gripping the steering wheel as you press your forehead to the curve of the gap between them. What else is he to do with all of this time on his hands? If he’s not on a job, if he’s not in the fighting cage, if he’s not sitting in Lena’s old room, what more is there?

That’s what it is—a life without. He was built to saunter through battlefields in blood-stained stupor, not to live. His brothers might do this for the bountiful rewards that a good, well-structured job would bring. But this is way he was engineered. A steel-bodied machine; a soldier. The wolf in the black of night.

For as long as he can remember, ‘living’ is a hollow promise. ‘Living’ is the last thing Smurf raised him to do. He’s been on decades-long orders to traipse the darkness, eyes peeled and unblinking, watching for the threat of movement since childhood. He doesn’t know that, sometimes, he is the mirror of his long-dead father. Bogged down in the same paranoid craze that Colin wrestled with before Pope and Julia were nestled in Smurf’s womb—the sodden mire that seems to keep expanding. How strange it is to perfectly reflect a man and his hysteria without ever having known him. To inherit his father’s ghosts like warm heirlooms and spend his life wondering why he is the way he is.

No old photographs, no worn-out clothes, no well-loved car to be passed down to him. Just the name of a hockey player his father liked—Feels like a boy to me. Hey, Andrew, come on out and prove me right, you hear me?—and, of course, the loose screw. The thing in the cavity of his brain that ticks away like a faulty fire alarm. So, no, he can’t say that he ‘lives’ as much as he is haunted.

—yeah, after Andy Bathgate. Greatest hockey player of all time. You don’t like it? “Andy” for short.

Andrew David Cody, growing in a belly beside his sister as their father speaks only with him (Smurf has always held the belief that Andy would’ve softened him. In a good way. Had Colin lived long enough to give their son the nickname he wanted).

The haunting is why Pope doesn’t fight his habits. On the contrary, he clings to them like he’s hanging from the chin of a cliff, clawing for permanence so hard that his nails are scraped raw and bloody down to bone. He is intimate with this—latching onto pain. It saves him every time, and it pools on his tongue like blood medicine.

Won’t change a thing about Lena’s room in the Cody house. Won’t stop chipping into the fund he’s built for her. Won’t stop buying the food she used to eat and letting it go stale and mould-green because he obviously isn’t purchasing that shit to eat it. He is nourished by memory. Remembrance feeds him full.  

It draws him back to the stupid grocer’s a week after seeing you. Though, he is here on a different day and a different time, hoping you’re not around. He can’t stomach that. Can’t force himself to remain poised and pretend the thought of you alone doesn’t make his head spin. It always did back then. With somebody else. That beach house and that little girl and that woman who stopped seeing him the way she used to as soon as he was thrown in a cell. Couldn’t even look at him when he got out. What is he left with now? His ghosts? His father’s ghosts?

Everything festers—

Six different brands of amber-brown maple syrup stare back at him from their shelves, and it’s torture. She should be here. She would tell him which one to get. Try her best to strain her little legs and reach up high for a bottle until he has to pluck it down for her. She would probably pout about it—I almost got it. He would nod—I know. Pope wonders if her brand new parents and her brand new sister take her out to get brand new maple syrup for their brand new pancakes and he feels his fists stiffen into stone weights at his side.

And then something tumbles into the side of his leg and lands on the floor with a thump and a small yelp that soon turns into sore snivelling. He frowns at the syrup before looking down to his left where he finds Sam all curled up, snotty-nosed and weeping as she firmly presses her hands over her right knee. When she meets his gaze, she’s suddenly sobbing in a way that chokes her words. He wonders if the fresh evidence of his recent cage fight has frightened her. The little white butterfly stitch. The colours blemishing his skin are rich and ugly after all—plum purple and screaming red. Her eyes dart all over his bruised face as if her collision alone was turbulent enough to hurt him in such a way.

“I’m sorry, mister, I’m really sorry,” she hiccups. “I’m sorry, I promise I’m sorry.” Apologies keep stringing from between her chattering teeth while he watches her fuss over her knee.

Pope lifts his chin and surveys the surrounding aisle in search of you before looking down again. He can’t really leave her—not that he would do such a thing anyway. He knows how helpless children can be. For him, driving a pocketknife into someone’s jugular vein is an easier feat than abandoning a lost child.

“Where’s your mom?” he asks. Sam blinks away her tears and drags her free hand under her leaky nose.

“I dunno,” she mumbles, bottom lip wobbling. “She told me to get a jar of honey and- and wait for her.”

He looks around once more, waiting for you to show up. Part hope, part dread. It doesn’t really occur to him that he might look uncaring or indifferent to the observing eye. He’s too caught up in the familiarity of this. Transported back to a time where he would’ve caught Lena to steady her with one hand before she could even hit the floor. Gravity was secondary to his caution for that girl. Light and physics be damned. Had Lena fallen like this, he wouldn’t think twice before scooping her up in his arms.

“We’re gonna look for her,” is all he says before leaning down, leather jacket creasing around his shoulders as he hauls Sam up by her underarms. The moment he hitches her on his hip, he has to anchor himself before his world tips over. It was instinct—the lift, the motion, the hold. Muscle memory. Just someone else’s daughter this time. Yours.

“Is your knee okay?” he asks, carrying her down the aisle like she’s weightless; eyes searching as he turns a corner. Sam nods before her arms loop around his neck and it feels like they’re locking. Feels like he’ll never be able to get out again.

Lena used to cling to him just as tight when he carried her, as if mere air would rip her away from him if she didn’t hold on with her life (but he never really let that happen, remember? Gravity? Light and physics? Laws that bent to his will. Logic that yielded to his love. Until he looked away for only a moment and everything slipped—). She’d get tired and rest her head on his shoulder, little nose tickling the crook of his neck. Craig once joked that Lena always latched onto Pope like a baby spider monkey.

“Yeah, she’s got the eyes too,” his brother laughed.

Pope shrugged, “Well, spider monkeys nurse on their mothers for at least three years.”

“Right, so they grow up like any normal kid,” Craig scoffed and flicked Deran a look, who only shook his head and minded his beer. The frown pulling Pope’s brows weighed deeper then.

“The mothers take their young everywhere,” he said, some faraway look blooming in his eyes. Remembered he had to pick her up from school soon. “Y’know, a lot of female monkeys tend to stick with their mothers long after they’ve grown up. It’s not uncommon in primate families.” Craig and Deran listened without absorbing anything, but he was elsewhere. Thinking about attachment, and the sheer force of it; the endurance. How, at the time, it felt like nothing in the world could tear through it—through him and his child. A fool’s dream. “Severance is harrowing,” he murmured, “for the both of them.”

Aisle after aisle, he walks across the far end of the store with his head stiffened to his right, pace picking up as he scans through the gaps until he freezes. A man towers over you in the middle of the drinks aisle, locking his hand around your wrist and gritting harsh whispers against your temple. You’re shaking your head, trying to claw at the man’s forearm with your free hand. A scene of proximity so clearly unwanted that you’re squirming against him the way a joint-locked animal twitches under pressure with little fight left in it. Pope feels his body load up like a gun. Safety off.

Electric heat charges through his legs, ready to storm forward with purpose, but then the heel of your palm cracks against the man’s cheek and the sound of it is sharp. Cuts through the low buzz of the radio hits from the store’s speakers.

Sam stirs in the warm crib of leather-clad arms, “Mommy?”

You fight whiplash at the speed of your own split of attention, head snapping to your left where you find your daughter wrapped around the torso of your friend who is not your friend because you’ve only met him twice before. Your friend who wears vivid contusions like he was kissed all over the face. The touch of bursting knuckles instead of your a soft mouth.

Andrew.

The sight of him holding your daughter at the end of the aisle has you ripping yourself away from your foe with a strength you thought you had misplaced until hearing her voice. Pope watches you rush toward him, hands reaching for Sam’s face like lungs stretching for air. But his eyes creep back to the man you’ve left behind, who contests Pope’s undaunted glare. He’s taller than Pope, but lean. Hair sweeps over his forehead, spine hunches slightly with a carelessness. Could snap the bastard in seconds.

“Hey, baby, hey,” you smile weakly, stroking a thumb over Sam’s chin before combing your fingers through her hair. Pope is roped back in. Can’t focus on anything but your gentle fretting and fussing. “Didn’t I tell you to get me some honey?” You ask and Sam nods, eyes downcast like she’s about to apologise. Again.

“I ran too fast,” she whispers.

It’s clear to you now—how he’s holding her. As if he has held her like this since before she could walk. You feel his eyes on you as yours drop to find a pale blotch of red flushing through the skin of her knee, bent leg tucked beneath the crook of his elbow.

The man behind you gnashes your name in his teeth. Pope is near ready to pounce again.

“You move on fast, don’t you?” He laughs bitterly, burrowing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Sam peels her arms away from Pope’s shoulders and he takes it as a sign to let the girl regain her footing. She’s encircling your thighs with the tight lock of her hands as soon as he eases her down. Your fingers trace over her shoulders as she hides her face.

Pope steps closer and lowers his head to look into your eyes like he thinks it’ll give you no other choice but to meet his gaze. Like he’s quite confident you’ll let him in that way. His voice is only for your ears when you do. “You want me to handle him?”

Maybe this is the first time you really start to consider using the word ‘strange’ to describe him. His generosity seems to know no bounds and it just confounds you. The chocolate pretzels, the cash, bringing Sam back to you. Strange. A complete stranger. You’ve never met someone with such a reclusive disposition who’d still give the shirt off their back to…you. Of course, it makes you feel sceptical. Of course, you’re going wonder if he’s trying to get something in return.

But those bruises suggest he has many means of getting what he wants. His face, his knuckles. Not just today, not just last week, but even the first time you met him, though the marks were the least visible at the time. It’s gotten consecutively worse over the three instances where you’ve run into each other. You can put two and two together. Must be a pastime of some sort, and a strange one at that. Strange. If he has some other agenda, you’d wager he’d have already taken it by force. He must pity you, then? Thinks you can’t take care of yourself so he has to do it for you?

(Unbeknownst to you, he is so inexplicably drawn in. It’s been too long since he’s allowed himself to dive head-first into this kind of naivety. You seem to nurse the promise of oasis and, of this, Pope is almost certain).

“I’m okay, trust me,” you nod once but his frown only deepens with doubt. He has never been this close before. Not uncomfortably close, but close enough that you think you can see the broken capillaries of the skin of his purple under-eyes. The thin adhesive strip closing the wine-red wound of his cheekbone. A part of you wants to press on a small welt. See if it hurts. See if he’s just stone.

He keeps searching your eyes, unrelenting. It takes the soft pressure of your palm on his sternum and a whispered please to disarm him. You see it, too.

The shift in his face reminds you of the fierce thoroughbreds you grew up watching. Creatures of majesty, condemned to the never-ending racetracks where their victories were gambled on. Raised to fill the pockets of insatiable betters and disposed in meat trucks when they no longer served their purpose. But you remember visiting these gentle giants in their stalls, sneaking a sugar cube or two in your little hands. The way their ears perked forward at something sweet. Nostrils flaring, head lowering. Trusting you enough to guide them to the reward in your hand.

He looks at you with the same keen interest and that rapt hunger you could only ever find in the eyes of an animal—this formidable racehorse leaning into your open palm. Mighty Orphnaeus surrenders.

Neither of you notice the man’s absence until Sam coughs into your leg. Pope still feels the phantom shape of your hand on his chest after you’ve stepped away to look over your shoulder. Paralysed, he watches the angular muscle flex in your neck as you turn. He’s itching to get out; escape. Thick, sinewy arm choking between iron bars as he searches for the lock to his own cell.

He can’t figure out if you make him feel twice as caged or closer to freedom than he’s ever been. Either way, Libertad brands the skin you touched through his shirt. Any closer to the left, and he’s confident you could’ve torn his heart out with its caustic chambers and rotten valves, leaving shreds of flesh and clotted blood dribbling down your wrist. Any closer, and he’s terrified you could’ve discovered that he was never in possession of anything resembling a heart to begin with. Though this wretched organ batters his ribs with persistence, the absence of it would not surprise him in the slightest.

“Where was she?” you ask. Pope blinks back into his senses. Has to wet his tongue like a sponge just to speak.

“She ran into me in the,” he struggles to remember now, “breakfast aisle. I think she hurt her leg.”

You gently tip Sam’s head back and tuck your chin to your chest to make eye contact, “Now, what’ve I told you about running in places we shouldn’t be running?” You wear some faux pout of sympathy as her brain tries to download an explanation. “Did you apologise to Mr. Andrew?”

Sam nods her head vigorously before craning her neck around to ramble another string of I’m sorry’s.

“I’ll be alright,” he says, voice tight.

Momentarily, you’re crouching to take a look at the bruise on her knee—a fresh but fading blotch the size of a quarter. It could be a longing for childhood or a longing for the child he lost, but when she balances a hand on your shoulder as you pull up the bend of her knee to kiss it better, he aches something fierce. There were times, of course, before Smurf’s love turned acrid; perverse. Times when his only sibling was Julia, times when innocence was preserved. When a kiss on a bruise was the only aid he needed, no strings attached.

“Thank you, I’m sorry she’s—” you push yourself up from the floor, “—a bit unaware of her surroundings sometimes.”

“They tend to be,” he agrees.

“You got kids?”

It’s a harmless question in your head, but you can’t say the same for him. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think a bullet just narrowly missed his ear and fucked with all the gears in his brain. Cogs bursting apart.

“Uh, she fell off her ATV thingy. Got a few scrapes.”

“Where’s Baz?”

“I don’t know, man.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Put her on the phone.”

“Okay.” A beat, and distantly: “It’s- it’s Uncle Pope.”

“Hi.” Relief, then. Waves of it, rivalling the crashing shore in front of him. Roaring at him with foam and ferocity in the cool of this night. Like it was God who saw him draw the gun to his head and knew only her voice would lift his finger off the trigger.

“Hey,” he breathed. “Are you alright?”

“He tackled me.” She had been crying.

“What? Who- who tackled you?”

“A man. So I wouldn’t get hit by the car.”

The parties always bothered him, but he was never really driven to shut them down like he did now. Grabbing the shotgun from the fireplace and pulling the cords from the speakers. The sea was his oracle that night—the child, his saviour.

“No,” Pope answers flatly. You’re perceptive enough to recognise that the pause before might be an indication of something he’s chosen not to share. So, you nod.

“Well, can you let me repay you?” Your hands rest on your hips. “For last time, at least, because that was absurd,” you laugh.

“It wasn’t a loan.”

“What were you shopping for?” You ask, ignoring his rejection to your offer. He narrows his eyes like he’s caught on to a game you’re playing.

“Nothing. Just maple syrup,” he says. “I don’t need it.”

You roll your lips into a line, trying to force back a smile. For many reasons beyond you, the enigmas he has presented over time don’t necessarily scare you away like they probably should. Shadow, retrospectively speaking, has never been good for you. Furtive men who show you mere glimpses of the skeletons in their closet before tightening the padlock. They give you a thirst you can’t slake. You’re always left to jam your way in, and what you find has you staggering back. Isn’t that how one of your exes ended up cornering you in this aisle? Isn’t that why you sent Sam to find something you didn’t need? Isn’t that how your thoroughbred brought her back to you?

But he is so singular in his ways. Remarkably giving. Stuck between deciding if he should glue his eyes to yours or look at everything in existence but your face. You haven’t forgotten the way his shoulders had tensed at your closeness before resting upon touch—like he was bracing for impact. Like you have the power to tear his very soul asunder. For someone who appears so tremendously stoic, you are mystified by the pained shudder in his breath.

His body seems to translate what he refuses to confess. He betrays himself.

“Then why do you look for it?”

He thinks on it—“Habit.” No matter how little sense it makes to you, that is all he knows. Habit. Repetition. Return. Chases his own tail like a blind mutt most of the time.

In the suspension of sound, he says—doesn’t ask—he’ll walk you and Sam out to your car. He almost pays for your groceries, but he’s afraid it might frustrate you the second time around. You’re doing all the talking at the self-checkout while he quietly passes items for you to scan, ears keen for the stories you recount about Sam as a toddler. At one point, you draw the faintest ghost of a laugh from his chest and it fills you with this ludicrously enormous sense of accomplishment. You yearn to hear the sound of it once more—to actually see it grace his face, too.

He learns that Sam is actually ‘Samantha’, and that you named her after a friend with whom you no longer speak. Not for any tragic reason, just time, you tell him. A high school friendship that ran its course. He wonders, then, if you’ll somehow keep him in your life for longer than these passing grocery run-ins (longer than his frequent observations from his pickup outside of your house—outside of your knowledge).

Sam skips ahead of you as Pope, who had silently collected the bags of food against your objections, walks by your side like he’s holding feathers. The leather of his jacket catches on your arm sometimes.

“Can I ask about the bruises?” You ask out of nowhere, keeping an eye on Sam as you all walk the crossing. “Don’t tell me I should see the other guy.” A breath, just short of another laugh, leaves his throat.

“Maybe you should,” he says, adjusting his hold on the bags. He won’t say anything about the other bruises he’s hiding under his jacket, and how it hurts a little to carry the weight of the food. “Sort of a hobby. Hole-and-corner cage fights and the usual betting.”

—formidable racehorse.

“And how does one get into cage fighting?” You look at him, brows raised with astonishment.

He locks his gaze ahead, looking around for your sedan. “My…mother puts me in. For catharsis, I guess.”

“And is it?” you press. “Cathartic?”

The three of you settle by the trunk of your car. Sam crouches in front of a tyre to trace over the bolts while you wait for Pope to give you an answer. You wait until it’s clear to him that you’re expecting something. Truth.

“Sometimes, yeah,” he shrugs. “It doesn’t require much thought and I s’pose I’m good enough at it.”

“And the bruises?” You finally move to pop the trunk, prompting Sam to jerk a door open and hop into the backseat out of boredom.

Pope bends at the waist to lower the bags into the empty compartment before stepping back and shutting the rear for you. “I don’t really mind them.” He would’ve called them reminders. Or punishment. Or penance. Only if he was sure you wouldn’t ask why.

“Maybe you should,” you playfully echo his words from earlier and he rests his hands in the pockets of his jacket. The corner of his mouth creases at your quip, and it might rival the feeling you get when a glass of wine plunges you in a heady buzz. Blurring the world around you with a dull kind of bliss. He dizzies you with a fucking quarter of a smile and you open your mouth before you can give yourself a chance to think. “Can I do something?”

He is wordless again. Searching. Again. Narrows his eyes like he did in the store, like he’s trying to feel around in the dark despite seeing your pleading face shining before him in broad daylight. Then, a nod. Then, stillness. Your hearts leap into a synchronised crescendo of beating as you let yourself approach him, slow as the sun breaking out of its horizon. There is not a single moment where his eyes aren’t locked on yours, even when your hand finds the side of his neck and he feels your thumb barely graze a welt on the corner of his jaw.

Pain is nothing to him here. Pain is almost sublime when you softly press your lips to the tender skin near his butterfly stitch. Ghosting the scar that aches most. He shudders the same way he did when your palm was on his chest in the drinks aisle. A kaleidoscope of light deluges his vision and all he can do is close his eyes to absorb the heat from your mouth as it permeates the skin of his cheekbone. All he can do is clench his fists in his pockets and pray that you’ll move the pressure up to the stitch. Kiss him where it really hurts. Kiss him better.

He’s not sure he can remain standing any longer when your warm mouth and your soft palm leave him untouched again.

You don’t know what possessed you, but you can’t pretend it hadn’t been on your mind for a while. You can’t pretend the bruise isn’t calling you back to make contact again. To cradle his jaw, to caress his wounds in a way that impels his hands to tear out of his pockets and search for purchase of your hips in a desperate attempt to steady himself under your touch.

His eyes peel open to find you again, only a breath away.

Courage embraces you once more. “Give me your phone.”

He is so stunned, he can’t compute the image of you adding your number to his contacts but that’s exactly what you’re doing as he struggles to make fucking sense of what you just did.

“Invite me to a fight,” you say, short of breath as you return his phone. “Or whatever you want. Or don’t, it’s up to you.”

Pope barely nods, too distracted by his phone displaying the standard digits of your number and the print of your name above it. Mouth, too dry to give you words. He’s still lingering by the trunk when you climb into the driver’s seat.

Once you click in your seatbelt, you can really feel the sheer velocity of your heart, like it’s darting all over your body. Electrifying you.

Sam kicks your seat, eager to go home.

“Okay, baby, I know,” you calm her down as you adjust the rearview mirror to find…nothing. Just the utter absence of him. Maybe you really should’ve kissed him; pressed your mouth against his properly. Maybe he wouldn’t have liked that. Would he? He’s still a stranger in most ways—in every way that’s supposed to make you keep your distance.

You toss and turn in bed with grating regret over how forward you were in the parking lot. If anything, you must’ve looked vain. So arrogantly sure of yourself that you’re convinced you can peck someone on the cheek and order them to give you their phone so you can insert yourself into their life before they have the chance to object.

But once the tail of sleep curls itself around you, your phone lights up, vibrating on your bedside table as it bears a foreign number on its screen.

—this formidable racehorse leaning into your open palm. Mighty Orphnaeus surrenders.

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Hi, if you're still doing poppy playtime asks, mind If I ask, how would the toys react if the player saved up a lot of money and used it to buy a remote property far from any society. When asked why the player states they're going to die one day, one day they won't be around and they need somewhere to live when for when he's no longer around to take care of them. It's remote so Noone should ever run into them, it's got plenty of food either by the river, sea, forest or simply growing in the garden. It's got plenty of rooms for each of them, they just ask that the toys take care of themselves, so when they do die they'll die knowing they'll be okay

I couldn't fit everything you said into one post because it was getting long, sorry about that. Hope you like it anyway!

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Kind of a continuation to this post.

Player who lives in a remote location

★ You got the property years ago; it's off a dirt trail far into the woods. Hard to find if you weren't actively looking for it. Could go weeks without seeing another person. You liked it, it was nice and quiet. And, conveniently, the perfect home for all the toys you could rescue.

★ It was a big adjustment for everyone. Doey, Kissy and Dogday were still shaken up over everything that had happened. Most of the mini critters seemed in good spirits, which you were thankful for. Even though the first few days were stressful, each passing day felt a bit better than the last.

★ Cartoons are constantly playing in your living room. Usually, older Disney movies or indie shows you find on YouTube. Doey tries to play peacemaker whenever an argument about what to watch breaks out.

★ Some of the smaller toys are scared of being carried away by a bird of prey. You made one joke about it, and it was taken seriously. "Watch out, or a big bird might swoop down and carry you away!" It was meant to be funny, but Bobby didn't leave the house for a good week after that.

★ The lack of light pollution makes it the perfect place to stargaze! Some of the toys who were turned at a very young age don't remember seeing stars. It's sad, but at least you can help them make up for lost time.

★ A mini-Catnap is the first to ask you “What’ll happen when you die?” It’s a heavy topic and you try not to think about it. But he has a point. What will become of everyone when you're gone? How can you prepare them for that?

★ You begin by teaching the toys basic life skills. Showing the more responsible one's cooking, the rowdy one's how to set fishing traps. And take the time to show Poppy how she can use your old sewing machine to make herself new clothes.

★ The thought of losing their protector would be unsettling. However, over time, they find solace in your home's safety and the skills you've taught them. When you're gone, everything will be okay. They have each other.

(Got the idea for some of the toys never having seen stars from this comic. Please check it out! It's really good!)

[saekkas]

𝐖𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑

summary: your beloved son is a tiny, warmer version of your husband, itoshi rin, clingy and talkative without a care in the world. rin thinks you gave birth to a devil, one that won't let him spend time with you alone.

tags: 1.2k wc | f!reader | established relationship (they're married) | they have a kid in this | aged up characters | pro-athlete rin | kissing (nothing too suggestive), uncle sae makes an appearance

notes: happy birthday to rin itoshi q(≧▽≦q) also shout out to @okkalo because apparently great minds think alike

"black or red?" you mumble, eyes raking down your own reflection in the mirror. "what would he like better?"

at 5 pm on the third friday of every month, you always run into the same problem: date night. itoshi rin, your wonderful and adoring husband of five years, has kept the tradition of taking you out for a romantic dinner and drive throughout the city.

it started on your first anniversary when he surprised you by planning a date at a five-star restaurant that's always fully booked. back then, you were both still fresh out of college with no money to your names and you always wondered how he paid for the cheque.

fast forward years later, with your job as a top marine biologist and his as a renowned soccer player, your college romance seems so far away and yet, it's only bloomed into something far beautiful.

"dad says he likes both!"

you turn around at the words, a grin spreading across your face as you watch your bundle of joy run into the room. his legs are wobbly, and his hair is a dark mess on top of his head but the sight of him barreling straight towards you never fails to warm your heart.

"hello, my prince" you mumble, letting him bury his head into your neck. his hair tickles your skin, and you chuckle when he leaves a kiss on your collarbone. "did you have fun with your dad?"

"yeah! he bought ice cream then we went to the park to play soccer!"

he pulls away from you, bright teal eyes roaming over your face, staring as if he hasn't seen you for years when, in reality, it's only been a few hours. your beloved son is a tiny, warmer version of your husband, clingy and talkative without a care in the world.

"and then we-"

"alright, squirt. time for you to leave."

speak of the devil and he shall appear.

your head snaps towards the bedroom door, your grin melting into a soft smile as your husband steps into the room. rin wears a white fitted undershirt, obviously having changed whilst you were busy with your son.

rin moves, pressing a kiss to your cheek, one your son playfully blanches at, before trying to tug the small carbon copy of himself to where his brother stands at the door.

keyword: trying.

"but i haven't finished talking to mom!" your son whines, tugging his hand out of rin's. he trudges back to you, happily wrapping his arms around your leg, poking his tongue out at your husband. "go away!"

rin grunts, walking over towards you with a growing scowl on his face. "your mom and i have a date. sae's waiting to take you outside."

"well, uncle sae can wait!" the miniature devil in disguise tightens his grip on your leg, shooting a glare at rin before showing you his best puppy eyes. "i wanna be with mom."

"uncle sae can wait, i can't."

sometimes you wonder why the two halves of your heart can never get along.

they bicker, much like how rin used to with sae. whether it's in the morning, afternoon, or night, they'd find a reason to keep on getting on each other's nerves.

you'd be lying if you said it didn't amuse you, especially when you know that their hardheadedness stem from their love of you.

"well you should learn how to be more patient, papa!"

"she's my wife, you little squirt."

you laugh when rin finally reaches you, wrapping his arms around your waist, almost too territorial as he grabs his son's head, moving him away from you like pulling a toy from a claw machine.

"well, she's my mama too!" his small carbon copy huffs, slapping rin's hand away, all the while shooting him a glare. "you're so annoying!"

"okay, okay, that's enough," you sigh out, pressing a kiss to rin's cheek before pushing him away gently, crouching until you're eye level with your son.

you can see rin's disgruntled face in the corner of your eye. "your dad and i have a date tonight, sweetie. will you let us go, hm? i'll cook your favorite meal when you get back from uncle sae's. how about that?"

you watch him hesitate, twitching in his spot, occasionally throwing glances at his dad before he finally says, "i want that and kisses! cuddles too!"

you wonder where he learned to be such a good negotiator.

"okay," you mumble, pressing a soft kiss on his forehead before rin takes his hand, practically dragging your son to the front door where his brother stands, waiting with an amused smile. "be a good boy, okay?"

"wait, one more thing!" your little boy lurches out of rin's grip and you have to silence your laugh with a hand on your mouth, eyes crinkling in amusement at the fiery glare rin shoots him.

your son moves in, placing a kiss on your cheek before whispering cheekily, "you should make dad sleep on the couch tonight."

rin calls his name, muttering what you're sure to be curses under his breath, and you watch as your son moves towards him. only to completely disregard the hand rin has outstretched in favor of sae's.

sae nods his head towards you, one you copy before waving when he takes your son into his car for a weekend away.

"finally alone," your husband mutters, his tone deep and gruff. you can see the tension melt away from his shoulders when you wrap your arms around his shoulders, clinging to his frame. "i can't believe you gave birth to a little devil."

rin has always been touchy. it's a fact he's proven time and time again, ranging from your first date until this very moment of when he glides his hand through your hair, playfully tugging at your strands.

"you look beautiful," he mumbles, moving to nuzzle his face into your neck. he trails kisses down the column of your neck, and you sigh, having already experienced the sensation, albeit, a more innocent version, only minutes ago. "ready to leave?"

"hm? who are you and what have you done to my husband?" you chuckle, giggling when he retaliates to your words by nipping on your skin. you move your hand, playing with the hair on the nape of his neck. "i'm kidding. you know i love it when you're all clingy and kissy."

he places one final kiss on your neck before pulling away, his eyes taking you in. "stunning," the words leave his lips as a breathy whisper, and you smile at the hazed look in his eyes.

he looks breathtakingly handsome with his hair gelled back and his undershirt wrapped tightly around his frame. you help him pull on his tuxedo, neatly pressed by your own hands only a few hours earlier, as he recounts his day out with your son.

and finally, you watch, amused when he takes off your ring and his, setting them both on your vanity drawer.

"shall we?" the words are muffled against your ring finger, the limb feeling oddly bare. rin kisses every single one of your knuckles before pressing one final kiss to your palm, his lips warm and soft.

"we shall."

he intertwines your fingers, tugging you out of your home and into his car, ready to take sweep you off your feet, just like he once did all those years ago when he made you his.

[robinsgrl]

FEARLESS

chapter four. doors and burgers

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pairing ⇢ rafe cameron x plus size!reader

word count ⇢ 2.2k

warnings ⇢ fatphobia, insecurities, panic attack, boobies lol, Scarlett should be her own warning, daddy issues,

authors note ⇢ sorry that i messed up on my last post yall!! i confused scarlett with heather. she was supposed to be Heather but i was like….. heathers get too much crap thank you conan 😒 and i forgot to change it lol sorry!!! also i rewrote this like five times and i this was the one i was most satisfied with, so enjoy!!

────────────────────────

Scarlett leaves from what you can tell. People are talking about the kitchen debacle and there are mixed reviews. Some are still kissing Scarlett’s ass, others don’t like her any longer. But it doesn’t seem anyone’s on your side. You’re still invisible. You’ve since taken off your jacket that was drenched and Rafe has given you his. It’s big but it doesn’t cover you entirely, and that makes you feel so damn embarrassed.

Despite your mission being to get Jonah to see you, neither of you can find him anywhere. Kiara and Sarah had their eyes out for him as well but they’ve since lost the mission at hand. Now, you’re all sat in the living room where there are a few people dancing around Sarah who’s singing obnoxiously bad on the karaoke machine. No one has any idea where it came from but everyone is loving it.

You’re clapping along with Kiara, laughing when Sarah messes up another lyric and blames the song. For the first time in what seems like a long time, Rafe isn’t drinking. He isn’t doing much of anything but staying by your side. He’s sitting beside you, watching his sister with amusement. He refuses to clap though, only doing it when you reach over to lift his hands and make him clap.

It’s Kiara’s turn to sing when you get up off the couch and look for the bathroom in the huge figure 8 house. The home has photographs scattered, a happy family shown in them all. It might just be the beer in you that makes you want to cry. You’ve seen the kid around school before and he isn’t anything to you. Anything at all. But you’re wishing him the best. Yeah, you realize it’s the beer.

You stumble into a random room and let out a screech when a body gets up from a bed.

“What are you doing here?” Jonah’s voice sends a flutter through your belly. Your belly. Your stomach. You take a hold of Rafe’s jacket and tighten it around yourself, hiding your body from the guy you want badly.

“Oh… uhm…” you wipe the tears from your eyes that had bled out at the family pictures. “I’m looking for the bathroom.”

He’s immediately up on his feet at the sight of your tears. Your eyes widen when his hands take a hold of your round face and examines you carefully. “Are you okay? Why are you crying?”

Your breath hitches at the feel of his warm hand. It’s soft. Far too soft for a man who puts his all into the gym and football. “Oh? I… uhm… haha, what? Yeah? I'm… I’m fine. Just…” you sniffle and gently move his hand from your face. You’re refusing to meet his eyes,shy about your sadness. “The pictures… they look so happy.”

The look on his face makes you want to run away. And then, he laughs. “You’re crying because Tommy and his family look happy?”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out, stuck. “It’s not a bad thing.” Are his words when he seems to realize how stunned you feel. “It’s… adorable.”

You fumble your words, “oh, I, uhm, yeah, okay, that’s… yeah.” To have the guy you’ve been into for years call you such a word is a rush. A scary one. But you like it. And whatever it is you did, you wish you could keep doing it until he saw you as you saw him. Perfect.

You’re still standing by the door of the random bedroom and it’d be easy to just run off. But you can’t. Making a fool of yourself in front of Jonah will only make your plan harder. And Rafe would kill you for letting his effort go to waste. “What are you doing in here?” It comes out more abrasive than you wished, internally scolding yourself.

But he doesn’t seem to mind. Rather, he takes his seat back on the bed and shrugs. “It’s noisy.”

You understand. You really, really do. And you want to say it aloud but your tongue is tied as you watch him throw his head back, his adams apple bobbing as he swallows gently. After a moment, you semi-gather yourself. “Did you leave cause of Sarah?” You joke lightly. “That’s what made me leave.”

This garners a soft laugh out of him and you want to jump up and squeal. But Rafe told you to act nonchalant. “Yeah, she’s certainly… singing.”

You take one step away from the door. Just one. You were going to sit beside him. You were going to talk to him. Really talk to him.

The door behind you swings open and hits your head. Hard. “What the fuck?” Jonah’s quick on his feet, rushing to you in a panic. You turn to look at the culprit and your frown turns into a glare. Rafe.

“What the fuck, Rafe?!” You hiss, sending a punch to his shoulder.

“Why were you standing so near the door?!”

“Why would you swing it open like a maniac?!”

“It’s not my fault you were standing there—“

“Maybe don’t open doors like that—“

“Oh, shut up, do you ever not complain—“

“Says you! You’re, like, the king of complaining—“

“King? King—“

“Should I leave?” Jonah’s soft voice speaks and you shove Rafe’s face as you look at him and smile.

“N-no, you shouldn’t have to. He was just leaving.”

“I was? I don’t— ow, fuck, okay, I’m leaving.”

The mood was ruined. Whatever mood Jonah was in was gone. And so was your confidence. It's awkward as you sit next to him on the bed. The palm of your hands are on your knees, anxiously rubbing at them. He’s laid back on the bed, arm crossed over his eyes, the only thing telling you he’s up is the soft twitch of his fingers.

“Does it hurt?” His voice cuts through the thick silence.

Panicked, you glance over at him with wide eyes. “Does… does what hurt?”

“Your head. He opened the door pretty hard.” He still doesn’t move from his position and you’re grateful he’s not looking at you. You do better when people can’t perceive you.

“Oh, my head… yeah, it’s fine, doesn’t hurt. I-it’s a little sore but I’ll make him pay for it.” You shrug, fixing Rafe’s jacket on your body.

“You two are close.” It’s supposed to be a question. It doesn’t sound like one.

You shake your head despite his eyes being covered up. “Not really. I… he’s nice but we’re not like friends.”

He sits back up and this makes you tense up, looking straight ahead at that damn door you hate now. “Just never seen him with anyone but his same three friends.”

“I’m friends with Sarah. We’re just… around each other more.” It’s a lie. But you don’t believe Rafe would want people to know just how much time you’re really spending together. The less people that know, the better.

“You and Scarlett are really done?” He questions, eyes on you. But you can’t look over at him. You’re stiff and awkward and unsure of how to act around him.

You nod softly, “y-yeah… she’s, uhm, not a very nice person.”

It’s quiet for another moment. “She’s been running her mouth about you. Calling you names. Really bad names. And all you can say is ‘she's not nice’?”

Hearing that she’s still talking about you is a punch to the guy and suddenly you don’t care about your crush. You don’t care that you two are sitting so close to each other. All you can think is how horrible she truly is. How blinded you were. And how stupid you feel for missing her. “Well… just because others are doing bad things, doesn’t mean I should. Be the bigger person and whatnot.” You let out a small and awkward laugh to try and shrug off what you’re really feeling.

“Wow.” Are his words as he gets up off the bed and walks to the dresser of the bedroom and picking up a magazine. “You’re really not like other girls.” An even bigger punch to the gut. Logically, you know he’s trying to be kind. He’s only saying this to make you feel better, your feelings on Scarlett written all over your face.

You don’t wear makeup, not like other girls do. You don’t dress up, not like other girls do. You don’t giggle over guys, not like other girls do. You don’t go out and have fun, not like other girls do. But you want to do it all. You want to be like other girls. You never felt worth it. Lipstick on a pig. You’re too big to fit trendy clothes. You don’t giggle over guys because they’d be disgusted that you’re into them. You don’t go out because you’d be the biggest out of the group of girls that are around you. You’d be an eyesore.

In a frantic move, you get up off the bed. “Right. Well, I, uh… I have to go.”

“Huh? What—“ but you don’t pay any attention to his words as you rush out of the random bedroom. There are kids littering the hallway. The steps are being used as seats, shoving people slightly as you go. The music is loud. Too loud. You can feel it bouncing in your eardrums and filling your already muddled thoughts. Theres nothing you can think about other than getting out of that damn house. And in your panicked stupor, you can’t find the damn. The house is too damn big.

There’s a couple making out in the bathroom when you rush inside and when they see the fear in your eyes, they rush out, leaving you to be.

The drive isn’t awkward. Not like you thought it would be. He didn’t question you. And despite his last text, he didn’t bring it up. And you’re grateful he didn’t.

“Where are we going?” You ask when you realize you’re headed downtown. “I want to go home, Rafe.”

He shrugs, hands on the wheel. “I’m hungry. We’re just stopping by The Wreck real quick.”

He doesn’t ask you to get down with him. He parks, heads inside, and he’s out fifteen minutes later. But he doesn’t start driving. In fact, he immediately takes a bite out of his burger, your food untouched on your lap.

“You’re not gonna eat?” He asks with his mouth full, but you don’t grimace like you should. You grab a napkin and hands it to him but he shakes his head refusing it.

“You’re dirty.”

“And you’re not eating.” He swallows his food.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re lying.”

“So because I'm fat, I must be hungry?” It’s a joke but the look he gives you tells you he’s not amused in the slightest. “Tough crowd. Seriously, I'm not hungry.”

“Is this that thing where you don’t eat in front of people cause you’re with a guy? Sarah told me it’s some shit she does.”

“It’s that thing where I’m not hungry, actually.” But it smells divine. Usually, you’d happily eat this but after tonight, you’re not sure if you’ll ever eat greasy foods again.

He scoffs, putting his burger down and holding a fry up at you. “Try the fry.”

“You try the fry.”

“I already did. Seriously, my mom had this trick while we were growing up. Sarah always swore she wasn’t hungry and wouldn’t get anything to eat but she’d make her try something from the plate to realize how hungry she really was.”

“How old was she?”

“My mom? She was pushing forty.”

You glare at the proud look on his face at his joke. “Sarah, stupid.”

“I don’t know… seven?”

“You’re treating me like a seven year old?”

“Try. The. Fry.” He swipes it across your lips and this gets a laugh out of you, shoving him away.

“Okay, okay! I’ll eat a fry. But that one has lipstick all over it now.” You pick a fry from his and he squints his eyes at you.

“You have a perfectly good batch.”

You pop the fry into your mouth with a content smile. “Not as good as yours.” And he was right. The salt and buttery soft fry proved to be true— you are hungry.

With a sigh, you grab your burger and say— “okay… just… don’t look.”

This amuses him. “Don’t look at you eat your burger? Well, there goes my spank bank.”

“Ew, Rafe!” You laugh, nose scrunching at his crude words.

You take a bite of your burger. And it’s absolutely delicious. Just like you knew it would be. Instead of worrying over stuffed up cheeks or looking fat while eating, you share laughs, mouths full and not a single care.

taglist. @pinkyqily @chalahyung01 @lunalvrsblog @teenwolfbitches28 @jayjsbaby @yawnzshit @mytimeiswaiting @tsshifting @always-reading @chimchimjiminie16 @ayy1234567 @acidfeens @congratsloserr @murdockcastleslut @cl4uus @clairesblouse @ange111 @daddydraco @wtfdudesblog @honk4emoboyz @fionaapplelover2010 @raiemarine @totonella1 @lilmixed-girl @enjoymyloves @darlingisntit @c1gsaftewhat @lil-sparklqueen @bambisribbon @easybakeoven7 @vviolets444rroses @aesthetic-lyss @dr3wstarkey @sleepmaster69 @yose2123 @aligned-starz @vex-et-soleil (if your name is red, it’s not letting me tag you for some reason, sorry!)

[emilys-bangs]

the end of beginning | e.p

Tags: bau!reader, fluff, no use of yn, s2 baby emily, a whole lotta yearning

Summary: In which Emily is new to the team and finds a friend in you. Requested here.

Word count: 1.2k

Emily has always felt out of place. 

In high school, in her mother’s lavish gatherings, in the sprawling estate that she’d eventually learned to call home. It’s never something she can help, though with gritted teeth she developed the art of blending in with fake smiles and perfectly crafted words. It’s a habit that stuck with her, one she’s never quite learned how to shake off even after all these years.

So it makes sense that she doesn’t fit in at her new job.

It works just fine with her. Emily has had a lifetime to get used to it; isolation had become her friend, the liquid movement of her following shadow more than often her only, constant, companion. Despite that, she had a small, lingering hope. That maybe coming back to DC would mean making herself a home, finding—if not friends—companions that she could be casual with, invite out for a round of drinks when the thick silence of her apartment was too much.

Hope was quickly snuffed out. Her boss only thinly veils his distrust, and the youngest—Reid—stares at her with accusing eyes. The rest of her coworkers are lukewarm, not quite yet interested in getting to know her; their gazes are more often than not tinged with condescension, as if they’re not sure she’s earned her place. It seems like everyone’s waiting for her to slip up, for Hotch to chew her out and pluck her from the neatly rounded group they’ve found themselves being, a well oiled machine that works perfectly in order without her.

Everyone, apparently, except you.

You and Garcia, that is, but the tech analyst’s influence is a lot less reassuring given that it’s behind phone calls and computer screens most of the time. But with you there with her—in the field, at your joint desks in the bullpen—things are more bearable. 

“Hey.” 

You’re whispering slightly as you slip into the vacant seat in front of her, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug.

Emily looks up at you. The dimmed lights of the jet reflect in your eyes, painting you in softer edges as you sit down across from her without waiting for an invitation. There’s an easiness to your movements, one that she would say is out of place considering how long you’ve known her. Still, warmth spreads to her icy fingertips, and she can’t help the small smile that pulls at her lips.

“Hi,” she says back, matching your tone. Other than the hum of the jet itself—and the rumble of distant snores she’s too far away to be bothered by—a soothing silence has settled across the cabin, and her voice doesn’t carry much farther than your seat. The smile that you return is friendly, a sight that she’s been slowly getting accustomed to these past few weeks.

She’s a little surprised when you don’t offer anything more to say. You simply lean back in your seat and take a sip from your mug, her eyes tracing the bop of your throat as you swallow and look down at the sudoku in your hand. Emily’s finger is still slotted inside her book; she’d automatically marked the page and shut the cover closed when you appeared, some subconscious mechanism turning in her head so that you get her full attention.

The revelation that you might simply want her company comes too late. 

You’re looking back up at her, your eyes meeting hers as a slow warmth runs beneath her icy skin. Emily should look back down; she has nothing to say, other than the blunt but genuine question of why are you here, but you give a small shrug and she’s enraptured, tracing the sheepish line of your pressed lips.

“Gideon’s snores get a little loud.” You say.

Emily’s surprised to hear her own laugh. It seems you are, too. A small movement draws your brows upward, but the curve of your mouth is distinctly pleased, your eyes brightening beneath the dim lights of the jet. The sound doesn’t last long—it’s low, soft, joined by your own laugh for a few brief seconds—but its effect carries tension from Emily’s shoulders, makes her slip her finger out of her book with a genuine smile.

“That they do,” she murmurs back, already familiar with the loud rumbles that have made their way through thin motel walls, occasionally piercing her already irregular sleep. The sleeves of her cardigan are pulled over her knuckles; she tugs them higher, seeking to cover the ice in her fingertips. 

“Are you cold?”

Maybe she is. Maybe the sound of your voice spills warmth down her veins. Emily doesn’t like admitting things, but her smile gives her away. It borders on shy, barely wide enough for her dimples to curve in her cheeks; she wishes she had a mug of her own to hide behind, but she has an inkling that hiding from you would be pointless.

In the end she shrugs.

You set your mug and sudoku down. “I’ll be right back.” 

She’s left staring at your empty seat, brows furrowing slightly as goosebumps break out on her skin. The jet really is ridiculously cold. And yet when you come back less than a minute later holding out a fuzzy blanket for her to take, she shakes her head.

“Oh, I can’t—”

“Please,” you insist. “I remember I forgot to layer up the first few times on here and I was miserable. Makes you stiff,” your lips twist into a smile, and you’re looking at her so earnestly that she submits.

“It does,” Emily says, this time accepting the blanket. You beam at her and she goes warm, though it has nothing to do with the fuzzy, light gray wool now draping over her lap. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Emily places her book on the table before effectively burying herself in your blanket. It’s warm and soft; when she brings it up over her shoulders, a faint scent of perfume nuzzles against her nose. Yours. In seconds, her hands grow warm. She chances a glance at you, a thank you almost tipping from her lips again—just to continue the conversation, hear your voice, when you do it for her.

“What does that say?” You’re peering at the worn cover of her book. The edges are curled, the spine broken. The margins are full of her loopy scrawl and unsteady underlines, more than a few pages dog eared.

Emily bites back a smile at the curious draw of your brows. “Les Liaisons Dangereuses.” The French slips effortlessly from her lips, smooth and curling. “The Dangerous Liaisons. It’s a French classic, one of my favorites. I could tell you about it,” her hand peeks out from the edge of the blanket and she fidgets with her hair, tucks it behind her ear, “if you’d like.”

You lean your elbows on the table, sudoku very much ignored as you peer at her with something like astonishment. A grin pulls at your lips and she’s suddenly overheating.

“I very much would, Agent Prentiss.”

“Emily.” 

“Emily.” You agree, tilting your head in a nod. “Tell me about Les Liaisons Dangereuses.” You butcher the title beyond belief. The displeased wrinkle of your nose says you know it, and butterflies erupt along Emily’s lungs.

She laughs, the beginnings of a blush staining her cheeks.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @moonlight-simp 

[tallulah477]

Feral

Survive The Night Day 2: Predator/Prey

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Human!Reader

Warnings: AgedUp!Neteyam, Dark!Neteyam, ***NON-CON***, Dub-Con, Oral (female receiving), P in V, Sex Pollen, Size Difference, Chasing, Primal Play (Predator/Prey Kink), Creampie, Hair Pulling, Knife Play, Restraining Holds (i.e pinning/holding reader down), Fear Kink (?), Alien Genitalia (not really the focus, but its there), Knotting, Belly Bulge

Word Count: 7.3K

A/N: Based off a dream I had where Neteyam chased me through my house and I was running for my fucking life. Why didn't I let him catch me, you ask? Cause dream Talie is stupid.

Summary: You never understood why the Na'vi don't use this particular plant in their healing practices. It's a miracle plant for the humans - cutting healing times nearly in half when used as a topical paste. You would think it would have some similar benefits to the Na'vi. You would be wrong.

**PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS - DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ**

Translations:

Tawtute - Human

Kehe rikx - Don't move

Rutxe ftang - Please stop

Kehe - No

Even considering he’s a nine foot tall blue alien, Neteyam Sully still looks extremely out of place standing on the clean, white tiled floor of the lab. 

His siblings don’t look so out of place when they visit - comfortable and familiar enough within the confines of the lab to make themselves at home among the multitude of beakers, whirling machines, and thick observation glass that make up your day-to-day workplace. Their large bodies twisting and contorting with ease when necessary to accommodate for the smaller space. 

Neteyam isn’t so lucky. He doesn’t like the human facilities, opting to follow in his mother’s footsteps and stay as far away from the skypeople as he can. He’s only here because he was ordered to be, sent by his father to fix his broken throat comm before they head out with the hunting party on a three day hunting trip.

He looks uncomfortable as he stands behind you, back stiff and arms crossed across his broad chest as he watches you tinker with the comm. Repairing tech has never been your strong suit, so it’s taking you a bit longer to figure out than it probably should have, but since you're currently the only person left in this half of the base, the responsibility has unintentionally fallen to you. 

You should be out there too. The thought forms bitterly in your head as you poke at the small opened compartment of the comm with your tweezers. Your favorite part of research is going out into the world and finding the specimens. The lab is great, a fine place for breaking ground and learning new things, gathering knowledge and data about a flora and fauna in a way that no other humans had ever had the opportunity to do before. Pandora is your home, where you grew up and lived your whole life - and yet, it’s still a mystery, and you learn something new and beautiful about it everyday. 

But the real fun is outside the lab. It’s when you're out there, in the thick of it, stepping over breaching roots and feeling the moss of the ground between your toes when you take off your shoes during a rest break. It’s feeling the gentle breeze of air along your skin and hearing the trees rustle in the canopy above you as a result, and pretending that - just for a minute - you can feel the breeze of alien air brush against your face instead of your mask.

Usually one of the older scientists, Alice, offers to stay behind at the lab to run tests and be on call for the Omatikaya should human tech ever be needed. But she’s the most knowledgeable when it comes to locating the elusive and seasonally grown plant that’s come to be known as the Rust Plant. 

So, that leaves you here, on your ass and pouting while everyone else gets to go off and have their fun. 

As far as you know, the plant doesn’t have any special properties or spiritual significance to the Na’vi. But when the red dust-like powder is collected from the center and manipulated into a liquid, the result is a miracle paste that significantly reduces healing time with human injuries. You asked about it once - why the Na’vi don’t try to make the paste for themselves to see if it will work on them - but the only answer you got back was that it had some ‘unintended consequences’ when used by the clan, so they stay away from the plant altogether. 

You don’t think about that when Neteyam walks in. 

The plant mixture, once rust red, is now a beautiful glowing purple inside the beaker - a reaction from the solution added to the powder to form the liquid base. It’s been on the hot plate for a while now, but it’s only just starting to heat up enough to provide small spirals of smoke inside the clear glass. 

You’re glancing at the clock when you hear Neteyam sniff slightly behind you. You don’t turn around, ignoring the little puffs of air that somehow sound like bullet shots in the silence, but a part of you is instantly insecure. What is he smelling? It can't be the mixture in the beaker. Despite the smoke, it doesn’t give off any kind of smell. Subtly, you press your chin to your chest, trying to see if you can smell yourself to find out if maybe it’s you giving off some kind of stench that his overly sensitive nose is picking up on, but you don’t smell anything off about you either. 

The purple liquid is still thin inside the container, needing several more minutes of constant heat in order to bubble and thicken slightly before it can be considered a usable product, but you pause your tinkering on the comm to note the time for the smoke in a small notebook. 

Neteyam lets out a loud sigh when you drop the tweezers to grab a pencil, the annoyed huff nearly ear piercing in the quiet of the lab. This time you can’t help but glance towards the harsh noise, a slight tilt of your head towards the large Na’vi and your eyes meet amber for just a second before they drop again to the paper as you scribble. 

A part of you wants to be snobby, ask a prissy ‘can I help you?’ just because you feel like he’s being so unnecessarily rude when you're just trying to help, but you keep your mouth shut. 

He doesn’t. 

“Are you nearly done?” He grunts, accented tone pitched with agitation as his feet shuffle on the tile. 

“Yes, just a few more minutes,” You say, picking the tweezers back up. “Be patient.”

You think you’ve almost got the comm fixed, just a minor replacement to the tiny inside panel, and you're thankful that’s all it is. It shouldn’t take too long. You’ve nearly got the replacement piece in place now, so all you should have to do is solder it in and it should be fine. Which is good because the sooner you can get this fixed, the sooner you can get the huffy, oversized, unfortunately very handsome despite being an incredible dick of a Na’vi out of the lab so you don’t have to feel him breathing down your neck anymore. 

It only takes another couple minutes for the smoke to consume the rest of the empty space in the beaker, thick white wisps swirling inside of the glass and spiraling out of the top. You drop the tweezers again, cutting the power off to the hot plate and grab the pencil again to log the time. 

Neteyam sniffs again, this time audibly louder and longer, before it sounds like his breath gets caught in his lungs. 

Immediately, your head spins around to stare at him wide eyed, surprise and concern flooding your chest when you notice he’s backed up a few steps. He’s staring at the bubbling beaker, yellow eyes set with suspicion and what almost looks like distress. 

“Are you o–”

“What is that?” He interrupts, voice gruff as his three fingered hand points to the beaker. 

“It’s… the mixture for our healing paste,” You reply, confused. 

“No! What is it?”

“The Rust Plant? The one that grows on the sides of river b–”

You’re cut off again by a sharp hiss, and you have just a second to register Neteyam’s dagger-like teeth as he stalks forward, spitting out a frustrated “You stupid–” before he’s jerking back, hand immediately covering his nose as if to stop himself from breathing.

He looks wild, eyes frantic as he stares at the beaker, and every muscle in his body looks tense, stung up tight like a bow ready to shoot. You’re a scientist, you’re meant to be observant, so you don’t know why you didn’t see it before. But it’s clear as anything now. The smoke doesn’t have any kind of smell to you, but to him - with the way he’s backing away and covering his nose to keep from breathing it in - it must be horrible. 

His tail is trashing behind him, so upset that you think you can almost hear a swish from it cutting through the air like a whip. 

“I need to leave,” He says suddenly. Instinctively, you back up into the desk at the sight of the large and angry Na’vi coming at you again, but he just grabs the still broken comm and turns around to storm out. 

He’s big though, too much for the small space of the lab, and his frantic tail is still thrashing as he turns. The thin appendage accidentally snaps against the side of the still smoking beaker, sending it flying off the desk and onto the ground. 

The glass shatters against the tile, glowing purple spreading across the white floor in a large puddle as the smoke spirals up into the air. Neteyam’s hand instinctively drops from his nose to grip onto his tail, holding the end of it close to him as if to keep it from swinging and smacking into anything else. But you watch, shocked and frozen in your spot as he takes one shuddering breath, and then another, tense back muscles shifting under his cobalt skin with each inhale and exhale of air. 

“Neteyam?” You ask, timidly. Dread shoots through your chest and you have the feeling that something very serious just happened, but you don’t even know what. 

He’s just standing there now, back towards you, but he’s not moving towards the door anymore. It’s like something is keeping him from moving, some unseen force that exploded out of the glass container when it burst and wrapped its tendrils around him before he could take another step. 

Whatever he was smelling from the beaker wasn’t good for him, and now it's in the air, invisible signatures swirling through the small space of the lab, and it's affecting him - the ‘unintended consequences’ of the Rust Plant on the Na’vi.

Your every instinct is telling you to stay away from him, that he’s dangerous. But he’s one of the Omatikaya, and regardless of how he views humans, you know he would never hurt you and disobey his father like that. 

“Hey,” You say, gently. You force yourself away from the desk, slowly moving around him to try to not startle him as you attempt to make your way to the airlock door. “Just relax, okay? Let’s try to air this pl–”

His deep growl has you frozen again, cold ice shoots through your veins at the predatory sound. It’s not a normal growl - not a low, quick sound made in anger or frustration. It sounds dark, a deep dangerous rumbling that came from his chest. A warning. 

You watch in horror as he slowly tilts his head towards you, the pointed tips of his sharp teeth visible under the snarled curl of his lips, glittering in the bright fluorescent lights of the lab. Your brain screams at you to run - danger, danger, danger, it shouts, but you can’t move. The realization hits hard: he’s not Neteyam anymore. The Na’vi in front of you is not the same human-indifferent, scoffing, fearless warrior son of Toruk Makto.

He’s an animal. A predator. 

Feral. 

His golden eyes are now just a thin band of dark honey encircling two endless black holes. And in their reflection you see yourself - tiny and weak. Scared.

Prey.

His body shifts slightly, just the most minuscule movements as he angles himself towards you that you probably wouldn’t have noticed had your survival instincts not been ringing alarm bells in your brain. Without thinking, you grab the hot plate, gripping it tightly at its base and holding it in front of you as your only form of weapon.

“Neteyam Sully!” You shout, and you can’t even believe how out of your mind you are to try to use his full name like an upset mother. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you stop it right now!”

There’s not even a second after the words leave your mouth, not a beat or breath or anything before he’s coming at you. 

Your body registers his sudden movement before your brain does, the roaring snarl bouncing off the walls of the lab as he lunges at you. The hot plate is out of your hands in an instant, the hard base of the plate smacking into his face with a loud cuh-thunk. His snarl is interrupted with a grunt from the hit, body jerking back a step from the impact, and you don’t wait around to see the way his eyes zero in on your retreating form again in rage. 

You can’t think - your body is moving without your brain telling it what to do. Pure panic mixed with raw survival instincts is what drives you through the door behind you, nearly smacking into the wall as you barrel down the main hallway. You hear Neteyam’s footsteps close behind, bare feet smacking against the tile. 

It’s a sound you never thought you would find terrifying. You think of little Mae, the daughter of the staff nurse and one of the science guys, and how the sound of her tiny footsteps stomping on these same tiles floors always brought a smile to your face. You could always hear her coming before you saw her, just a few seconds before she rounded the corner with unsteady steps ready to cause havoc as she tries to run from her exhausted and overstimulated mother. 

These ones are louder though. Heavier, but somehow more quiet as they rush at you from across the unobstructed hall. Your body doesn’t wait for your mind to catch up, and that’s probably a good thing considering you have no idea how the fuck you knew to take the split second turn to your right the exact moment Neteyam tried to pounce. 

You hear his snarl of anger as he rights himself, loud and echoing through the hallway. You’ve managed to best him for a second, but he’s still on your ass - gaining ground on you with his long Na’vi legs despite the cramped human-sized halls. 

Your heart is racing in your chest, pounding with fear, and the adrenaline coursing through your veins is the only thing keeping you going. You can’t breathe - shallow, panicked, quick puffs of air rip from you as you run, your high pitched gasps sounding against the hall walls as a foil to Neteyam’s predatory growls. 

“HELP!” You scream, voice cracking with how loud you're trying to scream. The desperation and pure terror are evident in your voice and you know if someone were around they would hear you for sure. Someone has to be around. They have to be. “SOMEONE HELP ME PLEASE!”

No one responds. No one steps in to intervene. No one even opens their door to try to take a little bit of a peek. No one to run to for help even though it feels like you're about to get mauled to death by a Thanator. 

You’re truly alone. And that thought makes you somehow even more desperate. 

Most people have a tendency to close the doors of their bedrooms, trying to keep as much privacy as they can in the small base. Norm has no such desires, often too excited or too focused on getting to his studies that he outright forgets to close his door. 

It’s a god send now that you’re sprinting through the residency part of the outpost. Your room is one of the last down the hall. You won’t make it. Not with the way you’re shaking right now, body feeling like it's somehow both freezing over with ice and lighting on fire as the fear and adrenaline fight for dominance for your immediate attention. Neteyam’s right behind you, long stride more than twice the size of yours cutting any distance you gained through your miracle of a move back down to barely anything at all. 

He’s going to catch you. 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK.

Throwing yourself at a random door is dangerous. Just the extra second it takes to turn the knob and push the door open could almost certainly be the difference between life and death if you even still have a chance at life at all. And even then you run the risk of it being locked. Your eye catches on Norm’s door - open and shining like a beacon of hope amongst the fluorescently lit hallway. 

You don’t have another choice. 

You turn. 

As soon as you make it through the threshold, you slam the door behind you as fast as you can. 

You don’t know what you expected, naively hoping that the door would somehow succeed in protecting you and keeping Neteyam out. It’s not even locked. 

You scream as the door explodes under Neteyam’s weight, the wood splintering as it bursts apart, smaller bits of fragmented wood spraying towards you as the feral Na’vi shoulders his way in. The bathroom to your left is the only option, and you lunge for it just as Neteyam lunges for you. The tears pouring down your cheeks burn your eyes and blur your vision, your loud hyperventilating cries make your throat raw. Another door just barely slammed in his face and your back presses against the opposite door, your panicked hand trying to jiggle the knob but your brain not reminding you how to twist it. This other door hasn’t been used in years - the bathroom that once connected these two rooms together is just used by Norm now since Mary had her baby and her and her husband moved into a larger room to accommodate the crib. It’s locked, and your fingers are struggling to twist the mechanism up to unlock it when Neteyam breaks through. 

Even through your blurred vision, you see it clearly. His arm reaches through the hole his shoulder has made, and the bathroom is too small, too fucking small because that arm looks like its reaching across the entire length of it, fingers splayed out like if he can just get one of the tips to brush you, he’ll snatch you up. 

“HELP!” You scream again. Fuck fuck fuck. You’re going to fucking die. “HELP ME!”

You watch the door in horror as Neteyam pulls his arm back, head dropping to glare at you through the opening, and your veins fill with ice. 

He looks murderous - pupils blown so wide you can’t see the golden ring wrapped around them at all. You want to drop to the ground under that stare, beg for mercy even though the look in his eyes makes it clear there won’t be any. 

“N-Neteyam,” You stutter. Your heart is pounding so fast, blood sounding like it’s rushing in your ears so fast you don’t know how you haven’t had a heart attack yet. “P-please s-stop. P-please.”

His eyes stay locked on yours through the hole in the door, dark and glaring but for some reason he’s paused his attacks. A part of you wonders if your begging is making it through to the non-animalistic part of his brain. Whatever the smoke from the mixture of the Rust Plant did to him, it has to be only temporary. He’s still Neteyam. Neteyam is still in there somewhere. 

“Please,” You try again, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re scaring me.”

He leans forward, one hand curling around the broken wood from the open hole in the door. When he speaks, you don’t know if you’re relieved to hear that he can despite the overwhelming feral actions, or if you’re horrified at how his voice comes out. 

He doesn’t sound like himself at all. His words are clipped, short words made sentences that you don’t understand as both the gravely and growled way he says them as well as overall meaning. 

“Tawtute,” He growls. “Mine.”

“Wha— I-I don’t understand,”

You scream when he hisses at you, long canines and sharp teeth on display through the damaged opening and you have a front row seat to the show as your back presses harder against the door behind you. The hand wrapped around the edge of the hole pulls back suddenly, taking with it a huge chunk of the center and the loud crack and snap of wood snaps your body back into gear. You twist the small lock on the door behind you, unlocking it and wrenching it open when Neteyam throws his body against the opposite door again. You’re out the door and into the next room, slamming the door shut behind you just as you hear the telltale crash of the wild Na’vi breaking through the other barrier. Without thinking, you round the side of the bookshelf that stands on the side of the doorframe. You push with all your might, tipping the bookshelf on its side so that it falls diagonally across the door. A dresser sits just on the opposite side of the door, the bookshelf catching on the edge of the dresser so that it blocks a good portion of the bathroom door. 

Any other time you’d be heartbroken to see the books that fall off the bookshelf in your mishandling scatter along the floor and at your feet like they were nothing more than trash. Today, though, you can’t give a shit about that. 

Your hands grip your hair in frustration as you hear Neteyam’s body barrel into the door, hot tears racing down your face as you waste valuable seconds staring at the bending wood behind the tipped bookcase. It won’t keep him back for long. He could probably easily push it out of his way, but it's something. Your only hope now is that it keeps him long enough for you to get away and that his instinct driven brain doesn’t realize he can just go back the way he came to get around the obstacle. 

Turning on your heel, you sprint out the bedroom door, heading back down the hallway towards the lab. The sound of the loud crash echoing through the empty hall makes you run impossibly faster. Was it the door finally giving way under his weight? Or was it the bookshelf being tossed to the side like it was nothing and he’s about to barrel down the hallway to finish the job that you’ve somehow managed to postpone until now?

You make it back to the lab, foot smacking against the forgotten hotplate still laying on the ground in your haste to get to the airlock. Your hand smacks against the button on the side wall, fingers practically choking the heavy handle as you go to yank it open. The oxygen masks lay forgotten on the shelf next to the door. You don’t care about them, don’t care about breathing right now because what’s good about breathing when Neteyam could end your need for it in just seconds if he catches you. 

The airlock door hisses as the seal breaks and for a split second you think you’ve done it - have somehow managed to survive this deadly game of cat and mouse you’ve inadvertently been forced to play. You can grab a mask and slip inside the airlock. Keep Neteyam locked up here in the lab while you sit safely outside until the others get back or he comes to his senses enough to remember how to open the airlock door himself. 

But no sooner than the thought crosses your mind, an arm wraps tightly around your waist and pulls you from your death grip on the thick metal door. 

You scream as you’re tossed to the floor, body pressed against the cold tile as Neteyam straddles you. His hips pin your legs down, leaving them useless and unable to buck or kick under his massive weight. You beat at his chest with your fists as hard as you can, trying to ignore how they hurt from your balled up fists trying to hit against pure solid muscle. 

Panic manifests in your desperate cries and you aim for his face too, trying to hit or slap or scratch - anything to get him off of you. You feel like an injured animal caught in a trap. And you suppose you are. 

“Get off!” You cry. “Get off me, Neteyam!”

He snarls as one of your hits lands too close next to his eye and he grabs your hands tightly in one of his, pinning them above your head.

Your screams stop, catching in your throat when the bright fluorescent lights of the lab catch on the knife on his hip. The light caresses the blade as he pulls it from its sheath, the sharp tip sparkling as he brings it to press against the base of your throat.

His face is in front of yours in an instant, so close you feel like you can barely breathe in the wake of the knife resting at your throat and the way his huge eyes feel like twin black holes threatening to suck you into their depths if you move even a single centimeter. 

“Kehe rikx,” His words are hardly more than a whispered breath against your face, but their translation rings loudly in your ears. 

Don’t move. 

The point of the knife drags against your neck, scratching lightly as he draws it down your collarbone. It pulls at the fabric at the neck of your t-shirt as he moves it down your chest, stretching and bunching it down as he scrapes the tip through the valley of your breasts. Your heart pounds under the deadly tip of the weapon and your body wants to fight, keep fighting for your life that you know could be taken from you with just a quick movement of his hand, but your fear keeps you frozen. 

Something hard presses against your trapped thighs and your eyes automatically rip themselves from the knife down to the space between your bodies, and your breathing catches in your throat again for a whole other reason. 

Neteyam’s cock is hard in his loincloth, having escaped its sheath and filling out under the thin material enough to raise a sizable tent inside it. 

He doesn’t give you time to react as his head bends down and latches onto the swell of your breast through your shirt, sharp teeth digging into it just enough for marks to surely be left even through the layers of shirt and bra. You yelp, back arching instinctively against the pain, and your body unfreezes as his teeth scrape against your breast before digging into the material of your shirt and ripping.

The loud sound of tearing fabric rips through the room and Neteyam releases the torn fabric from his mouth just to grip it with his hands instead, pulling up and out and exposing your bra clad torso to his darkened crazed eyes. The knife is still in his hand, but the blade is pointed sideways now as he uses the fingers around it to rip your shirt apart. It’s not smart, not a smart idea at all to try your hand at smacking at him again, but you have to do something. 

You don’t know what he wants anymore. What did that mixture do to him? He was chasing you through these halls, growling and snarling like a predator on the hunt for its next meal, and now he’s on top of you - hard and tearing your clothes off like he wants to fuck you. 

You only get a couple smacks in before the knife is back at your chest and you’re forced still again. Neteyam’s eyes are locked onto your chest, following the tip of the knife as he slides it under the band of your bra directly between your breasts. It cuts easily under the pressure of the sharp knife and the covering falls on either side of your chest, leaving you bare to his hungry gaze. 

There’s a mark on your breast from where his teeth had dug into it and he pauses to stare at it greedily. 

“N-Netayam,” You say, slowly. He seems a little calmer now that he has you trapped under him. You need to talk him to his senses. He’s still in there somewhere. He has to be. He’s not all animal. He can be reasoned with. “You don’t wanna do this. Plea–”

Your plea is cut off as he rises off of you, crouching back just enough to give himself room to flip you roughly over on your stomach. You grunt as your bare chest hits the cold tile, arms splayed uselessly on either side of you as you try to get your bearings from the quick movement before he’s using his knife to cut through the denim of your shorts. 

“Neteyam! Rutxe ftang! Kehe!” 

You don’t know why you think pleading in Na’vi will be any different than English, but desperation punches the frantic words out of you before you can even think about deciding to say them. Your hands finally find purchase on the ground beneath you and you try to push yourself up in hopes of crawling away, but Neteyam’s dropping the knife and taking hold of your hips before you can. 

High pitched squeaking sounds hit your ears as he drags your body across the tile. Your hands scramble frantically against the floor as you’re pulled backwards, but there’s nothing to hold onto. They just slide uselessly, voicing their protest in the way the tile screams under your grasping fingertips as you’re hoisted up with your lower half in the air. 

Your back arches against Neteyam’s hold, legs kicking in the air but doing no harm despite their efforts. The hole he’s created in your shorts is enough to have your pussy on display for him, and you can feel his breath on it - hot puffs are the only warning you get before his mouth is on you. Your voice is raw from all the screaming you’ve done, the sound crackling and almost pained as you shout again - shout for him to stop and to let you go as you kick and squirm and beg. 

You want to cry more, any drying tears of fear you have still tracked on your cheeks are replaced with tears of humiliation. Your clit pulses under his relentless tongue, pussy subconsciously clenching around nothing as he licks and sucks over the puffy folds. 

You’re wet. 

You’re so wet already, body confusing the adrenaline caused by fear and desperation and flooding it with the adrenaline that comes with arousal instead. His textured tongue slips across your sticky cunt, licking up your wetness, and a reluctant moan escapes your lips at the rough feel on your sensitive parts. 

A gleam to your right catches your attention and a flicker of hope rushes through you at the sight. Neteyam’s knife is laying on the ground next to you, scattered just far enough when he dropped it that it's a stretch for you to grab it, but not impossible. He’s distracted by your cunt, chest rumbling in what you can only describe as a more aggressive type of purr and your face contorts in unwanted pleasure as the vibrations pulse against your clit. 

You reach for the knife, using one hand pressed against the tile to gain any kind of leverage you can while your other arm stretches out towards the forgotten blade. You're not even sure what you’re going to do with it when it’s in your hand. Would you just threaten him with it? Tell him to back off and that you’ll use it if he doesn’t? Would you cut him a little to show that you’re serious? 

Would you stab him if it came to it?

Your fingers graze along the hilt of the knife, fingertips brushing along the part that it can touch and curling in, trying to coax the knife just a bit closer so you can grab it. Neteyam growls into your cunt, and you let out a gasping curse when his foot lands on your wrist, pinning it to the tile before you can work your hand around the knife. 

“You son of a bitch!” You yell, anger burning through your desperation, but all Neteyam does is push his face deeper into your pussy. His large hands rip at the back of your shorts more, fingers digging into the exposed curves of your ass to spread you apart. 

The pressure in your belly intensifies as he sucks on your clit, laving his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves before wrapping his lips around it in what feels like an almost pleasured punishment. 

You’re going to cum. Fuck fuck you’re going to cum on the tongue of the practically feral Na’vi who just chased you through the halls of your own home and made you think he was going to rip you to shreds and leave you to die on the floor for your coworkers to find. It feels so good, so so good and you wail as your pussy spasms against his relentless tongue, contracting against the wet muscle as the coil in your belly bursts in an explosion of uncontrolled pleasure. 

Neteyam groans against your core, lapping up everything you have to offer as you whine and shake. Your legs, still suspended in the air, are becoming numb - the tingling sensation of your limbs losing their life combining with the dramatic pulsing over your oversensitive cunt. 

You grunt as he drops you to the ground, his foot lifting off your wrist as he crouches back up, and you pull it to your chest, cradling it there and quickly checking for any injury as your body automatically tries to curl up in a protective ball. 

His hands are back on your hips in an instant, pulling you back again across the floor until your ass is pressed up against his front. Your blood runs cold when your bare ass meets bare skin. The bulge that was once blocked by the thin layer of his loincloth is now free - large, dominant, and demanding of attention as it presses tightly against you. 

Demanding of your attention. 

The hand on the back of your neck is uncaring as it pushes you down, forcing your face against the white tiled floor as he lines himself up with your entrance. 

“Neteyam, no! Please!” You beg, even as your back is forced to arch from the exposed position he has you in.

And maybe if this was a different situation, a different circumstance, he would have used this opportunity to tease you. Tell you to stop fussing and stay still. To be a good girl for him while he fucks your tight cunt and maybe if you’re good enough, he would let you cum again. You would let him. Neteyam is beautiful, more handsome than any other Na’vi you’ve ever seen. If he would have been kind to you and shown interest in you like that, you would have agreed to fuck him in a heartbeat. 

But he’s not himself. Doesn’t even have his mind enough to acknowledge your pleas with anything more than agitated snarls and frustrated growls. 

His cock feels monstrous as he rubs it between your soaked folds. Thick and hard as the wetness of his own slick mixes with the sticky mess you have already between your thighs. The head of his cock rubs against your tender clit and you can feel how the sheer size of it forces your pussy lips apart.

You can’t take it inside you. Fuck. You can’t. You can’t. 

You whimper when the tip makes its way back to your entrance, nudging against it before the blunt tip presses forward. Your hands press into the tile on either side of your head, mouth falling open in a silent scream even as he presses your cheek further into the floor as he pushes his cock further into you. You feel every thick inch of it as it spears you open, and you expect it to hurt. It should hurt, especially with the way you’re clamping down around him, body automatically trying to keep it out even as it bullies its way deeper inside you.

There’s pressure, so much pressure. He’s too big, large alien cock way too much for your tiny human body to take, but somehow it is. Your brain is trying to tell you to panic, that the pressure is pain and you should scream and cry and try to wiggle away from it. But it's not. He’s stretching you so much, filling you up - but it doesn’t. hurt.

And that realization hurts you more than the cock currently rearranging your guts ever could.

You know it’s the slick. Despite never being with a Na’vi yourself, you know that the wetness that coats a male’s cock to aid it with slipping out of its protective sheath has something in it that eases the pain of penetration. It’s a good thing. Inherently helpful for any relationship, especially for those between a human and a Na’vi to curb the extra struggle of the size difference. 

You always thought it was sweet. A way for Eywa to reward the loyalty of the good sky people who are lucky enough to find everlasting bonds with her own children. 

Now, the idea of it leaves a bad taste in your mouth as the cock inside you pulls out only to thrust in harder. The texture on his cock scrapes against your slick walls as he starts to fuck you, the bumps and barbs rubbing and pressing against the sensitive spots inside you that you didn’t even know you had. 

A waterfall of moans and whines rip from your throat as he moves faster, your higher pitched pathetic sounds a stark contrast to his deep guttural grunts. His hand is off the back of your neck now, instead finding a place at the side of your face as he keeps you pinned to the floor. It’s so big compared to your head that it spans the entirety of it, thumb hooking just under the edge of your jaw while his fingers curl around the top of your head as he holds you down. 

Your thighs shake underneath you as he pounds into you, thick cock so far inside you that you know there has to be a bulge in your belly. There is, you can feel it. The way the head of his cock pushes against your lower abdomen roughly with each thrust and you know that if you could move your hands from the death grip press they have on the tile, you could feel it disappear and reappear under your palm. 

He adjusts behind you, both feet planted on the ground as he crouches behind you to try to push in deeper. Pleasure soaks into your brain as you subconsciously push back against him, pussy clenching and squeezing around him trying to suck him in. 

“N-Neteyam,” And you have more to say, you do. But you can’t form thoughts anymore. Nothing else will come out other than little punched out breathless gasps. 

It takes you a long time to realize that he’s speaking, and even longer for your fucked up and fucked out raddled brain to register what he’s saying. It’s not normal sentences, it’s not even English. His words are still animalistic, growled through gritted teeth as he spits out broken Na’vi between his groans of pleasure. You grew up with the language, but you’re so distracted, so overwhelmed by him and the cock inside you that your brain can’t seem to latch on to what he’s saying. 

You think you hear the word for ‘whore’, maybe ‘take it’, something ‘baby’ but you can’t be sure. 

And then he’s leaning forward, body curving overtop yours as he covers you completely. It’s only then you feel what you’ve been too distracted to notice. The thick knot at the base of his cock, fully engorged now as it prods at your entrance. 

Your hands finally leave their place pressed against the floor as you throw them behind you in newfound panic. One hand pushes against his abdomen as best as it can, trying to slow his thrusts while the other grabs at his wrist in an effort to pull his hand away from your face. The hand on his abdomen doesn’t do anything to slow his relentless pace, but the hand on the side of your head moves to tangle in your hair, gripping it in his fist close to your scalp just hard enough to burn a little as he yanks your head back. 

You gasp at the sharp sting and your gasp quickly turns into a whimper as his knot presses tighter against your soaking hole. He’s unforgiving as he digs it against you, holding your hair tight and forcing your back to arch as you stretch even further around it. You’re too wet, pussy too wet and almost greedy and it takes him in, determined despite the obscene size of the engorged ball of tissue.

“Please!” You squeal. Please stop. Please more. “Neteyam, fuck!”

Your eyes roll back into your head when the knot slips inside you, sheathing itself within your heat with another solid push of Neteyam’s hips against your ass. His cock hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars, your vision whiting out and there feels like there’s cotton in your ears as you cum around him, squeezing him tightly as you soak his length in your juices. Your breath catches in your lungs when you feel his cock pulse inside you, twitching and feeling like it’s expanding even bigger as his own orgasm hits him. 

He holds you close, keeping you pinned and still underneath him with the savage hand in your hair and the firm grip he has on your hip - fierce and unmoving as if to keep you from running away.

As if you even could with the knot locked inside you. 

His growl of pleasure reverberates off the walls as he paints yours. Long, thick ropes of release coating your insides and it's so much, so so much that you feel like you can’t fit anymore. Like if he cums anymore, you’ll burst. The knot is still lodged inside you, locked in and refusing to let you free, but there’s no space left inside you, no space, and you feel the excess cum seep out of your hole from around his knot to trail down the insides of your thighs. 

You don’t remember blacking out, and you’re not sure when Neteyam was able to pull free from you or when he passed out next to you either. But when you wake up next, it’s to voices.

“Oh my gosh!”

“Y/N!”

“What the fuck happened?”

The bright florescent lights of the lab are blinding when you try to open your eyes. Exhaustion seeps from every pore of your body and fuck, you feel so sore. 

Norm’s shocked face is looking down at you when your eyes finally adjust to the light, Max and a few of the other scientists are behind him, faces an equal mixture of shock and horror as they stare at you with wide eyes. 

It takes you a moment to remember what happened - why you’re here, waking up on the cold floor of the lab. Naked. You scramble up, hands clutching at your chest as you desperately try to cover yourself. A deep groan to your right steals your attention from your group of onlookers, and your eyes fall on Neteyam, just waking up from his own sleep.

His eyes are back to their normal gold as they open, groggy at first and then alert in a heartbeat as it registers where he is. He’s up in a crouch in an instant, looking ready to fight but not really sure what he’s supposed to be fighting. Those golden eyes catch on the group, confusion twisting on his face and you can practically see the gears in his brain turning as he tries to figure out what’s going on. 

Then his eyes meet yours, taking in your torn clothes and near nakedness, and you sit in horror as it clicks for him what must have happened. 

And you watch as the horror in your eyes becomes mirrored in his. 

**Special thanks to @quicktosimp and @itchaboi-itchyboy for the prompt!

Taglist: @eywaite @loaksulluyswife @erenjaegerwifee @f-cklife @beautiful-brown-skin-05 @minnory @localjasmine @skywonder @neteyamswillow @luvv4j4ybe11 @vampirefilmlover @aria-tempest @pocky444 @bambithewriter @xylianasblog @anemonelovesfiction @criticallybella

**Comment here to be added to/removed from my taglist!

[tr4gictea]

I HAVE SO MANY IDEAS FOR REQUEST BUT I DON'T WANNA OVER BEAR YOU SRRYY

What about a teen gn reader who looks average (in term of strength) but could OBLITERATE a ruin guard in like,, one punch

How would the characters react to that???

genshin + weak looking but strong!teen!reader

❥Masterlist

Tags: slight fluff, mention of injuries

Including: Xiao, Dehya, Lyney

word count: 1,203

A/n: Heyyy, guess who's not dead! sorry I haven't been around for like a year or two things for me have gotten busy but things are slowing down for me right now so I'm gonna be focusing more on writing now! I hope you enjoy :D

You had always heard stories of adventurers finding new civilizations, fight cool monsters, and traveling around the world. You were gonna be like one of those strong adventurers and be marked down in the history books. Though your training and honed your skills to your very limit yet your body stayed the same, growing at its normal pace. Sure you could punch through a brick wall but, you also looked as if you spent your days reading inside. But after a while you had come to accept that you would remain average size until you joined the adventures guild.

The adventure’s guild always had interesting commissions, from the mundane to the deadly. You joined looking forward to getting super hard missions where you could explore a abandoned temple and fight the spirt that lives there! Or a commission about a missing person who has been kiddnap by dozens of treasure hoarder and you have to fight your way through them! As Katherine hands you your first commission you read the page telling you to deliver mint to some guy. 

You look up at kathrine with a “are you joking” face. She only smiles at you and asks if you have any questions. You insist to kathrine that you are a strong individual and you can handle your own. She shakes her head saying that this is the best commission for your skill level. You went back and fourth with Kathrine about the commission before she gave up and gave you some hillcurl camp to clean up on the west side. Snatching the commission out her hand you rush off to complete it. 

It wasn't the intense adventure you hoped for but it was better than nothing. So you head out to the camp and when you get there you spot three hillchurls, easy enough. When you finish off

the last hillchurl you heard the sound of gears churning behind you. 

“WATCH OUT!” a mystery voice calls out. Quickly turning around you are faced 13 feet tall ruin guard. It lifts up its giant geared hand attempting to slam it down on you, you dodge out of the way by jumping back. This is the first time you've ever encountered a ruin guard and there was something you wanted to try with it. 

Throwing your weapon to the side you take a running start at the ruin guard. You can hear the stranger yell at you to get back when you leap into the air lifting your fist up pull it down right on the machine’s head. It flies back into a rock wall 12 feet away from you. Landing on your feet you watch as the ruins guard light flickers for a second then goes dark. Turning to the mystery person you are met with a look of…

Xiao: Shocked but doesn't care that much

Xiao was patrolling the area around Yaodie Valley when he came across you fighting hillchurls. You had an adventurers guild uniform on but you looked far too weak to be fighting such monster, and at such a young age. But you looked to be holding yourself well so he didn't bother you. Until he saw out of the corner of his eye an old ruin guard started to shuffle and activate. 

He yelled at you warning about it but to his surprise, you dropped your weapon and took off running towards it. He was about to intervene when you sent the ruin guard flying into a wall. He stood there for a second spear still out and in his fighting stance but, confused as hell. How did such a weak, pathetic-looking child punch that ruin gaurd like it was a stuffed animal and come out unscathed? 

“Uh, Mr. Adeptus?” You said trying to get the man's attention. “are you okay?” Snapping out of his trance he circles around you checking for wounds, none were found except for some red on the fist. And without any word he disappears. 

Dehya: Worried but Amazed

While traveling to meet her newest client she stumbles on you collecting stuff off the ground while a ruin guard towers over you. You looked no older than 18 and even tho you had a weapon didnt look like you could fight. She shouts a you watch out and unsheft her claymore. As she is running towards you she sees you turn around send the metal heap flying into a stone wall with a singular punch. Stopping her in her track Dehya looks at the scene before her with her mouth agape.

“Hey kid!” she yells at you. “Are you okay?!” She began checking your body for injuries. That was quite a punch but she needed to check that you didnt break anything from that. 

“If i move your fingers like this do they hurt?!” She asked while bending your fingers slightly upwards.

“No ma’ma,” you resond 

“I've just never seen someone knock out a ruin guard with one punch! How did you even do that without break your hand?”

“I drink a lot of milk.”

Lyney: Excitement

Today was a day Lyney had all to him self, much to his dismay. Lynette was off on a solo mission and Freminet teaching some of their siblings how to dive. Lyney would have joined but those lessons were too slow paced for him and he'd end up getting board and leaving the group behind.

So now he was outside of the city walls looking for something that could entertain him. When he saw the slashing of a weapon out the corner of his eye and turned to see a teenager fighting a couple hillchurls. They looked skilled enough to take on a couple monsters but, defiantly not strong physically.

He was about to head out and look for something more interesting when he heard the gears of a ruin guard turn. He spun around to see you face to face with one of these machines. He saw you jump back nearly missing the hand crushing coming down on you. As he got out his bow to shoot the thing down he stopped himself as he saw you run and jump off a rock and landing a punch on top of its head sending it flying backward.

You turned to face him and his bow was still in his hand with a shit eating grin on his face.

"My archons that was amazing!" He exclaimed while throwing his hands up and trotted right up too you. "How did you manage to do that?" He was lifting your arms up and down like he was trying to find something to tell him how you knock the guard out in one punch. "Or is it just raw strength... Punch me."

"What?" He said that as if it was just a normal request.

"Punch me right here in the stomach, I wanna see something."

"Sir I just knocked out a whole monster and now you want me to punch you?"

"Yes, I don't know what's so hard to understand. you can take down an ancient machine with one punch but you look so... normal!" Rude. "I don't mean that in a bad way but I want to see how this is possible." for the rest of the day he spent it with you testing out your strength on different things. He should have more days to himself if it's gonna be like this one!

Requests are now open again :D

[sakumz]

a/n : BRO I LOVE THIS SERIES SO MUCH I can't wait for hero x to get more screen time!! he's kinda ooc here ig

____________________________________________

[ hero X x reader ]

____________________________________________

your desk was planted next to x, no one including you knew he was the number 1 hero, he too has no idea of the previous number 1 hero being you. the previous rose to the top and then dipped after a month of holding the title, they even disappeared without a trace, everyone assumed they died.

" wow what a record! you missed the meeting but here, I took notes for you, " you hand him the papers as you got up with your cup of coffee.

" y/n is so cool, she even covered your butt earlier when boss was mad at you, " hearing his co-worker comment, he can't help the small smile tugging on his lips.

" hey I'm going for a walk, wanna come? " x obeys, catching up to you as you hold the door. he had the urge to snap his fingers at the camera but to his surprise, the ground beneath you was pooling with black, slowly creeping up the walls and then reaching for the camera, showing black on the screen of whoever checks the camera.

" don't be scared, " you look over him. a gentle smile present on your lips.

" I'm not that strong anymore, " you step out first with him following behind.

the walk was quiet, you both stumble upon a vending machine, watching as his eyes sparkle at the familiar drink, he offers to buy you one as well. you accept, dragging him along to a nearby bench to drink and relax.

" what are your thoughts on hero x? " he asks as he stares ahead.

" he's cool, though I do wish he'll save me, would be nice to see his pretty face up close, " his ears burns slightly at your words.

" you've got some power there earlier, were you a hero? " hearing the sounds of trash cans colliding and the sound of a young girl shouting, you got up immediately.

not so far from the bench you and x were sitting on, there was an alleyway. you know better to mind your own business but seeing how his question just had to be a coincidence to this incident, you just had to show off. he follows behind you, you step forward, touching the brick wall, black seeps from your fingers to the walls, growing bigger and further to the perpetrator. the black summon, touches his shadow, engulfing the man and then a void was summoned, sucking the man in and almost anything around it. the girl ran forward as you quickly closed the void the moment the perpetrator was in. your powers disappeared when you lift your finger from the brick wall, the kid you saved ran next to you, catching her breath from the run.

" you did well, kiddo! " you crouched down, patting her head as she looks at you when she finally calmed down.

" are-are you the primordial shadow hero, nyx? " her eyes sparkles as x remains quiet, watching the exchange.

" that's right, keep it a secret for me, would you? " you wink as you stand up, she nods and bid you farewell, running away.

you look over at x, you can't help but smile.

" well? "

" so you're the previous number one hero, nyx. why'd you stop becoming a hero? " he stands still.

" people don't trust nyx enough, I can barely transform into my hero self due to the lack of trust and besides people don't believe in nyx anymore... I was lucky to still hold the power, thanks to a little trending clip a friend posted the other day, " you shake the man. for the first time, you hear the man chuckle.

" I'll place my trust in you, hero nyx, " he pats your shoulder as he starts walking back to the office building, leaving you to stand still at your spot. did he just laugh and smile? but the glow on your wrist, shows your trust value increasing.

" weren't you with y/n, just now? " the same co-worker question as he takes his usual seat.

you came back, running towards x. you couldn't help but wrap your arms around his neck, engulfing him in a hug and burying your face in his hair.

" your words really made me happy, thank you, " you pull away, going back to your table as the same co-worker stares and points.

" what!? are you two dating now?! " the attention draws back to you when they notice that x was no longer in the room. oh how you wished you could summon your void and teleport yourself elsewhere.

this sounds very oc-centric but after brainstorming the idea of a primordial shadow user where they can manipulate not just shadows but darkness and anything deeper than reality chatgpt gave the idea of how reality manipulator X can make the garden pretty with the snap of his fingers while the primordial shadow user steps forward, touches the ground and just destroys it.

heroes are built by trust but I'd like to think reader here was very trustworthy with their powers, leading them to first place but because of rumours about how their black powers kinda look like villains corrupted by fear, people stop trusting them, weakening them to the point they can't transform, only using a little bit of power from time to time then a friend recently posted an old clip, gaining some trust for our reader hero nyx, people don't have to fear because they have hero x.

[bookworrm1999]

How Far Away? Part 10

Caleb x Mc

Tags: unplanned pregnancy, presumed death, depression, miscommunication

Summary: Mc and Caleb fight right before he goes on a long mission into space. Caleb ends up MIA while Mc finds out she's pregnant. She struggles to deal with the grief while Caleb is fighting for his life to make it back home to her.

AO3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

Epilogue

Caleb and you were back in your old apartment in Linkon, a thin layer of dust covered everything as you had been living exclusively at Caleb’s house for a few months now.

You were back in Linkon for your anatomy scan, after the scan, you were going to meet up with Sylus.

Hopefully, he’d be able to help find Ever’s old research in the abandoned buildings of the N109 zone. You were also hoping to ask if he would help Caleb, Sylus’s proficiency in programming and machines would surely help with Caleb’s arm and chip.

It was a few hours until your anatomy scan and you were trying to pack up your apartment. Moving in with Caleb permanently seemed to be the best option now. Keeping an eye on each other but also letting Caleb be there for you, experiencing pregnancy in person rather than over video.

You started to zip your clothes up in vacuum sealed bags, Caleb was taking all of your decorations and putting them in boxes to go to Skyhaven.

Your furniture was going into storage via a moving team later today until you could figure out what you wanted to keep.

With your situation being the way it was, you had contacted your captain and let her know about the situation. Well a watered down version anyway.

She had set up a long distance link to your laptop so that you could work from home for the foreseeable future. You wouldn’t be heading out into the field any time soon.

Things were wrapping up quickly but you did send a message to Tara letting her know what was happening. You had been ignoring her but she was your friend and deserved more than silence.

You messaged Xavier too, letting him know you were moving.

Telling Zayne could come later as you had a meeting with him too.

Finishing your room up, you slowly pulled yourself up off the floor to stand. Groaning as the shift in your center of gravity made it harder to do anything.

Caleb heard this and came running in.

“What’s wrong? The baby ok?”

Laughing and waving him off, you defend yourself

“This is normal in pregnancy, you’re going to have to get used to that. Everything is different, I can’t move fast, get up and down quickly, and my body has weird aches and pains now.”

He comes over to lay a hand on your belly, rubbing it gently.

“I don’t know if I want to get used to you being in pain. I hate that I can’t do anything.”

“Sure you can! You can give me massages, make food for me, rub my feet, get me whatever I need.”

Raising an eyebrow, he laughs

“Sounds more like I’m your personal assistant than your boyfriend. But if you need a massage, I can give you a good one… from the inside.” Waggling his eyebrows in suggestion.

You two hadn’t gone further than kissing and cuddling the past two days. Caleb joked about it but he was the one who was nervous about crossing that line now.

Poking his stomach, making it flinch instinctually

“Uhuh, it’s been so long, I don’t even know if you can get it up anymore. I can’t even remember what it feels like.”

Turning, you raise your hands and shrug dismissively.

Hands come around you and pull you back, his mouth against your neck, hot air tickling you as he speaks.

“Oh you’re going to regret that.”

“Down boy, keep it in your pants until tonight. We still have work to do. The appointment is in an hour.”

Caleb sighs, kissing you before letting you go.

“Aye aye captain.”

**

Arriving at Akso Hospital with Caleb in tow made you inexplicably happy inside.

Maybe it was because everytime that you had come here in the past months had been by yourself, experiencing your baby growing all on your own.

Having him here now felt like a miracle after thinking he was dead once again.

You were called back into the ultrasound room where a technician awaited you.

They directed you until you were all set up, shirt up with jelly on your belly.

And there they were, the cutest little baby.

Caleb let out a loud whoosh of air as he experienced this for the first time in person

Squeezing your hand, you squeezed back as he held a hand to his eyes. Tears leaking out of the corners as emotions overwhelmed him.

“We’re making our own little family.” He whispered

“That’s right baby, just us against the world.” You raised his hand and kissed it gently, rubbing his knuckles with your other hand, grounding him in the moment.

“Alright Mom and Dad, ready to hear the baby’s heartbeat?”

“Yes!” You both answer enthusiastically. The fast little heartbeat filling the room, making this moment all the more real.

“Now before I forget and let it slip my mind, are we finding out the gender today?”

You had opted to wait until the anatomy scan instead of finding out via blood tests earlier. Wanting Caleb to be a part of the big moment. Looking at each other, you both knew the answer.

“Yes.”

“Great! It looks like you’re having a little girl. Congratulations!”

A girl, the thoughts of the future you want to come about play in your mind. You wanted to protect the phantom of your daughter playing in your mind.

Seeing her play outside in the garden, hopping after grasshoppers, picking flowers to put in the middle of the table, dancing with daddy while wearing mommy’s too big shoes.

She deserved a safe place to grow up and as her mom and dad, you two had to work hard at this plan to provide that for her.

Looking at Caleb, you could tell he was having similar thoughts.

So you squeezed his hand,

“A girl!”

“I hope she looks like you.”

“I hope that she looks like both of us.”

“Fair point.”

**

The rest of the anatomy scan went well and you headed to a small cafe nearby.

All of the info that Sylus needed and your proposal in a folder in your bag.

Caleb was taking backseat in this but he offered emotional support.

Sometimes you really did think of him like an emotional support dog.

Sitting at a table, you patiently waited for Sylus while Caleb grabbed you a sandwich and a lemonade for you from the counter.

“Hello kitten.”

Looking up, Sylus was there, taking up all the presence in the room.

Your sandwich and drink were smacked down in front of you, Caleb sat roughly beside you.

Not saying a word but crossing his arms, staring distrustfully at Sylus.

You patted his thigh, reminding him silently to loosen up. Sylus was a big part of making your plan succeed after all, not to mention Sylus wasn’t really threatening despite appearances. Feeling Caleb loosen up beneath your hand, you turned your eyes back to Sylus.

His eyes had been tracking all of your movements, he smiled and sat down.

“How have you been?”

“I’m surprised you don’t already know with how you keep an eye on things. I’ve seen Mephisto in the vicinity here in Linkon.”

“You forget that you’ve been out of town often for the past few months.”

“Still.” You wave your hand at him disbelieving.

“ I did notice that you had been visiting the hospital and that you haven’t been working, so I assumed it had to be something with your heart.”

“Well, not quite.”

You stood up and pulled your coat back to expose your burgeoning belly.

The only tell in his expression was his eyes widening as he took in the sight of your pregnancy.

“I see, how did this happen?”

Laughing at the question, “What do you mean, how did it happen? The way it usually happens.”

“I’m just surprised, I didn’t think you were looking to settle down like this so soon.”

“It was a surprise but a happy one.” You reached up and grabbed Caleb’s hand. “We’re very happy but that’s what leads me to why I called you out here.”

“And?”

“It’d be better if you just saw for yourself.” You handed over the information and the proposed plan in the folder.

His eyes quickly scanned the papers, taking it in fast as expected of the leader of Onychinus.

“And you need my help?”

“Yes, they’re not just threatening Caleb and I, but also our baby. We could use your technical expertise in helping with his arm and chip, Phillip’s help too if possible.”

“I don’t know much about these programs. Ever keeps these under tight control. But you must have some way to get them or this plan wouldn’t go far.”

“They’re actually right under your nose Sylus, their old labs that have their notes on the old experiments are in the N109 zone. Caleb will be getting the notes on his arm and chip himself.”

“Hmmm, I can see that this would also benefit me and finally have something to hold over them. This research into protocores in humans is definitely interesting. Perhaps this will let me pay back the favor they bestowed upon us when they framed me for those explosions so long ago.”

“Yes, I’m hoping that this provides some incentive for you. We will take care of some of the people behind it all but the company will still exist; you’d just have to deal with them running around with the head cut off.”

“Very well, I accept. I can assist with the search in the N109 zone for the labs.”

“You’ll be working with Caleb mostly, it’s not safe for me to be out pregnant anyway but we also don’t want Ever to get wind of our connection or my pregnancy.”

The two men size each other up, knowing each other through hearsay and their own investigation but never really crossing paths.

“Can I trust you two to play nice?”

Sylus smiles and leans back nonchalantly, crossing a leg over his knee and crossing his arms.

“I’m always a perfect angel.”

Caleb snorts but agrees to play nice.

“Perfect!”

Sylus gets up to leave, taking the folder with him. He stops and looks back at you, eyes lingering on your hidden belly below the table.

“Congratulations.” His voice sounding a bit choked and sad, not really matching his words. You smiled and thanked him anyway.

Leaving you and Caleb behind, you picked up your sandwich and started eating.

“I don’t like him.”

“Is there anybody you like?”

“You and this sweet girl.” His hand brushing over your belly lightly.

You pout and whine

“I thought I was your sweet girl?”

“I can have two sweet girls!” He says alarmed

“Kidding, she’s my sweet girl too after all.”

Laughing at his sensitivity, he hated making you upset, he seemed to think you’d cry at the drop of a pin. Well, you did sometimes but he doesn’t have to point it out so much.

**

You and Caleb were waiting in your apartment for the movers to finish taking your stuff to storage. Arranging for Zayne to meet you here and thankfully his schedule happened to align.

Bringing your lemonade home from the cafe, you leaned against the kitchen counter while sipping it thoughtfully.

Sylus would certainly help but you’d most likely need Phillip’s help as well. He was a part of the team that Grandma worked on, he probably knew about Caleb too. Phillip working alongside Sylus to figure out the technical side was all they had to go on.

The real problem was where the work would take place, they’d need some time to study the research when they found it and study Caleb himself.

Caleb had that room in his home where he took care of his arm; but you don’t know if you could convince him to let three different people that he didn’t really trust into it.

The door was propped open as the movers took things out and to a van.

Zayne sidled through the door, looking around with a vague interest.

“I see you’re moving out.”

“Well, we’ve made it official after all. No sense in staying here or keeping it when I’m going to live with Caleb, raising a baby takes a lot of your time after all.”

“Right.”

Caleb stood in the corner, leaning against the wall and keeping a sharp eye on Zayne.

“So what is this about?”

You had prepared a different file for Zayne as you needed him for the more medical side of things.

Risking going to another doctor for help in taking out Caleb’s chip and anything that needed modifying physically with Caleb’s arm; it was out of the question.

Ever had their fingers in a lot of pies and you needed someone you could trust.

Sliding the folder over to him, you watched as he flipped through it. He frowned and looked between you and Caleb.

“I don’t have much experience in surgery in the brain, I could help with the arm but the brain isn’t my expertise.”

“I realize that but you’re one of the only people I know I can trust with this.”

Zayne sighs, bringing his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“It seems like there’s a big overarching story to this, do I even want to know?”

“It’s up to you, I’m willing to tell you but we really do need your help.”

“I suppose I can do some research and practice into refining my surgical techniques for the brain. But you have to realize that this will be a big risk for you.” Zayne looks to Caleb for this.

Caleb nods

“I know. But to make sure she’s safe and our baby is safe, I’m willing to risk it.”

“You’re always willing to risk yourself. It drives me nuts.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.” You sigh, not really meaning it.

Zayne looks vaguely uncomfortable, turning his head to the side to clear his throat.

“I appreciate your trust and faith in me. I will do my best to fulfill them.”

“Thank you Zayne, I know this is a lot to ask but we do appreciate it. We’ll contact you when we’re ready for your help.”

“Right, I’ll get going then.”

He turns and heads out the door without another word. A mover comes in after him, picking up a table before heading back down.

Caleb comes over to you, sliding an arm around your waist. Pulling your back into his chest and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Well, we got the help we need. Now we just need to move forward with the rest of the plan.”

“Right, Sylus will conduct the search in the N109 zone for now but you said that you’ll be heading to meet the Professor next?”

“Yes, he’s one of the people who worked on upgrading my arm and implanting the chips. The rest of the research we need will be with him.”

“Will you kill him then?” Talking about murder so casually was a bit unnerving but it was necessary.

“Maybe, I need to make it look like an accident so that Ever’s head won’t go into hiding or become suspicious.”

“Things are moving so fast now.”

“They need to.” His hand cupped your belly protectively, a visible timer for their plan

**

Caleb had liaised with Sylus recently, Sylus had found the old labs with little issue. The paper copies sent to them for safe keeping while the digital copies were destroyed on the old computer. Ever would never get their hands on their old research, finding it a lot harder to recreate what they considered to be a success in experiment 001.

He was standing outside the Professor’s home, everyone else out except for his target.

Sylus had provided him with a drive that he could plug into the computer, it would copy everything and then kill the original system, wiping it all.

It made Caleb itch to rely on Sylus like this but the truth was that he had better access to the black market than Caleb did.

She trusted him and Caleb trusted her.

Taking a deep breath, he fell back into his role of obedient attack dog, the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel.

Stepping into this house for what hopefully was the last time, all he could feel was a sense of anticipation and anxiousness. All he had to do was get in, copy the drive and find a way to kill the Professor without suspicion.

Everything depended on how well this went.

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