#by discoloration I mean I Get Purple. it looks like how your skin gets when you're super cold but.im not cold.

[ltlemon]

note to self: a flare up of awful instability and soreness radiating from my knees Also coincided with discoloration SPECIFICALLY AROUND THE KNEES INSTEAD OF IT GETTING MORE INTENSE LOWER DOWN THE LEGS ? what does this mean. is it because I was sitting down all day???? what ! anyways this feels important to remember, the only other times its been centered around my knees and not like, my calves/general leg area I havent been able to see where the discoloration is. now I know for sure that it's probably definitely circulatory related. ooookie dokie!

[beelsnack]

Imperfect - Obey Me! Boys and an MC With Scars

Continuing my trend of hyper-specific self-insert fics lol

This is me projecting a little bit, I have quite a few scars. I'm diabetic, so I don't heal very well. Also, the scenario described in Mammon's part actually happened to me, so...yeah, ya boi is projecting.

There is a part two in the works, I just don't want to make this post too long.

Content Warning: Mention of self-harm in Belphie's part.

-----

Lucifer: “Can I ask you something?”

The two of them were enjoying a rare moment of peace, sipping on hot drinks together in the early morning. Most of the occupants of the House of Lamentation were still asleep, or the ones that were awake were busy doing their own thing. For once, it felt like the world was allowing them to take a break.

Lucifer set his coffee cup down and regarded them with the soft, fond look that he seemed to reserve for them alone. “Of course, my dear.”

“If you could…” the human cleared their throat, shifting their weight around nervously. “If you could get rid of my scars, would you?”

Lucifer’s expression hardened, and for a moment they were worried they had made him angry. An apology was halfway out of their mouth when Lucifer stood, making his way over to their side and cradling their chin in his gloved hand.

“If you wished it, it would be so,” he rubbed a thumb over one of the pock-marks on their cheek. Not only had cystic acne left a constellation of marks across their face, they had always bruised easily so even the mildest of injuries left scars. 

“But you are exactly the way you need to be as you are,” Lucifer continued. “And I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.”

Mammon: “Did it hurt?”

At first the human thought that Mammon was attempting to use a cheesy and potentially blasphemous pick up line on them. But when they looked up from the TV show the two of them were watching while curled up in their bed, they realized that he was looking at the faded red-purple marks adorning their legs.

“Well, it didn’t fucking tickle.”

Mammon flushed. “I didn’t - I mean - uh, shit, um - “

They shoved him good-naturedly. “Don’t worry about it.”

Both of them sat in silence before they decided the awkward tension was too much. “You wanna know how I got these scars?” they asked, in a terrible Joker impression.

“Not if you’re gonna sound like Heath Ledger while telling me.” 

The human snorted. “It’s not even that cool, honestly. I was helping move some furniture, and the house had a pretty long set of concrete steps. I was going backwards down the steps, lost my footing and ate it from about six feet in the air.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Mammon hissed, wincing in sympathy.

“I have one on my arm, too, but that one’s a bit more faded,” they held up their forearm. The discolored patch of skin was barely visible in the dim light from the TV, but Mammon could still tell it couldn’t have been a pleasant experience. “Had a split second to chose between bashing my head in or fucking up my arm.”

“...I’m glad you chose your arm?” Mammon shrugged.

“Me too,” they laughed.

Leviathan: He was staring.

The human was starting to get a little uncomfortable with how intensely Levi was looking at their face. They knew the scar on the left side of their face was intense - it had been a constant reminder of the house fire they had survived when they were younger. But Levi didn’t have to stare at it like he was committing it to memory.

“I’m just thinking…”

“Thinking about what?” The human wished they had a hood to hide behind or something, they were starting to get angry. 

Levi must have realized his error, because he suddenly turned bright red and looked away, hand covering the lower half of his face in embarrassment.  The human felt a little bad, but at least Levi wasn’t gawking at them anymore.

“...y’look…lrpzuko…”

“...Come again?” 

“I said you look like Prince Zuko!” Levi blurted before pressing his hand harder against his mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, I’m just gonna - “

“Wait,” the human pulled up their phone camera. “...I kind of see it, holy shit.”

Satan: “So where did this come from, anyway?”

He knew it probably was committing some sort of social faux pas to ask, but Satan was a curious creature by nature, and he figured that he and the human were close enough. Figuratively and literally, considering they were laying with their head in his lap while the two of them were reading.

When they made an inquisitive noise, he idly drew a clawed finger down the long, jagged scar decorating their forearm. He felt them stiffen against his legs, and when he looked up he saw the apprehension on their face.

“I…God, it’s so stupid…”

“Come on, it can’t be that bad,” Satan urged. They hesitated a bit before sighing.

“I was fighting with this kid in…it was either middle school or early high school. I went to walk away because I was kind of getting sick of arguing with the moron, but when I turned around they shoved me hard enough to knock me over. I kinda like…flung my arm up, to protect my face, y’know? And since it was outside it got all scraped up. Never healed fully, I guess, so now I have this.”

Satan hummed thoughtfully, tracing the outline of the scar. It was faint, barely visible in dim lighting, but it was obvious that the human wished it wasn’t there.

“You fought back, right?”

“Duh.”

Asmo: “You seem very focused there, darling. Don’t quite know your shade?”

The two of them had been standing in the foundation section of the local Dephora for a while now. Asmodeus knew the store like the back of his hand and had already scooped up all of his favorite products in addition to a couple new drops that had made their way onto Devilgram. The human, however, hadn’t moved for about 20 minutes.

“I mean…I know my shade, but…” they hesitated, hand idly drifting towards the side of their neck. “Coverage is more what I’m worried about.” 

Asmo’s brows furrowed. The human had a scar from when they got splashed with hot oil as a child, and they were notoriously self-conscious about it. Aesthetically, Asmo understood - it wasn’t pretty, it looked like it had hurt and if he could he would use every bit of his magical power to get rid of it completely. But it was part of the human, and Asmo loved it regardless.

He slipped a hand overtop of the humans, causing them to look up at him with worried eyes. Asmo’s own eyes softened, and he leaned over to press a gentle kiss to their forehead. “Darling, if you do want to cover it up to boost your confidence, I will gladly help you pick out foundation and concealer. But you know you don’t have to if you truly don’t want to, right? That I’ll love you no matter what?”

The human looked away, but Asmo still caught the shy smile they wore as they leaned into his hand. “I know.”

Beelzebub: “Can I help you?”

Admittedly, the human was a little paranoid about whether or not people were staring at them. But this time, it was very clear that Beelzebub was staring at them, and they weren’t sure how they felt about it. They were cooking dinner, after all, they might not even be the thing that Beel was staring at.

“That mark on your shoulder.” 

Immediately, the human tensed up. They had thought that the shirt they were wearing covered up the conspicuous birthmark on their right shoulder, but apparently not. “What about it?”

Beel paused for a moment. “It looks like a potato.”

They turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow. “Does it? I can’t really see it all that often.”

“Mm,” Beel nodded before unfolding himself from the stool he was sitting on and coming up to hug the human from behind. He leaned down to nuzzle affectionately against the mark, and the human felt their apprehension begin to bleed away. “I like it. It makes you, you.”

They remained silent for a moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of their lips. “Thanks, Beel.”

Belphegor: “Did you do that to yourself?”

It took a minute for the human to realize what Belphie was talking about. They had just changed into their pajamas, and they honestly had thought Belphie was asleep. But apparently he had been awake enough to notice the evenly-spaced cut marks along the insides of their thighs.

“...Yeah,” they muttered, hiding their face in his chest. So much for a peaceful night’s sleep. “A while ago.”

“Why?”

They shrugged. Honestly, thinking about that particular time in their life wasn’t something they did often, at least not consciously. Every time they did, their heart rate increased, their breathing sped up, and it suddenly felt like they were in that dark room again with nothing but their spiraling thoughts - 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Belphe muttered against their hair. “Stay with me, now, okay?”

He ran a hand up and down their back soothingly, and it would never surprise them how gentle Belphegor could be for a demon.

“You want to know what I think?” Belphie allowed his fingers to trace the marks along their thighs, but the touch was distinctly platonic. 

“Mm?”

“I think,” he pressed a kiss to the crown of their head. “That you were going through a lot, and those scars are proof that you made it through.”

The human stilled, processing, before they snuggled deeper into Belphie’s embrace. “You think so?”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed sleepily, hand stilling against the small of their back. “Not that I’m glad you have them, mind you, but nobody goes through hell completely unscathed and you shouldn’t feel ashamed of them.”

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

ok well fuck now I'm thinking about new haven wards !!!! specifically like. how would their appearances differ from what we know in pd to in. worm world. like AS FAR AS I KNOW . with my somewhat limited knowledge. there are no fucking ELVES in worm. so virions just got. normal ears . but what else is different !!!! when condi first described vyncent in s1 he actually said he had black hair. so i think it might be cool to make his hair darker more of a natural color. maybe shitty box dye purple with black roots or something. proabably permanent bags under his eyes because he feels like he always has to keep watch for something (it's hard to get much rest at night when you're by yourself in an unfamiliar place and spend your waking hours making potential enemies out of other capes). I almost think he would be a little bit more jumpy, more quick to react if someone were to come up behind him without announcing themselves. pull a hidden knife first ask questions later kind of survival instincts. if william still has his white streak i think it's dyed instead of natural from his powers. and because i like 2 project on my favorites I want him to have the little under dye in the back too. for me. actually probably the Most Normal Looking out of the three of them ironically? because hes very new on the cape scene, probably the most recent one to get his powers, they haven't had as much of a physical effect on him yet. his weird things are probably more stealth at first; reflective eyes in the dark, colder than normal skin etc etc. things that you wouldn't really notice in civilian clothes . not sure if the whole decay thing still applies but if it does i imagine he'd eventually have to put more effort into his civ appearance to keep his identity hidden (gloves to cover discolored fingers, maybe a fake pair of glasses to have an excuse for the more obvious reflections, etc etc) . dakotas hair is maybe closer to natural redhead ? or he used the same shitty box dye as vyncent . I don't know if dakota would have as many scars here as he does in pd- he's still an adrenaline junkie so it's possible but I also think he knows he doesn't have accelerated healing so while he probably still has More Than Normal I don't think it would be quite as extensive. im still endlessly amused by the thought of people seeing him as failsafe and assuming he's a brute on appearance alone so he gets to keep the muscle mass . the circumstances of his parents death are still vague but if he did have a close call run in with the s9 I think he should have SOME sort of physical mark from that. just bc I think that's so fucking tasty. maybe give him a tattletale style jack scar . NO YOU KNOW WHAT. REALIZING THIS AS IM TYPING. that deal . that deal that Jack made with Purity's kid where he was like "ill let you live because I want to see if you get strong enough to kill me in a few years" you know what I mean!!!!! something like that seems extremely on brand for dakota cole. holy shit.

[someoneihavelovedbutneverknown]

Okay. Don’t panic. Take a few deep breaths, the situation isn’t that bad. Nope, time to panic.

There’s a winged teenager, likely not older than maybe 16 or 17 sprawled out on my floor like a Family Guy character when they fall down a flight of stairs. An ethereal glow comes from the halo circling around her head, shining golden in my yellow bedroom light. A golden liquid leaks from her side, and I can see her back is fairly hurt too, with smaller cuts and scrapes.

I mustered all my strength and lifted her by her armpits, and propped  her up against my bed. Her eyes were closed, and her face had smaller cuts and scrapes as well. Running to the garage, I climbed through the back of my car to the trunk, where I got the only first-aid kit I knew we had in my house. Well, my parents may have had one in their bedroom, but they would notice if I took things from it, so the never-used car one was my best bet.

Kneeling next to her, I saw there was a shard of something glass-like in her side, deep and dark. Now, you’re not supposed to take out things like that, the person, or angel in my situation, would bleed out faster. But it seemed to be spreading a deep magenta-purple discoloration in her skin, which certainly wasn’t good, so I grabbed the shard and yanked it out. Her golden eyes jolted open, and an unearthly scream came out of her throat.

“Dude, I’m sorry. This weird glass shit was stuck in your side, I had to pull it out. Didn’t look too good either,” I ranted as I put pressure on the opening and bandaged her waist. For most of my life, I was unsure of her existence, and the only time I had seen her help me was during an unfortunate accident my science camp bus had when we hydroplaned or something on the ice. She appeared next to me, and grabbed my hand, and the bus immediately stopped skidding. That was all she appeared for, physical accidents, never when I was being bullied or when my friends turned on me. Now, I was reminded of my reality when she started hyperventilating.

“Wha…oh no—I can’t—I’m fine, don’t worry about me…I’m meant to handle these things-“

“No. You are currently bleeding out in my bedroom, I would kinda be an asshole if I didn’t help or heal you, okay?”

“Okay…”

“What…what happened?”

“I…” her eyes glazed over, and she seemed distant. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it twice, trying to remind her where she was. It seemed to work, and she looked at me.”

“I think it was…some creature…a forest one I think…”

“Ah. What did it look like?”

“It had antlers…and seemed old, it had moss and mushrooms growing all over it. I think it was an apparition, but maybe it was a spirit.”

“Ohhh! I know who that is. That’s Willow, she kinda guards me.”

“But—that’s my job?!”

“Well they thought you were doing a shitty job at it, so they filled in. Yeah, they do get extremely protective, even to angels like yourself. I’ll tell them to be more careful.”

“Do you understand what you did,” My angel said as she tried to stand up, ultimately failing, “I mean this puts me in an extreme situation! This can get me fired! This means I have to go to the human realm again, permanently. I don’t want to do that!”

I took a deep breath and though about how to properly respond. My negligent guardian Angel appears to me, bleeding from the forest spirit that was the only one that truly protected me, gets pissed at me of all people, and expects me to not be pissed!

“Listen. I never gave you a name, and you wanna know why? You were there for when I was in danger physically, but not mentally! When those close to me turned on me, that was when I was in danger, and my greatest foe was myself. Why didn’t you help then?! Willow was there for that. You were never.”

She looked at me, golden tears in her eyes. Okay, I definitely fucked up.

“You’re my first job…I didn’t know what to do…now I realize…you almost died the way I had…I almost got you killed…but you were the danger…”

That was when I realized what had happened. She was around 16 or 17, and she must have…oh no…I shouldn’t have been so harsh.

“Listen. I’m sorry. It was wrong of me. We both have things to work out, but we can do so together, got it? How about we start with a name…do you like Daisy?”

“Yeah…I love it,” she nodded, smiling a bit.

I immediately hugged her, feeling her warmth. In a way, I was her guardian Angel I guess. We had a long way to go, but this was a good start.

You’ve always had a literal guardian angel- but she’s currently bleeding out on your bedroom floor.

[sseastar]

✶ ice and bruises ▸ lee heeseung

genre: established relationship!au ; fluff, very suggestive pairing: heeseung x female reader description: your boyfriend is a kid at heart but apparently, to him that warrants him to gain the same scrapes and bruises a middle schooler would playing at recess. thankfully, he has you to count on when it comes to taking care of his injuries…and maybe other things too word count: 1.5k warnings: make out scene! implied love scene but nothing explicit! this is purely just self-indulgent lmao; mention of bruises, heeseung’s a flirt UGH listen to: years ago by new west

Your boyfriend and his friends are in or nearing their twenties, but that doesn’t mean they hesitate to play rough with each other like they’re middle-schoolers at recess.

This you learn earlier on in your relationship with Heeseung, or even before, when you had still just been mere acquaintances. But what surprises you is exactly how rough they can be with each other, and the developing purple patch on his skin that you spot one night is what reveals this level to you.

“Hee, what happened to your back?” you exclaim as your eyes zero in on the discolored blemish of skin on your boyfriend’s shoulder blade. You gently smooth your thumb over it as Heeseung bends to the sink to spit out a swish of mouthwash, slightly shivering under the contact of your cold hands.

“We were all fooling around a few days ago and Niki accidentally pushed me back into a railing on campus,” Heeseung wipes his mouth on his towel then turns to place a small soft kiss below your earlobe,“but I’m okay, angel. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s kind of my job to worry about it,” you point out as he places his hands on your hips to gently move you out of the way. You groan lightly at his stubbornness, following him back across the hall to your bedroom. “Come on,” you urge, pointing at the foot of your bed, watching as he pulls a white shirt out of his duffle bag and slips it over his frame. “Sit there and wait for me. I’m getting you ice.”

Heeseung’s gaze trails after your figure as you walk out of your bedroom, and he sighs - not out of exasperation, but because he doesn’t know what he did that made him deserve you. You’re an angel in his eyes (hence your nickname), and his heart will never fail to keep falling deeper and deeper into the depths of your grasp.

But it’s too late now because Heeseung has already put up his act of reluctance. If he were to give in and let you take care of him as you always did with no rejection, it would only out him, and allow you to tease him about how wrapped he was around your finger.

So when you return with an ice pack in one hand and a dish towel in the other, your boyfriend presses his lips together. He leans back with his palms on the mattress, watching as you wrap the towel around the ice pack to prevent any freezer-burn.

“I told you I’m fine, angel,” he assures as you sit down next to him.

You only give him a frustrated look, but he can see the affection hiding behind your eyes and the care in your voice. “And I told you you’re not, love. Do you really want to have this conversation right now?” you ask as you pull at the hem of his shirt. “Off.”

“Fine,” he sighs again as if everything was a nuisance, but he lifts the back of his shirt anyway. Heeseung has to bite back the grin on his lips as he lets you turn him away from you to examine the bruise on his back. “I really am okay, though. I promise.”

“So you’re saying this hurts me more than it hurts you?” you ask but it doesn’t really sound like a question. Involuntarily, Heeseung’s eyes flutter closed when you skim your fingers along his spine, hissing when you finally press the cold-compress onto the developing purple and green blotch. “Why didn’t you tell me, Hee? Hmm?”

Your voice is soft when you ask him, and he glances over his shoulder to see your eyes focused on the bruise. Heeseung softens when he realizes how worried you actually are about him, and he once again wonders how lucky he is to have you.

Your boyfriend only apologizes and says something about not wanting to worry you, warranting a gentle pinch to his side. “And this led you where, huh?”

“I know, I know.” Heeseung lets himself smile softly. “I’m sor-,” he stops when he feels your fingertips start to rub circles on his shoulder-blade, painting a lightweight picture across his back.

“Stop apologizing, Hee. Just promise you’ll tell me next time, alright?”

“I promise, love.”

“Good,” you say, satisfied, and you dip your head.

The stark contrast of the warmth of your lips on his ice cold skin is what catches his attention, and when he turns his head to look at you over his shoulder, you can see the way his eyes darken as they meet your own. Already in an attack of your lips on his back, Heeseung can only watch as your mouth falls back onto his skin and he does everything in his power to hold back from crashing his lips onto yours. But the sudden, delicate kiss you place on his shoulder is accompanied by a gentle hum, and his shirt comes fully off before he grabs you by the waist to push you back onto your bed.

Heeseung hovers over your frame, knees on either side of your thighs. You’re too lost in the gaze he has on you to care about the puddle the ice pack forms on the corner of your periwinkle duvet cover. “Sometimes, I think you get hurt on purpose just so I take care of you,” you tell him, voice breathy at the sudden change in the atmosphere. Your hands are on his shoulders, stopping him from doing anything further just so you can tease him.

Your boyfriend only chuckles, but you can hear the sudden edge he has laced in his voice. “And if I do, what about it?” Heeseung asks as he gently slides his hands up from your waist to your arms, and back down towards your hands that are pressing against his shoulders. He takes them in his own, gaze locked on yours as he brings your hands up to his lips. The pillows of his lips are soft against your fingertips, and - knowing how intimate you think it is - Heeseung trails his mouth down to your wrist, whispering that he loves you in a hot breath before gently kissing it. He pulls away, looking at the way your eyes are glazed over with what he can only read as love - and he returns the same expression.

Heeseung’s eyes have always been strong. Even when he was sitting, looking up at you from his seat on the first day of high school - when he was offering you the last seat in the classroom and you immediately befriended each other and decided to stick by each other’s sides. Now, you were together in the summer of the second year of college, but you never could get past the swirling black holes of his eyes.

“You’re a baby. Or you’re just whipped,” you point out, watching his face get closer to yours as he settles back down over you. This time he props himself up on either side of your head, but your hands entwined, your movement limited because of the way they’re pinned under his. Heeseung nudges the tip of his nose against yours before molding his lips with your once again, both of your eyes fluttering shut in a peaceful bliss.

A gentle kiss is placed on your forehead, your eyelids, and then your nose, before Heeseung’s lips finally land on yours in a deeper manner than the others. He tilts your head back against the pillow as he presses his mouth - hard - leaving a small nip on your bottom lip. “Again, is there a problem, angel?” He asks when he pulls away with a heavy exhale, and he dips his head back down, moving just past your lips to your jaw, then to just below your ear and then down to your neck.

You don’t know how it got heated, but you allow the sigh you had been holding back to escape your lips when he finds the sensitive spot on your neck. He knows you too well, and you hate how he knows how much suckling and blowing against that spot will affect you.

“Heeseung-” you start, but he continues to leave traces of fire against your skin.

He hums in response, raising his face from your neck to look at your own. He pulls back, and you aren’t surprised that his pupils are dilated, filled with nothing but love, desire, and adoration for you. “Yes, my love?”

Wordlessly, you reach up to close the gap between your lips, both your eyes fluttering closed even before contact. Your fingers stay entwined with his against your pillow, and Heeseung lowers himself to prevent you from straining your neck. This time, the roughness of his kiss catches you off guard, but you move your lips against his with the same amount of passion and love for him.

“Thank you for taking care of me, my love,” he whispers against your neck, and you shiver as his breath dances and mingles with the scent of your powder-scented skin. “Now let me do the same for you.”

By the time your own hoodie is off, the ice pack sits long forgotten on the floor.

⌕. author’s note ; hi everyone! sorry i know i've been gone but ochem really had me by the throat this quarter and i couldn't catch one break. it's finals week right now so of course i got inspo to write at the worst time, but i wanted to post this heeseung fic before i released my upcoming skater!hoon x hockey player!reader fic! this was entirely self-indulgent and i finally got around to finishing it so i hope you enjoy!

i'm sorry to everyone who's been waiting for me! i know i've just been lurking on tumblr but i lost my motivation to write during this winter quarter but i got a lot of new ideas thanks to my roommate! hopefully next quarter i'll be able to get some more content out. thanks for waiting my seashells~ <3

⌕. taglist ; @soobin-chois @koishua @iwonzzi

[victoria-daydreams]

The Dressmaker

Part IV

AN: It’s here y’all, the final chapter! It’s been a short journey, but a journey nonetheless. Thank you to everyone who reblogged, liked, and commented on this story!

Word Count: 879

Trigger Warnings: none

Taglist: @siriuslyblackonback, @unhingedcanary, @mariamyousef702, @alastorhazbin​

The Dressmaker: Part V

Bright hues of orange and yellow reflected against the irises of Selina’s eyes as a sudden gust of warm air hit her face, causing her eyes to water up from the stinging heat. The too warm smoky atmosphere surrounding her felt as if she was curled up in front of the fireplace. Hissing and popping floated into Selina’s ears as fire consumed freshly cut logs thrown into the flames. However, the crackling in her ears isn't the result of a fireplace being tended to, instead it was a fire consuming her dress shop right in front of her eyes. Her shop looked like the entrance to the netherworld.

Smoke billowed into the early morning sky while ash fell to the street like snow. The clatter of falling debris could be heard even over the cacophony of the fire, the yells of firemen, and hoses combined.

“It’s gone,” Naveen said, his voice quavering. “Everything you’ve built…” he trailed off, shaking his head.

Fresh black smoke roiled up from the burning structure, flames licking the sides of the bricks. The thickened smoke stung Selina’s, the sensation running all the way down into her throat.

“Buildings can be replaced,” Selina said, before a cough wracked her body. “People can’t be,” she added, after her coughing fit subsided.

Selina wanted to sink to her knees in anger and despair, her life’s work was being swallowed by an inferno blaze and there was nothing she could do about it. She broke his heart and he knew exactly how to get back at her for doing it.

“Do you think…he’s responsible?” Naveen asked, looking in her direction.

“Who else would it be?” she asked back, her eyes never leaving the shadowed outlines of firemen combating the fire. “Once, I told him that my shop was being bombed by bigots. And now, he actually petrol bombed my shop,” she explained, with a harsh exhale.

“I knew Changretta was going to die, but this certainly will seal his fate,” Naveen stated. “Not to mention the bruises he left you with,” he added.

Swallowing uncomfortably, Selina wrapped her scarf tighter around neck, hiding the purple discoloration mottling her skin. To say Tommy was livid at what Luca inflicted upon her would be an understatement.

“But how did Changretta know you were a Shelby?”

“Alfie,” she spat out venomously, her head snapping in his direction. “He told me himself when I called him. Goddamn bastard doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut,” she hissed.

Selina gently massaged her sore throat, “Alfie,” she said, her voice hoarse. “When Changretta and his men came to see you, was my name brought up at any point?” she asked, tightly gripping the telephone.

“Yeah,” Alfie answered in his usual gruff tone. “I told him it would cost extra to kill Tommy, because a coloured dressmaker I know would not take kindly of having her older brother assassinated,” he answered casually, causing her nostrils flared.

“Tommy explicitly told you not to say anything about me!”

“I was trying protect you Lina,”

“A piss poor job you did at that! Does your definition of protection mean having me nearly being choked to death or shot in the head?” she exclaimed.

“Maybe you should be asking Tommy that,” Alfie suggested, in an insufferably calm response. “Seeing how he is the one that put his youngest sister in such a position,” he added.

“Well, this is Alfie we’re talking about, he’s always been a strange fellow. From his point of view, he was protecting you,” Naveen said.

“I know that, and it annoys me to no end,” Selina replied, and the sound of a water cannon suddenly firing water made her jump.

Instinctively, Naveen wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer to his body. In silence, the two of them watched as water cascaded down onto her smouldering dress shop. It was then, a series of images reeled through her mind like she was watching a silent film. The ribbon cutting, hiring Julia and Naveen, her first customer, the phonograph loudly playing as her and Naveen waltzed around the shop, their laughter matching the volume of the music. All the wonderful memories her shop produced disintegrated within a snap of a finger.

“Selina,”

The sound of her name being called shook Selina from her reverie and she looked in Naveen’s direction.

“Where do we do go from here? What do we do now?” he asked.

She glanced at her shop, “London,” Selina answered, with a nod as a small grin growing on her lips. “It’s the pinnacle of the fashion world,” she explained, her eyes drifting back to Naveen’s. “I couldn’t think of a better place to start anew,” she said, interlacing her fingers with his. “You, me, and Julia, London won’t know what hit them,” she quipped. 

“The dress shop, you,” Naveen began. “Have become apart of my life. I’ll follow you wherever you want me to,” he said gently, before kissing the top of her head. “If you’ll have me,” he added.

"Besides my family surviving what’s to come today, I can’t think of anything else that would please me more,”

Smiling, Naveen raised their interlocked hands to his lips, “To new beginnings,” he murmured, against her fingers.

“To new beginnings,”

[wkemeup]

Graveyard

summary: As the unofficial healer for the Avengers, you pride yourself on the ability to mend heroes with the touch of your hand. Only, your gift comes at a heavy price — one you keep secret from your friends —and when Bucky asks you to do the impossible, they’ll discover why your gift is called a sacrifice, too.  pairing: bucky x healer!reader word count: 10k warnings: canon level violence

As a child, you were told it was a gift; placed upon a pedestal above the quaint suffering of a rural town and removed of your innocence for the good of strangers. You’d been made to be revered – honored – for the touch that could mend the broken.  

It began with a cut upon your father’s finger – a slip of a kitchen knife that had left a small bead of blood in its wake. Curious eyes glanced up at your father as he hissed at the sting of it and you’d reach forward to place your infant hand upon the cut, a grip so mall it barely wrapped around his finger. He stilled as a soft glow began to emit from your palm. When you removed your hand and began to cry, your father was stunned to find his skin perfectly intact – no trace of a scar in its place.  

They told you it was a gift, celebrated you as if you were a blessing from Heaven itself. But they were cruel in their rejoice, selfish in their praise. They had not considered your gift was not a gift at all – but a sacrifice.  

Like energy, pain could not be destroyed— but it could be absorbed. It could be transferred. Your father’s cut had not simply disappeared, but instead manifested on the finger of an infant for a few short moments before it faded into your skin; laid to rest amongst a sea of foreign injuries that did not belong to you.  

“Look sharp, kid! We’ve got incoming,” Banner’s voice startled you from your thoughts as he stood at the doorway to your lab. Arms folded over his chest, an amused smirk upon his face, he must have caught sight of the quinjet landing in the hanger from the windows overlooking the loading dock.  

You nodded, setting down the drill beside the stun absorption pad you were engineering for Stark’s newest suit. You didn't have to wonder long who was on the latest mission and currently on their way to your office, because a familiar bickering began to carry down the hall and into the lab, forcing a smile onto your face.  

For a mechanical engineer, you saw more of the Avengers post-mission than the med wing did these days. You’d been hired for your multiple PhDs and borderline genius IQ, but once you’d rushed across the room to spare Stark from a rather unpleasant laceration on his palm from an experiment gone haywire, your lab had quickly become a rotating door of injured Avengers.  

Sure enough, Barnes and Wilson stumbled their way into the lab, Sam draped over Bucky’s shoulder, barely able to put any pressure on his left leg. While Sam tossed you his charismatic grin and those big, round, puppy dog eyes, Bucky favored to dispose of his partner on the lab table with an aggravated grunt.  

“What do we have today?” you smirked, rolling up the sleeves of your coat as Bruce shook his head in amusement.  

“Broken ankle, I think,” Sam replied, gesturing to the mess of bandages and improvised splint.  

You nodded as you stepped closer, examining the injury before you brushed a hand over the swollen joint. Sam whined at the contact, the pain clearly breaking through the lighthearted grin upon his face though he tried to suppress it. His hand curled into a fist.  

“You know I’m not a medical doctor, but I’d have to agree,” you nodded, planting your hands on your hips.  

“You could just get the x-rays and go through PT like a normal person,” Bucky grumbled off in his corner of the room, narrowing his eyes in warning upon his partner. “She’s not here as your personal healer, Wilson.”  

Bucky was always hesitant of your powers. He never said why, but you wondered most days if he was still seeking penance for the evils he’d committed under Hydra, if maybe he felt as though giving you his pain absolved him in a way he was not worthy of.  

Or perhaps it was a degradation of his pride. Men often found strength in their ability to withstand pain. Though, it seemed to bother him when the others would come to you for injuries like this, too, almost as if he worried they were taking advantage of you.  

He was a good man; certainly, more concerned with your consent in healing his friends than your parents and the town who spent your childhood exploiting you ever were.  

“I don’t mind, Bucky,” you told him, smiling encouragingly back at him until he started to relax his shoulders and uncrossed his arms, softening under your gaze. “If it means less time on the bench and more time out there saving lives and having your back, I don’t mind at all.”

“Yeah, Barnes, who’s going to watch your back if I’m held up in a cast?” Sam teased, chuckling under his breath until Bucky stepped forward and not so subtly bumped his hip to the side of the lab table. The sudden disruption of the table moved his ankle just enough to instantly wipe the grin from Sam’s face.  

“Try to relax for me, Sam,” you eased, stepping forward as you started to remove your gloves. You leaned over the edge of the table, slowly removing the splint and the bandage surrounding the swollen muscle. You handed it off to Bucky as you examined the dark purple and blue discoloration on his ankle.  

He hissed as you laid your palms on his leg, clenching down on his jaw.  

You closed your eyes, concentrating as you felt for the break beneath the surface. A crack splintered through the bone, the surrounding tissue swollen and aching.  

A gentle glow began to emit from your palms, a warmth that spread from your hands and directly onto Sam’s skin, through the muscle, and deep into the bone. You could feel the subtle fragments as they began to mend, the swell in his joint as it shrank, the slight movements as he regained feeling.  

Exhaling a tense breath, you shifted your stance onto your right leg as the pressure started to build in your ankle. It wouldn’t last long, just a few minutes in comparison to the weeks of treatment and months of physical therapy Sam would have endured – an easy trade for a man who spend his days so selflessly on the line in the service of strangers.  

You could sense Bucky watching you and you were careful not to let the pain show on your face. There was a privilege in healing the Avengers like this. It gave your life meaning beyond the injuries of your hometown; of careless teenagers falling off skateboards or angry men in bars who took an argument a drink too far. You’d happily take on a few moments of pain in service of heroes.  

Not that you’d let them know.  

“You should be good now.” You held your hands up, the soft glow fading away from your palms as you tucked your hands into your pockets. Careful of the momentary break in your ankle, you took a cautious step away from the table to lean on the chair at your desk. No one noticed the wince in your expression as you put the slightest pressure on the fresh injury.  

“I will never get tired of that.” Sam looked down at the foot in awe, rolling at the ankle and amazed to find the swelling and bruising disappeared completely. He jumped down from the table, bounding on his feet just to test out the freedom in his mobility.  

“Alright, Wilson. Enough,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “You’re going to hurt yourself again and Y/n’s not going to be so generous next time.”

Sam smirked, pausing for a moment as he contemplated. “Nah, my girl will always take care of me. Won’t ya, sugar?”  

It didn’t slip your notice when Bucky tensed up at the pet name. You started to laugh, the teasing smile dropping from his face as his hands curled into fists. Sam really knew how to press his buttons and it seemed, surprisingly enough, you were one of them.  

“Bucky’s got a point, you know. Fancy healing powers are reserved for field injuries these days.” You were only teasing, both of them knowing you’d have healed a papercut if they’d ask. Still, Bucky smirked, taunting Sam over your shoulder as if he’d won.  

You eased yourself off the chair as you started to regain feeling in your ankle, giving more pressure to the heel to find it barely noticeable. You rubbed at the joint with your right shoe to find the swelling had disappeared as well.  

A few moments to spare him weeks of pain. Easy trade.

“What about you, Sergeant?”  

Bucky paused, raising an eyebrow at you.  

You took a step forward, glancing over him in search of injuries. Nothing more than a few cuts that his own advanced healing would take care of overnight. Still, there was one injury you’d been trying to convince him to allow you to heal in the year since you’ve known him.  

“You going to let me work on your shoulder yet or are you still being a masochist?”  

Sam snickered under his breath as he crossed the room to watch what Banner was doing over his shoulder. Bucky gave you that knowing smile of his, the one that pushed up into his eyes and left behind beautiful creases and lines on his face; an exhale of a laugh on his breath.  

“It’s not necessary, doll. I’m fine.”

A frown tugged at your lips. “You always say that, and yet...”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Bucky shrugged. He was watching you with those sweet eyes of his, creating a warmth that spread in your chest entirely independent of the powers in your hands.  

“You shouldn’t have to handle it in the first place,” you pressed, a pain in your voice as he placed a hand on your shoulder, letting it slide down your arm. It was an intimate gesture, more contact that he had with most people, and he offered it willingly. You tried not to let the shivers show in your spine as he pulled away.  

It looked as though he wanted to say more, but Steve suddenly appeared in the doorway, causing Bucky to take an abrupt step away from you. You hadn’t realized how close you’d been standing to one another.  

“Debrief in five,” Steve ordered, eyeing Sam and Bucky, though paused as he saw you, offering a short smile in acknowledgement before disappearing down the hall.  

“I’m not letting this go, just so you’re aware,” you teased, pointing at Bucky’s shoulder as he started to wave Sam towards the door. He smiled, keeping his back to you until Sam was clear of the room and he leaned into the open frame, one quick glance back at you.  

“Wouldn’t expect anything less, doll.”

***

The next month saw another broken leg, a fractured clavicle, two minor lacerations, a sprained wrist, and a number of superficial cuts – all from various members of the team. Though there was always the one exception who wouldn’t accept your offer no matter how badly he was favoring his right arm.  

The clavicle was certainly a challenge to get through, but the world needed Natasha Romanoff in the field, not strung up on a gurney and a brace for a handful of months. It took longer than some of the other injuries to heal, but you’d managed, even if you had to excuse yourself to the restroom as soon as you’d finished, even if you had to shove a towel into your mouth to keep from screaming as it mended itself together under your skin.  

The truth was you liked being useful. You liked the stunned smiles on their faces and the appreciation in their eyes. You liked seeing them run a hand over perfectly smooth skin where an open wound had just been. It gave you a purpose.  

And sure – your work on SHIELD tech was important and perhaps not all of the injuries in your hometown had been a waste of your abilities, but there was something exceptionally gratifying in mending someone who was untouchable, in healing the people who saved the world.

You’d take a dozen broken clavicles for them.  

It was late after your evening shift and you’d taken to running a few laps on the indoor track around the gym. Blow off some steam, use the state-of-the-art equipment Stark spent thousands of dollars on, give your mind something to think about beside how you were going to rewire Sam’s wings to expand in a more fluid motion.  

You’d just started to break into a sweat when you noticed Bucky setting up at the row of punching bags. The gym was otherwise empty as the sky favored the stars over the sun, and you started to smile as you watched Bucky shrug off his jacket and drop the bag at his feet. He rolled back his shoulders, concentrating on the bag as he readied his fists. But as the first punch hit the bag, the smile quickly fell from your face.  

It echoed up into the rafters, startling you enough to still your sprint abruptly. He let out a grunt as he pummeled at the bag; left jab, right hook, kick, until it broke at the seams and split open to spill sand in heaps upon the ground. He moved on to the next one.  

You clasped a hand to your mouth, looking around the gym to confirm you were in fact alone with him. He’d been on a mission as far as you were aware for the last week. You’d missed him hanging around the lab, asking questions as you worked on new advancements on the stun guns for field agents. He must have gotten back a few hours ago and something clearly went wrong.  

“Bucky?” you called, voice far too soft to be heard across the gym and above the thunderous clash of his knuckles to leather. You jogged a few paces closer, wincing as he threw the entirely of his momentum into a hit that would have broken an ordinary man’s hand. “Bucky? Are you alright?”

But he didn’t hear you. You took a cautious look back at the doors, wondering if you should go find Steve, or maybe even Sam – someone who might know what happened, someone who might be able to talk him down. But you were the only one around. You cleared your throat, stepping up just behind him.  

“Bucky?”

You hit the ground before you knew what had happened.  

A blinding pulsing in the back of your head, the wind momentarily knocked from your lungs, you opened your eyes to find Bucky hovering over you. He held a closed fist in the air, the other digging sharply into your shoulder between his grip, pupils blown wide and dark. It took a moment before he seemed to realize who was laying under him.

“Y/n?” He blinked, confused. His stare flickered to the fist held above your head, knuckles dripping red and bloody, and he pulled away instantly, a flash of horror written over his features. “Shit-- I didn’t... What are you doing here?”

You rubbed at the back of your head, brushing over a slight bump that would certainly mend itself within a few minutes. Slowly, you sat up, careful of the sudden darkness that swept over your eyes, though something cool grabbed onto you before you could fall back against the floor.  

“Hey, come lean against the wall, okay?” Bucky urged, carefully guiding you to adjust your position until you could press your back to the chill of the plastered walls. You sighed in contentment, the pain in your pain already dissipating. Bucky swallowed nervously. “Did I hurt you?”

“I don’t stay hurt for long, Buck,” you told him with a teasing smile, though he did not return it. You set a hand on his forearm, squeezing it lightly before returning it to your lap. “I’m alright. I promise. Are you?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“You were beating that punching bag within an inch of its life,” you clarified, chuckling as you gestured to the exploded bag on the floor, and then to the one still hanging with sand streaming down the seams.  

“Rough mission,” was all he said, his eyes downcast.  

You nodded. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

The two of you sat in silence for a while, listening to the soft buzz of the air conditioner and the faint chirp of crickets outside the windows. You didn’t expect him to say anything. Bucky was a man of few words, but you hoped the company was enough. He didn’t make an effort to move away, not even when your thigh brushed against his.  

He was trying to close his fist when you heard him hiss in pain. His right hand was coated in dried blood and fresh, open wounds on his knuckles. They’d barely started to crust over and with every attempt to close his fist, they cracked open, drawing a painful sting in their place.  

“Will you let me heal your hand?”

Bucky paused, setting his hand down on his leg. “Y/n, it’s not necessary. I won’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering,” you countered. “Besides, it is necessary, actually. How are you going to punch the bad guys if you can’t close your fist?”

“I’ve got another,” Bucky argued back, though a smile had etched its way onto his face. He raised his left hand, making a show of it as he curled his fingers into a fist one by one. “This one’s pretty indestructible so...”

“Please, Bucky.” You turned towards him, folding your legs as you held out your left hand for him to take. “Just this once. Let me do this.”

A stormy array of ocean blue and thunderous skies stared back at you, unsure. His eyes flickered down to your hand. Always so hesitant to ask for help, always so reluctant to accept the good things when they were offered. But as he watched you, searching for signs to run, to back out, something softened.  

He swallowed and slowly, placed his right hand into yours.  

You smiled, adjusting your grip gently on his hand. You placed it to lay on you knee as you hovered your left hand over his knuckles. The warm glow illuminated from your palm and Bucky’s breath hitched as he must have felt the sudden rush of energy it produced.  

The scars began to mend before his eyes and just as you felt the stinging prick on your own knuckles, you quickly pushed your right hand into the pocket of your jacket to hide the scars as they formed.  

“That’s incredible,” Bucky exhaled, withdrawing his hand as soon as you were finished. He held it out in front of him, examining the dried blood coated around perfectly intact skin. He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re incredible.”  

A rush of heat burned in your cheeks as you looked away, a smile breaking onto your lips. It was enough to distract you from the stinging in your hand tucked away in your pocket.  

“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” you asked, biting on your lip nervously. “Think you could do with the company and I’d like to keep you from breaking more of these expensive punching bags.”

Bucky laughed at that, nodding. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

He stood and offered you his hand, thinking out loud about which one of the movies on his list he wanted to try out next. You pulled your hand from your pocket and took his as he offered it to you; the knuckles already clean and healed.  

***

“You should see it, Fitz! It’s a goddamn stroke of genius.” You held up the ventilator no bigger than the pad of your thumb up to the light, admiring your work.  

“I’m sure Stark will be thrilled,” a thick Scottish accent crackled through the speaker on the com beside you. “Send me the schematics, will you?”

You pursed your lips, a smile etching through. “Think you can one-up me?”

“No never,” Fitz laughed. You could hear him tinkering in his own lab on the quinjet, the small clicks of metal and the buzz of a drill humming over the speaker. “Just want to see if I’m still head of our class or not.”

“Pretty sure we both know that title belongs to Simmons.”

There was a slight pause, then, a dreamy, “yeah, you’re right.”

A sudden knocking at the edge of the lab startled you as you spun around in your chair, nearly dropping the ventilator for Stark’s suit. Bucky stood in the doorway, clutching at his left shoulder as fingers dug into the muscle. He wore a sort of guilty look upon his face though he pushed out a smile and waved.  

“Hey, Fitz, I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?” you said over your shoulder to the speaker, waited a moment for his response and ended the call. You turned back to Bucky as a smile grew upon your face. “What can I do for you, Sergeant? I didn’t miss movie night, did I?”

“No, you’re in the clear,” Bucky chuckled, though it was tense. He stepped further into the lab, relaxing a little as he noticed no one else was around. It was pretty late for you to be working, but you were so close to finishing the ventilator, and well, time easily got away from you with Fitz on the other end of the phone.  

“Coming to keep me company then?” you teased. “I’m actually about done anyway, so we could set up the next movie on your—”

“No, I— um...” Bucky started, losing his nerve rather quickly. He exhaled a tense breath, eyes casting down to the floor. “I was, um, wondering if you could work on my shoulder?”

You raised an eyebrow. Even after that night in the gym, Bucky was still hesitant to your offers to heal his various injuries from the field. He’d give you that sweet smile of his, a soft pink in his cheeks, and tell you that he’d be fine on his own. You never doubted that, but it didn’t mean you couldn't spare him just a few hours of that pain.  

“The, um,” Bucky winced, gritting his teeth as he pushed his hand deeper against the tissue, “the nerve endings are acting up. Shuri said it’s to be, uh, expected given how Hydra butchered my arm all those years ago, but...”

“Come here.” You were already removing the files and paperwork from the table, gesturing for him to take a seat.  

His whole left arm was slack at his side as if he could barely tolerate to move it. Shallow breaths hitched in his lungs as he leaned against the table, settling against the hard, metal surface.

“Can you take this off?” you asked, nodding to his shirt. Bucky’s cheeks flushed and you cleared your throat nervously, playing with the ends of your hair. “It’ll be more effective if I can touch the area directly.”

He removed his right hand from the muscle at his shoulder and gripped at the hem of his shirt. Slowly, he started to pull it over his head, though you could tell from the harsh exhale in his breath that it was causing him considerable pain.  

“Here, let me help you.” You stepped forward and helped ease the fabric up his torso and gently guided it off his right arm, over his head, and eased it down his left. He seemed more at ease with the shirt removed, but a chill swept up his spine in the cool air of the lab.  

You kept your eyes on his, determined not to let your gaze fall to the hardened muscles on his chest and stomach.  

“I won’t be able to heal the scars,” you told him as you moved around to stand behind the table. “Just try to relax for me, okay? I’ll do what I can for the pain.”

Bucky nodded, his hands clenched into the lip of the table, enough to warp the surface. He could barely muster out a response.  

“My hands are a little cold, so...” you muttered out nervously, rubbing your palms together in an effort to warm them.  

Then, you set your hands against the mess of scar tissue surrounding his shoulder, starting at his shoulder blades as the glow illuminated bright enough to light up the corner of your lab. Bucky gasped, the first breath in a long time completely filling his lungs as he felt the relief within your touch. You could practically feel the tension melting off his shoulders.  

It didn’t take long before the pain made its way to your body. Starting out slow, in numbing aches, until it was so sharp, it felt like a dozen edges of sharp blades puncturing into your shoulder. You clenched your jaw, held your breath, thankful that Bucky couldn’t see your face when you bit down on the inside of your cheek and tears sprung into your eyes.  

“God, that... shit...” Bucky sighed, his grip releasing on the table. You could hear the smile in his voice, the relief, and it helped to push aside the pain as it manifested in your body.  

You moved your hand up his back, sliding along the scars where his skin met metal, taking as much of his pain as you could. Bucky was exceptionally strong, able to withstand far more than you could without passing out completely. You couldn’t take it all, especially if you wanted to keep him from knowing how your gift truly worked, but you took enough.  

You swallowed back the lump in your throat, preparing yourself as you moved around to face him. There was more on his chest, by his clavicle, you couldn’t reach from behind him. You'd had years of practice, learning how to keep the pain from displaying on your face. You could get through this for him.  

As you stepped in front of him, keeping a steady hold on his shoulder, you could feel his eyes watching you. The glow under your palms was bright enough to illuminate the lab, but it was a gentle light, as soft as the burn of a candle or the golden rays of a sunset. Bucky watched you with a kind of awe that made your stomach twist into knots.  

You guided your hand along the scar tissue on his chest, doing your best to ignore the goosebumps as they rose in your wake. Your heart was stammering, louder than the pain radiating in your shoulder, though it lessened the more you worked. The pain had nearly left him entirely as he started to take in more even breaths, relaxing his muscles as you felt them soften under your touch.  

You exhaled a tense breath through your nose, concentrating on gathering as much of the pain as you could, on mending the broken nerve endings as they misfired and frayed under the torn appendage. You barely noticed as Bucky crossed his right hand over his chest and laid his hand palm against your hands.  

“Thank you,” he whispered, his fingers curling around the undersides of your hands until he gently tugged them away. The glow faded until the lab was only lit by the soft light of the lamp at your desk and the reflection of the moon peering in through the window.  

You met his eye, the pain still prominent in your shoulder though you forcibly softened the clench in your jaw as he looked over you. His eyes flickered down to your lips for only a second, but it was enough. Your heart skipped.  

Bucky slowly released your hands, letting them fall gently against his thighs, as he leaned forward to cup the sides of your face. Fingers tangling into your hair, you stepped closer, pressed against the table between the parting of his legs.  

You wondered if he could feel how fast your heart was racing, or if he could hear it, because you were certain it was going to beat straight out of your chest. The fading pain in your shoulder you’d taken for him was nothing but a forgotten memory as he pressed his forehead to yours, just waiting.  

The moment his lips touched yours, you lost your breath; fireworks and butterflies, twists in your stomach and clamoring in your heart. You could feel his smile as it spread into his cheeks, your hands seeking more of him as you slid them up the sides of his bare chest. He was beautiful and perfect and so incredibly wonderful, you’d take hours of his pain, years even, if you could keep kissing him like this.  

“Hey, Y/n, I thought you were already done for the—oh, sorry!”

You jolted away from Bucky, restless and a little disheveled, Bucky’s cheeks flamed red, as you turned to find Banner standing awkwardly in the doorway. His hand was shielded over his eyes, his back quickly turned to you as papers littered the floor at his feet. You started to laugh, hand clamping over your swollen lips as you looked over at Bucky.  

“It’s no worry, Bruce,” you giggled, quickly skating over to the door to help him pick up the files. Bucky meanwhile shrugged his shirt back on, fixing the flyaways in his hair.  

“So sorry,” he mumbled again, clearly embarrassed by his intrusion as he glanced over at Bucky apologetically. He gathered the papers into his arms. “I’ll be going now and, um, I won’t come back, okay?”

You couldn’t help but laugh as Bucky’s eyes blew wide in Banner’s quick escape.  

“Still want that company?” you offered with a smile, extending your hand to him. The pain was long gone from your shoulder as he shook himself from the flush in his cheeks and nodded. He took your hand and led you down the hall to the living room. There was another movie on the list to get through.  

***

You couldn’t remember the last time you were this happy. Your cheeks began to hurt from how often you were smiling, as if it were a permanent fixture on your features. You’d even caught yourself humming along to the radio as you dusted the surfaces in your lab the morning after Bucky had kissed you goodbye on the landing dock in front of at least a dozen agents.  

He’d been away on a mission for the last few days, but he called when he could. You’d spend whatever spare minutes he could get on the satellite phone with him, distracting him from whatever was going on in his end of the world with talk about your latest project with Stark or old stories from the academy with Fitz or what the next movie on the list was going to be.  

He wasn’t a man of many words, but you liked knowing he was on the other end of the line. You could picture his smile perfectly in your mind, the way he chewed on his lower lip, how his eyes fell downcast to the floor by your shoes, the flush of pink in his cheeks. It was enough.  

“So, things are really heating up with you and Barnes,” Natasha commented as she sipped the top of her steaming coffee before it could spill over the edge. You shrugged, though it was hard to contain your smile. Natasha grinned. “I think it’s good for him. You, too. Don’t know the last time I’ve seen him this happy. He seems more relaxed. Like maybe he’s not carrying the whole world on his shoulders anymore.”

“Helps when he’s not in excruciating pain on a daily basis,” you added, tapping at your left shoulder. He’d let you work on it a few times since that first night. It always took some convincing, but the pain was never as bad as it was that evening. You could take it. You’d do it a thousand times for him without question.  

Natasha nodded, a pleased look upon her face. She parted her lips to say more, but a sudden commotion at the end of the hall stole the words from her tongue. You set your coffee down on the counter, peering out around the tables to find agents jumping out of the way of an oncoming train.  

“Y/n!” Bucky shouted, voice breaking in the effort as he sprinted down the hall and slammed into an unsuspecting agent. Papers flew into the air as he sprinted towards your room. “Y/n!”

“Bucky?” you called stepping out into the hallway where he could see you.  

He skidded to an abrupt stop, his hair flying over his shoulder as he turned in your direction.  

“Y/n! Thank God.”  

It wasn't until Bucky stood in front of you that you realized he was covered in blood; soaking into his hair, caked under his finger nails, drenched into his suit, and stained to his skin. Your eyes widened, breath all but leaving your lungs, as your hands clutched against his jacket. He tried to pull you back towards the stairs, but you couldn’t budge, not with that much blood all over him.  

“What-- What happened? Are you hurt?” You started seeking out exposed skin an effort to draw away any pain you could, even if you couldn’t see any exposed wounds.  

Bucky's hand slid over yours, pulling it away. He softened, though you could still see the frantic rise and fall of his chest.  

“It’s not my blood. It’s Steve’s.”

Your stomach sank; relief mixed into an ugly shade of guilt and grief. Natasha was already sprinting down to the med bay, coffee mug cracked and spilled upon the tile floors. Her footsteps echoed through the hallway, the sudden clanging of the double doors startling you from your daze.  

“Please, I—I need you,” Bucky begged, his voice shaking. Tears were burning in his eyes. You’d never seen him this afraid; this shaken and helpless. “It’s not good, Y/n. He’s-- He’s--”

“Okay.” You pressed a hand to his cheek, brushing your thumb sweetly across his face and smeared the tears as they cleaned the dried blood away. You didn’t need to hear anymore. All you wanted was to take his pain, even if your gift couldn’t touch it as it nestled deep into his heart.  

By the time you reached the med bay, a storm of chaos had already barreled through. Lab equipment was knocked over on its side. Dozens of agents frantically running around, shouting orders at one other. Papers and schematics lined the floor with imprinted of boots damaging the print. But it was the trail of blood that drew your attention.  

Droplets trailing from the loading bay of the jet to down the med wing to the surgical room. Dark red and oozing. Taunting. Far too much for any ordinary man to have lost. You tried to stifle the gasp as it hitched in your breath the moment you saw him.  

Steve was strung up on a gurney, suit cut down the middle and flayed open, exposing his chest and the three bullet holes expelling pints of blood. The hands of several agents were pressing down onto him, trying to keep pressure on the wounds, deep red slipping out from between their fingers. The look on their faces said enough – he wasn’t going to make it.  

“Where’s Helen?” you gaped, staring at Steve.  

“Ten minutes out.” Tony stumbled into the room as he rounded the corner, holding a stat phone in his hand. “She’s in the chopper.”

“He can’t wait ten minutes.” Bucky gripped tight to you hand and you could feel the tension radiating in his muscles. You wanted to take it for him but he pulled his hand before you could, turning to face you. “You’re all we have. Y/n, please. I can’t lose him.”

Bucky had never once asked you to heal someone like this. He could barely muster the will to ask you to heal his own wounds, to ease the constant stream of pain in his shoulder, and the open wounds on his hand. But with Steve’s life in the balance, he didn’t have room to be hesitant anymore. He couldn’t risk his best friend’s life.

But he didn’t know it would risk yours in the process.  

You swallowed, glancing back nervously at Steve. “I’ve never healed anything this bad before, Buck. I don’t know if I can--” survive this.  

Could your body heal fast enough to take on his injuries? Could you do them one by one? Would he live long enough to even try? Would either of you?  

“Y/n, please. He’ll die without you,” Bucky begged, his voice wavering. Tears reflected in his eyes; gentle pale blue obstructed by a swarm of fear and guilt and desperation, a redness straining into the surrounding white until his cheeks were wet. The dried blood cleared in streaks as they traveled down to his jawline.  

You watched him as he bit down onto his lip, shielding his face from the others as he waited. The frantic beeping of the monitor strapped to Steve’s chest was growing frantic, irregular, and you knew there wasn’t much time left.  

The worst you’d ever attempted to heal before had been the stabbing of a stranger. You’d found her clutching stomach in an abandoned alleyway in Queens, contents of her purse spilled to the pavement, jewelry torn from her neck. You'd knelt down beside her and took her pain without so much as a second thought.  

As her wound began to close, your skin split open, blood soaked into your shirt, your vision grew dark and hazy, until it was nothing at all.  

The last thing you remembered of that night was the horror in the woman’s eye as she scrambled away from you and ran back to the safety of the open streets. You woke in a pool of your own blood hours later – longer than it had ever taken to heal before.  

A scar remained on your stomach from that night. The only one on your body. A warning.  

Test the limits of your gift again and learn why it’s called a sacrifice.

But as you looked back at Bucky, at a man who never dared to ask you for anything until it was unbearable, who wore his own scars and healed his own injuries in fear of exploiting your gift, who was impossibly gentle for the evil he was surrounded in for decades – you couldn’t find it in yourself to say no. You didn’t want to.

Bucky must have noticed the change in your expression because his shoulders softened immediately, a heavy sigh sinking through his body. He pushed forward and pressed a quick kiss to your lips; short, chaste, and still—filled with a world of emotion, of gratitude, of relief. It gave you the courage to do what needed to be done.  

Tony began to shout for the room to clear the moment you approached the table. You stared down at Steve, whose skin had grown nearly translucent, the monitor above displaying his heart beat as it evened out to a nearly thin line. He was fading fast. You wouldn’t have much time.  

Everything around you became muted, distorted, as you channeled your focus; the huddled whispers of the agents hovering over Steve with their hands pressed to open wounds sounded as if they were miles away.  

Bucky stood at your side, watching anxiously though he tried his best to remain stoic and unaffected, though you knew he was splintering apart at the seams. Natasha and Sam were huddled in the far corner, talking quietly amongst themselves as they tried to put the pieces together as to what happened out in the field. Tony was shooing away stay agents with the threat of force, while Banner did his best to remotely disengage the power on Tony’s glove.  

None of it registered. Not beyond the flow of blood coating Steve’s chest and dripping onto the floor, your shoes stepping into the pool below. It was a miracle he was still alive at all. The serum was the only thing tying him to this Earth.  

You stretched out your hands, hovering over his chest and the agents quickly dispersed. You didn’t dare steal a glance in Bucky’s direction as the glow began to emit under your palms, afraid he might see the goodbye in your eyes or the apology for what he was about to witness. There wasn’t time.  

The pain was sudden. Sharp. Like you’d felt the bullets rip straight through you as if you stood on the battlefield in Steve’s place. You cried out at the impact of it, nearly thrown from your stance as you clutched into Steve’s body.  

Bucky jolted beside you, startled as you cried out again, desperate to choke down the screams before they passed your lips. He stared at you, wide eyed, as you clenched your jaw.  

“Y/n? Are you—”

Another scream tore through you and Bucky visibly flinched. You didn’t have the energy to hide the pain from him, not with three bullets tearing through you. You had to save Steve; put the full force of your power into healing his wounds before they consumed him whole. Damn the consequences. Damn the sacrifice of your gift.  

Your body was always meant to be the host of broken bones and bullet wounds and bruises. Made to be broken and mended. A host to others. A graveyard of injuries that did not belong to you.  

It was what your parents had told you from the time you were a child; that you were a gift to others, that you were a vessel to better the world. But it came at a price; one, it seemed, you’d soon enough pay.  

Your legs began to shake as a wave of darkness cast over your vision, tunneling, consuming the space around you. You could only vaguely make out Bucky’s voice calling your name, his tone laced confusion and concern, but you blocked it out. Daring to look in his direction now would only hinder your resolve and you needed to save Steve’s life.  

Concentrating your power, a scream ripped through your lungs as the glow illuminated the entire room, enough that Bucky was forced to shield his eyes.  

The wounds were taking hold on your body. One at your stomach. Another along your ribs. The third, just above your chest. Exit wounds opening on your back. You could feel the drip of blood as it slid down your skin; thick and unrelenting.  

You were growing light headed as the pain started to dissipate. But the wounds were still fresh on your body, still open and bleeding; the pain shouldn’t have faded so quickly.  

The steady beep of the monitor indicated that Steve was stabilizing, the flesh had nearly closed, and you barely registered Helen’s voice as she rushed into the room, ordering her team to take over.  

“Hey, hey, you did it, sweetheart. You did good,” Bucky exhaled. He had the most beautiful smile on his face; filled with a sense of pride an awe, stunning and handsome beyond belief, even with traces of concern still evident in his eyes.  

But you were stone. A statue. You couldn’t move without fear of collapsing completely.  

“He’s stable now, Y/n,” Bucky eased, trying to pull you gently away from the table. “Come here, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Bucky hand set against your stomach when you didn’t follow and he froze; the sticky wet residue of fresh blood on his hand. He stared down at his palm in horror as the blood began to seep through your shirt in three distinct spots, all perfectly aligning with the ones on Steve’s chest.  

Bucky darted forward, pushing up your shirt to find the wounds he’d seen healed on his best friend moments ago littered over your stomach. His mouth went dry, throat lined with sandpaper, rocks shoved down into his lungs. His hand trembled as it reached out and touched the bullet wound on your ribs. His breath hitched as he felt the warmth of blood and the tear of flesh in your skin.  

He couldn’t breathe.  

“Is Steve alive?” Your voice was barely a whisper and you wondered if Bucky could even hear you at all. His eyes were glossed over in fresh tears, lips parted in shock as he stared back at you. You could hardly keep your eyes open.

Before he could respond, your legs gave way and you stumbled back out of Bucky’s hold. Your vision was closing in, a dark cloud of black swarming around you as your foot caught on the edge of toppled lab equipment. You were in Bucky’s arms again before you made it to the floor.  

You didn’t hear him screaming for help, didn’t hear the shattering crack in his voice, or the crash of equipment behind you as Simmons raced into the room. You didn’t feel his hands as they desperately pressed onto the open wounds, or the heat of his breath as he begged you to ‘stay with me, sweetheart’. But you felt the warmth of his embrace.

It was comforting as the darkness pulled you under.  

***

A heaviness draped over you. Soothing. Pressing you into the soft cushion below. A repetitive chime rang above; even in tone, consistent. It drew you back from the kind embrace of shadows, calling you toward a flicker of light.  

Pressure squeezed at your hand. Cold and warm at once. Solid and soft.  

You listened for the chime; allowed it to guide you as the rest of your senses awakened.

The chatter of voices in the distant too muffled to distinguish. The distinct smell sterilizing alcohol that burned in your nose. The heat of a thick blanket tucked around your legs. The chill of a breeze streaming from the humming vent above. Scratchy bed sheets and laundry fresh clothes a few sizes too big for your frame.  

You groaned, trying to adjust to the influx of light as you opened your eyes. It was a room you recognized. White. Clean. Far too bright. You’d been within the walls dozens of times before, but never laid upon the bed. It was a strange view.  

Glancing down, you found yourself dressed in a dark grey t-shirt that didn’t belong to you. The logo was faded on the chest but it was still recognizable. Vintage. An eagle at the center of a circle, it’s wings remarkably similar to the symbol of the Howling Commandos. Around the edge: Strategic Scientific Reserve. You’d seen Bucky wear it until the hem frayed. Sure enough, as you reached for the bottom of the shirt, you found the split seams.  

A slight squeeze on your hand again drew your attention to your right. There, you found Bucky hunched over the side of the bed; both hands encasing yours, his forehead rested on the very edge of the mattress.  

A smile tugged at your lips until it started to ache. Unused muscles, must be. You wondered how long you’d been out this time. Must have been longer than a few hours. Bucky’s back would need your attention after the way he’s been sleeping.  

“Bucky,” you tried to call, but found your voice was nothing more than a breath of air. You winced, testing it again. “Bucky?”  

He only hummed in response. The sweet vibrations nestled against your arm. It took him a minute as he lifted his head, stretched out his upper back, matted hair fallen down into his face, before he caught your eye; glancing around the room, checking the door, the heart monitor above, like it had become routine, until he realized you were watching him.  

He froze, eyes wide. “Y/n?”

You nodded sleepily, pushing out a smile. “What’d I miss?”

Bucky didn’t laugh. His hands were still gripped tight to yours, squeezing at them as if he were checking to make sure you were real.  

Your smile began to fall the longer he stared at you. “How long was I out? Is Steve okay?”

Bucky cleared his throat, nodding, though it seemed strained. “Y-yeah, Steve’s fine. Doc said he’d make a full recovery thanks to you.”

“That’s good,” you replied, but Bucky couldn’t so much as force a smile. He couldn’t seem to look at you, his hands playing with the lines in your palms. It was then you started to notice the dark circles under his eyes, the wrinkles in days old clothing, the hallowed look upon his face. Your stomach sank. “How long was I out?”

Bucky’s paused for a moment, his movements stilling as he traced your lifeline. He sighed, resuming again. “Six days.”

“Oh.”

A silence swept over the room. You’d never been under that long before. Frankly, you were a little surprised you woke up at all given the extent of Steve’s injuries. Your fingers dipped under the hem of Bucky’s old t-shirt and grazed over the bullet wound on your ribs, feeling for the raised edges of a fresh scar. It didn’t heal, as you suspected the others hadn’t; laid to rest next to the knife wound from the woman in the alley. Injuries you were never meant to survive.  

“Were you ever going to tell us?”  

You looked up, startled by Bucky’s voice as it wavered. He brushed at his eyes; red and glossy.  

“Were you ever going to tell me?”  

“No,” you admitted and Bucky’s shoulders slumped. He sank back further into his chair and you could read the disappointment on his face. You gritted your teeth, preparing to deliver the same speech you’d been telling yourself for years. “My body could handle it, Buck. It was only a few minutes of pain to trade for weeks or months of your own. It kept you in the field and off the bench. The world needs you guys. It was worth it for me. I could handle it.”

“Until you couldn’t!” Bucky snapped, startling you as he tugged his hand from your grasp and began to pace around the room. His fingers raked into his hair, gripping at unwashed strands. “You almost died, Y/n! You almost died because I fucking begged you to use your powers to save Steve and I—Jesus, Y/n — if I had known what it does to you, I never would have asked you to do that!”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you,” you replied gently, wanting nothing more than to ease him. Bucky shook his head, unwilling to accept your answer. “Bucky, if you knew that healing a papercut hurt me, you wouldn’t let me do that either.”

He paused; arms folded over his chest though he wouldn’t look at you. “No, I wouldn’t.”

You softened, sitting up in the bed, though a dull pain rushed made it rather difficult, leaving you to clutch at your stomach. It ached as you moved, an unfamiliar feeling, and the tension quickly faded from Bucky’s shoulders when he heard you whine.

You pushed through the pain in your stomach, holding up a hand as Bucky started to step forward to help you. It would fade. It always does. You’d heal and move on, until the next injury came through. It was routine. It was your life.  

So, you told him as much.  

“I’d do it again.”

Bucky frowned. He looked like he wanted to just lay on the bed beside you, curl up against your chest and sleep. He was exhausted. And still—he couldn’t let it go.  

“You almost died—”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“A sacrifice?” Bucky’s face contorting in horror. “Are you insane? You're not a sacrifice, Y/n!”

You nodded, determined; the words of your parents, the village elders, ringing in your ears. “That what this gift is, Bucky! I can’t actually heal anyone other than myself, but I can transfer the injuries and the pain to my body. That I can heal. It’s what I was born for! It’s my purpose. I was made to be a sacrifice.”

“Not for me!” Bucky held his ground, voice firmer than you’d ever heard it. “Nothing is worth that to me! Do you understand that? I won’t trade your life for anyone’s, not even Steve’s, and I sure as hell don’t care how many bones I break or how bad the nerves in my shoulder misfire. I won’t put that on you again. The team won’t either.”

You clenched your jaw, heart starting race. No one had ever challenged you on this before. No one had ever questioned whether your gift should be used at all. No one ever seemed to care of the effect it had on your body, never thinking to look past the extraordinary abilities to the mutilation under the surface.  

No one until Bucky.  

You curled your hands into the thin sheets at your waist. “Bucky, don’t be ridiculous. I’m saving you all from weeks of unnecessary healing. I can handle the pain. It’s an easy trade for—”

Bucky’s fist met the wall. “You’re worth more than just a vessel for our pain, Y/n!”  

“What the hell is going on in here!?” Helen Cho rushed into the room, eyes darting between Bucky standing by the corner of the room, shaking out his hand, and you as you laid in the bed at the center, the heart monitor above pulsing far too quickly.  

Bucky seemed to notice the frantic beeping of the monitor and the anger quickly drained from his face.  

Helen glared at him as she stepped closer to you, beginning to check your vitals. “You should leave,” she shot over her shoulder. Your stomach twisted to knots as Bucky nodded defeatedly and walked to the door.  

“No, don’t--” you called, voice small, nervous. He paused in the frame, glancing back at you with a raised eyebrow. “Please, Bucky. Stay.”

Helen set a hand on your shoulder as if to ask if you were sure. You nodded.

“You may be able to heal yourself, but you’re still recovering,” Helen advised, tapping on the IV drip. “Take it easy, alright?”

Bucky remained stoic by the door after Helen left. He didn’t say anything for a while, his eyes focused on the tile floors at his feet, waiting until the heart monitor chimed in even, steady counts.  

“Will you sit down? You’re making me nervous,” you chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. It got him to look at you, at least. While he couldn’t muster a smile, it was clear he was drained of the anger that had quickly taken hold of his body; anger that was never once reserved for you, but for the voices in your head that deemed you unworthy of more than a body to be used by others.  

Bucky sank into the chair at your bedside.  

“When’s the last time you slept, Buck?”  

He stayed silent. It was enough of an answer. You didn’t dare ask the last time he left this room, not with the shiny reflection at his roots and the red strained in his eyes. Six days at your bedside, hunched over on a cold, unforgiving chair, clutching your hand. It ached deep into your bones.  

“I mean what I said,” Bucky mumbled, slowly brining himself to meet your eye. He reached out for your hand, letting the comforting chill of solid metal lay below as the warmth of flesh and muscle laid on top. He brought your fingertips to his lips and gently kissed at your knuckles.  

You sighed at the feeling. “Bucky, I...”

“You’re more important to us than your abilities,” he pressed, a sincerity behind his words and laced delicately into sweet shades of blue. “You do a lot of good to keep us safe with the tech you’ve been building and the adjustments to the suits. You’re incredible at what you do, Y/n. Your worth isn’t based on how many injuries you can heal or how much pain you can handle. We care about you. I care about you. Isn't that enough?”

You didn’t know.

You’d never known anyone to prioritize you over your gift. You parents had exploited it from the moment it was discovered your ability; showing you off, treating you as an idol to be worships and adorned. They put their child through broken bones and lacerations and asthma attacks. They sat back and watched as you healed strangers of arthritis and sprained ankles and migraines. Their child cried as they collected their winnings.  

Were you afraid it would happen again? Is that why you kept it from the team? From Bucky? You’d convinced yourself it was noble to silently suffer in their place, but you started to wonder if it amounted to little more than your parent's words whispered into your ear: your ability is a gift to the world, a sacrifice unto yourself.

“Would you ask any of us to suffer in your place?” Bucky questioned, drawing you from the mess inside your head with the gentle vibration in his voice.  

“I just want to help you...” you murmured, tears slipping past your cheeks.  

Bucky reached forward and brushed the tears as they fell, sliding his hand against your cheek and nestling against your hair. You leaned into the touch.

“So, we find a middle ground, okay?” Bucky offered, smiling enough to push into his cheeks, though his eyes were still heavy. “No trivial injuries. No life-threatening injuries. We take the stuff in-between case by case.”  

“Your shoulder,” you added, determined. Buck started to shake his head but you pressed harder. “Five minutes of pain to spare months of yours, Bucky. No lasting damage. Don’t argue with me on this one.”

It brought the smile back to Bucky’s eyes as he eventually nodded. You knew he had no real authority to decide what injuries you could and couldn’t heal, but you’d never had anyone who dared to put you first. You trusted him to do that; you trusted him more than yourself, anyway.

“We decide the rest together,” you told him. “I get the final say but... I need you to tell me if I’m pushing it too much, but I won’t be too cautious, either. No discriminating against Sam.”

“No promises,” Bucky chuckled, playing with the ends of your hair dreamily. “The other stuff I can deal with.”

“Okay,” you exhaled, relief sweeping through your body.  

“Okay.”

“Think I’ll be lucky if anyone on the team even lets me touch them for a few months after this ordeal, though, huh?” You laughed and though it ached in your stomach, it was considerably less than it was moments earlier. You didn’t mind the dull pain. It was familiar, almost a comfort. Steve was alive because of it.  

“Yeah, can’t say anyone was thrilled to find out how your powers actually worked,” Bucky chuckled. “But they’re happy you’re alright. I’m sure Steve will be, too. He was pissed when he woke up and learned what you did.”

You clenched your jaw. “Never good to be on Cap’s bad side...”

“No, it’s not,” Bucky agreed, wide smile pressed to the back of your hand, his lips touching over exposed skin. “He doesn’t like when anyone else pulls a self-sacrificial move. It’s kinda his thing. Diving into the Atlantic and all. We don’t really need two of you running around...”

“Alright, alright,” you laughed, swatting Bucky away. Your cheeks hurt from smiling, the pain in your stomach long forgotten, or maybe it had finally healed. You supposed it didn’t matter.  

They were scars that would never heal. Like the knife wound. Like mesh of hardened tissue around Bucky’s shoulder, stretching out onto his chest and back. Reminders of when you were too both close to the edge, to the brink of darkness. Reasons to push back towards the light.  

read the sequel here!

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[phantomrose96]

Joyrider

(Welcome to another warm-up writing piece. cw for mild body horror)

...

The mall food court doubled rather nicely as a battle-dome.

It fit the bill: a flat and circular arena, crowned two-stories up by a hemisphere of glass windows which lapsed iridescent in the maelstrom of ecto-fire.

Spectator chairs sat empty, hastily shoved back and knocked over by the Amity Park mall patrons who knew to leg it at the first sound of explosions and the first sign of the atmosphere tipping dark. Admittedly, the patron evacuation took longer than Danny anticipated, and he backed himself into a corner playing defense for the 50 some-odd people who, worn-out on the every-day mundanity of ghost alarms, took their time gathering belongings, or shutting off burners, or working in a few last bites of a burger.

So with the crowd gone and the stage their own, Danny found himself pressed back against a vat of french fry oil, hands braced against the handle of a broom he held out horizontally, which the ghost gripped with equal measure and shoved her full weight against.

“Oh, why not take a little dip, Ghost Boy? I hear the water’s nice.”

“No thanks,” Danny answered, shoving harder. “I never was much of a hot tub guy. You on the other hand—”

Danny set a foot forward and pivoted, body fueling the torque as he spun the broom, and tore the ghost with him, a pirouette to swap their spots and jam the ghost back-pressed to the fryer.

“—you seem like you’d like it hot.”

The ghost barked a laugh, jaw stretching lower and loose than Danny was comfortable with.

“Ha! You sure? Not very heroic of you to deep fry this girl I’m possessing.”

Danny faltered. His grip slipped. His blood chilled to ice as the information clicked in place – as he recognized the sensation of a ghost talking through someone. This wasn’t the ghost’s own form. This was some girl. How had he not felt—

A blast took him by the ribs. Danny doubled over, immediately kicked back. A foot found contact with his face, driving him down, until the girl’s wet and slippery fingers pinned him down by the wrists.

Danny strained. He could pivot his wrist a fraction of an inch left or right, but he could not break the hold.

“Get off me!”

And a voice answered from behind him.

“I can help with that.”

Danny craned his neck. Upside down, vantage point from the floor, he registered Sam’s combat boots slam into focus. She bent to one knee, a bazooka locked on the other. It charged, whined, and erupted with an explosion of green light.

The ghost shrieked. It took only an instant of resistance before the ghost tore cleanly from the girl possessed.

“Now if you don’t mind me—” Tucker, by the voice. Danny heard the whine of a Fenton Thermos heating up. “—I’d officially like to change my order from fries to soup.”

The beam burst forth, and the writhing, shrieking, yelping form of the exorcised ghost clawed and scratched in Danny’s direction before the thermos consumed her in full.

“Really? ‘Fries to soup’? Even Danny can do better than that.”

“Hey,” Danny answered.

“I was thinking on my feet, Sam. I didn’t hear any witty quips from you.”

The conversation fell away from Danny’s focus as the full human weight of the possessed girl dropped down on him. Gently, Danny gripped her by the shoulder, lifting her as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

“Your parents’ anti-possession gear is getting good. I don’t think I’ve seen an exorcism work that quickly.” Sam’s voice, now at his side. Danny glanced over, finding her kneeling beside him. “Is she hurt?”

Danny gave the girl a once-over. She was pale, cold, lips seeping blue. A mottled, blackish bruise spread across her temple, partially hidden beneath loose red bangs.

“I don’t… totally know. I didn’t land any hits on her, thankfully. But who knows what that ghost might have done. We should call an ambulance.”

“On it,” Tucker, from behind.

“Do you… do you think the bazooka might have hurt her?” Sam asked.

Danny shook his head. “Mom and Dad have blasted each other with that thing a hundred times. Dad got himself possessed by the box ghost for a trial run. It doesn’t hurt people. …Maybe she just needs a minute.”

“Lay her down, maybe?”

“Good idea.”

Danny eased forward, careful in his movements. Something about his grip slipped, sliding loose and rolling forward, and she fell unceremoniously from his arms, shoulder knocking ground as she lay there partially turned on her side.

“Danny!”

“Sorry! I didn’t—something slipped!”

“Well don’t leave her like—” Sam gripped a hand to the girl’s shoulder, weight behind her wrist to roll the girl fully onto her back. Sam’s hand froze, and then yanked away.

“What?” Danny asked.

“That didn’t feel right.” Sam only stared down, her hand hovering, twitching in increments. “Way too cold… and loose.”

“Loose?”

“Danny, look at her hands. What’s wrong with her hands?”

Danny looked. The skin stretched and wrapped the bones of her fingers as if rotated partway around. Her fingernails sat off-center, twisted around and bunched up like a glove. Sam’s hand came back into view, and she clamped it to the girl’s wrist.

“It’s like jelly. Danny it’s like jelly. Why is she this cold? Danny, I don’t think she’s—”

Something new caught Danny’s eye, a purple discoloration peeking out from the bottom ruffles of the girl’s shirt. His hands seemed to move on their own as he reached down, and pinched the bottom of her shirt, and pulled it back.

Black bruising consumed her torso, caving deep and bloating, pruning around the trails of heavy stitching that ran along the tracks of surgical cuts carving through her abdomen.

Danny yanked his hand away as if burned.

“Danny, she’s not breathing.”

The rest of Danny’s thoughts drowned in the swelling wail of the approaching ambulance siren.

…

Outside the Fenton Portal, green lighting doused the only part of Danny’s form not hidden in shadow, and danced with the fire of his glowing green eyes. Danny uncapped the thermos in his hand, and he trailed his thumb along the eject switch.

A new consuming green light belted forth, lasting only a moment until it vanished with a twin-braided ghost in its wake. The ghost blinked, smoothing over her hair and pulling the ends of her braids over her shoulders.

“Oh, it’s the Ghost Boy again. I thought you’d just throw me back in the Ghost Zone. Are you interested in a round 2?”

“No, not interested,” Danny answered, tone colder than ice.

“Yeesh, you’re quite sour. No more puns?”

“Why were you possessing that girl?”

“Hmm?”

“Why were you possessing her?”

The ghost blinked, green portal light mixing murkily with her purple eyes. “No particular reason. It was just a joyride.”

“A joyr—she was dead.”

Another blink. “Yeah I know. She was sitting in the morgue. She was in like a car crash or something and they already took all her organs. They didn’t need her. And I was gonna give her back, but you had to go and make it a whole thing.” The girl swooped forward, eyes wide and roving over Danny. “You seem mad. Wanna call a truce?” She stuck a hand forward. “I’m Melissa, by the way.”

Danny jolted, eyes flashing brighter. “No, you’re not. That girl was Melissa.”

“Oh for real?” Melissa let out a chuckle. “Crazy coincidence. I like don’t even know that many Melissas. Anyway truce?”

“No.” Danny ran his fingers through his hair. “You were possessing the body of a dead girl and you made me fight her! Don’t you see how that’s—that’s so—how fucked up—that you’d even—”

“Well I mean, I didn’t make you fight me. You made that happen. I was minding my business.”

“Doing what?”

“Shopping. Why else would I take a body for a joyride? I stole some cute clothes to wear. Stole some food to eat. Oh! That outfit I was wearing when we were fighting? Yeah I picked that out. She was in like a hospital gown when I found her. Super cute improvement right?”

An ectoblast sounded and connected with the wall behind Melissa, missing her a foot to the right. Danny’s hand glowed, and his eyes focused with a razor sharpness.

“Stop talking like that, okay? It’s pissing me off. I need you to tell me you know this was fucked up.”

Melissa put a finger to her chin. “I mean I guess stealing is kinda wrong. They were all like, big box corporate stores don’t worry.”

“The. Dead. Body.”

And Melissa fell silent a moment, violet eyes probing deep into Danny’s before widening. “Oh. Oh you’re like for-real mad about that. Like actually. I thought you were like, making an ironic joke.”

“Why the hell would I be joking about this??”

Melissa cocked her head to the side. “Well because you’re doing it too, duh. Like, duh.”

A huff of air cut against Danny’s teeth, an involuntary noise, incredulous, a guffaw he didn’t consciously make. The jelly sensation of decomposing flesh was back under his fingers. “I am not—would never—I’ve never even seen a dead body before this thing with you and I’d never in a million years even think for even a fucking second that I’d want to possess a dead body. What’s wrong with you?!”

Melissa bobbed a little in the air, ends of her braids trailing over the straps of her ephemeral sundress. “See this is why I really can’t tell if you’re joking or not. What are you talking about? You’re doing it right now.” She clasped her hands behind her back. “The black-haired boy whose corpse you’re possessing. Why are you allowed to do it?”

Danny froze. He laughed, heavy, with an uncomfortable force. “Myself, you mean? I’m not possessing myself. I am myself. I’m a half-ghost.”

Melissa met his laugh. “Oh what? No way like, that’s your own corpse? How’d you even get back to it in time? That’s crazy lucky like you must have died right near a portal or something.”

An involuntary shiver traced down Danny’s spine.

“…I’m not dead.” His eyes shifted around, and Danny dropped to the floor. He set a hand against the wall, throwing on the lights to the Fenton basement. Rings swept around his form, green iridescent eyes sweeping blue, white hair seeping black. “Look. Literally look at me. I’m not dead.”

And Melissa swooped closer. She set a finger to her bottom lip and hovered a foot in front of Danny, drinking him in. She swept to the side, like a swimmer in the water, sweeping around him in a full arc. She edged closer and pinched her fingers against the exposed skin on Danny’s arm. He flinched.

“Oh wow there’s like, not even any decay or anything. Your human brain even feels like it’s working it’s all like, electro-magnety. How long were you dead before you got back to your body?”

“I didn’t die.”

“Then what did happen?”

“I got shocked by the Fenton Portal, okay? It was just a lab accident and it gave me powers.”

“Oh. Oh.” Melissa’s eyes shot wide. “Oh you didn’t die near a portal… You died in a portal. You didn’t even have to get back to find your body at all. You must have appeared like practically on top of your own body. That’s crazy lucky. That’s so lucky. Your body was like, probably only dead a microsecond before you hopped back in. No wonder it’s so well-preserved.”

Danny swatted her away. “You’re not listening to me.”

“You’re not listening to me.” Melissa floated backwards. “What do you think is more likely? A bajillion ecto-volts somehow gave you superpowers that exactly mirror everything a regular dead ghost can do? …Or you died, and became a regular old ghost, and did what any regular old ghost can do, which is possess a freshly-dead dead body?”

“…I’m half-ghost,” Danny answered, human heart pounding in his chest. “I know what I am.”

Melissa bobbed back, feet pointed backwards until the soles of her feet skimmed the matrix of the portal. “I see you’ve made up your mind. That’s alright. But it was still pretty mean of you to accuse me like a big hypocrite like that.”

“I’ll destroy you if you ever try that again.”

“Oh I’ll try asking permission next time okay? Promise.” Melissa’s feet sank into the surface of the portal. “But, before I go, I’ve just got one more question to leave you with.”

“Go.”

“Why should a lethal accident do anything other than kill you?”

“Go.”

“Maybe you’ll have an answer for me next time I see you. Byeee!”

A spark of white erupted from the portal, consuming, absorbing, and fizzling out as Melissa’s form vanished into the ether beyond.

…

“Hey! Yo! Danny, come check this out!”

Danny rounded the stairs, unsocked feet creaking the floorboards with each step. Danny yawned, and blinked, and rubbed at his bruised eyes with the sleeve of his pajama top.

“Still asleep? That’s fine! You don’t have to do anything. Just come over here and look at what your old pop’s been up to.”

Danny entered the living room, where Jack sat hunched on the couch surrounded by an arsenal of power tools, rags, oil, soldering equipment, and scrap metal. From beside him he hefted a bazooka into view.

“This is the Fentonzooka 3.2.17. Amped up and equipped with all the latest in ghost-busting and human-saving technology.”

Danny blinked. “3.2.17?”

“Yep. This baby’s got 17 bug patches, tweaks, and internal improvements since the 3.2.0. The 3.2.0 was the advent of the snack compartment in the side. Look!” Jack spun a dial, revealing a chamber half-filled with pistachios.

Danny only stared.

Jack hefted the bazooka onto his shoulder. “Even better, Mads and I finally got rid of the last little sting humans feel when it’s fired. It’s now completely 100% harmless to humans. It feels like the breeze from a standing fan when it hits ya.” Jack turned, and he aimed the barrel at Danny. “Wanna try it out?”

Danny stood, and Danny stared, and Danny said nothing.

What might happen when it hit him?

Would it hit like the gentle breeze of a fan? Wash over him like air conditioning? Tingle cool and pleasant against his human fingers, human face, human skin?

Would it do something else?

Why should a lethal accident do anything other than kill you?

Jack eased the bazooka a bit off center, pulling his eyes away from the sight. He stared directly at Danny. “Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to try it out?”

Danny stood.

Danny stared.

Danny wondered if he’d have an answer for Melissa the next time he saw her.

[messers-moony]

Cheating | F.H

Paring: Five Hargreeves X Fem!Reader

Summary: Klaus gives Five’s girlfriend a dare to see how he’ll react.

“ Are you sure this a good idea? “ Klaus queried as Y/n began applying makeup to her neck, “ What do you mean? “ Y/n asked in response as she looked in the mirror to stare at the male.

“ He’s an assassin, for Christ sakes! He’s going to literally kill me. “ Klaus retorted as if it were the most obvious thing ever, “ And so was I. “ Y/n beckoned, turning around.

Klaus sighed, “ I know that. I just don’t think this is a good idea. “ Klaus repeated, and Y/n crossed her arms, “ Well, it was your idea in the first place. “ Y/n informed.

“ I know. “ Klaus said defeated, “ Great! All you have to do is stay in our apartment. It’s not that bad. “ Y/n spoke as she began walking to the kitchen.

“ I suppose. What do you wanna do in the meantime? “ The male asked as Y/n grabbed snacks, “ Mario kart? “

Klaus grinned, “ Perfect! “

Y/n and Klaus sat on the couch playing the game for hours on end. Truth be told, Y/n was relatively fearful that Five would take this prank too far, considering how possessive he is with her.

Nonetheless, Y/n knew that if things got out of hand, she’d be able to stop him. Just a few days ago, Klaus thought of the brilliant idea to prank Five, saying how Y/n was ‘cheating’ on him.

Obviously, he didn’t expect Y/n actually to do it. It was a playful comment that held absolutely no meaning, but Y/n was determined to go through it. Honestly, she wanted to see what he’d do too.

The plan was Y/n would make a hickey on her neck with makeup. It was the most cliché way of going about it but definitely the most practical. Klaus would be in the bedroom, and when Y/n gave the signal, he’d enter the main room.

Hanging out with Klaus was definitely the most effective way of getting Five’s jealousy through the roof. He loved his girl with all of his heart and wanted no one to take her from him. This was the girl he planned to spend the rest of his life with.

Five initially hated this girl. She was cocky, sarcastic, and witty beyond belief. The girl worked at the commission and was assigned his partner, which they both despised, seeing as they were both independent.

However, since time works in weird ways, they both became fond of each other. She found herself catching feelings for him much before he did himself. It took months for them to become friends, let alone love interests, but it happened.

Now, Five couldn’t ever get enough of her. Being with Five was like endless cuddles, kisses, affection, and meaningful conversations. The communication between the two lovers was through the roof. No stone was ever left unturned.

“ Okay, Five just texted me saying he’s three minutes away. Go hide in the bedroom. “ Y/n rushed as Klaus jumped up from the couch, “ Yep! “ Klaus shouted from the bedroom.

Y/n began cleaning up the mess they left, and when Five entered the room, he discarded all unneeded items. Then he walked towards his loving girlfriend, washing dishes.

Five walked towards her and wrapped his arms around her waist gently. She’d be lying if it didn’t make her cheeks flush a brilliant pink color. The male nuzzled his nose into her shoulder.

“ I’m home, my love. “ Five’s muffled voice spoke as her shoulder covered his mouth, “ Nah, I couldn’t tell. “ Y/n retorted sarcastically.

The female placed the dishes in the sink and turned around his arms. Now they faced each other, both her hands cupping his cheeks as his green eyes stared into her e/c ones. Both were in a loved-filled daze, and Y/n completely forgot about the prank.

That is, until Five moved some hair from her neck, noticing the discolored skin, “ Love? “ Five slightly pouted, “ Mmm? “ Y/n hummed in response, unable to follow his eyes.

Suddenly his love-filled eyes turned more with an upset look, “ What's on your neck? “ Five asked curiously as he gently swiped his finger over the makeup, “ I- I don’t know what you’re on about. “ Y/n nervously stated.

“ I need to ask you a question, and you need to answer honestly. “ Five spoke with his voice as firm as possible, making Y/n nod and gulp in response, “ Are you cheating on me? “

Fives hands went from her waist to her cheeks, and hers fell to her side. Y/n let out a sigh, not locking eyes with his. Admittedly she was surprised with how calm he managed to stay during this whole situation.

He took her silence as a yes and let go of her. Without another word, he walked into the bedroom. This prank had failed because she wasn’t planning on him being so calm. But when he entered the bedroom to see a boxer wearing, that’s when his anger released.

“ What the fuck! “ Five yelled from the bedroom, “ Shit! “ Y/n cursed, running to the bedroom.

She found Five holding Klaus against the wall choking him, not killing him but making it painful.

“ Five! “ Y/n yelled, “ You won’t lay your hands on my girl ever again. Cause I swear to god if you do, I will kill you myself- “ Five spat as he ignored his girlfriend, yelling at him.

“ It was a prank! “ Y/n shouted, and Five immediately dropped Klaus, “ That got your attention. “ Y/n murmured.

Five looked at her, and through his anger-filled look, she could see his eyes filled with tears. He was trying so hard not to cry when sneering at Klaus, and she could see that now. Klaus scrambled up and left the room. He probably left the apartment too.

When Klaus left is when Five fell apart, “ This was all a prank? “ Five managed through gritted teeth, “ Mhm. “ Y/n hummed.

“ Prove it. “ Five demanded, and Y/n sighed.

The girl walked over to her vanity and grabbed a makeup wipe. She showed him the white towel and rubbed it over the makeup on her neck. Afterward, she handed him the towel, now covered in blue and purple makeup while her neck was its original color.

Gently Five lifted her jaw and moved the hair from that area to see it completely gone. To say he was relieved would be putting it lightly. The girl who he loved and planned to marry had just lifted every weight off his shoulders.

Without a second thought, he embraced her tightly, and she did the same, “ If you do that again, I will kill you. “ Five spoke, “ I won’t. “ Y/n responded.

“ Good because I love you too much. “

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Resistance Story: Chewtoy AU, co-author @whump-sprite Timeline: Connor is rescuing Ari from Riven

Bandages [ Prev | Next ]

About an hour out from the city limits, Connor stops for gas. He has the window open in the front to give himself some fresh air, but the heat still going to keep Ari warm in the back. 

She's fast asleep, mouth slack, limbs at ungainly angles in the awkward space. It's almost a shame to wake her. But she starts at the sound of Connor's door.

"Easy," he tells her. "Keep your head down, I'll be back in just a few minutes."

The gas station has a hot food counter, and Connor gets them each a surprisingly appetizing sausage roll as well as sandwiches and chips. They're going to need plenty of energy. 

He parks up to eat – a little out of the way of prying eyes – and looks back to see Ariadne watching him with wary scrutiny. She looks a lot more alert already, to Connor's relief. 

"You can sit up if you like," he tells her. "Are you hungry?" "Yes."

She sits up with none of the caution you'd expect from someone with a couple of dozen open wounds for a back. She doesn't lean back against the seats, but that's about the only concession she makes to her injuries. 

She's still tough, despite everything Maclauren's done to her. 

"Is there coffee?" she asks. "You bet." She accepts it with a murmur of "thanks," drinks deeply, then holds out her hands for food.

Bruises peek from the edges of her borrowed sleeves, and create a deep, blue-purple shadow under her chin. 

She catches Connor looking, and tries to tug her sweater up over her collarbone. 

Even that little gesture helps to ease some of Connor's fears. He wasn't sure how he was going to get her out of the country if she was as sick as she seemed when he found her. 

But she has an appetite, and she's alert, and she doesn't seem to have any trouble sitting up. 

"We're not going back this time," he tells her. She nods hesitantly, and after a second ventures an untrusting "thank you." "We've got a long way to go. If you can get any more sleep in the car, you should. Will you let me take care of your back before we move on?" A sarcastic thought twists her lips for a second, but she keeps it to herself. "Okay," she nods. "I… haven't been able to wash it for a few days. I don't know how bad it is."

"I can stop somewhere a little further from civilization," Connor offers, "so it won't matter if you make noise." "I won't make noise," Ariadne scoffs. Connor nods. "Alright."

He gets the first aid kit and the pile of bandages from the trunk, and Ariadne peels off Connor's sweaters and lays across the seats again to give him access to her back. 

Despite her fears, it doesn't look badly infected. There's a few places where the scabs are discolored yellow and the skin is tight and scarlet between the gashes, but nothing bad enough to scare Connor. 

The back of her sports bra is caked into the dried blood and scabs. Cut edges of the fabric – where the whip must have caught it – seem almost fused to her skin, stray threads disappearing into bloody wounds.

"I might have to cut this off," Connor says, touching a relatively clean spot to let her know what he means. "Go ahead," Ariadne answers. "Nothing you haven't seen before."

There are blunt-nosed scissors in the first aid kit. Connor cuts the fabric at her shoulders and either side of her back, then uses clean water and a bit of folded gauze to loosen the scabs until the blood-soaked cloth will peel easily away. 

More water cleans the excess blood from her skin and dislodges the scabs from the infected wounds. Ariadne doesn't make a sound as Connor wipes the gashes out, only presses her face into the car seat. He stops when there's no trace of pus left, only clean blood.

She hisses through her teeth when he starts applying antiseptic, but she doesn't ask him to slow down. 

Connor brought the largest tub he could get of the ointment the pharmacist recommended for "a cut". He daubs it generously across Ari's back – and it doesn't make her tense right up so he can only assume it isn't unpleasant. 

Then he has her sit up and starts wrapping her in bandages from her neck right down to her hips."Where are we going?" she asks. "Canada."

[Next]

[whiskeynwriting]

Blurred Lines - Chapter Five: I Am Yours

Din Djarin x Force Sensitive F!Reader

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Word count: 5.7k

Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI) very very very fluffy shower sex, vaginal sex, lots of makeout moments, small hints of a praise kink, soft Mando, aftercare

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Summary: You connect with a friend from the past during your escape into the woods. Din finds you, bringing you back to the Crest. His worry for you prompts him to admit the emotions he’s never spoken aloud before.

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A/N: I am so sorry I posted this so late, but life happens. I wanted to focus on Mando’s love for the reader, as well as the reader’s past with her connection to the force. We’re five chapters in, and I want their closeness to be expressed thoroughly, so that’s what I wrote (: This is the fluffiest shit I have EVER written, I hope y’all enjoy it!

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Blurred Lines Series (Part One) Masterlist

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◆

The menacingly controlling energy you possessed hours before is now completely gone. You’ve been making your way through the woods on this mountain for hours, and the sun is starting to set. There’s no way this area was farther than five miles from the city, so why is this taking so long?

“Shit!” you wince, looking down at your hand.

The blood from your wounds has dried but stings, nonetheless. Any small movement in your palm causes the liquid to drip through the largest gash, so you do your best to keep the muscles in your hand still. The biggest lesion runs horizontally through your right palm, and there are a few jagged cuts scattered around it. The cuts are so deep they caused blood to cascade down your wrist and to your forearm, ruining the fabric of your robes. Along with this, you noticed how winded you seemed to be during the hike following your escape. After lifting your shirt, you found a gross discoloration of skin along your side. Deep purple and blue bruises proving the likelihood of broken ribs. You need to get your bearings. With your dominant hand injured to the point of uselessness, you’re going to have to be resourceful.

Feeling lost and hopeless, you slump against a tree, as best you can. You huddle against it, maneuvering under the cover of some low bushes in order to hide from anyone that may be following. The sky is a dark blue as the sun has now vanished completely. You’re alone in a foreign place, likely being hunted, and you’ve never felt more vulnerable. Dammit, you and Mando should’ve brought comm links on the mission. You’re exhausted, injured, and disoriented; where is he when you need him?

Just then, you feel something pull on you. It comes from inside of you, something that makes your heart lurch into your throat. You can practically feel the little monster’s presence. Your eyes shut as you allow yourself to be swept away by the warm energy you’ve known all your life, the same energy the child has known since his birth, too. His company is soothing, reassuring. He doesn’t seem troubled or nervous, he actually seems calm and quite content. He knows more than you do, you can feel it. You can’t help but notice he’s alone, though, and you hope that means Mando is out looking for you. Sadly, reaching out to other’s energies on your own was never something you’d managed to learn, so trying to find Din that way was pointless.

“Why?” your voice comes out as a crackly whine, tears forming in your eyes. You shove the image of the child away, undeserving of this ability. “Why did you do this? Why did you find me?” You can’t do this, not again. You don’t think you’ll survive it. The warm feeling the force brought was one you were no longer worthy of.

“It never found you; it’s always been with you.”

Her voice… soothing and beautiful as always. A gentle sound you haven’t heard in so many years. Something you don’t deserve to hear, not after what you did.

“I don’t deserve this.” You shake your head as it hangs low on your chest. A shuddering breath comes from your lungs as you continue. “You shouldn’t reach out to me.”

“I am always with you.” she reminds you.

Your connection to the force, to her, were things you had no control over. No matter how hard you may try, you cannot hinder nor coerce the love that blooms between you and this way of life. It was natural, it always has been. It’s in your blood.

“You are so missed, my love.” Her words reach deep inside you, pulling at the strings of your heart violently.

“Ahsoka…” you whisper, tears now wetting your cheeks. She utters your name, returning the affection as silence ensues the tender moment.

“I need you to know…” she speaks, her voice full of uncertainty as she hesitates. “You need not bind yourself to a code in order to embrace the fullness of your potential.”

The sentence shocks you, full of words she’s never expressed to you before. When you were her pupil, her kin, she taught you the way of the Jedi, emphasized its importance and connection to the force. Even through your natural talents, this way of life was one you could never mold yourself to, no matter how hard you tried. Your emotions were too strong, you became too attached to those around you. You were at risk because of this, at risk of turning to a side that brought nothing but heartbreak and pain. For your own best interest, and for the Jedi’s as well, you left. You deemed yourself unfit to wield the force due to your emotion and vulnerability. But now… is she truly suggesting otherwise?

All at once, she’s gone. Disappearing as quick as she had appeared, her presence fading away after those final words. Her permission to use this energy was something you never asked to receive, nor even thought of as a possibility. Was this something you could welcome back into your life?

An abrupt rustling yanks you out of your inner connection, your eyes snapping open as it startles you. You resist the urge to turn due to your wounded ribcage, the unwelcomed feeling of weakness and exposure returning. You listen closely to your surroundings, trying to figure out who it is that’s approaching you. Suddenly, a hand falls to your shoulder. Regardless of the pain, you jerk your body to the side, swinging your elbow around and into the man’s stomach. You each grunt loudly at the contact, and you fling yourself forward. You do your best to stand, but a sharp twinge in your ankle brings you to the ground. You start crawling away, but the man grabs you again.

“Get off!” you scream, knocking him to the ground behind you with a swift kick to his knee.

“Stop!”

You stall at the familiar voice, metallic and deep while audibly straining in pain. Your chest heaves with exhaustion, eyes drooping at the sensation. Your body falls limp, dragging you down like you’re filled to the brim with cement. Mando manages to get to his feet as he walks toward you. Kneeling down, he places a gentle hand on your back, and that’s when things finally go dark.

You’re jostled awake as your head lolls to the side. The canopy overhead shifts continually, the trees you tried so hard to escape from now passing by above you. Strong arms carry you, wrapping around your small frame as he hikes down the mountain. You roll lightly, cuddling into him. You feel naked and exposed as your weak body clings to him.

“Din,” you whisper, your voice a bit hoarse.

“Shh…” he coos, “We’re almost home.”

Home… home. Was that what the Crest was to you now? Not just a second home but your home. The intimate space you shared with your Mandalorian and the child. Yes, that sounds like home.

It’s not long before you hear the familiar hiss of the ramp, your body tilting slightly as he ascends the slanted metal. He’s quick to lay you down on the cot inside your shared bunk, ultimately returning to the control pad to secure the ship and raise the ramp. You hear him engage ground security protocols, ensuring your safety while he cares for you before taking off. Your body rests, muscles already aching, your injuries throbbing painfully under your skin. Your breaths are shallow as you nuzzle against the blankets, doing your best to calm your mind.

Mando rummages through some storage containers before returning to you with a med kit, rolling the cot out gently so he can see you better. His visor scans your body, and a single hand places itself on your thigh.

“Can you roll over?” he asks, his voice calm and soothing.

Struggling, you roll to your side so you’re facing away from him, leaning against your uninjured ribcage. His gloved hands move your shirt upward to see what he’s working with. When he sees your bruises, he sighs out deeply. Seeing you like this hurts him. He’s regretful about losing you during the mission, feeling inadequate in his ability to protect you. Nonetheless, he begins the process. Your clothes and skin are covered in dirt and blood, and in order to assess you properly, he’ll need to get you clean.

“Can I take these off?”

“Might as well,” you reply, your voice laced in aggravation. Not toward him, but toward your helpless body and filthy clothes. “They’re pretty much ruined.”

He chuckles at your words, reaching for the sheers inside the kit and quickly slicing through the thin fabric. “That’s the least of your worries, right now.”

You don’t respond, you’re too tired to, you just let him work. When your clothes are removed, you’re left in your undergarments, which you could really care less about. He’s seen more of you, anyways; there’s not much to hide anymore. Sensual thoughts don’t seem to cross his mind though, because once your clothes are gone, he promptly begins cleaning your body. He slides a damp cloth against your skin, sanitary wipes made for antibacterial purposes. He’s gentle and unhurried as he cares for you, paying meticulous attention to each part of your body.

“I’m so sorry,” he sighs, now moving to the medicinal steps in this routine.

“Din,” you huff out, shaking your head. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is.” He snaps back, sounding angered. “I didn’t protect you… I’m supposed to protect you.”

“I can protect myself.” Silence quickly overcomes the space between you as the obvious is noted. Clearly, you couldn’t protect yourself, not this time. He’s quiet, turning to the med kit before speaking again.

“After you were hit, I tried to get to you… I tried.” He continues, his voice strangled with emotion. “But, I couldn’t fight them all… she mentioned the kid and I couldn’t let them get to him.”

“Din,” you call out louder than intended, cutting him off. “You don’t need to explain. I understand. You’re here now, I’m here now, everything will be okay.” You lower your voice in an effort to reassure him, to comfort him as much as he is comforting you. You knew there were too many of them, you knew he did his best. He always did.

He stops talking, running your words over in his head. He either can’t come up with the right words to say, or he finally agrees with you and your point. You’re right, you’re both here now. The child is safe, you’re safe; everything is alright.

You’re not a stranger to bacta shots, but they still hurt like a bitch every time. He applies one to your side, and then to your foot. He also moves to your back, sticking you there as well after explaining that you had some torn muscles. Bacta spray engulfs your right hand, too, cleaning it thoroughly as it enters your bloodstream. He then lifts your foot gently, assessing it further.

“What’s going on there?’ you question, leaning up a bit to look at him. You don’t remember hurting your foot.

“It’s sprained.” He replies, tenderly setting it back onto the cot. “What happened to you in there?”

“It’s not important.” You reply, dropping your head back down.

“Well… I know I wiped you down, but would you want a shower? The water might feel good on your muscles.” When you don’t respond, he offers, “Or I could just wrap you up for the night.”

His original offer actually sounds quite nice, so you agree to it. He helps you down off the bed, the bacta already easing your pain as it begins healing your body. Your non-dominant hand stays in Din’s while he walks you across the short distance to the washroom, and you stop him when he turns to leave.

“Hey,” you reach out, grabbing his arm. “Can you… can you stay in here with me?”

He tilts his head at your request, turning to face you.

“I just… don’t want to be alone.”

You sound like a child, but its true. You don’t want to be alone. Not after going through all that. Your explanation seems to make sense to him, though, because he responds comfortingly, following you inside.

It’s embarrassing, but you struggle to take off the last of your clothes. You’re still sore and it’s difficult to reach around to your bra. He comes to your aid quickly, moving your hands aside as he helps you remove the remaining garments. Your bra drops to the floor, his hands shifting as it does. They trail up to your shoulders, squeezing lightly before running down the curve of your arms. Eventually, they land on your waist, and he rests his forehead on your shoulder.

“You were gone for so long.” He mutters.

“What? What do you mean?” You’d assumed that when you woke up in that cement room that you’d only been out for a couple hours.

“I couldn’t find you for two days.”

“What?! Two days?!”

“Shh…” he coos to you again, urging you to relax. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Your mind races at the new information. Two days? Two whole days?! That dart must have been what kept you knocked out, what the hell was in that? No wonder you felt so exhausted, you hadn’t eaten in more than forty-eight hours.

Through your silence, Din reaches forward to turn the shower on for you. Steam quickly fills the small space, and you’re able to reach down and remove your underwear before stepping in, willing your worries to fade. He watches the water cascade over your body, your eyes closing in pleasure when the warm sensation hits your sore muscles.

“Come in here with me,” you purr, relaxing under the hot stream.

“Mesh’la, I can’t…” he begins, but you cut him off.

“You can turn off the lights, I don’t care. I just want you here with me.” You beg, longing to feel his naked body against yours.

You desperately miss the way he holds you. You’ve never felt the bare skin of his body against yours before. It’s something you want to experience with him, a new level of closeness that you positively yearn for. He considers your request, standing there for a moment before turning to shut the lights off. Metal thuds and clinks against the floor as he removes his armor for you. He doesn’t pause in hesitation of waking the child though, leading you to assume he must be closed away in his pram for the night, likely up in the cockpit. Your pulse quickens when the hiss of his helmet lifting hits your ears. His loud gait echoes as he approaches you in the darkness, his large body stepping into the shower to stand behind you. His arm shifts, his hand landing on the clear glass door and closing it softly.

He reaches around you, his strong arms pulling you back against him as the water showers over the two of you. He leans in, his nose pressing to your cheek as he sighs. His presence is incredibly soothing, and your hands fall over his while you lean back against his muscular form. He holds you against him, his arms completely wrapped around your waist while his chest presses to your back. The way he holds you make you feel like nothing in the entire galaxy could touch you, like the whole world could crumble around you while his sturdy frame protected you, Beskar or not, leaving you safe and unharmed beneath him.

“I tried looking for you,” he tells you quietly, “but when I couldn’t find you… I thought I’d lost you.”

“I’m here,” you respond, quick to reassure him. It’s unusual to see him so vulnerable and hurting, it truly breaks your heart. “It’s okay, everything is okay.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he admits, “Every time I visited Nevarro was for you, every time. I’ve never known a feeling like this before you.”

Warmth blossoms in your chest, your heart squeezing until it chokes. The friendship you’d known for so long was a vital foundation for the two of you, forming a trusting bond you had previously never experienced before finding each other. In a way, you feel like you were called to one another, made to come together and live in harmony.

Din holds onto you tighter, nuzzling against you. “Cyare,” he whispers, “Ner cyare.” His voice is full of emotion as he speaks, wavering lightly when he sighs.

“Tell me what that means,” you ask softly, just barely audible under the thundering shower above you. “It sounds so pretty when you say it.”

He smiles widely against your skin at your request, appreciating your verbal admiration for the native Mandalorian language. “My beloved.” A hurried breath rushes from his chest. “Mesh’la, you are mine.”

Your breathing catches in your throat at his words. How could a man hidden from the outside world be so loving? The impenetrable shield of his Beskar had separated him from the surrounding world for years, decades. You once thought he was a hardened, unforgiving man, but now, he was everything. He is kind, caring, and compassionate, and all for you.

“And I am yours.” He says, finishing his intention; the whole meaning behind what he is trying to say.

The appreciation you have for him in unmatched and almost indescribable. You’re not quite sure what to say in response, but you nod anyway while you try your best to gather yourself. Your pulse thumps rapidly as you register his feelings for you and how he’s expressing them.

“Din, you mean so much to me. You’re everything to me.”

His arms shift, turning you around to turn face him. He lays a hand on the back of your neck and the other on your waist, ushering you closer against his chest. Leaning down, he presses his forehead against yours, your eyes closing in response as you relax against him. He’s here, he’s with you. Everything will be okay, everything is okay.

Your overwhelming feelings become passionate as you rest against each other. His hands begin moving along your waist, lowering to your thighs and squeezing gently. You move your own, sliding them up to his shoulders. The toned muscles flex under your palms as he runs his hands lovingly over your body.

His hot mouth finds you, tender and passionate as his lips move against yours. His hand cups your face while his soft mouth works itself onto yours. You return his affections, gripping his shoulders and inviting him to lean into you. He steps forward as you encourage him, backing you up against the shower wall. Slowly, your left leg wraps around his waist while he continues to kiss you. His husky moans fill the space between you when he parts for a breath, his hands moving to hold your body up so you don’t strain too much. You sigh out, looking up to where his face is in the darkness. You feel his gaze on you as he utters your name, following it with an expression of affection.

“Ner kar’tayl gar darasuum.”

You’re not fluent, you never have been. He’s taught you Mando’a over the years, or rather, you’ve simply caught on to the meaning behind certain words he often used. And even though you’ve never heard him say any of the words he just spoke, the meaning behind them is clear.

“I love you,” you return, holding his face in both hands. “I love you so much."

He returns to your skin, kissing along your jaw, licking and sucking gently as he begins pressing his hips to yours. One of his hands moves to the back of your knee, helping you to keep your left leg up and over his waist. His body rolls against yours as he continues kissing and licking the skin of your neck, eventually moving down to your chest and running his tongue over the soft skin.

You moan out, resting your head back on the wall. Your hands reach for his hair, fingers easily gliding through the soft waves, now damp under the warm water. Your palms rest against his head, scratching and pulling softly as his tongue rolls over your nipples, his one hand reaching up to massage your chest sensually. You tug on his curls when he nips at your sensitive skin, his wet tongue obsessing over you, worshiping you. You moan deeply at his adoration for you, and you’re absolutely enthralled in desire for him.

His nose brushes against your face when he moves back up to hover his lips just over yours. You can feel the panting of his breath, hot and frantic above you. His soft, full lips return to yours, moving slowly against you. He doesn’t want this time to be hurried; he wants to enjoy it, savor it; to cherish your shared intimacy as you feel your bare bodies against each other for the first time.

Your fingers don’t leave his hair as you move your mouths in unison, the action engulfing you in desire as his body molds to yours. You flatten your hands around his head and push him further into you, moaning as you deepen the kiss. Maker, you’ve missed his mouth, his attentiveness. His tongue laps at your bottom lip, wordlessly asking for entrance, which you instantly give. He moves a hand to your jaw, opening your mouth more as he begins to lick inside. It’s clear he’s missed the taste of you, too. His sturdy hand on your jaw, his body pinning you to the wall, everything about this moment stimulates you in the best of ways. He’s so dominant, so strong, so possessive…

You angle your head to give him further access as your tongues slide against each other. Desperately needing some kind of friction, your hips buck up to rub against him. He acknowledges your actions and ruts against you in return, rubbing his shaft along your slick folds as water cascades over his shoulders. His tip occasionally glides over your clit, stimulating your delicate bundle of nerves. You aren’t sure how much time passes by as you grind against each other, feeling each other, tasting each other. Din licks into your mouth, languidly savoring you as he keeps your lips open for him. He swallows your whines while his tender tongue works against yours, relishing everything about this moment. The taste of you, the feel of you… Maker, you feel like you’re going to explode.

He pulls back enough for the two of you to catch your breath, panting against each other as your lips barely touch. He whispers lustfully in the darkness, “Ner cyare…”

“Ner cyare.” You repeat, the words leaving your lips for the first time. It’s something you don’t think about as you do it, something that just happens as your inner desire to return your affections in his mother language bubbles to the surface.

He smiles against your lips, his chest tightening and breath catching in his throat. You’ve never spoken Mando’a with him before, but it feels right. It feels like something you’ve never known, but it feels right.

“Ner kar’tayl gar darasuum.” He says again, the words full of love and trust. “I know you,” he continues, your name softly leaving his lips. “I love you.”

“Din,” you giggle breathlessly, relishing in his verbal sentiments. “I love you, too.”

His head falls to your shoulder, lips kissing your neck softly as he shifts his hand to grip your thigh tighter. He angles himself at your entrance before slowly pushing forward. Your hands fly to his neck as he does so, the action sending shockwaves through your hips. He pulls back from you slightly, then rocks himself further in. A ragged breath releases itself from your chest as his thick length dives deeper and deeper into you. Every ridge and vein rubs deliciously along your walls until his hips finally meet yours. He groans out at the sensation of your walls contracting around him as he bottoms out inside you.

“Mesh’la,” he reaches down to grip your waist, his other holding your leg firmly. “I missed this. I need this.” He breathes out, his thoughts swirling with ecstasy.

“Baby… you feel so good.” you whine out, tightening your leg around his waist.

It’s only been a few days since the two of you were in a moment as intimate as this, but he craved you, nonetheless. His senses were restricted underneath the cover of his armor, but with you, he could indulge in every single one. He wants nothing but you, and he wants you to know it.

“I’ll never let anything happen to you again,” he vows, his words and voice full of meaning and promise. “I’ll protect you. Always.”

He pulls out before shoving himself back inside your heat, earning a high whine from your lips. He thrusts into you, pushing you further up on the wall with each jolt of his hips. He grunts into your ear, biting at your lobe. You groan in response, his ravenous actions making you delirious with desire.

“You’re mine.”

“Din,” you whimper, your head falling to his chest as he ruts up into you.

“That’s it baby, say my name.” He grunts out, his restraint faltering as his thrusts become more forceful, allowing himself to give into his physical needs. “Say the name of the man who’s claimed you, who’s made you his.”

“Fuck, Din!” you cry out, his pace quickening above you. He can’t help the dominance that overcomes him as he fucks you, his possession over you clawing its way through his chest.

“Sweet girl,” he whispers hoarsely, his hips continuously slapping against yours.

He turns his head, pressing his lips to your cheek while he reaches up to hold your jaw. “My sweet girl.” He murmurs, kissing your cheek fervently while you moan out, his length sending waves of pleasure through you with each reentry.

You smile widely at his adoration, humming kindly in response. Moving himself back, he slightly changes his angle as he explores your tight channel, finally finding that insatiable spot deep inside you. Pleasure shoots through your veins at his discovery, and you absolutely revel in it. You lift your head and lean into him, placing a hand along his jaw. You lick a long stripe up the cuff of his ear, earning a low growl from his throat.

“Sweet thing,” He sighs happily at your actions, pounding into you relentlessly. He shoves your leg up further, your muscles straining at his power, but you take it regardless. “So good,” he breathes out, watching you stretch for him. “So good for me.”

You’re breathless below him, taking the full brunt of his physical desires. His hips continue their pace, his throbbing cock relentlessly shoving itself inside you. The ecstasy pulsing through your veins continues building until your muscles start shaking beneath him.

“Cum for me, sweet girl.” He coos, his soft voice a surprising paradox to his fervent actions as he reads your body’s cues. “Cum for me. Cum on me.”

He pounds against that sweet little spot inside you, over and over again. The ripples of pleasure continue to build until it’s almost unbearable. Ecstasy tumbles through your limbs like captivating water flowing over a cliff. Your eyes roll back, your walls clenching tightly around him while you claw at his shoulders. His thick girth fills you perfectly as you cry out, your high shooting through you. Your body rolls rhythmically against him while he holds you up on the slippery wall, kissing your neck and chest while you writhe beneath him. His name blends into the rush of water that surrounds you as you moan it repeatedly, holding tightly to him.

The force behind his thrusts picks up even more, continuing to rut into you harshly. His breathing is strained and hurried next to your ear, and his grip on you tightens as the familiar feeling of ecstasy overcomes him. Din releases a throaty groan as he cums, his breathing frantic and rough. His hips jut against you with each spurt that releases from his tip, the white, hot ropes shooting up inside you. He rocks against you, continuing to hold you while your bodies relax.

Finally, his stroking ceases and he stills above you. He leans back to wipe his forehead, a long sigh rushing out of his lungs. His hand releases your leg, letting it fall, allowing you to fully stand on the wet floor. The hot water continues to pour over you, and you decide to lean down to turn it to a cooler setting.

“Where’s your soap?” you eventually sigh out, realizing that you still need to wash yourself. Your fingers fumble along the wall before he grabs your wrist.

“Let me help,”

“Why?” you giggle, not yet realizing his intent.

“You’re still hurt, just… let me.” He replies insistently.

You hear the pop of a bottle, the thick liquid dripping into his palms before his large, warm hands return to you. He rubs the soap over your shoulders and arms, gently running over your chest and sides. In his adoration, he kneels down to clean your hips and legs, placing light kisses when the soap is rinsed off by the stream of water overhead. His calloused hands feel smooth underneath the slippery liquid, their ruggedness washed away under the spray of water as they work gently against you. He’s so different when you’re alone, so soft and tender. He moves further, tending to your now swollen folds. His fingers move delicately, letting his now soap-free hands caress your sensitive area. He ushers water to your core, rinsing you of his spend.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles, kissing your hip again.

“Din…” you sigh, your heart pulsing at his tenderness.

He lets the water rinse the soap from your body, standing to now drip shampoo onto your hair. His thick fingers run along your scalp, rubbing and scraping through the long strands. It’s so relaxing to have him massage you, to care for you so deeply. Your eyes close as you sigh out, pleasantly surprised by the tenderness of the warrior before you. You’re honored to know this side of him, to know him.

The water pours over you, his fingers guiding the liquid to rid your hair of the soap. He hums as he cleans you, enjoying the work, the aftercare he knows you deserve. When finished, he holds your chin up a bit, briefly placing his lips to yours.

“Go rest, I’ll join you in the bunk soon.”

“Wait,” you protest, reaching around for the soapy bottles. You’re eager to show him your own admiration, but he shakes his head, a motion you can only acknowledge by the shift of his nose over yours while he grabs your wandering hand.

“Another time. You need to rest.”

“But the bacta is working, I’m already feeling better.” You argue, insistent on showering him in the love and care he undoubtedly deserves.

“Cyare,” he counters, his voice stern but loving.

“Okay,” you nod, holding his face.

“I’ll bring you some food and water when I get out.”

He kisses you again before opening the shower door for you, guiding you forward. You reach out blindly until you find a towel, then maneuver yourself out of the fresher and into the hull, making sure to avoid his scattered armor in the process. When the door is closed, you turn the lights on, doing your best not to slip and injure yourself further. You’re too tired to find your belongings and rummage through them, opting to wear one of Din’s undershirts instead. He keeps them stashed in a drawer in the top part of the bunk, so you’re able to pull one down easily. It’s long, black, and oversized, but cozy, nonetheless. You’re surrounded by the smell of him with it laying over your body, a sense you soak in for as long as you can. Usually, you’d apply your leave-in-conditioner after showering, but it’s in the refresher with him. Instead, you dry your hair out with your towel, sitting cross-legged in the open bunk.

The events of the previous days drift into your mind. Was that energy truly something you were willing to welcome back into your life? It didn’t bring out the best in you, it rarely ever did. It was something you respected, of course, but that didn’t mean it was for you. You were strong and capable without it; you don’t need the force to be the powerful fighter you’ve worked so hard to become. Sure, it assisted in your escape, but you hadn’t required its help in years. You convince yourself that you would have escaped one way or another if it didn’t reach out to you, and it somehow reassures you. Whether or not you’re being naïve or just plain stupid, you refuse to let this energy back into your life. You don’t need it and you don’t want it. Because of this, you decide that Din doesn’t need to know about it, at least not yet anyways. It isn’t part of your life, it was merely a piece of your past; something you are moving on from.

Thank you for reading <3

Chapter Six: Your Mandalorian

Mando’a Translations

Blurred Lines Taglist: @kyjoraven @din-is-a-real-mando @marvelouslyme96

[wiypt-writes]

Murder, He Wrote

Part 5.

Summary: The morning after the night before, and you’ve no idea what Ransom is going to greet you…

Warnings: Bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So this is Part 5 to my submission for @Jtargaryen18 ‘s Haunted House 2020  Challenge. Recently my original partner Southerngracela left Tumblr, and as such I’m going it alone based on our notes and planned plot for this series. I hope I do it justice.

READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

Part 4

You woke the next morning, a warm feeling coursing through your body but with a deep ache in your cheek which was laid against a naked pectoral, as you had clearly shifted in your sleep during the night. Your left hand was resting upon a very naked and warm torso with well-defined abs, while a heavy arm draped over your equally naked body; across your shoulder and down your back, a large hand splayed over your hip, fingertips barely grazing the edge of the sheet which settled itself just below pelvic bones. 

As you blinked the sleep from your system, your barely conscious mind began to register exactly who you were cuddling up to. Your captor, the man who’d abused you and held you hostage for the past few months and you swallowed as your mind flooded with memories of the previous night and everything that had happened to the point of escalation and his return. He returned to you a completely different person, broken almost, a far cry from the stoic, cold asshole persona that he did his best to project to the world and you…well, you’d felt sorry for him.

You saw regret, for the first time ever, etched across his face, behind red, saddened and tired eyes. You were cautious, not forgiving, but cautious. You’d empathised, and moreover, you’d seen a chink in his armour that you’d exploited. Whilst he was in that raw, stripped bare state (both figuratively and metaphorically) you’d seized your chance. You’d taken the upper hand.

And now, you were struggling to comprehend exactly how you felt about it.

Despite the ache in your cheek and pain in your knee, your heart waged a war against the reality of your situation. For the first time in two, nearly three months, you felt differently towards him and that scared you. No, it terrified you. Had Ransom just been hiding behind his pain and fear, putting forth the beast before the man?

The memory of how he made you feel the previous night flooded behind your fluttering eyes and you felt a stir within, as if your feminine nature craved him unlike before. But your mind kept saying now, stay logical. Don't be part of the hunt, be part of the chase. But really, what were you chasing? You didn't know.

As if to curb that craving, you stretched out like a cat finding its patch of sunlight on the floor. And almost as if he reacted to your movement, he gave one of his own, his back arching a little as he jostled you on his chest, a deep sigh leaving his system as he gave a low rumble of contentment.

"Morning," you heard him speak above your ear. His voice was deep and raspy, sleep riddled. It made your stomach flutter and your thighs instinctively clench. 

You sat up in bed, pulling the sheet up your body to cover yourself a bit more. Then you turned towards Ransom, your better cheek facing him. "Hi," you spoke softly. 

"C'mere," he said, gently reaching for your forearm to pull you back into him. 

You were stopped short of completely covering him, your hair falling over your left side and as he tucked the obstructing strand behind your ear, his thumb caught your cheek and you hissed. He noticed it immediately and his eyes grew sorrowful. He pulled you to his lips, kissing you softly, slowly before he pulled away and sat up, kicking his legs over the side of the bed and standing, his naked body on display. 

You weren't in denial of the Adonis before you, but underneath the God-like physique and piercing blue eyes, still lurked a Demon waiting for his next opportunity to seize his moment. He turned to you and leaned on his hands, palms flat, against the mattress. 

"I'll be right back," he said softly, as he leaned in again for a gentle kiss before slipping into his boxers and leaving you. 

Ransom headed upstairs, taking two steps at a time emerging into the airy, well-lit hallway. He strode purposefully into the kitchen, running one hand through his sleep mussed hair, yawning slightly as he scratched at his bare chest with the other before he reached down to the front of his expensive boxers and rearranged the crotch of the fabric to make it slightly more comfortable.

The night he'd had was nothing short of amazing, mind blowing even. In fact, he'd go as far as to say like no other, how he felt, how he'd made her feel, hearing her call out his name more than once. But nothing, nothing was like the sound of his name across her lips for the first time. He felt his chest swell at even the slightest flicker of a memory, his skin blushing. 

But now, outside of his general reason for coming up to the main part of the house, Ransom was confused, unsure and uncharacteristically nervous. Riddled with guilt, he sought out ice and the first aid kit.

He headed to his bathroom upstairs and collected the items he needed; rubbing alcohol, swabs and bandages. Then he headed down and into the kitchen, bare feet making their way across the cold floor. He took a dish towel and pulled some cubes from the freezer and twisted the ends together, creating a pouch. Then with the items in hand, he headed back to Y/N.

It didn't go amiss that she hadn't moved from the exact spot he'd left her in minutes ago. He took note of her watching every move he made, each step he took, the twitches of his muscular frame and stare of his eyes. Her eyes watched him, suspicion reflecting in her stare. He sighed."You still don't trust me, Sweetheart?"

"I don't know." She whispered hesitantly. "It's.... complicated."

There it was again, her doubt in him. He looked her over and even in the dull light of the room, he could see the destruction on her face. The way the discoloring of her skin filtrated from her defined and now split cheek bone to her stunning eye, marking her for what he could assume would be a good couple of weeks. The split skin had started to scab but was no doubt painful and puffy even under the bruising. It looked angry and tender. Pain and regret filled his eyes as he felt them mist slightly. Leaning closer as he stood by the side of the bed, his thumb traced over the broken skin gently as if by touch he'd heal her. 

“Yeah, I suppose it is." He dropped down onto the bed next to her and handed over the ice pack. "Here..."

"Thank you," she winced as she held the ice to her cheek, sitting with her left leg covered and the sheet pulled up to her chest. 

He looked her over, looking for anything else amiss. Then he saw the scrape across her right knee. Her exposed leg was bent there at the joint. Ransom gently took her ankle and pulled her close, propping the leg over his thighs.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he whispered, looking at the scrape and applying an alcohol swap. She hissed at the way it burned and Ransom's first instinct was to gently blow on the stinging skin. 

"Are we just talking about yesterday?"

He stopped the gentle blowing and sighed, dropping his head a little. "Does it matter?”

"Not really, it's not like I'm going to go anywhere either way, is it, Ransom?" She swallowed.

She called him by his name again, sending chills and flutters through him like a school boy with a hard crush. He swallowed hard and took her wrist holding the ice, "let me see."

She obliged, letting him pull her hand away as his other reached up and tilted her face round. She blinked a little, her eyes not leaving his face as he took a deep breath and his hand dropped down to the bed. He nodded at the ice. "Put that back on, it'll help with the swelling."

"Okay," she agreed, doing as he asked. They were in a limbo of sorts. He didn't know what to do, but he felt an unfamiliar, unnerving desperate need to be with her.

 And the silence was nerve wracking. 

The ice began dripping into your hand and trailing down your forearm. You pulled the pack away and handed it back to Ransom. "I... I need to shower, just take a few minutes to uh, freshen up.”

Ransom nodded, his fingers gently brushing yours as he took the pack off you. "Sure” He nodded. “I’ll be in the kitchen, come up when you’re ready.”

 “Okay.” You agreed, with a single nod of your head. 

Easing your legs out of the sheets you stood up, your limbs feeling a little stiff from the previous evening’s activities and you could feel his eyes on you as you walked into the bathroom, no doubt taking in how your backside looked. The remnants of the night before were still strewn about the tiled floor, and you sighed before you turned on the shower.

As the water warmed, you gathered yourself to gaze at your reflection. Surely your cheek was worse off than the night before. And a glance confirmed it were. A deep bruising shade of purple was working its way from your cheek bone to just under your eyes, a scab where the skin had broken had formed. You didn't want to see anymore. You climbed into the shower and allowed the heat of the water to relax your sore muscles.

You ached in a way that you hadn't in a long while. The way you knew you could after all nerves fired in pleasure and tingled your skin. Last night was interesting to say the least. It was the first time you felt anything outside of deep, gnawing despair. It was obvious that Ransom thought he had won, that you had given in. You had control of the situation nearly from the start, and it had felt good, so, so good. He'd called you baby and it made you shudder in... delight, so much so you’d called him Ransom, breathlessly moaning it as a pleasure coursed through you that you didn't try to stop or deny.

You didn't protest, you didn't fight back. You’d wanted it. And then, that warm feeling of him letting go inside you, filling you, and the look on his face as he did so, well you were shivering at the thought.

The question was, now what? Where do you go from here? You weren't stupid, freedom wasn't an option. But, there could be a bit more for you to work with. Nodding to yourself, knowing how to at least start, you shampooed your hair, inhaling and getting lost in its scent. Autopilot kicked in and you finished your shower, eventually stepping back into your room, wrapped in a towel.

You sorted through your wardrobe, deciding on a pair of dark washed jeans, one could say fit like a glove over your legs and hips, drawing your body in sharp curves and lines, pairing it with a black satin camisole and burgundy cardigan. You toweled your hair off more, collecting the remaining heavy water droplets in the terrycloth fabric and went to hang it back up on the hook in the bathroom. You noticed Ransom's clothes and items from the night before were gone from where they were discarded and no other remnant of him remained other than the distinct smell of him on your sheets and throughout your bed. Taking a look in the mirror, you replaced the butterfly closure bandaid on your cheek and dabbed some face cream gently around your bruise. You sorted your hair, brushing through it but leaving it to dry on its own, a hair tie now on your wrist in case you needed it. You took your time getting dressed and cleaned up, tossing your sheets around to make your bed and tidy up. It was obvious you were making him wait, and that was okay with you. You didn't know exactly what awaited you in the kitchen, which Ransom you'd get, but so far, the version of the man that took you seemed to remain far behind. 

After accepting you’d stalled as much as you could, you took a deep breath and headed up the stairs emerging into the well-lit, yet cold hallway and made your way through to the large kitchen. Ransom turned from where he had been filling up the coffee machine and his gaze flicked over your appearance before he met your eyes and his mouth twitched up at one side into a small, yet noticeable smile.

"What can I make you?" You asked softly, treading unevenly in your thoughts as they echoed in word around the room.

“Nothing.” He shook his head, “Come, sit.” He was now dressed, casually in a Henley and casual pants. His hair tossed back and from where you stood you could smell that distinct smell he had even over the freshly brewing coffee. You pulled at the sleeves of your cardigan as you stepped one bare foot in front of the other to take your seat at the breakfast table as directed.

Ransom placed a mug of coffee down in front of you, which you thanked him for, and he took a seat at the table, as you took a sip of your drink. A silence fell over the room, and as you watched him in the corner of your eye you could see his fingers flexing round his mug.

But he was the one that broke the stalemate, clearing his throat slightly as he shifted in his seat. "I thought, maybe, we could order in?" He offered. "I... I can call the bakery that does the almond croissants you've come to like? Or if you'd prefer breakfast sandwiches I can get those?"

The words came as a nervous ramble from him, and you could tell he had no idea how to navigate this new situation you both found yourselves in any more than you did. You quickly realized that Ransom Drysdale didn't know how to navigate "the morning after". 

“I, errr…" You began to speak and he shook his head.

“You don’t want those? Okay, that’s…”

“No, I mean, yes, I mean…” You took a deep breath before you licked your lips. “I'm just not hungry for breakfast, that is but maybe... maybe we could get Thai or something tonight? Or, if you'd prefer something else, like if you want me to make something, I...."

"We can do Thai. There's a small place not far from here, great food. What do you like?"

"I'm not picky."

"That's not what I asked." He looked at you with a glint of happy in his eyes. "What would you choose?"

"Coconut prawns, beef satay, chicken curry," You replied with a soft, hopeful smile, the feeling of happiness at the possibility you were going to get a treat, do something so normal, made your chest feel as warm as the time he’d returned your personal belongings, or the day the tree was delivered.

"Consider it done."

"Do you think I could maybe have a beer or a glass of wine with it?"

"Anything in this house is yours if you want it." He looked at you and your mind was suddenly taken right back to that moment in his study weeks ago, the day Blanc had paid you a visit.

“You know, it could all be yours, Sweetheart, if you just stopped fighting what you know you want.”

Had you stopped fighting? Or had you just merely taken control of a vulnerable situation? Is this what you wanted? You had to just sit in the silence for a second. This whole scenario was quickly becoming a kaleidoscope of feelings and you weren't sure where to start.

"You said anything, right? I'd assume that's within reason."

His eyes narrowed for a moment and he leaned forward on his elbows. "Anything, within reason."

You started to move your lips to ask of what you wanted but you stopped yourself, suddenly embarrassed at the thought. Ransom saw this and glided a warm hand across the table to run a finger over your thumb down to your wrist. "Tell me," he coaxed. His tone and look made your insides twist in two different directions, one in fear and the other in delight. It was a confusing juxtaposition at best.

 "I want to go outside. I want to feel the sun on my face, breath in the cold winter air." You had hoped the misting of your eyes wasn't visible nor the hope in your words.

 "I'll think about it," he replied after a small pause.

"Okay," you shrugged. It wasn't an outright no. Silence filled the kitchen again, neither of sure what to do or say and finally you stood to get more coffee and when you turned to face him, to offer him a top off, you were startled to find him right behind you.

In your start you have a gasp and warm hands cupped your face. Your heart raced through your chest. It was damn near impossible to read him. Soft lips touched yours. "I have some work to do in the study," he spoke softly.

"Sure." You nodded, your eyes locked onto his as he stepped back slightly. "Do you want me to be there with you or..."

"I have a better idea," well that worried you. What'd he want? A blow job under the desk? "I want you to gather your stuff, you're not staying down there anymore."

"So where do I go?" You tried not to sound too hopeful, as if he'd set you free that easily. Nor were you even sure you wanted to go.

"Upstairs, with me." He stated matter of factly.  "Come on, I'll show you. I'll move your clothes up later, but for now, after I show you around, get everything else you want or need, whatever."

 “Do I get a say in all this?” You blurted it out before you could stop yourself and swallowed, waiting for his anger to brew but it didn’t. Instead he simply raised his eyebrow at you.

“Do you wanna stay down there?” He asked.

“No, but-“

“Good, then we’re agreed.”

You opened and closed your mouth like a fish to protest but couldn’t think of what to say, not that it mattered anyway, it wasn’t like you had a choice. Not really. You followed him up the stairs and onto the expansive second floor. It seemed to be sectioned off into a handful of bedrooms and a couple of bathrooms. Ransom took great delight in showing you grandiose room after grandiose room, and to be honest you found it all a little ostentatious, why would he need all that room for just him. Well, him and you as it transpired… And he saved the ‘best for last’, according to him anyway, as he pushed open the heavy door into his room. Instantly you were hit with the familiar smell of his woody aftershave and you took a deep breath as you looked around.

Your eyes took in the space, the four post bed, the ornately shaped windows that were nearly floor to ceiling. There was a fireplace and above it, over the mantle, a mirror. The entire room was decorated in neutral whites and creams, with a touch of grey on the detailing in the alcoves and around the fireplace, a pale blue and white striped bed spread and matching pillow covers adorned the bed. It screamed Ransom to you, from floor to ceiling. Whilst the rest of the house wasn’t what you would class as warm, this was even less so. It was very open, very.... manly and stiff, a woman's touch never evident. Your eyes strayed upwards, half expecting to see a mirror on the ceiling, but to your relief there wasn’t one.

"What do you think?" He asked, his breath hot on your neck, and from the tone of his voice you could tell he was seeking approval. He was openly showing you around, almost as if he was trying to tell you this wasn’t his typical ‘fuck and duck’ scenario.  He was taking his time with it, and half of you felt relieved, the other, well, trapped.

"It's very different than downstairs, or my room even." You chose your words carefully as a strong palm in the base of your spine guided you through the doorway.

“Is that a good thing?” He asked, turning to look at you, brushing a hand through his messy hair.

You pop a shoulder, not knowing exactly what to say. He guided you through to the en suite and you felt your eyes grow wide as you took in the space. The floor was a grey and speckled marble which made you nervous immediately about the potential of slipping when wet. Mood lighting was set into the entire space, skirting around the edge of the flooring, shining up the granite tiles that lined the walls, except for the wall on the inside of the huge shower cubicle to your left, which sported the same tiles, only a gloss white. The whole thing was set off by a large chrome waterfall shower that was easily big enough for two people, maybe three, with immaculately clean glass doors and sides. Along the far wall was an enormous ornate tub, the sides so high there was a small step into them, and to the right stood two chrome basins fed by matching fancy mixer taps, all perched on top of a sleek, white marble unit with frosted glass cupboard doors underneath, and another large mirror over the basin unit, which was illuminated by bright LED lights.

"The sink to the left is yours, anything you want can be stored in the cabinet there, it's empty. So are the drawers on the side." He explained, leaning against his side of the sink basin.

"Erm, thanks." You nodded, your eyes flicking to where he'd directed your attention before you looked back at him, your fingers tugging on the sleeves of your cardigan as you licked your lips. There wasn't a spot of dirt, a single water mark or anything anywhere and before you could stop yourself you blurted out what was on your mind. "How the fuck do you keep this so clean? It would drive me mental even trying to polish the taps!"

It was his turn to pop his shoulder in such a blasé fashion, "the maid comes three times a week".

“You have a maid?” You asked, and even as you spoke you weren’t sure why it came as a surprise. Of course he had a maid. Not that you’d seen her, you were always responsible for cleaning your own space, but then of course you would be…

"Now, like I said," he pushed off the basin with his hips and stepped into your space, "I have some work to do. Move what you can up here and sort it all out. I'll be in the study if you need me."

"What I can?" You looked up at him. "Where should I put my clothes?"

"I told you, I'd take care of that later for you. Move the small stuff."

“Okay.”

With a satisfied nod, his hands gently dropped to your hips and he pulled your body flush to his, his lips meeting yours in a soft kiss. Without another word, he pulled away, turned and left you standing there, your mind trying to figure out exactly what was happening. With a deep sigh, you headed to your space. It didn't take more than two trips for you to bring up all you had and when you'd finished putting it away you sat down on the bed, your feet dangling over the edge.

Your palms felt the soft, cotton bedspread and you glanced at your small, leather bag which contained your few books and your journal. Not sure what side of the bed was yours, you didn’t know which nightstand to place them on so you decided to leave them where they were for the time being.

Which nightstand was yours…

You shook your head, letting out a sigh. This was all kinds of fucked up. You’d gone from his captor to his cohabiter, sharing a room like a couple who love and want to be with each other. You felt the tears stinging your eyes and with a soft sniff you moved and curled up in the middle of the bed, tucking your knees into your chest. You lay still, the strange room silent around you, and before long your eyes grew heavy as you thought to yourself, it is what it is. You just needed to concentrate on keeping things as they are now, as this Ransom was certainly a damned sight preferable to Asshole Hugh.

***** When you stirred from your nap, immediately you felt something was different and you moved your arm, realising that you were under the covers. As you blinked you sat up, the heavy eiderdown duvet falling down your body and you realised that Ransom must have been up and tucked you in.  As your sights came to you, you noticed you were on the left side of the bed, looking out, your things had been properly stowed on the nightstand next to you.

Curiosity pecked at your sleepy mind and you slowly came out of bed and padded over to the walk in closet. Sure enough, you saw your things hung and organized neatly across the space from his own. You couldn't resist your next move, your fingers trailing over the sweaters and garments hanging on his side, your tips curling over the camel colored coat you'd come to know so well. Tattered sweaters and crisp button downs hung impeccably straight on their velvet and wooden hangers, shoes, some well-worn and others not, paired and stacked in the organizer where they belonged.

It was a far cry from your old, small wardrobe in your apartment which was cramped full, things jumbled and piled all over the place, not to mention the constant pile of ironing you kept in the corner of your room, which you never seemed to manage to reach the bottom of.

Your stomach grumbled and you found yourself hungrier than when you'd fallen into bed. Now, you seemed famished. You left the master and headed down to see if you could find your newly minted cohabitant. As you walked, you noticed for the first time that there were no photos of anything or anyone, anywhere. The odd piece of art, no doubt ludicrously expensive, hung along the walls in a few spaces but other than that, nothing. No personal touches, no family photos, absolutely nothing.

Again, not surprising given his relationship with his family. And you doubt he had any friends, none beyond acquaintances anyway.

As you reached the final steps, you could hear furious typing on keys and realized Ransom was still in the study. You made your way there and as you stood in the doorway, you waited for him to take notice.

“You gonna stand there all day or come in, Sweetheart?” He drawled, not even looking up from the sleek screen on his desk. 

You came in, twisting your cardigan over your midsection and rubbing your arms. You walked over to the window and looked out. "It looks cold out there, beautiful, but cold."

You hesitated about thanking him for what he'd obviously done while you napped. But after a pause, you said it anyway. "Thank you... For getting my things."

"I told you I would so I did, you're welcome." He murmured, his attention still on his work. You glanced outside again, your eyes flicking to the light snow fall as it drifted down from the sky, settling down and melting into the ample, powder soft covering on the ground.

Ransom flicked his eyes toward the window and saw her staring out over the large grounds. He'd been furiously working away, trying to fix his current storyline for hours but parts still didn't feel right. He'd taken a break and taken Y/N's clothes upstairs, only to find her sound asleep in his, no, their bed. He'd hung up her clothes and tucked her in before retreating back into the study which brought him to now. A strange idea occurred to him, so he shut down his screen, stood and walked behind her. His eyes caught hers in the reflection of the window.

"I want to show you something," he said softly as his hands again found her hips, his lips pressed into that spot on her neck he knew she loved. Her eyes looked into his from over her shoulder and she replied with a small nod.

He took her to the back door, the one that led out into the garden and opened the closet door beside it. Inside were coats and boots. He grabbed a pair, creepily in her size, and a peacoat. A scarf of beige wool hung on a hook and he wrapped it around her neck before helping her into the coat. He waited for her to dip her feet into the boots and slipped into his own short, thick coat. Her eyes seemed to sparkle with excitement as he gripped the knob and pulled the door towards them.

"After you," he offered.

Her mouth went slack a little and her eyes stared at him now wide. The more she stared, the more his chest tightened and made the intimate moment grow uncomfortable for him. Ransom lightly scoffed and rolled his eyes, "Are you going to go out or not?"

He immediately regretted his outburst as her eyes averted from his down to the floor and she nodded. "Yes," she replied meekly. “I’m sorry.”

With one foot in front of the other, he followed her as she stepped outside. Immediately, the falling snow began to cling to the wisps of her hair and the shoulders of her coat. He imagined he looked just the same. He watched as she tipped her head back, raising her face to the snow as it fell, flakes clinging to her eyelashes as a huge smile crept across her pretty features. Then, he saw the way her shoulders began to shake as hot tears leaked from her eyes. But she was still grinning, her tongue popping out if her soft lips to catch the flakes of falling snow.

Ransom had read countless stories, heard many tales about people experiencing what they called a revelation, a sudden awakening to something emotional which you couldn’t control, and he’d scoffed. It was alien to him, not being able to regulate how you feel, but that was exactly what had happened to him yesterday, and it was happening again, but not because he was feeling those things, but because Y/N was. She wasn't crying because she was sad or scared, she was crying because she was experiencing the moment. And right there and then, he understood. You can’t control or make someone truly want anything. Sure, you could bully and coerce, but to truly make them feel it, that wasn’t possible.

A cold, wet feeling brought him out of his thoughts and he'd realized he was covered in snow, pieces of it dripping from his head, down the break in his coat and through his sweater. He gave a small yell of annoyance, looking up as he realised a large glob had dropped off the edge of the guttering straight onto his head.

A melodic sound quickly hit his ears and he realized Y/N was laughing, full body titled giggles at his expense. His nostrils flared a little as she continued, and then, in a movement that was almost automatic, he bent down and scooped a handful up snow at his feet and slapped it straight into her chest, his eyebrow raised.

Challenge issued, sweetheart.

She gasped and he couldn't deny the chill it gave him deep in his loins. He loved that sound. But soon that smug smirk on his face was wiped clean as Y/N flung a handful of snow right back in his direction sending her scampering across the garden.

"Oh, Sweetheart." His voice was low as he bent to scoop up more of the icy, cold snow. "You have no idea what you just started."

From there the chase was on, ducking and running for cover as he chased her and when he finally caught up to her, she was falling away from his grasp and into the deep snow at their feet, his body falling over hers. Ransom looked down at her, his hair falling over his forehead, chest heaving as she reached up and brushed the strand back, her hand cold as it fell to his cheek.

"Ransom," she purred, "you can smile.”

It was a point not a request. His chest tightened at the way she gazed at him. The snow continued to fall over them, but neither paid it any attention. His gaze was locked onto hers.

"Oh, what about? The fact I'm freezing cold and soaked when I could be inside, dry and warm by the fire?" He recovered with a tease, and she rolled her eyes, letting out a soft huff.

"It's almost Christmas, and it’s snowing." She looked at him, "what isn't there to love about that?"

He faked a puzzled look for a moment and then found a chuckle rising up from his chest as her other hand rested there against his coat. "This is probably this first Christmas I ever cared about." He admitted freely.

She frowned as she looked at him, before she shook her head. "That's really sad, Ransom."

"I don't want pity..."

"No, that's not..." She took a deep breath and licked her lips. "That's not what that was. I was just stating a fact, that’s all."

He began to stand and pull her with him. "Let's go inside. I'm freezing my ass off." 

Their moment was over and he started back into the house, Y/N following him, albeit at a slightly slower pace, clearly not as willing as he was to leave the outside space. And he supposed he couldn’t blame her all things considered, even if it was alien to him.

He shucked his coat off and then helped her with hers, "I'm going to order dinner."

"Okay, thank you." She nodded as she followed him back through the kitchen and into the warm study. 

The two of you sat around the study, him going back to work on his book and you reading a book you pulled from the shelves around the room, sipping your respective beers together after Ransom had offered you one upon one of his many breaks in typing. The sound of the doorbell rang through the house and Ransom picked up his phone. He glanced at the screen before he stood up, and before he could say anything you spoke.

“Is that our food?” Your tone was hopeful, revealing your excitement and he looked at you, the smile on his face mirroring yours.

“Yeah.” He ran his hand through his hair, brushing the strands off his forehead. “Do you wanna go to the kitchen and-“

“No.” You said quickly and he arched his brow at you, puzzled and you swallowed. “I mean, if it’s okay with you, I’d kinda like to sit by the fire. It’s what I norm-“ you paused, your eyes dropping to your hands. “It’s what I used to do, sit on the rug, eating out of the box, watching junk TV.”

“Lounge it is, then.” He shrugged. “Saves on the washing up I suppose.”

“Like you’ve ever washed a dish.” You looked at him and he snorted.

“Like I said before, the help only comes three times a week, Y/N. I don’t leave the dishes stacked up in between, what do you take me for?”

“You have a dishwasher.”

“Okay, so it saves on the loading of the machine.” He rolled his eyes, turning to the door. “Go grab whatever we need from the kitchen, and another drink. That last beer didn’t touch the sides.”

You did as you were told, your bare feet walking over the cold tiles of the hallway as Ransom paid the delivery driver on the doorstep. You grabbed a selection of cutlery, another bottle of his pretentious European beer, reaching for one for yourself when you paused. There was a bottle of Sancerre sat nestled in the cooler that was a damned good label, you’d had it once before with your parents. Hesitating, you bit your lip. You’d been drinking beer so far but…now, well, you really wanted a glass of that white. After a moment or two of grappling with whether or not it was allowed, you shook your head. Fuck it, the worst that could happen already had…  

You managed to juggled your drinks and cutlery in your hands, years of practice had made you an expert at making the least amount of trips to your own kitchen and back, and you walked into the lounge where Ransom had set the boxes on the oak coffee table and you placed the bottle of beer down first, then the cutlery before you set your wine down.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t fancy more beer and-“

“I told you.” He looked at you, shaking his head. “Whatever you want.”

He passed you a box and you dug in, eagerly. The first bite of satay hit your taste buds and you hummed in deep delight at the way it tasted.

"It's been so long since I've had anything Thai. This, you were right, this is so good."

"Good," he smirked, tilting his beer back and taking a long swallow.

You smiled at him, your words echoing in your head. Take-Outs had been common in your life before, well, before all this. Working stupid hours at the Newspaper often saw you visiting various places on the way home, or having it delivered to the office. But as you sat there, taking bite after bite, you vowed never to take it for granted again.

Taking a respite from your eating, you reached for your wine and took a sip, the crisp taste hitting your buds once more, making you smile in delight. You replaced your glass and watched as Ransom tucked into his food, his eyes focussed on the box he held in his large hand.

"Thank you," you said after a stretch of silence, the fire crackling in the background.

"For?" He seemed genuinely puzzled.

 "Today, the garden," you replied with emotion. "I wasn't expecting you to let me go out like that."

 He studied you for a moment, taking another forkful of his food before he swallowed and shrugged. "No big deal, it was only the garden."

"It's not merely just a garden when you haven't seen outside for days on end." You mimicked his shoulder pop, “and my parents always taught me to thank someone when they’ve done something you’re grateful for.” You dug back into your take out box and heard him let out a sigh.

“And mine didn’t, yes, I get it Y/N.”

“No, that’s not…” You swallowed your food and shook your head. “That wasn’t what I was implying.”

“Huh.” He raised an eyebrow, his attention moving back from you to another box which was on the table. Pulling out a coconut prawn he thrust the box in your direction as he swallowed his morsel in one easy bite. “Can’t say I’d blame you if it was.”

You watched him, once more silence falling across the room, the glow of the fire which burned in the hearth illuminating one side of his face and his gaze turned to it, his eyes following the dancing flames.

“Harlan taught me how to build a fire.” He suddenly spoke, and you watched as a smile flicked across his face. “There’s a huge stone hearth in the drawing room of his…well, what was his house. I used to toast bread on tongues, sat in front of it, wrapped in towel after a bath.” He paused, before he scratched at his nose. “Nanna would then butter it and I’d eat it in front of the fire, with a mug of cocoa and I remember always thinking it was the best thing I ever ate. Still is, shits all over this.” He gestured to the array of boxes biting his lip a little, clearly lost in the memory. You stayed still, watching, trying to stop the surprise you were feeling at his sudden openness spread across your face. He shrugged, taking another bite of his food. “Then she died. It was never the same after that. The house never felt right, you know?”

He reached for his beer, taking another long gulp before he shrugged. “Funny really, when I think about it. It was always my grandparents, they were the ones who taught me my minimal life skills. Fishing, pitching tents…”

“You, camping?” You arched a brow, trying to lighten the mood and it worked. He snorted and turned to look at you nodding.

“As a kid I loved being outside. Harlan’s estate was a huge, big playground.” He smiled again. “And on the rainy days when I couldn’t be outside, I used to spend hours with Nanna Wannetta, learning how to play ‘Go’, the goal always being to beat Harlan. When I finally managed it, it was the best thing in the world, that I’d achieved something.”

"Do you remember Christmas with her, your Nanna I mean? What’d she make?" You were eager to keep him talking, getting an insight into what made him tick on a more emotional sense was something you hadn’t been party to much. Sure, you’d figured out how to get a reaction out of him on an angry, primal sense, how his narcissistic nature worked, but this was an in-depth dive into his psyche, perhaps a way to unravel the enigma surrounding him, how he could flip between being someone you could actually like and understand, to the monster you’d seen on many an occasion.

Ransom paused for a moment. “I can’t really remember many, I was only nine when she died but she always did a roast, with potatoes, green vegetables, rolls.” He smiled. ”And pie. Apple. Always apples from the orchard. We’d pick them in the autumn and she’d stew them ready, storing them for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

You thought about what was happening between the two of you, how open and, dare you think it, raw Ransom was being. The last two days had now given you an outright exposed forum to the man that hid behind so much wealth and privilege. A far cry from the man you interviewed.

An idea swung into the forefront of your mind, or two rather. "I know Christmas is so soon but, if I gave you a list of things to gather from the store, do you think you could do it?"

"I suppose," he stated flatly.

"Okay, good," you couldn’t help the soft smile as your plan unfolded. You picked at your food a bit longer, a piece of chicken curry chewing away in your mouth. He watched you and you watched him, a bite to the bottom of your lip when you swallowed under his stare.

His eyes diverted and he rose gracefully to his feet and moved to add fuel to the fire. "Ransom..." You watched him inhale deeply at the sound of his name, clearly still having a deep effect on him. He turned to you, a glint in his eyes, "Will you teach me?"

"What?"

"'Go'. Will teach me to play?"

"You want to learn to play? So you could play with me?" The way he asked you was so innocent and childlike, like he had never considered you willingly to do so.

You giggled, as you looked up at him. "Yes, Ransom, I want you to teach me how to play 'Go' so we can play together."

A genuine, purely innocent and genuine smile crossed his lips, teeth shining and he stepped the two steps away from the fireplace and took to his knees in front of you. His smile faded to a smirk as he leaned towards you, "You should know, I play to win."

 "I'd expect no less," you replied.

His brow arched a little and his eyes flickered to your mouth, before he nodded to the container in your hand. "Are you done?"

"Yes, thank you." In a slow movement he plucked the now almost empty takeout box from your hand, placing it on the table as he all but crawled over you, causing you to fall back onto your elbows, hands grasping at the soft shag of the thick rug.

Your breath caught in your chest, your throat going dry. You could feel his hot breath against your face. "R... Rans..."

But your words were stopped short as his lips pulled yours in, a soft sucking and his tongue tipped across your bottom lip.

As the kiss deepened he leaned over you further causing you to lay back completely on the soft rug, his hands planting either side of his head whilst yours gently gripped at his biceps.

A familiar but forgotten feeling pooled between your legs, the feel of his muscles flex and twitch beneath your fingers, igniting your nerves as his tongue danced with yours making you dizzy and breathless.

Soft lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, skating upwards to your ear, finding that spot that never failed to betray you and you gave a soft simper as he lightly nipped at your skin, your sound drawing a low, satisfied sigh from him.

“If you keep making those sounds I’m not going to be able to stop myself.” The words came out in a desperate tone as they crossed your ears.

"Do you want to stop yourself?" You whisper, knowing he's never stopped nor wanted to before. He stilled for a moment, pulling back to look at you and for a split second a spike of fear stabbed in your chest but there was nothing on his face bar a blank expression, as if he was grappling with something. 

“No, I don’t.” He admitted, a soft sigh rose from his chest as he hung his head and moved away a little. 

The encouragement left your lips before your brain processed it, a longstanding habit of yours, "so don't."

It seemed to shock you both and for a second time froze, before he was on you again, his kiss needy and heady. Your fingers curled around to the back of his neck as you scratched at the nape.  

His hand started traveling up the underside of your cami, your stomach muscles twitching at his touch. When your knee hooked around his narrow hips, he stopped and sat back in his haunches. "I... Why don’t you go and get ready for bed whilst I clear away this stuff.” He waved his hand to the table.

You licked your kiss swollen lips, and breathlessly nodded, sitting up and then standing on your own two feet before leaving the room, Ransom's back now to you as he stared into the fireplace, palms bracing himself against the mantle.

You left the study, almost in a daze and headed slowly back up the staircase. As you made your way into the bedroom you stopped for a moment, your head turning back to the door. What the fuck just happened? You’d given him the green light and instead of taking you he’d backed off completely.

It as an unnerving turn of events, because despite your little moment an insight into his past before you had no idea what was going on in his head at that point in time. When he was being forceful and angry it was obvious but now, well, it was impossible to get a read on him and if you wanted to keep him on side, that was going to be a problem. Ransom was an enigma wrapped in an unbelievably layered mystery, and you hadn’t even scratched the surface. 

*****

As the fire calmed beneath him, and deep inside, Ransom took two deep grounding breaths. This new sense of restraint and self-control fucked with his head, and what was even more frightening was that these were not thought through, these feelings were of instinct. As if a part of himself that he never knew to exist had been pried open in the depths of his soul over the last now forty-eight hours. He was deeply confused, especially now as he had towered over her, near ready to fuck her into the rug by the fire, not only with himself but with her. Twice now she'd given him a green light to do as he wanted with her. The first after he asked to be let in, in a manner of speaking, and just now, inviting him, no, encouraging him on. Then there was still that guilt that he'd tried to stifle back since the rose of their day. That guilt he harbored each time he got a look at that gash on her cheek, knowing damn well he put it there, the bruising growing darker as it started to show past the swelling.

He loathed this guilt within him, for Ransom Drysdale doesn't do guilt. Never cared enough, until now, until her and not until last night.

The world owed him far too much, his arrogance included, but Y/N, she was different. She was safe and safe was something he never felt. He used that same arrogance to posture at every given minute of the day, used it as his defense against all who crossed him, family included. Ransom couldn't remember a time in his life, not since his Nana passed, that he hadn't felt alone and angry, withdrawn purposely and defiantly. A grown man with mommy and daddy issues as Y/N had vehemently spat at him one night, yet she didn't know the half of it. If she hadn't pushed him, made him so angry, he wouldn't have hurt her, ruined her. No, no he wouldn't have. 

But Harlan, with Harlan he could be himself, arrogance pinned up against arrogance, he learned so much from his grandfather and all he did was ruin that too.

The thought of Harlan put a sour taste in his mouth as that guilt came back through, twisting his gut and make him balk. It angered him he held such guilt for his life circumstances.

Again taking a deep breath, he gathered the take out remnants and tossed what he had to in the trash and placed the rest in the fridge.

As he made his way back up towards his room, towards her, he stopped at a guest bathroom and splashed cold water across his face. He rinsed the taste of curry and coconut from his tongue and quickly made his way to his room.

He stripped down, fully discarding his clothes to a pile in front of the bed and pulled he covers back, the cool, crisp sheets giving a chill to his skin. He heard the water tap shut off from the bathroom and suddenly he felt his stomach drop at the anticipation of what he wanted next. Would she have changed her mind? Was she no longer going to encourage him to continue with treating her for the night? What the fuck was he doing now? Doubting himself? Doubting how he could show a woman a really good fucking time? Ugh, all these emotional changes and challenges were absolutely exhausting for him. He needed a distraction, yes, a good nice long distraction and the way he'd get it was now walking toward him.

He watched her as she came out of his en suite from his position reclined in his bed, his hands behind his head on the pillow. The deep green silk slip negligee she chose fit in all the right places and as she stepped closer, he took note of the way her hips filled out the satin material, how her pert nipples tented the fabric. His mouth was salivating and he swallowed hard, sitting up as she was at the end of the four post bed, then at his bedside. 

 "Come here," he said, speaking in a low, gravely tone, seeing her hesitation. 

He forced more of himself to sit up to greet her, the clean, soft sheets falling to his hips, his naked chest on full display. His right hand curled around her hip while the other reached for her to pull her towards him. She gasped as her body fell into bed with him, both led out against the cushion of the mattress and pillows. Her legs were settled between his, her chest against his own but what he enjoyed the most was the way her lips fell in time with his. Both his hands cupped her face as he deepened their kiss. Tongue deep into her mouth, tasting the minty remnants of toothpaste. Lips soft against her own as they travelled down her neck to her spot that was just for him to know. He felt her move a little above him, as if she were pulling away. That not being in his plan for the evening, Ransom dropped his left arm to the mattress and used his strength to roll her to her back, his lips never leaving her own, sheets rustling round his legs as he kicked them away.

With one leg between hers, a knee so close to her core, his thigh settling against her mound, he moved her legs apart. Hooded eyes stared back at him and he watched as she visibly swallowed, lost in their moment. His body led over her, Ransom used one hand to prop himself up slightly while the other tantalizingly brushed one of the thin straps of her negligee down. His lips skated over her collar bone and back up her neck, a hot tongue against her spot and she quivered beneath him. The hand that moved the thin strap away from her shoulder glided over the outside of her thigh and under the hem of the sleep slip, skating up the outside of her thigh, up to her bare hip, thumb rubbing over her skin.

He pushed his knee up against her mound making her gasp a little. He didn't care to hide the smirk across his lips as they ghosted over her skin, moving back to hers. He felt her fingers curl around his neck before her hands slipped into the nape of his neck. As his tongue and body began to melt into hers, Ransom pulled the front of her negligee down, exposing her mounded breasts to the room. With his knee, he nudged up against her again and he couldn’t help the moan the escaped his mouth into hers when he felt her grind down against him. He wrenched his lips away from hers, sloppy kisses chaining down her neck, feeling the delicate muscles contract as she swallowed as he moved down, his tongue tracing a path over the swell of her breast before he took a pebbled nipple into his mouth, rolling it ever so softly between his teeth.

The hand that was round her hip gripped tighter against her soft skin, his eyes peeking up at her, her head thrown back against the pillow, eyes closed, mouth hanging open, soft whimpers flowing from her mouth and he pressed his leg further up against her centre, feeling her slick as it spread across his thigh as she rubbed up against him, seeking relief from the friction. Her needy nature was something he hadn’t seen to this extent before and he was hard as hell as she writhed beneath him, her back arching off the bed, pushing her chest upwards and he obliged, his mouth upping the ante around her sensitive nipple.

Again he felt her fingers against the nape of his neck as he nipped and sucked against her nipple, flat and hot tongue at the valley of her breasts. He shifted slightly, intending to turn his attention to her other breast, but the movement jostled his knee further against her and her fingers tightened around his hair as she gave a cry, grinding down on him harder.

“Atta girl, take it. Take what you need.” He all but growled out, his face hovering inches from hers as he watched her face, contorted in pleasure and desire, her eyes screwed shut. “Look at me.” He demanded, and obediently her eyes flew open, those deep orbs he could drown in locked onto his as he stared straight back into them.

“Ransom…” her voice was barely a whisper and once more the sound of his name from her mouth was enough to turn him feral and it took everything he had to keep himself from fucking her senseless. But somehow he did. He pushed his leg up against her as he slanted his mouth to hers, swallowing her moans and cries before he pulled back.

“Cum for me, Baby,” he whispered against her lips and seconds later her back arched and her entire body convulsed, his head shooting back almost painfully at the force with which she pulled on his hair and he groaned deeply as she cried out, tumbling over the edge of pleasure, her thighs gripping his, her pussy literally pulsing against his thigh as she soaked his skin with her orgasm, before she sagged back and lay trembling underneath him.

“I love the sounds you make when you come undone.”

As you came down from your high, you realised that your hands were tugging on his hair and you instantly let go, before you suddenly became aware of the fact that in your lust addled haze you’d basically fucked yourself against his leg. And, as you looked at him, that maddening smirk spread across his face and you knew the bastard was crowing inside at exactly how needy you’d been. How needy he’d made you, and you couldn’t even find it within yourself to be disgusted anymore.

You needed more, more of what he was offering, more of what had just transpired. And the only thing you could think of how to get it was to feel him inside you like he was the night before, how he filled you and gently caressed you. But was he willing to do it? You didn't know, not for sure anyway, for this wasn't the Ransom you had first met. This wasn't the man who tortured you, degraded you. No, this was a man who emerged from a cacoon of hurt, mental degradation, arrogance. This was gentle, so was... markedly different.

"Talk to me." His words startled you from your daze as you felt his gentle knuckle graze down your skin through the valley of your breasts and come to rest a flat palm over your belly.

You swallowed, desperately trying to calm the ocean of conflicting feelings within your brain as you looked down at him, your chest heaving. “I don’t know what to say.” You whispered, eyes not leaving his. The obvious conflict must have been etched across your face as his expression softened more, almost looking sad or worried he'd done the wrong thing. Who the hell was this guy?

“I’m trying.” He whispered softly, the tip of his nose brushing yours in a feather like kiss. “I’m trying to make you trust me.”

"Who are you?" You'd blurted it out before you could filter it, and you felt a faint tug of fear spike through you, but as quick as it had come it went when he leaned over you and pressed his lips softly to yours.

"Let me show you." He was asking once more, not demanding. “Please.”

The two of you were so close, you felt his hot breath on your face. The lump you swallowed hurt going down. All it took was a barely audible "okay." and no sooner had the permission slipped from your mouth, his lips were on yours, the kiss soft yet, deep and needy at the same time.

With one hand now entangled in your hair, the other holding his weight against your side, he positioned himself fully between your legs.

You could feel his tip at your entrance and your body took over, tilting your hips up, telling him just what you wanted, no, what you needed.

A second tilt of your hips met his as he found what he wanted, slipping right in, his lips leaving yours as he let go of a whimpering moan at the feel of your wet opening practically pulling him in. He moved slowly and deliberately, sliding in deeper with each thrust, like ocean waves rolling over the sand shore and back out to sea, his lips back on yours, down the column of your neck, sucking in that spot that made you shudder and back across your jaw and home again on your lips.

Your hands moved to his back, fingers dancing over the muscles which twitched with each gentle, deep rock of his hips, your nails lightly dragging as your hands made their way up to his shoulders where they stopped.

His eyes met yours as he paused his thrusting and you wondered what was passing through that fucking twisted mind of his. Was it an awakening that this was too much for him? Was it that the beast was ready to return? Or was it deep emotion he was struggling with? The calming of the storm inside?

"You're beautiful," he whispered with a blush pinker than his already flushes skin, almost embarrassed to give such a genuine thought out loud.

You leaned up, closing the space between you, your lips to his, accepting his compliment, hiding your own emotion from him. It twisted your gut and muddled your mind, it wakened your heart and flooded your core. Seated inside you, deep now at the angle, you breathed against his ear, "more".

The deep groan from his throat curled your insides as the vibrations from his chest rattled against yours. His hips moved back before they snapped forward, his movement powerful and sure and you gave a gasp as he drove into you, a dirty grind that had you clawing at his skin.

"Fuck, so good," he managed.

As his thrusts continued at their depth, grinding harder, your hands slid upwards into his hair, tightening around the longer strands and his head tipped back, a loud growl ripping from his throat. His lips crashed back to yours, your hands still tangled in his locks and almost curiously you gave another tug.

“Jesus Christ.” His words stuttered, punctuated by a groan against your mouth and he shook his head, his hands reaching for yours in his hair. “Imma lose it if you keep doing that, Sweetheart. And I’m not done with you yet.”

It wasn't a threat like you've heard countless times before, but a promise of what was to come and you shivered, your whole body jolting like you were chilled. 

“Call me selfish, but I don’t ever want anyone else to touch you.” His long fingers snaked between yours, strong arms pinned your hands on either side of your head on the pillow. Instantly you felt a flicker of panic and you gasped, moving your arms ever so slightly. But when Ransom didn’t react to your slight motion of resistance and allowed you to take his hands with yours, you realized this wasn’t about restraint. You could move, and moreover, in that instant you fully believed if you asked him to stop he would.

So you stayed where you were until you brought a knee up towards his rolling hips, toes on pointe against the sheets, opening yourself more for him. He gave another grunt of satisfaction, clearly crowing even more at your participation as his hips continued to drive into you over and over, coaxing you ever closer to your high. He was rubbing against that soft spot deep inside you and your cries were struggling to get out of your throat. The fire in your body was raging as you began to feel the flush hitting you.

"Oh... fuck... Ransom, please, I...." Her words were a rushed garble of pleas and he bit his lip, eyes fixed on those deep orbs, fingers tightening around her hands as he fought the familiar warm, tight feeling that was spreading across his abs and groin. His lips crashed back to hers, in a kiss that was deep and sloppy as she moaned loudly into his mouth. He felt her walls squeeze around him tightly, tighter than before. Her inner walls taking him for all he had to give and her outer, pulsing against his tightening sac.

“Fuck, baby...” he panted as she sagged underneath him, her body quivering with sheer pleasure for the second time that night. His hips drove into her, his pace quickening slightly as he neared his own release which hit him seconds later. “Oh, shit...” was all he could stutter as he came, his dick spasming and twitching inside her as he coated her insides, with a surge like nothing he’d felt before, the bliss rising from the very depth of his being and flooding his entire system with a white hot pleasure that consumed him completely.

It felt like it lasted forever, and he was certain his breathing stopped momentarily as he fell forward, his face burrowed into the side of her neck.

“What are you doing to me, Y/N?” a whispered voice croaked from his throat against her ear. She didn’t say anything, she couldn’t, she was still shaking under him. Gathering what little strength he had left he propped himself up on shaky arms, kissing her again before he shifted and pulled out of her, rolling heavily onto his back. 

His chest heaved along with hers, his mind foggy and spiked full of serotonin. And when he calmed himself enough, Ransom reached for her hand, entwined her fingers with his and pressed a soft kiss to the back of her hand. Then, with a gentle tug, he pulled her close as he rolled his chest to her back, led against her, his fingers still entwined with hers, his arm against her. He nuzzled into her hair, his chest taking in a deep, shaky breath, doing all her could to mask the emotion seeping out. 

You felt him rest his chin on the crown of your head as your body started to lull to sleep from the overload on chemicals and exertion. And as you drifted off to sleep, Ransom’s arm heavy over your waist as his nose nuzzled into the back of your hair you began to question just which one of you was the real captive.

**** Part 6

[buildmeafairytale]

Rhavor Part 2: NSFW

A part two to my drider story for @acreepqueen​, 18+ to read (NSFW). Hope you guys like it! 

Part 1

You and Rhavor’s romance had been going on well, with more stolen moments and heated kisses taking place between the two of you. You’ve kept your relationship a secret, and while you would love nothing more than to hold his hand out in the open, you have to be tactful considering your positions. Your father is an understanding king and grants you many freedoms, but you are unsure how he would take this. 

 You had done little more than share kisses and sweet touches, the two of you trying to take things slowly. You wanted your relationship to not be a secret before things got more serious between the two of you, and this being your first experience with a man also played a part. He had also eluded that there were a few drider courting customs that he wished to take part in with you, and you could not contain your excitement. The romance of it all took your breath away. 

It was a training day for the guards, and usually on these days you and your sisters would busy yourselves inside, sticking together a bit while under watch from guards not in that rotation. It was a training day for Rhavor, though, and you had yet to see him train. You convinced your sisters to come watch the guards, Anna needing much less convincing than Priscilla, but they indulged you nonetheless. 

The air is crisp as winter is approaching, but when you get down to the training yards you spy Rhavor without clothing. He is using a staff and training with an orc, and you can not take your eyes off of his back, the muscles rippling with power. Anna leans over and whispers “you’re drooling” into your ear. She is probably correct. You sit and watch, Rhavor waving at you when he sees you. He spars with a few other guards, and trains some of the newer ones. You look across the courtyard and see maids whispering, their faces red and giggling with their eyes trained on your guard. You are not one to get angry or jealous, but you’ve never had someone worth getting jealous over. Or possessive, maybe, since Rhavor was absolutely yours. Realistically, the maids were your friends and would never knowingly make eyes at a man who was yours, but it wasn’t like they knew any better. 

You were sitting with your lips pursed and an annoyed look on your face when Rhavor came to greet you and your sisters. “Princesses, how nice to see you all,” he greeted with a bow, ever so polite. You all greeted him, your greeting more stiff than you planned. His brows furrow, and you felt bad at his confusion. He had done nothing wrong, after all. It wasn’t his fault he was so handsome. 

“Yes, well, lovely seeing you Rhavor, we must be off now! Please see that Vivie gets back to her room alright!” Anna said, giggling while leading Priscilla away. You tried to speak up and go with them, but they were too quick. 

“Well, Vivie, I suppose I will take you back to your room and then retire to my chambers for a bath, if that’s alright.” He asked, tilting his head at the peeved look on your face. You never knew that you harbored such a monster inside, all you wanted to do was stake your claim on your guard and keep all others away. He was beautiful, and he was yours, damn it. You just nodded at him, knowing he would ask you what was upsetting you once in private. 

Once you get through the door, you give him no time to ask. You pull him down towards you, and meet his lips with your own. You are more frantic and needy than ever before, your hands running down the planes of his chest. He recovers from his shock quickly, pulling you towards him and invading your mouth with his tongue. You moan loudly, glad no one else can hear you in the tower. You part with his mouth, only to move on to kissing down his cheek, his jaw, and his neck, where you proceed to give most attention to. You suck and nip at the skin, excitement running through your veins as he lets out a breathy noise that sounds very much like your name. 

His lower set of hands come up to hold your backside, pulling you up and against him. You wrap your legs around his long waist, feeling positively tiny in his embrace. This only spurs you on, giving you more access to the expanse of skin at your disposal. Something primal has overtaken you, and you want to leave your marks on him, let everyone know he is taken. You pull back a bit to observe your marks, deep purple and running down his neck and shoulder, and a twinge of guilt comes with the massive satisfaction of seeing them. You go slower now, the urgency alleviated by the physical proof of your affection. You kiss and lick the discolored skin, gently now. 

One of Rhavors hands that is buried in your hair brings your mouth back to his, where he nips at your lip before sucking away the sting. All of the sudden there is a knock at your door, and the both of you are forced away from one another. You quickly adjust yourself and throw a blanket at Rhavor for him to cover the numerous love bites left on him. 

“Yes?” you call out in a cracking voice, hoping no one is going to barge in. 

“I’m sorry to disturb you Princess Vivian, however your father has requested that you and your sisters, as well as your personal guards, accompany your father to an early tea in the garden.” A voice calls, one of the older butlers. You thank him, and are grateful he only had a message and did not actually come in. You look at Rhavor and start to giggle at his disheveled state; anyone would have immediately known what you were up to, if not from the hickeys but from the bulge in his abdomen he is trying to hide. He lets out a breathy laugh and comes towards you. 

“I’m unsure what has come over you, my love, but I am not complaining,” he leans in to brush his smiling lips against your own. “I will be back as soon as I am... more decent, to escort you to your father.” One more kiss and he scuttles away, and you look in the mirror to see the damage. 

Your lips are swollen and slightly bruised, your cheeks are red and your hair is a mess, and you feel a bit floaty as well. You quickly ran a brush through your hair and put on some lipstick, hoping that would look somewhat presentable. Rhavor knocked on your door again, and you two started for the gardens. He was clad in his armor, which luckily covered the majority of the marks you left. He held out an elbow for you, and you graciously slipped your arm into the nook of it. He smiled at you, still tilting his head as if to figure you out. 

“What is the matter, lovely? You seem a bit wrapped up in thought.” He asks, and you look up at him. 

“Are you...angry? That I left all those marks, I mean?” You whisper to him. He grins back at you, a teasing smile you have grown so fond of. 

“Darling, I will proudly wear any mark you decide to bestow upon me. Any reminder of your affections is welcome.” He kisses your other hand, happy to be able to fluster you as he does. 

“I just,” you cut yourself off, not wanting to seem jealous, but he asks you to continue. “All the maids were looking at you!” you blurt out quickly, nervous but not wanting to hide your feelings. “They were all looking at you, during training, and no one knows that we’re-whatever we are.” He looked at you a bit stunned, but his grin soon came back, wider and more devious than before. He looks around, making sure the two of you are alone. You were outside of the castle, not quite to the gardens, when he crowds you against a stone wall of the castle, looming over you.

“Oh, is my princess a bit possessive? I rather like that, Vivie,” he nuzzles at your neck, and your breath catches. “Nothing wrong with marking your territory princess. I would only hope you let me return the favor sometime, darling.” He places a gentle kiss behind your ear, and a squeak manages to escape you. He pulls away, composing himself and holding out his arm as if nothing ever took place. Your head is spinning and you hold onto him, not expecting such an enthusiastic response. You cannot help but think of him returning the favor. Thoughts of Rhavor, his dangerous looking mouthparts and teeth around your neck, him biting and sucking at your skin that would bloom so brightly under his ministrations. What would he be like, jealous of another? Would he react like you, staking his claim and seeing to it that you knew you were his? Your thighs clench together at this thought, and you feel a quaking in your lower abdomen. 

You lose these thoughts for now, seeing your family and the guards waiting for your arrival. You are seated, and the captain of the guard stands by your father. He starts to speak and is informing you all about rumors of a plot against your father, involving you all. Your guards were originally appointed due to threats of royal kidnappings, and it seems that this was becoming more and more of a threat. They did not want to scare you, but were only concerned for your safety. More guards were to be stationed around the castle, and you tried to take it more seriously. It was hard, though. You had always known your father to be invincible, and the castle walls always felt so safe. Not only did that assuage your fears, but you knew anyone who wanted to get to you would first have to get through your drider, which would be no easy feat. You listened attentively anyway, and willed this to go on faster. The guards asked questions, and looked at castle blueprints while your father assured you all he would do everything in his power to keep you safe. 

The meeting goes by slowly and Rhavor is solely focused on the task at hand. After the meeting, you all eat dinner there as well, which is less intense than the prior proceedings. Rhavor is still discussing new precautions with the guards, and you’re afraid you’re going to end up locked away in your tower at this rate. 

It is decided that a second guard will be placed outside of your chambers at night, as well as a curfew instilled until the threat passes. You weren’t upset, considered you went to bed early most nights anyway. Your sisters were not as easy going about this but your father had assured them things should be back to normal soon enough. 

Rhavor escorts you back to your room, and finally has the bath he has needed since training. When he comes back to your room, you are hoping for a continuation of the earlier events, but he seems genuinely worried about the rumored threat. You settle for reading a romance curled up in bed while he looks over castle blueprints some more at your table. The few times you tried to get his attention, you were met with a smirk. “Tease” you call him, muttering under your breath. 

 “Say something darling?” He asks, and you shake your head, giggling at him. 

You fall asleep with him like that, his presence soothing you. 

Days pass and precautions are taken, but not nearly enough. 

You shoot up from your bed as you hear a loud noise outside your door. You hear a yell, and you quickly realize there is no other way out of your tower without going towards the yell. You are still half asleep, but your heart is racing and the adrenaline is taking hold. You take a deep breath and scream as loud as you can. Rhavor will come running if he hears you, you hope. At the sound of your scream, though, three men break down your door. 

“Shut up!” one yells, lunging for you. You are not deterred, and you keep screaming, trying to run out of his grasp. He misses, but one of the others does not, grabbing you and pointing a knife at your throat. 

“If you’re trying to call you spider, he’s barricaded in his room. We aren’t stupid, little bitch, now stop screaming before I cut out your tongue.” He hisses this at you, spit flying in your face. You think you’re going to vomit, and now that you’ve quieted you hear it. Rhavor, downstairs, is barreling against his door. The man with the knife grins at you, his teeth yellow and rotting. “Don’t get your hopes up, he ain’t gettin out.” He twirls the tip of the knife along your collarbones, and you hear glass breaking downstairs. 

“Sounds like her little guard is getting angry.” One of the other men comment in a sing-song voice, laughing at your obvious state of distress. 

“How about we make him even angrier?” he asks, dipping the knife towards your cleavage. A scared noise comes out of you, and at that moment your tower window is thrown open. You can feel that it's Rhavor, and if you hadn’t the stiffening from the man in front of you would have been answer enough. You knee him and wrench away, running for Rhavor’s form. 

In one fluid motion, he places you so that you are sitting on his thorax. He charges towards the men, throwing one into the wall, knocking him out cold. The next takes a hit from the butt of his scythe, crumpling to the ground. He has saved the one with the knife for last, and you don't want to watch what comes next. You bury your face in between his shoulder blades, and you hear Rhavor swing his scythe through the air. You gasp, but do not look. You hear footsteps going up the stairs, the sounds of more of the men coming for you. 

“Hold on Vivian, we are going out the window.” He gives you no chance to respond, only climbs out of the tower window and descends, making a point to stay away from the window to his room as well, where you suspect the barricade has been removed and men will soon be entering. You have never been scared of heights, but this is a scenario that surpasses just a fear of heights. You are holding onto your guards back as he is free climbing a tower. You hear a whimpering noise, and it takes you much too long to realize that it’s coming from you. “Shhh my love, I would never let you fall, that is a promise. We are almost down, I am going to jump now and we are headed to the barracks to rouse the rest of the guard.”

“Jump?” you whimper, but before he can respond there is air rushing past you, and you feel him land, taking the impact of the fall but seeming fine. He takes off in a sprint, towards the barracks you presume, your face still hidden in his back. He rips the doors open, and is throwing out orders and briefing guards before you even process where you are. Everyone is moving quickly, and you realize you have now opened your eyes. Several orcs are already dressed in their armor, and running to the castle. You hope that they are finding your sisters, surely you would be the least important target to these people. You feel Rhavor’s hands on yours, before he is peeling you off of him and setting you on a bed on the barracks, wrapping you in one of the sheets there. 

“Oh, I’m still in my nightdress,” you mumble, not really looking at anything in particular. Rhavor is looking at you and you see his mouth moving, but all you hear is blood rushing in your ears. You reach up and go to smooth the crease in his brow, humming to yourself. He is crouching before you, and you are unsure how long this goes on. There are other guards milling about, some being sent to other barracks and others checking for more intruders and reporting back. 

You start to feel less like you’re underwater, and Rhavor’s words start to make more sense. It’s mostly nonsense, but comforting nonsense. “You are such a brave little princess, holding onto me so tightly. So glad you have such strong lungs darling, so glad you yelled for me. I will always protect you, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there faster. I should have killed him for laying his hands on you, I will do everything in my power to make sure that never happens again,” He goes on and on, and you feel your heart rate slow down. You have no idea how long you have been here, but suddenly your father, sister, and their personal guards file into the barracks, your father taking you in his arms. This is when the dam breaks and tears start to fall. He shushes you and rocks you back and forth, while your sisters hug you as well. Your father releases you, and you sit with your sisters. You hear him thank Rhavor for keeping you safe, and inform him that the men are being held in the dungeon, along with the several others that were coming into your room when you fled. They will be questioned and everyone involved will be taken in, that you have faith in. 

Your sisters were not targeted, which you are glad to hear. You are unsure why they picked you, but your father told you they thought you would be less guarded due to being the youngest. Everyone is awake now, and unlikely to go back to sleep, so you all head back to the castle. Rhavor is still by your side, and if anyone notices you holding onto his hand, they don’t say anything. The maids fuss over you, making you your favorite foods and trying to comfort you while some of the butlers are cleaning your bedroom, erasing all traces of what happened. People also start to clear Rhavor’s room, but it is in much worse condition. 

“Although some may think it indecent, there is plenty of room for another cot in Vivian’s room. After the events that took place tonight, I think it best for you to stay there with her, at least until your quarters are fixed.” Your father tells Rhavor, and he agrees, still frustrated with himself he was not there to protect you. You agree with your father, it is a good idea. You also know that once you are a bit recovered from the night's events, you will be enthused about sharing a room for very different reasons. 

The hours go on and night makes way for day. You are exhausted, and your sisters pull you into Priscilla's room, where they tuck you in and sleep next to you. Four guards are stationed outside the door, and even though it is almost midday, you finally manage to get some sleep. 

The days recovering from the attack, you and Rhavor cling to one another. He sleeps in your bed, the two of you rumpling up the extra cot every night to avoid suspicion. You feel so sneaky, but having him in your bed holding you is worth it. Both of you are still flustered, him more overprotective and shadow like than ever before. He never outright doesn’t let you do something, but he is very good at directing your attention to an activity he finds to be safer. If you want to walk the grounds or spend the day in the garden, he will often find a way to get you to stay in the library or walk with you inside of the castle instead, or setting up a picnic on the roof. It’s endearing and you know he is worried, but you’re starting to get a bit stir crazy. It comes to a head when you start getting a bit snippy at him. You don’t try to be, really, but you need space being nice about it hasn’t been working. After being a bit of a brat all morning, you pull Rhavor aside in the library. 

You hold his hand and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I know this is stressful for you, but I’m safe! And I’m going to go crazy stuck inside all day, so I’m going to the gardens, and you should take some time for yourself too. I’ll have another guard stick close if that makes you feel better, love, and I will see you before dinner.” You leave no room for an argument, and while he is sputtering a bit, you kiss him on the cheek and walk off. You are hoping he won’t be too peeved later, but odds are he will follow you at a distance anyway. 

The time alone was nice and much needed, but after a few hours you were wishing for Rhavor’s presence once again. The ideal situation would be him enjoying the outdoors with you, but he was busy trying and failing to remain unseen by you while doing rounds in the garden and peeking at you intermittently. You sighed and closed your book, wondering if starting an impromptu game of hide and seek would be too cruel when your love was already so wound up. You were feeling playful, though, and figured it wouldn’t hurt too much. You simply moved to be behind one of the pillars in the gazebo, and waited, stifling your giggles. It didn’t take long before he came barreling in, his back to you. You snuck up behind him, yelled out “gotcha” and jumped on his back. He jumped and turned to bare his teeth at you.

“Not funny Vivian,” he growls out, moving to hold you in front of him. You play with the hair at the nape of his neck, pouting up at him. 

“I thought it was funny, plus, you’re making the gardeners anxious with all of your pacing.” He kept up his grumbling, but finally decided to sit with you. By the time you were ready to go inside, the both of you were in a much better mood. You retire to your chambers, and Rhavor seems to grow anxious once again. 

“I have something for you, Vivie,” Rhavor says, and he proceeds to hand you a blanket made out of his silk. It is unlike the one he used to teach you, in that it is much larger, thicker, and the design seems much more complex. It is beautiful and soft, and you are sure he spent a lot of time on it. You take it from him, your face split into a wide smile. 

“This is so beautiful, thank you! No one has ever given me something so nice before.” you admit, pulling him down for a kiss. He kisses you back, so sweetly, and pulls away. 

“It is part of courting, for driders. It symbolizes our desire and ability to keep you warm and provide for you. I’ve been wanting to make you one ever since I taught you how to knit all those months ago.” He admits, a hand coming up to run through his hair. The sweet intent behind the gift does not go unnoticed, and it makes you love it all the more. 

“I have something for you too!” you say, full of excitement. You spread the blanket out on your bed, before going into a trunk to pull out the one you knitted for him. “I was going to wait until the Giving Days, but now seems like a much better time for this.” You hold out the deep purple blanket that reminds you so much of the color his cheeks turn on the rare occasions he is shy, and his reaction is very enthused. He lets out a gasp, and takes the blanket from your hand. He takes his time admiring it, and tells you how much you’ve improved. 

“My princess, come here,” he beacons, and pulls you close. He bends down, laying kisses all over your face, wrapping his arms around you when you giggle and twist away. His lips then meet yours, and what started out as a chaste kiss turns into something carnal rather quickly. You feel his shirt slip to the side, his marks from you still there, and you feel hungry for him. You press yourself to him, and let the noises building in your chest escape you, him eagerly swallowing them. You aren’t sure how to convey how much you need him, but you try, pulling him towards your bed. He lays you down on the blanket he made for you, and pulls back a bit. His eyes run over you on the bed, and he lets out a deep noise that makes your thighs clench together. 

“It looks as though you are in my web Vivie, it makes such a pretty picture,” he says while one hand is caressing your face and one of the lower ones is running up your calf. You do not have enough wit left to respond to this, you only open your thighs and arch up, hoping he continues to touch you. “Say the word and I will stop, princess, all you have to do is ask.” he tells you. 

Your hands go to his arms, and you plead with him to continue. “Don’t stop, Rhavor. I want you, all of you.” The teasing look he often wears melts away, and he plasters himself against you once again. 

“You honor me, my love,” he whispers into your ear, his mouthparts and fangs brushing against your cheek. You pull at his shirt, wanting nothing more than to run your fingers over his skin. He quickly obliges you, and throws it off and away. Rhavor pulls you towards the edge of the bed, and his lower two hands get higher and higher on your thighs while another is moving from your shoulder to your breast, a light brush that has you keening. His hands that are under your dress move and grab your ass, bringing the apex of your thighs to meet the growing bulge in his abdomen. You cant up your hips, gasping when you find the friction you so desperately seek. 

“Rhavor, please, more,” you plead with him, not knowing what you want but knowing you need it like you need air. 

“Shh, I’ll take care of you,” He says, not so frantic anymore. He leans down to softly kiss you, and helps you take off your dress. Once it is off, you feel like you can breath again, and Rhavor’s many eyes are trained on the rise and fall of your chest. He leans down, swirling his tongue around your nipple, and you tilt your hips up to grind against him once again, causing the both of you to let out a gasp. A large hand of his comes between your legs, rubbing your wetness through your smallclothes. You’ve never felt something so pleasurable, and you mewl and rub against his hand as if you were a cat. You feel in the back of your mind you should be embarrassed by your actions, but all you feel is pleasure. 

You kiss and lick at the skin of his chest, nipping across a nipple, an action that causes him to make a teasing growl back at you. He pushes aside the cloth covering your core, and explores you with one of his deft fingers. He pumps it into your core, coaxing more moans from you. A thumb comes up to trace your lips, and you take it into your mouth, flicking your tongue on the end. Your eyes are wide as you stare into his, this eye contact only broken when he adds another thick finger to your core, stretching you for him. His hand leaves your mouth as you reach down towards his bulge and trace your fingers around it, delighting in the way he shivers at this touch. You feel him grow and his phallus unfolds from within. It is a deep and vibrant purple with black veins spider webbing across it. You trace it with your fingertips, your hand looking so small in comparison. His hips jerk when you get near the end, and you wrap your fingers around it. You move your hand up and down over the length, enjoying the feel of it and delighting in the way Rhavor is following the movements. He has not stopped pumping his fingers into you, and when he curls the long, angled digits your legs snap tight around him. You arch up and bring his length to your wetness, looking at him as you do. He pulls his fingers out of you, hushing you with a kiss at the sound you make once you’re empty. 

“Do you want me to continue, princess?” he asks you, and you nod eagerly, adding on a strangled out “Yes” for good measure. 

At this he takes himself in hand, coating himself in your wetness. You grip onto his shoulders as he breaches you, mouth falling open at the feeling of being so full. He goes slow, and the stretch is significant. He does not move yet, only bends down to kiss you, whispering praises about how good you feel and how lucky he is to have you. It feels like his hands are everywhere, the four of them caressing and rubbing at your skin. A strangled noise escapes you as you try to move your hips, and fireworks are taking off behind your eyelids at the feel of him. You feel as if you are floating away, but his touch grounds you. A hand is on the side of your face and Rhavor turns you to look at him. He pulls back and then thrusts forward, a shaky breath leaving him and a pleasured “oh” is punched out of your lungs. He keeps the pace slow and deep, neither of you wanting any more of him to leave your body than necessary. A set of hands were on your breasts, rolling and tugging on your nipples as another were propping your thighs open for him. You shared a kiss that was filthy, biting and full of tongue, and as Rhavors abdomen brushes above your entrance your entire body goes rigid. A deep moan escapes you as you screw your eyes shut, and it feels as though lightning is running through your entire body. You gasp for air and try to keep moving with Rhavor. He holds you tight, dragging out your pleasure before his hips stutter and he buries himself within your heat, your name on his tongue as you ripple around him.

You feel tingly everywhere, and your blissed out expression is mirrored by Rhavor. He shifts his weight to the side, and keeps his face buried in your neck. He kisses you as you come down, wrapping you in his blanket. You really do look as though you are caught in his web, and you have never been happier. You would formally announce your relationship in the morning. 

[songbirdsingingthings]

Chilled - Spencer Reid x Reader

WARNINGS: I mean, this is a cm fic so theres gonna be some gore involved, but nothing too insane. If you do get squeamish really easily though, this might not be the fic for you? 

The air finally started to have a certain chill to it, one that no matter what you wore, you felt it in your bones. That paired with your day job left you feeling no warmth, not even if you were lit on fire yourself. And now, in the middle of January, you and the team have to travel to North Dakota, of all places, for a pretty touchy case. Since it was an above average winter, snowstorms were pelting the state at a quite alarming rate. This posed the perfect opportunity for the unsub they were hunting - as they would dump the bodies in huge snow drifts. The local authorities only started to find the bodies when snow started to develop an off putting color.

“Remember to bundle up my lovelies, you are going to be braving some serious sub zero tempetratures! I don’t want any of my favorite agents turning into popsicles.” Garcia says as she’s handing out the files to everyone at the round table. Peeling back the manilla folder, you almost wish you hadn’t. The discoloration on the snow was perfectly nauseating and what made your heart drop more was the shape that the corpses were in. There was clear evidence of asphyxiation and stab wounds on the body and, however, something didn’t feel perfectly right about the way that the person died. Not being able to put a finger on the thought, you slid the manilla folder into your bag and stood up like the rest of your team.

“C’mon, Y/N/N, better get going, yeah?” Derek asks, waiting for you to start walking. You nod and start walking out with everyone else, only for you all to get stopped by Erin Strauss. “Hello agents, before you leave, we wanted to leave you all with something.” Standing up on your toes to peer over the guys in front of you - seriously, did Hotch, Morgan, and Reid have to be so tall? - you get a look at what she and some of her own agents were holding. Pristine new FBI jackets with those classic faux fur lined hoods were folded in her hands along with what looked like windbreaker sweatpants. “So you don’t get cold.” Erin states plainly, passing the clothing out to the squad.

“Wow, these are great!” Emily said excitedly,  threading her fingers through the faux fur. 

“And to think I packed three different windbreakers,” you joke, taking your time to unzip the jacket and slide your arms through it. You sigh and as the material instantly makes you feel a lot cozier.

“Jackets like these were actually first invented somewhat recently in 1936,” Spencer starts.

“‘Recently’?” you quip, flashing Spencer a smile.

“They were invented by a man named Eddie Bauer who almost lost his life to hypothermia when he went on a mid-winter fishing trip.” Chuckling a little, Derek patted Spencer on the back and jogged quickly to the plane due to Virginia’s January chill.

“If you're cold now, Morgan, I don’t know how you’re gonna react when we step out of the plane in North Dakota!” JJ laughs, earning a nudge from Emily.

Finally, everyone piles onto the plane, taking up seats and instantly turning on the seat warmers. You settle gently in the window seat of the two-seater, and Spencer quickly joins you.

“Mind if I sit?” He asks, motioning to the seat to your left. 

“Not at all,” you smile. Both you and Spencer considered the other as good friends, maybe even best friends. You started a mere two years after Spencer did. Since the two of you were around the same age - him a few years older - and were newer to the force, you found instant solace and comradery in the other. Over the years, you and Spencer became a lot closer. Whether it was caring and being there for him when he had his dilaudid scare or either of you sleeping over at the other’s houses when the nightmares became too much, you developed a strong relationship full of trust.

“All I’m saying is that if we get there and it looks like the frozen planet Hoth, I’m going to be pissed.” You joke as the plane starts its descent. 

“Oh come on Y/N, pretty boy will wrap you up in his jacket to keep you warm.” Derek said, ruffling Spencer’s hair. A light blush graced both of your faces as you began to gather any strewn files.

“Let’s not tease, Morgan, Capisci?” Rossi says, giving you a gentle smile. Rossi was always nice to you. He provided a much needed parental figure at the BAU, giving you tough love or a gentle guiding hand when needed. Soon enough, the squad was able to leave the place and be driven over to the local police precinct. The details that the police chief had were dished out to the team and talked over multiple times. It was tough, to say the least. They had no leads, no suspects, and no new facts.

= 3 Days Later = 

Energy for the team was at an all time low. The heating was starting to slowly die, new bodies kept showing up everyday, and you were still no where close to finishing this investigation.

“Let’s go over everything again.” Hotch begins, his statement being said for the third time within 2 hours. “The victims are buried beneath at least 2 feet of snow, it takes between 1 and 3 days for anybody to recognize anything’s up, and there are stab wounds and evidence of asphyxiation…” Hotch droned on which led you to faze out a bit. All you could think of were your cold body, your cold feet, and your cold ass fingers. That’s when you realized something.

“O-oh my God.” You say, standing straight up as you re-examine the pictures. All eyes in the room turn towards you, curious. You start to pace the room as you hold the crime scene photos in your hands. “I know that there are stab wounds and asphyxiation evidence, but neither of those are what killed them. The wounds are in non-fatal areas of the body and the asphyxiation wasn’t severe enough to fully kill them.” You say, your mind going miles a minute.

“So what are you saying killed them?” JJ asks, leaning forward.

“Hypothermia,” you breath out, “the stab wounds prevent the victim from getting anywhere too far and look at the frostbite on the hands,” you say pointing to the darkened limbs.

“It’s progressed far enough to make your hypothesis possible.” Spencer says, standing up as well.

“Okay, so where could the unsub be keeping his victims in a place remote enough to leave them out in the cold?” Rossi asks, looking between you and Hotch.

“Garcia?” Hotch simply says, listening into the speaker on the table.

“Already there captain, I’m sending you the locations now.” Penelope sends three different locations to the squad making everyone gather around the computer.

“Alright Prentiss and Morgan go to the first one, Reid and L/N to the second, and Rossi and I will take the third, let’s move!” He says quickly. Everyone gathers their things and you and Spencer share a look and nod. Each duo climbs into their own car equipped with cold weather tools and sped off to the different locations.

“Great find Y/N,” Spencer says, giving you a reassuring look. You flash a weary smile at him and step on the gas, speeding off to the location.

The place looks like it’s straight out of a horror movie. There’s an old raggedy windmill on the left of a shabby wooden cabin, bordered by huge fir trees.

“My God, this place is terrifying.” You murmur, pulling your gloves on and your gun out of your belt. Spencer is on your right as you start to slowly make you way towards the building. Out of the corner of your eye you spot a tiny little shack just south of the windmill. “Spence, you take the house and I’ll take the shack, okay?” you whisper, making sure that no one else but him could hear you. Spencer looks a little shocked at you.

“Y-Y/N, are you kidding? We need to stick together on this!” He says quietly, grabbing your hand. For some reason, neither of you are shocked at his action. You only squeeze his hand tighter.

“I’ll be fine Spence, I promise. We’ll get a cup of hot chocolate after this, okay?” You say, giving him a small grin. Spencer nods back giving you a smile as well.

“Yeah but you’ll just ruin yours with too much whipped cream and cinnamon. It totally defeats the purpose of the hot chocolate.” He quips back. You give him a quiet laugh and nod, squeezing his hand one last time before you head towards the shack. It was a ways away from the main house making your trek a little longer than Spencers, but you finally made it to the small wooden building. You drew in a breath as you began to see footprints with small bits of red in them. Your gloved hand reaches for your flashlight. You jump as you hear increasing steps behind you and turn around quickly, aiming your gun and squinting your eyes until you realize it was nothing but a deer passing by behind you.

Be cool, Y/N, you’re fine. You’re good.

You kick open the door to find the unsub about to attack a near naked girl, knife in hand and a wild look in his eyes.

“FBI stop what you’re doing right now, drop the knife!” You yell. The man turns around to face you, knife still in hand and charging towards you. You fire a quick shot to his leg making him stumble, kick away the knife from his hand, and cuff him. You finally turn your eyes onto the girl who was terrified. “It’s okay, you’re okay now,” You say, helping her stand. That’s when you notice the condition that she was in. Her lips were almost purple now, the rest of her skin turning blue. You shrug your jacket and long sleeve shirt off of you as fast as you could putting both of them on her. You stuff your gloves on her hands and shimmy out of your windbreaker pants, leaving you in nothing but athletic shorts and a tank top. Screw it, you could bear these sub zero temperatures in these clothes for a few minutes, this girl needed warmth. An instant chill settled into your bones making your teeth chatter in seconds. You shout for Spencer as you help the girl to the door and make the unsub stand up, dragging him in front of you. Your friend finally came into view, running at full speed towards you.

“Y/N, oh my god, are you okay?” He asks you. You nod as you let out a sigh, already knowing that your lips are starting to stray towards periwinkle. You could see the rest of the team running towards the shack. Derek took care of handling the unsub while Emily helped the girl back towards the vans, surely to help try and heat her up.

“I’m pissed,” you chatter out, causing Spencer to raise an eyebrow. You roll your eyes and start rubbing your hands along your bare forearms, trying to generate any kind of warmth. “This place looks exactly like Hoth, and Morgan is gonna end up being right because I would kind of love to have your jacket right now.” You chatter-laugh, one of the weirdest sounds to ever come out of your mouth. Quickly nodding, Spencer starts to shed his jacket off of you, but stops halfway. “Spencer what the hell are you doing, my fingers are all already numb, it’s gonna hurt like hell to warm them back up.”

“I actually have a more efficient idea, but we might want to go into the car first.” Giving no complaints, you and Spencer raced back to the backseat of a car, waiting for him to blast the heat. He does so, but it’s still not warming you up.

“Is this seriously what you had in mind? Because I’m still feeling like a popsicle and Garcia will be very made to hear that.” You say chuckling nervously.

“No, it’s this,” Spencer says, opening the front of his jacket. He brings you close to him and rezips the jacket, making you pressed right up against him. Not that you would go around talking to it about just anyone, but he was built underneath that cotton gray shirt.

“Sp-Spence what are you doing?” You whisper-yell quietly, your cheeks burning up. 

“Skin to skin, it’s one of the quickest ways to get warm.” What was interesting was that you weren’t really opposed to being in this position with Spencer. Actually, you kind of really like it. You get to feel his heartbeat and snuggle your head under his chin, which makes Spencer flush this time.

“Spencer,” you whisper, causing him to glance down at you.

“Yeah?” He murmurs back. You feel his heartbeat quicken, affirming what you were hypothesizing.

“Can you hold me?” You ask. He had never heard your voice speak so softly and so… lovingly. He felt special being able to hear you like this, seeing you like this. He always loved the fact that the two of you were such great friends and were able to confide in eachother, but he wanted more now. He wanted to see you like this a little bit more. So, he did as you asked and wrapped his arms around your cold frame, dismissing the cold that transferred into his body from yours. After a few minutes you were starting to feel a lot better but made no effort to leave. Instead, you snuggled into him more and let your hands splay out against his chest. You heard him hum lightly, pressing you further closer to him.

“Y/N.” He whispers this time.

“Yeah?” You respond, looking at him. The two of you make eye-contact and make no effort to break it.

“Can our hot chocolate outing be considered a date?” He asks, his face now mere inches away from yours. You nod instantly and bring your face closer to his.

“Can I kiss you?” You ask, bringing one of your hands to cup his cheek. Spencer doesn’t even wait to nod, he just closes the gap in between you. The kiss was sweet and tender, like gingerbread cookies right out of the oven. Spencer now brings both of his hands to your cheeks and deepens the kiss, making you melt into him. Things were starting to get a little more intense, that is, until the door to the car opens causing snow to blow onto the seats.

“HEY! IT IS FREEZING OUTSIDE AND-” You cut your words off as you see Morgan, JJ, and Prentiss looking at you and Spencer, all with smirks on their faces. You see two faces turn a little more frustrated, digging into their pockets and fishing out twenty dollars each. Emily smirks and takes the bills from JJ and Morgan, earning groans from the two of them.

“Y’all seriously couldn’t pace things?” Stumped, you look at them with your mouth hanging open.

“You bet on us?” Spencer says, his voice raising in volume.” Chuckling, the three of them close the door to the car leaving just you and Spencer, flabbergasted.

“So how about that hot chocolate now?”

[dredshirtroberts]

Constellations

on AO3!

Rating: M / Lime Pair: Eskel/Geralt Summary: Eskel loves Geralt but their soulmarks don't match - he'd know. They're witchers, and scars are their business. As he joins Geralt in retirement, Eskel figures whatever he can get with the other witcher will be enough. He might get a little bit more than he thought he was bargaining for, but Eskel's never passed up a good deal.

My entry into the @eskelbigbang. Trying something new for posting fic so bear with me. Check out the awesome art by @dat-carovieh on their tumblr and twitter @ LupisLionstooth!

Eskel growled a little as he stumbled off the path, clutching the wound on his side. The scar on his face creased with his snarl as he collapsed into a tree. He hated being wounded. The blood loss was greater than normal and his vision swam as he tried to push forward. The horse beside him whickered softly at him as he tripped. A loose stone, probably—or at least he hoped. If there were nothing in the path that would be worse. That would mean he was worse off than he’d thought.

He needed to keep going. He had an appointment to make.

"You should meet me in Novigrad,” Geralt had said over cards last winter. They were several glasses of his horrible wine in (it wasn’t horrible, Eskel loved it, but he loved picking on Geralt more—loved making his nose wrinkle with irritation, and Eskel did prefer ale over wine but the wine made at Corvo Bianco was alright and, best of all, free) and having a quiet evening.

Most of their evenings together were quiet these days. How long had they lived now? How many of their friends were lost to the passage of time?

Lambert never stayed, preferring the road. They both dreaded his never returning but after the loss of his soulmate—the Cat Witcher that Geralt had helped avenge—he’d never been quite the same.

Ciri had grown up, grown into herself. She’d had a longer than average lifespan from her Elven blood, but she stayed with Yennefer more often than not, and had become a strong woman and mage in her own right. Yennefer, for her part, came and visited infrequently, lost often in her own research and pursuits.

Geralt’s bard, Dandelion, had retired from traveling, had owned a bar, had been a professor at Oxenfurt, and then, eventually, had passed in time from an old life lived long and lived well. Their other friends were either distant or dead.

So, things were quiet.

“Why would I meet you in Novigrad? I’m here?” Eskel had asked.

Geralt had rolled his eyes, “I mean when you’re not here. Back on the Path. We should meet in Novigrad. It’s a mid-point between here and your normal territory. And the biggest bookshop on the Continent.”

It was a tempting offer. And it wasn’t really like Eskel was going to refuse. They’d just never planned to meet before. Geralt had retired from the Path years ago, staying at his winery or traveling to meet his friends but never hunting monsters. Not that there were many monsters to find these days as it was. Eskel’s coin purse had been light for years, the only saving grace was Geralt’s hospitality during the winters, and his generosity with the funds that came in from the winery.

“Alright. Why?”

“Because I miss you when you’re out, dumbass,” Geralt groused with another eyeroll, the bite in his words sour and reminiscent of their younger brother-in-all-but-blood. The quick twitch of the corner of his mouth down and the tightness near his eyes belied the sincerity behind the words, however.

“Aww, I miss you too,” Eskel batted his eyes at Geralt sweetly, teasing, “Alright sure. I’ll meet you in Novigrad. When?”

Eskel was supposed to have been there days ago. But the contract he had been on was not only longer than anticipated but a larger beast as well. A more vicious one. And now he was injured and trying to make his way to Novigrad to meet Geralt.

He needed to meet Geralt there. He missed the man, his closest friend for the past century and a half, his only family. The closest thing Eskel would get to having his soulmate.

They didn’t talk about their marks. They used to. Before the Trials. Before everything had changed.

They were very young, the first time it had been brought up among their year group. Ten boys huddled around comparing the discolored skin that showed the closest their mate would ever come to death and recover from. They were in nothing but their smallclothes, sitting in a circle in one of the dorm rooms of Kaer Morhen and lit by only the fire in the hearth that kept the room warm in the cold nights.

Eskel’s mark was a series of dots on his arm, black-purple like bruises, peppered in regular intervals, dark lines running deep into his skin, touching the veins that brought blood to his hands, peppered in at the crook of his elbow. It was remarked by one that they were like stars—a description Eskel held onto for many years, even onto the Path itself, the constellations of Destiny drawing him to the match to his soul. Some boys had dark red patches on their chests, deep shadows of wounds-that-weren’t-yet slicing through their legs, their arms, their stomachs. One boy, Gweld, had a pale line running right across his throat.

Geralt’s was the biggest. A swath of pink skin from hips to shoulders, like he was flayed open and a new patch was sewn on in a slightly wrong color. Eskel’s heart hurt to see it. He liked Geralt best of the other boys, he wasn’t too loud when Eskel wanted to read, exchanged stories of knights and chivalry and wanting to be a hero with Eskel. And they of course got up to much mischief together, which Eskel always appreciated. To see him marked like that, to know that whoever Geralt’s soul was promised to would have to survive something that bad, was painful.

Eskel and the other boys knew Geralt’s soulmate was a Witcher. It was obvious. No one else would survive an injury that large, that deep.

Vesemir had caught them that night, scowling and barking to get back into their beds, that they’d all have kitchen duty in the morning and for the next week after for being out of bed so late. The boys had complained, whining as they got into their bunks.

The outline of Geralt’s soulmark was etched into Eskel’s mind for a long while after. Forever, really.

They’d discussed their respective marks privately at other times. Osbert had caught them out once, poking and prodding at one another, wondering what the cause of their marks would be, speculating on when they’d meet their soulmates. Would it be before they’d gotten the scars that would be representative of the marks on their bodies? Would it be after? What scars would they acquire and how would they show up on their soulmates?

Osbert had seen their marks. Saw Geralt’s and nodded, his eyes sad but knowing. Then he’d seen Eskel’s. The look on his face was one that Eskel wasn’t able to parse at the time, but as he looked back on the memory in later years, he realized it was devastated.

Eskel didn’t know what caused him to feel that way until he was strapped to the table during the Trials, mages and Witchers alike hovering over him. One of the mages had seen his arm, had nudged another beside him and said, “Look, this one already has where the needles go on his arm. Nearly labeled and everything.”

The laughter that had passed between the two mages frightened Eskel, but not more than the knowledge that his mate, the soul that matched his soul, the one that Destiny herself had picked for him, would go through the Trials, and that would be the worst thing they would survive. Would they die? On the table? He knew it was a possibility but…

Would he die before meeting his soulmate? That hurt worse, the thought of leaving his soulmate to the world without knowing what happened to Eskel. His brain raced through all the injuries he knew he’d acquired since coming to Kaer Morhen—which one was the worst one? Which one brought him closest to death? Which would be the mark on his mate’s body if he died on the table, chemicals and reagents and mutagens pouring into his bloodstream, changing his body?

For the first time in his life, he wondered if his soulmate would fear him after he became a Witcher, if he survived. And as the needles pierced his skin, their caustic, toxic mixtures seeping into him and altering him irrevocably, he cried.

Eskel, of course, had survived the Trials.

Geralt had, as well. Not easily, though. He’d been chosen for additional mutagens, extra tests, further Trials. Once-auburn hair that shone blood-red in the sunshine was snow-white. His skin was death-pale, and shadows seemed perpetually under his eyes. He had been unconscious when they’d brought him back up to the dorms, and Eskel had sat by his bed as often as he could, watching, waiting for his friend to wake up.

If he’d checked Geralt’s arms for the marks that still lay purple-bruised on his own, darker now with the pinpricks of the needles that had actually entered his arm, well… They weren’t there. His arms were as clear as the sky on a summer day. It was as if the Trials had not happened to him. Eskel knew that Witchers healed quickly, that the marks on his arm—the one’s he’d acquired, not the ones he’d been born with—would disappear shortly. But to see Geralt who had gone through more with nothing had…

Had…

Eskel hadn’t realized until that moment how much he desperately wanted Geralt to be his soulmate, until he had been so devastated by the undeniable truth that he wasn’t.

Eskel collapsed on the ground, the world shifting on its axis as he blinked foggy blurriness from his eyes. The horse behind him had stopped obediently. Geralt had trained him well, of course. Eskel didn’t expect otherwise from a man who had trained every single horse he had ever ridden—even if he did end up calling them all Roach.

He wasn’t going to make it to Novigrad.

It was the last coherent thought he had before he slumped to the ground, the world going dark around him.

Eskel had many wounds in his lifetime. Wounds that had brought him to the brink of death and he was saved only by the timeliest of Swallows, of magical healers, of mages. It was the fate of a Witcher. Their Destiny to be covered in marks from their profession. Some wore their scars proudly, some hid them away. Eskel didn’t really mind either which way. Not until Diedre.

The deep, horrible mark on his face certainly made him feel as though he were better off dead. It wrapped around the side of his face, tore part of his lip away leaving him with a constant snarl, reaching to his ear. He knew, in that moment, that whoever his soulmate was, had to hate him for giving them this…this…

This thing on their face.

It was also when he lost all hope that Geralt could still be his soulmate. That his best friend would ever become more. Geralt had always had a rather romantic idea of how soulmates worked. He would take his pleasure where he could get it in the meantime—as most Witchers did, but he would wait to have a romance with someone until their marks matched scars.

And Eskel, the fool, loved him for that. Loved him for his hopeless, idealistic view on soulmates, when in reality a soulmate was just a person, as flawed and horrible as every other person on the Continent. There were soulmate couples who hated one another. Those who never met. Those who hurt their mates, were the ones to give them their scars.

As soon as Eskel knew he was not Geralt’s he worried. He worried for Geralt because the man, despite everything was still soft on the inside, was still the boy with bright eyes who waxed poetic about becoming a Knightly Witcher, who would save the world, not just from monsters but from everything he could. The man who had wanted to name himself Geralt Eric Roger du Haute-Bellegarde entirely earnestly. The man who loved every horse he ever met and named them each after the same kind of fish.

Eskel worried because he could not protect Geralt if his soulmate hurt him, because Eskel was not his soulmate.

Eskel traced the constellations on his arm, the little stars that marked where his soulmate went through the Trials. That marked where he went through the Trials. Absently, late at night he wondered if they were someone he had already met.

After the pogroms and the attack of Kaer Morhen he no longer needed to wonder. If he hadn’t met them yet, they had probably already died.

It was years before he let himself consider that they had died even earlier than that. Likely the first year on the Path. He tried not to think about if they were from the Wolf school or another.

Sometimes he would run his fingers over the shape of the scar on his face, wonder if his soulmate could feel it—could have felt it, he sometimes reminded himself, they weren’t alive anymore, likely. He would think about what it would be to run his fingers lovingly over the mark that tied them together, let them touch his mark—the memories of the Trials were painful, traumatic for all who went through them, but maybe with the fact that it connected them together in so many ways it would be… better.

Eventually he stopped letting himself think about it at all. It hurt too much. It wasn’t Geralt, it would never be Geralt, and he would never know his soulmate.

And maybe, if he were really and truly honest with himself, he didn’t want to know his soulmate.

Eskel woke in a bed.

This was mostly jarring because he had the distinct memory of passing out in the middle of the road, but he’d woken up in worse places than a bed before. At least this time there were no succubi.

That had been interesting.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Geralt’s voice was gravelly as always, and coming from Eskel’s left hand side.

Eskel grunted as he turned his head to look at the white-haired man beside him. The ever-present dark circles under his eyes seemed darker than usual, the pallor of his skin waxier and wanner than Eskel remembered from the last time they’d seen one another.

(Geralt had been looking healthier since he’d retired, well-fed, relaxed. This looked like Geralt on the Path—something Eskel hadn’t seen in years, decades even.)

“You look like shit,” Eskel said, pulling his face into a rough approximation of a smirk. His body felt heavy and he could feel the familiar tug of stitches in his side. At least he wasn’t actively bleeding out anymore.

“Yeah, well,” Geralt started like he was going to retort, but his voice fell flat as his expression did something Eskel wasn’t sure he’d ever seen on the man before, “You’re lucky I caught your scent while I was out hunting or you’d have died laying in the road.”

“Business as usual, then,” Eskel grunted, attempting to sit up a little. Geralt moved quickly, faster than Eskel was anticipating, and a hand was on his chest, pushing him back down into the bed. If Eskel really wanted to, he probably could have ignored the hand but…

Geralt’s long fingers were cold and felt nice on his heated skin and it had been so long since their last hug in Toussaint before Eskel had left on the Path again. Maybe this year he’d actually talk to Geralt about retiring with him, about setting up in the winery with Geralt, becoming even-older-old men together. It wasn’t like the monsters were getting any more populous. He could take up a trade, maybe, and pretend he wasn’t made into a monster himself by mutagens and actions and scars. Maybe he could pretend they were soulmates again, that this was enough.

He suddenly remembered why he hadn’t chosen to retire with Geralt yet. Why he might not ever.

“Stay down, idiot. You’ll pull your stitches.”

“Doubt I need them much longer,” Eskel grumbled.

“The fact that I could see your intestines before I got you fixed up begs to differ.” Geralt’s eyes were narrowed, the slits of his pupils dark in the wheat-gold of his eyes.

“Eh, they needed a bit of fresh air,” Eskel’s joking tone didn’t quite hit, and Geralt’s jaw clenched as he swallowed thickly. Eskel winced, turning away, “That was dumb of me to say, I’m sorry.”

“No you’re…you’re right. It’s part of the job,” Geralt was leaning back, taking his hand with him and Eskel gritted his teeth together to avoid begging him to keep touching Eskel, to never let go.

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck,” Eskel shrugged.

They sat in silence for a bit, Eskel’s eyes feeling heavy again.

“You give me something for it?” He asked, his brow creasing in confusion.

“What?”

“For the…” He gestured to his side, “Did you give me something?”

“Nah, why?”

“Tired,” Eskel mumbles, feeling his eyes drift shut again. Though, perhaps the exhaustion is more from having pushed himself on the Path for days on end before his last contract, and then further while injured, from having little to no food because he couldn’t afford it and the hunting was scarce close to the griffin.

Perhaps it was being in a bed for the first time since he’d left Geralt’s side in early spring, or maybe just the safety and comfort of having Geralt by his side again, listening to the man’s steady, Witcher-slow heartbeat and the soft sound of his breathing.

“So sleep,” Geralt’s voice is fond in Eskel’s ears and he thinks it’s probably just his mind making things up as it slows from waking to meditation to sleep, drifting from consciousness to dreams with little to no effort.

Eskel thinks he could get used to it, and fears what that means.

Eskel wakes again and it’s morning. Sun is shining through the window in the corner and birds are chirping outside.

Geralt is asleep, leaned forward on the bed, head resting on Eskel’s lap, and hands clasped around Eskel’s own. Previously cold fingers are warmed by the heat of Eskel’s palms and something in Eskel’s chest clenches in a way he is all too familiar with.

Geralt’s hair is loose, unbound and a tangled mess around his shoulders. Several strands have fallen across his face, a lock of it draped over his eyes, closed in sleep with pale lashes fanned out over dark circles. Soft breaths huff between parted lips that move slightly with the dreams that he sees behind his eyelids—Eskel can see the shape of his eyes darting back and forth beneath the thin skin.

He brings his other hand up, the one unclaimed by Geralt’s grasping fingers, and gently pushes the hair out of the other man’s face.

Geralt is beautiful. And Eskel loves him. He loves him so much.

Golden eyes drift open slowly, pupils sliding from wide circles to rounded slits with the light as Geralt blinks, taking a moment to wake up.

“Hey,” Eskel murmurs, a smile sliding over his face—easy, this time, and he is sure his emotions are plastered all over his face but he can’t really find it in himself to care. Geralt is here. Geralt was worried for him. Geralt slept at his bed rather than in one of his own, holding his hand.

“Hey,” Geralt’s already rough voice is moreso from the sleep as Eskel brings his hand away from the white hair that slides through his fingers like water made semi-solid. “You actually awake this time?”

“Probably,” Eskel chuckles, resting back against the pillow to stare up at the ceiling. “Been a tough season so far.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He wants to explain, but also he doesn’t. He doesn’t want Geralt to worry about him more. He didn’t really want Geralt to worry about him injured, either, but that wasn’t his fault.

(Their trainers might have disagreed, might have said of course it was Eskel’s fault he had been injured on the Path, but they weren’t there now, were they?)

“What got you?” Fingers trace the line of the wound, healed already, the stitches already out, having been removed while Eskel slept. Eskel shivers.

“Griffin. Villagers weren’t exaggerating the size, after all.” Eskel pulls himself up to sitting, his muscles protesting after so long relaxed in sleep. “Got here in the end, though.”

Geralt snorts, “Barely.”

“Eh, I knew either you’d come find me or it was my time to go,” Eskel half-jokes. A mirror of their earlier conversation. A conversation they’d had about various wounds and injuries accrued over their extra long lifespans. Geralt’s face is impassive, neutral and shows nothing. Which means he’s very upset by this comment.

“Come back to Toussaint with me,” Geralt says, and his voice is soft enough that if Eskel wanted to he could pretend he didn’t hear it.

Eskel isn’t sure what he wants.

“Why?”

Geralt’s jaw works as his mouth stays shut. There are words, Eskel knows, caught behind teeth and tongue and throat that will not come out because Geralt’s mind won’t let them. Ever since Blaviken, he’d been like this. Their hands are still tangled together and Eskel squeezes Geralt’s fingers to his palm gently.

“Why do you want me to come to Toussaint with you in the middle of the season, Geralt?” He asks again. Sometimes saying it again, saying *more* helps. Sometimes it makes it worse. He desperately hopes this makes it better.

“I don’t want…” Geralt starts. Stops. Squeezes Eskel’s fingers back. Then he pulls away. “You’re probably hungry. I’ll get food.”

Eskel drops it. Geralt will come to him in his own time. Eskel will decide what he wants to do in the meantime. A few days rest as planned here in Novigrad will be enough for now.

Geralt comes back with food for them both, and Eskel’s body remembers that it is starving. They don’t speak much during the meal, and when it’s over they talk about everything other than Geralt’s invitation.

Geralt doesn’t bring it back up that day, or the day after. Or the day after that.

They spend a week together in Novigrad. Eskel raids the bookstore—it was very impressive, filled with tomes on tomes of books with knowledge and poetry and stories and everything and anything. Geralt came with him, though he only picked at the plays and atlases, but he purchased several books that Eskel looked at longingly, tucking them in his bags to travel, saying they will be waiting in the library for Eskel when he comes back.

Eskel decided that meant they were not going to talk about the invitation to Toussaint again unless he brings it back up.

The thing is, Eskel doesn’t want to leave Novigrad. He doesn’t want to leave Geralt. He doesn’t want to go back on the Path where he will be lonely and cold, where there is little food and fewer friendly faces. Back to monsters and fighting and nursing himself back to health, to glares and fearful children, to long stretches of time with no contact with anyone other than the horse and his reflection in the water.

He doesn’t want to risk not being able to get back to Geralt.

That night, he begins the conversation.

“We’ve been here a week,” Eskel observed, taking a bite of a soft, buttery roll. He was not sure what kind of money Geralt was paying the innkeep here but they have eaten well since Eskel arrived.

Geralt freezes momentarily. Had Eskel not been watching, he would have missed it.

“Yep.”

“Been trying to think about where to go next. Not many monsters up north anymore,” Eskel keeps his commentary light, his tone gentle and observational only. Nothing to indicate that he’s leading the conversation anywhere.

“Eskel.”

“Geralt.”

Ah, he has been found out. Figures it wouldn’t work on the man who has known him the longest of anyone alive in the world right now.

“I- I can’t-…” Geralt pushes back from the table a little, tension clear in his body and shoulders, “I won’t-”

“I was thinking I could head south. Maybe travel with you. Head to Toussaint. I know they were having vampire problems decades back. You think there are still any hiding out? I bet there’s an infestation in your library. I should really check that out, you know. Since you’re all out of practice and all.”

Geralt glares at him but there is a relief etched in his bones that Eskel can feel as he grins unrepentantly, feeling his stiff scar tissue crinkle the skin on his cheek as he does.

“You’re an ass.”

“Hmm, but you’re friends with an ass so I think that says more about you than me.” Eskel teases and Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Ass-kel.”

“Come now, Geralt. We’ve surely grown past the insults you thought up when we were twelve.”

“Not if you still act like you did back then.” Geralt points out and Eskel laughs. The tension breaks, and the two of them end up nearly giggling over their dinner.

It is good to hear Geralt laugh again. Eskel wonders when the last time he heard it was and realizes it’s been much longer than a season on the Path.

Travelling with Geralt is easy. It is also the hardest thing Eskel has ever done.

They camp on the road. It’s economical, and reminds them both of earlier times, times before the world changed and left them behind. It also leaves them with little to no privacy between them and Eskel has never wanted a wank more in his life than when he has to wake up and watch Geralt still asleep in his bedroll, or bathing in the stream. But trying to get off with another Witcher around is even more difficult than it had been to try and get off in a keep full of them—especially when he doesn’t want Geralt to know.

Because Eskel is sure Geralt would figure out exactly what was causing Eskel’s need as soon as he was caught.

Geralt’s back is nearly unmarred by scars, leaving his mark clear as the day Eskel first saw it. The mark Eskel has seen in his mind's eye for decades. Nearly a hundred years of thinking of that shape, the line of it. The pink is the same shade as it was before but seems so much darker, starker with the contrast to Geralt’s death-pale skin. The shock of color interrupted by fine scars from smaller wounds, and from the bright white hair trailing between Geralt’s shoulder blades. Eskel wants to run his hands over it, claim it, mark it up with bites and scratches and make it his because that mark ties Geralt’s soul to another and Eskel wants what he cannot have.

He turns away, usually, and does not watch as Geralt bathes. Does not imagine what he is doing, does not follow the sounds of the water moving as it is sloughed over skin, hands chafing at dirt to scrub it off, dripping, dribbling sounds as it is squeezed from the long locks of hair.

The trip to Toussaint from Novigrad is the longest it has ever been and Eskel is glad when they arrive at Corvo Bianco, greeted by the man Geralt has hired to run things in his stead. The rooms Eskel normally uses are clean and available for him and he realizes he has actually agreed to do this. He will be staying in Toussaint. He won’t be finishing the season on the Path. He will be with Geralt.

He doesn’t know if he’s made the right decision.

Geralt is far more relaxed in Toussaint than he ever was anywhere else. He allows himself to be open with his affections—something he lost when he went off on the Path, and gained back in fits and spurts after rearing Ciri. Hugs to his brothers for no reason, gentle touches to shoulders and arms and hands, leaning on them when sitting together, especially when drinking.

Lambert always scoffs and complains, shoving the man off and griping about how he’s become sentimental in his dotage. Geralt always grins and laughs, making a joke of it, teasing the youngest of their remaining family and ramping up the gestures to absurdity for his benefit.

With Eskel it is quieter, softer. Eskel always returns the touch, reveling in the chance to hold the man he cannot have. Arms around Geralt for the hug, squeezing him tight. A returned pat to the shoulder or back (where his mark is, don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t–), a squeeze of fingers when their hands touch. His arm wrapping around Geralt’s shoulders when it’s late at night and they’re leaning on one another, deep into their cups and watching the stars and the lights of the town below the vineyards as the night drifts on around them.

If he adds a few touches of his own here and there, well, it’s just to show Geralt that it’s okay to share these moments. And a kiss to the top of the head during those late nights is entirely innocent enough.

(Wishing it was more, wanting desperately for more, more, more, is just something Eskel has gotten used to after all this time. Wanting and wishing is one thing, acting on those is another and he won’t do that to Geralt, he won’t.)

So it is that they find themselves late into the night, out on Geralt’s balcony, several bottles of wine in, and Geralt resting his head on Eskel’s shoulder, Eskel’s arm not around his shoulders but further down his back, settling on his ribs. His fingers are absently tracing patterns through the fabric of Geralt’s shirt—if he’s tracing the line of the mark on Geralt’s skin, well…It’s on his back, Geralt probably doesn’t put that together.

Geralt sighs softly, a happy, content sort of sound, and turns his head into Eskel’s shoulder, headbutting it gently with his forehead.

“You good?” Eskel asks, his voice barely above a whisper. For some reason talking louder feels like it might break some sort of spell between them. Something that would cause them to have to part.

“Yeah,” Geralt hums, a smile visible from what little of his face Eskel can spy looking down at him, “Yeah, I’m… I’m good.”

“Good,” Eskel pulls him in closer, abandoning his tracing of Geralt’s soulmark through his clothes to lay his hand steadily on Geralt’s side.

“You?”

“Yeah. Me.” Eskel teases laughing a little, “I’m good.”

“Good.”

And it is. Good, that is. They’re happy. It’s warm, the last of summer fading into autumn, a breeze blowing and rustling the leaves of the vines in the vineyard below. They can hear music from the town—probably none of the human inhabitants of the land Geralt owns can, but the two Witchers are able to. It’s faint, what with the distance, but it’s audible and sets a nice background tone for their evening. There are bugs making chirping noises and night birds calling in the trees and it’s peaceful and everything Eskel never knew he wanted alongside everything he always wanted.

“Esk?”

“Hm?” He glances down again at Geralt, having been staring out at the lamplight across the valley in a daze, feeling Geralt’s body heat against his own and his thumb absently stroking against the ribbones he can no longer feel so starkly under Geralt’s skin.

Geralt’s face is… much closer than Eskel thought it had been the last time he’d looked down at him and now it’s moving even closer and–

“Ger?” He whispers when Geralt stops, a hairsbreadth from their lips touching.

“I–” Geralt stops again, pulling back a little.

“I didn’t say stop,” Eskel breathes, leaning in and connecting them together in a way they haven’t before.

Geralt is on him like a starving man on a feast, hands gripping at Eskel’s shirt, pulling him in closer, closer, closer. And Eskel goes willingly, opening his mouth to Geralt’s assault, letting him do the leading, finding out where Geralt wants this to go because wherever it is, however far, Eskel will follow.

His hands bracket Geralt’s sides, palms resting above hip bones and thumbs pressing gently into the softer flesh under his ribs. Eskel slides them up and down slowly, just a fraction of an inch in either direction, and Geralt makes a noise that Eskel has never heard him make before and suddenly Eskel is the starving man and Geralt is the feast.

They break for air when even their lung capacity is at its limit. Gasping and panting, Geralt leans into Eskel’s neck, biting kisses into the flesh there, bared because this is home, he is safe and needs no armor, no barrier between his vulnerable parts and Geralt because he can trust this man like he trusts no other on this earth.

“Fuck, Geralt. Geralt, I–” Eskel groans, tilting his head to the side to give Geralt more room, “How long?”

“Forever,” Geralt breathes and Eskel’s hands grip his hips, yanking him closer, closer still, burying his face into Geralt’s neck for his own marks to be made on the pale, pale skin.

“I’m sorry,” Eskel’s teeth bite at Geralt’s jaw, “I wish I’d known.”

“Please,” Geralt asks, “Please come to bed with me. I– I can’t. I can’t wait for you anymore.”

Eskel answers by grabbing underneath Geralt’s ass and hauling him up. Geralt inhales sharply—whether in surprise or arousal is hard to tell—his legs wrapping around Eskel’s waist as his arms drape over his shoulders. And then there’s more kissing, which honestly Eskel doesn’t know how he’s gone so long without because it’s perfect.

Geralt doesn’t have a mark on his face, and doesn’t have scars on his arm, but Eskel thinks that this has to be better than kissing your soulmate.

He carries Geralt through the door between the balcony and Geralt’s bedroom, carefully making his way over dirtied clothes and stray shoes and half-read books to reach the bed. His knees bump the edge of the mattress and he grins wickedly into the kisses Geralt is plundering his mouth with before releasing his hold on Geralt suddenly.

Geralt clearly did not realize just how much of his weight Eskel was holding, falling to the mattress with a shocked yelp of surprise before Eskel was on him again, leaning over him, pressing him back into the bed.

“Still good?” Eskel asks between kisses to Geralt’s shoulders and neck.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Geralt is nodding and his breathy words are half-whined, “Still good, fuck Eskel. Eskel I’m– I’ve–”

“I know. I know, I’m sorry.” The kisses he is giving to Geralt get gentler, softer, sweeter, “I’m sorry, me too.”

“You’re an idiot,” Geralt breathes, fondly, “The fuck did I do falling in love with a dumbass like you?”

Eskel’s heart is fit to burst at this and he looms over Geralt suddenly, “Say it again.”

Geralt is blinking with wide, dark pupils encompassing almost the whole of his golden irises, his hair is fanned out around his head like a snowy halo and Eskel wants more than he has wanted ever before and he didn’t even know that was possible but here he is. Geralt is with him, wants him, and he can have him and it’s so much more and so much better than he thought it would be.

Why the fuck did they wait so long?

“Fuck, Eskel. Eskel I love you,” Geralt’s hands rest on Eskel’s arms, but they’re sliding up to cup Eskel’s face, thumb tracing the scar from lip to cheek and back again, “I have always loved you, you stupid idiot. How the fuck have you not known?”

“When the fuck was I supposed to know?” Eskel asks, frowning, “You never said!”

“I thought you did! I thought you were waiting for your soulmate or whatever but maybe you’d settle for me eventually.” Geralt scoffs, “Seriously? You had no idea? I’ve been so obvious that Yen said something about it ages ago.”

Eskel wants to comment on the fact that Geralt thought Eskel was waiting for his soulmate when the whole time Eskel thought Geralt was waiting for his soulmate. He wants to say something about how low Geralt’s self esteem is that he thinks Eskel would have to settle for him, like Geralt isn’t the only thing in the world Eskel can’t put a price on if he absolutely had to. He wants to make mention of the fact that Geralt thought he was being obvious about it, that Yen somehow figured it out.

Instead he just grins down at Geralt.

“I love you too, you son of a bitch.”

It’s good, what they have. It’s pretty much the same as it was, but Geralt is even more physically affectionate and now Eskel can kiss him and hold him and Geralt kisses and holds him back. Geralt is very good at kissing and Eskel tries to be as appreciative of it as possible every time he is gifted with the opportunity.

They have not gone farther than rutting against one another through their clothes and Eskel can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

On the one hand, he very much wants to fuck Geralt. It’s something he’s been thinking of doing for nearly a hundred years, and now that he gets to be so close to it, it’s almost painful that he can’t. On the other hand, seeing Geralt’s soulmark while they’re intending on doing something intimate together, despite how many times Eskel has fantasized about marking it up, making it his, making Geralt his, he’s not sure he would actually be able to follow through with anything if he saw it in the moment.

Geralt, too, seems to be reluctant and that’s probably the main reason Eskel hasn’t made any motions to go further with it. They share a bed at night for sleeping, they wake tangled in one another, they eat together, they drink together, they hold and touch and kiss and say “I love you” to one another like it’ll be the last time they ever get to say it, like it’s the first time they’ve ever said it before, and it’s good. It’s so good. It’s more than Eskel ever thought he’d get, and it’s enough.

Eskel has taken to helping out in the fields for something to do during the day. It’s harvest season and they need all the hands they can get out there, so he joins in and assists. It’s warm in Toussaint, in the early autumn, and he is sweating and dirty when he comes in for the afternoon.

Geralt is sitting outside, drinking and reading his legs crossed as he reclines a little in the chair he’s sat in, reaching blindly for the glass of wine on the table beside him to avoid looking up from his book. Eskel smiles but does not interrupt, instead shucking his shirt off with a roll of his shoulders and taking the bucket of water beside the patio and upending it over his head.

The sluice of water is chilly enough despite the bucket’s position in the sun, and while bracing, it is also refreshing and feels good on his sweaty and overheated skin. He shakes his head out like a dog—or a wolf, he thinks to himself with a smile—his medallion clinking gently on his chest as he stretches out. Not quite as rigorous as a training session with Vesemir, but close enough. He might even be sore later if he’s lucky.

There’s a startled gasp from behind him and the clattering of a glass on wood, followed by a curse. Eskel turns around to see that Geralt has knocked his wine over and is desperately trying to clean it up while also not setting his book down in it. His movements are flustered and Eskel wonders what startled him so.

“Good book?” He asks, a laugh at the edge of his voice, amused by Geralt’s movements.

“What? Oh, uh. Yes. Yes very… very… um,” Geralt struggles to come up with a word. “When did you get that big scar on your back?”

“What?” Eskel blinks at the non sequitur.

“The big scar on your back. That’s– it’s– it looks old but I don’t think I’ve seen it before?” Geralt is affecting a tone that says he’s trying very hard to appear nonchalant, which means he’s failing miserably at it. Eskel crinkles his brow with a confused smile.

“I have lots of scars on my back, Geralt. You will have to be more specific.”

“It’s…” Geralt stands, still acting flustered, and turns Eskel around, laying a hand on the top of Eskel’s shoulder and dragging it down in a rough diagonal before tracing the edge of it—it spans the whole of Eskel’s back, and he thinks he remembers which one it was.

“Uh… Leshen, I think. About… twenty years on the Path? It’s been a while, Geralt, why?”

Geralt spins him around and takes his arm, pulling it forward and stretching his elbow flat. The network of dots on his elbow are visible to the sun for the first time in, gods, half a century at least—he’s tried to keep them covered as much as he can because looking at them was too much. A pale finger traces over them, slightly cool as usual. Eskel wants to take those fingers and chafe them between his palms to warm them up but he knows that would only work a little. Plus he kind of likes that Geralt’s hands are cool to the touch.

“Yeah, uh… that’s where they put the needles for the-”

“The Trials. Yeah. I remember.” Geralt whispers, his finger tracing a connecting line between the star-shaped marks, “Had it done twice.”

“Don’t remind me,” Eskel scowls, remembering the fierce terror at waking up and not knowing where Geralt was, learning that he was having more torture forced on him, then the recovery period where he had sat sentinel at Geralt’s bedside.

“Worst thing I ever lived through,” Geralt murmurs, glancing up at Eskel through white lashes and oh.

Oh.

“Oh.”

Eskel feels numb. And dumb. And like he’s been struck by lightning. Or a griffin. Or a Leshen.

Oh.

“So… we’re idiots, right?” Eskel asks after a moment.

Geralt laughs leaning forward to drop his head onto Eskel’s shoulder. Eskel’s arms come up automatically to hold him, threading fingers through his hair, loose and long and gorgeous. He finger-combs the locks as Geralt shakes, not answering him. Eskel doesn’t worry, it happens sometimes, that Geralt won’t have words.

He does worry a little when he catches the scent of tears, “Geralt?”

“Yeah,” He finally says, “Yeah, we’re idiots.”

“But you’re my idiot,” Eskel says and it’s the strangest, greatest feeling in the world that it’s unequivocally true.

“And you’re mine,” Geralt leans back, tilting his head to the side, and taking Eskel’s mouth with a fierce—but somehow sweeter than even their chastest—kiss.

They knock their foreheads together lightly, eyes closed for just a moment as Geralt’s hands reach up and cup Eskel’s neck and face.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

[blackjewles]

“Happy New Year!”

Summary: Denki confesses his crush to Hitoshi on New Year’s Day

(Confession, first kiss.)

Cw: no content warnings apply

Late into the evening they sat- Hitoshi and Kaminari- surrounded by a blanket of stars in the cool night air. Trees poked up towards the moon, singing their sweet song with every burst of wind. Beneath the pair was the cold concrete of the dorm roof. Pools of water had accumulated in naturally eroded dips, with pine needles and old leaves drifting about. There wasn’t many, though. Simply splattered spots of water. They decorated the roof haphazardly; as if when they where painted it was by the flick of a brush and not a stroke.

They sat upon a naturally cold quilt of goose down. It almost completly eradicated the sense of hardness underneath it. They sat on opposite ends, watching the stars and patiently waiting for the fireworks to start. It was the perfect night. Beneath them, way down on the ground, they could hear the voices and laughs of peers and other students around the school. Part of Kaminari wanted to be down there with them, but he had a mission he had set out to complete. Even going as far to announce to his classmates that he would need the roof for himself; for today would be the day where everything changed. Would his heart drop and his stomach sink, or would his face heat up as he felt the warm embrace of the other boy when he said he liked him too? There was no way to tell, the only way was to find out.

Kaminari peered over at Shinsou. He loved to observe him. He would study every feature. Shinsou usually used gel to keep his hair out of his face, however, today he wore it down. The purple haired boy had a tendency of doing that when they hung out. The reason being was that Kaminari liked his hair down. Kaminari thought it made him look vulnerable, showing a true, trustful connection. He truly valued the privilege to see anyone without their usual school look. Kaminari wanted to know Shinsou. Everything about him, not just his deepest secrets. He wanted to see what he looked like when he first woke up. He wanted to hear what he sounded like when he didn’t want to get up. He wanted to feel the soft touch of his hand when he’d try to get his attention. He wanted to know all the stupid, lovely, domestic things that existed. The first step to learning that was to confess.

“Shinsou?” Kaminari asked. His heart thumped within his chest. Shinsou looked over to him, and Kaminari reverted his eyes back to the sky. Shinsou studied his face, the freckles that lightly dusted his cheeks and the way his hair framed his face perfectly. Shinsou tried not to think it, but he thought Kaminari was beautiful. Every word and every smile made him ache for something more than a friendship. Yet he could never muster the courage to tell him. Shinsou brushed a lock of hair away from his face and behind his ear.

“Yeah?” He replied. Kaminari was silent for a few seconds. His heart pounded, but he inhaled a deep breath and smiled.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Every ounce of air in Shinsous lungs left, his eyes widened. He didn’t know what to think.

“What?” He muttered, out of breath. He doubted his ears. As if what he had heard had come from the whistles of the wind or a passing messenger bird. His face felt uncomfortably warm.

Kaminari exhaled quickly, almost as if he was laughing, “You heard me.” He replied.

Through Shinsou’s eyes, he looked collected and calm. Almost as if he was performing a rehearsed play. It was surreal to finally hear those words out of his mouth. Shinsou knew he felt the same way. In fact, he’d watch Kaminari in class and dream about having something more. Late at night, he’d lay and fiddle with the ends of his blanket and imagine what it would be like to have him laying next to him. Even though he’d try to stop those thoughts, they always came back. However, finally hearing it and having the opportunity to make his dreams a reality was like dunking his head into cold water. Some of the air returned to his lungs.

“I-“ Shinsou began, but was cut off.

“I understand if you don’t feel the same way, Shinsou.” Kaminari stated. He tilted to his head and looked over at Shinsou who sat with his body fully turned toward Kaminari, his face red and eyes wide. Meanwhile, Kaminari seemed strangely calm. That was an illusion, though. The back of his neck tingled with heat and his heart pounded like the mad flapping of a butterfly’s wings. Shinsou attempted to straighten out.

“I think...” Shinsou began, but again, Kaminari cut him off.

“Ah. Wait. I want to tell you why.” Kaminari said, throwing his hand up in a signal to stop. Shinsou’s mouth closed and he nodded. Kaminari muttered a thanks and turned back to the sky. He was unsure on weather or not he was doing this right. Maybe this whole thing was a train wreck Bakugou would flame him over later. He swallowed hard. He had doubts, but yet again, he wouldn’t run away.

“Do you remember that walk we went on? The first snow of the year. Where you leant me your scarf?” Kaminari asked. Shinsou nodded even though Kaminaris eyes where in another direction.

“Yes.” He muttered.

“That’s when I knew for sure. I mean, I thought it before but-“ Kaminari fiddled with the ends of the quilt as he spoke, an unconscious sign of apprehension, “that really let me know for sure. I started to notice how I felt more. When I’d come up to you in class and feel my heart pound for no reason, or when I’d see you smile and suddenly everything would focus on you and only you.” Kaminari chortled before continuing, “It’s surreal.”

Shinsou sat patiently. He didn’t say anything yet, because he knew Kaminari had more on his mind. He watched as Kaminari opened his mouth, then closed it again. Hesitating on what he wanted to say. The world around them melted. It was just them right now, the starry night sky, the puddles of water, the whispers of the wind had faded. Right now, Shinsous full attention was on Kaminari.

“I told my friends about it. I’d get weird texts when we hung out, suggestive looks when I’d sit by you during class but sit a little too close. That’s only made it worse.” He said.

“I know.” Shinsou replied, and suddenly, every component that had been blocked out returned. Kaminari swiftly looked over, his hair moving briskly with him. For the first time that evening he looked unprepared.

“What?” Kaminari stuttered.

“I know you told them. I knew about the texts too. I read one.” Shinsou stated. A smirk tugging at his lips. Kaminaris neck flush spread to his face. He wasn’t prepared for this outcome. He’d run tons of other scenarios in his head day and night, but this wasn’t one of them. Kaminari looked to the opposite side of Shinsou, completely turned from him.

“You read one...?” he questioned, almost like a statement.

“Yeah. You gave me your phone passcode so I could check the weather and I opened it to a message from Sero.”

Kaminari whined under his breath. He was embarrassed. It was never his intention to have Shinsou read one of those. They where silly conversations, teasing at best. Yet it would’ve looked different to an outsider. Kaminari and Sero had even discussed how awful it would be if anyone saw, not just Shinsou. Yet here they where.

Below them where shouts of their classmates. If only they knew how this situation had developed. What else could he say?

“What did he say?” Kaminari asked, his confidence completely drained.

“Ah... I think he said something like “spending a night with the pretty boy? Don’t get ahead of yourself, Kaminari.”” Shinsou replied. Shinsou was also a bit flustered. Not in the same way Kaminari was, but, still flustered none the less. He didn’t know where this would go next, should he make a move? At this turn of developments it almost seemed like Kaminari was ready to call this a mistake and run away. His careful facade of a planned confession had evaporated. Kaminari was left with his heart, his emotions, and all the words he knew in his mind and no way to know how to put them together next.

Kaminari didn’t respond. He just sat, completely turned away. He thought he heard Bakugou say “1 minute!” below in reference to the fireworks going off. Was this how his New Years would go? Thoughts ran through his mind at a thousands per millisecond. He almost left until he felt a cold hand grasp his shoulder. Slowly he turned and saw Shinsou there. He was close, close enough that if Kaminari tilted his head a bit more their lips would be touching. On Shinsou’s end, this was fully intentional. He wasn’t ready to let this moment go unsolved. Shinsou felt the exact same way as Kaminari. He was in love too. So it was his turn to take a step and admit it too.

“You never let me finish what I was going to say, Kaminari.” He spoke softly. His tone relinquished any air that had gathered in Kaminaris lungs. He reddened again, but this time, it was because of this sudden situation and not embarrassment.

“Right. What did you what to say?” Kaminari muttered, his eyes more focused somewhere else; his lips.

“I...” Shinsou began, his heart pounded, “think I’m in love with you too.” He finished. There it was. The deal had been done. All the pieces of the puzzle had been dropped out onto the floor, now, they just needed to put them together.

Below the pair, now unbearably close, where rushed shouts from their peers. They where setting up the fire works. One called for Todoroki so they could light the fire works.

“Really?” Kaminari asked. He later would determine this move as idiotic. Shinsou wouldn’t of lied about that, so, asking for confirmation was rather tedious.

“Yes.” Shinsou replied. Kaminari studied him, the crease of his jaw, the discolored skin just below his eyes, the way his eyelashes almost hid his eyes, but most of all- his lips. The shade of pale pink that he just couldn’t help but admire. Suddenly, Kaminari inhaled deeply and exhaled. He was relived, things where staring to look like they’d be okay. Below them, a countdown from 10 started. A harmony of voices shouting with excitement, almost at the same tempo as Kaminaris heart pounded.

“7!” Kaminaris eyes fully focused on Shinsou’s lips.

“6!” He began to lift his hand

“5!” His hand found its way to Shinsou’s jaw.

“4!” He rested his hand gently against Shinsous jaw and cheek.

“3!” Kaminari started to tilt his face towards Shinsou, he responded in the same way.

“2!” He whispered, “Happy new year, Hitoshi.”

“1!” Their lips met.

A loud shout of “Happy New Year!” rang from below, and soon, fire works where all around them. They lit up the night beautifully, splotches of colour thrown into the air. Suddenly, Kaminaris phone buzzed in his pocket rapidly; it was Sero. However, he was preoccupied.

Shinsou’s lips where cold yet soft. Kaminari savoured the moment, every bit of warmth that spread within him. Shinsou did the same, observing how warm Kaminari was. Satisfaction spread through both of them. Then, Shinsou pulled away, there faces still close enough for a second kiss if they desired.

“So.” Kaminari said.

“So?” Shinsou stated, he smiled softly.

“Would you do me the honour of being my boyfriend?” Kaminari asked. His heart thumped like a rabbit signalling. He knew the answer, yet, he was undoubtedly nervous

Shinsou smiled again, “Yes.”

They both looked towards the sky, suddenly having the ability to be aware of themselves and their surroundings. The blanket of stars disappeared every few seconds with the loud pop of fireworks illuminating the sky, their sparks falling immediately after to reveal the stars once more. Everything co-existed in harmony. They heard shouts of peers laughs and cheers, and, they felt the warmth of each-other.

He became his. In the beauty of the New Years light.

Fin~

WAAAAAAHGHHHH I FEEL LIKE A BIG STUPID BABY I LOVE THIS SO MUCH. No shame, probably one of my favourite concepts that roams in my kind. And now, I’ve made it REAL. Shinkami tumblr, I really hope you enjoyed reading <3

Disclaimer: This is set with my New Years traditions in Canada. I did this because it would be very hard and inaccurate for me to write about Japanese traditions when I don’t know anything about it. I have a lot of respect for Japanese traditions and culture and this is in no way shape or form me trying to strip that away or ignore it. In fact, I highly encourage you to read about it!

Secondly, in case you didn’t notice, Denki called Shinsou “Hitoshi” at one point in the story. If I’m correct, I believe this is a sign of a trustful connection when one calls another by their first name in Japan. So just so you know, that was my intention!

OKAY BONUS TIME MI AMIGOS THESE ARE THE TEXTS SERO SENT KAMINARI ON BOTH OCCASIONS

1.

From: Serooo at 5:56pm, November 21st

WOAHHHH Kaminari, spending the night at pretty-boy-Shinsous house?? Don’t get ahead of yourself ;)

2.

From: Sero ‼️ at 12:01am, January 1st

KAMINARI DID U KISS HIM

KAMINARI?!:)/&/7/7

DID U TELL HIM

PLS COME BACK IM VERY ALONE RN

I’m watching Bakugou and Kirishima eat eachothers faces this is very disturbing please come back. Or don’t actually, you can kiss Shinsou if u so please

KAMIIIIIIII ANSWER MEE