#colder toss the bones

[buttercupblu]

Satoru's Psyche|Escalating

"Should I really have to suffer for my actions?"

Session 2 of 10|Previous Session

🗂️Patient Chart Update: Patient Gojo displayed extremely flirtatious and unruly behavior during the first half of his visit. Mentions of escape and kid-napping were noted as well as enforced close proximity with his nurse. Threatening remarks were also made at the end of his lunch in response to mentions of disciplinary action. Patient is scheduled for a bath but is pending the possibility of negative punishment to instill corrective behaviors. 📋Length of Session (w.c): 8.1k out of "i said we will cross that bridge when we get to it 😊" 💊Intake Chart (tags): mild violence but no in-action descriptors, coercion, manipulation, drug use, angst, unwatched close contact and touch, nudity, mentally unstable Gojo, Nurse!Reader ✏️Doctor's angel’s note: i hope you know what you're doing, Nurse 🎼Waiting room music: Overheated|Billie Eilish

Choose wisely.

Hunger stirs in your tummy, and Gojo's words sit with you through lunch. Your spoon clinks around the bowl, stirring the soup growing colder by the second though the growls from your stomach are too obnoxious to be ignored. But your mind wanders.

You're stuck. Earlier, you were all for serving up justice on a silver platter, but now you're seriously second-guessing your "genius" idea to punish Gojo by making him someone else's problem.

As if anyone would be crazy enough to say yes.

Everyone already avoids his wing like the plague. It's kind of an unspoken fact that you are Gojo's one and only. The only staff he allows near him. Anyone else would be playing with fire.

And if someone was brave enough to willingly throw themselves into the lion's den, they definitely couldn't be new. New to nursing—new to the ward. High expertise was needed here. Someone seasoned—experience which you lacked yourself—otherwise, they wouldn't last a second with Gojo.

It'd be way too easy for him to make them snap, like tossing a bone to a dog.

"Persephone." Yuko brings you out of your coma.

You perk up, instinctively smiling. "Hey, what's up?"

"You tell me," she snorts. "You've been playing with your food like break isn't over in 10 minutes." She touches your arm. "Everything ok?"

It's written all over your face, huh? You could deflate right now.

This is why Yuko is your favorite co-worker. Always reading you like a book without you needing to say a word. Quick to call anything off out.

Leaning back in your chair, you huff, rubbing circles into your temples to relieve the headache you didn't know you had.

"Yeah, yeah," you begin, "It's just—" You stop, her eyes hold so much concern and you've barely opened your mouth. Not sure if you should now because you know what kind of person Yuko is.

And if she knew even half of what you don't tell her during your lunch breaks spent complaining about work, she'd hang Gojo out to dry if she could. She often makes it very clear she hates you have to deal with him at all.

"—I'm just a bit tired. Gojo's scheduled for a bath later, him and two others. Gojo's easy but...I don't know. I feel slower than usual today. Definitely won't get home until late, again, because of all these sponge baths." You cringe at the last part.

Aside from trying to keep Yuko cool, you also didn't want to risk the news getting back to the Director who could take you off of Gojo completely. No one else could take your place. And who knows what would happen if you disappeared from his roster for good?

How would his threats manifest?

Yuko scoffs, waving her hand.

"Gojo and easy do not go together," and you both shake your heads and laugh. "But I get it. You did come in super early."

"Thought there'd be less of us," you sigh.

"Sonya's been on our asses lately, right? But hey, she finally got us all here."

"A little too late. The damage is done," you pout, resting your elbows on the table, realizing you've accidentally grown used to chaos and ever-changing schedule.

You routinely plan ahead to make sure you can stand up when people fall short. Constantly putting yourself on the back burner seems to be a thing that always set you back.

"Sooo, you just need rest, ya? Nothing else? Gojo—" there it goes "—been 'okay' with you lately?"

Your heart skips. "Ya. he isn't so bad today," you lie, "I'd just love to be home on time for once. Maybe even a bit early, I'm soo close. Overtime's been wringing my neck for weeks."

Yuko looks at you with puppy dog eyes. And not in a "I feel sorry for you" kind of way, but one that almost makes you feel bad for not telling her the whole truth.

"Here," she pushes your soup towards you, "How about I do Gojo's bath and you get an early start on my last two? That way you can at least binge that show you won't shut up about later." She smiles.

You immediately protest.

There's no way you can do that to her.

Yuko never even crossed your mind and was far from your first pick, not because she couldn't handle him but because she was your friend. Not just a colleague, but someone you actually cared about more than anyone else in this run-down job even if she didn't feel the same.

She's too good of a person, and you'd be the Devil Incarnate if you let her do something so risky. Especially when you can just suck it up and get it over with.

"Woah, woah, it's just a bath, calm down," she says, taking your hands in hers as you ramble on trying to convince her that you'll be fine or that you'll find someone else.

Burdening her was completely out of the question.

"Who else but me, Seph'? You don't you think I'm as good as you?" And the way she says it, giving you that look she does when you're being stubborn, dares you to challenge her.

Now you really had to think about what to say.

Goddamn it, you regret saying anything at all, but Yuko's so motherly, how could you resist? Hiding from her is impossible, she would've sniffed you out sooner or later.

Easing your pains when she could was her specialty—helping to calm and settle you down when you're quick to blow things out of proportion.

Could this be one of those moments? Or were Gojo's words more than just hot air?

The back and forth was killing you, but the combination of Yuko's reassuring touch and your gurgling stomach put the final nail in the coffin as she reminded you of the time.

Eyes wide, you look at the clock, ticking away faster than you realized, then back at your lukewarm soup.

Denying that you needed help would be silly because technically it was true. You probably should've asked the Director for a little Gojo break long ago, even if just for a few hours a few times a week. It was better than nothing because if you couldn't function, Gojo couldn't be cared for.

And when you really think about it, who better to fill in for you than Yuko?

The gutsy woman has been your rock since you started at the ward, She's had your back, sticking with you through tough times at work when staff constantly dipped in and out of the facility like a rotating door after being unable to handle the job.

A real day one.

Next to you, she's the most competent nurse in these walls, fully equipped with a "take-no-shit" attitude that routinely keeps her patiently in check.

It'd be silly, downright irresponsible to trust anyone else.

Her offer is simply too good to dismiss.

"Thank you, Yuko," you cave, grabbing your spoon and finally allowing yourself to enjoy your meal. "You're...amazing. I don't deserve you."

She looks on happily. "Just promise me you'll take some personal time after this," she insists, worry evident in her voice. "We both know how much you care, but even superheroes need rest."

She's too kind and right in more ways than one.

"Besides, I think Gojo will like me, ya? I'm cool. I'm fun. He'll like a friend of friend, you think?"

Your eyes roll—ya, totally, cool people definitely say they're cool.

You don't know whether to joke back or wave her off, softly smiling at her concern instead before nodding. You vow to make good on your promise and feel a bit lighter knowing your wish for early release will actually come true.

Maybe.

The latest threat to your miracle in the making is Mr. Hampton, who is personally making it his business to drag the already long day by its edges. Almost bringing time to a standstill with the way he's handling his bath.

Enormous and lumbering, the man Yuko usually deals with took his sweet time gathering his things and even longer trekking down the seemingly endless halls leading to the bathing area. Occupying every inch of the space like those massive trucks on the interstate, hogging the road, yet inching along at a pace that makes a snail look like it's in a sprint.

All that was missing were the yellow hazard lights.

Oh no, please, take your time, you think, watching Mr. Hampton clean each limb painstakingly s l o w in a tub that's comically too small for him. You may have been able to rush through Yuko's first patient, but this one wanted all that time back.

His pace resembles a giant's, and his cheerful nonsensical hums echo around the hollow chambers, lulling you to sleep, turning your eyes into bricks under the spell of the melody. Perfect timing for the energy drinks from early to crash you out, tag teaming with the chair beneath you that feels a bit too soft as you lean over the tub, willing the colossal man to hurry up.

Warm water flows over your skin as you scrub circles on his neck, deciding to bite the bullet and take over the bath so he can play with the foamy bubbles, when you hear a blood-curdling scream.

Your entire body goes rigid, shock reverberating through your spine and forcing you to halt as your mind goes blank. But steamy water brings you back to life, drenching your shirt and upper thighs when Mr. Hampton jumps from surprise.

The rude awakening makes you lock in.

The scream. It sounds like...no, you know it came from the west wing...where Gojo is.

And Yuko.

Hurried steps rush past your door, sounds of multidirectional distress and frantic shouts echoing through the corridor—staff members and patients alike swept into a whirlwind of panic.

You're number one, dropping the scrubber and scrambling to help Mr. Hampton out of the tub, hands shaking as he grips them.

A security guard bursts into the room, face ashen and jaw tight.

"Nurse! We need everyone in the west wing, immediately!" The command is sharp, laced with an urgency you've never seen before.

And immediately feel responsible for.

"There's been an incident."

Without another thought, you wrap Mr. Hampton in a towel, trying your best to assure him that everything is fine when your obviously trembling body said nothing was. His confused gaze follows you as you lead him back to his room, the commotion in the air moving him a lot faster than earlier before you rush back out heading straight for the west wing—where chaos reigns supreme.

The usually pristine floors, normally squeaky clean floors due to lack of traffic, are now barely visible. Staff members crowd the familiar hall for the first time since Gojo made it his own, filling the space with more bodies than you were used to and making it difficult to find the source of trouble.

Not like you needed to. The truth is painfully clear.

It's disrespectful even to even pretend you don't know exactly what went wrong, and your heart feels as if it'll burst from your chest any moment now just thinking about it. Crushing guilt wrapped you in its clutches, but it was nothing compared to the pain you might've caused.

You push through the masses, clumsily bumping shoulders, heart beating into your ears making the world seem quiet as you inch closer and closer to disaster. Dragging imaginary shackles on your feet with each step until you all but collapse once you spot it.

Gojo—barely restrained by guards, straitjacket nowhere in sight—standing absolutely furious.

And for the first time today, time seems to slow down, your mouth becoming suddenly dry mouth when you look past him.

Yuko.

Halfway out the door to his room. Sprawled out on the ground. Bruised, unconscious, and no signs of breathing.

Your hands fly to your lips, mouth agape. Murmurs from the crowd swirl around you as attendants rush to Yuko's side, knocking into your pathetic frame as you stand too frozen to move.

They gently pick her up, careful to handle her motionless body and place her on a stretcher. Her usually vibrant face is drained of color, twisting the dagger in your chest when you spot the subtle rise and fall of her chest. Fighting for breath.

Fighting.

It hits you like a hammer.

Someone as kind as her, so full of light, love, and joy, always greeting you with warmth and empathy and capacity every time she sees you, should never have to lift a finger let alone fight for her life. The sight is too much to bear.

Waves of helplessness crash over you and you can't even look at her. Regretting with every ounce of your being that you sent her in your place. Knowing this could happen. Concerned only with your silly wants and needs.

But you're so confused.

The ward should have weakened Gojo—Yuko should have been fine. The only threat Gojo has up his sleeve is mental torture but Yuko might as well be Freud. Her mind is sound, strong.

And that's where you fucked up, forgetting that Gojo's pure strength, especially when he's lost his fucking mind and triggered, is stronger.

Even with his security system in place, the devil was still powerful enough on his own. And like this was some sick and twisted experiment to figure that out, Yuko was the one to pay the price.

"I warned, I WARNED YOU!" Gojo's words pierce the overlapping voices like a sword, drawing everyone's attention to the strange interaction between the two of you. "I don't like to be touched by strangers, Nurse." Guards struggle to restrain him as he tugs and pulls away.

All eyes fall on you and you can feel the tense stares. The unspoken judgment.

Why was Yuko here in the first place?Where was Seph’?How’d he get out?How did this happen? 

You don’t know if the murmurs are real or only in your head, but the effect is all the same, making you wish you could completely vanish.  You stand like a deer in headlights—and they're so fucking bright.

Gojo brims with malice and amusement, chaotic energy pulsing from the hellish man and threatening to send sparks flying. As if he's daring someone to be brave and push the button.

But despite his outward display of dominance, the pure rage on his face making you feel sick to your stomach about every decision you've ever made, something...uncertain lurks behind those fiery eyes.

Something like...apprehension.

Like he knew he had done something wrong.

Words escape you, as if anything even needs to or could be said. But fear and guilt soon turn to anger and threatens to consume you. Ready to eat you alive and spit out the bones with disgust.

You are not a victim.

You have no right to stand here, spineless, shocked, or feeling even a little sorry for yourself.

Your fists clench as you hold back tears. 

What was done was done. And someone needed to pay.

But you exhale, thoughts shifting to Yuko as you take a good look around at the results of what happened the last time you decided to punish Gojo. All of your actions, even now, rooted in selfishness. Like you've learned nothing.

You push down the knot growing in your stomach and turn away to follow the medics.

Your friend needed you more than you needed revenge.

And Gojo didn't deserve any more of your attention, even if it meant risking your job or even your life to turn your back on him.

And there's nothing Gojo hates more than being ignored.

Struggled and strained noises grow louder. Guards tighten their grip on the fuming man whose raw strength outnumbered thousands of them even without his cursed energy.

You look back, their determination to keep him contained makes you nervous—you don't want anyone else to get hurt and Gojo knows that.

You're painfully aware that your decisions have put you in this position, watching the guards' valiant but increasingly pointless effort to prevent Gojo from causing further harm.

But it's an obviously losing fight, and the unease on their faces is unmistakably clear.

You wonder why they don't just run like hell.

"Let's go," a guard barks, but Gojo remains fixed in place. Moving a boulder would be easier.

"No, I'm filthy," Gojo protests, smirking, "And if I don't have my bath soon, there will be hell to pay."

He sees no one else in the room, eyes locked only on you, his expression a menacing promise that would send anyone else running for the hills. A look that says, "Try that shit again, and there will be casualties instead of mercy."

Reinforcements are called but it'll never be enough. Not even the goddamn military. Gojo...is the strongest, after all.

"Stop this."

Your cry freezes the room, plunging everything into a tense silence.

You hesitate, fuck, what should you do?

What can you do? No one else can suffer—no one else should suffer. Because of you.

You take a deep, shaky breath, silently apologizing to Yuko.

"I'll do it," you say firmly, "Just stop this and...and I'll give you your bath. Please—" The sharpest pang you've ever felt cuts through you. "—just don't hurt anyone else."

Pathetic.

But necessary.

He looks into your pleading eyes in surprise, amazement even, then smiles.

The submission in your voice sounded better than he could ever imagine. Like sweet music feeding his already inflated ego.

The guards exchange uneasy glances, clearly unsure of how to proceed.

Gojo's strength is undeniable, and it's evident that restraining him forever is not possible.

And you know offering to give him what he wants is risky as hell...but this was your doing. Your mess to clean up.

You squeeze your sweaty palms and give a decisive nod, signaling to the guards to let him go. They hesitate, then reluctantly agree and step back, leaving Gojo standing smugly before you.

You close your eyes and breathe, hating the idea of looking at him, but needing to stay strong. For Yuko. And everyone else in the ward.

Gojo's satisfied grin says it all.

Let's get this over with.

The squeaking of your shoes has never been this loud, each echo bouncing off the empty halls and reminding you of how alone you are.

Alone—with a psychopath.

A bit more docile, doped-up psychopath but, the man could probably still rip someone's head off if he wanted to.

Still Gojo despises anything that alters his body—mentally, physically, all of the above. Alcohol, medication, coffee, energy drinks—anything that threatens his need for absolute control.

But he also needed to compromise, and you refused to be alone with him again unless he took something stronger. Otherwise, it would be you, all the guards in the ward, and a pay-per-view premiere of his bath time.

He knew he had to agree because his ass is not for free, but only if you took it as well.

You blinked, hard.

You knew he would be skeptical—hell, it could be poison, and he wouldn’t blame you. But to suggest something so ridiculous?

"Half, then," he said, as if that made his suggestion any less idiotic, but, surprisingly, as you waited for your supervisor to dismiss the insane idea, the back and forth with Gojo actually didn't save you. And there was no need to ask why. The entire ward shot daggers at you any time someone walked by now.

She reassured you that you'd be fine, the mild tranquilizer would be out of your system by the end of the day, then patted your back as if to say, "lay in the bed you made."

It felt unreal, holding the familiar pill between your fingers, one you were used to dishing out but now had to take.

With a quick snap, you broke it in half, holding the half-pill out to the leering man. Gaze unwavering, he leaned forward and parted his lips, waiting.

You took a deep breath and placed them both on your tongues, but he couldn't pass up this opportunity to feel you and closed his lips around your fingertip with a quick lick before you snatched away.

But it wasn’t quick enough to avoid the tingles shooting up your arm as you swallowed without needing the water you had set aside, a confusing mix of emotions churning as it spread through the rest of your body.

He made good on his promise and swallowed his own, still watching you with a knowing look. And damn him, he's probably still thinking about it.

The guards carefully lead you and Gojo to his private bathroom—they're more there for show than for protection, but you'll take what you can get, and they keep a firm grip on his replacement straitjacket.

You trail behind, mind buried with thoughts of what to say once you're really alone with him.

The door shuts behind you followed by the familiar sound of a series of locks clicking shut. "We'll be right outside," one of the guards mutters, eyes shifting between you and Gojo. A stereotypical hint lacing his voice, but even he probably doesn't believe it.

"Perv," Gojo sneers. And laughs, but you don't find a damn thing funny, keys to his jacket digging into your palms as you spin around the face him, furious. Debating on whether to slap him, kick him, or knock his teeth out. Or be particularly evil and just let him sit in the shower, fully restrained and drenched in cold water. A move you know would do no good but show him exactly how done you are with his shit.

"That isn't funny. None of this is funny. You've hurt someone—you hurt my friend."

His laugh fades, smug expression slipping from his face. Even you're surprised.

...oh shit.

You're actually confronting him.

The intense words burn through his usual arrogance, leaving a heavy, uncomfortable silence between you.

Then, for a fleeting second, his face does something weird.

Something you haven't seen before as his eyebrows draw together. Is that...regret?

"I'm sorry."

The record scratches.

...the hell is this??

You squint at him.

The words were muttered, reluctant, but there they were, hanging in the air between you.

"It...won't happen again."

And he's serious, the same seriousness you see when his heart races when you take his vitals...but why? Because an apology? From him?? Unheard of.

Gojo has said some nasty things to you in the past that you've immediately scolded him for but he's never apologized. He'd make a note when certain jokes didn't land, but he never took them back, preferring to cut out his own tongue rather than waste his breath being sorry.

You know better than to take anything Gojo says at face value, but...what the fuck??? You almost feel offended.

He has to be joking, fucking with you to dig even deeper under your skin.

Or is he?

Now you don't know how to feel.

He's so good at that. Stealing the air back and hanging his words in them. Tempting you to pause and even consider if he truly meant them. If he could mean them. The mind games are endless.

But then, the familiar cockiness returns, along with that smile that twists your stomach into knots.

"Now," he says, strutting towards the stalls, "let's get this bath started, shall we?" And his easy, but confident steps call you to follow, a stark reminder of who you're dealing with. But he never knows when to quit. "Or should I really have to suffer for my actions?" and the bastard pouts.

Though you know he's being sarcastic and not to feed into his taunts, you can't help but wonder—what would suffering even look like for someone like Gojo?

Violence? Physical pain? A slow and agonizingly painful death?

But the guy is damn near invincible. What on earth could hurt him?

Whatever it was, it would have to be his absolute worst nightmare, but nothing comes to mind other than frustration.

Damn it, you have to keep making choices.

Return his energy or keep it professional? Tolerance or revenge?

"Apologizing won't cut it," you snap and gesture at his jacket, wondering how the hell he slipped out of the first one without leaving a trace. "And no tricks, or those guards will be back in here faster than you can tell another joke."

Smooth.

Gojo sighs sooo dramatically, like he can see straight through your little kitty claws. "Fine, fine. Loosen up," he drags, "I won't cause any trouble. Just don't go getting any ideas now, Nurse." He finishes with a wink.

He's insufferable—but despite your smoldering anger, tendrils of doubt still creep in.

Your fingers slightly tremble as you begin to unfasten his straps, but each click feels a bit like victory. A fragile illusion of your 'control'—at least for now because at the end of the day, Gojo had chosen you to listen to. And after today, he's sure you won't forget there isn't room for anyone else.

The jacket falls with a heavy thud, your eyes immediately scanning his upper body in search of any signs of injury or stress. The cascading bruises on his arms surprise you.

They feel so feeble in your hands, the jarring evidence of him not as invincible as he seems. Pale, weak, and resting between your fingers. Devoid of the power that makes him so feared.

"Never seen bruises before," and he tilts his head, "at least not on me"

You hope Yuko was at least partly responsible for the marks on the villain, but they appear self-inflicted, and he's not as mobile.

Fuck, now you'll have to bathe him too. But it's strange, seeing him like this. Even weirder knowing that he could still do damage in this state and you can't shake the feeling of this temporary 'truce'. If it isn't obvious by now, you've learned that Gojo always has something up his sleeve.

Warm water soothes you a bit, flowing over your fingers into the large white tub—pristine, imported from somewhere far away and standing on decorative claw feet. Your eyes wouldn't stop rolling the first time you saw it, completely annoyed with Gojo's over-the-top alterations and sense of style, but you'd be a liar if you said you never thought about sinking your body into it.

The best you could do was cope with the little porcelain tub in your apartment, and you get lost thinking about how you'd love to take a long, hot, and steamy bath when you get home—if you'll even have the energy. There's no way you'll be leaving early now, not like you deserve it, and feel sick even thinking about it. You doubt you'll even have a job tomorrow.

You look so defeated Gojo thinks, sauntering forward, lifting the hem of his shirt. You turn away, focusing instead on the temperature of the water but the rustling fabric as he pulls the shirt over his head and pants to the ground sends heat to your cheeks.

He certainly isn't lacking in physique, even in his current state, but still, you wonder how such a slim but toned frame could be so...powerful.

Could you be more obvious? Your flickering eyes are so telling, darting between him and the water, but he catches your gaze from the corner of his eye as if he's read your mind. So cute trying to hide away your thoughts.

You toss in his loofah, "Well...go on. Your water's ready." But Gojo can only grin, amused by your attempts to look away despite seeing his muscled frame a number of times. Still managing to fluster you.

"Your shirt," he eyes your top, "Your pants. Looks like you've already started without me."

The water stains from earlier sit beautifully across your chest, not yet fully dry, and drawing his eyes to your semi-erect nips.

His teeth tug at his bottom lip, eyes shamelessly raking over your hefty chest. "Always such a tease, aren't you, Nurse?"

You grit your teeth, cursing the swirling conflict in your easy heart, fully aware of the thin line between professionalism and this game of intimacy he just refuses to turn off. Everything was always a game no matter the circumstances. And he loves to push your buttons.

"Just get in, Gojo," you order, and after what feels like an eternity, the silence is broken by splashing water as he steps into the bath.

He slowly sinks in, sighing at the warmth of the water. Ringlets of steam engulf him, almost making his silky white hair disappear with it.

His arms string over the rim of the tub, a look of relaxation resting on his face as if he's had a long, hard day. You resist the urge to slap it off.

Sudsy bubbles form from the solution you pour under the faucet, hoping to shield your eyes from his body. You've seen enough today and expect the mini-rebellious act to piss him off, but as the bubbles grow, so do his eyes. He picks up a handful and actually starts playing with them.

"Nice touch," he adds, blowing them right into your face, and you watch with a tight lip as he decorates the bathroom with them, knowing you'll be the one to clean it all up.

He sits a crown on his head and gives himself a bubble beard, nipping your nose with some that you're quick to wipe away.

His pale eyes flutter, settling on you in a curious way.

He leans, arms flexing over the edge—steam-slicked sweat dripping down his face that he doesn't bother to wipe away. "I'm ready for my sponge bath," he says, and if it was hard to take him seriously before, it's damn near impossible now—especially with this ridiculous bubble mustache.

Sickening, him managing to still be so playful, so unserious, at a time like this.

You know Gojo's unhinged, yeah, quote, "mentally unwell and a literal danger to society, tf did you think??", but to nearly take someone's life and then make jokes afterward?

God, you feel so stupid, walking around him like you were the shit but with the wrong guard up the whole time, playing right into his hands and accidentally rewarding this grown-ass man who likes to play with bubbles.

The reality of your circumstances replays in your head, the story of how you ended up here, coddling this monster. Still confused as hell as to why it had to be you.

But then again, this was your job...right? To heal. To help those who can't help themselves. To offer redemption, no matter how twisted they seem.

Loofah in hand, you resist the urge to roll your eyes for the 400th time today. "Keep talking like that and I'll stop, Gojo," you say, reluctantly drenching the tool in soap before gently washing his back.

He sinks into your touch, closing his eyes and letting his body completely rest on the cool cast iron, breathing. Feeling like he's won no matter what you say because your scrubs feel like magic.

Across his arms and over his broad shoulders, you work your way down, bubbles glistening in your trail as you're careful not to miss a single inch of skin but don't linger too long.

Every now and then, you catch glimpses of his marked skin between the foam and because you hate yourself, your brain absolutely refuses to give you a break. You have to give kudos to the dedication to his craft. The muscle definition, the scar tissue telling stories of battles won. Evidence of his past before corruption. Everything it takes to be a hero.

It's unsettling, yet fascinating, the polarity between his beauty and his monstrous deeds.

This is another first for you, this level of care. Gojo usually just hops into the shower and takes care of himself as you wait outside—easy and thorough but always taking his sweet time, all while loudly singing some annoying song that inevitably gets stuck in your head.

But after today, it'll be impossible to trust him or you again, and the hushed whispers as the guards walked you both to the restrooms made that abundantly clear.

The pitiful thoughts seep into the way you hesitantly clean him, moving down to his chest and abs and making sure to avoid more sensitive areas, but the malicious glint in his eyes is unmistakable.

"Whatsamatter, Nurse?" Gojo taunts, feeling you slow around his lower region, "Afraid of gettin' too close?" And you can't believe you're praying for a speedy recovery so he can handle this himself.

You ignore his comment, trying to get this over with as quickly as possible. You're humiliated enough as it is and he can sense it, mocking you with a laugh.

"You're so uptight. Can't you just relax and enjoy the view?"

You want to scrub his cocky brow right off his face. "Just doing my job," you mutter, twice squeezing the loofah that feels a little funny in your hand as the soapy water rinses his chest.

The water feels heavenly on his skin, but the subtle change in your movements makes his brows furrow. Slowing, more deliberate, heavy as if you're wading through molasses. You keep adjusting your grip but the material feels so strange—the texture almost too soft like it could melt into your palm.

Your breath catches when you brush his skin, not realizing how close your fingers drifted to the edge of the sponge, and though it was only a second, it sends an unexpected jolt through his chest.

The muscle relaxers. How could you have already forgotten, you both think.

But Gojo, ever observant, doesn't miss a thing.

His eyes narrow slightly as he watches you. "Feeling a little funny, Nurse?" his velvet voice teases.

"I'm fine," you lie, though you couldn't be less certain as the muscles in your hands start to relax more than you intended, the sponge gliding over his abs, down his sides, rhythm almost hypnotic and making the man's head fall back. You try to push through the haze, to finish quickly and be free of him, to try to regain your slipping control, but you're in a losing battle against numbness and heightened awareness.

ANd God, he has to bite his lip at your touch that feels so intense, a sensation too good to keep to himself that you obviously need to stop being such a tight-ass.

You need to loosen up in a way that medicine can't help. And Gojo knows just the trick.

He licks his lips, tongue curling over his canine before splashing a wave of water on you in one swoop.

Saying you gasp is an understatement as the steamy wash drenches your face and front once again. You've been hit not once, but twice in a day—a new personal record.

Instinctively, you reach up to shield yourself, the loofah slipping from your hand, but Gojo is quicker, wrapping his hands around your wrists and holding you in place.

A scream prepares to surge from your body when Gojo maneuvers both of your wrists into one hand and places a finger to your lips.

"Ssssh ssh ssh ssh ssh," he hushes, his voice a little too calm, "I'm not going to hurt you." He swipes a lone droplet hanging from your eyelash. "I just want you to listen."

You freeze, nerves on fire as you're forced into this close proximity for the second time today. Inches away from his face that softens.

Though you can easily call for help, you know better than to argue—he knows you know better but he never felt threatened in the first place.

Besides, he can feel your breathing slowing, the effects of the pill combined with his firm hold sending a faint buzz from your wrists to your stomach. His finger remains on your lips as he brings his closer.

"Now," his eyes flicker to your bottom lip, "You're so very good at your job, Nurse." He smoothly pulls it with his thumb. "That's why I like you. You're thorough but real. Just what I need to keep me sane."

Sane?

"Sane," he repeats like he's heard your thoughts. "Believe it or not, you keep me grounded...like a good boy. Be proud, not a single soul here or anywhere else can compare to my strength, let alone deal with me yet...here you are." He looks at you like you're a marvel.

"You can handle that...can't you?"

Words fail you. This feels rhetorical. Why does he keep torturing you like this? What is it about you?

You haven't really thought about it since your first few weeks with him but now he's forcing you to think about the little 'power' he's given you that he can easily snatch back.

What happens if he decides to go further than flirting?

You can't handle it, any of it, any of this.

You hesitate, unsure of what to say but know it could never be the truth.

Gojo must sense it because he leans closer, his breath warm on your cheek.

"If you leave, I just might crack completely, beauty." A breath you didn't realize you were holding slips. "How do you think everyone else will fare against me then, hmm?"

Gojo knows he's a prodigy, yet he still manages to surprise himself sometimes, eyes lingering over the spots on your uniform soaked through just enough to make the fabric cling—perfect aim.

Ice shoots up your spine from the heat of his unadulterated gaze, but you refuse to let him see you falter. He almost feels a prick from the daggers you throw with your eyes.

"Oh, don't be like that, Nurse," and he purrs, thumbs grazing your wrists in a mockingly gentle touch. "We all have our boundaries, right? I thought communication was key in a relationship."

"Let go of me," you find your voice, "We're done here."

Gojo slightly tilts his head.

Look at you calling the shots, he thinks. So strong, so very serious.

"God I can't help it," he breathes, "You're so fun to mess with."

He could laugh in your face, have his way with you, and show you that your resistance means nothing.

Instead, he slowly releases your wrists and lies back against the tub. "I know you think about it—there's nothing wrong with a little fun...right?" and though the connection is severed, you don't know if it's the drugs or just him that makes his amplified touch linger as you sheepishly rub your wrists.

Gojo watches you blush red—thoughts you didn't know lived within you rushing to the forefront as if he's pushed a button.

Grimy, raw, salacious, unwanted thoughts of forbidden fruit, wandering hands, and stolen touches in the dark. Wondering what his idea of "fun" was like under the sheets. With a psycho named Gojo.

You feel like you should throw up in disgust but the nausea never comes, instead you burn between your legs.

Fuck, you've got to get out of here.

You draw a breath, forcing away the torturous daydreams and quickly finish his bath.

"You should rest," you firmly say and pull the plug to let the tub drain. "And don't expect any more favors from me."

He sits up slow, his expression stone-cold as he slicks back his wet hair. Then he smiles. "I promise. Now dry me off?" he quips.

You ignore his request, swiftly handing him a towel before he can flash you. Gruffing, you lower to your knees and begin drying the floor of his messes, hoping to distract you from your questionable sanity.

Rustling fabric fills the chamber as he dries off, and when you figure it's safe, you look up to a nude Gojo. Still dripping with bubbles, hair plastered to his derpy face, and toned muscles, all the muscles, presenting themselves in all their glory.

The only things dry are his damn hands.

He throws the towel over over his shoulder, sauntering towards you with a wicked grin.

"Well, aren't you gonna help me put this thing back on?" He nods at the jacket he knows is more bullshit than security. "Don't want you getting all worked up again."

The first time your brain registered that Gojo was flirting with you was on your third day as his nurse.

"Well, aren't you a breath of fresh air?" Gojo was sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall. It was the second time he'd noticed how sluggish you looked while tending to him, suggesting with a grin that you must be quite the party animal.

Ha. If only.

You tsked, tossing his bedsheets into the hamper, and assured him that your sleepy eyes and dragging feet were the result of long hours and running on fumes. Having time for fun was just a dream.

"I don't get out much myself," he says, alluding to the situation he's in, wearing sarcasm like a necklace. "I love a good night in as much as anyone else but, I don't know. The stuffiness hasn't grown on me yet."

You tugged the collar of your scrubs—the air did feel a bit thick, like the room hadn't been aired out in ages and you couldn't help but wonder how long he'd been sitting in it—how he could. That alone would be enough to drive you up a wall.

Sunlight flickered in your eyes, and you raised your hand to block it, noticing the small window perched above his chair.

"Ah, let's open this then," you said, walking over and wrestling with the ancient wood for a moment before finally pulling the creaky flap up to the ceiling.

Standing on your tiptoes to reach it, a sliver of your midriff peeked out, but what captured his attention most was the way the sun rays washed your face. You scrunched your nose, the breeze sending wisps of your hair to tickle it, and he imagined the feel of them between his fingers.

The view was beautiful, you thought, hands gripping the warm bars. Trees surrounded the vast area, stretching out as far as you could see, the pathway to civilization completely covered in dense forest from this angle.

You never realized how high up his ward was—or how long the drop was from here.

"Too bad I'm not small enough to slip through those bars." He rubbed his stomach. "But you know me, 'Mr. BigBack.'"

He joked around as he usually did, looking to trigger your defenses, but your sentiment was...odd.

This was the first time anyone had cared to do something so simple for Gojo. And the closest anyone had gotten to him without their knees buckling.

The first two days of your trial, the Director had guards posted right outside of Gojo's door, their presence a constant reminder to stay alert and maintain a safe distance from the convict and Gojo was positive the mental barrier would keep a wall between you forever.

But then you laughed. A real laugh. Snickery and cute. Finding his joke funny instead of threatening.

It surprised him, that sound. And he wanted to hear it again and again and again.

"Who knew you could bring so much light into this place?"

Later at lunch, you sat with Yuko, having your usual midday catch-up. You never start with yours but she, like most people in the ward now, was absolutely dying to hear about how you were dealing with the villain of the century.

"He's actually not so bad...yet. Corny, but," you took a pondering breath, "He kind of thanked me today?"

She immediately scoffed and waved you off and who could blame her?

You were the anomaly he chose to show mercy to and now he was thanking you??

Being polite was too far of a stretch to believe, you must have been mistaken. But when you gave her the deets on why he'd do such a thing, she nearly choked on her apple. "He said that??"

"Ya?" You patted her back with a concerned look.

"Watch out, Casanova." She cleared her throat and did a nervous laugh.

Her comment threw you off for the rest of lunch, but when you thought about it later that night while surfing for new shows, a light bulb went off.

He flirted with you.

Thinking it was just another one of those literal dry-humor jokes or simply gratitude for making his stay a little less crappy, it flew right over your head. You always feel warm inside when you help people so you didn't think too much about it.

To you, it was just a kudos. Nothing more.

But the way the stands in front of you now is everything.

As bold and brash as it gets.

Fuck. Me.

And your body betrays you, sending all of the vulnerable sensations you've been fighting to suppress from your soaking chest, tingling wrists, aching thighs, and heavy breath, straight to your throbbing clit.

Air escapes you and you scramble to grab your supplies and leave.

Enough is enough. The guards outside can restrain him and escort him back to his room for all you care. You just have to get out of there.

Away from him.

Away from temptation.

Hot, overwhelming, guilty, mentally and physically unstable temptation.

In the quiet of the hallway a level below Gojo's ward, you lean against a wall taking deep breaths, completely disgusted with yourself.

How are you supposed to keep dealing with this, with him?

He keeps pushing and pushing and pushing you to the edge until there's nowhere else to go. You can only imagine the hell the nurses he didn't like went through.

Taking care of him isn't getting any easier, and now you were fucking up and making mistakes.

But you're the only one who can do this. Who must.

So suck it up. Play along, Stop thinking only of yourself. Pretend.

Pretend.

Pretend?

...

What terrifies you the most is the thought that you may not have to.

You keep your scrambled thoughts to yourself when you're called into your Director's office at the end of the day.

You tell him the same story you told Yuko and take full responsibility for what happened, blaming it on exhaustion and needing a break. Swearing to never let it happen again.

By some miracle, you get to keep your job, though your one wish to leave early ended up costing you an hour and a half of unpaid overtime, and almost a friendship.

When you finally get home, you collapse onto your bed—images of the day, the ward, Yuko, flooding your thoughts, refusing to be pushed aside. You tell yourself that it's all just the guilt talking, just anxiety gnawing at your edges.

But then there's Gojo.

The most prominent one of all.

Staring you in the face with lifeless eyes and a ghostly smile. Tugging on your moral strings like a puppet.

When you close your eyes, you can't shake the feeling that he's waiting for you, a lurer in the shadows awaiting your every move.

Leave it. Leave it. Le—

You find yourself scrolling through your phone, deep-diving the web for information on your tormentor.

His past, his affiliations, anything to tell you who Gojo was, and who he is now.

The man is an anomaly.

Not much is known about him outside of mainstream news and internet rumors.

He's just this guy that kind of popped out of nowhere in the worst way possible. Conveniently on the tail of what could have been the most devastating incident in the history of Tokyo.

The media says he's a hero gone rogue but not much else. They damned him to hell and that was that. Even the Director disclosed very little about him during your briefing and you weren't allowed access to his files or records because it's all 'confidential'.

Nothing.

The more you search, you less that comes up. Not even silly conspiracy theories that you definitely thought would be riddling Reddit. The longer you scroll, the more you find yourself beginning to question your own sanity. Your interest. Sweet little buds of obsession.

Even though you hated taking it earlier, you actually need the pill now more than ever to relax, sleeping eluding you and mind wandering to imaginary scenarios as you stare at the ceiling. 

Tomorrow, you'll have to face Gojo again. And the day after that and the day after that and every day after.

In between your nearly non-existent off days, you'll have to seem him and decide what face you want to put on.

Because you simply cannot walk away.

After all, he's right—no one else can handle him like you can.

extended angel's note:

when i originally decided to make this into short story, i had no plans on using a y/n perspective. it was just going to feature an OC name i’ve used in stories before, named Persephone, buuuut i decided to wanted to keep it immersive and include no physical descriptors/personality specifics bc i knew i wanted to upload it to tumblr. 

to keep it reader-friendly, yk? 

alas, Persephone has had her claws in me the entire time i’ve been editing and said with her whole chest that i couldn't just dismiss her like that chile. so i decided changed the perspective but keep her name in place of y/n. 

you won’t see it too often in the story bc it’s not super significant or said a lot in general, bUT it is relevant for a certain moment later in the story. you’ll know when you know 🤭. 

anyway, hope it doesn't bother you guys too much. and def feel free to mentally plug your name when you see it to keep yourself grounded into the story.

tag list p.1: @reddiamondjazz @kiwismoother @rune1920 @blkkizzat @suguwife

@xerroe @enthyn @gloomuri671 @ressyshi @startatdawn

@khenanadeche @heijihatsutori @inluvkai @ixqiix @strawnanamilk

@rosso-seta @05-simply-06-simping @sims-4lifers @bratidol @rh-tg1

@hyunsuks-beanie @n1vi @luna-v-roiya @neteyamsluvr111 @supsiii

@natadecoco30 @chiyokoemilia @ririoutspoken @kyoxko @strawberrymilkshakes-posts

@nen-nyy @cinnamorochiroll @kazeniya @maybe7tommorow @sxnkuna

@misoyuh @lupitalove @sebastianlover @gojosatorubrainrot @sleepiebunniee

@mmmidkman @theonecrackhead @thathorsegotpoobrain @iveivory @samistar

@yuuan-66 @gojoslefttoenail @soyalovestoyap @winkwonks-world @thebiggestsimpforyou 

[bamfkeeper]

Winter Coat.

RQ: 'Saw your requests were open and I've gone through like 99% of your works so I just HAD to toss in a request (which, absolutely take your time on btw, I completely understand the burnout that can happen at the drop of a dime). I'm so impatient when it comes to weather and seasons that I desperately need it to be chilly autumn already. I'm sure you seen it but that one post about Kurt getting fluffier during autumn/winter got my gears turning. What do you think his reaction would be to a GN reader warming their hands in his fur? (Bonus prompt if reader can somehow get past all that lovely fur and touch his skin with freezing fingers ∩ω∩)' - @casualeylee

Pairing: Kurt Wagner x GN!reader // Warnings: Slightly suggestive themes

A/N: I love the idea of him growing longer fur so I enjoyed this a lot. Quick little drabble for the upcoming cool months! I have a few requests for his fur, which was sweet to see, I adore him fuzzy. I hope you enjoy <3 WC: 1.3k

"Mein Gott, your hands are freezing, liebling," Kurt remarked with concern, his gaze settling on your hand as it awkwardly intertwined with his own. You sighed contentedly, leaning closer to him for warmth as the two of you strolled leisurely around the dying garden of the mansion. The once vibrant blooms were now succumbing to the colder weather, which was taking its toll on the plants. Yet, despite the garden's current state, you found yourself looking forward to the cold months ahead and the festive holidays they would bring.

"I know, I'm sorry," you admitted sheepishly, glancing up at him with a hint of regret. "I should've worn the mittens you told me to put on before we left..." You pouted slightly, chastising yourself for being so stubborn earlier. Kurt chuckled softly at your demeanor, his little smirk spreading warmth through you and making you shiver, though not from the cold. His amusement was infectious, and you couldn't help but smile back.

Kurt's tail gently ran under your shirt and wrapped around your waist, holding you even closer as you walked together through the chilly evening air. You couldn't help but notice how his tail felt slightly more fuzzy than usual, prompting your free hand to naturally reach out and stroke the soft fur. "Are you getting fuzzier?" you questioned with curiosity, suddenly eying his face and observing that his jaw seemed to have longer fur too, as if preparing for the colder months ahead.

"Ja, I get a thicker coat when it gets cold...you complain about my fuzz now, just wait until I have a full-on winter coat and I am shedding all over your favorite sweaters!" he laughed softly, his eyes twinkling with amusement at the thought of you dealing with a living room filled with his fur. The idea of him shedding more fur made you smile, envisioning the playful challenge it might bring. Even if it meant a bit of extra cleaning during the winter season.

"Your hand still feels cold, liebe," Kurt observed with concern, his eyes filled with the usual warmth as he looked down at you. Gently, he pulled you closer to him, wrapping his arms around you protectively. "I think our walk is done...you are going to freeze out here if we stay any longer," he stated with a hint of urgency in his voice. Not wanting you to endure the cold any further, he effortlessly teleported you both inside the expansive mansion, determined to stop your shivering.

Now, you found yourself comfortably seated on the plush couch in your shared bedroom. The luxurious room was spacious, adorned with elegant furnishings, and boasted a charming small fireplace that crackled softly. Only the older X-Men were privileged enough to have a room this nice, making you feel incredibly lucky, especially when you were currently shaking off the cold. As you sat in front of the gently flickering fire, its warmth slowly seeping into your chilled bones, you couldn't help but feel a deep sense of happiness.

Kurt teleported back into the room with a soft purple haze enveloping him, his tail flicked away any remaining cloud as he walked over to you. He gently sat down beside you on the couch, causing the blanket that was draped around your shoulders to slip slightly as he made himself comfortable. He placed a steaming cup of hot chocolate on the small table beside the couch, its warmth and aroma inviting. “I made it just how you like.” Kurt noted and left it to cool off for a minute. You gave him a soft smile at the gesture, he always knew what to do to make you feel loved. He always went above what he needed to do, and that was one of the things you loved about him.

Kurt leaned back and went to wrap his arm around you, intending on pulling you closer to him to offer extra warmth to you before he paused. "Oh," he remarked thoughtfully, humming to himself and leaning back a bit to look at you, "Skin on fur might help..." With a slight shuffle, he began to remove his top, revealing his abdomen and chest. As he did so, you noticed that his skin had also grown more fuzzy.

You swallowed hard, feeling a mix of curiosity and admiration as you couldn't help yourself from eying his chest and abdomen. He stood before you, his attractive physique lean and toned, each muscle defined under the light from the fireplace. The fur that covered his body looked incredibly soft, inviting, you needed to have your hands on him. It was impossible to ignore the magnetic pull you felt towards his body at that moment. “Ah…you are growing a lot more already,” you rasped, your voice barely above a whisper, laced with an undertone of need. With a sense of awe and hesitancy, you reached out, your fingers trembling slightly as they made contact with his warm skin. Slowly, you let your hand trail up, starting from his belly button and moving upwards to his chest.

You swallowed nervously, feeling the firm and defined muscles beneath his soft fur, and as you did, you began to have some difficulty controlling your thoughts, which started to wander in unexpected directions. Kurt laid his hand gently over yours as you felt the warmth of his chest, his intense yellow eyes fixed on you with a playful grin. “Naughty…I know what you’re thinking. You always get this look in your eye…sinner,” he said with a teasing tone, his voice low and playful. His words and the cheeky way he spoke made your face heat up even more, feeling more flustered since you were practically feeling him up.

"Shut up...your fur is really warm on my hands...that's all." You muttered embarrassingly, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, your hands continuing to slowly rub his chest and feel the fur there. It was so incredibly soft, the longer bits curled around your skin, inviting your nosy fingertips to dig even farther into his fur, seeking more warmth and comfort in every stroke.

"Enjoying yourself?" He asked with a slight smirk, sitting still as you explored him with that stupid grin, allowing you to continue your gentle exploration. He opened his mouth for another teasing comment, but his breath hitched quickly as your freezing fingers unexpectedly found their way to his skin. "Ach...- Liebling..." he murmured, his voice tinged with a mix of surprise and endearment.

"What? Did I find something?" you asked with a mischievous grin, your turn to be cheeky now. You intentionally let your fingers wander over his skin, which was so incredibly, so wonderfully warm. With a playful determination, you weaseled your hands against his skin, feeling the contrast of your cool touch against his heat. Snuggling even closer to him, you couldn't help but smile as Kurt laughed and squirmed a little from the unexpected cold sensation of your fingers dancing across his body.

"The things I let you do to me..." he huffed, though there was a fondness in his voice, as he held you even closer to him. His arms and tail wrapped securely around your body, pulling you into a protective and affectionate embrace. While he often teases you relentlessly, it's always in good fun, because at the end of the day, he truly loves you. He is more than willing to suffer through the icy touch of your fingertips against his warm, sensitive, ticklish skin, as long as it brings a smile to your face and you enjoy every moment of it.

"Ach! Liebe!" he exclaimed, jerking up slightly in surprise as you playfully moved your fingertips to the sensitive sides of his ribcage. His reaction was both amusing and endearing, and you couldn't help but giggle at how it caught him off guard.

He looked down with a soft, affectionate smile, acknowledging your mischievousness with a twinkle in his eyes. "Cheeky thing..."

Thanks for reading.

*BAMF*

Dividers by @/adornedwithlight

Cover image: Nick Robles art credit, other images Pinterest.

[cyberrose2001]

Under Pressure

MTMTE Rodimus x Reader

GRAHH SURPRISE!!!!

Relic and I have been... discussing... very hard about an ask they got a couple days ago so I wrote this eheh (THANK YOU FOR DISCUSSING THIS WITH ME AND LETTING ME WRITE THIS ILY)

Also please yell at me if I forgot any warnings!

Loosely based of this ask over on @callsign-relic's blog

Warnings: Human reader, Giant/Tiny, Non-Con(?), Nocturnal emission, Crack fic(?)

Word count: 1,887

18+ ONLY MINORS DNI

Rodimus denies it every time, but he's a heavy sleeper. He snores like a congested rhino; he constantly sets twelve alarms that only barely stir him from his slumber. Despite being captain of the ship, his sleep schedule is far from tip-top shape.

And no, you're not a stalker. You're just Rodimus' observant little 'pet' human, always there, with a California king on his bedside dresser. Yeah, you're treated like royalty by an incredibly hard-to-deny hot alien robot.

So, as the ship ventured further into deep space and the nights got colder, you whined and begged to stay with him.

Rodimus was very hesitant to let you join him in the berth. As much as he cared about you and would kill an army for you, he didn't want to accidentally kill you, which was very much a possibility in any scenario on this ship. But he caved. You had mastered the sad, wet cat look, and Rodimus had the willpower of a rock.

Relishing in victory, you're curled up comfortably against Rodimus' lower plating for the third consecutive night in a row, warmed by the large servo of a sleeping giant. The entire palm of his hand covers your back in subconscious protection, and every so often, you feel a twitch of one digit. It's tranquility and a rare comfort, the touch of another you haven't felt since being on earth.

Until he rolls over.

Rodimus, choking on his snores, flips over onto his stomach and nearly tosses you off the berth if not for the grip he has on you. Despite almost winding you and making an audible 'Oof' sound, he doesn't wake up, his unconscious body assuming another comfortable position.

It takes you a few moments to register what the fuck just happened, but you realise that you're now underneath Rodimus. Almost his entire body weight is now pressed against you and pins you to the berth.

Oh god, you think to yourself.

This is less than ideal; this was not supposed to happen. How the hell are you, a tiny ass human, supposed to get out from under him? You probably shouldn't even be alive right now with how restricted your breathing is, not to mention how hard he flopped on top of you. But thankfully, with how Rodimus' legs have fallen into position, it leaves you with just enough room for your chest to rise and fall.

"God." You whine, muffled as your cheeks squish against his abdominal plating.

Your mind runs wild as you try to think of a way out. Maybe he'll just roll over again soon? God, you hope so; you can handle only so much weight, and Rodimus feels like he could hold down a cargo ship. Probably because he can.

But until then, however long that may be, you need to try something at least.

"Rodimus?" You try to wiggle but to no avail. He has you pinned pinned, and you use what little breath you have to yell out to him, "Hello? Are you awake or what?"

A loud, seemingly exaggerated snore replies to you. He's still deep in recharge, ruining any chance you have of waking him up yourself. You try to use your nails to scratch the surface of his frame, hoping it would tickle him or something, but that doesn't work either.

"Great." You roll your eyes, only you would ever end up in this type of situation. If only you had listened to Rodimus when he first said no, then you wouldn't be currently experiencing a near death experi-

"Y/n..." Rodimus' hoarse voice crackles above you, sending vibrations through your bones.

"Oh, thank god," You sigh in relief. You attempt to wiggle around some more, hoping to get his attention this time, "Listen, can you get off me now? This kinda hur-"

You squeak softly in pain as his sharp pelvis presses against you, and you hear your name again. This time, though, the tone of his voice came out as a whine, like a soft plea.

Because of where you were positioned before you became a pea under a princess' tower of mattresses, Rodimus' lower panels rested right against your stomach. This means you can feel his panels start to bulge slightly.

Oh no, you think to yourself bleakly once again. You're not sure how similar Cybertronian anatomy is to humans, apart from a crude explanation by an engex drunk Swerve. Still, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that you're feeling him getting hard. Putting two-and-two together using two out of the five senses, you've realised that Rodimus is nearly boner deep in a wet dream.

And not to assume, but you're thinking that the star of the show is you.

It's also the wrong time to cackle to yourself about getting crushed by your crush.

You might have some issues to work out after with Rung.

"Oh fuck," You reasonably panic, trying to push against his heavy frame weakly with your pinned arms, "Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck-"

You start to thrash against Rodimus when your arms fail, your tiny body rubbing up against him. This doesn't help at all, you've come to realise but actually digs you in a deeper hole as he begins to rock his pelvis into you.

Rodimus moans your name again as he sleepily grinds against you. Whatever he's dreaming of, it must be an insanely hot pornographic fantasy of you. The bulge grows bigger, pining you down further into the berth. He shutters and lets out a soft groan before his plating shifts, and you feel a very thick, very hard, and very hot object slide up against you.

Oh god, it's his dick.

Swerve might not have told you all the details, but he seemed to conveniently leave out how fucking huge Cybertronian cocks are.

As if you thought this couldn't get any more debilitating, you now have the head of Rodimus' spike pressing against your face. It's as if the Alaskan bull worm had slithered up between yourself and Rodimus to give you a kiss. The behemoth of baggage has already started leaking what you would believe would be the Cybertronian equivalent to pre-cum, smearing all across your face.

At this significant turn of events, you've realised you have come to a crossroads.

Either struggle and continue to wiggle and wrangle your way out from under him, but risk pleasuring him, whether or not he could feel you squirming against him anyway with how small you are compared to it. Or, the more realistic and obtainable outcome, lie still and take it until he wakes up from an orgasm.

Who are you kidding? You don't have much of a choice at all. Both options risk you drowning in alien robot cum. It's wishful thinking as Rodimus starts to rut against your entire body again.

"Y/n..." He whimpers again, though very garbled and unintelligible. Every roll of his hips causes more pre-cum to dribble against your face and down your chest, and with each, it spreads all around in between yourself and his train-sized spike. Making an absolute mess of you.

If you weren't getting humped up against right now, you would indeed find a way to kill him for ruining your only set of pajamas.

"Rodimus-" You gag as a spurt of pre-cum falls into your mouth, "Guh- Rodimus stop-"

His work of venting increases, and so does his rutting. The comatose mech gasps and hitches his breath, oblivious to your cries and pleas for him to stop. He pushes up against you in heated desperation, fucking into your soft body like a grind pad.

"Rodimus! Wake the fuck up!" You start to heat up yourself; the increased pressure and friction of his plating will give you a fucked up version of carpet burn if he doesn't wake up. Sweat drips from your skin, adding even more lubricant to his incessant grinding.

"Wha- Oh, Primus!" Rodimus rears his drool-covered helm and cries out in equal confusion and unrestrained pleasure. He's woken up by his overload as he shoots his load up against you, flooding the minimal empty space left between you both with hot transfluid.

"Oh god-" You couldn't close your mouth in time when a spurt of transfluid hit you in the face, causing you to cough and spit it back out, only for more to splat you in the face.

Rodimus moans tiredly, shuttering violently as his spike pulses and leaks the remainder of his overload against the berth.

Or what he thought was the berth. Since when did he use a self-service mod on his spike? Especially when he shares a room with-

"Hey!" Cough, "Are you done?"

His optics slam open in horrific realisation.

"Oh no," Rodimus rolls over onto his back, his softened wet spike flopping against his abdominal plating, "Oh no, no, no..."

He looks down where he once lay, and his face plates flush a bright blue. Laying in a puddle of his transfluids was you, his little human, sopping wet with a highly unimpressed look on your tiny face.

"Oh Primus, Y/n," Rodimus scoops you up in his servos, gently tossing you from hand to hand as he wrings them off his transfluids, "I am so sorry, I- frag what was I thinking!" Rodimus babbles and holds you to his face, "Are you okay? God, I'm so stupid-"

"Ughh," You lay limply in his palm, exhausted and out of breath, "After that... I don't know anymore."

Rodimus hides his blush with a servo before pinching the bridge of his nose, "I'm glad you're okay, but what were you doing down there?"

"Great question," You lift your head up to deadpan him, then eventually drag yourself to sit up. Sticky, pink transfluid drips down your body. Your face, and hair, are all drenched in him, "It's not like you rolled over in your sleep and had me pinned for nearly half an hour. What the hell?"

Rodimus blinks, and his face turns a deeper shade of blue as he rubs the back of his neck, "Oh, so that's why I had that dream about you..."

Is he serious right now?

"Oh, you think?" You wipe your lip when it starts to drip into your mouth, "I think I could tell when you started moaning my name in your sleep."

"Well, you're just so tiny and soft and-" The red and yellow mech bites the knuckles of the servo not holding you in embarrassment. "But what was I supposed to do, huh? Hold it in?"

God, he is.

"I'm literally gonna kill you, Rodimus." You shiver, his transfluids cooling against your skin. You can't believe he dares to look you in the eye, "I am never begging to nap with you ever again, or maybe at least warn me next time."

"No offense taken," Rodimus nods in agreement for once, watching you wring your hair out, "I'm sorry, Y/n, I really am. I can help clean you up? As a sincere apology from yours truly?"

"As long as I don't come into contact with more of this stuff," You flick a bead of transfluid off your finger into his direction, "And you better be sorry, or it'll be a long time before I might actually let you fuck me."

"Wait, you'll what-" Splat, "EWUGH!!"

[crow-raven-crow]

𝐅𝐨𝐜𝐮𝐬 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐞

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 - [𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝟏𝟖+]

✧･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧ :══════⊹⊹══════: ✧･ﾟ｡˚☾.･✧

𝐀𝐥𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐃𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐮 𝐱 𝐟!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: ~2.9k 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬/𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: ✨claws✨, fangs <3, blood, established relationship, NSFW, voice kink, praise kink, slight degradation, vaginal fingering, biting, slight marking kink, slight edging, begging, mommy kink, possessive tones, overstimulation

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: There was a sacred world found within books, something that the two of you shared together as the air grew colder, as the nights came earlier, whisking you both away and into the arms of the ever calling warmth found within the castle. But when your voice became too much, when her warmth became all consuming, you found it harder and harder to focus on anything else but her..

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

AO3 link in title

✧･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧ :══════⊹⊹══════: ✧･ﾟ｡˚☾.･✧

✧･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧ :══════⊹⊹══════: ✧･ﾟ｡˚☾.･✧

The castle had run cold tonight, the crisp prick of the night air piercing through the fabric of your gown and threatening to dig into your skin as though it were a delicate needle. Each breath you drew in was infused with a chill, seeping into your lungs yet escaping your lips as if it was a raging fire as you read aloud to the countess.

"A love like no other blossomed in secret between the two, hidden away from the watchful eyes of a world that refused to accept it.." Your words flowed out like silk, each syllable translating a tenderness that seemed to manifest the delicacy of the moment between the two characters, bringing the essence of their connection into the physical world.

Your voice, in this moment, served as her sanctuary, much like her presence was your haven - a protective blanket of warmth that shielded you from the outside world, a safety that could only be found in her arms. You reveled in each other's company - untouchable, unseen, undisturbed - as a new world between the pages came to light. Nights like these were dedicated to the safety of the library, tossing the cares of the outside world aside - quiet, serene, home. The flames of the fireplace danced across your forms, casting a warm, golden glow that shifted against the pages you held, casting small flickers to spark against the other shelves found within the dimly lit room.

Her bare hands delicately traced along your sides, the gloves she had once worn now a forgotten memory, discarded and abandoned long ago. Your back was flush to her front as her hands smoothed along your skin, the smallest of shivers retreating from your body every so often. You rested your head against her chest, feeling her every exhale and each beat of her heart as your voice rumbled back to her.

"Though, their hearts were intertwined by the gentle rhythms of the ocean waves, linking themselves along as they pulled each other like the moon.." You loved moments like these, acts of mindless intimacy stuck within a moment in time. Acts that happened behind closed doors, held with a gravity that only was exposed to the castle's stone walls, kept like an item within a locket that sat close to your hearts.

In some moments, her hands would come into view, bathed in the golden embers of the fire, revealing the descend into blackened fingertips that were always hidden behind a thick, black leather, away from prying eyes. They would travel along the contours of your arms, against your smooth thighs, down the length of your sides, fueled by the need to feel the tender skin hidden beneath the thin layer of your dress. Fingers laced with desire, laced with lust, laced with the urge to devour you upon first sight..

It was a difficult task to keep your hands to yourselves after years of being together, the insatiable hunger never dying within your beings. It was a need that made your bones ache, your body tremble, your soul beg and plead for a fill that would send you over the delicious edge you craved. Every touch promised a dive into ecstasy, a feast for the senses that you both welcomed with open arms.

Hands toyed with the bottom hem of your nightgown, fingers like the night sky that shined above you heavily contrasting the whiteness of the fabric that lit up like the moon. Warm fingertips met the expanse of your cold thighs, engulfing them in a welcomed warmth that sent a fresh wave of desire down your body.

"Alcina.." You paused, drawing your thoughts away from the fictional world you had gotten used to and quickly catching up to the current one. It rang out soft, flustered unlike moments before, though the warmth it always held for your lady was evermore present.

"Yes, draga mea?" Her accent ran heavy, her voice deep like the thick liquid of her crimson wine, doused with the alcohol, doused with the blood you both knew all too well. You felt her lips ghost against the shell of you ear, a welcomed heat rising to your face as she awaited your response. Her breath fell down against your skin, swirling around you and claiming you whole.

"Wh-What are you doing?" There was desire found there, within the question you already knew the answer to, within the tone that quickly morphed into a whimper. The sound made a smile rise to her lips, the plush skin found there painted a deep red, ready to lick, ready to suck, ready to devour…

"Enjoying the story, my love.." There was a long pause between her statements, her actions carrying the weight of her true emotions behind the words that left her lips, overcasting them with the feeling you knew like the back of your hand. Her fingertips moved their way up, deliberate and with purpose, teasing and controlled, pushing the fabric up and out of the way as they met the barrier of your undergarments. "And admiring just how perfectly we fit together.."

Her lips kissed down the side of your neck, her fangs coming out and gracing your skin as she met the junction between your shoulder and neck. It caused goosebumps to wake along your skin, your thoughts to slow, your mind to allow the haze of lust to sweep in and take over. Her words melted into your flesh, carrying a promise you always loved to get lost in. You felt her hands move, one continuing to shift up, cupping your breast while the other started rubbing against the fabric left between your thighs. Your breath hitched at the contact, your body subconsciously tilting your head to the side to give her better access to the canvas of skin you'd always hand over to her. "Focus for me, darling.. Keep reading - You know how much I love to hear you.."

Your breathing grew heavy, a thickness settling in your lungs and making your breath hot, making it hitch, making it lost to you as you struggled to find the words.

"O-One, a vibrant artist, ta- taking down words, mapping out worlds, that was fueled by a- mph- fuck-" Your worlds easily trailed off, your mind choosing to focus on the wonderful ministrations of your lady's fingers. It became broken, a plummet into a stutter, a drop into a moan as her movements were just enough to feed the fire. She worked slow, feeding on the reactions of your body. The way it squirmed, jolted, ached for the feeling of her.. And she'd barely even touched you..

"You might have to repeat yourself, darling.. I didn't quite catch that.." Her lips left marks in their path, the crimson flesh creating marks just as red, just as dark as they painted your skin. There was a deep purr to her voice, the husk found there a tease, a demand, a praise within the sound itself, beckoning more out of you.

You pushed on, the will to please your lady only adding to the pleasure that she placed upon you. Her fingers slowed, the touch becoming featherlight and absolutely torturous in order for you to speak. "One.. a vibrant artist, taking down words, mapping out world that was fueled by a heart full of dreams that wished to come to life.."

"See? That wasn't so hard.. Continue.." Her voice rang out in a tease, thick and gravelly with lust, as is ghosted over your form. Her fingers squeezed your breast, feeling your nipple form into a hard peak against the palm of her hand and causing your back to arch into her touch.

Her body was large under your form, something that enraptured you from the first moment you had laid your eyes on her. It kept you safe, kept you warm, and felt oh so delicious..

Her actions picked back up, her hand moving to your other breast while the other slowly moved up, slipping past the fabric that proved to be an annoyance to the raven haired goddess.

"The o-other- hmn.. a g-guardian of wis-wisdom.. and a keeper of stories, a quiet w-woman who got lost wi-within- f-fuck.. the worlds s-she created, the worlds she.. shared with.. the other.." You struggled to finish the chapter, your breath hitching as you felt one of her fingers travel slowly through your folds, now aware of the pool of arousal that had settled itself there.

"You're doing so well, darling.." You felt her finger meet your entrance, circling your slick core and collecting its juices before moving back up, being sure to repeat the motion over and over.. It grew harder to keep your eyes open. The way she moved felt like pure bliss, but it wasn't enough.. You needed more, more of her touch, her voice, more of her.. But you always aimed to please, especially as the next words left her mouth. "Just a few more sentences, love.. Could you do that for mommy, hmm?"

Oh..

Of course, you could..

It was as though your mind stopped, all thoughts leaving, any beginnings of reading leaving your brain. It echoed in your head like a prayer, chanting itself to anything holy as though the woman beneath you were the goddess you worshipped. "Yes-"

Your voice came out breathier than you would've liked, something that you ignored, something that was still present as you did your best to finish the chapter. "They set-set s-sail one night, leaving the village t-that had held them close for far too lo- ngh-*"

Her finger met your clit, swirling around the sensitive bud and giving you a promise to look forward to. Slow, insufferable, merciless. You just needed to finish the chapter..

"They faced it, faced e-every-fuck.. ev-everything that came at them.. They welcomed a world where t-their love co-ohm.." She added pressure, added speed as she watched how you began to come undone, the thought that she could make you feel this good, that she was the one touching you was ever so prevalent in her mind.

"Just a bit longer.. You're doing so good for me.."

Your breathing grew heavy, one of your hands leaving the structure of the pages to grip onto her forearm, seeking some way to ground yourself as you tried to remain focused on the task at hand.

"..wh-where their love c-could flourish-hmng, their hearts beat- mph- beating i-in tandem as they sailed into- into the night-" You finished.

"Good girl.." Her finger quickly moved down, easily pushing itself into your entrance as you finished the last words. It curled in the most perfect way, making a guttural, broken moan escape your lips, making your fingers latch and dig into the fabric of her own dress beneath you, scratch into the skin beneath it, making your walls clench around her digit and beg for more.

“Again.. say that again-mph- please, please-" Your body begged for her voice, craved for it to take you in its hold and plunge into you with each thrust of her fingers. Her voice was the mere crash, the mere wreck through your body as it got high on the praise, her voice the extra push to have your walls clench around her fingers, hopeful, desperate, eager for more, more, more- “pl-please, mommy- I-“

"Look at you.." The tease in her tone was back, tightening the coil within you and making your pleasure vicious and greedy.

"So eager for mommy like a good girl.." The moan you let out was loud, deep, translating the lust and desire that had built itself up to be near overwhelming, taking over your body and making it hers.

There was a small shuffle beside the leather seat you both were on, the sound of the book that once had your undivided attention hitting the floor, intertwining with the sound of your moans and whimpers that clawed their way out of your throat. Your body squirmed, thrusted, wreathed under her touch, chasing a peak, chasing the feeling of being so utterly filled by her that it would envelop your entire soul.

All your shifting had caused your dress to move, the fabric becoming an even bigger problem as it got in the way of the countess’ lips. You felt sharp, cold claws appear from her fingernails, tickling your skin, running along it so gently that none would pierce unless she wanted them to. “It’s seems there’s an issue that needs to be fixed..”

Her voice had become a low rumble omitting itself within the quiet library, making your body keen, making your body chase it as if it were your own impending orgasm. Your body ached with the weight of your ecstasy as your body fought for a high that it needed to earn, rooting itself within her voice, surging though a body that needed to be broken and pleased.

A finger had made its way to the base of your neck, tracing the claw along the tendons, along your collarbone, down to the hem of your nightgown before adding more pressure, tearing the fabric down the middle and making a chill erupt onto your skin. "Much better, beautiful girl.."

Her tongue darted out against your neck, leaving a warmth in its path before teeth bit into the skin. Your head fell back, a near pornographic moan leaving you as the burn settled into a deep rooted pleasure. Her finger moved at a brutal pace, picking up speed as she aimed to give you what you very well deserved.

You could feel your thighs begin to tremble, your nails scratch into the skin of her arms as the palm of her hand met your clit. You felt her lips turn into a satisfied smirk against your neck as she watched your eyes roll back, your eyelids fluttering shut just moments after.

Her finger curled, putting pressure against the sweet spot that had you seeing stars. Your hips moved with her thrusts, your walls clenching around her finger as the coil tightened more and more.

"Are you going to cum? Be a good girl and cum for me.." Her palm against your clit, her finger curling against your sweet spot, her voice consuming you whole all played out at the same time, your peak crashing into you as the coil snapped. Her pace didn't slow, successfully helping you ride out your orgasm while also bring you to another, brutal high.

Your core grew sensitive, your nipples into hard peaks as her other hand continued to smooth over and pinch them, you back ached as it arched into the overstimulation she was throwing at you, your thighs sore from the next wave of pleasure threatening to consume you. You felt her fangs at your neck again, sharp, delicate, hungry, before they pierced into your skin. The warmth that washed over you, from the bite at your neck to her finger plunging into your core, was captivating, hurling your body towards another edge that would turn your body into putty within her arms.

"That's it, sweet girl.. One more for me. You can take it, hmm? You can take it for mommy, can't you?"

Oh god..

You could, you could, yes, yes, anything for her, anything to make her keep thrusting, anything to make her finger curl in just the right spot, anything to have you moaning her name in the dark of night.

"Y-Yes! Gods, yes- please just- mph-" You were gone, your body, your soul captured in the hands of a lustful woman that would feast on you whenever she got the chance. Your mind grew hazy with the feeling of her tongue against your neck, lapping up the thick crimson that pooled out, with the chase towards euphoria.

You came hard, your body shuddering against hers, your breath labored as her name tore through your throat in a moan. Your eyes were screwed shut, your brows furrowed as her actions finally started to slow down.

Gentle kisses were placed against your neck, your cheek, behind your ear as you tried your best to catch your breath. She pulled out of you, the action causing a loud whimper to leave your throat and your eyes to open for just a moment. Her hands were massaging you in an instant, creating a blanket of warmth and security within her arms.

"You did so well, so so good for me, sweet thing.."

You turned around, arousal dripping down your thighs, body trembling as her lips met yours. She kissed you as though you were her desired prize, again, again, again, stealing the breath from your lungs and claiming you as entirely hers. Your body, your blood, your soul, your love: hers.

She held you in her arms, your head nuzzled in the crook of her neck, giving you a small moment to catch up with the world around you. She rose from the leather seat, the loss of weight causing a muted creak to emit from it. You savored the warmth of her presence as she gently bowed to grab the book that had been forgotten due to her actions, placing it on the side table next to her gloves and the empty glasses of wine.

Her heels were heard echoing off the stone as she left the library. The moon's gentle glow illuminated the hallways, casting a grey sheen and dark shadows over her path as she made her way to your shared quarters, deciding to add more comfort to you as you came back to earth. Her head turned down to you slightly, taking in your form with a soft gaze before whispering, "We can continue the story another time, draga mea.. Maybe next time we'll both be able to focus."

~~

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𝐚/𝐧: EHEHEHEHHHHHEEEHHHH I MISSSSEEEEDDDDD HEEEEERRRRRRR AHHHHHHH. LISS I DID IT SHES HEREEE

so i've actually never written for her before BUT she was literally my hyper fixation before Larissa and i just missed her so much. i knew i was going to write for her some day

this was one of the personal ideas i had when i made a little update about a month ago. i originally said it was going to be one of gwen's character, but then i remembered her and it just had to be done

this was a WONDERFUL indulgence fic for me. i needed a little break from doing request because i was feeling more mechanic which was ass!! this also was just me writing unrestricted - i just let everything flow and brought back my old writing style (how i wrote before i started posting) and i literally don't know why i stopped writing like that because i love it A LOT and i think it really shows how much passion i really have for this craft.. so expect more stuff like this out of me because it was fun and reviving and definately brought a big passion back

hope you all liked it ! i definately expect to write for her more too so she has a section in my masterlist already hehe

if you saw this get posted like five minutes before this no you didnt

xx,

~ 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰

✧･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧ :══════⊹⊹══════: ✧･ﾟ｡˚☾.･✧

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: (tagged anyone who asked/wanted to be on the "all works" taglist)

@autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @weemssapphic @readingtheentrails @finnja555 @barbarasstar @vendocrap8008 @gwendolinechristieiscute @lilfartbox1 @agathaandgwenslesbian @lvinhs @elvira-dear @kimiinou

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[honey-minded-hivemind]

🐋Siren AU, Scene One:

(Warning: mentions of cannibalism, Reader being chased from their old home, possible child murder, and Reader wanting to bite everything that tries to touch them. You have been advised)

• The ocean before you spreads beyond you, vast and impending. There is no coral, no colorful fish, no seaweed. It is an unending abyss of blue, fading darker and darker the farther it is from the sunlit water above... But, you have nowhere else to go...

• You used to have a different home, a different life. Born to a school of reef mers, all colorful and elegant, you were different from birth. You were black and white, not a speck of any other color to your tail... And your tail, it wasn't built like the others', full of trailing fins and frills, but bulkier, thicker. While the other guppies made fun of you, you took care of yourself. After all, you were stronger than them. If one bit you, you whapped your tail against their head. If they scratched you, you pinned them to the sandy floor until they begged to be let up. After awhile, you were just left alone, ignored and abandoned in favor of more similar playmates...

• You hated when you found out what you were... It had been a regular day, learning what you could from an elder, playing by yourself, and keeping away from the gossipy guppies, until a hunter had burst into the coral reef. The moment they saw you, they had screeched, "I finally know what they are! A siren!" Murmurs went up, followed by an elder asking for proof... "Proof! Here is your 'proof '" they had spat and they tossed a fin, just like the one along your back, into the group. "I tore that from a siren north of our territory! It was large, a behemoth! In the same colors of that one, bone white and ink black! It wasn't just any siren, but an orca!"

• THAT set the entire school into an uproar. Shrieks and cries burbled into the water as the nearest adults lunged at you, claws aiming for your fins and eyes. You managed to duck by, swimming as fast as you could around the panicking mer. The reef flashed past you as you swam, bits of rock and coral scraping against you as you dodged reaching claws and sharp harpoons. Until finally, you slipped out into the open waters, slapped out by the tail of one of the hunters, who tried to follow you. It only took that for you to turn tail and flee, striking out into the uncharted waters...

• And here you were now, alone, bleeding, and with no skills or school to help you survive. The one thing you had that was yours was your pearl earring, long and dangling, that you had found by yourself when you were only twelve winters old... You weren't sure how it wasn't torn off in the chase, but it brought you a small comfort to keep it. With a bubble-filled sigh, you kept swimming...

• The sea stretched on, never stopping or ending. No signs of any other life were to be found, save for small squid that came up at night, fleeting and swift. It was... unnerving. It had only been a week since you left, and your wounds had started to heal. You found out, only a few hours after leaving the reef, that a harpoon had nicked your tail, leaving a jagged, painful scratch along its side. That complicated swimming, but you couldn't stop. If you stopped, it was likely something would try to eat you while you rested. You couldn't risk a shark, or dolphins, or another siren finding you. If mer would kick out one of their own, someone they had raised, all because they were a siren... Would an actual siren do worse?

• Your reprieve from these thoughts was finding a small, rocky outcrop pointing out of the endless blue. The waters here were colder, foggy and sometimes filled with chunks of white. It wasn't ideal to stop here, but you needed rest, and this was the only opportunity you had had since your escape... Still... You approach the rock carefully, and once found clear of danger, you curl into a small crack, just big enough to fit you.

• Your dreams are fitful, full of sharp claws and deadly spears and familiar voices leering at you, pouncing in for the kill-!

•With a sharp, fearful click, you wake up. Your fingers rub over your arms, as your tail curls up, trying to squeeze yourself into a smaller ball. You feel the small gills of your neck flit, until you are able to calm down from the nightmare... But just as you settle back down... You hear an eerie sound, something that reverberates through the water around you...

• Tensing up, you stay quiet, staring out into the darkness beyond the crack. The moonlight filters through the water, painting everything in alien blacks and silvers, until the noise dies out... Everything is quiet, save for the small rush of a current nearby. The world seems still, unmoving... until something shifts into the light, something large and dark, and you shrink further into the crack. It's the largest thing you've ever seen...

• Another eerie sound rings out, something between a hum and a wail, loud and fervent. You clap your hands over your ears, trying to muffle the noise. Whatever is out there moves again, until you can't see it anymore... With a small shudder, you turn your head away from the crack entrance, and drift back into slumber.

• In the morning, when you wake up, you cautiously approach the crack entrance, sensing the water near it for any vibrations. Luckily, none are there... When you gather your nerves, you slip out, careful not to aggravate the scars on your tail. There are more white chunks in the water, and there are small bits of light turning the water a jewel green. Nothing seems off... No mers, no fish...

• "So, that's where you were hiding."

• A shriek escapes you as you turn around, only to find something larger than you and the rock outcrop...

• It's large, with scars banding it's arm and chest, with old wounds lining its tail. Their teeth are sharp, and their eyes are reddish-brown, like drying blood. Talons as sharp as hooks are at the end of each of its fingers, long and deadly... And their tail... It's... It's... the same as, yours...?

• "What, never seen another siren before, kid?" it asks, in a growl-like voice. In a sharp arc, you dive back into the crack you came out of. A curse echoes around you, as the being shifts around the rock so they can gaze into the small crevice. "Kid, kid, calm down. It's just a joke."

• "..."

• "You've... never seen another siren, have you?" It- he, it sounds like a he- peers at the entrance. One of their claws scrapes at it, but it won't entirely go in. "You can come out, kid, I'm not gonna eat you," he tries. You push yourself as far back as you can go, even when you feel the rough walls scrape your harpoon wound open. A hiss escapes you, following a small stream of blood. Another sound comes from the much (much much) larger siren, like a low growl. "Are you bleeding, kid?"

• You don't answer, only squeezing yourself in further. You're uncomfortable, pressed this far back, but it's the farthest you can get from what is essentially an adult who is bigger and obviously more dangerous than the mers you knew. A billowing sigh escapes the larger creature, the water rippling around it. "Kid... if you're bleeding, it needs to be looked at. Can you please come out?"

• "... No..." You shiver, trying to will yourself to be strong. If push comes to shove, you can't go down without a fight. What are you, afraid? You survived a murder attempt! SEVERAL, murder attempts! You can face some oversized whale, right?!

• "Kid, I can't take 'no' for an answer. Now, please come out. Don't make this difficult." The creature sounds tired now, maybe a little irritated. You let out a warbling click, the most threatening one you can muster. The creature stills, and seems to back off...

• Then... something weird happens. A loud, mournful wail-click, filled with a desperate, assertive tone rocks the waters, sending a cool ripple into you... But... the song sounds nice... Soothing... You shake your head, ripping yourself free from it.

• "No! I'm not going out there! You might eat me! Or WORSE!" you yell, covering your ears. The siren outside let's out an annoyed noise, only for it to pause...

• "Why the h*ll would I eat ya, kid? And what do you mean, 'do worse'?" Then there's a loud, deafening growl, and he speaks again. "The mers... they did that to you, didn't they?" When you don't speak up, he takes that as an answer. "Of course those sons of eels would do that... Kid, look, I'm not like them. We are not like them. We don't do that. We don't scare off kids, we don't try to kill 'em, and we definitely aren't about to make you bleed. Now, I'm going to say this one more time: Please come out."

• You shiver as the water only seems to get colder the longer you stay still... But still... "I... I can't...." You can't go back out there just to be chased off again, or have to battle against a siren whose older and stronger than you, who could easily rip you apart and leave you for the sharks...

• "I'm sorry, kid. That gives me no choice..." The calm wail-click starts again, and even though you try to cover your ears, it does nothing to block it out or to stop the vibrations rocking you gently. Tears enter your eyes, and you try to beg him to stop... But the song seems to echo inside your own head, a peaceful noise offering only relief and warmth... A small whimper escapes you, only for the song to get louder, softer, until you're lying down on the rocky floor and drifting off... The song keeps going, deep and affectionate, until you feel relaxed and tired... A slow rumble halts the song, and you let out a small warble, asking for it to come back...

• " 'Kay, kid, let's see ya." Something clicks besides you, dragging you out of the dark rock and into a warm palm. You sigh contentedly, the heat from it like the warmth of a thermal vent, constant and inviting... Something turns you, until you're staring into dark, vibrant eyes. You blink sluggishly, reaching out a hand to touch it...

• "Oh cr*p, kid... they did a number on you, didn't they?" A sad noise escapes you, and the voice stops. "Don't worry, we'll fix you up... Wait..." A nudge rolls you onto your stomach. "Kid... you look... just like me..." A croon comes from above you, and you feel more warmth pressed into you. "Okay, kid... Looks like I might just have to keep ya, huh? You sure are quite the little survivor, aren't you?" When you nod sleepily, the grip shifts, until your tucked against a warm wall... "'Kay, I can't say no to that... Let's get ya back to the pod, okay, kid? I know the other pups will be happy to see you..."

• You yawn, hearing a deep chuckle. "Seems like you need a nap... Night, kid. Get some rest. I'll keep you safe..." And with the gentle heat keeping you content and sleepy, you fall asleep... "Let's just hope Creed doesn't get word of you..."

[kkanabel]

apricity ❃ oneshot

fire spirit!bakugou katsuki x archaeologist!afab!reader / siberian au lmao

words: ~6.6k

T/W: nsfw, minors dni, yucky at the very end, fingering, porn with plot, overstimulation, size difference, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, alcohol use (not during the yucky but waay before the yucky), bakugou being bakugou, not beta read

directory/m.list

Frost clung to the window panes of your cabin as you pulled on the last of your layers—a thick, fur-lined coat with a hood drawn tight around your face and a scarf was wrapped around your nose and mouth. The mornings here were unforgiving, the bite of the wind sharp as knives as soon as you stepped outside. You grabbed the ax by the door, its handle starting to grow familiar in your gloved hands, and pushed the door open into the early morning light. A heavy breath left your mouth in a plume of white as you approached the woodpile, ready to chop enough firewood to keep your small cabin warm for the day.

Frost bites at your cheeks as you swing your ax down on a thick block of firewood as the crisp snap echoed in the cold air. Each heavy breath from you escapes in a foggy plume in the biting winds of Yakutia. The village sits nestled in a wide, snow-covered expanse, tucked into the curve of towering mountains, the sky above streaked in pale blue and white. It’s early morning, but the cold is already unforgiving, gnawing at your layers of fur and wool, testing the warmth of your windproof, insulated pants. 

A brief break in the wind brings a fleeting warmth from the sunlight— the sun’s faint brush over the top half of your face offering relief in the middle of a frozen landscape. You close your eyes for just a moment, savoring it, before returning to your task. The sound of the ax cutting into the wood mixes with the rustle of pine trees in the distance, their branches weighed down by heavy snow.

You swung the ax, splitting a log in two. The dry wood splintered easily, and the sound echoed in the quiet wilderness. The only other noise came from the wind as it howled through the trees, carrying with it the promise of an even colder day. The cold worked its way into your bones despite your many layers. You stayed in cold places before, but the tundra was different. It was a place where even warmth felt fleeting, only offered by a fire or the thick fur you wrapped yourself in.

Satisfied with the pile of wood you’d gathered, you stacked it by the cabin door before retreating inside, the warmth of the hearth greeting you. The fire crackled steadily, casting a golden glow against the dim interior. The gas stove hissed as you lit it, filling the kettle with water for tea. Your stomach growls, reminding you that breakfast is long overdue. 

The crackle of kindling and the warm orange glow spread throughout the small wooden cabin, where you've been staying during your research.

After tossing a few more logs into the fire, you set about making breakfast. It came together simply—creamy and warm fish broth, pancakes, and smoked fish—a meal that filled the small space with a comforting scent. The small palm-sized pancakes were crisp on the edges, their golden brown surface sizzling in the pan. You smile to yourself, remembering a tradition you picked up from other villages. 

As you finish cooking, you toss a pancake into the fire as an offering to whatever spirit might be watching over you. You heard it was a custom in your research. The villagers here don’t seem to do it, but it never hurts to be polite to the unknown.

By the time breakfast was finished, you had your notes spread out across the small wooden table, pencil scratching against the rough paper as you wrote. The village had called on your expertise after reports of strange events: food disappearing from homes, unexplained housefires, and villagers speaking in hushed tones about a spirit causing trouble.

You were already puzzled as to why the villagers would have called on an archaeologist and not an investigator. Your research into the village’s history has led you to strange old scrolls and whispers of a forgotten spirit, but the more time you spend here, the more you realize the villagers are reluctant to speak. The flickering firelight dances along the edge of your notes as you sip on a steaming cup of tea, savoring the warmth that spreads through your chest. 

Ghosts and spirits don’t exist, you reminded yourself. Still, there was something to be said about folklore. It was tied deeply to history, and that was your true interest—the stories behind the stories.

The villagers were tight-lipped, though— your inquiries had been met with vague answers and nervous glances. Today, you planned to spend more time in the village center, talking to whoever would listen. The old man who ran the inn had mentioned something about ancient scrolls kept by a family who had been in the village for generations. Perhaps you could find more information there.

Later, you head out to meet the villagers. Bundling up again, you stepped outside into the snow. The cold was immediate, but you pushed through it, your breath forming thick clouds in front of you as you made your way toward the heart of the village. 

Houses stood small and stoic against the barren landscape, with thick snow blanketing their roofs. Smoke rose lazily from the chimneys, the scent of burning wood hanging in the air. Snow crunches beneath your boots as you walk through the narrow, icy paths, nodding to the occasional passerby. The wind is sharp today, tugging at your fur-lined hood. 

You hunch your shoulders against the cold as you make your way to the center of the village, where a small crowd has gathered. The scent of charred wood hit you before you saw the blackened remains of the structure, now little more than rubble. Your heart skipped. Another fire? The villagers spoke in low murmurs, and as you drew closer, you overheard snippets of conversation about the thief who lived there—a man who had stolen from his neighbors. 

You frowned, remembering a neighbor of yours had told you to stay away from the man who was known to frequent bars and have sticky fingers. The same man used to live in this home that was no more than a pile of charcoal.

You’ve heard the rumors about the “spirit”—they say it punishes those who harm the village, but you’re not convinced. Fires like these happen in dry regions all the time, and it’s not uncommon for Yakutia, even in winter. You jot down a few notes, watching the fire consume the house, the warmth a stark contrast to the frigid air biting at your skin.

Was it possible the spirit the villagers whispered about had been punishing him? Or was it just an unfortunate accident, a result of negligence and the harsh conditions?

You shook your head, noting down the details. The more you learned, the stranger the situation became. It was only when you returned to your cabin that evening, exhausted from talking to the hesitant villagers, that you realized just how strange things had become.

Later that day, you return to your cabin, taking in the familiar creaks of the wooden floor under your boots and the soft flicker of your gas lamp lighting the room. The air inside is only a little warmer than the biting cold outside, but the crackling of the fire in the stove offers some comfort.

You sit at your table, flipping through pages of your notebook. The pencil scratches lightly against the paper as you record observations, every sound amplified in the quiet room. The rhythmic back-and-forth fills the space, a welcome lull amid the chaos of your investigation.

A knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts.

Standing in the doorway is one of the villagers—a man about your age, wrapped in thick furs with snow dusting his shoulders. You’d visited his family home a little while ago to ask about the happenings around the village, but their answers remained vague as all the others.

He’s cradling something in his hands. His breath fogs in the cold air as he shifts his weight, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of curiosity and something warmer. “I found these,” he says, extending his hands toward you. “Thought you might want to take a look.”

In his arms are ancient stone blocks, their surfaces engraved with symbols, faint but intricate. Your eyes widen at the sight. These carvings look similar to what you’ve seen before but older, almost primitive in comparison to the more refined relics you'd encountered earlier.

“Where did you find these?” you ask, stepping closer.

“In my house,” he replies, shrugging as if it’s no big deal. “They were buried under some old planks. Figured they were important.”

You offer him a grateful smile. “Thank you. These could be a huge help.”

He smiles back, a little too long. “I hope so. It’s, uh, the least I could do. The villagers… we don’t really know what’s going on with all this, but I figured you’d be the one to figure it out.”

As a thank-you, you hand him a small bag of food—some dried meats and bread you had stored away. His face lights up, and he nods gratefully before leaving you alone again to examine the stone blocks.

The sun sets quickly in the tundra, and soon, the only light in your cabin comes from the gas lamps and the fire’s low embers. You’re absorbed in studying the runes when a familiar knock sounds at the door again. When you open it, the man stands there once more, his eyes glinting in the soft lamplight. You let him in, not wanting him to stay in the cold for too long.

“I wanted to tell you more,” he says, a little breathless from the cold or perhaps something else. He shifts on his feet, seemingly nervous. “There are stories—whispers, really. The villagers don’t talk about it much, but some say there was once a spirit who protected us. He might’ve even been part of our village, long ago.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And why wouldn’t anyone mention that?”

“They’re ashamed, I think,” he replies, his voice low. “It’s been forgotten over time. No one’s sure what happened, but... there are theories that we abandoned him, and he’s been angry ever since. That’s why the strange things have been happening.”

You nod, processing the information. It feels like a piece of a much larger puzzle, but there’s still so much missing.

As he talks, you notice the way he looks at you—his eyes linger a little too long, his words carrying a soft edge of admiration. He’s clearly interested, but you decide to brush it off for now. You smile politely, pretending not to notice the way his gaze follows you as you walk back to your table. You’ll be leaving the village as soon as you finish the case, so you didn’t want to lead him on.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice firm but kind. “This is really helpful. I’ll look into it.”

The man nods, his shoulders slumping slightly as though he expected more. “Of course,” he says, his voice quieter now. “If you need anything else, just let me know.”

As he leaves, the door shuts with a soft click, and you turn back to the runes, your thoughts swimming with new possibilities. If what he said was true, there’s more to this mystery than the villagers are willing to admit. And now, it seems like the forgotten spirit might hold the key to it all.

A couple days later, as you ice fish by the frozen river, you set your net and lean back, watching the starting to sun dip on the horizon. The quiet stretches around you, broken only by the occasional crack of ice shifting in the distance. You peer down at your catch, noting the modest haul in your net. Then you blink—there, next to your net, are two large whitefish lying in the snow, far too large to have escaped without you noticing.

Confused, you glance around. No one is near. The fish are pristine, untouched by the ice or snow, as if they had been placed there deliberately. You shake your head, chalking it up to luck. Maybe they jumped out when you weren’t paying attention? The reflection in the water catches your eye, and for a fleeting moment, you see the sharp jawline of a handsome man’s face turned towards you as if he were ice fishing with you. You blink again, startled, and the image is gone when a fish swims by and ripples the water—just your own face reflected in the water.

You shake your head. It’s nothing. Maybe I’ve just been single for too long… 

You thought about contacting that man from the other day for just a moment. 

Later that night, after cleaning the fish and preparing a simple dinner of stroganina—raw, thin slices of frozen whitefish—you sit by the fire, letting the warmth soothe your tired muscles. The fish melts on your tongue, rich and buttery, as you sip water to wash it down. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched. You chalked it up to exhaustion. After all, nothing had happened that you couldn’t explain away with logic and reason. You even joked to yourself as you drank water, “If only I had some vodka to go with this.”

You took another sip, and suddenly the liquid burned down your throat.

You froze.

This time, there was no logical explanation. You looked down at the cup in your hands, heart pounding in your chest. How had the water changed? You hadn’t touched anything else, but the unmistakable burn of alcohol lingered.

Startled, you stare down at your cup, heart pounding. This—this can’t be explained away. Your mind entertained the thought of a Siberian Jesus Christ. 

The fire crackled behind you, its warmth now somehow menacing. The quiet of the tundra felt heavier, the weight of the mystery pressing down on your chest. This place, this village—it wasn’t just the cold that seeped into your bones. There was something else here. Something old. Something powerful.

The next morning, footsteps in the snow led you away from the village, out into the wilderness. 

The morning air was crisp, each breath leaving a wisp of white in the early sunlight. You bundled yourself tightly against the cold, pulling your fur-lined hood closer around your face. As you stepped outside, you noticed something strange—footprints, fresh in the untouched snow, leading away from your cabin. They hadn’t been there the night before, and curiosity tugged at you.

You followed them, your boots crunching softly against the snow. The air was still, save for the occasional rustling of distant trees swaying under the weight of frost. The path led deeper into the woods, the towering trees gradually closing in around you, until the footprints stopped at the mouth of a small, hidden cave.

The entrance was barely visible, half-buried in snow, but something about it drew you in. You knelt down, brushing the snow from the edges, revealing intricate stone blocks covered in carvings similar to the ones the village boy had brought you. Painted masks, adorned with swirling patterns of reds and whites, lined the inner walls, and Yakutian knives were arranged in ceremonial positions.

The air inside the cave was still, almost too still. You fumbled for your matchsticks, striking one and holding it up to cast a soft glow around you. The light flickered over the stone walls, revealing carvings of fire and snow—an odd combination, yet it made sense somehow, here in this frozen land. It felt like a shrine, a forgotten place of worship, long abandoned.

In the corner of your eye, you noticed a small stone just outside the cave. It was partially dusted in snow, but the engravings on it were clear. You leaned down, brushing it off with your gloved hand.

The instant your fingers touched the stone, a deep, gravelly voice echoed from behind you. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You squealed, whipping around, only to find no one there. Your heart hammered in your chest, and you stumbled backward, falling straight into the snow. There were no footprints, no sign of anyone else. Just the eerie silence of the winter woods.

The spirit’s presence began to grow after you got home. Not just in the subtle warmth of the room or the way the hearth crackled to life at your arrival, but in the unmistakable feeling that he was always near. The warmth you once chalked up to the peculiarities of the stove now seemed deliberate, purposeful. The fire would roar to life just as your fingers began to freeze from the cold, as if it were watching, anticipating your needs.

It was no longer a question of if the spirit was real, but how deeply it was intertwined with the world around you. Every time you struck a match or lit a lantern, the flames danced longer than they should, their movements almost playful, as though teasing you. You tried to brush it off as wind or the natural flicker of fire, but something about the way the flames moved—how they seemed to respond to your presence—was undeniable.

It was trying to communicate.

It started with the crackling of the fire. At first, it was faint, like a low murmur beneath the sound of the wood burning. You would sit in front of the hearth after a long day of research, the warmth enveloping you, the sound becoming a constant companion. There were times you swore you heard words in the fire’s crackle, an indistinct whisper. "It’s just the wind," you told yourself. "Just the wood popping." But the more time passed, the clearer it became. The crackling wasn’t random—it carried meaning.

Then, one evening as you sat alone in the cabin after tossing a pancake into the fire, a cold gust of wind howling outside, you finally heard it: “You’re back.”

The voice was faint, almost lost in the sound of the firewood splitting, but it was there—low, gravelly, and unmistakable. You froze, heart pounding, eyes wide in surprise as you stared at the flames. For a moment, you thought you’d imagined it. But the voice came again, just as you leaned closer. “You’re not afraid.”

You weren’t sure how to respond. Your throat felt tight, your hands clammy despite the warmth. You tried to rationalize it—maybe you were exhausted, hallucinating from the cold. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t your imagination. Slowly, carefully, you muttered, “Am I... supposed to be afraid?”

The flames flickered in response, and you could swear you heard a huff, like a quiet laugh. Then the voice returned, clearer this time. “You’re stubborn.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that, a mix of amusement and confusion swirling inside you. “If you’re a spirit,” you said softly, “then show me a sign. Let me know I’m not losing my mind.”

There was a pause, and for a moment you thought maybe the voice wouldn’t return. But then, the fire roared, flaring up for just a second, casting the entire cabin in a brilliant light. The heat was so intense that you instinctively stepped back, heart hammering in your chest.

So it was real.

The days after that were filled with small, subtle gestures. The fire seemed to burn longer without the need for more wood. When you struggled to chop firewood or gather supplies, you would return to your cabin to find fresh logs stacked neatly by the door or a basket of fish left outside. You didn’t question it anymore, though each act left you both grateful and uneasy. Eventually, he told you his name— Bakugou Katsuki.

"Thank you," you whispered to the fire one evening, unsure if Bakugou could hear you but needing to acknowledge the help he had provided.

The flames flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and you could almost sense his presence, as though he were sitting just beyond the hearth, watching over you.

It wasn’t just the warmth he brought. It was the feeling of protection, a sense that he was always there, keeping the biting cold at bay. The wind howled outside, but inside, the fire crackled with a steady, comforting heat, as though Bakugou himself were standing guard over your cabin.

As the connection between you and Bakugou deepened, so did the manifestations of his presence. There were times when you could feel warmth pass by you in the room, like an invisible hand brushing against your skin. And then, there were the footprints. In the mornings, you would find faint impressions in the snow outside your door—footprints too large to be your own, too distinct to be explained by passing animals. They led away from the cabin, disappearing into the woods where the trees whispered in the wind.

One night, after a long day of gathering research and barely avoiding frostbite, you collapsed onto the bed, too tired to even remove your boots. You stared into the hearth, watching the flames sway and shift. As you drifted off, you swore you saw something in the fire—a figure, tall and broad-shouldered, standing amidst the flames.

"Bakugou," you whispered, sleep pulling you under. The fire flared again, and in the brief moment before darkness claimed you, you felt the warmth of his presence like a blanket around your body, lulling you into a peaceful sleep.

With each passing day, Bakugou’s presence grew stronger. There were moments when you caught glimpses of him in reflections—on the frozen surface of a nearby pond or in the gleam of a window. He would appear for just a moment, the outline of a figure, the flicker of a flame in his eyes, and then he’d be gone, as though the world itself was trying to remember him.

"Why were you forgotten?" you asked the fire one evening, your voice barely a whisper. There was no immediate answer, but the flames shifted, as though Bakugou were trying to find the words.

"It wasn’t supposed to be like this," came the gravelly voice at last, softer than before. "I was supposed to protect this village. But something... something changed."

You waited, hoping for more, but the fire quieted, the conversation left unfinished. You knew he was withholding something, something important, but he wasn’t ready to reveal it just yet.

As the winter deepened, so did your connection. The emotional tension between you and Bakugou simmered just beneath the surface. He was no longer just a spirit haunting your cabin—he was a presence, a force that kept you safe, a companion in the long, cold nights. And as his voice grew more familiar, so did your thoughts about him. You started to look forward to the conversations by the hearth, the way the flames would flicker in response to your words, how his presence made the cabin feel less lonely, less cold.

But with that warmth came an ache, a yearning that neither of you dared to speak of yet. You wondered how far this connection could go, how real Bakugou could become.

One thing was certain: you were no longer alone in the tundra. And Bakugou, once forgotten, was starting to be remembered—by you.

The air was sharp and cold as you made your way back to the shrine, a small group of villagers following behind you. In your hands, you held an offering—a bundle of dried herbs, fish, and pancakes, all delicately wrapped in cloth. The villagers murmured amongst themselves, nervous but willing. They, too, had grown weary of the strange occurrences and were ready to do whatever was necessary to end them.

The old man leading the group had spoken of the fire spirit with reverence, explaining that the villagers once honored Bakugou with offerings to ensure their prosperity. Over time, however, the traditions had been forgotten, and with it, so had Bakugou’s power. Now, you were determined to set things right.

The path through the woods felt familiar. You’d followed it before, and yet today, it carried a different weight. You could feel him, his presence in the air, watching you from the shadows of the trees. It was as if the entire forest was holding its breath.

When you arrived at the shrine—a cave hidden deep within the woods—the villagers began to build a bonfire at its entrance. They stacked wood and kindling, and soon, flames licked the sky, casting the ancient stone carvings in a warm, flickering light. The shrine walls, covered in depictions of fire and snow, seemed to glow under the fire's embrace.

You approached the altar, laying the offerings down gently. The villagers bowed their heads, murmuring prayers to the forgotten spirit, asking for forgiveness. As you knelt beside the offerings, you couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder, feeling an intense heat—not from the bonfire, but from somewhere deeper within the cave.

For a moment, the flames crackled louder, and the ground beneath you seemed to hum with energy. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, everything went quiet. The strange occurrences in the village—the fires, the whispers in the wind, the unsettling feeling of being watched—ceased. You could feel it, a weight lifting off the air. The offering had been accepted.

The villagers left soon after, grateful for your leadership and certain that Bakugou’s anger had been soothed. But you lingered, something pulling you back toward the cave.

Once the others were out of sight, you found yourself drawn deeper into the shrine. The carvings on the walls seemed even more intricate in the dim light, and you ran your fingers over the smooth stone, marveling at the ancient craftsmanship. Your thoughts wandered to him, to Bakugou. Was he truly satisfied with the offerings? Would you ever see him again?

A soft crackling sound broke the silence. You froze, every hair on your body standing on end. Slowly, you turned around, your breath catching in your throat.

There he stood.

Bakugou, no longer a fleeting presence or a whisper in the flames, but solid and real, towering over you. He was just as you’d imagined—no, more. His bare chest, muscled and powerful, was only partially covered by a thick fur that draped over one shoulder. His skin seemed to shimmer with warmth, his eyes blazing red like embers. He exuded strength, yet his gaze—intense and unwavering—held something deeper. Hunger.

"You came back," his voice rumbled, low and gravelly, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your mouth went dry. "I… I wanted to make sure the offering was enough."

He didn’t answer immediately, his fiery gaze trailing over you, making your skin tingle under the intensity of his stare. Then, with one swift movement, he closed the distance between you, pinning you gently against the cool stone of the cave wall. The heat of his body was overwhelming, a stark contrast to the cold of the cave, and you felt your pulse race.

"You shouldn’t be here alone," Bakugou growled, his breath hot against your skin.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words were lost as his lips crashed against yours, fierce and demanding. His kiss was consuming, like the fire he embodied—wild, uncontrollable, and impossible to resist. You melted against him, your hands instinctively reaching up to grip his shoulders, feeling the taut muscles beneath your fingers.

His body pressed against yours, his warmth enveloping you as his hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer. The world outside the cave disappeared—there was only Bakugou, his touch, his heat, and the insistent press of his lips against yours. You gasped as his hand moved up your back, sending sparks of electricity through your body.

The intensity of the kiss left you breathless, and when he finally pulled away, just enough to let you catch your breath, his lips brushed against your ear. “You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he murmured, his voice a husky whisper.

You barely had time to respond before the world shifted. One moment, you were in the cave, pressed against the stone; the next, you were back in your cabin, the familiar warmth of the hearth surrounding you. But Bakugou was still there, standing tall before you, his hands still on your body, his lips only inches from yours.

Your eyes widened in shock. “How…?”

He smirked, his eyes gleaming. “Fire is everywhere,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. “And where there’s fire, I can be.”

Before you could fully comprehend what he’d just said, his lips were on yours again, softer this time but no less urgent. He kissed you like a man who had waited centuries for this moment, his hands exploring your body with a reverence that made your knees weak.

The fire in the hearth flared behind you, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow as Bakugou’s body pressed against yours, his heat making your skin burn with desire. Every touch, every kiss felt like it was stoking the flames inside you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting more.

You moaned softly against his lips, your hands tangling in his hair as the intensity between you grew, the connection undeniable. He growled in response, deepening the kiss, his grip tightening as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Whatever boundaries had existed between the mortal world and the spirit realm no longer mattered. In that moment, there was only you and Bakugou—fire and flesh, spirit and soul, bound together in a heat that refused to be extinguished.

Without a word, he approached you, his movements as fluid as molten lava. He bent down and claimed your lips, You gasped at the contact, your body responding with a fiery need that matched his own. 

He quickly peeled off your many layers of clothes. His hands found their way under your pants, taking them off as his touch burned your skin and he spread your legs. The world outside the cabin faded away, leaving only the two of you and the dance of shadows on the walls.

Bakugou knelt before you, his intense crimson eyes never leaving yours as he parted your folds with his fingers. You shrunk under his close gaze as he took the sight of you in. “So perfect,” he groaned, grabbing at your soft thighs with two large hands and spreading you out for him.

 The first lick of his tongue sent you spiraling, the sensation intense on your clit. You moaned, your hands grabbing at his blonde spikes, your body arching towards the heat of his mouth. He took his time, tasting you, savoring you, driving you closer and closer to the edge of release.

But just as you felt yourself about to fall over the edge, you pushed him back, the need to explore his body consuming you. 

You pushed him onto the ground, pulling down at his pants. “It’s my turn,” you proclaimed. 

He looked up at you, a question in his eyes, but you didn't waver. You dropped to your knees pulling down his pants and gasping when his hard shaft bounced out of the fabric. It was the size of your face, and its girth was something else. 

He noticed your awe at him, and his ego was inflated even more than it already is. “Like what you see?”

You roll your eyes, taking his thick length in your hand and bringing it to your lips before giving the tip a peck. He groaned, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the cabin. Your hand grasped at his strong thighs. Teasing him, you spent time kissing all over his outer and inner thighs before moving to his shaft. 

You took your time, exploring every inch of him with your mouth, worshipping him as he deserved. You licked him up and down his hot length, watching as his eyes screwed together in pleasure before you took his whole length into your mouth— up and down his length in a bobbing motion.

His hands tangled in your hair, guiding you, urging you faster as he grew harder. The heat of his body was intoxicating, his scent a heady mix of sweet smoke and masculinity that made your head spin.

The fire in the hearth of the cabin roared to life, casting shadows across the room as you brought him closer and closer to the edge. His groans filled your ears, the only sound in the quiet night, until he could take no more. With a final, desperate thrust, he emptied himself into your mouth, the heat of his cum like liquid fire. 

Bakugou chuckled, his eyes never leaving yours as he lifted you to your feet. He picked you up with ease, carrying you to the soft fur that lay before the fireplace. Gently, he laid you down, your skin feeling like it was on fire from the heat of his touch.

"Your body," he murmured, tracing the curves of your hips with his thumb, "it's a masterpiece.” He leaned down, capturing a nipple with his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. You arched your back, gasping as the heat from his breath melded with the warmth from the fire, making it feel like you were melting from the inside out.

"Bakugou," you moaned, his name a prayer on your lips as he moved to your other breast, giving it the same loving attention. His hands roamed over your stomach, his fingers finding their way between your legs again. 

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Katsuki,” he corrected, as he began to fuck you with them, slow and deep, watching as your eyes fluttered closed and your mouth fell open in ecstasy.

As he worked his fingers into you, a low hum escaped him. “So damn tight,” watching as your face wrinkled up in pleasure. 

"Look at me," he growled, his voice a demand that you couldn't refuse. You met his gaze, the intensity of his stare making your heart race even faster. His thumb brushed against your clit as his lips pulled themselves into a grin as he sent a shockwave through your body. "I want to see you come apart for me."

As soon as he said these words, his fingers curled directly into your sweet spot. Your vision went white with pleasure. In the background, his grin only became more animalistic as he leaned down to catch a nipple into his mouth. His fingers worked you to the edge, driving you crazy.

The orgasm crashed over you like a massive wave, leaving you trembling and gasping for air. Your thighs were wet and sticky with your own release.

He watched you, his own arousal evident in the way he held himself, his eyes never leaving yours. "That was just the beginning," he promised, his voice a rumble that sent another shiver down your spine.

He watched you— all spread out and pretty for him on the fur, watching the warm light of the fire bounce off your delectable skin as you tried to catch your breath and your legs shook. He couldn’t help but mark you up all over as he sent you over the edge once more with his lips and fingers this time. A light chuckle left him as you cried out his name and writhed underneath him— overstimulation already starting to take over.

Your breathless voice called out to him in the small space of the cabin. “Katsuki,” you beckoned, “please… I need it.” You knew that he kept going at this rate, you’d go insane.

“You sure, princess? You think you can take it now?�� His head kept burying itself between your legs, kitten licking at your clit before sucking at it and thrusting his fingers in and out of you. “You’re still not loose enough,” he says as he curls his fingers up again, releasing a squeal from you. 

You just kept cumming— each time you came, your walls only got more and more sensitive, pulling you to orgasm again.

Bakugou watched in sadistic joy every time your walls tightened further around his fingers. He came back up to you to catch your moaning lips into a kiss before trailing down and leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses all over your neck and chest. When he started playing with your clit again, you came again, tears welling up in your eyes from sheer pleasure. 

Your mind couldn’t fathom anything but Bakugou. Your mouth cried out broken strings of his name until he finally withdrew his fingers from your core, licking them up lasciviously. He lined himself up with you, tapping his tip against your puffy clit, making you jolt. Your entrance was still convulsing from your long string of climaxes as he finally pushed himself against it, groaning when he felt himself slip past the ring of muscle. 

He took in a sharp breath of air. “Could you quit clenching?” His head rolled back in pleasure, not even fully inside of you yet. “I’m already,” he pushes himself in further, “strugglin’ as it is…”

He was so thick. It filled you up, making you cum when he was only buried into your walls up until the tip and then some. “I’m sorry,” you managed to whine out, breathless, “I can’t help it!”

With these words, he froze and stared at you climaxing before pushing the rest of himself in, causing you to scream. He gave you a moment to relax with his entire shaft inside of you. You felt so full— he stretched you out so good. “So noisy,” he smirked, only spurring your voice to get louder with each thrust.

He started to pick up a steady pace, pistoning in and out of you. Each thrust made you shudder—his length stretched you out perfectly and hit you in all of the right places. Your hands gripped at the fur beneath you for any sort of purchase. He wiped one of your tears away, burying his head into the crook of your neck and groaning with each thrust. 

You believed that spirits didn’t exist, but here you were, getting dicked down by one. And you were sure as hell enjoying it.

As he pounded away at you, your eyes rolled back into your head, your moans turning into cries. He was so rough, so primal in his movements, it was like he was trying to claim you. And with every thrust, it felt like he was getting closer to doing so. 

He kissed down your neck, nipping at the soft skin with his teeth. His hands roamed over your body, gripping your hips tightly as he thrusted in deeper and harder. The noises of your pussy squelching in the cabin were obscene, but they only served to spur Bakugou on.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmured against your skin.

His thrusts were getting faster and more erratic, so you knew he was close. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him on, needing him to fill you up with his heat. And then, with one final, powerful thrust, he did. You felt the warmth of his cum fill you up, spilling into your womb like molten lava.

He collapsed onto you, panting heavily. His weight was a comforting presence as he remained inside of you, his cock still pulsing with every beat of his heart. You could feel his warmth seep into your very core, leaving you feeling complete in a way you never had before.

As the moments passed, he slowly pulled out of you, his cum dripping out and down your thighs. You watched as he looked down, his eyes widening in awe at the sight. He leaned down to kiss you, his hand cupping your cheek. “You’re mine now,” he whispered.

a/n: we're back!

lol not beta read again please let me know if you see any typos or anything that's just like. wrong/inconsistent

my taglist is open! lmk if you wanna be tagged in future bakugou fics or j all my fics in general

thank you for reading & stay hydrated, y'all <3

[andkisses]

♡ a good way | beomgyu ♡

despite the director casting you and beomgyu, your best friend, as the romantic leads, you both promise it won’t change anything between you

♡ beomgyu x gn!reader | wc. 9.1k ♡ genres/tropes: college!au, friends-to-loves, theater!au, hurt/comfort ♡ mentions of/warnings: injuries, lmk if there's anything else ♡ a/n: this is a rewrite of a fic i wrote and posted YEARS ago; unfortunately it was eaten up when i accidentally deleted my blog :’) it was originally for joshua from svt; i changed some of the times in the fic from the original, so if it’s a little wonky that’s why :’) pls enjoy ! <3 at the time it was my longest fic, now only second to roman holiday ^^ a/n 2: apologies for my absences ! i had some health issues even tho it was supposed to be my break :') im doing well now ^^

♡ masterlist ♡

It was strange. Weird. Practically unfathomable and there must be some kind of mistake. The play had those two characters as romantic leads. The ones who slowly turn to look at each other, catch the starry glint in the other’s eye before slowly leaning in, before slowly closing their eyes, before slowly feeling their heartbeat accelerate because oh heavens this is it—before slowly kissing each other for the first time with such tender passion some members of the audience start to cry.

Those roles were not ever meant for the ones who have been friends since seventh grade, where one of them accidentally tripped and tossed their lunch all over the other, rendering the former an apologetic mess and the latter slightly smelling of garlic for the rest of the day. Not for the ones who stayed up far too late binge watching whole seasons of anime because they finally turned in that big project and it’s in fate’s hands now. Definitely not friends who are each other’s best friends, always. Never them.

But when the director swings back to the two of you, the mischievous and excited glint in his eye is unmistakable. His giddiness even bubbles over and he repeats himself, happily gazing between you and the best friend of 8 years standing beside you. “Beomgyu, Y/N, you will be the best two leads this stage has ever seen.”

You don’t want to talk about it. You avoid it for as long as possible. Have every conversation about everything else possible except the one topic that actually needs discussion. The trees outside are slowly losing their crunchy leaves, littering the ground with crimson and gold and sprigs of chocolate in between. They rustle and fuss when walked over, and shuffle down the street in a hoard of warning, proclaiming threats of the bitter winds of winter that would soon approach and engulf everyone whole.

Some mornings, you can see remnants of late-night frost on window panes, icy designs laced over the glass in the early morning hours. The grass glistens and shimmers with frozen dew, and the sidewalk is slippery enough to encourage walking slowly or bypassing concrete altogether and walking through the dead leaves. Some nights, you can see your breath curl as you wait outside the diner, a translucent white beast disappearing into the night. As night draws darker earlier, the air grows colder, like a mysterious ghost. One moment, you’re warm—the next, a bitter chill sprints around you, immersing everything in a coldness that drills past your layers and settles into your bones.

But you’d wait a thousand years in the cold just to walk him home. You’d wait forever if it meant seeing him one last time before the day ended and blurred into the next through a series of dreams and quiet darkness.

Beomgyu is one of the last few people out of the diner; he never closes, but he stays as long as he can, helping out and cleaning before his boss gets angry and tells him to “go home! Don’t you have homework?” When he steps out onto the street, making sure to close the door behind him, he’s safely bundled up in a black pea coat and a plaid woolen scarf that, when wound up, nearly encompasses his neck, chin, and even the bottom tips of his ears. When he sees you waiting for him again, he smiles, eyes lighting up like firecrackers and his grin is so warm it starts to defrost your bones, slowly but surely.

“You know you don’t have to wait for me?” he says, falling in step with you as the two of you began the chilled trek back to your apartment.

“Yeah,” you shrug, “but then who will make sure you don’t get lost on your way back? Or, I don’t know, get eaten by a star-monster?”

“A star-monster?” He quirks his head towards you, raising his eyebrow in mild but amused confusion.

You nod your head. “What if the stars gang up on you and snatch you right off the face of the earth and you disappear into the sky? And no one knows or can save you because I wasn’t there? Hm?”

A bitter chuckle escapes his lips. The white curl of his breath fills the air in front of him before it fades, taking the bright look in his eyes with it. “Then I guess I wouldn’t have to be a part of the musical, would I?”

Silence washes over you like a breaking wave—it hurts and stings, knocking everything away and tossing the tiny ships around into chaos. The only sound now is the brush of the wind skirting the leaves down the street with you and the distant city noise. The heels of your shoes hit the pavement in time together, and your breaths slowly start to match up. But something’s off; you feel it in your heart and your bones begin to ache again as the cold ice returns once more, spreading their chilled fingers across them.

Somehow, you find your voice, but it’s quiet and small. “It couldn’t be that bad, could it?”

Beomgyu shrugs, looking anywhere but you. He throws his head back and stares up at the night sky, where the stars kindly twinkle back at him, almost as a promise of we’d never steal you away. You look up, too, but all you see is a menacing darkness that you’re not sure you can get rid of. It feels like it’s bearing down on you, pressing down on your head, your shoulders, and your heart. With it comes a dark doubt, one that oozes into the cracks of your armor and makes you start to question things. It beckons out the dangerous thoughts—the what ifs—and coaxes them into the light and forces you to acknowledge them. What if... this changes things. What if... it ruins things. What if...

“Y/N?”

Your gaze drops back down. Beomgyu stands a few yards ahead of you, in the light of one of the yellow streetlamps. You must have stopped while lost in thought, slowing down until you ended up stuck in between two lamps, in the shadowy part. “Hm?”

He shakes his head. “You just stopped walking.” He turns toward you completely and quickens his pace until he’s beside you again. The look on his face screams of concern, of wondering if his best friend is fine or if it’s something he can’t fix. He reaches out to take your hand in his. “Is everything okay?”

Your heart swells, but it still feels as if it will break, shatter, crumble at any time or place. It feels like porcelain, that if it isn’t handled with care and marked FRAGILE, it will ruin to the point that nothing can fix it. You know what question you have to ask; it’s weighing down on your tongue and you’ll have to force it out.

You gulp, and you can feel your hand shaking in his. Beomgyu’s eyebrows knit together, his starry eyes trying to search for what’s wrong. For what is in need of helping. You stare back at him, garnering the courage to ask the question that’s been plaguing you since roles had been assigned. “The show–it won’t change anything between us, will it?”

And then, he does something unthinkable.

He laughs.

Beomgyu lets go of your hand and bends over in half, practically cackling at the idea, whisker dimples on full display. When he stands back up again, he’s still laughing hard enough he crinkles into your frame, resting a hand on your shoulder and burying his head into your neck, an arm resting across his stomach. His body shakes with laughter, and it’s infectious. A grin slowly spreads across your face, and then a giggle works its way out until the two of you are both laughing like fools. You may be between two lampposts in the shadows, but there’s light where you are.

When the laughter finally subsides to gentle smiles, Beomgyu takes your hand again and tugs you close. He starts walking again, pulling you along, swinging your arms between the two of you. He knocks into your shoulder jokingly, and the both of you smile harder.  “Of course not,” Beomgyu says. His smile is pure, assuring. The hand in yours is warm, stable. “Nothing will ever change us.”

Seventh Grade.

The auditorium was full of anxious students, the buzz of noise telling the story of those who were waiting for their turn to shine on stage. The lights were turned on as bright as they would be for a performance, and the stage was decorated with real props from last semester’s performance, a steampunk rendition of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. No one thought the director could pull it off, but when the curtains closed for the last time that first showing, everyone was left starstruck and a new round of students was inspired to try out for the next performance.

A loud clap from the director thundered through the auditorium, signaling for attention and shocking you into your seat a little further. The red fabric bristled against whatever skin your sweater didn’t cover. Outside, the harsh winter weather pummeled the barren landscape, the dead, empty tree branches getting whipped by the bitter, unforgiving wind. The light dusting of snow made everything brighter, almost to the point it hurt to look out the windows at the white world. Inside, however, was full of warm tones and warm breaths. The heat of the auditorium practically had you sweltering, making you wish you had worn layers instead of a bright green sweater. The threads around the collar began to itch at your neck, and you tugged at the hem in search of relief. You really wanted to be here. You really wanted to audition. But the number of people and how long you’ve waited has started to play mind games with you. What if they don’t get to you today? What if they skip over you entirely for someone else? Someone with more theater experience from prior years than you, a complete newbie? What if—

“Hey, uh, is this seat taken?”

You looked up, still fiddling with your itchy collar. It was the boy from the day before—Beomgyu. The one who had accidentally tripped over someone else’s backpack and thrown his lunch all over you. He looked like a complete wreck, one hand holding onto the wrist of the other arm, his dark brown hair falling into his eyes as he struggled to even look in your direction. You shelf your own nerves and offer up a kind smile and pat the seat, which he hastily filled.

It’s quiet between the two of you for a while afterward. On stage, more students rotated through songs and performances, some spectacular and others a little lackluster. It was beginning to become monotonous, and your mind started to wonder if you had gotten here earlier, would you have already auditioned by now? But then something happened. A student walked on stage, introduced themselves politely, and then began to blow everyone and every other performance out of the water. The way they moved, spoke, sang—everything they did was captivating and you felt yourself leaning forward in your seat, drawing ever nearer to the practically perfect audition. There was no music playing in the background, but their vocals and stage presence was more than enough. The entire auditorium erupted in applause when the student on stage finished.

“Wow,” you breathed out. You’d practically fallen out of the chair—feet standing on tiptoes, elbows on knees, chin rested in your cupped hands with a shimmer in your eyes. That. You wanted to be like that. Bewitching, enchanting, and utterly spellbinding.

“I know right?” the boy whispered beside you. The two of you turned to look at each other, and somehow, in the back of your mind, you registered he was sitting the same way you were, looking completely and utterly enraptured with the previous performance. He stared into your eyes—the first time, you noted—and you could see the stars, like a secret milky way full of wonder. There was a serious note in them. “Let’s both do our best so when we grow up, we can be that good.”

“No.” You shook your head, and Beomgyu’s face collapsed into confusion. You shook your head again, this time with a mischievous grin spreading across your lips. “No, when we grow up, we’ll be way better.”

A murmur ripples around campus. Sophomore year of college, and all of high school behind you. You’d think you would be used to it by now, the way quiet words spread around so sneakily but somehow always managed to make their way to your ears, too. But when the girls in the bathroom see you and slyly turn away, whispering how you and Beomgyu have the romantic leads, how of course they do, you can’t help but feel the knot in your stomach form and twist your insides until you feel pressure on your heart as well. Until it feels like you’re about to burst and spill everywhere. You want to spin at them, throw your hands out, and tell them how it’s not like that! That there’s nothing between the two of you except for friendship, the purest of kinds! Stop thinking that way!

But the wiser part of you, the one that’s been through high school, knows that they would just nod their head and try to hide their smirk. You can’t change their minds; they’ll always be thinking and imagining what they want.

Outside, the halls teem with people trying to get to their next class or break. You debate on stopping by your locker near the theater—you won’t need your books again until you go home thanks to rehearsal, but it would be out of your way to get there, on the opposite side of the arts block. But your books are heavy. Really heavy. Like shoulder-breaking, premature back pain-inducing heavy. You find that your feet have started to take you through the crowds to your locker before your mind decides on the plan itself.

In middle school, your and Beomgyu’s lockers were practically as far as they could be from one another. Yours by the gymnasium and near the arts building and the theater. With your mismatched class schedules, you only got to see each other at lunch and for theater. As your friendship grew, he would let you borrow locker space. It got to the point where you basically co-owned each other’s lockers; everything for classes on his side of the building was in his locker and everything for classes on your side was in yours.

By the time high school rolled around two grades later, the two of you were inseparable. As were your lockers. His at one end of the hall, yours at the other end on the opposite side. This only caused trouble junior year, when the two of you had such a bad falling out you could hardly bare to walk past one another’s locker let alone the other person. You would end up taking roundabout ways to your own locker, which worked until you ended up running into him one day without warning.

But you don’t have that problem now. As you walk past Beomgyu, who’s standing by his locker talking to another theater kid, you lightly slug his shoulder. You turn to walk backward and catch his reaction, and he’s staring back at you with fake confusion and his arms thrown up in the air. “You’ll pay for that!” he calls after you.

“Yeah, yeah, sure I will!”

You reach your locker, a happy smile on your face, glad your best friend is the kind of person you can beat up on. You spin the lock with precision, ready to open the door, slam your books inside on the shelf, and hurry to the theater for rehearsals. You can’t wait to see what strange exercises the director would have up his sleeve today; last time, he had everyone stand on the steps in the audience and each time they recited a line correctly, they got to move up two steps. First to the top wins; you and Beomgyu tied for first.

When you pull out the lock and swing the door open, what you see ruins your mood instantly. The crisp, white, inch-thick script stares back at you with quiet remorse. Remember me? it seems to say. Don’t forget about me. You’re almost afraid to touch it, knowing exactly what it holds in its pages even without having read a single line. If your fingers were to graze it, it’s as if an electric shock would shoot out and stop your heart from ever beating again. A tiny part of you wonders if, if your heart really did stop beating, would Beomgyu come to your side and rescue you?

Or would it be like the other night, with a sharp, bitter laugh and a mild happiness over a forgotten kiss.

You’re jostled out of your stupor by a neat punch to your arm, and you fall back into your locker with a metallic clang. When your vision focuses back on the real world, you see Beomgyu walking away from you towards the theater with a confident smirk on his face. He throws out his hands, his smile growing even wider. “I told you, you’d pay for that!”

You’re smiling too, now, and you hurry and grab the script and race after him.

It will all be okay. The two of you had already talked about it, how nothing could change between you two. Regardless of what the girls in the bathroom would dare to say in front of you. Regardless of what anyone else on campus or your major are thinking. Regardless of the script that burns slightly in your grasp, the crisp paper threatening to cut tiny slices into your delicate skin. You and Beomgyu—inseparable best friends for the rest of time.

It would always be that way. No play, no roles, no romantic leads, would get in the way of that. You’d promised each other you’d be each other’s best friend, always.

Freshman year.

Sunlight streaming through the loosely drawn curtains was what woke you, lit patterns playing across your face. Your back ached from sleeping on a couch at a crooked angle for who knows how long. You stretched and tried to pull at your sore joints, attempting to return them to pre-crooked status. The room was still dark; the lamps were all off and the only other source of light was the television, where Netflix was playing some random anime you don’t remember ever selecting or talking about. Vague memories float up to the surface slowly as you finished waking up: you and Beomgyu had turned in a big semester final project that neither of you had thought would be finished on time but somehow managed to pull off. Deciding to get take out and stay up as long as possible watching as many seasons of anime as you could fit in and—

“Boo!”

Your scream echoed through the small dorm and you pulled at the blanket on top of you, trying to hide behind the soft, comforting quilt. On the other side of the couch was Beomgyu, laughing so hard he nearly rolled off onto the shag carpet rug. You half thought about being kind, and warning him to be careful because if he fell he could hit his head on the coffee table, but the other half said he scared you and deserved whatever happened next.

“How could you be so mean!” you whined, reaching behind you to grab a pillow to throw at your best friend’s face. “How long had you been planning something like that?”

Beomgyu paused his laughter to think. “Probably since I woke up about ten minutes ago. It would have been more elaborate, but then you woke up and I ran out of time.”

“You’ll pay for that, you know,” you muttered, drawing the blankets closer against your chest, where inside your heart still beating faster than usual.

“Even after helping you with that project and pay for dinner? On a college budget?” He paused for another moment, resting his chin between his thumb and the rest of his fingers. “Wait, pay for dinner... seems like I’ve already paid for it, Y/N.”

“Beomgyu!” You lunged forward, diving towards his end of the couch. Instead of a successful attack, you landed squarely in his arms, where he proceeded to tug you tightly against his chest. Escape, you soon realized, was futile. You’d have to talk your way out of this one. “Beomgyu, let me go. Now!"

“You know, you sure are whiney when you wake up,” he commented, rustling the hair atop your head. Your heart was still beating quickly and you were convinced the flush of your cheeks was due to large bouts of boiling hot rage streaming through your veins. “And why should I?”

“I would be in a nicer mood if you hadn’t scared me!” You tried to wriggle your arms up and pry your way out, but his grip was solid still, strong and warm. Since when was he ever this strong? His cheeks, you noticed, were warm and rosy as well, but that was from laughing too hard, you were sure. Why else would they be flushed?

“You may have a point…”

“Of course, I have a point! Now let me go!”

Mischief swam around with the stars in your best friend’s eyes. You could practically see the gears turning in his head, planning something you could only hope wasn’t entirely embarrassing. One eyelid dropped shut, and the smirk on his lips was unmistakable. “I will, but only if you pay for breakfast. From somewhere nice,” he rushes to add. “Student union doesn’t count.”

You released a terse sigh, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Fine! Deal! Now, release me!”

His arms slid away and you rolled over onto the floor, gently landing between the couch and the coffee table. The carpet was rough against your bare arms, but you were glad to be freed from Beomgyu’s death grip.

He was situated on the edge of the couch, chin resting lazily on his forearm, his eyes filled with mild shock and awe. “Really?” he gasped, as if he couldn’t actually believe you’d agreed. “Even if it’s the overpriced brunch food from the boutique down the street?”

You sighed, staring back at him.  “Yes. Even the brunch food from the boutique down the street.”

A moment of stillness, then...

“I’m glad we’re best friends," he said plainly, no hesitation in his voice. His dark eyes had warmed to a welcoming honest color, the kind some people could describe as home. The air around the two of you was still, a precious silence that quietly begged to be broken softly. Outside, the morning birds began to sing their late winter tune, beckoning spring to arrive as soon as possible. The sun filtered through the tiny windows brightly now, filling the dorm with warm yellow like that made everything feel nostalgic. Like the perfect ’80s movie.

When you found your voice, your words were soft but not timid. They held the same amount of honesty and weight as his had. “Me, too. We’re best friends, always.”

A soft smile played at Beomgyu’s lips as he echoed your promise. “Always.”

The walk back to your apartment is chilly. Even though the sun shone brightly ahead, the first freeze of the season the night prior plunged your town from late autumn into early winter. What few leaves remain on the trees might as well be frozen on, and the rest of the dead ones scattered around on the pavement, crunchy husks of their former selves. It’s daylight, but you can easily imagine if darkness were shrouded around you, your breaths would be rising out in front of you in vague translucent puffs. Cold describes everything in sight.

Beomgyu is close by your side, nestled in that ridiculously oversized scarf of his. Christmas is a while away, but you’re already planning on getting him a nice, Beomgyu-sized scarf, probably a deep brown to match his eyes.

“What’cha thinking about?” His voice, clear as crystal, cuts through the air like a sharpened knife, but it doesn’t startle you. It’s warm and inviting against the bitter winter weather, a gentle fire among the cold.

“What I’m gonna get you for Christmas,” you reply, burying your hands into your coat pockets. The pavement scuffs beneath your boots, the walk back home growing boring. As you crossed the street where you two used to part ways freshman year, him to the left and you to the right, you remember when he said his parents told him they were moving during high school. How distraught the two of you became, only to find out he was moving in across the street from your house. Now, you split the rent for a two bedroom apartment. “How about you?”

“To be completely honest, I’m wishing I had remembered my gloves this morning, because right now, my hands are extremely cold.”

You laugh, a bright chuckle, and pull your own hands out of your pockets, staring down at the grey gloves cloaking your fingertips. You hold out your hand towards him. “Want to take one?”

Beomgyu scoffs. “And let you suffer from an equally terrible fate as myself? I think not. At least one of us needs to live.”

You laugh again, throwing your hands back into your pocket. “Fine, be that way.” You cut in front of him, dashing over to the short decorative stone wall running as a divider between the grassy park and the sidewalk. In a quick hop, you’re walking along the top as it gradually slopes higher to the point your feet are even with Beomgyu’s waist.

He stares up at you as you hold your arms at length on either side of you, a small frown playing on his lips. “Be careful,” he warns, the tone of his voice surprisingly stern, something he rarely treats you with. When you look down, you see his brows creased as he follows your pace.

“Yeah, okay, dad,” you laugh, finding the bitter look on Beomgyu’s face amusing. The stone wall beneath your feet is sturdy, and your balance is just as solid. Years of strange theater exercises had brought you that. You can even see your apartment down the street; you’d walk all the way atop this wall, taller now still, and show him.  You’ll get to the end and hop off dramatically and tease him for worrying. He keeps pace with you perfectly, still by your side even if there’s distance. The look in Beomgyu’s eyes tells you he wants to reprimand you, take you by the waist and set you safely on the sidewalk before scolding you on every reason why you shouldn’t have done that. But you don’t need him to. You’re perfectly safe with no reason to worry and—

You’ve misstepped.

Your foot is too far from the center, closer to the edge of the stonewall than you had anticipated. There’s not enough foot on the edge to save it. Your impressive balance is misplaced even further as your arms circle widely at your sides, trying in vain to regain some semblance of stability. You can feel yourself pitch sideways, your feet finally coming out from beneath you, and now you’re looking up at the crystal blue sky.

There’s not a cloud in sight, odd for this early winter day, and for the shortest of moments, it’s like you're falling through the atmosphere. The cold wind biting at your cheeks is caused by your descent. The screams you hear are just the air rushing past your ears, calling your name, not anyone else. The clunk of bodies hitting the pavement is just an illusion.

Your vision snapping to black is just a mistake, a cruel trick of fate, like the dark doubts that swarm around your head when you’re all alone. The blackness is almost welcoming, and you succumb quietly.

Twelfth Grade

Four weeks.  Just under a month. Your life had gone from bold with color and emotion to two steps from dead and lifeless. Subjects you’d once enjoyed, now dull and monotonous. Walks to school were boring. Lunch and free period were non-committal. You’d skipped theater more than your fingers could count; you’d gotten an email from the director asking if everything was okay.

But it wasn’t. Nothing was.

Because it had been four weeks, just under a month, since you’d talked to your best friend.

What you’d even been fighting over, you couldn’t remember. That entire night is a fogged mess in your memory banks, existing but inaccessible. You know it’s there, but your brain, or maybe your heart, refuses to replay the details for you. The only information it relays is that there was a fight, and somehow some kind of words were said that ended in hot tears and storming out of houses with no goodbyes, take cares, or any sign of always.

Life since then had been weird, like you had shifted from one plane of existence but the world didn’t shift with you. Like a blurry camera shot, where one part of the image is in focus with fuzzy edges but everything else is shaken and smeared like thick wet paint.

All the love and joy theater had brought you since seventh grade was gone, five years nearly shattered to pieces inside your nearly-broken heart. You had no idea when the light would return, or if you would ever act again. It was so closely entwined to him, it physically hurt to walk near the theater or even think of certain plays.

Just like it hurt in the classes you shared. Sitting across the room from each other as far as possible, as opposed to right next to each other and sharing looks and soft smiles. The other students and even the teachers were left in a mild tailspin of confusion. There was never a scene made, nor any words spoken. Glances weren’t exchanged anymore. You never looked in his direction; your heart would ache far too much to handle.

Different pathways were even chosen to get between classes. You didn’t want a chance encounter in the halls, you couldn’t handle it. You guessed he couldn’t either, because you never saw him. There were never any accidental meet ups by your lockers, either.

Your plan had been to skip theater again and take the bus home, riding it around until it dropped you off last. You wouldn’t have to see him, it wouldn’t have to hurt, for that day at least. But you were running late, another teacher asking if you were okay needing brushing off. You needed to hurry and stop by your locker to retrieve your books. The bus was leaving soon; if you wanted to leave, you’d need to rush.

The halls were empty, everyone either in their after school clubs or outside waiting for the buses. You hurried to your locker, fingers anxious to spin the code in, grab your books, and leave. You reached inside, ready to retrieve the books by their spine and disappear from this place for what would feel like a short eternity. The hall was too bright, too empty, too--

“Y/N?”

Your heart skipped a beat, head whipping to the side. Beomgyu stood mere feet from you, but he might as well have been a thousand miles away. There were no longer any stars in his eyes, no warmth or cheer. They were sad, dark pits of self-doubt. They were muted screams, begging for help but not being quite loud enough. The dark circles under his eyes pleaded as well, and the downturn of his lips was what sent your stoic, bored, “I can make this” facade spiraling downwards.

You reached forward instinctively, wanting to cup his cheek with your hand and gently rub away the dark circles with your thumb, but you froze midway. Your voice even hitched. “Beomgyu... you look…”

“Awful? Dreadful? Like hell?” he filled in for you, and you couldn’t help but nod. Your chest was tight, almost to the point you wanted to clutch and tear at your heart to find relief. And the way your best friend was standing, shoulders slumped and body looking one strong wind from caving in like a fragile house of cards, it seemed like his heart was aching, too.

“What happened to us?” you asked, voice quiet and quivering. The hot buildup of tears began behind your eyes, making the edges of your vision blur together in a mass of sad, muted tones. “Why did we—”

“I don’t know,” he answered quickly, anxiously, as if he doesn’t speak fast, he’ll lose you again. He took a tender step forward, leaving only a few feet between you, but it was still too much space. You missed being side by side, close enough to bump into each other’s shoulders or elbow each other’s sides. Beomgyu took another tiny step towards you when you didn't move back. “What were we even fighting about?”

“I don’t know.” You felt like one step away from crumbling inwards, clasping in on yourself and all the way to the cool hallway floor. Your hands were shaking now at your sides, and you gripped your hoodie hem to prevent the shivers from racing up your arms and shaking the rest of you until you shattered into tiny shards. The moment your fingers curled around the soft hem was when you realized: it was his. You’d thrown in on that morning without even thinking. Now, all you could notice was how strongly, how nicely it smelled like him. You took in a solid breath of air to prevent the tears from spilling over, but it was shaky and unconvincing. “Whatever we were fighting about, it’s not worth this. I miss you, Beomgyu.”

His eyes were still empty, no stars in sight, but now they were glossy with tears. His chin quivered, and his lips moved to say something but couldn’t. His fingers curled and uncurled around the leather strap of his messenger bag. His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. “I miss you. So much it hurts to breathe, so much I can’t stand to look at you in class or else I feel like crying. Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Please, please, forgive me and be my best friend again. I don’t think I can take life without you anymore.”

The both of you lunged forward at the same time, wrapping each other in a hug. Your arms clung to his neck while his encircled your waist, holding you close. Warm, salty tears finally spilled over, running down your cheek and onto the soft denim of his jacket. By his shaky breaths, you figured he was crying, too. “I don’t want you not in my life anymore either,” you managed, hoping somehow that you’d made sense.

Beomgyu laughed in your arms, drawing you even nearer. “Good, because I really didn’t want to have to explain to your father why I was standing under your window with my guitar instead of just letting myself in like usual.”

You laughed too, but the kind of broken laugh where you find pure happiness just after harsh sadness. Your heart swelled with joy, knowing that Beomgyu was still yours. The time you’d spent apart, not talking or goofing around or shoving each other playfully with stupid grins on both of your faces, had been life-draining. You’d never get it back, even if you spent forever together. You never wanted to go through anything like that ever again.

Beomgyu nestled into the crook of your neck, words whispered so quietly you knew instantly that they were just for you. “We’re each other’s best friends, always. Right?”

You wrap your arms around even tighter, a true smile on your face for the first time in weeks. “Right. Always, Beomgyu, always.”

The apartment is quiet. The shades are drawn open, allowing late afternoon sunlight to spill in and swim around on soft carpet floors, bathing them in warm yellow light. The television in the corner is on but mute, the news airing with no noise. The heater kicked on a minute or so ago, filling the house with nicely warm air. Outside, soft baby snowflakes begin to fall out of the sky, the first snowfall of the season. If the sound had been on, you would have known that the weatherman said the snow was no reason for concern—it wouldn’t accumulate to the point it was dangerous. Just a light dusting, something to make the outdoors look nice and wintry.

But you are unconcerned with whatever the weatherman’s words may be or the consequences of the snow. There are more pressing concerns.

Your voice warbles as you pull out the first aid kit from above the washer and walk back into the living room. “Beomgyu, I’m so so sorry, I—” You bite down on your lower lip to prevent yourself from crying; there wasn’t time for that now.  The white plastic lid snaps open, and you pull out the gauze, the alcohol wipes, and the bandages with shaky hands. He sits on the edge of the couch, one hand bracing himself on the cushion, the wounded one resting tenderly on his lap.

You lower to stand on your knees and reach out to take the hurt one in yours. You stare down at his split second knuckle, an ugly gash that would surely scar no matter how kindly or tenderly you treated it. Caused because of your stupidity, your recklessness. Caused because you tripped or slipped or something and fell off the wall. Caused because he risked his safety to catch you. You feel your heart break, knowing the scar would be your fault, forever, and you can’t ever fix it no matter how hard you try.

There’s no going back, or rewinding time to try again.

Beomgyu winces as you wipe at the cut with the alcohol wipes, and you mutter sorry after sorry. It’s beginning to not even feel like a real word. You can feel your chest heaving, one step away from a total breakdown as you swim through deep and measured breaths. Guilt pours over you like a thick syrup, sticking to every surface and threatening to drag you down and drown you whole. It fills into the cracks of your armor, bubbling up inside you like a witch’s brew. As you place the gaze and wrap the bandages around his hand, your breaths are coming shallower and shallower, your ability to keep it together fading. When you tie the bandages into place, you let go and drop to sit on your heels, all energy gone. Your head hangs in shame, and you wish you could crawl away and hide somewhere until further notice.

Which would be easier if you didn’t share a damn apartment.

However, your best friend won’t let you.

“Hey,” he calls, his voice soft and soothing. His healthy hand curls under your chin, gently begging you to look up, and you comply. His eyes are calm and filled with stars again,  and other emotions you can’t quite place. He smiles kindly, and you can feel your heart shatter at that instant. Right now, you don’t deserve that kindness. Your shoulders spike up and tears begin to spill over. Beomgyu’s face collapses into concern, and he slides off the couch to sit on the floor next to you, legs crossed.

When he places his hands on your shoulders, you try to shake them off. “Please, just...” Your voice falls away. How could you ever apologize for what happened? You knew you shouldn’t have, and yet you did. You knew he seriously disapproved, even if he didn’t voice it totally, and yet you continued. You knew, deep down, that you were getting cocky, and yet you didn’t stop. You had plans on teasing him, mocking him for his concern. The guilt presses down and down, crunching against your head, your shoulders, and your heart until you could scarcely breathe. Quiet sobs heave against your frame, from your torso down to your whole body. You could tell, soon, that you’d simply shake apart into fragments that could never be pieced together again.

You injured your best friend from your own stupidity.

“Hey,” Beomgyu says again, and this time, he reaches for you and pulls you into his lap, safely tucking you under his chin. You don’t resist, and even if you wanted to, you doubt you could have done it past all the crying. He gently rocks you back and forth, rubbing your back, soothing you as one would a small child. Once your sobs have subsided, and your breaths return to a semi-normal state, he speaks again. “I don’t hate you for what happened, if that’s what you think. I could never, I…”

You pull yourself slightly from his grasp, enough to stare at him at eye level, coming out from underneath the warm spot of his chin and neck and shoulder. The emotions swirling around amongst the stars in his eyes are new and unusual to yet, and some part of you feels at home with them. Your voice is quiet, almost hesitant, when you talk. “You... what?”

Beomgyu takes a breath, as if steeling himself. "I have something I need to tell you."

"Need?" you echo, head quirking to one side in confusion.

He nods, staring straight into your eyes. When he speaks, his tone is something you’ve rarely ever heard before. “Need. My chest might burst if I don’t get this off it, and that wouldn’t really help me graduate. Or tell you this. So... and seeming we might as well have almost died…” You roll your eyes at his dramatics, and Beomgyu seems hesitant, but only for a moment. Years of going up on stage have prepared him, but you can tell in this instance, he’s honest, 100% himself, and your best friend, not some actor playing a character for some play. 

He takes another breath before: “I think I’m in love with you.”

Your eyes grow wide, a small gasp escapes your lips, but he doesn’t stop.

“No, that’s not right. I know I’m in love with you. I’ve loved you for a long time but this... this is different. I want to keep you safe, to wipe away any of your tears. Seeing you sad just... tears at my heart. It hurts. Whenever you're sad or upset, I feel the same way, even if it’s just words over a text message. I really did feel like I was going to die when we had that fight. Living without you was unimaginable, but I had to go four weeks without you. Without your voice, your stupid jokes, your laugh. I guess I was in love with you then, too, I just didn’t know it.”

Words escape you, any witty comeback gone. You stare at him, the honesty in his eyes, thinking you’d see him differently after his confession. But you don’t. He’s still Beomgyu. He’s still your best friend. He’s still your Beomgyu.

One of your hands raises, and you tap yourself on your sternum. “Me?”

Beomgyu rolls his eyes now, as if he expected some kind of response like this. “Yes, you. I mean, who else would look up at the night sky, invent a star-monster, then worry about it taking me? I’ve wondered if I was really in love with you, like really actually in love with you. But when you fell and I caught you and you blacked out and I didn’t know why... Y/N, I was so worried. I could feel my heart breaking and I knew that if you never woke up, I wouldn’t ever be the same again.”

He’s mere inches from you, arms around you, body heat radiating off in such pleasant ways you feel okay with melting straight into the floor. His hands move from around your back to ghost around your face, like they want to caress you but are too afraid you might shatter like a fine porcelain under his touch. And his eyes—damn, his eyes. Every star, every galaxy, stirring together to create a beautiful milky way, a gaze so firm and caring you feel as if you’ll never look away. That if you somehow managed, too, you’d feel as if you were missing something dear and important.

Your heart flutters in your chest, its beat stuttery against your wrists. Oh, how on earth did you get here?

Maybe it was when one was so starstruck by the other they stopped watching where they were walking and dripped over someone’s strewn out, overstuffed backpack. When the other offered up a seat beside them during the audition to help settle nerves. Maybe it was when they woke up next to each other after having fallen asleep after binge watching an entire anime season or two, with Netflix on some other autoplay show, one was wondering how the other could look so soft and delicate just after they wake. When the other was happy that they were in each other’s lives. Maybe it was when they declared they’d always be friends, best friends, but now always seems to be more weighty and mean a little more than before.

Maybe, just maybe, this is when they slowly turn towards each other, catching the starry glint in the other’s eye. When they slowly lean forward, ever closer, to the point they can feel one another’s soft breath. When gazes go from eyes to lips and back. When heartbeats slowly start to be harder and louder. When you feel like you might be the one crying because oh heavens—this is it.

But there are things those plays never mention, things the audience can never detect.

They never mention how the palms of hands become sweaty, or how automatic it is to take a soft breath before another pair of lips meets yours, a touch so delicate you finally understand what all the hype is about.

How nice it feels to have two hands cupping your cheeks so gently, their little fear of shattering you gone, or how your own hand curls into the fabric of his shirt as if it’s second nature, the most right thing in the world.

How tantalizingly dizzy a first kiss is.

How soft lips are, how soothingly warm to the point you wouldn’t mind if they were all you felt. How tender goosebumps trail down your spine until something begins to pool in your stomach.

How, even though you’ve become utterly breathless, you can’t stop at just one, because now something that's been building and growing for years has unlocked.

Hands that trail from cheeks to ghost over the nape of the neck, sliding down arms softly to then find purchase at your waist. Kisses, more warm, tantalizing kisses that leave you craving for more. Kisses that roam from lips to chins, then trail down the jaw to tease and nip tender patches of skin on necks, only to return to corners of lips for more wholehearted, dizzying kisses.

You’re warm, almost hot, but it’s so pleasant. What exposed skin you have tingles with feeling, with a craving touch and affection, too. The two of you rest your forehead on one another’s, breath still shallow from all the kisses exchanged, hands softly interlocked with fingers entwined, or as much as one can with bandaged knuckles. He finds his voice first, though even it is soft and a little hoarse. “I should have done that a long time ago, huh?”

You giggle and snuggle closer, nestling into the crook of his neck. You place a kiss underneath his chin. Beomgyu rubs even patterns on your back with his healthy hand while you take the bandaged one in your own, cradling it gently. You pull it up to your own lips, kissing where each knuckle is softly. When you look up, you see the stars glowing in his eyes, brighter than anytime you’ve ever seen them. 

Beomgyu sighs, eyes softening at the corners. “I guess the kiss in the play won’t matter anymore, hm?”

You lightly slug in him the shoulder, a love-filled smile playing on your lips. He smiles back in a similar manner, his eyes lighting up with happiness. “Oh, and I guess this means you love me back, too.”

People fill and mingle around the diner, looking for an open seat among the crowds of customers. And older couple swoops in as soon as you vacate the booth, not even caring that your dirty dishes were still neatly stacked at the edge awaiting pick up. But you didn’t mind. You push through the doors to wait outside while Beomgyu paid. Even though there’s a small crowd at the counter, you knew exactly which one he was. Beomgyu wore his light blue jacket, the one that accentuated all his features nicely. You’d have to make sure that whatever Beomgyu-sized scarf you bought matched that jacket. He needed to wear it as often as possible.

The first official date was almost over, but you knew there would be many more to come. 

Once he’s finished paying, Beomgyu makes a beeline for the door, carefully navigating around all the people crowding the entryway. “Is it always this busy?” you ask when he rejoins you.

Beomgyu shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah, I guess so. But knowing you, the most gorgeous person ever alive, would be there waiting for me was very motivational.”

You do little to hid your smile.

He takes your hand in his, interlacing your fingers as if it were second nature. Maybe, it was, and you two had just been trying to ignore it. This walk from the diner back to your apartment had been done countless times before, but this one is special. And now, you think, it really is your apartment. 

Beomgyu starts to casually rub gentle circles onto your skin with his thumb. “It’s the perfect kind of weather for me to take off my jacket and give it to you to keep you warm, you know.” He then takes a deep sigh and throws his head back. His next words come out playfully clipped. “But, someone had to be smart and wear their jacket.”

“Well, you’re not dating a fool,” you chuckle. When you notice Beomgyu pouting, eyes downcast away from you, you laugh again and poke him in the shoulder to get his attention. “Thank you anyway, Beomgyu, for always thinking of me.”

He turns back to you, all smiles. “Darling, I don’t think I could stop thinking of you even if I tried.”

“Ew, gross.” You laugh, white curls of breath forming in front of you. But, unlike last time, there is no cold or ice in sight. No dark thoughts and doubts plague you tonight. You’re delightfully warm and happy.

“Ew, gross yourself,” Beomgyu mimics, throwing his tone to match yours. “I’m cold too, by the way. So I guess thanks for thinking of me by thinking of yourself. God, you’re like the smartest person ever.”

As the walk home continues, so does the conversation. "Our parents seemed pretty happy when we told them, huh?" Beomgyu mentions, a smile playing at his lips.

“Maybe they planned it,” you muse. “Maybe the director was in on it. They wrote it all together because they decided it was now or never.”

Laughter fills the air, and even in the dark spots between the lampposts are filled with light.

You nudge your shoulder into Beomgyu’s, garnering his attention. “Can I ask you a question?” When he nods, eager to hear what you have to say, you continue. “Why did you throw your lunch on me that day in seventh grade?”

“That was an honest mistake!” he exclaims, eyes filled with desperate honesty. The blush along his cheeks as he looks away is readily apparent. When he looks up, his eyes are filled with sincerity. “But sitting next to you on audition day wasn’t.”

A soft smile plays at the corner of your lips. “I’m glad I got there late, then.”

“Me, too.” A moment of silence falls between you, but it’s comfortable, like an overtly fluffy blanket made just for two. Afterward, Beomgyu is the first to speak again. “Okay, I’ve confessed something from our past that’s mildly embarrassing yet still endearing. Now it’s your turn.” He turns to you with a mischievous grin on his lips.  "’Fess up, darling."

It takes a small instant, before: “Oh! You know that time we stayed up all night and watched anime after that big project? When we woke up the next morning, even though you scared the hell out of me, I thought you were pretty cute.”

Beomgyu’s eyebrows quirk up, his grin grows wider. “Cute? Me? You thought I was cute?”

Pink blush rushes to your cheeks before you smack him on the shoulder. You drop his hand and quicken your pace. “You were cute, you’re not anymore.”

Beomgyu races to catch up with you, takes your hand again, and bumps into your shoulder gently. “Of course I’m not cute anymore. I’m handsome.”

You make a fake gag. “Oh, please!” There’s no sense of lightness when you shove his shoulder.

“Hey, now,” he says, rubbing his shoulder with his free hand, another fake pout on his lips. “Be nice to your boyfriend.”

You scoff. “Is that what you are now?”

“What else would I be? More than friends but not a boyfriend…” Beomgyu’s eyes brighten as he lets go of your hand and snaps his fingers. “Aha! Your husband!”

You shove him with two hands this time. The idea of being with him like that is overwhelming to the max. “Fine, you’re my boyfriend, then.” The word feels foreign on your tongue, but you can easily imagine them growing comfortable. Your best friend. Your boyfriend. Your Beomgyu.

He slings his arm over your shoulder and pulls you close as your apartment slowly grows larger in the distance.  He leans his head over and rests it gently on yours. “I guess I lied,” he mutters, and you pull back confused even with his eyes on you, rich and loving. “I told you the play wouldn’t change things between us.”

A smile slowly spreads across your face. “But... we changed in a good way, right?”

Beomgyu answers you with a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, caressing your shoulders kindly and pulling you just a little closer. “Yeah, we changed in a good way.”

[verybadatwriting]

A Prequel to Dog Tags

Summary: A blurry recounting of the first few years of your life. 

Warnings: Medical problems (seizures, broken bones), experiments, Nazis, HYDRA, war, needles, kidnapping, child death, major child abuse, swearing

Notes: Prequel to Dog Tags, which you can read here. Dada/dad=Bucky, Papa=Steve

Fem!reader

Word count: 5,386

The first memory you have is the cage. It’s tall enough to stand in without hitting your head. Around you are a few other kids, all the same age, roughly two, maybe three. Scars from constant needle pricks litter everyone’s inner arms, especially around the inner elbow. It’s cold, and you’re all wearing identical beige shirts and shorts. You have a faint feeling that there’s someone missing. Like there used to be more of you. 

Through the thin twisting wires, you can see a small handful of people in long white coats working at desks, storing documents in massive metal cabinets lining the walls. Soon, they leave.  

The dim overhead lights turn off quickly after that, tossing all of you into darkness. You curl up together. Dirt and grime from the floor gets everywhere. Your hair, skin, nails, and clothes are all layered with it. Your eyes drift closed, and you dream of a woman whose face you can’t quite remember holding you.

You wake up when the boy curled next to you starts shaking violently. The other kids wake up, too. All you can do is watch. Most times this happens, the kids wake up fairly quickly, cry a little, and are fine.

One of the dreaded men comes in to monitor the fit. He wears a white coat which goes to his knees. When the shaking stops, he waits a moment. The boy doesn’t move. He pulls a stethoscope from around his neck, presses it to his chest, listens for a moment, then lifts the boy up and takes him away. 

You remaining kids cuddle up in an even smaller pile than before and try your best to sleep.

Another memory is from a long time later. It’s just you and another girl in the cage now. You’re maybe four years old, and have just woken up. 

Two white-clad men walk in, and as one reaches to unlock the cage, you and the girl scamper to the opposite side and press yourselves against the metal. Clinging to the bars is futile, as he simply reaches in, grabs your ankle, and drags you out. He passes you to his companion, and reaches back in for the second girl. 

She bites his hand and he curses quietly, but keeps his grip and pulls until he has a screaming, thrashing child in his arms.

“This one,” He says, shaking his head, “Always biting.”

“Calm that thing down,” The man holding you said. “These are the last two, we can’t risk losing another one.”

Their harsh voices echoed off the walls as they walked. Through the doors, straight, left, up a flight of stairs, and through swinging double doors. You’d made this trip more times than you could count, which wasn’t saying much since you were four.

The man put you down on a cold, metal table, and helped his coworker strap the other girl into a chair. It was so tiny. Specially made for her. She fought against the straps, like she always did. She was strong, for a child. She helped you feel safe. 

They pulled a curtain around her, and that was the last time you saw her. Things get worse after that. Since there was no one else left for them to poke and prod, all of that fell to you. The cage felt colder at night. 

One day, just as the overhead lights rattled on, very loud noises and shouts echoed through the halls. Raised voices weren’t super uncommon, the guards weren’t the most peaceful of people, but this was louder. 

You scrambled as far from the cage’s door as you could, hands clamped over your ears. Something rammed against the door once, twice and it burst open. Men carrying large guns swept the room. One saw you. 

He had a dark blue jacket, brown pants covered in pockets, and short dark hair. 

“Hey, Dumdum,” He called quietly to one of his friends, “Look at this.”

A short man with a large mustache walked over, brow furrowed.

“A… child?” He asked. “I knew they were twisted but…”

The blue-clad man took a step closer, and you shrunk even further into the shadows. 

“You’re okay,” He said, putting his hands up, palms facing you. He crouched slightly to be at eye-level with you. Your eyes fell on the gun that was now slung across his shoulder. He followed your gaze, and made a big show of putting it on the ground.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said.

You didn’t move at first, but your grip on the metal cage loosened. Slowly, you put one hand on the ground, and started crawling towards him. He held out his hand, and you took it after another moment of hesitation.

He picked you up out of the cage and held you with one arm. 

You were scared, yes, but you could tell he wasn’t with the scientists, so maybe wherever he was taking you was better. You looped your arms around his neck and propped your chin on his shoulder. You watched the cage get smaller as the man walked towards the door.

The mustachioed man stayed behind, looking through papers from the many filing cabinets. 

You’re carried through the halls, at first familiar, then they grew stranger. Eventually you reach the final door. He walked though it and you were bombarded by vibrant greens and blues. There’s people walking everywhere, all with such purpose, from trucks to the door, or back out again. Mud caked the ground where they walked, their many feet had quickly worn a path through the grass. Most people had guns strapped in holsters. The trucks had extras, too. The light was so bright, unlike anything you’d ever seen. 

It was all too much. You tucked your face into the crook of the man’s neck, blocking out most of the light. 

“It’s bright,” You said quietly. 

“Jesus,” He whispered, “Did they not take you outside?” He didn’t really need an answer. He already knew. 

“Is this better?” He asked after a moment. You looked up, and saw you were inside one of the trucks. It was darker, and quieter. You nodded.

“Alright,” the man said. “We can stay here.” 

You looked around some more, still not daring to let go of the man’s jacket. Something shiny caught your eye, and you pointed. The man followed your finger, and picked up the metallic thing.

“This?” He asked. You nodded.

“It’s a canteen,” he unscrewed the cap and took a sip. “Want some?”

The two of you stayed there for a while. You’d point to something, and the man would explain it. After everything in the truck had been thoroughly investigated, you pointed to him.

“Me?” He asked. “I’m Bucky. Who are you?” 

“I don’t know,” you said. 

“Well, what did they call you?”

“Number Sixteen. But I don’t like that. I think–” 

You were interrupted by the canvas cover of the truck being pushed aside, and about a half-dozen people clambering in. They were loud; you shrunk into the space between Bucky and his arm, tiny fingers digging into his jacket sleeve. 

He shifted to make room for someone to sit next to him, and moved you so you were sitting on his leg. The truck’s engine rumbled to life and it lurched forward. You leaned against him and closed your eyes.  

“I found her file,” the man next to Bucky said, passing a folder to him. His eyes skimmed over the pages. There were photos of experiment setups, logs of their results, growth milestones you reached, every little thing about you from the past four years. Stapled to the back page was the information from when they caught you.

“It says her parents named her Y/n Y/l/n.” 

Somewhere deep down that name resonated with you. You curled up in Bucky’s arm, and fell asleep. 

You half-woke up when the truck stopped. You felt Bucky stand up, still cradling you against his chest. He started to pass you to someone standing on the ground, and your eyes instantly snapped open. You shrieked, and clawed out of his hold. You scrambled across the dusty ground, and snuck under the truck. 

The rest of the world continued on, people unloading trucks, and moving boxes. All you could see was their boots stomping by. The truck shook slightly, like someone had just hopped off it, and soon Bucky’s face peeked under the truck.

“What’re you doin’ down here?” He asked. 

“I don’t know him,” you said, referring to the person Bucky had passed you to. 

“Well, we can fix that,” Bucky smiled. “His name’s Steve. He’s my best friend, and I promise he’s nice.”

Having successfully coaxed you out from under the truck, and introducing you to Steve, Bucky brought you to the mess hall. You had to stand on the bench just to see over the tabletop. Bucky sat to your right, and Steve was to your left. 

While eating, Bucky introduced you to a few other people. He called them the Howling Commandos. It was a little overwhelming to be suddenly bombarded by so many new faces, but you were alright so long as Bucky was close by.

“I’m gonna take her to the medical tent,” Bucky said to Steve, as you were wrapping up your meals. “So they can give her a once over.”

“I’m going the same direction,” Steve said, “Might as well walk with you.”

The dirt paths through the camp were lined with long, dry grass. You walked with one hand in Bucky’s and the other trailing through the thin strands. A grasshopper sprang out in front of you. You stopped suddenly, and crouched down to get a better look. Its little shiny eyes stared up at you.

“Come on,” Bucky gently pulled your wrist, and you continued onwards. 

“What was that?” You asked, twisting around to try and see it. 

“Just some bug,” Bucky said. “We can look at more after the doctors make sure you’re not hurt.”

“Okay,” you said, glancing over your shoulder one last time. Steve parted ways with you at a tent with a large red cross on it. You and Bucky went inside, where there were rows of beds. He set you down on one, and talked to a woman wearing a blue blouse with a white apron and a long white skirt. Again, on her chest and hat, was the red cross.

She stood in front of you and introduced herself as Nurse Boyd.

“I’m just going to make sure you’re alright,” she said. She washed your face, listened to your heart, and did a general check up. 

“You seem to be all good,” she said, writing down measurements and such on a clipboard. She turned to Bucky and said, “I am a little concerned about her lack of medical records. Is there any chance they could be passed along to us?”

“No,” Bucky shook his head, “Everything we found in that base has to be screened before we can send it to you – if we can release it at all.”

“That’s a shame,” Nurse Boyd said, shaking her head. “To be on the safe side, we should administer the vaccines for typhoid, yellow fever, and tetanus.”

Bucky nodded in agreement.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Nurse Boyd said. “Do you have any clue what they were trying to do there?”

“Last I heard, it was called Project Prophecy, but that’s about all we know.” 

“You’d better get those files to me the moment they are cleared,” Nurse Boyd’s voice was ice cold, and Bucky quickly agreed.

Despite a World War actively raging, you were having the best time of your life in the Howling Commano’s Camp. You’d given many people nicknames, mainly Dada for Bucky and Papa for Steve.

They’d heavily altered some uniforms to fit you. It looked like you were just a very, very small soldier. Even just having you around boosted morale.  Once you got comfortable with the sheer amount of people, you were confident strutting around camp on your own.

Your constant amazement and pure joy at the most basic of things was infectious, like when you’d first seen a grasshopper. Since then, you could always be found in the small grassy patches, looking very closely at small things. 

There was always someone watching you, or at least there was supposed to be.  More than once, you had slipped out from Nurse Boyd’s watchful gaze, or snuck past a distracted Stark to scale a tree. You never quite thought about how to get back down. It always turned out alright in the end, since Bucky or Steve would climb up after you. 

Since you knew they’d come get you, it wasn’t scary. The first three times. The fourth time you shimmied up a tree, something bad happened. Your eyes grew unfocused. They couldn’t tell up from down, which can be rather dangerous when high in a tree. 

Your fingers clawed the tree bark. You knew what came next, but normally you’d get a bit more warning. Your limbs started to shake violently.

Strange images flashed before your eyes. A woman with red hair getting shot. Papa and a masked man fighting. The man shooting then lunging at Papa with a knife. His arm shined, like it was made of metal. A red star painted on the shoulder. Papa kicked him into a car, but he just got right back up and kept fighting, then chucked him across the pavement. He brought his metal fist down, slamming it into the concrete just as Papa moved his head.

They moved too quickly to keep track of. It was overwhelming. Eventually, Papa managed to flip the man and toss him. His mask fell off. 

Dada?

Then, blank nothingness for a split second. Peaceful, blank, nothing. All too soon, your eyes opened, to see Bucky and Nurse Boyd standing over you. The canvas walls and rows of beds told you you were in the medical tent. 

You felt dizzy, your head hurt so much, and your arm, too. But most of all, you were scared. Dada and Papa weren’t supposed to fight each other, and they weren’t supposed to let you fall.

You sat up, despite the dizziness, and reached a hand out towards Bucky. 

“Dada?” You asked.

“I’m here,” he said, taking your hand and crouching down next to you. 

“Where’s Papa?” 

“He’s on his way,” Bucky reassured you. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, and you crawled over next to him. He hugged you. You could tell he was scared. 

“It’s okay,” you said. “It’s over now. It won’t happen again for a little while.”

“This has happened before?” Nurse Boyd asked, eyebrows knitting together.

“Mhm,” you nodded, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, already over the whole thing and starting to explore the world again.

“Y/n,” Nurse Boyd prompted, “I need you to tell me about the other times this has happened.”

“The world goes fuzzy,” you began, a small frown scrunching your face. “Then I see things and shake a lot. But it's fine after a little bit. I'm okay now!”

As if to prove this, you stood up on the bed and did a little jump. Bouncing on the mattress, even though it was fairly soft and springy, made your arm hut. 

“Ooh,” you said, looking at it. “That hurt a little.”

“Let me see,” Nurse Boyd held her hand out, and examined your little arm. It bent a little too far the wrong way.

“You'll be alright,” she said, “just need a cast.” 

As she said that, you spotted your Papa enter the tent, eyes wide and face serious. Nurse Boyd noticed him, and after flagging down another nurse to cast your arm, she went over to talk to him.

Bucky stayed on the bed next to you, and held your other hand while this new, unfamiliar – and therefore untrustworthy – nurse tended to your arm. 

He kept you distracted, which helped, although you were still scared.

“I don't give a damn about procedure!” Nurse Boyd yelled from her and Steve’s secretive huddle in the corner. The whole tent went quiet as she continued. “This girl just had a seizure for God's sake, I need her medical records.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Steve replied, notably quieter, but not calmer. “I think this incident will be enough to convince them.”

“This “incident” might have been avoided if I had been given the necessary information any basic physician requires.”

“I know,” Steve's voice was stern. “If I had it my way you'd have gotten them the day we found her.”

“Good to know we're on the same page.”

A few days went by before Nurse Boyd finally got her hands on your records, and had time to study them. In those days, she kept a very close eye on you. She eased her watchfulness once she started listening to your heart and giving you medicine. With help from Stark, she was able to find the right balance of medications to help with the seizures. These meds made it so you'd only fall asleep and twitch a little, instead of violent shaking. 

The one thing they couldn’t fix, which just seemed to steadily keep getting worse, was your heart. It went from a minor source of worry, which Nurse Boyd was passively keeping an eye on, to a clear danger that heavily interfered with day-to-day life. 

Stress grew, soon and all the Commandos were on edge. One surprise, one scare, one tantrum, and your heart could give out. Being five years old was all the more dangerous, since anything could upset you. 

After yet another close call, Nurse Boyd suggested an… unorthodox idea to your Dada and Papa. They seemed reluctant, but agreed it was the best course of action. They didn’t tell you what the plan was.

The night it was put into motion, y'all were eating dinner and everyone seemed sad, despite a recent victory. They tried to hide it. You knew there was something more going on, but they were very good at distracting you.

“Ooh, I'm full,” Bucky said, pushing his plate away.

“Me too,” Steve replied. “I don't think I could eat another bite.”

“But we have all this dessert left! Whatever shall we do?”

You smiled and raised your hand high in the air. They pretended not to see you.

“I guess we'll just have to throw it out,” Dumdum sighed.

“I don't see any other option…” Bucky shook his head with mock sadness.

“I have an idea!” You declared. “Give it to me!”

The adults looked at each other in amazement.

“Why didn't I think of that?” Bucky said as Dumdum comedically slapped his own forehead. They slid over the little bits of deliciousness, and you gobbled away. They still looked sad… but how could you be expected to fix that with all these sweets to eat?

Then, after an hour or so where everyone seemed solemn and were way kinder than normal, Bucky and Steve took you on a trip. They had a truck, like the one you’d been in the day Bucky had found you. 

The rest of the Howling Commandos, plus Nurse Boyd, Agent Carter, and Mr. Stark gathered to send you three off. They all had similar smiles that didn’t reach their eyes. There were lots of hugs, and goodbyes. Why they were doing all this, you didn’t know.

As Steve drove away, you looked out the back. The little group seemed to deflate, shoulders sagging, once you were in the truck. They didn’t see your little eye peeking out through the curtains as they grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

You drove all night, wherever you were going was far from the frontlines. Most of the trip, you just slept. Finally, the sun pulled up over the horizon, just as you came to a stop outside an already bustling building. It looked too small for all the people and crates going in and out. 

“This is a Strategic Scientific Reserve base,” Bucky explained. “It’s where a lot of big ideas come from.”

“These are the people who tell us what to do,” Steve added. 

“Woah,” you said. “So they’ve gotta be really strong!” 

“Um, they’re more smart than strong,” Bucky said. “They’re some of the smartest people around.”

The two men sat there, looking at the building.

“Why are we here?” You finally asked.

“You know how your heart isn’t so strong anymore?” Steve started.

“Yeah.”

“The people here think they can help,” Bucky said. “Nurse Boyd and Mr. Stark have been working with them to come up with a solution.” 

“Then let’s go!” You jumped up, beaming.

They had no choice but to oblige. 

It was very exciting to get to see so many new faces and interesting things – still a little scary though, so you kept Bucky close.

He didn't resist, or try to get you to hold Steve's hand instead. Even before you got into the building, you got distracted by a line of ants marching in perfect order. An SSR agent nearly stepped on them, which caused quite a hubbub. 

Bucky didn’t hurry you along to go up the steps and in the door. He didn't pull you down along the hall when you inevitably got distracted again. He just let you walk at your own pace through the hallways, accepting whatever little distractions or treasures you found joy in. 

Neither Steve nor Bucky were talking much. They’d respond when you said something, most times, and they’d nod along while you talked. They kept exchanging little glances. You didn't understand why, but you'd find out soon enough.

The three of you reached a large set of double doors, marked with some warning labels. This part of the base was deep underground, so no sun or outside sounds got in, which was already enough to upset you. 

Bucky had picked you up. Upon opening the door, it became clear why. The room was filled with machinery, a large blue cylinder teeming with wires and metal, and a dozen doctors. 

Their white coats filled your vision. Every one of them had the same distorted evil smile and the same empty eyes. Their pockets were teeming with chemical-tasting mixtures and sharp metal things, knives and needles, ready to poke and prod and experiment and zap and hurt and hurt and hurt. 

You realized you'd been scratching and thrashing only when Bucky handed you to Steve. Now you were back in the hallway outside. Steve was sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around you partly to calm you down, and partly to keep your hands away from his face.

You whipped your head around to see where Bucky was, and calmed down once you saw he was nearby, wiping off a scratch on his cheek. He hadn’t been as quick as Steve.

“We've gotta remember to cut your nails,” he said, glancing over to you.

“I hurt you?” You asked, shocked. “I’m sorry…” Your lower lip wobbled, eyes filling with tears.

“It’s okay,” Steve reassured you, loosening his arms. 

“Yeah,” Bucky added. “I’m fine. It’s just a little scratch.”

“Lemme see?” 

He scooted over next to you, and you reached out a little hand to touch his cheek. 

“I think he’ll pull through,” Steve said, eyes lingering on his old friend’s cheek.

“I think so, too,” Bucky agreed.

The three of you stayed there, on the floor, leaning on the wall for a moment before the door swung open again. 

A young, frazzled doctor looked down the hallway, and only saw you three as he was turning to go back inside.

“Oh, hello! Is everything alright?” He asked, noting y’all were on the floor.

His white lab coat set you off screaming again. Bucky swatted him away, motioning for him to go back into the other room. He looked confused, but complied.

“You got her?” He asked Steve.

“Mhm, go take care of it.”

Bucky stood up, promised to be back in one second, and went into the room full of horrible labcoat-wearing people.

“Noo!” You reached out after him. Steve didn’t let you follow. You wriggled around and forced Steve to look you dead in the eyes by holding his face still. “They’ll hurt him.” 

“Bucky and I beat the evil scientists that used to hurt you,” he reminded you as he pushed your hand off his face. “He’ll be fine.”

You listened for the sounds of your dad beating them up. Instead, you heard him talking to – no, scolding – the doctors.

“... in an underground bunker surrounded by nothing but metal and Nazis in labcoats, so of course she’s fucking terrified of them! And…”

This went on for a few more minutes, you and Steve still sitting on the floor outside the doors. He looked so sad, just listening to his friend through the metal, and looking forlornly at your little frown.

“Dada’s not supposed to use that word.” 

“Hmm?” Steve said, as though he hadn’t been listening.

“The eff one. He’s not supposed to.”

“Oh, well, adults say things when they’re really sad or angry, even if they're not supposed to.”

“Why is he sad?”

“It’s… it’s because we might not get to see you for a little while, that’s all, and we’re gonna miss you.”

“Where am I going?”

“Somewhere really, really cool.”

“Where they’ll fix my heart?”

“Yeah…” he trailed off.

The doors swung open once more.  

“C’mere,” Bucky said as he reached down to scoop you up from Steve’s lap. He held you up by his face, and looked you in the eyes. “You’re gonna have to be brave for me, okay? Can you do that?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, determined.

“Good,” he nodded back, casting a glance at Steve to make sure he’d follow. 

With more effort than normal, Steve stood up. It was like he was carrying a heavy weight, like his bones had been turned to lead, or at the very least his heart. 

Bucky, who’d been doing a fairly good job at pretending to be happy today, also moved differently. He walked slower, as though he was dreading his destination. He paused before the double doors, and once more looked to Steve.

“It’s for the best,” Steve placed an arm on his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded, as though he was trying to convince himself. “The best.”

They finally pushed the door open, and you hugged tightly to your dad’s neck, burying your face to avoid seeing any of the scary machines. You felt Bucky walking a few paces. 

“Y/n,” he said softly. “It’s time for me to show you something.”

You slowly looked up. You glanced around the room, and found not a single labcoat in sight. Before you towered the blue chamber. Now that you were closer, you could see it had a little seat-like thing, except for standing in. It was perfectly made for you. Unease growing, you remembered the other girl’s chair from all those years ago. 

Steve saw your eyes flicking around, and probably heard your heart rate pick up.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You just have to stand there for one minute. I promise we won’t let the doctors hurt you. Imagine this tube is another one of Stark’s new toys.”

“Yes,” you whimpered between small sniffles. “I like machinery. It’s not scary.”

“Brave, remember?” Bucky reminded you, voice wavering just a little bit as he walked even closer to the tube. He slowly lifted you up and into the seat. 

A small team of doctors descended to connect all sorts of little monitoring devices to your arms and head. Despite their labcoatlessness, this still freaked you out, and you jerked your arm away.

“It’s okay,” Bucky said.

Once they finished, a glass plating started to slide down between you and the outside world. 

“Dada!?” You panicked, “Papa?!”

“We’ll see you… soon,” Steve said, his voice breaking and going all husky on that last word.

The door sealed with a hiss. The temperature suddenly dropped, it was like ice rushing through your veins. A small puff of breath fogged the glass before it, too, started to crystalize. Your eyes stayed open just long enough to see Bucky break, start crying quietly into Steve’s shoulder, and Steve to pull him into a hug.

They faded away, and were replaced by images flooding your head. Little visions, thousands stacked on top of one another. Scenes swirling around you. 

It felt like you were only in there for a minute before the door hissed and began sliding upwards. The ice crystals were gone, and the tube wasn’t as cold as it had been a moment ago.

The room had changed. How did the room change? Bucky was gone. Steve was there, but in different clothes. A handful of doctors were hovering around you. One minute ago, there wasn’t a single labcoat in the room. Now, it was full of them.

Instinctually, you lunged away from them. Your body didn’t move right, it was slower than it was supposed to be. The floor tilted, pitching you forward, but you managed to scramble towards Steve. 

He said something – you couldn’t hear, like you were under water – but whatever he’d said didn’t matter. He crouched down to scoop you up, and held you tight. Rubbing your back soothingly, he spoke softly. 

Slowly, slowly the room stopped tilting. Just as slowly, the warmth returned. Finally, your hearing came back. 

“... We’re gonna be fine,” Steve was saying.

“Where’s Dada?” You asked.

“He’s not here right now.”

“Why did he leave?”

“He didn't want to, he'd never leave us if he had a choice…”

“I was only in there for a minute. How could someone make him leave?”

“It’s been a lot longer than a minute.”

You took in that idea as you looked around the room. It had changed quite a bit. The walls were a different color, a calming blue, and they weren't made of metal anymore. It was warmly lit, almost comforting if you could ignore the medical supplies at the ready and the child-sized freezing tube.

The doctors crept closer, as though asking permission to approach.

“So long as you take off the coat,” Steve nodded. In almost unison, the doctors shed their lab coats, and one stepped forward. 

She put a stethoscope against your back, and explained that she was making sure your heart was alright. She put a cuff around your upper arm.

“I'm supposed to tell you that this'll feel like a really tight hug,” she said. “But it doesn't. It just feels like a machine squeezing your arm. It's so that I can see how strong your heart is.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It's definitely not comfortable, but it shouldn’t hurt. Let me know if it does and I'll adjust it.”

She recorded the results, did a few more tests, took a few more measurements, and finally, Steve was allowed to take you home. You assumed you were heading back to camp.

Boy were you wrong.

He carried you outside, through different halls than you remembered, and out into a city. It was much busier than camp, or the main base. Short trucks zipped by, all different colors, and Steve hailed a bright yellow one. He spoke briefly with the driver, and buckled you in. He sat right next to you.

He told you about the city you two were in, Washington DC. He told you about cherry blossoms, museums, and giant statues. He told you about boardwalks and Rock Creek Park. He explained that you were in downtown right now, the place where a lot of people work, which is why the buildings were so tall and everyone was so busy.

He told you about a little two bedroom apartment, and a really good hospital. In a few days, you'd go there and they'd fix your heart. No more worrying about it getting worse, it'd be all fixed.

“After that,” he said. “I see no reason why you shouldn’t go to school. I think you’ll like it.”

“Maybe,” you warily agreed.

Steve wasn’t talking anymore. You kept looking out the window. As the city rushed by out there, only one question came to mind.

“Where’s Dad?”

@arctrooper69

[mxnsterbabe]

Male Ghoul/Female Reader SFW Wordcount: 4,389 Commissions | Ko-fi | Masterlist

A new rock band is taking yoru city by storm, their identities hidden behind masks and personas. You seem to know the lead singer already.

The concert venue buzzed with energy. You stood with your friend, squeezed into the crowd, everyone around you eager and excited. The stage loomed ahead, hidden in shadows, promising something incredible. 

When the lights dimmed, the crowd gasped. Voices hushed, replaced by the thumping of your heart. You leaned forward, trying to see. Nocturne Eclipse—the band everyone was talking about. They were a mystery, hidden behind masks.

The first notes of the song cut through the darkness, sending chills down your spine. Lights flashed, revealing four figures in dark, gothic outfits. Their masks were eerie and beautiful. The lead singer drew your eyes. He moved gracefully, his voice powerful and haunting. 

“Welcome!” he shouted, voice crackling through the microphone. “Let’s have some noise, hmm? I hope everyone has a great night!”

The crowd erupted in cheers. Beside you, Melanie tossed dark braids over her shoulder and gripped your arm, face grinning.

As the first song played, you felt it in your bones. You’d never been a fan of rock, but the deep thrum of the bass and the lead’s rough, scratching vocals itched at the back of your brain.

That voice tugged at something deep inside you, a distant memory. You’d heard that voice before; not at concerts, but in your own garage back in college. But that was impossible. Right? 

His mask slipped a bit; and before he could fix it, you caught a flash of a black neck tattoo. A giant hornet curling around his ear. 

Your breath caught. It was him.

Your friend nudged you, snapping you back to the present. You couldn’t look away from the stage. The band’s music was mesmerizing, the crowd swaying as one. For you, everything narrowed to that one familiar face.

The song ended in thunderous applause, but you barely noticed. Your heart raced. As the band started their next song, you pushed through the crowd, desperate to get closer.  Melanie called after you, but you didn't stop.

You reached the stage’s edge, a barrier separating you from the band. You watched, transfixed, as he sang. For a minute he stuttered, mask tilted down to look at you.

Security was tight, blocking your way, but you didn't care. You shouted his name, your voice lost in the noise. He was right there, so close. He looked at you for a moment longer than the rest.

Suddenly, strong hands gripped your arms, pulling you back. Security. 

"Hey! I know him!" you shouted, trying to break free, but firm hands curled around your arms and yanked you away.

The guard shook his head. "Everyone thinks they know the band. Calm down."

"No, you don't understand. I actually do know him!" you insisted, voice rising in desperation.

The guard's eyes narrowed. "You're crazy. Go home and sleep it off."

"I'm sober!" you protested, but he was already dragging you toward the exit.

Outside, the cool night air hit you. The guard released you with a final warning glance. You stood there, heart pounding, mind reeling.

Moments later, your friend darted out of the venue, eyes wide. "What the hell was that about?"

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "The lead singer... he has the same tattoos as Maddox."

"Maddox?" she repeated, brows furrowed.

"Yes. Maddox. My ex-boyfriend — who died in a car crash a week before graduation four years ago," you said, your voice breaking.

Her eyes widened, disbelief mingling with the realisation of what you were saying. The night air felt colder, the reality of your words sinking in. Maddox was alive, but something was terribly wrong.

Melanie sighed and said, “maybe we should go home.”

She guided you to her car, her touch grounding you as you both slipped into the seats. The drive was quiet, the hum of the engine filling the silence between you. You stared out the window, trying to piece together the fragments of what you'd seen.

"I'm sorry for cutting the night short," you said finally, breaking the tension.

Melanie glanced over at you. "Don't worry about it. I'm just concerned. Maybe he just has a similar tattoo and you're... freaking out over nothing."

You shook your head, the memory of that night vivid. "I was with him when he got that tattoo. It was his twenty-first birthday. It was custom. I would know it anywhere."

Melanie didn't reply immediately, focusing on the road ahead. Soon, you reached your flat. The familiar surroundings should have brought comfort, but your mind was still racing. You both went inside, the warm lights of the living room casting a soft glow over everything. Melanie headed to the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove.

She made tea, the ritualistic clinking of cups and spoons soothing in its normalcy. You watched her, your mind still grappling with the impossible reality.

"Melanie," you began, your voice low, "what if Maddox is... like you?"

Melanie paused, looking up at you. Her expression was a mix of sympathy and seriousness. "Being a werewolf won't bring someone back from the dead."

You sipped your tea when she handed it to you, the warmth spreading through you, but it did little to ease the cold knot of fear and confusion in your chest. If Maddox wasn't a werewolf, then what was he? How was he alive after all this time? 

Melanie placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. "Don't worry about it. It has to be a coincidence. It can't be Maddox."

You nodded, trying to convince yourself. "Yeah, you're right." You finished your tea, but as Melanie flipped through channels, settling on a light-hearted show, your mind kept drifting back. The tattoo could be a coincidence, but his voice? That was Maddox’s voice. You’d never heard the band live before and never made the connection, but hearing him in person… there was no doubt in your mind.

The evening wore on, and you listened to the TV drone. Melanie laughed at something on the screen, but you barely noticed. 

Finally, you sighed and stood up. "I'm going to bed," you said softly.

Melanie looked up, concern still evident in her eyes. "Alright. Try to get some rest."

You nodded and made your way to your bedroom. The familiar space felt strange tonight, the shadows seeming darker, the silence heavier. You changed into your pyjamas, the fabric soft against your skin, and climbed into bed. The hum of the TV in the living room was a faint comfort, a reminder that you weren't alone.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, the night's events playing over and over in your mind. Eventually, exhaustion pulled you under, and you drifted into a restless sleep, your dreams haunted by a voice you thought you'd never hear again.

***

The next morning, you woke to the sound of your phone buzzing. Groggily, you reached over to your nightstand, squinting at the screen. A missed call from an unknown number. Curiosity piqued, you played the voicemail.

Your heart nearly stopped. It was Maddox's voice, clear and unmistakable without the din of a concert hall. "I need to see you. Meet me at thirty-two Yarrow Street. Noon." The call ended abruptly, leaving you staring at your phone in disbelief. You tried to call the number back, but it wouldn’t go through. It was as if he had called and then immediately blocked your number.

You sat on the edge of your bed, trying to process. It was silly, maybe even dangerous, but you had to know the truth. You scribbled a quick note for Melanie, explaining you had to step out and would be back later. You left it on the kitchen table, hoping she’d see it soon.

Grabbing your keys, you headed out, the address looping in your mind. You plugged it into your sat nav, and it led you through winding streets and unfamiliar neighbourhoods. Your mind raced with every turn, each passing moment bringing you closer to answers—or more questions.

Eventually, you found yourself in front of an old warehouse. The building loomed large and foreboding, its windows darkened, its structure showing signs of age and neglect. You parked the car and sat for a moment, staring at the imposing facade.

You stepped out of the car, the cool morning air hitting your face as you stared at the old warehouse. The building's structure seemed out of place, a relic of the past nestled in an unfamiliar neighbourhood. You hesitated for a moment, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on you, but curiosity and a desperate need for answers propelled you forward.

The warehouse door creaked as you pushed it open. To your surprise, it wasn't locked. You stepped inside, your footsteps echoing in the vast, dimly lit space. As your eyes adjusted to the gloom, you took in the surroundings. The interior had been transformed into a makeshift home. 

There was a living area with mismatched furniture, a battered sofa, and a low coffee table cluttered with empty bottles and crumpled papers. A messy kitchenette occupied one corner, dishes piled high in the sink, and a faint smell of toast and jam lingered in the air. It was run-down, far from the glamorous lifestyle you’d expect from a new, popular band.

As you ventured further inside, you caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of your eye. Your heart pounded in your chest as a figure emerged from the shadows, clad in a hoodie that obscured his face. He paused.

"Hi," the man said, his voice soft and familiar. 

Your breath caught in your throat. There was no mistaking it. It was Maddox. Despite the hoodie concealing his face, you knew it was him. He seemed different, shy and hesitant, nothing like the confident, enigmatic figure you’d seen on stage.

"Maddox?" you whispered, taking a tentative step forward.

"Where are we? How are you alive?" you asked, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and hope. "What happened to you?"

Your questions tumbled out, one after another, your mind racing to make sense of the impossible. Maddox stood there, his expression pained but resolute. Instead of answering, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you. 

The hug was unexpected, and for a moment, you stiffened in shock. Then the familiarity of his embrace washed over you, and you melted into him. The world outside ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the feeling of being held by him once more. 

You closed your eyes, trying to hold onto the sensation, the reality of his presence grounding you in the here and now. The questions still swirled in your mind, demanding answers, but for this moment, you let them fade away. 

His hold on you tightened slightly, and you felt the subtle tremor in his hands. 

"I have answers," he said softly, “but can we just stay like this a bit longer?"

You nodded, hugging him tighter. His embrace was comforting yet strange. Maddox had always been a bigger guy, a regular at the gym with a solid build. Now, he felt too thin. The broad shoulders were the same, but you could feel his ribs through the fabric of the hoodie. It sent a chill down your spine.

When you finally pulled away, you caught a glimpse of his eyes beneath the hood. They were deep set and black, so different to the bright, warm hazel eyes you remembered. The sight made your heart ache as you pulled away.

Maddox guided you to the makeshift living area and sat you down on the worn sofa. He sat next to you, his posture tense, hands clasped together tightly. He seemed nervous, a far cry from the confident, vibrant man you once knew. 

"I'm sorry," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "I never meant to leave you... but I had to, for your own safety."

Your heart pounded in your chest. He took a deep breath, the words seeming to cost him more than you could imagine.

"Four years ago, I died," he said, the statement hanging heavy in the air. "You know that, obviouslyI don't remember much from the accident itself, just that everything went black. Then... I woke up in the morgue. I scared the owner half to death when I came back on the table."

Your mind struggled to process his words. It was surreal, like a nightmare you couldn't wake from. Maddox's eyes searched yours, desperate for understanding.

"I don't know how I came back," he continued, his voice breaking slightly. "All I know is that I did. I wasn't the same. I’m... different now. It took me a while to figure out what that meant."

He paused, looking away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "I found others like me. The band... we're all like this, more or less. We’re a family now. It's the only way we've survived, by sticking together."

The room seemed to close in around you, the weight of his confession pressing down like a physical force. You reached out, placing a hand on his knee, grounding yourself in reality.

"What happened to you?" you asked, your voice trembling. "How did you become... this?"

Maddox shook his head slowly. "I don't have all the answers. I wish I did. All I know is that I died and came back. The others—my bandmates—they have similar stories. We don't know why or how, but we're trying to make the best of it."

You looked at him, seeing the pain and confusion etched into his features. It was clear that he had been through hell and back, and the journey had left scars deeper than the physical.

"I missed you," you whispered, your voice breaking. "Every day, I missed you."

Maddox reached out, taking your hand in his. "I missed you too. Every single day. I think about you all the time, the things I would have done differently if I’d known this would happen.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, the emotional floodgates breaking. The pain of his loss, the confusion of his return, and the fear of what it all meant—it was overwhelming.

He squeezed your hand, his touch a lifeline in the storm of emotions. "I know it's a lot to take in," he said softly. "I’m sorry. Would it have been better if you never knew?"

You shook your head, squeezing his hand in return. “No, God no. I’m glad I know the truth.”

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his cheek. His skin was cold. "Can I see you?" you asked, your voice trembling with both fear and determination.

Maddox hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty in his dark eyes. "I don’t look like I used to," he warned, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t even look human."

You nodded, your resolve unwavering. "I want to see you."

Slowly, he reached up and pulled back the hood. His black hair fell across his face, streaked with pure white. He was thin, almost gaunt, with sunken eyes. They were entirely black, save for a faint blueish glow in the center.

He looked at you nervously, waiting for your reaction. You could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the fear of rejection. Instead of recoiling, you felt a surge of desire—love, longing.

Without thinking, you lurched forward and kissed him. The contact was electric, sending a jolt through your entire body. His lips were cool against yours, but you didn’t carel. You poured everything into that kiss—the years of pain, the longing, the relief at finding him again.

Maddox’s initial shock melted away as he responded, his hands moving to cradle your face. He kissed you back with a hunger that mirrored your own, a deep, aching need. The world around you faded, leaving only the two of you, lost in the moment.

Your heart pounded in your chest. His fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as if afraid you might disappear again. You could feel his desperation, his need to hold onto this moment, to make up for lost time.

The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent. Your hands roamed over his back, feeling the now unfamiliar contours of his body. It didn’t matter. He was still Maddox, still the man you loved.

When you finally pulled away. Only you were breathless. Did Maddox even need to breathe?

You stared into his eyes, searching for any sign of the man you once knew. Despite the changes, despite the inhuman features, the essence of Maddox was still there.

Tears welled up in your eyes, but they were tears of relief, of joy. "I don’t care what you look like," you whispered, your voice breaking. "You’re still you."

Maddox’s eyes softened, a small, grateful smile playing on his lips. "I’ve missed you so much," he murmured.

You hugged him tightly, feeling his arms wrap around you in return. 

You kissed him again, slower this time, savouring the moment. You slung a leg over his, tugging him close, and rested your head against his shoulder. 

He held you tightly, his touch both familiar and foreign. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice filled with regret. "For my cold skin, for being... well, this."

You lifted your head to look at him, a soft smile playing on your lips. "I like it," you replied sincerely. "This new you has its own charm. Besides, you're still Maddox. That's all that matters."

He looked at you with those gorgeous dark eyes, then pulled you even closer. You buried yourself into his side, feeling his steady, if slightly abnormal, heartbeat. 

"It's funny," you said, your voice muffled against his chest. "You were right in front of me this whole time. The band is one of Melanie's favourites. I mean, she loves Embers too — but you’re definitely top three."

Maddox chuckled, a sound that was both familiar and comforting. "Yeah, I’ve been keeping an eye on you from a distance."

You looked up at him, seeing a hint of the old Maddox in his expression. The tension in his features seemed to ease, replaced by a sense of tentative happiness.

He sighed, a contented sound, and kissed the top of your head. "It's been so long since I've felt anything close to normal," he admitted. "Being here with you... it feels like coming home."

You smiled, nuzzling deeper into his embrace. "It feels like home to me too."

You nestled closer to Maddox, your head resting against his chest as you watched him from the corner of your eye. The changes were undeniable. His teeth seemed sharper, peeking out slightly when he spoke. His fingers were longer, more slender, giving his hands an almost skeletal appearance. There was a subtle wrongness to his features, a hint of something not right.

You found yourself strangely drawn to these changes for reasons you couldn’t place. They were a part of him now, a part of the new Maddox. Despite his worries, you didn’t find it gross or repulsive. He was still as beautiful as you remembered.

He shifted slightly, his arms tightening around you, as if he sensed your thoughts. "I know I look... different," he said, his voice hesitant. "You don’t have to sit so close if you don’t want to."

You looked up at him, your gaze steady. "I don’t mind," you insisted softly. "It's different, sure, but it's still you. I love you, Maddox, no matter what you look like."

He sighed, a small smile playing on his lips. "You're something else, you know that?"

You smiled back, feeling a warmth spread through you. "Can I meet the rest of the band?" you asked, curious about the people who had become his new family. "I want to know everything about your life now."

Maddox hesitated, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. "Maybe," he said slowly. "Beneath the masks and the band getup, some of them look... way worse than I do.."

You shook your head, undeterred. "I don’t think I care," you said firmly. "If they’re your family, then I want to meet them. I want to understand your world."

He studied you for a moment, searching your face for any sign of doubt. When he found none, his expression softened. "Alright," he agreed quietly. "It might take a while for them to warm up to you."

You nodded, understanding the caution. "I’ll take my time," you promised. "I just want to be a part of your life again, Maddox. All of it."

He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. "And I want you to be," he whispered. "More than anything."

Maddox pulled out his phone, typing quickly. You watched him, the familiar lines of concentration etched into his face as he messaged the group. Moments later, his phone buzzed with a response. He read it, his expression shifting slightly.

"Jaehyun isn't thrilled about me telling you," he said, glancing at you. "Though they'll meet with you if I insist."

You grinned. “Great, I can’t wait.”

***

A few days later, the moment finally arrived. You sat with Maddox on the worn sofa, curled together for comfort. Maddox’s arm was draped around your shoulders, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your arm.

"It’ll be okay," he murmured, sensing your anxiety. "They’re cautious, but they’ll come around."

You nodded, taking a deep breath. The seconds ticked by slowly until a soft knock echoed through the warehouse. Maddox squeezed your shoulder before standing to open the door. Jaehyun stepped inside, his presence imposing even in the dim light.

Jaehyun removed his mask slowly; he was even more gaunt than Maddox, eyes sunken and pale. His skin was grey and withered, pulled too tightly across jutting cheekbones. 

He was an unsettling sight, but you kept your expression steady, determined not to show your nerves.

"Jaehyun," Maddox greeted, motioning him inside. "This is her."

Jaehyun stepped forward, his eyes scanning you critically. For a moment, you wondered if this was a test, a challenge to see if you could handle the reality of their world. He held out a hand, skeletal fingers extended in a gesture of introduction.

You took his hand without hesitation, shaking it firmly. His grip was cool and surprisingly strong. "Nice to meet you," you said, your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart.

Jaehyun studied you for a moment longer before his tense expression softened. "It's nice to meet you too," he replied, his voice surprisingly gentle for someone with such a daunting appearance.

Relief washed over you as the initial tension dissipated. Maddox returned to your side, pulling you back into his embrace. Jaehyun took a seat across from you, still observing but with a hint of curiosity rather than suspicion.

The three of you sat in silence for a moment, the atmosphere slowly easing. Jaehyun's acceptance was the first step, and you could feel the barriers beginning to lower. 

"You know," Jaehyun said, breaking the silence, "Maddox talks about you a lot. Always going on about how he wished he could speak to you again. I’m glad he had the chance.”

You smiled, the warmth of his words helping to dispel your lingering nerves. "I'm glad, too. I’m sorry if… if me insisting on meeting you guys is annoying or anything.”

“It’s fine, you seem like the good sort. Stick around long enough, and you’ll see we’re not so bad. Just a bit... different."

The tension in the room eased further as Jaehyun relaxed, leaning back in his seat. You glanced at Maddox, and he squeezed your shoulder.

The door creaked open, and the last member of the band entered. They moved with a quiet, almost hesitant step, immediately drawing your attention. This newcomer, who must have been the drummer, was markedly different from the others. Their face was a gaunt landscape of heavy scarring, the skin tight and withered. Their arms were exposed, revealing a more gruesome sight—several fingers were missing, and the ones that remained were elongated and claw-like.

Juni’s eyes didn’t meet yours. Instead they flicked around the room before landing on you only briefly. They seemed to shrink back slightly, clearly uncomfortable and unsure.

Maddox stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on Juni’s shoulder, and gently guided them into the room.

"This is Juni," Maddox introduced softly.

Juni shrugged off Maddox’s touch and wandered over to linger behind Sloane, their posture tense. The contrast between their somber presence and Sloane’s vibrant energy was striking.

You took a deep breath and offered a tentative smile. "Hello," you managed, your voice steady despite your own nerves.

Juni’s gaze met yours for a fleeting moment before they looked away, giving a slight nod in acknowledgment. 

Sloane chimed in with a cheerful tone. "Don’t mind Juni, they’re just a bit shy," he said, his grin wide. "Trust me though, they’re the best drummer you’ll ever hear."

Juni’s lips curled into a small, appreciative smile, though they remained close to Sloane, still wary. You could see the effort it took for them to be here.

Maddox returned to your side, pulling you close. His lips brushed against yours in a brief, tender kiss. His breath tickled against your skin and you smiled.

"Get a room, you two," Sloane teased, a wide grin spreading across his face.

Maddox rolled his eyes but smiled, his hand squeezing yours. "Now that you’ve met everyone, what do you think?" he asked, his eyes searching yours. The room grew quiet, all eyes on you, waiting for your response.

You took a moment to gather your thoughts, glancing around at the faces before you. Jaehyun, eerie eyes boring into yours; Sloane, so welcoming; and Juni, nervous but undeniably gentle. They were an unusual group, but somehow they all just fit together.

"I'm glad you found a family like this, Maddox," you said finally, your voice steady and sincere. "People who understand you, who you can rely on. If you’re all willing, I’d like to be a part of it too."

Sloane's face lit up with delight. "Hell yeah!" he exclaimed.

Maddox’s eyes softened, and he pulled you in for another kiss. He cupped your cheek, put everything into that kiss and it left you reeling. 

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were grinning.

"Welcome to the family.”

[cherryredstars]

Hiii cherry💋♥️ would you write something about going on a late night drive with simon when you both can't sleep🥺🫠

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn!reader

Warnings: Fluff

Summary: What happens when you can't sleep.

Word Count: 1.4K (Unedited)

It's been a struggle to find sleep lately.

Maybe it's a combination of the colder weather and a busy week, but no matter how tired you are, sleep seems to slip through your fingers. It makes your bones heavy and your brain slow. Eventually, after hours of tossing and turning in your bed, you slip out. Fuzzy, festive socks hit the cold wooden floor as you creep out of bed and to the front door in the dim lighting of your flat. You pull a simple jacket over your jumper and slip on some boots.

You leave with your keys jangling in your pocket, closing the door softly before walking forward to the door across from you. You're nervous. It's late, way past any reasonable hour. You know he's probably awake. You know sleep isn't his friend either. But a small voice in your mind wonders that maybe its one of those rare nights where he finds himself passed out on his couch. You'd hate to steal him from his only form of peace.

You knock softly, just loud enough to be heard if he is awake. You're certain that any sound would wake him up though. You rock back and forth on your heels, hands stuffed in your pockets as you wait. The carpet needs a bit of cleaning you realize and you have a small stain near the end of your boot that you don't remember from this morning. Maybe you should just leave and try to go to sleep.

But the slow creaking of his door makes your head shoot up. He's barely visible from the crack, but more and more of him gets revealed as he realizes its you. He's wearing an outfit similar to yours, a pair of sweats and a jumper. His has a military training symbol, front and center. He raises a brow at you, leaning against the door frame.

There is a bit of silence between the two of you as you study the other. He definitely can see the bags under your eyes, but you can see the heaviness in his. He wasn't sleeping from what you can tell. You stopped him if he was about too, though. You give him a tentative smile, hands fisting in their hidden space.

"Fancy a drive?" You whisper like a secret.

Simon doesn't respond and you get nervous again. Maybe you're disturbing his night, taking him away from something important. Knowing Simon, he's probably in no mood for any human interaction so late in the day. He gives you a hard stare before turning around. You're about to leave when Simon slips into his apartment, but you stop when he steps out a second later.

He has a beanie over his head and his shoes on. He has another one in his hand, a matching black on that he shoves into your hands. His keys are clutched tight in his hand as he starts walking down to the elevator with the expectation of you following. You hurriedly do, shoving the beanie on your head and jogging to catch up. Simon holds the elevator doors open for you, clicking on the ground floor button.

"We'll take my car." He says in that gruff voice, eyes trained on the elevator doors. You only hum in agreement.

The winter air hits you hard, and you shiver once you exit the building. Simon seems unbothered as usual, leading the way to his truck. He unlocks it when he's close enough, opening the passenger door and helping you step up before entering himself. He turns on the heater, warm air blasting as you buckle in. The engine makes a gentle purr as it starts up, and Simon reaches into the back before throwing a blanket into your lap. You put it over you wordlessly, going as far as to spread it over the middle console to make sure Simon's warm too.

Simon doesn't say anything in response, instead switching through stations before finding one that isn't a random talk show. He keeps the volume low, almost inaudible in the car silence. He pulls out of the parking spot, leaning back as he begins to drive down the empty streets.

Unsurprisingly, there aren't any other cars on the road. The streets are devoid of people, too. You lean your head against the window, body shivering at the initial coldness of the glass. You can feel Simon's eyes on you every now and then, but you don't look back at him. Instead, you focus on the world outside.

The moon is obscured by clouds, and the dim street lights don't do much to help. The buildings blur outside, making a watercolor of dark colors illuminated by the occasional white and burnt yellow. The two of you are silent, just letting the soft music fill the space. Occasionally, you'll hum along to a song you like and Simon will tap the beat onto the steering wheel's leather.

When the station turns to white noise at a light, silence engulfs the both of you again. You're content to keep it that way if Simon wishes, but you're surprised when he speaks up.

"Tell me about your day."

You turn to look at him, eyes widening before you smile softly. You get comfortable, sitting with your legs crossed as you play with the corner of the blanket. You look to the car's roof as you think about where to start, eventually deciding to recount the moments since you got out of bed. Simon keeps his attention on the road but he hums and nods along, asking questions and making a comment at the appropriate times. Eventually the two of you spiral into random conversation, joking about miscellaneous things. The car fills with light giggles and chuckles, a smile permanently etched onto your face as you stare at him.

He's awfully handsome. It's not a new realization, just one that gets illuminated as the headlight glow reflects onto his face. He seems relaxed, or as relaxed a man like him can get while still upholding a military posture. He shares bad jokes with you, a small smile creeping up when you make any reactions: good or bad. If it relates to the current flow of conversation and isn't too revealing, he recalls moments he shares with his team or the occasional mission.

You soak it up eagerly, wanting every piece of Simon Riley that he's willing to feed you. His voice is calming, a low rumble that holds a bit of gravel. It warms your body more than the heating and blanket combined. It's easy to fall asleep this way, being cocooned in warmth and being filled with the gift of Simon's voice. His car smells good too. Like him. An intense mix of evergreen pines and something smokey but warm. Like sticky, sweet ambrosia.

Your eyes begin to get heavy as he continues his hushed story. You try to fight it, desperate to hear what he has to say. Maybe you'll have to ask him to record his voice for you. Like a mini podcast of sorts. That way, you'll have something that'll shut your brain off quickly. Eventually the feeling gets too hard to fight, and sleep takes you.

When you wake up, you find yourself in your bed. Your mind is still groggy with sleep, and you squint as morning light floods in. You look around as your eyes begin to clear, finding your boots at the end of your bed. You're still wearing your thin jacket, but now it's fully zipped up. Your hand slides into your pocket, panic seizing you as you don't feel your keys. You quickly pat yourself down, frantically moving your sheets around. Your worry stops abruptly when you spot them in the corner of your eye.

They sit neatly on your nightstand, laying on top of a black beanie. The beanie from last night. Carefully, you grab it. It's soft and still warm in your hands. Hesitantly, you bring it up to your nose, suffocating in the familiar scent that is now slightly tainted by your shampoo. You sit there for a few moments, absorbing the remainder of last night. After a while of lazying around, you begin to slip out of bed. It's only then you realize the foreign blanket that unravels from around you.

And suddenly, your room smells entirely of ambrosia evergreens and cold Manchester nights.

[ghost-proofbaby]

22 for your blurb game please 💕

pastel, this one hurt, ngl. absolutely devastating. i love it.

#22: "ORANGE JUICE" BY NOAH KAHAN (STEVE HARRINGTON)

"you said my heart has changed, and my soul has changed, and my heart - my heart."

warnings: pure. angst. all hurt, no comfort. mentions of issues with alcohol/alcohol addiction.

wc: 2.8k+

It was a mistake from the moment he’d received the invitation. He knew he should have tossed it into the trash, should have gone about his day and never lingered on the small postcard that had been sent to him from his hometown. There was a single good thing to come from him answering the call. 

And yet, he did. 

Hawkins, Indiana was one of the few graveyards filled with ghosts that could make Steve Harrington bleed. People, places, memories – were they all always this sharp? It was the only thing on his mind as he drove through town, through the streets he grew up in and past the stores he no longer shops at, and felt it all coming back to him. His skin never grew tougher, despite his delusional thinking these past few months, and was thin as thawing February ice, cracking under the sight of you. You, stood in the living room of Robin’s downtown apartment. You, who hadn’t so much as glanced at him since he entered the room. 

You, who he had left behind. A bleeding wound that he’d stuffed with the gauze and ignored for a long eight months. The ghost with the sharpest knife. 

“Come and grab a drink,” Robin insists as she drags him through the front door, hardly letting him have the time to untie his shoes and shove them off with other familiar pairs of sneakers and boots, “We have so much to talk about, Dingus.”  

“I don’t…” 

The words die on his tongue. She’s not even listening, too eager to catch up with her best friend. 

I don’t drink anymore. 

He hadn’t drank since that last night, that last fight. Even the scent of whiskey made his stomach turn since he’d left. Vodka burned more than just his throat, and gin made his eyes water. He couldn’t drink. 

“Rob,” he tries as she drags him right past the couch, right past you, “Rob, I have to drive. I can’t-”

“You could stay the night,” she teasingly sings over her shoulder as she passes through the archway to her small kitchen, him right behind her. 

He could, but he won’t. He already saw the drink in your hand, and he already knows that the couch is your final resting place tonight. He won’t do that to you – he won’t hurt you, again. 

“I really can’t,” he sheepishly replies as she finally drops his hand. Her palms are colder, even more chilled than they had been after afternoons of slinging ice cream together at StarCourt. He doesn’t know if it’s because he had no heat to offer from his own palms, or if he’d just been a leech and absorbed all the warmth she’d offered in that small touch. “I promised my mom I’d visit with her and my dad while I’m in town. The Harringtons are already headache-inducing enough without a hangover.” 

It’s a sorry attempt at a joke, but Robin laughs anyway. The kind of laugh that cuts to his bone, that saws right through his thin skin and makes the first incision. He missed her – he misses her. She’s right here in front of him, and he’s never felt further away.

Robin navigates away from the bottles of chilled alcohol on the countertop either way, whether she’s realized to not push the topic or not, and heads straight to the fridge. 

“We might have some pop in here, if you really want. I’m pretty sure I bought some Coke on my last grocery run. Or- Oh!” she pauses, peeking her head back out from behind the fridge door, hiding something in her grasp as she grins radiantly, “How about some orange juice?” 

The carton is nearly crushed in her grasp, mostly empty as she holds it up. 

It immediately reminds him of all the summer clementines you’d shared with him before he’d burnt everything to the ground. Sticky and sweet, innocent and divine. Before the fight, before he’d packed away his entire life into his car and drove as far away from Indiana as he could. As far away from you as his half tank of gas could take him. 

The bile rises in his throat, but he nods anyway. 

He watches her navigate the unfamiliar kitchen; she knows it well, knows it like home. Every cupboard and every drawer, she clearly has them mesmerized, because this is her home. Hawkins is still Robin’s home, is still your home, even if Steve has sworn it off. 

“So,” Robin presses as she fills a crystal cup with orange juice, looking up eagerly at Steve.

It’s hard to be bitter when she looks at him like that. Like he’s done nothing wrong. “So?” 

“Tell me about it!” he jumps from her excitement, cringing as she hands over the glass, “Tell me all about the big city. Is it as cool and refreshing as you had dreamed it would be?” 

Steve looks anywhere but at his best friend. He looks over the chipping wallpaper in the hallway, flowery images faded from the years. He glances over the dated backsplash of the kitchen itself, noticing how the checker pattern clashes terribly with the steel appliances. His mother would have a fit if she stepped foot in this apartment – whoever had been the interior designer had had more than just questionable taste. The yellow-toned lights from overhead certainly wasn’t doing it any favors. 

“It’s-” More words doomed to die on his tongue. They’re ashen, stickier than any clementine. Bitter and biting, burning and cutting. There’s not a singular positive attribute about his new home he can think of mentioning, because it doesn’t really feel like home. And it’s funny, because he had said the same exact thing about Hawkins when he was leaving it behind. 

Looking back, this place felt more like home than any big and gouache city ever could. But it has nothing to do with back roads he once sped down, or lonely parks he once cried in. 

It has everything to do with the bright-eyed, soft-freckled girl in front of him. It has everything to do with the shadow that suddenly enters the entryway, quieter than ever as it leans against a splintering frame. 

“You made it.” 

Your voice is a whisper, so soft he swears he imagined it. But then his head turns, and you’re there. Not a figment of his imagination, not a dream he’ll wake up from in a cold sweat. You’re standing there, tangible as ever, arms crossed with a blank face. 

“I made it,” he echoes back, voice even lower than yours. 

Three little words, and not a single one resembles what he really wants to say. 

I love you.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean it. Any of it.

If I bruise my knees now, will I ever see your forgiveness? 

You’re a picture frame frozen in time, looking the exact same as you had the day he’d watched you fade from his rear-view mirror. Same stubborn-set lips, same disapproving eyes. 

But more importantly, same soft hair. Same sweet perfume. Same shaking hands, built to hold, not fight. They should have never been forced to form angry fists; but he’d never given you a choice. He’d forced your hand – he’d taken all your soft curves and loving edges, and turned them colder than stone. Colder than Robin’s hand.

That was his fault to carry to his own grave. 

“I’ll… leave the two of you alone,” Robin says, slowly passing over the glass of juice as she takes a few steps towards the doorway. There’s a fear in her eyes, as if this is the real reason why she had drug him to the kitchen so quickly – she hadn’t wanted to run the risk of this. All this tension, all this hurt. But it was inevitable, and Steve had already put on his Sunday best in preparation for it. 

He waits on you to make the first move. Whatever happens, whatever is said is all in your hands. Hands he hopes have let go of the fists you’d had to raise against him. Hands he hopes will hold him gently, even if nothing more than metaphorically rather than physically. He doesn’t think he’ll ever feel those hands hold him again; not as a lover, not as something to be gripped onto. They would never thread through his hair again in the morning light, and they would never fist his t-shirt through tears in a somber dusk. 

You make your way across the kitchen, just as Robin had, before you settle against the counter. You lean against it, facing him fully, arms still tightly crossed as you stare. And he stares right back. But it’s a losing game; he knows his gaze will always be softer on you than even the blankest of looks that you will give him. There will always be love behind his, and there will never be kindness behind yours again. 

He deserves it. He left you. You begged him and begged him not to, and he still left. 

“I didn’t think you’d show up,” you quietly admit after some silence, fingers pressing down into your bicep as if withholding yourself, “She mentioned she’d sent an invite but…” 

“But you figured I would be too busy?” he offers when you trail off.

“Something like that.” 

Something like that. God, he hates it, he hates this. He hates that all he wants is to take you in his arms, to admit all his sins and pray for forgiveness at your altar. He hates that all he can think about is how your lips tasted the last time they’d pressed against his – salty from your tears – as you’d exhausted your artillery of ways to get him to stay. He hates how he still feels the weight of your body curving and meeting him halfway, wrapped up in you but not tightly enough to not still wake in the morning and just drive away. 

Your eyes look over him, slowly trailing up and down, but nothing like they once had. “You’ve… changed.” 

That was putting it nicely. You were here, haunting him, but he was the one that resembled a ghost. Nothing more than a transparent sheet of the boy he had been. 

Maybe the city had been what changed him. Maybe his new job at some stuck up law firm had made more than just internal changes. Maybe it was his abstinence from alcohol that had changed him, letting the wrinkles in his face fade and making the moles across his cheek and neck a little more noticeable. Maybe the lack of sunshine had turned his hair darker. Maybe that had also turned him paler. 

But that’s not what you meant. He knew you saw right through him – you saw straight to the rotten core he’d been hiding away for six months. Something old, something abused, something tired. Something yearning to come home to a place that was never his at all. You were talking about all the sleepless nights sponsoring the bags beneath his eyes, all the guilt that was eating him alive from the inside out. All the missteps that he had taken that led him to the lifelong regret and mistakes he can’t ever take back. He could bandage the wounds, he would hold his chest high, but it doesn’t hide the bloodstains of the self-inflicted carnage. 

“So have you,” he nods, looking you up and down, lying through his teeth. 

The only change present was the one he’d already seen before he left. The one that sucked the light from your eyes as you asked him to just stay. Not even in Hawkins, but with you. You would have followed him to the ends of the worlds, you told him as much, and he’d still said no.

Why the Hell did he ever say no?

Your eyes dart to the crystal glass in his hand, “Isn’t it a bit late for a mimosa?” 

“What?” he follows your gaze, and sees the way you’re almost glaring at the glass in his hand, “It’s not- I- this isn’t a mimosa.” 

Your nose scrunches, “What? You always said that mixing cheap wine and orange juice still counted, it was just the poor man’s mimos-”

“There’s no alcohol in the glass.” 

Your mouth hangs open ever so slightly, eyes squinting in disbelief. And then he sees it. God, he wishes he wouldn’t have witnessed it – the slow fall of your face, until you’re nothing more than a clean slate of marble again. 

But in the transition, he saw it. The realization that he had changed, that he had made some of the right changes, just a little too late. He was capable of being a better man, just not for you. 

“Why not?” your voice is tight, lips a hard line as you refuse to meet his daring gaze.

Look at me, he begs. Please look at me and let me explain myself. 

“I haven’t drank since-” Since that night. Since that fight. Since you begged me to give it up, to call you beautiful without the whiskey flooding my bloodstream. Since you asked me to stay, and I still went. 

Unlike Robin, you know the words he can’t say. 

“That’s-” you choke on your words, your composure cracking for the first time since you’d entered the kitchen. You take a moment to clear your throat, “That’s good. That’s… great, Steve.” 

He can hear your hurt, clear as day. He can hear every question ricocheting in your mind: why couldn’t you have done that for me? Why couldn’t you have given me an inch when I gave you all my miles? 

He’s glad you don’t vocalize any of them. He doesn’t have a single answer. You deserve one, but he can’t offer one. 

It’s not supposed to be this way. You and him shouldn’t be leaning on opposite counters, oceans apart in the middle of Robin’s kitchen. It should be your kitchen – one shared between you and him. He should be holding you, twirling you around in the quiet of the night by the light of an open fridge, the only sounds being you stifling your giggles over the padding of bare feet. 

The two of you should’ve made it. 

You’d given him all of your love, every last drop, and he’d turned cheek and ran. You’d never risked asking for more, always settling only for what he was willing to give. No labels, no talks of the future. Hiding you away in the dead of night as the two of you shared cheap wine on rooftops, burying you between his sheets as he’d steal away another piece of you that he didn’t intend to keep but carried all the same. Sticky kisses, but only when no one was looking. Whispered admissions of devotion, but only when no one was listening. 

You always gave him a slice of your clementine, peeled and pleading and begging silently for anything in return, and he’d given you nothing. Just a mouthful of bloody goodbyes and nights reeking of whiskey. 

“You look beautiful,” he spits out before he can think better of it. The pulp of the juice is on his tongue, and you look so broken for just a second that he swears he can turn back time. He can make it right. He can offer you more than a burial ground. 

Your sad smile says it all. 

He’d finally said it. He’d finally admitted just a fraction of the hold you had him in, and not a single drop of alcohol in his system. No need to see you naked, no need to pretend the words hadn’t been uttered once the high was over. He’d finally said it. 

“I’ll see you around, Steve.”

And it was too late.

You leave the kitchen without another word, and it takes everything in him to not chuck the glass of orange juice at the wall. 

He didn’t even like orange juice. The pulp would get between his teeth and drive him mad, it left an odd film on his tongue he couldn’t stand, and it was always too sour for him to find refreshing. It’s the same reasons he hated oranges growing up. Until you, until your clementines. And he thinks if you walked back in, if you asked him to, if you held out a palm with a slice of all you had to offer to him again, he’d find a way to swallow the taste again without complaint. 

You’re not going to walk back in, though. 

It’s too late. 

So Steve crosses the room the counter you once leaned against, grabs the closest bottle of cheap whiskey, and pours. Straight into his mouth, not even bothering with the orange juice. 

He never thought a ghost’s knife would taste of clementines as it stabbed through his gut, even through the burn of alcohol. His mistake. 

[azsazz]

The Midnight Hour

Vampire!Cassian x Reader

Summary: After a rough night at the bloodhouse, you stumble across a handsome male you've only seen once, a soft gleam in his eye as he reaches out to help.

Warnings: Blood, reader works at a bloodhouse/brothel.

Word Count: 3,366

Notes: Happy Monday my lovelies! 💙

_________________________________________

Your mind swims in darkness, but not the soothing kind. Not the kind that streams down on you from the bright moon, a caress of silver that drives your heart’s steady beat. It isn’t the darkness of calm, nor lovers, but of one so achingly painful and lonesome that you don’t know how you’ve managed to survive it.

Chilled to your very bones you groan, blinking yourself awake. The room is plunged in black, and if you couldn’t feel the plush couches beneath your tender body, hear the muffled moans of pleasure through thin walls, and smell the metallic twist of blood in the air, you wouldn’t know that you’re awake.

Your neck throbs like a bee sting, painful as always upon the first break of skin. If you reach your fingers up to trace the punctures on your throat, they will prick with discomfort. You wonder if the blood has even dried yet, how long you’ve been unconscious.

The memory comes back in bursts. Golden hair. Green eyes. A set of dimples almost as startling as the sharp set of fangs he donned. Voice a low rasp that even without compulsion could bring anyone to their knees.

Used to it, is what you are. Selling yourself to make a dime in the city of Starlight, where vampires roam freely, drunk off of lust and well, blood. They crave it like the moon chases the sun, needing it to survive, just as you need the shiny coins lining their pockets for that exact reason. A trade to survive.

You told yourself that you wouldn’t stay here long, fleeing from your home court to find out if the others were any better.

The first time you had ran into one of the creatures of night, you almost hadn’t survived. Just like tonight, the vampire drank and drank, eyes glazed over like they were painted with lechery, his firm hold pinning you to this very chaise had gone soft, pliant like a lover’s as your blood sated the primal urges flashing hot beneath his skin. He was hungry, starving nearly, pupils pinpricks and canines as sharp as the knife stowed in your boot.

The owner of the bloodhouse, Aima, had greeted you with a sinful smile and offered you refuge for the night in exchange for your services. Sleeping with him you could handle, but as he led you to a room with nothing more than a wink, you knew you should’ve kept running.

Even the werewolves weren’t quite as ravenous as the vampires.

Groaning, you manage to force your arms under you, shoving yourself up. Your head spins like a dancer’s twirl, her captivating beauty only one you’d been able to view as a server at the party, silver tray in white-gloved hands, offering fae wine to royals who ignored you completely or glared at you as if the action alone would send you bursting into flames.

It never did though, even as much as you wished it would.

Coins glint in the low light sweeping in from beneath the door. They’re scattered everywhere, running from across the sofa to the floor. One tumbles down the front of your gown as you right yourself. The hungry vampire who paid for your services had either come to his senses when the haze of bloodlust had washed away from his vision, guilt fueling him to toss the payment haphazardly in his haste to leave, or he simply did not care, the only thing stopping him from being able to come back even if he had sucked every drop of your blood dry would be if he didn’t pay. 

They always pay.

It takes you longer than you’d like to collect all of the coins. Your head is dizzy and your breathing is labored as you move sluggishly throughout the room to gather your payment. It takes you two tries to curl your shaking fingers around the first one, appendages colder than the vampires skin themselves, stiff and stinging like needles.

You count, then stuff the few extra coins in your boot, right next to your knife. The rest you’ll leave for Aima. Hopefully you can slip out without him seeing. You huff as your fingertips brush the hilt. Fat lot that it does. You’ve never been able to so much as reach for the weapon, as more powerful vampires can paralyze their prey. Handy for them, very much a danger for yourself.

Your knees buckle as you try to stand but you can’t stay here any longer. Aima will come looking soon, when he either realizes you’re in here alone or when he walks by and doesn’t hear the muffled moans and gasps of the ecstasy that comes with a bite. 

You might only have mere moments, so you lock your legs and twist the doorknob. Your body feels heavy. Sweat already lines your brow just from the effort you’re using to keep your body upright. You lean heavily on the wall as you stumble your way down the familiar halls, legs unable to bear your full weight with the amount of blood you’ve lost tonight.

Close. So close to completely losing your life. You never wanted this for yourself.

The iron door is almost too heavy for you to shove open. You’re sure your shoulders will be the perfect evidence of how you’d shoved your body into the metal, mottled purple, green, and yellow. But not even those colors will take the eyes off of the red holes in your throat.

You don’t live far from the bloodhouse, five blocks at the most in an apartment building that has seen better days, next to a neighbor who drinks and fucks like she has both on retainer.

Even so, it’s yours. You can’t wait to hear the slide of the lock on the door with you on the other side, safe for the night. With the tip the vampire had left you tonight, you wouldn’t have to go back to the bloodhouse for a few days, but with the way that your head pounds and your neck burns like flames, you’ll have to spend all of the extra money you’ve earned on seeing a healer tomorrow, and you’ll continue in this never ending circle of Hel you’ve managed to find yourself in. 

City of Dreamers, what a lie.

You trip over upturned cobblestones. Your knees crack loudly on the ground, echoing through the abandoned streets, and you know the vampires nearby will stir. You can feel your palms tear open on the stones as you try to catch yourself. The last bit of energy expels from your body and you slump to the ground, a breathless lump in the middle of the streets. The bite of your hands is the only thing keeping you from slipping into the warm embrace of darkness yawning a chasm in your mind.

Forcing your eyes open confirms what you’ve thought. Your palms are bleeding and you know without a doubt that one of the creatures lurking in the night will follow like a bloodhound, hungry.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is how it was always supposed to be for you, a wholesome meal for the vampires of the Night Court. Maybe it had been your mistake to flee here, even if the lure of having all your dreams come true was the one thing on your mind. You should’ve gone to Summer or Autumn. Surely sirens and kitsune are better than vampires. Dawn would’ve been ideal but you never would have had enough money to travel all the way to the Lands of the Angels.

A voice cuts through your thoughts like a blade through soft flesh. It’s rough, a strain of confusion as he speaks your name.

“Cassian?” you gasp, blinking away the darkness trying to swallow your vision. He towers over you, even more so than he had that single time he’d bought your services for the night. You can still remember the flash of his stubble against your neck when he went in for the bite, pressing a soft kiss to the skin before a brush of his fangs, sending a shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the icy cold of his skin and everything to do with the handsome male.

But he hadn’t come back. It was unusual for a vampire not to return to the bloodhouse after a particularly tasty meal, and you had more returning customers than you could count, but Cassian had never been one of them.

“What are you doing out here all alone at night?” He sounds like he’s scowling and when you finally focus on him he is. His thick brows are furrowed and there’s a frown adorning his perfect face. His hazel eyes glow as they take in your crumpled form.

It’s so hard to lift your head up to meet his gaze, heavy with cement. “Bloodhouse,” you breathe, “Greedy–ah, greedy asshole.”

Cassian growls low in his throat. You watch his nostrils flare as he takes in your scent, the blood on your palms, coating your throat, and the slow pace of your heart. That’s how he knows you’re not yourself. The last time he’d seen you your heart had been beating so fast he thought it might try and jump from your chest into his. 

It’s why he hadn’t come back. He could’ve sworn that his own heart had jumpstarted in response to yours, jolting in his chest when it had been an unmoving thing sitting inside of him for centuries. You smelled like the sweetest perfume and tasted like ambrosia of the gods. The tender touch he’d used to hold you close to him turned iron as he tore into the cushions trying to hold himself back from draining you and mounting you all in one.

If he had blood running through his veins it would be boiling. He’s angry nonetheless, and you can tell by the way he goes as still a stone for a second, thunder raging in his gaze and wings twitching at his back. 

His gaze goes soft as he looks you over once more. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, gathering you in his arms. “You’re too cold. That’s not good, especially coming from me.” He tries to joke, brushing some of the damp hair from your face. You’re too hot but you’re shivering, lips tinting blue. 

“I’m f-fine,” you whisper, but your teeth are clacking too hard for you to make out the words.

Cassian tuts softly, making sure you’re secure to his chest. Large, membranous wings unfurl from his back, and the moonlight shining down across them makes him look like a winged hero. 

Your winged hero.

“Let’s get you home.”

You’re too weak to protest, to even stay awake as he flies. You would love to see the sparkling stars above and the twinkling city proper as he goes but your eyelids feel like anvils, shutting on their own accord.

You rouse when Cassian lands, the jolt of his feet on solid ground again stirring you from your slumber. 

“Where are we?” you slur, looking around in wonder. Your eyelids are still heavy, the comforting feeling of unconsciousness that your body screams that it needs is drawing you in like one of those sirens from Summer, but you force yourself awake, drinking in your surroundings.

It’s a quaint home, buttery light casting warmth throughout the room. There’s a fire raging in the hearth and Cassian snags a blanket off of the back of the well-worn sofa as he goes, tucking you in. 

You bury your nose into the softness of it, and the smell of sandalwood melts your straining muscles.

“This is my home,” Cassian says gently, and before you can even think about protesting, he’s answering. “I will be taking care of you, sweetheart. That’s an order.”

“An order?” you snort, peering up at him. His hazel eyes are a shock of freshness as he holds your gaze, not needing to look up to know the way throughout his own home. “Who do you think you are?”

The smirk he gives you makes your head spin. You squeeze your eyes tightly and let your head fall against the hard planes of his chest again. “An order from the High Lord of the Night Court’s commander of armies.”

You huff in his arms, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself as his boots hit the first stair. “I’m no soldier.”

“No,” he agrees softly, “But you are a survivor.”

Something coils in your chest and you refuse to open your eyes, to answer. If he asks you’ll blame it on the loss of blood, the throbbing in your throat and head becoming louder and louder the longer you stay quiet, pounding like his boots against the wooden stairs.

You let yourself be, floating in and out of consciousness as you cuddle into Cassian’s strong chest. There’s the sound of water, and he adjusts you for a moment as he pours sweet scented oils into the bath. The room fills with the warmth of sandalwood, the scent that’s clinging to his very being.

Cassian murmurs your name, and when you blink up at him, he smiles. “I’ve run you a bath. It will help warm you up and I’ll take a look at your neck afterwards. Are you able to get into it on your own?”

You look at the inviting tub, filled to the brim with bubbles. There’s ripples of heat wafting from it and the thought of even sitting in something that luxurious brings tears to your eyes.

He sets you on your feet but your knees buckle. Cassian holds you upright and you try to cling to his shirt but your grip is weak.

“I can’t,” you shake your head, an errant tear escaping. It rolls hot across your cheek and the male before you is quick to wipe it away, shushing you soothingly. “I need help.” 

You can see his throat work around a swallow but you don’t call it out. He nods once, curtly, like this is just another mission he’s on, formulating a plan and how best to execute it. Overthinking it.

His fingertips are deft as he pulls at the ties of your dress. It falls away in a wave of blue but you don’t blush or shrink away from him, you’re much too tired. Cassian holds your hand while you slip out of your undergarments and helps ease you into the water.

You sigh, immediately settling back against the side, reclining so your body can absorb as much of the warmth as possible. You’re still feeling a little dizzy but the aroma of Cassian helps ground you, calm you.

“Can I take a look at your throat?” Cassian asks after a few moments. He’d been a statue at your side as you settled, the little pleased noises you released going straight to his cock. He willed stillness into his bones, thought about the worst things imaginable, like the bathrooms at the warcamps or the beast living in the library.

You hum in agreement, tilting your head away so he can have a better look.

Cassian plants himself by the side of the tub, fingers brushing your wet hair away from the wound. He hisses, cursing. The wound is tender, red dribbling out of the marred flesh. The bastard must’ve been half-feral with the way that these punctures look. He’s undeniably furious.

“Well, how bad is it?” you ask, though by his reaction you think you already know.

“You’ll have to drink some of my blood,” he answers, and you can hear the grimace in his voice, “But I think a tough female like you will pull through.”

You let your head fall his way in a lazy motion, wincing as it stretches your wounds. You try to cover the twist of your mouth with an unconvincing grin. “Oh yeah?”

He nods, affirming. “Yes, you’ll live. That’s an order.”

Your smile turns real. “Sir, yes sir.”

Cassian chuckles as he brings his wrist to his mouth. You watch with intrigue as his sharp, glorious fangs rip into the delicate skin of his wrist. When he moves the bloody arm towards you, you catch the sight of his pink tongue lapping up the remnants of blood on his lips and you wish he was doing that to your skin, your mouth, your cunt–

“Drink,” he demands softly, hazel eyes nearly glowing in the low light, as if he can tell what you were thinking.

You do as he asks, a tentative brush of your tongue that drags heat up his spine with the motion. You nearly moan at the taste of him, all hot and heady like a drug. Your second gulp is eager, blunt teeth clamping at his wrist like you’re a vampire of your own.

Cassian lets you drink as much as you want, even after your wound begins to close. He watches you closely, his pupils becoming larger and his breaths become deeper the more you swirl your tongue against his skin. This is everything to him, to have what he’s been aching for but not letting himself have for so, so, long. 

This…this is better than him drinking your blood, the sweet sight of you taking your fill from him, the prideful feeling that he’s providing for you fills his chest.

“Thank you,” you breathe, breaking him out of his trance. He blinks, not realizing that your lips had left his skin. Apparently it’s not only vampires that can paralyze their prey. 

“You’re welcome.”

He stays by your side, helping you with the soaps even though you feel better than ever. You feel like a whole new woman, ready to go back to the bloodhouse and kick Aima’s ass. Cassian’s blood is vibrating through your body, and it feels like every icicle that’s been slowly forming in your body after these last few months of working at the bloodhouse melt. You feel invincible, and as your head clears you begin to understand the very appeal to blood the vampires of this court have.

“You look cold,” you murmur before you can think clearly about what you’re saying. “You should get in.”

Cassian frowns, “Get in?”

You nod, even though your heart trips at his reaction. Your anxious fingers skim the top of the water, wisps of heat coiling around your fingertips like smoke. Shrugging, you answer. “You look cold out there.”

“Cold,” he whispers, “Always so cold.”

Your heart aches for him in that instance. He can see it in your eyes, too, that you care. So he takes off his shirt.

The fabric lifts over his body, revealing rippling muscles that look carved from precious stone. Your breath catches in your throat and your heart skips in your chest. 

Cassian tosses the clothing into the growing pile at his feet. His hazel eyes are hot as they take you in, the top of your knee sticking out of the water and up, to the mark on your throat, now only to pink dots across your otherwise smooth skin. They linger on your mouth, and when he meets your gaze, you know that you’re his.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” His voice is throaty, rough like he’s been screaming for years. “Because if I get in that tub with you, I don’t think I’ll be able to let you leave.”

His admission makes the breath catch in your throat. You don’t dare break eye contact, even as you see the way his pupils dilate in response to the way your heart picks up in pace.

“I know.” 

The breath leaves his chest in a whoosh and nearly as fast his trousers fall to the ground.

“Are you positive?” he asks again, ever the nervous gentleman, so close to having what he’s always wanted.

You roll your eyes, sitting up further so he has room to join. The water slides down your body and Cassian can’t seem to look away, his throat going dry when it covers the bottom of your breasts.

You flutter your lashes at him, a siren beckoning its prey into dangerous waters.

“Yes. And that’s an order.”

[rodolfoparras]

OOOO YES...... gnaws at the soap post like a dog with a bone

i personally also love grey sweatpants with all my heart, even though i never get the chance to wear them (hot all year long.......)

the fabric is SO mmnnhghm i love the feel and smell of it, it's so comfortable!! it's the kind of fabric that makes you want to bury your head in there

now consider

it's obvious that soap can't keep his hands to himself, you went into this relationship knowing that he was a horny ball of energy around you...

lately, you've been noticing how much more soap has been staring at you, more specifically, your pants. his gaze would change from time to time, sometimes it was a horny, hungry gaze, and others, it was a soft and pleading one, like he just wanted to bury his head into your clothed thighs and fall asleep.

sometimes, likely at random times of the day, you'd find yourself with soap between your legs, playing with the drawstrings of your sweatpants and eventually burying his head in there, lapping up at your dick inside the fabric or just sniffing your scent.

he'd whine and whimper while doing so, trying to take in as much of your smell as possible... taking in your warmth, as well. after all, it had been cold lately, and to soap, there was no better way to warm up than to snuggle with you! maybe fuck

those whimpers of his would become even sweeter once you grabbed hold of his mohawk, not even in a harsh way, just tugging it or caressing it lovingly... gosh, soap was a sucker for that, looked like a damn puppy that was needy for attention every time you did it.

seeing how positively you were reacting, soap took it as encouragement and pulled down your sweats, just enough so your dick would be freed.

you smiled comfortingly and pushed him down onto it, just as a little tease. soap looked so good, so beautiful with your cock in his mouth, his eyes half-lidded and looking up at you so adoringly.

a groan escaped you when soap sucked eagerly on the tip. it felt like he was already trying to milk you, even if the both of you hadn't even started yet!

on his own, his warm mouth took in more of your hardened length inside, gag reflex long lost to the many blowjobs he's given.

his nose was snuggly buried into your pubic hair at the base of your dick. your eyes were softly closed with an expression of pleasure on your face, your head lolling back as your stress basically seeped out of your shoulders.

once soap took all of you inside his mouth, he stopped moving. it made you wonder for a second... maybe he had just wanted to cockwarm you for a bit, as eager as he was to get you to orgasm every other time.

you most definitely appreciated the slow moment, especially at a colder time like this. it didn't have to come down to something rough every single time, so you let him just rest where he almost belonged to...

- 🌷

*grabs mic*

Soap with a scent kink who’ll steal your tattered sweats, burying his nose in the fabric as he strokes his length

Soap who can’t stop himself from creeping between your thighs at night, taking your length in his mouth or sinking down on your cock. You’re oblivious as ever, still in deep sleep while he’s perched on your lap practically bouncing on your dick.

Soap who will touch himself when away on a mission without having your permission so as punishment he only gets to watch as you palm your clothed crotch, eyes glued to the outline of your dick, drooling for the wet spot that’s forming, feeling his own cock stir as he watches you cum in your pants, soiling them completely

Soap who will ruin most of your sweats because whenever you’re gone for long periods of time and he gets needy, he’ll grind his cock down onto them, spurting ropes of cum on them, soiling them completely before tossing them in the laundry basket

Soap who will happily mouth at your clothed cock, drool and pre showing on the fabric but you don’t mind it neither does he as he sucks vigorously on it, eyes shut brows pinched together and looking completely in bliss

[andysinterlude]

rosekiller microfic -- dive (aug 1) | @rosekillermicrofic | main acc: @andyxcds

(๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧ Word Count: 889 tags: swearing. private displays of affection.

ᓚᘏᗢ ...

Two cars, both fresh-coated BMWs sat at the ledge of the cliff. A snake and a raven as finishing designs were impeccable in truth, making their way around the car in different loops. From below the cliff, the two BMW E39 5 Series looked the same tint with the help of the moon. In each car, a guy sat in the driver’s seat. Perhaps they bought it together. Perhaps they designed it together.

In the dark blue BMW, Barty switched out his Fall Out Boy cassette for his Type O Negative case and turned up the volume until he couldn’t hear the sound of Evan sliding out his dark green. He glanced over, holding his door half open, to watch Evan slam his door and toss off his white tee, leaving a grey tank underneath. Barty turned down the volume.

“Should I drive down?” He called out. In response, Evan shook his head, keeping his eyes set on the sea before him, letting the breeze fight his face and run its claws through his hair.

“And the towels?” Barty asked. “Pass it. I’ll take it down.”

“Barty, just get over here,” Evan said calmly. Awe twisted his words, making his tone sweet to Barty, trance-like. Barty turned up the volume of his car, pulled on his towel then slammed the door.

He ran over, pulling off his black shirt along with his tank, leaving his chest bare to the wind. Evan looked over his shoulder to catch Barty’s skin glint in the moonlight. Unseen rays of the moon traced over his abs and those lines down his hips. He was inclined to drop his tank as well.

Barty slid off his pants, leaving his boxers, the only thing he wore. When the sea breeze hit his thighs, not only did he begin to understand how romantic the view was, but he also began to see himself feeling colder in nothing short of a minute.

Slowly, Evan pulled his pants down, and let Barty watch the curve of his spine, the bone poking through his skin, and then the edges of his abs in the sunlight. They saw each other in each other. Evan flipped his hair then took Barty’s hand in his and stepped up.

“Ready?” Evan was proud to say he liked the rough feel of Barty’s hands. Calloused like they spent hours at work, on the cars and on his body.

“Yeah,” Barty whispered, leaving goosebumps on Evan’s skin. Maybe his too.

They plunged in a dive, feet tucked, fingers intertwined, mouths wide in a soundless scream. Wind tore at their outstretched arms, and then the water did. It whipped around them as they hit it with a smack and engulfed them in twice the chill they felt on the way down. Barty knew he felt the cold a couple of feet below.

For a moment, they sunk with their eyes wide, adjusted to the sting of the water. Underwater, they could hear the guitar riff of ‘I Don’t Want To Be Me’ and Evan let out a gasp of air he thought he needed. Slowly, they rose to the top, closing in on each other, arms out to grasp onto each other.

Fiercely, Barty grasped onto Evan’s ribcage as Evan hooked onto Barty’s shoulders and swiftly pushed him deeper into the water with a sly shriek.

Barty fought for grip until he caught Evan’s ankles, pulling him down, but stabilizing his own body to get afloat. Whereupon Evan came down, he flung his arms into the air as he went down, then grabbed Barty’s neck in an attempt to save himself.

In that moment, the moment when they were now face to face, skin to skin underwater, something passed through their bodies. Something not physically tangible but physical, nonetheless. That physical thing passed through them as their lips caught each other in the water. It passed as Evan splayed his fingers across Barty’s cheeks and pressed their foreheads together as they kissed.

It also passed as they felt themselves slowly rise to the surface and gave themselves air to breathe. That feeling – the one that feels like going every mile above the speed limit, the one that feels like falling down a cliff with the love of your life in your arms – was like ecstasy. To them both at least.

 “Fucking cunt,” Evan said breathlessly.

“What?” Barty reeled back, cocking his head to the side.

“I really fucking hate that song.” Barty couldn’t help but let out a devilish howl matched with a grin of the same. He wrapped a leg around Evan’s .

“No, really. I do. I’m picking next time,” He said playfully, pushing Barty away from him, kicking his feet out from the tangle.

“Alright.” Barty said with a sigh, wading back to Evan and grasping his head and pressing his lips to Evan’s forehead.

“That was crazy. Wanna go again?” Evan said underneath Barty’s grip.

“We have to walk all the way up there.” Barty groaned, pulling his hands down to Evan’s hip, letting himself feel Evan’s muscles relax under his touch.

“I’ll walk up, bring the car down and we can go again,” Evan proposed, staring into Barty’s brown dripping hair.

“It’s fine. Let’s go together.”

“Okay.” Evan changed the song as soon as he got his hands on Barty’s car.

[hottpinkpenguin]

Dragon's Fire - Ch. 1

Aemond Targaryen X Fem!Reader A/n: I'm in my writing-for-whatever-show-i'm-currently-watching era and I'm not apologizing. let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters! WC: 2018 Warnings: graphic descriptions of wounds; non-canon

You squatted next to the stream, exhaling into your cupped palms and rubbing your hands together to try and cajole some dexterity back into your fingers. The nights were getting colder, you noted as your breath turned to steam in the early morning air. What was it the Starks always said? Winter was coming. You shivered, whether for the cold or for the chill of foreboding that raced along your spine you weren’t entirely sure. 

You dug around in your satchel for the small hammer you used to break up the thin screen of ice that had formed along the surface of the stream. Having located it, you thwunked once, twice, three times until the tool cracked the ice. The gurgling water beneath was clear and unbelievably cold, the sensation digging bone-deep as you dipped your hands into the running water. You splashed a few handfuls across your face to invigorate you, shaking off the fog of sleep in the process. Gasping from the shock, you busied yourself with dunking your waterskin and filling the two buckets you used each day for cleaning and cooking. 

Your morning routine hadn’t changed in the four years since you’d come to Sea Dragon Point from King’s Landing. The hardships you’d endured in this cold, foreign land had at first burdened you to the point of almost breaking you. In your past life as an understudy with the dragonkeepers, you’d never had to concern yourself with such trivial tasks like fetching your own water. You had fled King’s Landing without thinking through the consequences of scratching a living out of the woods and the rocks and the soil. The only consequence that had been on your mind was your own execution, a threat that had spurred your flight from the capital city to this desolate, forgotten place. When you’d first come to Sea Dragon Point, you’d had a few supplies still from the larders and the pantries of King’s Landing. After you’d eaten through those, you’d found yourself on the brink of starvation and coming to terms with the fact that you knew nothing about how to survive on your own. Necessity had taken over after a few weeks, however, and you’d begun doing what needed to be done. And here you were, four years later, with little in the way of material possessions to show for your years of hard work, but immeasurably more capable and knowledgeable about life outside of the Red Keep than you’d ever dreamed possible.

After filling your buckets and the waterskin, you checked the fishing lines you’d set the night before. Of the five you had, only two had snared prey, and only one was worth keeping. You tossed the juvenile freshwater rock lobster back into the frigid stream, its shell too soft and its meat too sparse to make it worthwhile. The hefty river trout that your other trap had snared, however, would make for a fine meal, and maybe you’d have enough leftover to salt into strips of jerky. You spiked the fish quickly, not wanting it to suffer, before beginning to scale and gut it on the riverbank. The cold water would clean the fish nicely, you knew. 

You were so intent on your task that you almost missed the telltale snap of a twig behind you. Almost. Unsheathing the dragonglass dagger you kept tucked into your belt at all times, you turned quickly and rose from your crouch to full height with the blade extended in front of you in the direction of the noise. The sight before you stole the breath from your lungs. 

Leaned against a tree a few hundred yards from you was a ghost from your past. Glossy silver hair, pale skin, a sharp proud jawline, and a black patch over one eye. Aemond. 

The dagger in front of you dropped to the frostbitten ground as your hands flew to your mouth in shock. 

“Aemond!” Your mind was frozen somewhere between running to him and cursing his name, so you stayed unnaturally still, staring at him in disbelief. He chuckled at the note of terror? relief? adoration? in your voice, but immediately winced and doubled over. You hadn’t noticed before, but suddenly the details of the man before you came into focus. He was paler than usual - if such a thing were possible for a Targaryen - and he was grabbing at the bark of the tree for support, his other arm wrapped tightly against his gut as if holding himself together. Thick dollops of blood were dripping from his hand and forearm, and the single eye he still had was glassy with pain. 

Moments before he toppled forward, you rushed to him, closing the space between you two and catching him with your body. He was taller than the last time you’d seen him, and more solid. You grunted with the effort of keeping him upright as his legs turned to liquid underneath him. 

“You’re hurt,” you noted as if admonishing him. He chuckled again. 

“Ever the astute observer,” he quipped weakly. Unable to hold him standing any longer, you tried your best to twist his body until his spine was against the trunk of the pine tree that he’d been clinging to moments before, easing him down into a sitting position. There were a thousand questions rattling around your mind like bees - how did he find you? how long had he known where you were? what had happened to him? how did he get here? why had he come? who else knew you were here? - but you couldn’t get them to be silent long enough to grab at one and force it out of your mouth. For the second time, you felt yourself frozen to the spot, your chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline. 

A few moments passed before he managed to fix you with a piercing stare despite a blood loss-induced fog of delirium. “I had rather hoped you’d help me,” he rasped, motioning meaningfully to his bloodied arm with his eyes. You shook your head as if in a daze, your mouth opening without sound coming out. Why? How? Who? 

“Please, y/n,” he added effortfully after watching you gasp futilely for words. “I’m dying.” The intensity with which he met your gaze knocked something loose inside you. Your heart twisted inside your chest as you quickly looked at his wounds. The arm he was favoring had a large gash running down the length of his forearm, and he was bleeding freely from it. The edges of the wound were burned and jagged, like the flesh had been torn rather than cut. You recognized the wound instantly as a dragon’s claw mark. Having seen so many of those wounds yourself as a dragonkeeper, you’d never forget it. 

You reached for Aemond’s wounded arm, careful not to disturb the wound itself. He winced and bit down hard on his lip to stifle a groan of pain as he carefully extended his arm towards you. You moved aside the torn shreds of his leather bracer, still laced at the elbow, to get a closer look at the wound. The amount of blood he was losing suggested that the claw must have nicked an artery. He’d need stitches and cauterization, after cleaning the wound thoroughly. With any luck, Aemond might escape a deadly fever with the right herbs. You cursed your circumstances that you were here, hundreds of miles from the well-trained healers of the Red Keep, although Winterfell was only a hard day’s ride. You might be able to buy whatever Aemond needed in Winterfell, although you doubted you’d have access to the same level of supplies that you’d grown accustomed to in King’s Landing. 

“You’re not dying, Aemond,” you soothed, poking tenderly at the flesh of his arm to test the muscles beneath. At worst, you’d have to amputate his arm beneath the elbow. As it was his right hand - his dominant - it would be an adjustment and likely a blow to his ego, but men had lived with far more grievous injuries. You chuckled softly as the surge of panic his words had wrenched out of you began to ebb. 

“It’s not the arm,” he groaned. His voice sounded thick, as if he were talking through cotton. You looked up in confusion. His face had grown paler and there was a sickly, greenish cast to his skin that terrified you. He jutted his chin downward in the direction of his chest. Your eyes followed his gesture, raking over every inch of him, scouring him for signs of injury. 

When you finally saw it, your heart sank into your stomach like a stone in deep water. You hadn’t noticed it initially against the black of his armor. Running up the right side of his torso and cutting across the front of his torso from left hip to right armpit was an enormous, blackened swath of flesh and armor melted together. His skin was almost completely burned off, revealing muscle and sinew and fat underneath, much of that fused with the plates of his black and gold-threaded plackart where it had turned molten against his body. His flesh was twitching, nerves and damaged muscles spasming in pain. With each breath, you saw Aemond fight against a new wave of agony. 

Unable to look anymore, you turned your head away, hot tears spilling from the corners of your eyes. You knew what you’d seen: a death sentence. You fought to steady yourself and to bite down the wave of nausea that climbed up the break of your throat. When you turned back to him, he was staring into you with an intensity that terrified you. He hadn’t looked at you like that since the first night you’d…

You swallowed back the bile and the memories, unable to let yourself get distracted now, with his life in the balance. Now you understood why he’d come here, why he’d risked everything - his life, and yours - to get to you in this remote place. He knew your skill with healing, and he knew that you were familiar with this type of injury. As if confirming your thoughts, he nodded, the motion eliciting a new wince of pain. 

“Dragon fire.” It wasn’t a question, more of a statement. You already knew the answer. He nodded again, his eye closing as he took a few shallow breaths. 

You took in the state of his injury once more. How you’d missed the acrid, sulfur-like stench of his burn initially was a mystery. It assaulted your nose now, threatening to bring up that wave of bile you’d barely managed to swallow down. You couldn’t see how far along Aemond’s back the burn extended, but you were grateful to see that his neck, arms, and legs look relatively unscathed, with the exception of that gruesome gash. 

“I need to get you back to my hut,” you stammered out, trying to swat away the small twinge of embarrassment at calling your home a hut, although it was arguably the most appropriate word you could come up with. If Aemond noticed, he didn’t show it, only nodded once and braced himself against the back of the tree. You carefully lifted his left arm up and threw it over your shoulders, bracing his body weight against yours as he rose precariously to his feet. You were careful not to touch him wherever he was burned, but it was near impossible with his entire torso wreathed in charred flesh. 

“Do what you have to,” he growled through gritted teeth. “I won’t stay conscious much longer.” You took his meaning: you had to get him where he needed to go as quickly as you could, pain be damned. Stealing your own nerves, you shimmied up right against him, taking more of his weight, and started off in the direction of your home. He roared in agony most of the way, fighting to keep his screams from breaking loose. Aemond barely made it inside and onto the single cot you slept on before his eye lolled shut and he slipped into unconsciousness…

read chapter 2 here

[the-s1lly-corner]

Sharing the bed w/ knd villains

Still can't believe my knd rot has lasted this long good LORD

Characters: father, Spankulot, knightbrace, stickybeard, cuppa joe, toiletnator, mr fizz

Notes: reader is GN, established relationships, general hcs as well as some romantic ones

CWs: none

FATHER

i like to think that he sleeps like a rock, he doesnt toss and turn all that much in his sleep

very warm, and i like to think he sleeps in robes and stuff... very high quality fabrics and stuff, very comfy and cozy, nice to snuggle into

definitely wears those sleeping eye mask things

very warm, too, even when hes not in his silhouette form, his sleepwear keeps him cozy

dad snores, though....

wakes up as a reasonable hour, doesnt wake up too late or too early

SPANKULOT

sleeps hanging upside down from the ceiling so there isnt much you can do cuddling wise on a lot of nights

laying in a normal bed feels weird and foreign to him but i do think if you express wanting him to join you, hes going to try to get used to it to make you happy

cool to the touch, need to bundle up so you dont get too cold!

very lanky; long and skinny, not very soft... but those aforementioned blankets can come in handy! yipee!

loves wrapping his cape around you to keep you close to him

old man snores, a slightly different breed to dad snores

KNIGHTBRACE

tosses and turns a reasonable amount, depending on how light you sleep it might be a problem or it might not be

snork mimimimi snore for knightbrace/j

average older man physique, has a little pudge here and there

on the colder side, though... blankets...

night owl, pulls all nighters a lot of nights doing his work- visibly anxious if he hasnt gone out in a while

does his best to come back to you to at least snuggle into you for a while before you both need to start the day

and because hes bone tired LMAO

STICKYBEARD

big warm and soft

sticky, sure, but still warm and soft

maybe you can convince him to try to wash up before heading to bed!

loud snores, offers to get you ear plugs so you can sleep through the night without needing to sleep in a separate room

huge cuddler, will pull you into him during the night in his sleep if you guys dont fall asleep cuddling each other

makes you breakfast in the morning!

CUPPA JOE

early bird, will wake up before you every morning without fail

makes you a cup of coffee as well, exactly how you like it

does not rest easy, though... he fidgets and kicks a lot

you recommend getting a weighted blanket for him and it does help a lot! he loves it! he keeps on top of it so you dont have to move it around every day- especially if its on the heavier side... no one wants to lug around something heavy when theyre sleepy!

warm to the touch! nice and cozy to snuggle into!

TOILETNATOR

huge cuddler, will cling onto you the second you give some sign that youre comfortable with it; talking full body cuddle... arms and legs wrapped around you in order to get as close as possible

you might have to convince him to dress down, or even try to get him some pajamas that he likes so he doesnt try to wear his villain costume to bed

something about always needing to be ready for evil, or something

a little endearing, actually...

snork mimimimimi snore as well, but i can also see him being a honk shoo honk shoo snore haver

heavy sleeper who wakes up from the dumbest quietest stuff trope

MR FIZZ

goes to bed at a reasonable time and wakes up on the earlier side

has a routine of winding down from the day before coming to bed

very tall, usually big spoon when you guys cuddle

can see him being one of the richer villains, alongside joe and father in terms of how rich

has very nice bedding, very comfortable and cozy

dad snore as well but hes not a dad, he just looks like he would have one

stays in bed for a while until he needs to get up to get some extra time with you, even if youre still asleep