#half an hour dead and shit still be beating and twitching and it's like You Stop That

[nyckie]

don't mistake a beating heart for life

[b33zlebubz]

RECKLESS ABANDON--------

CHAPTER ONE - school, life, and a punch to the face TASK FORCE 141 X READER (PLATONIC) MASTERLIST || AO3 LINK || NEXT CHAPTER TAGS: gender neutral reader, angst, fluff, slow burn found family, PTSD, trauma bonding, kidnapping, reader is a foster kid in high school, family drama, blood, violence, guns

"After your life falls apart at the seams very early on, you work hard to keep the small amount of peace still have. Foster care is rough, work is draining, school is a drag...but you eventually find yourself in a good place. All of that quickly goes to waste, however, when your family's unfinished business finally finds its way back to you."

If hell is real, you’re pretty sure you’re dead.  

Time drags on; seconds feeling more like hours and hours feeling like an eternity—punctuated only by the shriek of the occasional bell.  It’s a familiar limbo you’ve grown to tune out in favor of your daydreaming, interrupted only by the end of a period or the sound of your name being called from across the room.  Your pencil taps idly against the desk with the beat of your heel against the floor.  Untied shoelaces pull taught under your feet when you shift to lean forwards, squinting at the equations scribbled across the whiteboard by a wrinkled, dark hand.  Numbers and letters swirl together.

Mrs. Hall.  An elderly, frail, equally as tired woman—worn down by decades of bullshit brought on by stubborn, unmotivated students much like the kids behind you, whispering and snickering in a way that made your eye twitch with deep irritation.  Still, you’re not much better, your mind lost in thought staring at rain that pounds against the ground of upstate Texas until the sound of your name stirs you from the depths of your own brain.  When you look up, confused, Mrs. Hall stares back at you with an expecting stare—and a few students are turned around to stare at you.

You’re also pretty sure if hell is real—it's the American Public School System.

“Uh…”

“The three X’s in number five,”  Mrs. Hall taps the equation on the board with the marker.  “On the homework.”

“Right.  Sorry,”  your tired eyes flicker down to the chicken scratch on the paper in front of you, scanning the crumpled paper for the answer you hastily scribbled down earlier that day.  “Three, square root of two, and negative one?”

“Incorrect.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, scratching at your neck as you try and fail not to notice when one of the boys behind you stops whispering mid-sentence and stares daggers into the back of your neck.  Shit.  Fuck.

That’s the last time you do someone else’s algebra homework.  Math, in all its forms, was your academic Achilles heel.

The rest of fourth period escapes you.  After what feels like a lifetime and a half of talking and scribbling on your paper, the bell rings out across the classroom.  Like Pavlov’s dogs—the students instinctually rush to life—shoving chairs and throwing backpacks over their shoulders, eager to get on with the day.

You're quick to sweep your things into your backpack and high-tail it towards the door of the classroom before a certain boy behind you can notice you've left already.

Mrs. Hall says your first name again.  You stop in your tracks, not missing how your fellow student sends you an angry look as he strides past to leave—crumpling the homework you did for him the night before to add to the effect.  He must be telepathic, because you swear you can hear his voice without him even saying anything.

"You're dead."

Your feet shuffle towards the door, "can't talk, gonna be late—"

"I'll write you a pass."

"I have lunch next, though."

"No you don't."  Mrs. Hall scoffs, shooting you an unamused look from over her rectangular glasses.  "You think I don't know your schedule by now?"

You awkwardly shift your weight from one foot to the next,  "worth a try."

"Sit,"  she gestures beside her.

You hesitate, almost arguing further, but you sigh instead.  Getting lectured actually sounded much better than whatever hell waited for you out in the hallway the second you walked outside.  You let your backpack fall from your shoulders as you drag it over with you to collapse into the chair beside your teacher's desk.  Your eyes flicker up to where her frail hands card through some papers.  

"You graduate in two months, dear."  She reminds you, as if you haven't been scratching the tallied days into a spare notebook like you're on death row.  "Your test scores are average but all the homework seems to be…lacking.  If you even do it at all."

Average.  A word that's been thrown around a lot regarding your name, which you intended to stick with.  Average meant nobody would stick their nose in your business—that you could blend in with the crowd and avoid any and all weird glances and low whispers.  You made the mistake of showing off once, to snap back at your dickhead classmate; only to end up doing his bidding for the rest of the semester.

You figure Mrs. Hall won't take very well to being told that the reason you aren't completing your homework is because you're too busy doing Ben Davis's under the threat that he won't smash your face against the lockers again.  Broken noses are a special level of hell, but it still isn't as low as the torture that is highschool.

"Maybe I joined some sports,"  you quip sarcastically.  "Don't have as much time as I used to."

She only deadpans at you.

You stare innocently back at her.  If you play dumb enough, maybe she'll finally give up.

"I'm not attacking you.  Just worried.  If you need some extra time because—"  she lowers her voice and the bracelets around her tiny wrist jingle as she waves it about,  "---because of your family life, or anything…I'm willing to give it to you."

Your brow lowers, annoyance beginning to nip at your nerves as you sit up a little straighter.

Pity.  You've long grown tired of it.  You weren't some fragile orphan—no.  You were an adult who, in two months, would finally be free from the clutches of your frustrated social worker and the slew of whatever excited, naive couples the system dumped you on.  People have been tip-toeing around you your whole life, and it never fails to make your fists clench.

"My grades are average, you said,"  you say, stern—poking the score on one of your tests with a pointer finger.  "I don't need help."

"I don't doubt you don't need help, sweetheart.  But you're a smart kid.  Really smart, if you put the effort in.  I'm just saying if you ever need any extra—"

"I'm fine.  If you really wanna help, you won't make me late to my next class."

Mrs. Hall seems to freeze, stunned at the bite her otherwise quiet student seems to bear.  The clock ticks above your head, the rain pitters against the window outside and, for a moment, shame floods your senses; but it fades as the seconds pass and that concerned look on her face deepens.

You're the first to look away, picking up your pack and turning for the door.  "See you tomorrow, Mrs. Hall."

"Wait."

You stop, tossing your head back with a sigh.  "What?"

"Tie your shoes, sweetheart,"  she says, her voice kind as she turns away to tap your stack of tests on the desk.  "You'll trip walking around like that."

You only frown and duck out the door.

The rest of the school day passes in a familiar haze.  You space out throughout two of your classes, goof off for the rest, and get your shit handed to you the second school is out.  Ben takes the time to lecture you as well after he levels you in one punch—and you sit rubbing your jaw, bored, as he goes on and on about how you did that shit on purpose and next time, you're fucking dead.

He needed a perfect score to pass the class.  In a low moment of pain, you promised it to him despite the fact that your algebra skills had much to be desired.  Still, with a little bit of extra effort—you managed to make it through most of the second semester without a black eye.  

You're the one that always bleeds; but a part of you finds it funny how he always finds a way to talk himself into angry tears, storming off somewhere distant while kids scramble to get out of his way to avoid the same fate as you.

And, as always, you pick yourself up, wipe the blood from your face onto the sleeve of your jacket—and walk away.

Because that's all you can do.

The rain settles deep in your clothes as you make your way home, music loud in your earbuds.  It's silent and gray, as it has been all week, and your thoughts are mere static as you drag your feet back to your front doorstep.  Your bed is calling for you after such a shitty day and the bruise forming on your left eye is just making the blankets seem all the more welcoming.

You barely notice how your door is already unlocked when you enter.

Inside, the house is just as silent and empty as the rest of your street.  Rain drips to the floor in a steady rhythm as you pad across the living room of the house, dropping your backpack to the floor.  Muscle memory leads you to the bathroom—where things are, as usual, spotless.  

You've seen plenty of bad homes and residencies during your time in the system.  Most of them blurred together in a long string of things you wished to forget; either by the caretakers' fault or your own.  This house, though, was high on your list of favorites.  Your folks were never around, and if they were, they were asleep.  When you weren't working; you usually had the house to yourself.

"Fuck,"  You breathe, prodding at the swelling flesh around your eye. You run some water over it and the irritation dulls slightly as dried blood turns the water pink.  Excuses run rampant through your mind as you scramble for a way to explain the injury---because you're pretty sure they won't believe you if you said you tripped again. 

That's when you catch movement from your doorway.  Shuffling.

You whip around just as the movement disappears, and suddenly the quiet house turns eerily silent.  Your eyes lock on the doorway as the sink continues to run and water continues to drip from your clothes.  

Nothing.

You turn the sink off.

Your brow furrows, eyes locked on the cracked door of your bathroom as your hand grabs hold of the first weapon you can get your hands on—a shower curtain rod.  One foot after the other, you peak around the corner.

Again, nothing.

Out of some itch of paranoia—or just completely on coincidence—you happen to turn your head to the wall next to you.  Instead of an empty corridor like you expected, you're met with a face.

A face that immediately lunges at you the second your eyes widen.  

You stumble to the side with a yell just for the individual to grab your arm, and the curtain rod falls to the floor with a clatter.  You struggle as he yanks you to the side and around the corner and, before you have the chance to react, cold metal is pressed to your back.

"Don't fuckin' move,"  a voice hisses in your ear, and you stiffen.

You wheeze, struggling against his hold, "who–"

"Your gardian fucking angel,"  he sneers, shifting to clap a hand over your mouth.  You thrash again—but it's useless.  The gun presses painfully into your side.  "I said don't move."

A thump echoes through the room, and suddenly you see why.

You fight to keep your breathing under control as you stay firm against your captor's geared chest, still as a statue.  Your heart slams against your ribs and your ears as you listen to each heavy footstep against the floor, and your eyes widen whenever a second soldier creeps down your hallway.  Standard camo and green clothes shuffling as he walks.

You catch the long muzzle of a rifle over the soldier's shoulder, and suddenly you find yourself leaning into the gun pressed into your back.  The hand on your mouth tightens, silently shifting you away from the door.

The shifting of gear and the click of the rifle echo in the silent house as your nails dig into the skin of your captor's wrist.  You watch a muscle in his stubbled jaw twitch near your face as the sound of your first name echoes through the hall, sing-song and taunting.         

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Think.  Think.  Think.

“If y’know what’s best for ya’…”  A thick Scottish accent taunts from down the hall as he nudges the curtain rod with his foot, causing it to scrape against the wood floors.  “You’ll quit puttin’ up a fight and show yourself.”

You glance over to meet your captor’s gaze.  A flicker of anger crosses his eyes, nose wrinkling into a scowl.  He has a scar across his cheek.  

Then, suddenly, he shifts, pulling you further away from the doorway.  His grip on your shoulder is deathly tight as it digs into your clothes.  He lifts his finger from the trigger of his gun only to bring it to his lips in a silent command to stay quiet, stay with me.

Panic burns bright and all-encompassing through your veins.  For whatever reason—all your body will let you do is shake and listen. 

He ducks around the corner, pulling you with him.  You have to force your feet to move.

The Scottish soldier stops just at the end of the hall, hulking frame and what must be at least thirty pounds of gear making him a jarring sight against the flowered wallpaper of your foster home.  He must have an earpiece of some kind; because you hear him whisper every so often as he sweeps the hallways.  

"They're here,"  he mutters.  "Little fuck's just good at hiding."

It's tiny and muffled, but in the deathly silence of the house you can make out two voices in his earpiece that reply to him.  One female, the other male.  You can't decipher what they say but their responses make him growl in frustration.

"C'mon, we don't got all day…"

Tense, your captor shoves you along to another room.  He signals something down the hall, where you spot more movement in the house.  More soldiers—these ones dressed in similar, dark garb to the man who still presses a gun to your side. They have bigger weapons, concealing helmets.

Startled, you trip over your shoelaces.

Your captor scrambles to grab you before you clatter to the floor.  He curses just as the Scottish soldier whips around, gun pointed and ready.

There's a solid two seconds of complete silence.  Your gaze meets with the Scott and his eyes widen.  Then, he spots the other man with a gun pointed at you.

That's when all hell breaks loose.

You scramble to your feet and bolt.  The Scott is the first to grab you, and he's met with teeth deep in his arm.  He yells out as you kick free, gagging on the metallic substance that floods your mouth.

There's shouting.  Movement.  Gunfire lights up your house with noise and lights as you wipe your mouth, stumble, and fly down the stairs in a blind dash for your front door.

Instead, you run directly into something solid—Landing you flat on your ass.  Again.

Panting, panicking, your eyes rake up dark figure; past two giant boots, a geared chest, and hands that clench a rifle in their grip to meet a masked face and bored eyes.  You scramble backwards against the wall with a yelp.  The sound of yelling, gunfire, and heavy footsteps flood the rest of the house as the masked man's eyes widen at you.  You stare at each other; you, sizing him up and him, confused.

"Graves?!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

"Commander!  We lost the kid!"

"Does anyone have a visual??"

"L.T.!"

The skull-faced man finally leaps into action at the sound of what must be his rank—because he's suddenly moving faster than you can realize more soldiers are flooding around the corner.  In a flurry of practiced movement, he grabs them.

You yell out as he knees one of the men and shoots the other.  Blood splatters across the walls and your clothes.  Then, he fires twice more at the soldier unconscious on the ground—and the house goes quiet other than your pounding heartbeat.

The towering man before you shifts, and the floorboards creak under his feet.  He rolls his shoulders and let's out a breath as he stands, slowly, up to his full height.  He turns, and the same blood that splatters across the walls runs in tiny rivulets across the skull of his mask.  His voice thick and low when he speaks.

"You broken?"

Your shaking hands lower from your ears as your eyes then rake across the corpses at his feet, but it's no use.  Through the ringing in your ears, your racing mind is unable to put together what he says for a few minutes.  It's even more impossible to tear your eyes away from the blood splattered against the patterned wallpaper.

You swallow and shake your head.

"Good."  Nonchalant, he lowers his gun and shouts down the hall.

"Johnny, you with me?"

"Over here, L.T.,"  grunts the Scottish voice from down the hall.  "That little shit Graves—"

"Let 'em go.  We'll deal with 'em later.  We got what we needed."

Johnny curses in response, but mutters a begrudging "copy" as he saunters over—nursing the clear bite mark in his arm. 

Then, the Lieutenant's eyes shift in your direction.  His hand twitches, almost reaching out to you, and you pull your legs closer to your chest against the wall.  Blood soaks your untied laces.  You clamp a hand over your mouth as you will your breathing to settle.  It doesn't.

He freezes.  Then, to your relief, he turns away and presses a finger to his ear.

"Bravo 0-7 to Actual; five shadows have been compromised on the property.  Looks like the Shadows got the word the same time we did.  Could be others, too.  Things got bloody, but…"  The lieutenant's eyes meet yours again as he speaks.  Through the bloodied skull mask, his gaze holds a calm resolve that's probably supposed to be comforting, but it only makes your skin prickle.  

"...we got the kid."

It's quiet, but you can hear static before someone speaks on the other end of the communication device.

"Copy that, Bravo.  We'll clean up the mess,"  A female voice replies.  "Bring 'em home safe, boys."

"Roger that."

[pythonees]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ATTENTION — xavier thorpe

REQUESTED: @noneofyabuisnessmatey

WARNINGS: 18+, cock warming, chubby/soft bodied reader, teasing, my lack of knowledge in shooter games

A/N: y'all in my asks 'bout to me make me act up, short fic

You don't know how long it's been since you climbed onto your boyfriends lap, bored out of your mind and looking for attention. He's been playing some shooter game he doesn't even like for the last hour, buttons of his controller clicking loudly as he runs around the map shooting people. You've got your head tucked into his neck, half asleep as you take in his warmth.

Every couple of minutes he's pressing kisses to the side of your head, checking in to see if you've fallen asleep. Whenever he's dead and waiting to respawn he's got his arms wrapped tight around you, or has his hands rubbing up and down your back.

Xavier has always been touchy, a hand on you at all times. His favourite place is your plush thighs, long fingers gripping and kneading the flesh like his own personal stress ball. Whenever he can he has you sitting in his lap like you are now, you soft body in easy reach for his eager hands.

It's a blessing and a curse that he likes your body as much as he does. You don't have to worry about his attention straying when he's got page after page of you drawn, when he's wrapped around you and smothering you with his love. But all the attention he gives you always gets you in the mood, and the asshole doesn't even notice he's doing it.

You can tell he's died again when both his hands settle on your hips, sliding down over your thighs before gliding back up again, fingers pressing into the skin so that it dimples around his fingers. Sitting across his lap has made your already short shorts ride up into the crease of your thighs, digging into your flesh and giving Xavier more skin to run his hands over.

Every time he's swipes his hand over your legs his hands would roam into your inner thigh, giving the plush flesh a squeeze before smoothing his hand over the area to soothe the skin. It was driving you crazy, panties slowly dampening with your arousal with his accidental teasing.

His hands move off of you to pick his controller back up, pressing a quick kiss to the side of you head before he's back in the game, playing as if his girlfriend isn't plastered to him. You hold back your sigh of disappointment, knowing this is partly your fault considering you said you were fine with him trying to beat Ajax's high score. And now here you sit, horny and frustrated in his lap because you didn't think it would take this long.

Resigning yourself to your fate, you shuffle around on his lap, trying to get more comfortable so that you can pass the time with a quick nap. As you move around you can feel Xavier start to tense up below you, the very familiar dying sound playing out from the tv behind you. Before you can ask what happened Xavier is pulling you into his chest, your hips sliding foreword and landing on the erection he's been trying to ignore.

"Oh," you gasp, looking down between the two of you to see his erection pressed up into you. Shifting back a little, you get a better look at the tent he's making in his pants. You drop your hand between your bodies, palming his erection through his sweats. He moans long and low, head turning to suck and kiss at your neck.

"Shit, don't know what I was thinking letting you crawl into my lap, been hard the second you wrapped yourself around me," Xavier confesses, hips rutting up into your hand to get more pressure against your hand, "gotta finish this though, if I don't beat him by tonight I have to do his homework for a month."

You laugh at his expense, cock still in hand as you give it an experimental squeeze, sliding your hand as much as you can over it. Xavier's hips twitch, head falling back to rest on the bed behind him. You quickly dive into his neck, sucking and biting at fading bruises while your hand works to push his waistband down so you can get your hand on him.

"Fuck, babe, I'm serious. I won't ever see you if I don't beat him in this shit game," he says around a moan, but makes no move to stop you. So you keep going, pushing his sweats to reveal he's got no boxers on, hard cock springing out from his pants.

"Don't worry, as long as your a good boy and sit still, I'll give you a reward for beating Ajax," you whisper into his ear, lifting up in his lap to give yourself enough room to take off your shorts and underwear, throwing them off to the side.

Quickly getting your hand back on him, you pump him a few more times, mouth watering as you watch pre leak from his tip. Ignoring the urge to get him into your mouth, you shuffle foreword until your right over him, rubbing his cock through your folds one, two times before your sinking down on him, pussy clenching desperately around him as you take him to the hilt in one go.

You give an experimental roll of your hips, both out you moaning loud in the empty dorm room as you both get what you've desperately wanted for the hour you've been there. It feels too good to stop, hips continuing their slow rolls against him that Xavier eagerly meets thrust for thrust. It's as the sounds of the respawn menu come back to you do you remember what your plan was, slowing your already slow movements as you ignore your arousal.

"Now hurry up and respawn," you say, rolling your hips one last time before stilling, your walls fluttering around him with the desperate need to move that you dutifully ignore, "you've got a Gorgon to beat. Then I'll ride you till you can't even feel your legs."

Xavier nods desperately, pressing a searing kiss to you lips before hooking his chin over your shoulder, hands fumbling with the controller before he's able to press the right button to respawn. Settling down against him, you give your pussy an experimental squeeze around him, smirking at the choked off whine he lets out.

The shooting kicks back up behind you, and you wonder how fast he'll beat Ajax with his new... motivation wrapped around him.

©︎ pythonees — do not, under any circumstance, repost, plagiarize, modify or translate my work.

[zqmbiescorpse]

CLEANING YOUR BLOODY WOUNDS

lottie matthews x female reader

a/n: episode seven absolutely destroyed me, i'm pretty sure i spent half of it crying. i cannot handle having to wait a week to see if lottie's alright, i am stressinnnngggg. anyways, here's me pretending that she is! (i'm extremely delusional.)

summary: established relationship, lottie gets the shit beaten out of her, fluffy ig, its kinda short

warnings: mentions of violence, a lot of injury, lottie is totally okay with the fact that she was almost beaten to the death

word count: 1.3k

(masterlist)

She hadn't woken up yet. 

Your knees grew sore, the flesh pressing into the hard wooden floor beneath you, but no matter the severity of the ache, you were not leaving her side. That was a fact. You didn't care about the pain jolting your joints or about chores that needed for filling or whether you would be eating tonight, the only significance to your life, at that moment, was Lottie.

The concept of time was a genuine mystery that you didn't bother to solve, it could've been minutes or hours since you last saw Shauna, the girl had fled the cabin after pummeling Lottie's face into a grotesque mush. You would remain in the exact position, knelt at the bed, all night if needed - without even snatching a wink of sleep for yourself if that's what it came down to.

At least she wasn't dead. Though her soft, usually pale skin dotted with rosey pink specs had been corrupted by a brutal crimson swelling in vicious lumps, there was still a rise and a fall present in her chest. Each unconscious twitch and shake your girlfriend expressed signalled that she was alive, regardless, the distressed movements caused the pit in your stomach to expand, and you wondered if the battered brunette was reliving the agony of the incident in her dreams. 

The urge to reach out and caress her bruised body was a strong however stupid one, instead, you opted to run the freezing, soggy rag over her cheeks once more to help the swollen areas recover. Whilst you freshened her up, you whispered positive reassurances, telling her that she was going to be okay, somewhat simultaneously relaxing yourself, reducing your own stress levels as a bonus.

It was impossible to fathom how you'd managed to do absolutely nothing to stop the savagery. Stood there, watching horrified and devastated to see Lottie offer herself up like that, happily receiving a beating for the sake of Shauna's emotions. The lack of noise during it intensely disturbed you, even with all the continuous punches and kicks, you didn't recall a single scream. In fact, no one said anything. 

You understood that not everyone appreciated her odd chants and offerings, hell, you didn't even understand it properly either. To be brought so close to death because of that was obviously undeserved. Something could've been done to have prevented things from getting wildly out of control. The blame you kept shovelling onto yourself was suffocating, burying you. What sort of girlfriend simply observes as her lover gets knocked to the floor and attacked barbarically by a crazy girl bearing an overwhelming amount of anger? You felt bad for Shauna, but you couldn't excuse this. 

"You're thinking so… loud," the injured girl stuttered and coughed between the broken words, a slight delight in her voice. 

Lottie stirred, her eyes slowly opening - adjusting to the swells preventing them from working how they usually would. She had been laid on her side, toward you, thus you didn't neglect a single thing, panic immediately kicking now that she was awake. 

"No no, don't try to move or get up, or anything," You commanded, shakily. 

Underneath the wounds, Lottie's features were calm and gentle, a small smile grew on her lips despite the pain such a minor action caused. 

"Is Shauna, is she, okay?" Lottie mumbled earnestly, never losing the melancholy grin. 

You stared at her in utter shock; bewildered that Shauna was who she was most concerned about. 

"Lottie, do you not remember what she did to you?" You whispered, loudly, mimicking a frustrated shout without actually raising your voice. 

"She needed… it, we both know… that." 

"But you nearly died! I don't care what she needs, we all need some kind of release." You spat, maybe too selfishly, "You didn't even fight back."

"Trust me… everything's okay, I'm happy about what Shauna did, please don't worry," She soothed, her calm tone juxtaposing your desperate one perfectly. "My wounds will heal and I have you, by my side, taking care of me, and that's a wonderful thing."

Lottie raised a trembling hand, ignoring your wide-eyed pleas to stay still and comfortable, cupping your face tenderly. Consequently, you broke out in a flush and tears began to prick, threatening to spill, something that you couldn't permit. 

"I'm so sorry, Lottie." You sniffled, heartbroken at the affection you were receiving from someone who needed it more than you, "You shouldn't be putting any sort of strain on yourself in a critical condition."

A simple laughter blessed your ears, though confusing, it was the first time in months you'd heard such authentic cheeriness. You felt it was inappropriate considering the dreadful scenario, yet, your endearing girlfriend's content joy was contagious - your own wobbling lips contorted upwards, smiling through the tears. 

"Although I am in a lot of pain…it's only temporary, who knows what could've happened… if Shauna's intense feelings were left to manifest any longer," Lottie explained, stroking away any wet drops that spilled over the edge of your eyes. It was a miracle that she could even spot them. 

"I get why - you did it but, my god Lottie I hate seeing you hurt, can we just agree that it will never happen again, please." 

The brunette sensed a newfound comprehension present in you, alongside a more relaxed approach to the conversation, which she appreciated. She didn't want you upset, it was the last thing she wanted, however, she had needed you to see where she was coming from. 

"I love you a lot," You sighed, running your hands through her tangled hair, then leaning over to kiss her atop her head. 

"I can't… promise anything but I assure you that I will be more careful in the future," She admitted wholeheartedly, her honesty charmed you, hence why you placed another gentle kiss, this time, on her aforementioned palm that was cupping your skin; apparently it was stuck to you since Lottie hadn't moved it once. 

"I love you too," she added cheesily, the muscles in her mouth pushing the limit now as she beamed brightly. 

There was a lot of relief radiating off of you, the tremor in your hardworking hands settled, a detail that your girlfriend noticed, prompting her to squirm into a new position on one of the few man-made beds that the old cabin possessed. Her back carefully pressed into the feather mattress and the nested blankets surrounding her. 

You assumed that Lottie was ready to drift back to sleep, believing that this was your cue to leave, you prepared yourself to face the rest of the girls lingering around the cabin. Due to the sheer amount of time you'd spent absent from the group tending to Lottie, you hadn't experienced any confrontation from Shauna after what she did, sparking anxiety. You'd have to see her eventually. 

"Don't," Lottie spoke up, "You need to rest just as much as I do."

The compassion compelled you to obey her recommendation. She was right, you were exhausted. 

"Okay, I'm not going anywhere. I'm not getting in there with you either. You need the space," You compromised, regarding the bed's limited width, you weren't about to force her out of it for your own sake. 

"You're always welcome," Lottie chuckled, her eyes shutting, "Lay your head on my chest if that's what you'd like."

Actually, you were quite fond of the idea, your arms were set on the edge of the mattress and your head snuggled into her chest, not with too much force as you'd rather she wasn't hurt extra. Although your knees never got a break from digging into the rough floor, you were satisfied enough to let the desire for slumber overcome you - entwined with Lottie, your body heats mixed together to create a warm, loving haze that clouded around just the two of you, a suitable protection guiding you both into a deep, safe sleep.

[marblemoovt]

Winter Soldier - Simon Riley/Sunny (Reader)

Masterlist

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: Angst. If I have to hurt, so do all of you.

Summary:

What if...? Sunny doesn't die. What if the enemy finds them and brainwashes them onto their side? What happens when Simon meets the ghost that's been haunting him?

Note:

Birdy and Sunny belong to @darklordofthesimp. Highly recommend you check the blog out if you want fluff and to get your heart stomped on. Someone did an ask which lead to a drabble where Sunny ended up dying, sacrificing themself to save Birdy. That shit tore me up inside, and someone brought up the idea of a winter soldier moment. I don't watch Marvel but I think I get the gist, thus this was born.

Happy Reading! ヾ(•ω•`)o

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

The plane rocks. The roar of the engine and the occasional scuffle of feet disrupts the silence. Simon stares at the floor, keeping a tight leash on his self-control. Fists so tight his fingers might snap themselves and shatter his bones into tiny pieces. He squeezes and squeezes until Simon is gone and all that remains is Ghost. 

Half a year. Six months. 182 days. 4383 hours since the remaining sliver of his cold heart finally shrivelled up and died. Now his chest rattles like an empty soda can; hollow and spent. He promised himself he would never let anyone get close. He couldn’t go through what happened with his family again. But then came fuckin’ Sunshine. Unapologetically blunt and a thorn in his side. Little by little, his cold heart started beating with warmth, fueled by anger and jealousy at times—but for once he felt something.

They say the line between hate and love is blurry and easily crossed. Sunshine was a right cunt, an absolute menace, a demon in a military uniform, and the love of his life. 

A quiet chuckle sends his head snapping toward the source. König and Birdy are seated in the far corner. The pair are huddled close together with Birdy leaning against him. A flash of anger simmers in Simon’s veins. Crescent moons dig into his palms and the heat bubbles to a boil. How dare they? How fucking—

“Easy, Simon,” Price speaks in a low tone, like he’s comforting a startled animal. Simon is a raging bull that refuses to look away from the red curtain taunting him. “Sunshine—”

“Don’t.” Simon cuts him off. “You don’t get to say that name. Why don’t you go back to what you originally used? The body?” It’s a low blow and completely uncalled for, but hearing the name flips a switch. Price presses his mouth into a thin line, brows furrowing under the weight of guilt.

“I didn’t mean—”

Simon interrupts him again. “Leave me alone, John.” Not Price. Not Captain. John. 

Simon goes back to staring at the floor, unable to look at Price’s face. He’s sick of the pitying looks. They don’t understand anything.

Once again he’s been left behind. Had his heart ripped from his chest and beaten like a tenderized piece of meat. Maybe that’s why his chest still aches, still stings when he sees the mats in the training room or goes to sleep at night, the other half of the bed still untouched.

The quiet laughter grates his ears; makes him want to claw at his skin until there’s nothing left but blood and viscera. His eye twitches as he glances at the corner. Look at them in their own little world. Laughing. Smiling. Simon hasn’t done either in six months. They don’t get to act so happily while Sunshine rots in some ditch. Why must he be the only one that remembers when everyone else has already forgotten? Everyone lost a friend, a comrade, and a family member.

Simon lost fucking everything.

The plane lands before he has time to spiral into a monologue. He heaves himself off the bench and forces his legs to walk down the ramp. Orders are repeated, but Simon hears none of it. He heard it the first time; he knows what he’s doing.

“Ghost,” Price barks. Dead eyes blink in acknowledgement. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Roger,” Simon rasps, already feeling the adrenaline pumping through his body. The team was concerned there would be complications given the location. He’s still calm and calculated, a killing machine, but there’s an edge of recklessness in all his actions now. It’s almost like he wants to brush up against Death. He fought tooth and nail to come on this mission. He was prepared to hijack the plane if necessary.

Six months is a long time to be exposed to the elements, but he was going to—no he will find Sunshine. Even if it means meeting in the afterlife. He checks the silencer on his pistol and the knives stowed across his suit. A simple scouting. Go in, disarm the system, and dispose of any hostiles. Clear the way for the rest of the team.

Simon slips between covers, moving like a shadow. He reaches a building and creeps inside. It’s quiet. The warning signals in his mind go off and he reaches for the radio.

Bang.

A smoking hole indents the concrete column behind him, inches above his shoulder. The red dot on the wall moves toward his head, and he darts for cover. Another shot rings in the air, and a chuckle turns his blood to ice.

“Y’know, I thought you would be much more impressive when I read your file.” Simon pales, the ache in his chest threatening to swallow him whole. No. It’s not possible, he tells himself. “Are you going to keep hiding like a coward?” It’s glacial, apathetic, and mocking, but he recognizes that voice anywhere.

His steps are silent. He needs a closer look. He has to make sure he’s not losing his mind. There, leaning against a pillar with a rifle in hand is Sunshine. Questions form one after another. How? Why? His brow creases.

“What happened to you?” It slips out of his mouth before he can stop it, and the bullet misses again.

“Intimate question for someone I don’t fucking know. Why don’t you come out so I can kill you?” Sunshine says, staring at the concrete protecting him. And then memories hit Simon like a freight train. Sparks and Washington. He clenches his fist. Not this, not again. What are the odds of a brainwashed teammate trying to kill you? Multiply that by three, and the answer is still bullshit. How fucking unlucky do you have to be for the universe to take every little thing you love and either: kill it, or have it kill you? He won’t let it end like last time. He’d rather die than give up.

“Sunshine,” he speaks with a waver in his tone.

“Sunshine? What kind of shitty name is that? Is that what I should call you? You’ve got some weird kinks.” It’s not the same, but he feels like a stray that’s been offered scraps. “Tell you what, I’ll drop the gun and kick your ass the old-fashioned way.” The voice is much closer than it was a few seconds ago. He barely has time to dodge the fist coming his way. He grabs onto their arm and pins them against the pillar.

“You’re Sunshine,” he states. Simon wants to cry, he can feel the tears pricking his eyes, but his body still senses the danger oozing from them. He wants nothing more than a hug. Six months of no touch has left him starving. His arms remain in place, wary of the firecracker trapped between them. 

“I’m your ticket to Hell,” Sunshine spits, face drawing close to his mask. Narrowed eyes burn him with their intensity. This hatred leaves him numb, it doesn’t excite him, and he certainly doesn’t find it amusing. “I don’t want part of whatever bizarre fantasy you’re having.”

The faraway look in their eyes reminds him that the person he loves is gone right now. “Who are you? What did you do before this?” he asks, hoping the brainwashing isn’t irreversible. Maybe if he can poke some holes in the programming, Sunshine will snap out of it.

“And why should I tell you? What are you? My best friend?” Sunshine scoffs, but he notices how uncertainty tugs their lips into a frown. 

“We were,” Simon whispers. “And so much more.”

A hollow chuckle bounces off the concrete walls, it grips his lungs and squeezes until all the air turns to dust that sits heavy in his chest. “Pathetic. What would I want with some masked weirdo?” The arm slips out of his grip and Sunshine ducks, pivoting away from him. “Hate to break it to ya, pal, but I’m here to kill you. Wipe you off the face of the Earth. End your existence. The only thing you can kiss is my fist.”

“Come with me. Let’s go back home,” Simon pleads.

“I don’t take orders from you,” Sunshine sneers. 

Simon smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Used to, not like you really listened anyway,” he rasps.

A glint flashes in his peripheral vision. He moves his head to the side. One slash and his cheek stings. Sunshine tsks disapprovingly. Three more slashes and the mask is torn off his face. “Good to see you, Simon,” Sunshine drawls, lips crooked in a smirk. His eyes widen, and he freezes. The indifferent stare doesn’t change, and his shoulders sag. “What’s the matter? Sniper got your tongue?”

They continue their little back and forth until Simon manages to knock the knife out of Sunshine’s hand. He tackles and sits on top of them, forcing all his weight to minimize the struggle. “I can’t hurt you. I love you!” His shout rips through the vicinity with enough force to bring the building down to its foundation. 

And he’s naked, exposed. Skin flayed open for the world to see that the rattling in his ribcage is now an erratic drumbeat. Vulnerable like a frog on a dissecting tray; so open and honest. The confession leaves his throat raw and sets his skin ablaze. His shoulders heave with each pant and he stares into Sunshine’s eyes for an inkling of recognition. The cloudy look dissipates, and it’s like six months never even happened. He wants to scream, to cry out in joy. Because he did it, he got through.

A sharp pain ruptures from his side as cold steel sinks into his flesh. The serrated edge of the blade shreds him on the way out. Warm blood leaks from the wound, almost masked by the burning. His hand instinctively applies pressure to the area. Of course, it wouldn’t be that fucking easy. He feels like shit. More so than usual.

“Feeling a bit woozy, Lieutenant?” The taunt is full of mock concern. A feral grin exposes sharp canines. “Then the poison’s doing its job.” Simon is shoved aside like a ragdoll. He lands on the ground with a thump and crumples into a ball. Sunshine stands up and dusts off their clothes, watching him writhe with amusement. “I thought you would be more of a challenge. How disappointing.”

“Ngh,” Simon lifts his head with a groan. 

Sunshine tsks and crouches down. “What’s the matter, ghost face? Any last words before you’re completely paralyzed? I hear your organs shut down next.” Hands grapple their shirt, and Simon smashes his forehead against the bridge of their nose. A scream pierces his eardrums. 

“What the fuck, dude?!” Sunshine cradles their nose, blood streaming down their mouth and dripping off their chin. Mustering the last of his strength, Simon rises and performs a body slam. Sunshine is flung to the ground, landing on their back.

A crack followed by silence. 

“You always get too cocky when you think you’ve won.” He grunts and rummages through his pockets, using zip ties as makeshift restraints. Sinking to the floor, he leans against a pillar for support. Shaky hands reach up for the radio. “Found Sunshine, but I’m injured. Possibly fatal, definitely poisoned.” Wincing, he lifts his hand to check the wound. Fuck it doesn’t look good. 

Price’s voice crackles on the comms. “This isn’t the time for jokes, Ghost. What’s your status?”

“Wasn’t jokin’. Found Sunshine. Requesting medical aid and evac,” Simon wheezes. It’s becoming harder to breathe. He hopes the medic has anti-venom on hand. 

“Don’t move,” Price orders.

Simon rolls his eyes. “That’s a shame. Was gonna see if there were any hostiles who wanted to have a cup of tea together.” He chuckles and sucks in a sharp breath when it agitates his wound. “I’m bleedin’ out, Captain,” he whispers the last sentence. Slick hands press harder to no avail. The poison is spreading through his system.

“Don’t you fucking die on me. That’s an order.” There’s a wobble in Price’s tone. Simon chuffs at the old man’s concern. The frantic shouting over the comms fades to background noise.

He crawls to Sunshine. Sticky hands stain the floor crimson. His limbs feel stiff, but they no longer feel heavy. The invisible sandbags filled with grief are untethered from his body. He caresses Sunshine’s cheek, admiring their face instead of a picture for the first—and possibly last—time. “I love you, you fuckin’ cunt.” His grin is watery. Pressing a kiss to their forehead, his eyelids flutter shut. The doors slam open and footsteps rush to his location.

“Bloody hell, Simon. You could have told me to leave the body bag behind.”

“That’s not a body; that’s Sunshine,” Simon murmurs, slipping into unconsciousness. 

Fuck you, universe. Not even death can separate the two of them. 

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

End Note:

I totally headcanon in this timeline that Simon calls Sunny 'Zombie' afterwards.

I was going to do a sad ending, but I like happy ones too much. I'm too nice, unlike some people, and do not wish eternal suffering on others.

Time to crawl back into my den and finish that Price fic I've been delaying for far too long. I blame the discord server for giving me Simon and König brainrot,

I’ll see you guys at my next hyperfixation! (。・∀・)ノ

Reblogs are appreciated

[im-a-sussy-baka]

baby maker

You hear the sound of the front door opening, and

He’s back.

“Baby,” Kisaki calls, “I’m home!” You scrambled to welcome him back, he appeared from around the corner smiling with his outstretched arms gathering you up the minute you were within his reach.

“Hi,” you murmured into his chest, eyes closing to receive a kiss on the lips, a routine he always did upon arriving.

“Hi yourself,” he quips and reluctantly detaches himself from you to shrug off his thick coat from those broad shoulders. Without being asked, you promptly took it from him.

He crinkles his eyes at you gently, and there's a beat of comfortable silence. “Guess what,” he whispered in your ear as if he had a juicy secret he just could not wait to reveal. You grin softly at him. He looks happier than usual - the glint in his eyes was a dead giveaway. You gesture expectantly, spurring him to go on.

“I got the doc’s approval so don’t worry about anything,” he said simply as if merely discussing the weather. You didn't have to guess what he meant or what he was suggesting since you already know. You've discussed it before, and your relationship has established the notion that you're both serious about each other.

You were so young though, just in your early twenties. You do want kids but you weren’t ready yet.

He presses his lips to yours. The kiss intensifies, with him nibbling at your lips and forcing his tongue in and out of your mouth, causing your thighs to squeeze together. You pull your face away from him, breathless.

“Kisaki...?”

The problem is, Kisaki doesn't take no for an answer.

———

“Ki...ah — saki... nngh...” Your weak attempt at communication was immediately squandered.

“Shit, you feel so good—,” he panted like a dog in heat when your folds spread open warmly embracing the crown of his cock as if your pretty pussy was welcoming him home. He shoved your thighs against your chest and slammed into you with increased vigor before you could even process what was going on. This brutal angle had you blacking out with every rock.

Kisaki laid his head on your chest, making you feel every breathless groan right against your nipple. The sloppy slaps of your bodies echo across the room, your hands clenching the sheets as you hold on for dear life when he starts thrusting into you rapidly, hefty balls smacking against your ass, brimmed and ready to unload every drop of cum into your heat.

Without his glasses, you can see how erotic Kisaki looked right now. The way his eyes glazed over as he watched your tities bounce with his jaw hanging open drool trickling down the corners of his mouth. You had no idea such a lewd face exists outside of porn, and seeing how affected he is because of you only added to your delight.

“Fuuuck,” he laughed incredulously, plowing your cunt with a renewed vigor that promised to smash your bones into a fine mush. Every thrust wrenched a shriek from your throat as he increased the speed and power. The combination of vivid ecstasy and stinging aches was causing you to shake from head to toe. Your calves were beginning to cramp as he showed no signs of slowing down.

Peering down, you could see his soaked cock slamming into you, each smack of his pelvis jarring you against the couch which was extremely painful. But, hey, who doesn't enjoy a little pain with their pleasure, right?

If his balls were impressive before, they were much more so now, firm and taut; bursting at the seams with sperm, almost assaulting your ass cheeks with harsh slaps as he pounced on you like a merciless beast. His hands wrapped around your bosom, kneading the doughy flesh. You weren't going to last much longer and by the looks of it, neither was he. Unfortunately, you haven't been doing so well since you first saw his bare cock.

“You’re gonna be such a good mama, won’t you sweetie?

“Wanna get knocked up, honey?”

“Here it comes, baby. You ready to be a mommy?”

You were so out of it. You couldn’t hear or see shit.  Your body was overstimulated to the point of dizziness, causing you to quiver and throb all over.

“Uh-huh,” you whispered against his furrowed brow, delicately pressing your nose into his damp hairline as your legs swayed against his chiseled shoulders with each frenzied movement. This heartfelt display of adoration was answered with a vicious yank on your locks, forcing your head into an uncomfortable angle.

“Fucking say it like you mean it,” he hissed.

“Fu—p-please fuck me! Ohhh god, harder please... w-want a baby ...”  You groaned, your words slurred and disintegrated into incoherent whines.

Kisaki hauled you up, manhandling you until you were riding him properly. His still-swollen cock was already pressing against your cunt. Fucking hell, you felt like he obliterated your entire lower half, and here he was, ready to go all out again. He pushed past your plump lips, grabbing your hips, and re-entered your needy pussy.

The sounds of you whining in pleasure were lost to the coach's loud squeaking and the thumps of skin against skin as you bounced on his dick. Up and down you go. The brutal rocking of your bodies together was divine. The way Kisaki looked up at you made you feel like you could go on for hours wanting more of the irresistible pleasure of his attention.

“Mm…ohh god…Kisaki, cum inside...”

Your words have him hammering madly into you, but you've gone through worse. He bites your lips, whimpering at your legs that keep him in place and begging him to release his thick seed as deeply into you as possible.

His stomach stiffened like he'd been shot, and then he was tensing his abdomen, grinding his hips with a jerk to batter the tip of his cock up your cervix. Your legs fell open for him, toes curling in bliss as Kisaki cummed into your sticky wetness. As he pushed further, gloops of slick were oozing around his prick.

You didn't react, or rather couldn't, since you were stuck in your own subconscious turmoil. You were gushing wet and slimy with each withdrawal from your dirty cunt, a waterfall of squirt and jizz.

“Baby, you're such a filthy bitch—” He gagged on a raspy chuckle, not sounding the least bit upset. “Why are you making a mess all over my cock? It's a good thing you’re my girl, hmm?”

He was still humping into you like a fucking dog. He said something—not that you could tell in your dazed state, his dick is as rigid as a rod and just as fatal.

And rock-solid.

Are you fucking kidding me?

The quivering twitches of his orgasm leave him heaving out the lightest sighs, a steady trickle of cum flows as he attempts to pull his dick out. Was he finished? Please finish. You cocked your head just enough to inspect his erection.

Negative.

You were totally wrecked, with no strength left in your body as he fervently claimed you repeatedly. He took you again.

And again.

And again.

Everything hurts.

The thickness and sheer quantity of spunk dribbling from your pussy overflowed to the couch. You were still catching your breath, when he leaned down and swiped a finger up the length of his cock, gathering up a clump of his spunk and your slick. He locked eyes with you as he held his finger for you to lick it clean.

"So pretty," he murmurs quietly. His eyes are gleaming, as if he's spotted a vintage Rolex watch in the mall. He caresses his nose into your stomach, moving down and licking a wide but delicate line across your labia. You sniff feebly, obviously sensitive from the creaming fest that you had, and wriggle away, but Kisaki grips your waist and draws you near. "Oh, mommy," he explains, "I don't think we're done yet. Let's try again a few more times."

[hotwings0203]

Dead best husband dabi expects his wife to come home make him dinner and fuck his cock then spends the money she makes on beer

Tw:dubcon, misogyny, food play

It’s a tedious routine, almost like dreadful clockwork. You come home from your 9-5, take off your shoes, throw your keys on the counter, and not even before you make it into the kitchen is when his requests come out.

No, you say requests to keep yourself sane, but they’re actually thinly veiled commands.

“Where’s dinner? I’ve been waiting all day.”

“God, you look like a slut. Were they having an orgy at your work or somethin’? Is that what you were so busy doing all day? No wonder this place is a mess. Clean this shit up.”

“Hurry up, the lights broken. And you smell like shit, go wash-no, after you change the bulb.”

You have to look at your wedding photos frequently to remind yourself that he’s your husband, not some lowlife you picked up.

Except, every time you look at the pictures to evade his harsh insults and biting directions, it feels like the Dabi in your memorabilia sneers more and more rather than smiles.

It’s his permanent look, in fact, you’ve forgotten how it felt to feel a warmth in your heart when he smiled demurely at you. It’s hard to remember how his soft touch across your cheeks felt rather than the usual slap delivered to the sore skin.

When you walk in, he’s sprawled on the couch, a t.v remote in one hand and a beer in the other. He’s wearing a wife beater and shorts, absentmindedly scratching his balls when you utter a small “Hey hun.”

“Don’t you ‘hey hun’ me. Where the fuck were you? You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes and immediately make your way to the kitchen, with him leaping up from the couch and tailing behind you.

“Don’t fucking walk away from me, what, you ignoring me now?”

He grabs the back of your neck and slams you face-first into the fridge, preventing you from opening the door.

“Ow! No, I was just looking for a snack-“

“-shut up. You don’t get to eat until I do, you cow. Or are you forgetting how this marriage works?”

He crushes your neck and leans forward to take a whiff of your hair.

“God, is that cologne? You cheating on me now?”

“No Dabi, we had a company lunch and I was just talking to some friends. Maybe that’s what you’re smelling.”

He lets go of you and throws you towards the sink. “Good. You better not be. If I find out some douchebag’s been putting his hands all over you I’ll slit his balls and make you eat em’.”

You grimace and wordlessly start putting pots and pans together, ignoring the rumble in your stomach. You didn’t even get a chance to take your suit off, but you don’t dare exit the kitchen until he’s had his fill yet.

He’s just hangry. That’s all there is to it.

Your husband scratches his stomach and ambles back to the living room, belching obnoxiously and running his hands through his unruly hair.

Hours go by as you slave over the stove, making his favorite desserts and dishes as your fingers begun to progressively cramp, your legs begin to burn as you stand and finish up. With him in the living room it’s easy to taste your own food and get some meager meal in between breaks, but you stop yourself from gorging without him.

Knowing Dabi, he’d measure how many cups of food you started cooking with and subtract it from how much remained now.

Even though it was your money that bought this food.

You’re at the sink a while later cleaning spoons when he strolls in again, crossing his arms and leaning against the entrance of the kitchen. He watches you for a couple minutes, sighing and humming to yourself as you scrub vigorously.

He doesn’t take in the copious amount of dishes you made, he doesn’t compliment how spotless the place looks despite all the cooking that went down here, no. Dabi stares at the way your ass wiggles while you work, the way your body bends attractively over the running sink, your tits brushing against the countertop.

You yelp and drop a small plate when you feel hands encompass your waist. His body is pressed tightly against yours, his hips lightly humping you like an eager virgin does. The force of his weight against you pushed you forward and you have to quickly grab onto the sink spout to avoid falling face first into soggy sink food.

“Dinners almost done Dabi, I’ll be out with it in a bit.”

“Mmmh, I’m not interested in eating that kind of food right now.”

He rests his head on top of yours and you barely refrain from screaming. What the hell did that mean? Wasn’t he the one harping on you earlier for not cooking fast enough?

“God, you look like a perfect slutty housewife right now. ‘M gonna fuck you.” He mutters as he begins yanking your trousers off while bending you further on the sink.

Your hands brace on the wet banister as you let him take what he wants. Last time you refused, he shoved one of his beer bottle necks into your pussy and made you ride on it.

“Dabi-Dabi, the food.” You try to tell him to move the dishes being pushed around from him manhandling you up on the counter but he doesn’t listen.

One plate goes crashing onto the floor, your Alfredo sauce mixed with porcelain bits.

“Oops,” he says not so regretfully. When your panties are successfully ripped down, he lifts your waist and lugs you onto the countertop, your upper half plastered on the cool marble.

His patched hands snake their way up your shirt and push the fabric up along with your bra while his now naked hips start pushing against your bare cunt.

Your exposed tits are squished down and you hiss as your body envelopes the cold counter. You try to lift your head up but he pushes you head back down.

“Uh-uh, no moving ‘till I’m finished. This is what you get for dropping food on the ground. In fact-“

His eyes catch a hold of the mini cakes you whipped up, and a sly grin on his face erupts as he looks from them to your quivering hole.

“Why don’t you have a taste of it? One down, a couple more plates to go!” You cry out in frustration as his hand swipes across the bar and sends the cake dish flying onto the floor.

He pays no heed to the defeating crash, just merely inspects his fingers that got some whipped cream on them while he smack the plate.

“A chef’s gotta taste her own cooking right? This cunt definitely looks hungry and oh so greedy right now too,” he pouts mockingly and traces his cream-covered fingers around your labia, roughly circling your clit and mixing the sweet food into the crevices of your pussy.

“P-please Dabi, don’t. We can do this after dinner, I’m so tired right now! I have to clean up this mess too!”

But no amount of pleading satiates the sadistic bastard. He just yanks your head back and shoves his fingers in your mouth when you open it in pain.

“Suck on ‘em real good, just like how you suck off your bosses. That’s how you get all this fuckin’ money right? You show a little ass, flash some tits, suck some old geezers off-and boom! You’ve got a nice house, and nice husband.” He leers at you as you choke on his slender digits.

Only when you feel like you’re about to vomit is when he yanks his hand out and wipes up another stray glob of frosting from the side of a testing plate. He doesn’t waste any time in working his fingers back inside you, a different hole this time however.

It feels so wrong with a massive creamy glob being pushed along your walls along with expert fingers that know your body inside out, but no matter how disgusting it is, he still finds your spongy area and begins stroking. The smooth filling glides up and down your g-spot as the pads of his fingers batter your sloppy pussy, and in no time you begin moaning.

“Oh Dabi, oh Dabi, fuck, please,-“

“Oh Dabi, oh Dabi,” he mocks cruelly, pinching your clit and squeezing your squished nipples as he pulls his fingers out right at the tip of your climax.

You try to turn around and plead for release but he doesn’t let you. Without missing a beat he takes his bricked up cock in hand and taps it on your ass before gliding in your weeping, cream covered pussy.

The moan you let out is so lewd that even a pornstar would be proud. You hate him, hate this marriage, hate the way he orders you around and looks down on you regardless of how you shower him with love and money.

But holy fuck, when his mushroom tip bangs against your womb like that and drags up and down your sensitive cavern you forget all the abuse.

Back and forth, up and down, sideways and forwards is the way you feel fucked. For someone who just sits on the couch all day you wonder how someone with such frame could fuck like a stallion, barely missing a beat.

“Hah, haaa fuck, you little whore, yeah, bring that ass back on Daddy, show him what you show those creepy fucks at work.” He pants and strikes your ass as you ricochet off his pelvis, his balls slapping your sticky labia.

You whine and try to wriggle out of his intrusion when he sneers the insult, but he merely cages you in between his arms and hunches over your bare body, pumping into you faster than before.

Your open jaw clacks as your tongue drops out in pleasure, his animalistic grunts and curses going straight into your ear and sending you over the edge.

He cums before you, groaning and dropping his dead weight over your suffocated body, not bothering to aid in your pathetic rubbing against his deflating dick.

“A little bit more, please Dabi? I’m so close honey-“

His fingers twitch next to you as he regains himself, exhaling through puffed up cheeks and yawning widely.

“Shut up. You don’t deserve to get off after the mess you made here.”

He peels his sweat-soaked body off of yours and tucks himself back into his pants, regarding the mess on the floor.

All your hard work, gone within a few minutes of ruthless fucking. Which you didn’t even get off to.

He fishes out a crumpled $10 from his musty shorts and throws it at your face like a cheap hooker would take.

“Here. Buy some Plan B and get me some beer. And you better not leave before serving me some fucking food, useless bitch.”

[dem-obscure-imagines]

The Kiss of Life

Pietro Maximoff x Reader

Summary: You are an Avenger with the power to heal. However, you didn’t expect to catch feelings for the man you brought back from the dead.

Note: Let it be known that my very first ever Tumblr fanfiction, waaaaaay back in 2015, was a Pietro Maximoff fic about a healer! Reader bringing him back to life. I was obsessed with this man. Still am, lowkey. So, this fic is just kind of me revisiting that idea with about six more years of writing experience.

Warnings: Mentions of death, death (temporary), bulletwounds

Wordcount: 2.7k

On the day of the Battle of Sokovia, you were on board the Helicarrier. Tony Stark had contacted you, knowing the shit would hit the fan, and then Nick Fury had found you and picked you up. As the team’s resident healer, you didn’t actively go out in the field, but you were always on stand-by just in case. And this was one of the days you were glad you were.

You’d taken one of the “boats” to the quickly rising chunk of the city in order to heal civilians. You encountered a young woman who had her leg caught under a piece of rubble. But super-strength wasn’t one of your abilities. Luckily, a certain silver-haired speedster saw you and rushed over to help. You healed the woman and she quickly went over to the boats to be evacuated.

“Are you…” the man asked, looking you over. “You’re with…?”

“The Avengers, yeah.” You nodded. “Are you?”

“I’m new.” He grinned. “I’m Pietro. Nice to meet you.”

“(Y/N).” You offered your hand and instead of shaking your hand like you expected him to, he raised it to his lips and pressed a soft kiss there. You tried to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks. You couldn’t deny he was handsome, and his accent and gorgeous muscles only helped his case.

“Oh shit, your arm.” You pointed out the wound there.

“I was shot.” He nodded, his jaw clenching. “It is not bad, though.”

“Here, let me.” You reached up and held your hand over the bullet hole. Immediately, golden light radiated from your palm and Pietro watched in awe as the spot repaired, his skin closing up underneath the hole in his shirt. “There. Good as new.”

“Thanks. Remind me to find you the next time I get a paper cut.”

You chuckled. “I’m always around.”

The two of you split after that. You went off to help more civilians evacuate and he busied himself with fighting robots.

And then it happened. You were on your way to the boats to help people. You heard the loud noise of a machine gun, and when you looked up, Pietro was standing there, riddled with bullet holes, wobbling on his feet before inevitably collapsing.

You sprinted. You didn’t care about the risks or the danger, you ran as fast as you could to him, falling to your knees at his side and immediately pushing every ounce of power you could muster into his chest, arms, and legs. You felt like your veins were on fire and you couldn’t describe why, but you knew that this was why you were there. This was your purpose and you intended to fulfill it.

You watched as his wounds stitched together. You searched him for more. Anything you could do to make him better.

His eyes were open, unblinking, wide and haunting. His skin was cold to the touch. You knew what you had to do, but you didn’t know if you had the strength to do it after expending your powers all day.

“Can you do it?” Clint asked softly, watching.

“I think so.” You murmured. “I’m gonna try.”

The Kiss of Life, as Tony had dubbed it, was something you had only done once. It had absolutely drained you. You’d been asleep for a few days following it, but it was worth it. It was always worth it.

So, slowly, you leaned in and pressed your lips to Pietro’s pushing everything you had left into his body, from your chest to his. You reached up and felt for a pulse, waiting, waiting, waiting, until suddenly, you felt his vein twitch beneath your fingertips. You felt his chest heave with a breath and immediately released, exhaling a large breath of your own.

He looked up at you, confusion and warmth swirled in his eyes. He stared at you for a long moment, a hand rising to his lips, as if he was looking for confirmation of what you’d just done. He looked down at himself, searching for the dozens of wounds he’d just acquired, but not finding any.

Your head was spinning. You blinked a few times, watching him carefully. He sat up and as soon as he did, you slumped forward into his firm chest, your eyes fluttering shut. The last thing you felt before falling asleep were his strong arms wrapping around you and his soft lips pressing against your forehead.

“Thank you.”

***

You woke up with a pounding headache in an…unfamiliar place. You didn’t recognize the room you were in, but it appeared your things were there, from what you could tell. Oh, and there was a man sitting in a chair pulled up to your bedside, a nervous look on his face. His finger rested on his lip, deep in thought.

You moved, straining to sit up but your entire body was sore, your limbs each screaming for you to stop.

“Hey, hey, careful.” He moved at lightning speed, catching you off guard. He gently moved you into an upright position, resting against the mountain of pillows on your bed. “Easy.” He smoothed the hair off of your forehead and leaned forward to kiss it, long and soft. “You do not feel like you have a fever…”

“I think I’m okay.” You insisted, shaking your head. Your voice was hoarse. You coughed a few times, but half a second later, Pietro was holding a cold water bottle in your face, helping you drink it with careful hands and a doting expression on his face.

“Banner left these for you.” He handed you a bottle of painkillers and you took a few of them, swallowing them down with more water.

“Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything, but you knew he was thinking about it.

Instead, you asked, “How long was I out?”

“A few days.” He replied, his voice soft and low. “I…I was worried…worried that you…”

“Yeah,” you laughed darkly, shrugging. “I…well, some risks are just worth taking, I guess.”

“You barely know me and you saved my life without hesitation.” He said, a million words hiding behind his eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed cautiously, giving you plenty of time to tell him to back off, but you didn’t. “Clint…he said he’s never seen you run so fast.”

“I knew I wouldn’t have much time before…” You shook your head, trailing off. “And I knew I couldn’t let that happen. I got lucky. I was exactly where I needed to be.”

He was quiet for a beat, thinking. And then, all at once, he pulled you into his arms, against his firm chest. You listened to his heartbeat, his breaths, which became ragged as soon as he started sobbing.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m okay. You’re okay. It’s all okay.” You said, your arms wrapping around him, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back.

“Thank you. T-thank you so much. I…I don’t know how to repay you.”

“It’s just my job, Pietro. You don’t have to—”

“I want to, though.” He said, pulling away from you to look you in the eyes. His large hand rose to frame your cheek and you felt a chill run up your spine, heat flooding your cheeks due to his proximity and the look on his face. “Please let me thank you the way you deserve.”

You didn’t know what else to say, so you just nodded, staring up at him. “O-okay.”

“Do you think you can walk? The others want to see you.” He said.

“Um, I can try. I’ll probably be a bit weak.”

“I’ll help you.” He reassured you, helping you remove the blankets on top of you and scoot to the edge of the bed.

You put your feet on the floor, gently easing up until you were upright. You wobbled a little, but Pietro’s arm snaked around your waist for support, helping you forward slowly until you were out the door of your new bedroom.

“Where are we, exactly?”

“New facility.” Pietro explained. “Stark insists it will be safer than the Tower.”

“Gotcha.” You nodded.

He led you out to the main room, where the majority of the team were all sitting on the large sectional couch. As soon as you walked in, aided by Pietro, they all sat at attention. One of them, a young woman wearing a red sweater, stood up and walked up to you quickly, wrapping you in a tight hug.

“Thank you so much. Thank you for saving him.”

“Of course.” You hugged her back. “Us Avengers have to look out for each other. Welcome to the team. You’re Wanda, right?”

“Right. Nice to meet you, officially.” She smiled warmly.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” You pulled away and as soon as you did, you wobbled a bit, but Pietro immediately held you upright, preventing you from falling.

“Got a new friend there, (L/N)?” Tony chuckled, raising an eyebrow.

“So it seems.” You smiled, letting Pietro help you over to the couch where the others were all situated. “The new place is nice.” You noted. “Very modern. Very sleek.”

“Thought you’d like it.” Tony nodded. “There are still quite a few empty rooms if you want to switch, but, uh…Speedy wanted your room next to his.”

Pietro laughed nervously, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. When you looked over at him, his cheeks were steadily turning red. Cute, you decided.

“Well, I certainly don’t mind.” You grinned. “What are we watching?”

“Disney movies.”

“Hell yesssssss.”

“Told you she’d like it.” Steve chuckled, his arms folded across his broad chest. “How are you feeling, kid?”

“I’m good. Little sore, but good. Should be back to normal in a few days.”

“Glad to hear it.” Steve nodded, smiling.

“Anyone have any papercuts that need healing in the meantime?” You joked.

“Maybe take it easy for now, (L/N).” Natasha chuckled, shaking her head. “Our bruises and papercuts can wait.”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

You watched a few movies with the rest of the team, and afterwards, Tony ordered pizza, a very bewildered delivery boy knocking on the door about an hour later. Pietro wouldn’t let you lift a finger, and so once the pizza arrived, he brought you a few slices on a plate with breadsticks and garlic cream cheese dip.

“Thank you, Pietro.”

“Of course.” He grinned, plopping back down in his spot between you and Wanda.

You had only been awake for a handful of hours, and yet you suspected that this constant attention from the silver-haired speedster wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.

***

You were right. It was about two weeks later. You’d made a full recovery and were back to your usual level of activity. You were in the training facility doing your daily workout when Pietro sped in. You were on the treadmill, just finishing up, when he strolled over, a grin on his face.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

“Oh yeah?” You asked, slowing the treadmill to a stop and leaning against the rails, taking a moment to catch your breath. “May I ask why?”

“One of the interns is making a coffee run.”

“Oh hell yeah.” You took a long sip from your water bottle. “Well, thank you for letting me know.”

“Of course.” He grinned, leaning against your treadmill. “How are you today?”

You smiled, heat flushing your cheeks. You blame it on the workout, but you knew there might be another reason for it… “I’m good, how are you?”

“Good.” He replied. “I’m good.” He paused, holding up his hand, his knuckles red and bloody. “I did hurt my hand, though…”

“Oh, here.” You took his hand in yours and held your other palm over it, letting your power glow for a few seconds until the wound healed up. “There. Good as new.”

He exhaled a breath, clenching and unclenching his hand. With it, he reached up and gently traced your jaw. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against yours, causing a flurry of butterflies to erupt in your stomach. “You’re incredible. So incredible.”

You stared into his blue, blue eyes for what felt like eternities, his warm breaths ghosting across your cheeks. And then the moment was over. He pulled away from you, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

“Want a ride?”

“To where, the living room?” You laughed. “Sure, why—?” There was a rush of cold air and suddenly, you were in the living room, Pietro cradling you in his arms. “Not.” You looked up at him, tucking a piece of hair back behind your ear. “Wow, you’re fast.”

He grinned and you swore his cheeks got a shade redder than they were previously. “I am, aren’t I?”

You ordered your coffee from the intern and waited for Pietro to order his, but he didn’t.

“Aren’t you getting anything?”

“Oh, I don’t like coffee.” He shrugged, and then winked at you. “But you do, so…”

***

It was a few weeks later. You’d known Pietro for a little over a month at this point. You were in your room, reading. It was getting late and you knew that, but you also didn’t want to go to sleep until you finished the chapter you were on.

You heard a knock on your doorframe and looked up to find Pietro standing there, his hair a tousled mess and dark bags under his eyes.

“Nightmare?”

He nodded.

“Come on in.” You scooted over and patted the side of the bed and immediately, he zipped over. “You okay?”

“Better now.” He said, his voice low and raspy.

You closed your book and set it on your nightstand to give him your full attention.

“Can we talk?” He asked.

“Of course, Pietro. What’s on your mind?”

“I…I don’t even know.” He let out a long breath. “I keep thinking about…that day. And I’m not sure why.”

“Well, it was traumatic. Dying, even briefly, is hard to recover from. Emotionally, that is.”

“Hmm.” He hummed, nodding. “Am I the only one…that you’ve…”

“No. There was one other. Some S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. I don’t even remember her name. It was a long time ago. But those were the only two successful times.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes I’m just…too late. If I don’t get to the body in time…” You shuddered and shook your head. “I got really, really lucky with you, Pietro. If I was any further away, I don’t think…” Your stomach dropped at the thought and you couldn’t continue.

“Don’t think like that.” He said softly, one of his large hands rising to your face. His warmth was incredible, calming.

You leaned into his touch, resting your hand on top of his.

“I’m right here, printsessa.” He leaned in closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.”

“There’s…something else.” He said, his voice wavering. “I don’t think it’s any secret, but, I’ve fallen for you, (Y/N). We are so close and I love it, but the only time we’ve ever kissed was when I was unconscious. I…would like to change that.” He paused, looking deep into your eyes. “But only if that’s okay with you.”

“Oh thank God.” You exhaled a relieved breath, your eyes sparkling and heart racing. “I was worried you were only hanging around me because I saved you. I didn’t think you were into me.”

“How could I not be?” His thumb rubbed your cheek affectionately. “You are kind and clever and selfless and brave, not to mention the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I’d have to be stupid to let you slip through my fingers.”

You were both quiet for a beat before he asked, his voice soft, “So…can I kiss you?”

You leaned in closer until your lips were less than an inch away from his before whispering, “Do you even have to ask?”

Part 2

[pascalpanic]

request please? lately i have been having a lot abandonment anxiety when it comes to friendships and i was wondering how you think javi or din might help someone with an anxious attachment style? thank you lovely 🥰

Irrational (Din Djarin x f!Reader)

Summary: above ^^

W/C: 2.8k

Warnings: language; talk of fighting and weapons, reader has a panic attack PLEASE be aware that it’s coming and somewhat descriptive.

A/N: I really really love this! I hope you guys do too :) as always, thanks to my beta reading babes!

Din Djarin has been abandoned before. Often on a mission, sometimes on a lone planet with no credits or ways out. He always survives, of course, and vengeance is taken. One thing he absolutely can’t fathom is abandoning someone he loves, or more specifically someone who loves him.

Abandonment isn’t an issue when you’ve never had someone to be attached to. Din spent many many years with absolutely no one. When his parents died, it felt like he was abandoned, sure, but it was clearly not their decision to leave him. When he was taken in by the Mandalorians, they kept him at an arm’s length. He was a foundling; they cared for him well, taught him The Way and The Creed, fed him well. But he was never adopted into a specific clan, rather passed around the covert like the communal task each family had an obligation to fulfill.

Then he became a bounty hunter. The life was solitary and lonely, cold and bleak. It was rare that Din would team up with other bounty hunters, really only when forced to. The Razor Crest became his baby, his only possession and love besides his blasters and beskar. The thing was a piece of bantha shit, but he kept it in good shape.

Then came the kid. Din knew it was wrong. Bounties are to be turned in and paid for, then you forget the job happened. But when that little green thing stared up at Din, the big brown eyes seeming to stare through the dark black of his visor, he knew he couldn’t. This was a child, a baby with no family and no way to protect itself. He certainly couldn’t turn it over to the hands of the ex-Imperials.

Din experienced his first real attachment with the child. He cares for that little thing more than he’s ever cared about anything. He’d cross galaxies, kill and maim and injure for the sake of the little green baby.

Oh Maker, then he met you.

Din had never seen anything like you. You were playing with the kids in the marketplace, laughing as they ran and played around you, before you squealed in delight at the sight of a little green toddler wandering up to you. He’d climbed in your lap, looked up at you with those big eyes, massive ears twitching. You’d stroked his head and cooed to him before you looked up to find his father; subsequently, you felt your heart fall into your stomach at the sight of the Mandalorian man.

“You’re good with kids.”

Well no shit. You nodded. “Yes. I love them. Is this your son?” you ask, looking back down at the three green fingers wrapped around your thumb.

He nods. “He is a foundling under my care.” He watched as the baby grabbed at the golden armband encircling your bicep. You’re absolutely gorgeous. The armband glows against your skin, your beautiful body evident even through the loose and flowing clothing you wear. “Do you take care of these children as a job?”

You shook your head. “No. We don’t have jobs here, necessarily. They just wanted me to play.” You scanned the man, searching for skin. You found none. “Are you green under there too?”

The Mandalorian did not answer. “I’m looking for a caretaker for the child while I hunt bounties. You’d stay in my ship and care for him. I pay well and you’d get to travel the galaxy.”

“You barely know me,” you laughed, removing the little green baby’s fingers from their tight grip on the gold band on your arm.

He gave a half shrug. “He likes you.”

And you’d agreed. And it’s been almost a full cycle now, a cycle of living in the beat-up ship and caring for the little green baby. You’ve seen the most beautiful and the ugliest of planets, experienced extreme heat and extreme cold. You’ve been to beautiful cities, unique jungles and forests and ice planets.

In that time, you got to know the Mandalorian too. It took quite some time to crack his beskar shell. He hardly talked to you in the first month. Then your persistence had loosened him a little, then a little more, then just enough. You know more of him than any other living being does. He’s told you his name: Din Djarin, a name that flows and stops and radiates the power of the bounty hunter. He told you the story of his childhood, of hunts gone wrong and hunts gone right.

You love listening as he tells you and the child the story of the child’s rescue from the ex-Imperials. The baby snuggles against your lap as his father regales the two of you with the epic battles, the fights Din went through for this little child. You both applaud at the end, and put the baby to bed with a kiss between those big brown eyes.

He’s a wonderful man. You’ve formed an easy friendship with him, one that has honestly progressed on your end. At night, you find yourself fantasizing about what he looks like beneath his armor, how the muscles of his broad shoulders move when he climbs the ladder to the cockpit or lifts the child. You like to think he may feel the same for you, but you don’t push it. You don’t want to push him away.

Din has been away for far too long. He always highballs the dates he gives you, saying that an assignment will take three days when he knows it will only take two or a week when it will only be five days. This is a pattern you’ve come to notice; Din is alway back “early”, but now he is late. Really late.

Before he left, Din had opened your bunk compartment, causing you to groan at the light filtering in. You’ve been sleeping since the Crest made a rocky landing on Nevarro a few hours earlier. “Cyare,” he’d murmured, a rare ungloved hand warm on your bare arm, contact broken by your metal armband. You don’t know what the word means. You hope it’s something good.

“What is it?” You groaned, rolling onto your back to look at him. “Leaving?”

He nodded, the silhouette of his helmet-covered head against the soft light of the hull. “Leaving. I’ll be back in four days at the most.”

You offered him a sleepy smile, one that he could see in the warm glow of the lights you’d installed in the ship to navigate easier at night. “Good luck. May the Force be with you,” you teased, making the normally stoic man chuckle a little.

“Go back to sleep. I’ll see you soon.”

You didn’t protest, rolling over and letting the heaviness of sleep drag you back under.

Now, you really wish you’d have talked with him more then. You’re almost certain you’ll never see him again.

You’re not exactly sure what it was in your brain that triggered the thought. Maybe Din just actually took the amount of time he’d said for once, you thought on the fourth day. But now it’s been eight days, double the amount that he’d told you he’d be gone, and you’re stressed.

He always makes good on his word. He should be back by now. He always does. Did he get injured or killed, maybe captured by the bounty he was stalking? You ponder your ideas aloud as you pace back and forth in the hull of the Razor Crest, the little green baby tucked in his soundproof pram to sleep.

There’s likely a rational explanation. You’re sure there is. Maybe the bounty jumped ship, completely threw Din off of his tracks. Maybe the bounty is more clever than anticipated and Din is working extra just to find them. There’s surely a reason, but a little nagging voice in your head says that something is wrong.

In the first few days following Din’s date to return, your primary worry is that he’s hurt or dead somewhere on this barren planet. There are many other bounty hunters here, in this haven for Guild workers. What if one of them discovered Din still has the baby? What if they were coming for you here next?

Maybe you should go look for him. Maybe he’s injured and needs your help. He could be held by another hunter, or by the ex-Imperials- you can’t even bear to think of them harming Din for taking their precious cargo back. The thought makes you squeeze the little green baby tighter to your chest, even after he gives a whine of annoyance at the pressure.

But Din would never forgive you if you put yourself in harm’s way for him. This planet is dangerous, full of bad people who will do what it takes to get their credits. Most importantly, you can’t leave this ship with the kid. Certainly people here are looking for him. Someone would spot him and you’d be in for disaster. The anxiety fills your days and even seeps into your dreams, making you sleep less and more fitfully. On the eighth day, perhaps the most terrifying idea strikes you: what if Din just... left you?

Of course, there are plenty of signs why he hasn’t. The ship is one of his rare material possessions. He’d never give up the machine that’s been a home to him for the last however many years. Weapons are part of his religion, and he only took a sparse amount with him for this hunt. His prized pulse rifle still hangs in his armory, with an abundance of whistling birds he didn’t take either.

Most importantly, you’re still here with the kid. The baby is practically Din’s son. He adores him… but what if it’s all too much? You’ve become like a little family. That may be too domestic for him. Maybe he’s sick of the responsibility, of caring for two beings when so much of his life has been solitary. Even worse, maybe he’s just sick of you.

There are plenty of rational explanations. You know it. The baby can sense your anxiety, can feel the tension running through the air surrounding you, and he feels it too. He’s fussy, requiring more snacks and more attention. He tugs far too much on your armband and it pinches now, his little claws getting too long. You don’t mind- it’s a distraction, really- but your mind is never fully on feeding the baby, rather hyper analyzing Din’s mind as you know it and hoping he’ll return.

The hours pass. Din doesn’t return. You become more and more certain that he’s abandoned you for good. He isn’t coming back, ever, because he hates you. He was nice to you as a courtesy, nothing more, only as a protector of his child. This type of family is too much for the lone-wolf style man. He can’t do it anymore. You’re on your own.

In your head, the thought of him abandoning you is too much. It weighs heavily on your self-esteem, convincing you that this is all your fault and you’ve done too much, or not enough, or something wrong in general that sent Din packing and gone. He did it because you’re annoying, because he’s sick of you.

Rational thoughts are pushed to the furthest corner of your mind. Your brain is occupied by self hatred, by terror, by a sickening buzzing feeling in your head and chest that feels like a parasite eating you from the inside out.

It’s too much. You fall to the floor, sliding your back down the metal wall. Your rear contacts the floor as the tears fall from your face, your emotions drowning out your senses. You can’t use any of your senses, just think and process the agony your brain is putting you through.

Burying your face in your hands, you finally allow the tears you’ve been holding in all week to flow. It’s a relief, the hot tears streaming down your equally hot face, blood rushing to the surface. The anxiety buzzing in your head has reached a breaking point; you’re sure the tension is boiling your brains, making it bubble and roil as the thoughts pull you down and down so far you feel you’ve fallen through the floor of the Crest and into the dry Nevarro dirt.

You nearly wail, wheezing in air only to expel it in harsh sobs as the fear wraps your body and constricts it. You’re enveloped by it, trapped in a coffin mixed with a tornado mixed with a firestorm and a hurricane.

Then it all stops. The heat is broken by something cold- beskar. You force your eyes to see and they finally perceive that Din is in front of you. Then you feel again, feel the chilled metal all over your skin as he wraps his arms around you. You smell him, his faded soap from whenever he bathed last, his sweat and the smell of the Nevarro dust. You can taste your salty tears. The last sense to come back puts you most at ease: his voice. “Talk to me, please,” Din asks of you.

You nod and try to speak, but you’re still gasping for air, your lungs unable to fill. When you slow down and make yourself breathe, you’re finally able to manage words. “Thought you were gone forever. Thought you left because of me.”

The beskar helmet tilts to the side, taking you in. You’re sure you’re a mess; eyes bloodshot, face tearstained, snot probably all over you as well. Din’s quiet for a moment. “Why would you think that?”

“You said four days. You always come back early, but you were gone for eight days.”

His chest rises and falls slowly beneath the beskar plate. “I know. I’m sorry. But why would you think I’d leave you?”

The tears return. “I don’t know, Din, I-”

“No, shh,” Din murmurs and wipes your face. “No more tears. I’m here.”

Din stands and takes you with him, his arms wrapped tight around your body to bring you to your feet. He walks you to the edge of the bunk and hands you a canteen of water to drink. You look at him and he looks back. There’s a silence and an unspoken battle between the two of you over who will break it.

Din breaks first. “I got the bounty easily. I was late because of… something else.”

Your face falls into a frown. “You took double the amount of time and didn’t tell me? Whatever this ‘something else’ is, it better be worth it.”

Din breathes in and out deeply before producing a soft fabric bag. “I didn’t leave you. I’m back. And… I got you something to show that I’ll never leave you.”

From the bag, his leather-covered hand produces something silver. Your eyes, blurry with tears, take a moment to perceive it: an armband of some silver material- oh, it’s beskar. It’s cold to the touch but you take it from him to admire it and find it is emblazoned with an insignia: a mudhorn. “The symbol of Clan Djarin,” he says gently, though he’s sure you know. It’s on his pauldron. It’s on the baby’s necklace. “We… are a family, aren’t we?”

You don’t respond; rather, you throw your arms around his neck and the tears return, but happily. “We are,” you whimper, your throat constricted by a sob. You cry into his neck, staining the fabric of his cowl and cape with your tears.

He understands they’re good tears, and so he lets them flow. His arms wrap around you and rest on your back, gently rubbing it as you cry into him. As the sobs calm, the tears end, you remain in his arms. Din holds you tight against his chest. “I’ve never made a better decision than hiring you. It was supposed to just be a babysitting job, but… I fell in love.”

Your heart stops and you pull back. “You’re in love? With me?”

Din nods. “I… yes. I am.”

A smile crosses your face, the joy emphasized by how wide your smile is in the presence of your tears. “I love you too,” you manage before your throat squeezes off your words, making you cry happily and hug him yet again.

With your face buried in his neck, you nuzzle your face in and are rewarded with a soft patch of stubbled skin beneath the tip of your nose. You can feel his throat vibrate when he speaks again. “We are a clan of three now. I promise you, I will never leave you. Don’t even entertain the thought again. Understand?”

You nod, not wanting to move your face and lose contact with this intimate spot of him, the first humanness you’ve been able to get beneath the beskar. You kiss the skin there softly. Din knows it’s your answer: understood. I love you.

-

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[spaceskam]

a follow up to this fic

AO3

Michael liked the ring.

Of course he liked the way it made him feel, the way it's power seemed to make him feel comfortable in his own skin above all else. It was no longer a power high as much as it was like a security blanket or a favorite shirt.

The power, however, didn't escape him.

He never really had to strain before, but this was a different beast. With a thought he could read people's aura, move multiple things at once, feel around larger areas than he even knew what to do with. It was fun and felt like he could really breathe for the first time in a long time. He did his best to not rely on it too much, to make sure he didn't get too used to the power it gave him, but he couldn't help but enjoy it.

Alex was slowly but surely getting more comfortable with him wearing it as well. At first, he babied him incessantly and was so sure it was going to overload him somehow and that it was going to kill him or something. He still watched him, spent all his free time with Michael to make sure the ring wasn't effecting him negatively. Michael couldn't complain about it.

"So, this group you're working with. Do they know this exists?" Michael asked, inspecting the ring on his finger. It didn't occur to him until just then that maybe he shouldn't just leave it on his left hand like that.

"As far as I can tell, no," Alex said, sighing as he looked up from what he was working on. It was just a notebook full of crude sketches of his actual project. Michael wanted to help, but the thing couldn't leave Deep Sky and Michael couldn't go there, so he simply had to listen to Alex speak and bounce ideas off him.

It was probably the most fun he'd ever had in his entire life.

"But I'm not about to risk them trying to hunt it down before me. I need to be a step ahead, at least. I'm so fucking tired of being stupid about things," Alex said. Michael rolled his eyes.

"You're far from stupid, Alex."

"Too trusting which is a form of stupidity."

"It's not a bad thing to be trusting, it's other people's fault for taking advantage," Michael insisted.

Alex sighed and looked at him. He was so tired. He always did. Michael was never good at figuring out what to do to help that other than instigate. Maybe he could try to persuade him, but somehow that felt like a dead end.

"People are never going to stop taking advantage, so why should I remain open to being taken advantage of?"

"Okay, fine, point made. But still, I like that about you. The way you don't automatically assume people have shitty intentions. It's, like, the exact opposite of me," Michael said. A smile tugged at Alex's mouth and he let it show just a bit, leaning against the table.

"You assume everyone has bad intentions?" Alex asked, "Even me?"

Michael scoffed, his heart thrumming and the ring on his finger all but singing in delight. That was another fun thing about the ring. It always encouraged positive feelings.

"Now you know damn well–"

Without much warning, the hatch to the bunker opened and caused them to break eye contact as they both looked up. Sanders stood there looking as grumpy as ever.

"What do you want, old man?" Michael asked, only having to feign his annoyance a little bit. As much as he didn't like having his moments with Alex interrupted, it wasn't so bad when he knew he had more.

That knowing was everything.

"You and the boyfriend gettin' along now?" Sanders asked. Michael's neck felt hot and he didn't dare look at Alex. He felt like a teenager being caught all of the sudden.

"Can you not make it weird?"

"Weird for who?" Alex asked. Michael's eyes went to him, Alex's face with a small smirk and his head tilted. He looked so good. Happy. The ring was damn near vibrating with joy again his skin.

"We're talking about research," Michael responded instead. Sanders grunted.

"Sure, research."

"We are!"

"I believe that as far as I can throw you," Sanders said. Michael scratched his arm, trying to dilute the feeling building up inside him. It was overwhelming, an overdose of goodness that the ring amplified. "Right, well, I was just reminding you that Jane Garcia is still bringin' that truck in an hour and you're the only hands that have touched it in a decade, so can't have someone else doin' it for you."

"She needs to just get a new one," Michael responded, relieved to change the subject despite Alex's eyes still being on him. He couldn't say he minded that.

"You ain't got no room to talk with that thing out there," Sanders huffed. Michael grinned, shrugging his shoulders.

"I can get away with it, I know what I'm doing."

Sanders grunted in response. "Sure, kid. Just be out here when she gets here."

"Got it," Michael said, giving a thumbs up. Sanders rolled his eyes and closed the hatch, leaving him alone with Alex again.

"You can go get set up, I'm good down here," Alex said. Michael settled his gaze on him again, feeling warm and sated and really not having any intention to leave him.

However, they locked eyes for all of half a second before Alex breathed a sharp intake and stood up straight.

Michael's excitement started to leak out of him and was replaced with complete concern. He sat up straighter, his feet hitting the ground as he tried to maintain eye contact with Alex.

"What?" he said, "What happened?"

"Your eyes," Alex breathed, his eyebrows pulling together.

"Huh? What about them?" Michael asked, mindlessly reaching up to rub them. When he pulled his hands away, there wasn't anything on them.

"They're... glowing," Alex said, coming closer, "Well, they were. Went away when I said something."

Alex grabbed Michael's chin without any hesitation, tilting his head back to look at them. Michael instantly became malleable under his grip. It'd been too long to be otherwise. He let his face relax, let his body dwell in the delight it caused and let the ring sing in response.

"It was like you were lighting up from the inside or something, like you literally glowing. Just showed mostly in your eyes," Alex said, still concerned as he manuvered Michael's head this way and that to look at him in different angles. "It's because of that fucking ring."

"You think?" Michael murmured, still staring up at him. His heart thudded in his chest, his mind going wild at the tactile attention. Alex's eyes widened again.

"It's doing it again," Alex murmured, placing the back of his other hand on Michael's forehead, "You're warm. Warmer than usually. How do you feel? Maybe you should take it off before you become a fucking lamp. Do you feel alright?"

"Good," Michael said. Alex blinked, stilling his movements as he looked at him rather than the glow.

"What?"

"I feel good, Alex," he said simply. Alex swallowed and he dropped his hands from him. They were silent a beat before Alex bit the inside of his cheek, holding back whatever expression his face wanted to show. A smile, hopefully.

"You stopped glowing," Alex said. He huffed a laugh, his eyes scanning the room before landing back on Michael. "So you're a glowstick now?"

"You think it's the ring?"

"What else could it be? It amplifies your powers, right? So the longer you wear it, the more it becomes accostomed to you and how you work. So I'm sure the longer you wear it, the more it'll do. But we should definitely work on you not glowing without your permission every time you feel good," Alex said, watching him still. It was less concern now, more intrigue.

Michael wanted him to touch him again, to experiment as much as his heart desired.

"Okay, just, like, throw something at me if I start glowing," Michael said. Alex laughed.

"I'm not going to throw something at you," he said, "But I'll let you know."

"I don't think it's like an actually problem, just when I get overwhelmed. The ring had kinda helped regulate that, though," Michael said. Alex tilted his head in confusion.

"It's helped when you're overwhelmed?"

"Yeah. Like either a distraction or it's amplifying the good feelings. It's, like, stretching it's leg, you know? It's this thing that has gone untouched for so long and it's just happy to be in use. So it wants me to feel good, wants me to use it. And when I feel good, it just reacts to that and then I feel really good," Michael explained, "It's a wedding ring. It's probably used to being used in that context. Happy ever after context."

Alex breathed, his fingers twitching at his side. Michael couldn't tell if it was the ring or just his own desperation that was screaming for Alex to touch him again. He really didn't think it mattered.

"You we're glowing when I was touching you," Alex stated. Michael nodded obediently. "And you stopped whenever I stopped." Michael nodded again.

"I believe it."

"And you're just... happy?" Alex said.

"I'm spending time with you," Michael said simply, shrugging, "No fighting or tension. Just spending time and talking about research. Why the fuck would I be anything else?"

Alex watched him, taking a step forward. Even though he was already so close. Now he was close enough that Michael's thighs bracketed his legs.

"You've been different since you started wearing that thing," Alex said, fingers catching Michael's sleeve.

"I've been different since I got over my shit and got some openness between us," Michael said. Alex clearly fought a smile and lost, a grin splitting his mouth and the back of hand rubbed over Michael's arm.

"You really thing the ring has nothing to do with it?" Alex said.

Michael shrugged. "I can't say that. I know it definitely gave me a little push, but the things I'm feeling are all 100% mine."

"And what are you feeling exactly?" Alex asked, his hand trailing up into his hair. He seemed to be gravitating closer, leaning down as Michael craned up. Michael resisted the urge to just pull him into his lap at this point.

"Happy," Michael answered, "Obsessed with you. First is new, second one isn't."

Alex breathed out, swallowing hard. He looked away for a moment, but his eyes eventually came back to him.

"You can't say shit like that," Alex whispered, reprimanding him with a soft tug on the hair at the tape of his neck. Michael's lips parted. He wasn't really sure how to tell when he was glowing just yet, but he was sure that he was now.

"Why not?"

"I might get ideas," Alex said teasingly, leaning a little more. His hand was resting on his chest while the other was in his hair, Michael's hands trying not to take initiative and just grab him.

"Get them," Michael said. And Alex laughed. And it was sweet. And he was close enough to kiss.

"Michael..." Alex said, right there. His eyes flickered around his face, hovering on his lips. Michael could feel his breath on his face.

"Alex," Michael responded, finally touching him. He put his hands on the back of his thighs, urging him closer. Alex smiled wider.

"You're glowing again," Alex said, breath caressing his face. It was teasing at this point. "I wonder how bright you can get."

"Wanna test it?" Michael asked.

Alex looked at him, looking over him before he nodded.

"Yeah, I do."

Alex leaned closer, their noses bumping.

And then there was knocking on the hatch before it was opened up.

Alex moved back, flushed. Michael flexed his hand as a silent command to drain him from any residual glow. He hoped it was successful.

"You forgot how to tell time, boy?!" Sanders called down. Michael evened his breath and tried to calm down his body's natural reaction to Alex being so close.

"Yeah!" he said, "I'll be up in a second!"

Sanders grunted in response, leaving the hatch open before walking away. Michael huffed a laugh and looked to Alex who looked like he was on the verge of laughing as well. A couple second of staring and he did, both of them bubbling with laughter and excitement at being caught in such a casual way.

A normal way.

"I gotta go," Michael said, "But you can stay. Won't be too long."

"Take your time," Alex said, "I'll be here."

Michael nodded, knowing he would be.

"Alright," Michael said.

"Alright," Alex agreed.

"Alright."

*Go," Alex laughed, shooing him. Michael obeyed, heading to the ladder and all but flying up them.

Michael's heart and the ring on his finger thrummed in tandem, all singing on the high that was Alex Manes.

Alex Manes, Alex Manes, Alex Manes

[clarawatson]

It Only Takes a Taste

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x [Fem]!Reader (GN pronouns, fem coded stuff, but I’m not sure where this is going as a larger work so we’ll say Fem!reader to be safe) Summary: You work at a diner. Aaron Hotchner falls in love with you. We’re not kidding around trying to make us all sound like profilers, just accept the diner life, we love it here. W/C: 1498 Warnings: none yet!  A/N:  First chapter of that diner!au i was talking about here! AO3 ps. I forgot to tag people, so: @willowrose99 & @genevievedarcygranger my beloveds. If you want to get added to the tag list jump in my inbox and i’ll try to remember to add tags every time i post. Where am I in this series?  01 | 02 | 03 | 04 |

~

When you first meet him it’s 5am and raining. You’re switching over shifts for your friend, Rita, because she’s been doing night shifts at the diner. This late into her pregnancy she shouldn’t be working, not technically, but she needs the money and she’s got insomnia because of the baby, so she works nights now. There’s always someone working with her, be it Joe (who’s got far too much muscle for a chef) or Lola (who can beat anyone to a pulp with a pie tray). In the early hours of the morning a bunch of tatt’ed bikies come and sit and talk about their extracurricular activities (definitely not legal) because one time there was an armed hold up and the police didn’t turn up until two hours after it had happened. People don’t like holding up a diner full of men who eat their own motorbikes for breakfast.

But when he comes in, he’s not any of them. He’s not even one of Lola’s nightly hook-ups (she needs the money, you don’t ask). He’s too well dressed in a grey suit (or is it black? Maybe it’s black), trying desperately to shove his I.D. badge in his pocket. He has a look about him that says ‘I’m part of one of the alphabet soup agencies’. A smile on his face, dead in the eyes, and the weight of the world on his shoulders. He fumbles with his wallet as he squints to read the menu behind the counter. The rain’s stopped dripping from his hair, instead he’s got droplets like his woken with the morning dew upon him.

“Hi love,” Rita coos as she hangs her apron up. She has a look about her that says she’ll eat this man for her breakfast. It’s an effort not to curse those pregnancy hormones some days.

“Go home,” you tell her, swatting her arm. “Put your feet up, rest, sleep while the baby does or some shit.” Rita sticks her bottom lip out and pouts, but she’s making grabby hands for her purse, which is stored where the tea towels used to be. Far too high to reach even when one’s not pregnant. You grab it down for her, ignoring the showering of thank-yous.

The new guy (who is getting more and more handsome by the second) is still looking at the menu. He doesn’t look like he’s going to stop looking and order any time soon.

“Are you sure you’re fine to take the metro in this weather?” you check. She’s rubbing her swollen belly and looking longingly at the booths that haven’t had anyone sit in them for hours now. 

“Wait forty-five minutes and I’ll take you!” Joe yells. He’s slaving over something in the kitchen even though it looks like no one’s ordered in hours. “Wife gave me the car ‘cause of the storm!”

“Forty-five,” you repeat and point her towards the seat that she’s been eyeing off. Rita sighs, nods, then goes out to the seat. “What can I get you?” Usually when addressing the customer you’d add something gentle like ‘sweetheart’ or ‘love’ or ‘dear’ because the customers like it and they come back because they think you’re treating them like a long lost friend.

He bats his dark eyelashes and rubs at his forehead.

“I don’t know.” He sounds tired, balancing on the very edge of exhaustion. He might just fall off into a pit of sleep that he won’t wake up from. Been there, done that. “Do you guys do coffee?”

You laugh and point to the brewed pot beside you. There’s one for each table, free refills with a pie purchase. It’s written in decorative lettering right above you on the blackboard.

“We can put it in a take-away cup. It’s before six so it’s free anyway,” you offer. The last bits a lie, but Joe doesn’t care about a cup or two of coffee going missing. He’ll catch it up later when he flirts with all of the mom’s coming through after school drop off. The new guy nods and pulls out a ten dollar note and shoves it in the tip jar. You raise an eyebrow at him, but he nods anyway. He’s like a broken bobblehead.

“I know.” He goes to the sweets display and searches through it like he’s looking for something specific. Maybe he is. You’ve not seen him in the diner before, and neither has Rita, but maybe he’s one of Lola’s regulars. Maybe you’d judged him wrong. 

“Anything caught your eye?” you ask, leaning over the counter as if you could see it from his angle too. Maybe you do it to show off just that little bit of cleavage. He notices, then looks like he’s done entirely the wrong thing as he licks his lips and blinks like a school boy.

“S-sorry,” he stammers, and Rita giggles. You point at her and give her a stern look, but she just puts her hand over her mouth and lies down on the seat. She’s still silently giggling because her belly keeps bobbing above the table. 

“I just…” he has that exhausted look on his face again.

“Long day at work?” The answer is always yes for the people who work at the alphabet agencies. He nods. “Take a seat, grab some coffee, take a minute. It’s only just gone five, you’ve got time.” 

He nods. He looks like he’s gotten his words all mixed up and they’re just sitting in his mouth, refusing to leave. Tongue tied doesn’t exactly encapsulate what looks like is going on inside his head. He sits at one of the chairs in front on the counter, and takes the coffee cup gratefully as you pass it to him.

He’s definitely an alphabet soup man. He sits in this weird stance like he’s countering his weight against a gun. His shoulders are hunched forward as if he spends hours a day doing paperwork. He’s got a nervous twitch in his hands like sitting still is only going to bring the next case.

You think about making a joke about turning on the cellphone jammer, but last time Joe made that joke the whole place ended up swarming with cops. Absolute disaster. No one’s going to do that one again. 

“Cherry, berry or apple?” you ask, grabbing a plate.

“Sorry?”

“Cherry, berry or apple?” Rita repeats from her booth. “For the pie, sweetheart.”

“Uh, I didn’t—“

“Eat it,” Rita growled. You pull a face at her even though she can’t see you. The guy smiles.

“Apple, please.” Well mannered. Sweet. He looks elated as you slide the apple pie to him and hand him the canned cream.

“Not as good as fresh, but it’s better than nothing.” 

He puts a generous amount on his plate. You half think he might like it more than proper cream. Rita leans up just enough to look at him as he digs in, fanning herself playfully before sighing and collapsing back down.

Joe brings out his tray of caramel salted cookies. They’re thick enough to look like cakes with a gooey caramel center, and they usually sell out pretty quickly. The new guy watches them intently.

“How much trouble am I going to get into if I give those to my son?” 

“How old is he?”

“Ten.”

You smile. That’s a good age. “How much do you hate his teacher?” 

He considers this with a gentle tilt of his head. “Not a lot. I’ll give it to him after school.” He pulls out his wallet again and Joe looks like he’s just hit the mother lode as he grabs one of the cardboard boxes. 

“If you really want to spoil your kid, y/n here can write really pretty on top.” You glare at Joe. He shrugs. He’s covered in cake batter and cookie dough, and smells like pancake batter. He’s always smelling sickly sweet, and like a well lived in home, despite looking like the living embodiment of Gaston. “She does it for my wife all the time.”

The handsome man’s phone buzzes. He checks it, then shovels the rest of his pie in his mouth like a starved man. 

“I have to go,” he says. He gives Joe another ten and tells him to keep the change. Joe looks like he’s about to break into a song and dance. You pour a fresh cup of coffee into a take-away cup and slide it across the counter to him. He thanks you a thousand times over then goes. With his cookie.

“Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?” Rita screeches the moment the door shut with it’s little jingle. “I’ll-show-him-my-cleavage-but-I-won’t-ask-his-name?? No wonder you can’t get a date!”

“I’ll do it next time.” Not that there’s ever a ‘next time’ for these alphabet soup agents. They’re always looking for the next place to go to so they don’t have a ‘regular place’ that can be ambushed. 

But in a perfect world... you’d see him every day.

[ahtsumu]

the mystery of love ; kuroo tetsurou

pairing: kuroo tetsurou x f!reader

synopsis: kuroo tetsurou does not believe in soulmates. he believes in science, himself, and sometimes other people. but that doesn’t mean he can’t believe in love.

tag(s): sweet summer lovin’, friends to lovers, inspired by call my by your name, university student!kuroo tetsurou, lab intern!kuroo tetsurou, so much pining lol, fluff, angst, slow burn ; warning(s): profanity, mentions of alcohol ingestion (it’s legal bc they’re in italy!), suggestive themes ; wc: 4.8k

a/n: happy birthday tetsu!! i hope you guys like this. i really enjoyed writing it ♡

Kuroo Tetsurou does not believe in soulmates. He believes in science, himself, and sometimes other people. At least, that’s what he tells you. Sometimes you treat this information as a source of hope; other times, you’re not sure what to make of it.

This, you realise with his shoulder pressed against yours and both your bodies sprawled across his wrinkled bed sheets, is one of those other times. You turn your face to look at his.

“What?” he asks, one side of his mouth curling up in a smile.

For a moment, you wonder what would happen if you just said it. You could blame the alcohol. Get away with it scot-free. While you mull the option over in the dead silence of his room, your brain suddenly registers the music still playing from the living room. The low bass reverberating through the walls. How close your lips are. The sound of his breaths.

“Earth to Y/N?”

And like that, the little what-if that rose in your mind falls back with its tail between its legs. You bite your lip, look around his room like the walls have a script printed on them. Unfortunately, they do not.

“I was just thinking about my shirt.” It’s not great, but it’s the best you can do while still feeling the vodka and orange juice burn in your stomach. And smelling it on yourself.

Kuroo’s laugh booms through the room and you can’t help but giggle along with him. “I said I was sorry!” he says, hazel eyes twinkling with mirth. He pauses and glances at his closet, then nods his head in its direction. “Take a hoodie. Your pick.”

A smile–– one you try to downplay but fail miserably to–– creeps up your face. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Kuroo replies. “You can also shower here if you want. It's the least I can do after spilling my drink all over you.”

When you emerge from Kuroo’s bathroom in one of his thinner hoodies, a lot soberer and drying your hair, he’s not on the bed anymore. Quietly, you step out of his room and look for him through the house. People are crashed everywhere–– on the sofa, over the kitchen counter, even propped up against walls. The floor is covered with plastic cups and mysterious pools of liquid. Wrinkling your nose, you try your best to step around the messes, looking in every corner in the house for the raven-haired boy.

You find him back in his room, actually. He’s back on his bed scrolling through his phone, the light illuminating his sharp features. When he hears you close the door behind you, he looks up, eyes immediately zeroing in on the black hoodie over your torso. The corner of his mouth twitches up.

“Where’d you go?” you both ask at the same time. He chuckles; you grin. Crawling back onto the bed, you tell him to go first.

“I went around to make sure nothing’s broken,” he explains. “Perks of being the only sober intern in the house, I guess.”

A beat passes.

This house is rented. You forgot about that. All his expenses are paid for by your mother’s lab. You forgot about that. He fits in your world so well, like maybe he’s always had a spot there, that you forgot that Kuroo Tetsurou is only here for the summer.

“Right.”

Kuroo raises a brow. “And you?”

“I went to look for you.”

He smiles and holds his hands out like a magician at the end of a trick. “Well, you found me.”

“Yeah,” you muse. “I guess I did.” Aren’t you lucky.

With that, something shifts in the air. A contemplative expression crosses Kuroo’s face. Maybe he’s realised how his words come out sometimes. Kuroo often says things that sound like they have more than one meaning and it used to throw you off, but now you just go with it. You’ve even picked up that habit yourself. “Do you ever wish that you’d met someone earlier? Maybe under different circumstances?” he asks.

Sighing, you fall back against his mattress and stare up at the ceiling. Telling the truth feels easier when you can’t see him. “Yeah. All the time.” A few seconds pass. “Do you think we would’ve been friends if we went to the same college?”

He also lies down. You’re both back in the same positions you were in an hour ago, but something’s changed. “No,” he admits. You’re not surprised–– that’s what you’d expected. “I’d be a junior and you’d be a freshman. We probably would’ve never met. And even if we had, I wouldn’t be caught dead hanging out with a… freshie.” He chuckles softly at the end. “And look at me now,” he adds softly, more to himself than you. You look over at his face. A contemplative smile rests on his lips.

That urge to just say it returns.

“Kuroo, I think––”

“You’re my favourite p–– oh, my bad. You first.”

And it goes away again.

“Um, uh,” you stutter, “how long do you have left here?”

Kuroo raises his brows. “On this planet? Hopefully a while, Y/N.” He sees your unamused expression and drops the front. “Three more weeks.”

Your eyes widen. Eight weeks have already passed. Blood rushes to your ears. Eight entire weeks have already passed, meaning that in three weeks, Kuroo Tetsurou will leave forever. And in four, you will, too. Except you’ll come back. You’ve done so every summer since you were born, probably will do until you die.

But this place will never be the same as it used to. Not after him.

“Y/N?” Once everything comes back into focus, you see the concern riddling his features. “Everything okay?”

“Hmm? Yeah.”

Say it.

“You didn’t have too much to drink, right?”

Say it.

“I just got buzzed. What about you?”

“The only drink I was planning on having all went to your shirt.”

Say it.

“Kuroo.”

“Yeah?”

Not yet.

“Let’s go on an adventure.”

At two AM, everything is different. The streets feel different, the villas look different, and you–– you can’t put your finger on it but Kuroo Tetsurou has changed, too. He sits behind the wheel of your father’s white 1953 Cadillac with the convertible roof down, unruly hair blown back by the breeze, a euphoric grin stretched over his face. In the passenger’s seat, you sit with an equally large beam and your hands raised into the dark sky.

“Where to, Miss?” he shouts over the wind.

“The stars,” you shout back with a laugh. Kuroo’s cat-like eyes briefly flit over to your side profile, lips curving to form a smaller, more tender smile. But you miss that–– your gaze falls on him just a second after his return to the road.

“I heard you say Jack’s,” he says, smirking.

The 24/7 diner sticks out like a sore thumb in the row of sun-baked stucco and stone buildings with its bold neon lights and shiny exterior. During the day, it seems gaudy, way too American for a small town in northern Italy. But at night, this place feels like home. You’ve been stumbling into Jack’s completely shit-faced since you were sixteen. Of course, all those other times had been with the kids of your mother’s coworkers. All those other times, you could hardly remember what you even ordered when you woke up hours later.

But this time, you walk in with Kuroo Tetsurou at half-past-two in the morning, the chemicals running through your bloodstream epinephrine and dopamine, not ethanol; if you’re drunk then it’s on a feeling and your only poison is the boy next to you. You study his face and consider that thought. No, he’s not poison. He’s the antidote.

“Y/N!” the server exclaims, rushing over with two menus. “And Kuroo! My two favourite customers, but together this time!” Giovanni ushers you two to a booth by the window and takes your orders, purely for show, of course. He knows your orders by heart: the Lorenzo for Kuroo and the Quentin for you.

“With fries on both, please,” Kuroo adds, throwing you a wink. “Aren’t I a gentleman?”

“You only did that to have more for yourself,” you reply drily. Having him over at your house for dinner every night made picking up his idiosyncrasies so unbelievably easy. You know them like they’re your own. You know him like he’s your own.

Kuroo clutches his chest and pretends to be offended, then changes the conversation to what happened at the lab today, or rather, yesterday. That your mother and the other researchers are so close to finding a cure for the strain of virus that’s recently hit crickets in southern Italy.

“You should drop by again sometime,” he says. “Last time you came around was, what, two weeks ago?”

Your face breaks in a grin. “Are you saying you’ve missed me? Chemistry getting boring?” you tease, drawing a loud laugh from him.

“Sodium hydrogen, you little shit.” Your mother’s used this one on you before, but hearing it from him makes you giggle anyway.

Giovanni comes back with two plates, each loaded with fries. You both say your thanks and he retreats to the kitchen again, but not before wiggling his eyebrows at your reddening faces. Wordlessly, you grab your fork and knife and transfer at least half of your fries onto Kuroo’s plate. Kuroo stares at you with the slightest smile. That look sends your stomach into flips.

“What?” you question nonchalantly, cutting into your burger.

“Nothing,” he says, mirroring your actions. “Nothing at all.”

It’s hard to imagine that after spending almost every day together for eight weeks straight that there’s still more to learn about each other, but there is. You tell him more about your real home. Your best friend who called you at 3 AM last night because of timezones. Stories from every summer before this one, when you were a different person in the same place you are now.

He tells you more about Kenma, his best friend from high school. How they played on one of the best volleyball teams in Japan. Stories from training camp, literature class, the metro ride home after school–– you listen to every single one in rapt attention. There’s not enough time in the world for all the things you want to know about Kuroo Tetsurou, so you take what you can get. If only you’d known him before you’d known him.

“If we’d met earlier here, do you think we would’ve been friends?” you ask after paging Giovanni for the check.

“No,” he replies, picking up a few remaining fries with his fork instead of his fingers. The corners of your mouth turn up. That’s your thing. He considers the scenario seriously. “I think we met right when we should have.”

“What about the future?” you press, leaning into the conversation. “Let’s say we meet in two years here, instead of now. Would we be friends?”

Kuroo sets his fork down, eyes you steadily. “What’s this about?”

You blink. “What?”

“What’s with all these hypotheticals today?” Perhaps worried that he came off too harshly, Kuroo adds, “I thought I was the scientist.”

“I just… it feels like I’ve known you since forever.” This feels like it was meant to be, you don’t say. And I want to know you forever.

A sigh–– fond, but still a sigh–– blows through his lips. “Don’t tell me you believe in soulmates,” he says with a wicked grin.

“Are you calling me your soulmate?” The question, shamelessly genuine, painfully hopeful, leaves your mouth without you intending it to and you regret it instantly. Because Kuroo Tetsurou has told you many times that he does not believe in soulmates.

Is it so bad to dream, though?

You watch him carefully but he doesn’t say anything, just continues smiling wryly like you’d intended to tease him. Like he knows that you know better. But you don’t.

“Are you?” he suddenly replies. Sharp eyes hold yours, daring you to respond. Do you dare?

At that moment, Giovanni returns with the check. “Who’s paying?” he asks, unaware of the tense exchange that just occurred across the table. Inaudibly, you sigh in relief. Kuroo is about to say that it’s on him when he catches himself in the middle of his sentence, looks your way, then back to Giovanni. He says you’ll go Dutch. You nod in approval.

“So,” Kuroo drawls once you’ve both paid for your meals. “Where do we go from here?”

Good question.

Kuroo Tetsurou has never been to an outdoor club period. And though he’s been clubbing, he has never once gone dancing in his lifetime. You tell him that’s about to change as he parks the car in a lot near the venue. Before him, all your summer nights were spent here.

“You’ve been here for two months and you haven’t been to an outdoor club yet?” you ask while unbuckling your seatbelt. That can’t be possible. If you’d been in his shoes… an attractive college student in a foreign country for the summer, you would have gone wild.

“Nope. I’ve been a little busy, y’know, spending my days in a lab, handling chemicals, studying viruses, washing lab equipment, writing up reports for your mother and her colleagues, working on my own research on the side… the usual.” He flashes you a bright, sarcastic smile.

“Poor baby,” you coo, ruffling his hair. Kuroo laughs while you continue messing with the dark locks. “Was your first full day here the only tourist-day you’ve had so far?” His weekends, you already know, are spent either lounging around cafés, pools, or the great outdoors with you or the interns. But you’d assumed he’d had time to do some exploring on his own.

Kuroo nods. “And my guide wasn’t even that great,” he mutters, shooting you a dark look. “She sped through every attraction and hardly spoke a word outside of the tour to me. I think she hated me.”

You giggle and open the door, letting the music from the outdoor speakers infiltrate the bubble inside your car. “Maybe she was just nervous!” you say as you get out. That’s a lie.

“About what?” Kuroo follows suit, the gravel crunching beneath his feet. “I was so friendly to you and you just brushed me off each time.” He pouts.

But you don’t reply. Instead, you just grab his hands and pull him towards the venue. As you step into the boundaries marked by fairy lights and rustic wooden fences, Kuroo stops in his tracks and tugs on your intertwined hands. You glance down before up, trying to memorise how his hand looks around yours in the few seconds you can steal.

“Y/N,” Kuroo says. The strobe lights paint his skin pink, blue, purple like it’s a canvas. “Tell me why you were nervous.” Grammatically, it’s a command. And yet it sounds like he’s begging.

“What’s it mean to you?” you ask, feeling your heartbeat speed up in your chest. So what if you just… said it? What would happen?

“Everything?” he replies with a cheeky smile. The odds that he seriously means that are slim. But… they’re there. You shake that possibility out of your mind. That’s just the hope talking.

“Depends how convincingly you say it.” You tug on his arm. “C’mon. Let’s dance.” But he doesn’t budge–– he just continues to stand by the entrance of the club with an expectant look on his face. People are starting to stare.

“Fine,” you say with an eye roll. “I’ll tell you." Kuroo smirks, something self-congratulatory ready to leave his mouth, but then you let go of his hand and dance backwards into the throng of moving bodies. “But first, you’re gonna have to dance with me!” 

You allow yourself to be swallowed by the lively music, the people, the moment. Seconds later you’re deep enough into the crowd that you lose sight of Kuroo. Something in you says that he’ll show up soon, though. For now, you let yourself breathe. Forget about the heaviness of what-if’s, the itch to confess, the dread of the aftermath. Feelings are a lot like gravity. Sometimes they keep you grounded, other times, they weigh you down. This is one of those other times.

You dance up to a friendly-looking group of teens your age. Three guys and two girls. You shout your name and follow up with how it’s nice to meet them, hoping one of them finds you nice enough to keep around. Dancing alone in a club is one of the worst things that can ever happen to someone. Luckily, one of the girls–– the one wearing a purple wig–– pulls you in for a hug, drunkenly shouting back, “Bianca!” Bianca pushes you into their circle next to one of the guys and, just like that, you two start moving to the beat, feeling it in your feet, shoulders, hips. At one point, you turn around and take a good look at his face. The guy’s cute enough, but he’s not Kuroo. Still, you say nothing as he moves closer to you and grabs your hand, lifting it up and motioning for you to twirl.

Suddenly, a pair of hands grip firmly onto your waist and pull you out of the circle. “Hey!” You look down, suddenly realising they’re Kuroo’s. A shiver runs down your spine. He spins you around to face him. His lips are set in a firm line, eyes completely devoid of humour, nostrils slightly flared.

“Hi,” you say quietly, testing the waters.

“Hi,” he replies curtly. His hands are still on your waist. Selfishly, you choose not to point that out. Instead, you try to defuse the situation with a light question. Playful tone.

“Where were you this whole time?”

“Looking for you.”

“Well… you found me.” You flash him a sheepish grin. A peace offering of some sort.

“I did.” He doesn’t take it.

“Lucky you.”

Irritation finally seeps through his features. “You just left me on the dance floor!” he snaps. “And then when I find you after searching the entire venue, you’re dancing up on some random guy!”

“It was in good fun!” you retort, wriggling out of his grip. “And I wasn’t dancing up on him.” You want to ask if he’s jealous so badly, but you take a good look at his face and decide against that.

“Fun?” he asks incredulously. “Worrying about losing you, worrying about myself getting lost, then having to worry about that guy after finding you isn’t very fucking fun to me, Y/N!” The words fly out of his mouth like daggers without pause. Once finished, he looks at you with a disappointed gaze, shaking his head lightly, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.

“I’m sorry,” you say, looking down at your shoes. It doesn’t matter if you disagree with him–– a sort of shame drills itself so deeply into your conscience that all you can think about is making things right again. “I didn’t think my actions through.”

A second passes. You wonder what he’s thinking.

“Hey, look at me.” Kuroo lifts your chin up with an index finger. Your wide eyes meet his narrow ones. Just as a pink beam glides over his face, his gaze softens, falls down to your lips. And then you feel his thumb on your chin, barely grazing the skin of your bottom lip. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. The revelry in the background fades to dull beats against your eardrums. Suddenly, you register that he smells of, as usual, blackcurrant and amber.

But now you also smell of blackcurrant and amber.

You’re wearing his clothes. You smell of him.

Kuroo’s eyes crawl back up to yours, wide like he’s just been caught in the middle of a crime. You blink expectantly, ignoring the furious way your heart pounds in your chest. Shallow breaths puff through your slightly parted mouth.

“I am.” It comes out barely a whisper. C’mon. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me kiss me kiss me kiss me kiss me kiss me––

You gently touch the hand he has on your chin. Kuroo jolts back like he’s been burned. “I’ll, uhm, I’ll be in the car,” he stutters, looking away from your face. He pushes through the sea of people, leaving you all alone on the dance floor, body doused in blue light, fingers touching the area his thumb had been as if preserving its print.

Kuroo hardly notices you slip into the passenger’s seat minutes later. He’s got his forearms hanging over the steering wheel and gaze fixed ahead into the darkness, mind probably running off to a place he wishes his body was, too.

As soon as you’ve buckled yourself in, Kuroo starts the car.

The entire drive home is silent.

Once Kuroo pulls into your courtyard and parks, he turns off the engine, unbuckles his seatbelt, and steps out of the car. Wordlessly, you follow his actions and meet him by the stairs to your door.

“Hi,” you say quietly. He doesn’t look at you.

“Hey.”

The two of you stand outside your front door in silence as you both consider what to say next. This can’t be the way it ends.

“I shouldn’t have… done that,” Kuroo says first.

“Done what?” You choose to play dumb. Call it selfish, but you want to hear him say it. Maybe then it’ll feel as real as it had been. Kuroo sighs and leans his shoulder against the stone wall, crossing his arms over his chest. There’s no way he can dance around what happened. Perhaps the past two months can be summed up as the development of a strong friendship with skilled doublespeak and metaphors and just enough artistic licence, but this can’t. And Kuroo knows that. He can’t feed you an alternative truth like he’s done so many times before. What’s more, he can’t lie to himself anymore. So maybe it’s better just to not speak at all.

Your eyes burn holes into the side of his face. Fine. You’ll concede first. “I was never nervous.”

Kuroo blinks, turns his head around to look at you. “What?”

“I was never nervous. I was playing it cool because I didn’t want to risk befriending you and getting attached.” I’m still playing it cool, you don’t say. And I’m already attached. “Guess I just came off as a bitch instead.” You laugh. “But can you blame me? You were this cute, older guy. Smart, too, since you were interning with my mom. You were my dream guy.”

An amused breath blows out of his nose. “Were?” he questions, grinning, only remembering the fragility of your platonic relationship a second later. “Um––”

“Are.” It slips out of your mouth without you realising. Fuck. Kuroo stills. It’s too late to take back your words now, so you might as well just keep going. “You still are my dream guy.”

Seconds pass and neither of you says anything. Sweat gathers in the palms of your hands. You start to feel your heartbeat through your neck. The buzz of the cicadas grows louder. Oppressive. Behind Kuroo, the sky is starting to turn pale blue and pink in the horizon. That means it’s almost sunrise. The night is almost over, and, hopefully, so is this awful conversation.

“And… you don’t feel the same.” Funnily, you feel like you’re lying. You’re telling Kuroo how he feels and you think you’re lying. Does that make sense? None of this night even feels real. God, you hope this has all just been a dream. Mustering a soft smile, you say, “That’s okay. Thank you for the party. And the adventure.” It was fun while it lasted. You feel the house key in your pocket and turn to unlock the door. “I hope this doesn’t change anything between us, Kuroo. Can we still be friends?” The words leave your mouth feeling like barbed wire. You know damn well you can’t still be friends.

And suddenly, you feel his calloused hands around your cheeks. Suddenly, his hot breath fans over your face.

“Can I kiss you?” he murmurs.

Your eyes close instantly. “Yes, please.”

And suddenly, his soft lips are on yours.

Kuroo breaks the kiss seconds later. “Fuck,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours, touching the tips of your noses together. “Y/N, I don’t want to be friends. Fuck.” A dry chuckle leaves his mouth. He pauses to collect his thoughts but decides that that can wait. Instead, he presses another kiss to your lips so fervently that he backs you up against the wall with no space between your bodies. You wonder if he can feel your heartbeat like this, chest to chest. Kuroo’s hands travel down your waist and rest on your hips. His tongue runs across your tongue, your teeth, the insides of your mouth. You gently suck on it, drawing a satisfied moan from him. When the kiss ends, you see that his lips are red and cheeks are swollen. A warm feeling spreads through your chest. “I thought I could be happy just being friends with you but I can’t. I want you so bad it hurts. Not to mention, when I saw you in my hoodie?” His fingers pinch the material. “I thought God was testing me or some shit.”

“Sure didn’t feel like you wanted me that way,” you retort, still breathless.

“In my defence,” Kuroo says, thumbs tracing your cheekbones, “I was very scared.”

“Of what?”

It looks like he’s about to tell you, but he changes his mind and doesn’t answer. He grabs your hand and pulls you back to the car with a cheeky grin. “I’ll tell you only if you tell me where we can watch the sunrise.”

Kuroo holds your hand, stroking your thumb the entire drive there.

After a short hike, you plop down on the grassy hillside, supporting your body with outstretched arms in the back. Kuroo sits down beside you with one of his hands covering yours, fingers intertwined like a honeysuckle vine around a hazel tree. You tell him that you grew up running along this hill with your parents. It used to be your playground. Maybe, you think, it’s time to make new memories here.

“Beautiful,” Kuroo breathes, a wonderstruck look in his eyes. The sun’s just risen halfway above the pink and blue horizon, the saturated orange casting the entire city below gold. It’s not just the city, though. He’s also gold. He’s just as beautiful. You watch him with a soft smile on your lips, noting how his wide eyes and slack jaw return to normal as he stares off into the distance. After resting your head on his shoulder, you fix your eyes on the sunrise ahead. You wonder what he’s thinking so quietly about.

“Penny for your thoughts?” you finally ask once the sun has finished revealing itself.

Kuroo blinks, returning to reality, but continues to stare straight ahead. “I was just thinking about… soulmates.”

You lift your head off his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you believe in soulmates now,” you tease.

“Hmm.” He turns to look at you, the sun turning his hazel eyes the colour of honey. That same wry smirk from Jack’s returns to his face.

“You wanna know why I was so scared?”

“Pray tell.”

“Because I’ve never felt this way towards anyone.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“No,” Kuroo laughs, laying his head down in your lap, looking up into your eyes. “I’m serious. I used to purposely stay away from girls in high school. Same in college. Same all the way until you somehow wormed your way into my life. That’s why we wouldn’t have been friends.” You cock your head to the side.

“Why?” you ask, running your fingers through his hair.

Kuroo’s eyelids flutter shut. He inhales deeply before talking. “My parents are divorced. The years before the divorce were… very ugly.” 

(He spares you the details of the midnight arguments, the smashed plates, the holes in the walls. He spares you the details of how he only ever knew how to fall asleep with his head sandwiched between two pillows, how he hasn’t seen his sister in a decade, how he’ll curse and snap but never yell because he always feels like a child again around the noise. That’s for another time, if you’ll have any.) 

“I still remember all the fighting and yelling. For the longest time, that’s all I knew about marriage and relationships.”

“Did you think all relationships were like that? Fighting and yelling?” you ask.

“For a while, yeah. I’m still a little scared of that, to be honest. Ending up in a relationship where all you do is fight.” Kuroo sighs. “But that’s not the only thing. I thought I wouldn’t know how to love someone, growing up like that.” At that, your fingers pause in his hair.

“Wait,” you say, furrowing your brows. A wave of immense sadness (not for yourself, for him) washes over you. “You think you wouldn’t know how to love someone else?”

“Thought.” Kuroo cracks open his eyes and smiles up at you. “I’m in the process of changing my mind.”

[monaisdark]

Ok ok, just hear me out, I haven’t read any one shot or story with knife play and like, I’m kinda into that shit, no judgment plz, um but for my request I would love a dominant reader who’s a villain, paired with literally anyone, I literally just want femdom with a knife plz 🖤 I really like your content 🖤

FEMDOMS WITH KNIFES FEMDOMS WITH KNIFES THANK YOU !! decided to do some bakugou because yknow what - that man needs to be put in his place by a sexy villain lady goddammit !! also, dw about judgement here ‘cus there is a 90% chance im into it :’) ofc thank u for the ask bc yall’s brains >>> 

➨ paring — Pro Hero! Katsuki Bakugou x Fem! Villain! Reader

➨ warnings —  dubcon, Sub! Bakugou, Dom! Reader, knife play, blood play, begging, handcuffing

Bakugou didn’t know what even led up to this. It was late at night and he was on patrol, he does this all the time! Yet, you got him. He didn’t even have time to react before his gauntlets were knocked out of his hands, cuffs were put on him, and connected the chain attached to the cuffs to a fence in the alleyway.

“You fucking bitch!” He yelled, immediately trying to activate his quirk but it only amounted to a few sparks. “Huh?! —“

“Quirk cancelling cuffs. Crazy the things the black-market sells.” You lifted the hood of your coat, getting a little too close for Bakugou’s comfort. “Dynamight, huh? I was expecting more of a fight for a Pro Hero.” You were taunting him, the sounds of sparks echoing throughout the empty alleyway.

“Y’know, that’s the definition of insanity — doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.” A laugh left your lips, as Bakugou scowled, “You’re the crazy bitch here! What the hell do you want!?” Your tone darkened, grabbing his face. “Stop yelling, I might have to put a gag in your mouth.”

Bakugou couldn’t help but shudder, your touch was cold. And your eyes staring into his didn’t help him stay calm. Bakugou hasn’t felt this vulnerable in a long time. You captured him so easily, how has he never heard of you?

“The smart ones lurk in the shadows. Bet you didn’t even hear me!” You were back to laughing his face, you were able to read him so easily. He growled curses under his breath, thrashing around. “Ah, don’t be like that. I haven’t even done anything to you... yet.” 

“You low-life! Take these cuffs off and fucking fight me!” That was it, you pulled out a scary-looking knife, “A lot of people want you dead, I’m sure you know. If I were someone boring, you’d be lying in your own blood right now.” Bakugou could feel the tip of the knife though the fabric of his hero costume on his chest, his breath hitched. There was nothing he could do. 

“Mhm... even with quirks, I don’t think anything beats a good ol’ knife.” Bakugou could see the blood that stained the knife, you’ve used it before. “I’d rather have some fun with you, y’know? Not everyday you get to capture such a great hero.”  

“What the hell are you talkin — !“ A lick. You licked his collarbone, “Aha! You are so cute.” Bakugou froze up, he wasn’t expecting this. He tried to hold back a gasp when you started palming him. You were crazier than he thought.

“Shit, stop... stop this!” He wanted to move, just enough to kick you in the chest to get you away from him, but the knife was pressed so closely to him. Any more movement and he would have it piercing his chest. And even then, he’s still cuffed and chained, how will he fight you? “Ah, stop? But you’re getting hard, what monster would I be to give you blue balls?” You giggled in his ear.

It wasn’t long before you were crouching before him, the knife moving from his chest to his lower  abdomen, “Get the fuck away from me! I’ll fucking kill you!” Bakugou tried to cling onto his power. He didn’t expect you to listen, but like hell he’d let you get away with this so easily.

A smile spread on your face as you took his semi-hard dick out of his pants. “Such words for someone who’s turned on.” Bakugou’s breath hitched, damn his body for responding to you. “Don’t...don’t do anything — shit!” You were stroking him, bringing your mouth close to his head to give him kitten licks. He cursed as he felt himself grow fully hard now under your touch, much to his dislike.

“I have to say, you’re impressive. Now — “ You pressed the knife down on the exposed skin of his lower abdomen, Bakugou could feel a small blood trickle down from there. “Don’t try to fight back right now. I’d rather not plunge my knife into you right now.” You pushed him onto the cold concrete ground, moving his trapped hands above his head. 

Everything was rushing over Bakugou, he wasn’t one to not fight back. But the knife paired with your quick movements and those damn cuffs, he’s weak. Weaker then he ever imagined himself being around a villain like you. You crawled on top of him, not wasting time on removing your panties and hoisting your skirt up. You sat on his lap, his cock against the fabric of your skirt.

He could still feel the blood from his abdomen trickle down, a wince coming from him as he felt another small slice go with his previous one. “Sorry! Couldn’t help myself.” Your voice was oddly smooth, it was like it was tickling Bakugou’s every being. Maybe it was the blood rushing through his body but he couldn’t deny you were attractive. Bakugou tended to focus on his hero work, he had no time for women even as a Pro Hero. 

Bakugou was becoming puddy in your hands, your gloved hand stroking him as the knife trailed his torso, a small a trail of blood being left behind. He tried to hold his panting, but he couldn’t help it. It made it worse seeing you lift yourself from his lap, not wasting time on plunging yourself on him.

“Ah, aha... A snug fit, right?” Bakugou was fully a mess now, you felt amazing. “No... shit — get... get off! You...you bitch!” He didn’t want you to stop. His pride was getting over him, what if someone saw him? He was a Pro Hero - a damn good one as well - and he let a villain with cuffs and a knife get the best of him? He should hate this, yet his pants and moans were showing otherwise. He was even bucking his hips slightly!

“You’re so mean!” Bakugou winced as he felt stinging again, this time on his upper thigh. You cut him again. “Say sorry.” You demanded, your knife teasing another slice to his thigh. Bakugou stayed quiet, clenching his jaw as he felt you going up and down on him. “Say sorry!” This time you were louder, another stinging pain hit Bakugou, a second cut to match the previous one on his thigh.

Bakugou couldn’t even open his eyes or mouth, how pitiful did he look right now? Say sorry? You’re the one doing this to him! You were making him such a mess, he’s the one that’s supposed to be stronger! 

“How childish. You can’t even say two words yet you’re panting like a dog right now! Let’s see...” Bakugou felt you stop moving and the knife move to his neck, he wanted to curse. You can’t tease him like this. “I wanted this to be fun but you can’t just let your stupid superiority complex go, huh?” Friction, he needed friction desperately. The knife was cold like you, but your cunt was so warm. Please just forget about it and move, wasn’t tying him up enough?

“Fuck... move, just move.” He didn’t want to have to beg, that’ll confirm you have the upperhand. “Mhmn, not until you say sorry —” You stopped for a second, a devious smile forming, “...Actually, if you want me off you so bad...” You lifted yourself off of him slowly, teasing him as he could no longer feel your soft insides around him. 

God, he hated this. He was so hard it hurts, a string of pre-cum was forming at his tip. He was sweaty and red despite the weather being cool. You still sat on him, even without him inside you, he could feel your soaked, warm core that contrasted your body. Your eyes staring down on him like he was a deer and you were a hunter. You wanted him to beg. 

Bakugou struggled to form a sentence, he was out of breath and half lidded. Words that he never would have expected himself to utter came out, “Inside... back inside. I’m sorry! P-Please, please, put it back in!” A tight, warm feeling engulfed around Bakugou’s cock again, he missed it. A smile spreaded on your face, not one of deviance but one of joy, “Ahah, you see? How hard was that?” You removed the knife from his neck and opted to trailing it along his lower stomach. 

You beat him, Bakugou was enjoying this. He didn’t care that you were a villain anymore, or how you had the upper hand in all this. Hell, you could use that knife all you wanted on him! Just bounce on his cock, that’s all he wants.

He could feel you pulling him in every time you thrusted yourself on him and Bakugou was brought to the edge each time. He was beginning to twitch and you seemed to notice too, slowing down to drag out the feeling you gave him. “Do you want to cum inside?” He nodded profusely, “Use your words.” He has to beg to cum? He truly has to give up all his control.

“Please! Ah! Cum inside... let me cum inside!” Bakugou was loud, it was a surprise nobody ventured into the alley with all the sounds of skin slapping and moans. Perks of shitty, small neighborhoods. Nobody gave a fuck. Not that he wanted anyone to see this anyways, this was certainly a way to be ‘defeated’ by a villain.

“Go ahead — you’ve been so good.” You left the knife on his stomach but with the way Bakugou was breathing, the tip of the metal could poke him still. You let him buck his hips into yours, leaning down to grab his head with your free hands to give him a kiss on the forehead. He wasted no time in filling you up, the way you continued to bounce on him despite him cumming already brought him over the edge to another orgasm. 

After what felt like hours of warmth and tightness, Bakugou was a mess. Everything was clouded in his head, he just came in a villain. And he liked it.

He could the weight of your body get off of him, grabbing the knife from his stomach and tucking it in your coat pocket. Bakugou cursed himself for missing your touch, the cold from the air was different from the cold of your body and knife. “Be good and don’t do anything, hm?” You dangled the keys to the cuffs and chain above him. He nodded — not like he would anyways, he was smitten. 

As you uncuffed him, Bakugou didn’t even try to attack you, which was great for you. He didn’t say anything, looking at the ground though his breath was heavy. He felt a piece of fabric fall on his lap, your panties. “Parting gift.” You laughed but Bakugou felt his stomach begin to turn. As you walked away without another word, he could feel panic build up slightly — he still knew nothing about you. 

He wasn’t mad like he should be. He wanted to see you, feel you. All he could do for now was hold the fabric close... the thought of you still fresh in his mind.

[pixie-dust-and-pain]

Laser tag

Pairing: Solangelo

Words: 1,224

Warnings: only my horrid writing/none

Based on the prompt: 

Nico Di Angelo was ready to smack his boyfriend. Now, normally, he wasn’t the type to resort to violence-or, well, maybe he was, but that was not the point-but Will Solace had dragged him to the horrid building against his will, insisting that he’d “have fun”.

Well, he was having loads of fun now, sitting in the stuffy mall, legs aching and ice cream melting. He usually liked ice cream, but this one tasted like paraffin wax and sludge. He hadn’t even been aware that ice cream could taste bad before his encounter with this monstrosity. He stood up, threw it in the nearby dustbin, and slumped back into his seat, glaring pointedly at Will. Will simply rolled his eyes, and tugged the hideous blue cap off, finally showed his blonde hair.

“I want to go home,” Nico presumed he looked intimidating, but the way Will’s lip quirked and the way he pinched Nico’s cheek, moving away only when Nico swatted at his hand said otherwise.

“Don’t act like this was torture for you, Mr Dark Lord, I’m the one who had to carry all your hot topic bags,”

Nico blushed slightly, but kept his expression impassive, merely rolling his eyes in reply and slouching in his seat. It wasn’t his fault that the cursed shop had decided t have a sale, and that he’d liked every other piece of clothing.

“Let’s go laser tagging,” Will suggested, getting up abruptly from his seat, and jerking Nico out of his thoughts.

“Let’s go what?” Nico understood if he had annoyed Will by making him carry his bags, but surely, murder was too much. Right?

“Laser tagging? I heard there’s a place here to…” he trailed off, looking horrified at the lost look on Nico’s face. “You’ve-” he began again, slowly this time, as though being confronted by another prophecy, “you’ve never been laser tagging before?”

When Nico shook his head, his expression changed from horrified to confused to pure ecstatic, and he let out a bark of a laugh. He dragged Nico out, bags in one hand and Nico’s arm in the other, and something about the way he was grinning made Nico gulp.

“Where-?” Nico was cut off as Will shushed him impatiently.

“Trust me, you won’t regret it.”

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Nico regretted it. The air was cool, thankfully, but that didn’t stop him from sweating a bucket. A song, one that Will had immediately recognized upon walking into the place, had been playing for the past hour and half, slowly driving Nico insane. and Nico’s throat felt like parchment paper. Flashes of blue, red, and purple danced across his vision as he squinted, nearly braining a kid when she tried to sneak up on him.

He was great at this, a natural, Will had said after their second round, and he supposed his reflexes and ADHD helped, too. And although he loved the game, he couldn’t help but get annoyed at the flashy lights and the horrendous music, and Gods could he not wait until he got his hands on Will so he could kiss-no, kick him. He’d kiss him later.

He shot the girl who had tried to shoot him, and was filled with relief. It was only him, Will, and another mystery kid left.

Nico was competitive, and would never let Will purposefully win, but he was also tired and wanted nothing more than to cuddle up on his couch with a certain son of Apollo and watch those ghastly movies Will liked so much with him. Although, despite the fatigue and the annoyance he faced, he couldn’t help but admit that the activity was ridiculously enjoyable, especially since he was bound to win.

Will, although being a son of Apollo, couldn’t shoot a gun to save his life, be it a fake or a real one. Nico, on the other hand, was rather skilled, if he said so himself.

“Holy Hera! Mother of fucks-shit, what the fuck, get away you heathen-Fucknickles-!” The crass vocabulary belonged to none other than Will Solace, and Nico winced. Him being from the 1930s highly affected his definition of proper, and Will Solace almost never filled it. 

Moreover, there were kids there, and Will didn’t seem to understand the concept of age-appropriate language. After Chiron had caught a seven-year old girl call her archery partner a “fucking dickhead”, Will had been banned from treating kids under the age of eleven. And when he did, under any emergency, he had been banned from talking in front of them. 

He felt relief flood through him, and he sagged against the wall. It was only him and Will left. His eyes burned, and he licked his lips. His mouth was dry.

Nico may have been excellent at using the weapon provided, a weird, fake gun, but Will was obviously better at sneaking around. Maybe that was why Nico hadn’t noticed it when Will had snuck behind him, and by the time he had, Will had already managed to pin both his wrists above his head.

Nico tried struggling, he really did, but when Will leaned in closer, pressing his body against his, Nico’s mind went blank. Will’s breath fanned the shell of his ear when Will whispered, “Got you,” and Nico didn’t have time to put together a meaningful sentence before Will had pressed his lips to his.

The little space Nico had hidden in seemed to have suddenly turned a thousand degrees hotter, but Nico couldn’t seem to bring himself to care. He didn’t care about winning anymore, and even if he did, it was certainly the last thing on his mind.

Will pressed into him harder, and Nico gasped. He had forgotten about the game, and everything else, and all that mattered to him was the boy currently making out with him. He felt his cheeks turn red in embarrassment at being so openly affectionate in public (and certainly not because he was completely and utterly in love with Will Solace, and was blushing because he was flustered), but this wasn’t the 1930s anymore, and Hades, he couldn’t care less about social etiquette while Will Solace was Pressing into him that way.  

He pulled away, leaving Nico’s breathing uneven and his heart beating louder than before. One thing Will absolutely adored about Nico was how easily flustered he got. Like now, for example. Nico’s cheeks were burning, and his face was a delectable shade of crimson. He was leaning against the wall, and didn’t move away even when Will let go of his wrists. 

Will smirked, shot at Nico, who was far too dumbfounded to react quickly enough, winked playfully at him, and left him behind. “Player is dead, return to base,” A boisterous voice announced, snapping Nico back to reality. He had just lost to Will Solace. Even more, he had just kissed Will Solace in public. He briefly wondered if he’d get thrown out for that. He didn’t care, it wasn’t like he couldn’t bribe Valdez to set up a better replica of the game-he’d forgotten the name-back at camp. 

He stumbled out of the area, cheeks still aflame, and scowled at Will in faux annoyance. Will only grinned back, and Nico felt his lips twitch into a slight smile. Although Nico was usually a sore loser, he didn’t mind losing so much this time.

[whump-only]

meal time -- Golden (vamp whump)

Part 2 of my mini vampire-whump series. Wherein Pollen tries out this whole feeding a vampire thing. 

tw: captivity, starvation/hunger, light gore (description of prior injury), it/its as pronouns, manhandling, reference to broken bones, suffocation/drowning, knives + cut skin, and who can forget blood

-------

“Come on, vampy. Breakfast,” Pollen called. Or, he guessed, this was technically its dinner. Since, nocturnal, right?

The thing didn’t stir under its blanket. With a little jolt of concern and hope, Pollen wondered if the shock of having its legs broken just straight up killed it. Pollen placed the dog bowl down on the ground, with the cube of cow’s blood sliding around the bottom, already a small pool of it melted. 

With one hand Pollen pinned it down, putting his weight into it. This elicited a moan so at least it wasn’t dead. Yippee. He pulled down the blanket, revealing its thick matted hair and the iron straps that held its muzzle in place. This also meant it was on its stomach, which was good. Its bound hands must be pinned below it. 

Pollen fiddled with the key for what felt like far too long until the lock holding the muzzle shut dropped open. He pocketed the lock but hesitated to pull the muzzle away from its face, what if it tried to bite? But he couldn’t leave it like this… Pollen held its hair with one hand and yanked the muzzle off with the other, then swiftly scrambled up and away. 

His worry was for nothing, because it didn’t react at all, except to groan. The bottom of its face looked all discolored and part of it was torn open and oozing blood or something.

Pollen grimaced. With his foot he shifted the bowl closer so it was right near the vampire’s head. He then bounded up the stairs and slammed the door shut. 

——

When Pollen returned that night, the vampire was curled up away from the bowl, again tucked entirely under the blanket. Pollen checked and the cube had melted, leaving the bowl nearly full of the dark liquid. 

It didn’t drink any? Pollen wondered. He stared at the bowl for a while, then finally decided to dump the old stuff and put in a new cube of frozen cow blood. Again, he pushed the bowl so that it was right near where he assumed the hiding vampire’s head was. 

“Come on. Food. Drink,” he encouraged, tapping its back with his toe. 

It growled from under the blanket.

Pollen left hastily. 

——

The next night Pollen managed a few hours of sleep but still woke and lay awake for hours before getting up to check on the vampire. 

He felt a sense of relief at seeing that creature right where he left it. But the bowl was also exactly where he left it, untouched. 

Was it too sick to eat? That was really possible considering its almost catatonic state. Pollen figured it’d only get even weaker if it didn’t eat soon. It was strange that Hyde hadn’t mentioned this… His skin crawled from the thought of Hyde blaming him for killing his little pet. 

Perhaps the vampire just needed to smell the blood or taste it to be… inspired. 

Pollen pulled its blanket down off its head, careful to draw his hands away quickly. It growled and squeezed its eyes shut angrily. It was still unmuzzled and now under closer observation, Pollen could see its mouth was all blistered and the sides were torn open, half scabbed and still open. 

Pollen gagged. Trying not to look directly at it, he cupped a bit of the cow’s blood in his hands then splashed it onto the vampire’s face. 

The vampire huffed in surprise and opened its eyes ever so slightly. Pollen didn’t think he imagined its nose twitching a bit and it swallowing, though it was hard to tell under the dim yellow light. 

“Come on. Smells good right? Drink, it’s right there,” Pollen encouraged. 

The vampire stared at him for a beat before closing its eyes again. 

“Hey!” Pollen said, and splashed a bit more onto it. 

It scrunched its nose and looked him over with one eye before defiantly closing it again. 

“Fuck,” Pollen sighed, then turned to climb the stairs. “So stubborn…”

Pollen closed the basement door behind himself. Right there, on the counter in front of him, lay the vampire’s muzzle that he’d dropped there after taking it off. 

Pollen tried to walk past it. Twice. Finally after rocking on his heels he snatched it up and flipped it over. 

A silver bit. Designed to pressed into the mouth, burning lips and tongue. 

Pollen chuckled emptily. That would do it. 

——

Pollen trudged down the stairs. Unsurprisingly the vampire was under its blanket. Its bowl was full. 

“Come on, vamp. You’re gonna starve,” he complained. Pollen knew these things were resilient but they still needed food, right? 

Pollen tried to push the still-blanketed vampire onto its back but it resisted, making a low sound, not quite a growl. Pollen put a little more weight into his foot, until he was able to fully pin the creature on its back. 

With his boot Pollen tapped the lump of blanket until he thought he found where its bound hands were, and then by stepping down, pinned its hands into its chest. Pollen held his breath and ripped down the blanket, revealing the vampire’s glowering stare and what looked like a scowl behind its ripped lips. 

“I hate you too,” Pollen informed it, then grabbed its bowl.

Pollen tipped the bowl, aiming the cow’s blood at the creatures mouth. But the vampire kept its mouth firmly shut so the liquid splattered all over its face and chest. 

“God damn it,” Pollen muttered. Was it doing this on purpose? A little protest? 

Pollen stepped away to strategize. He could wait the creature out, eventually it would get hungry enough and drink. Right? But what if it didn’t? Maybe it’d had enough and was trying to kill itself. Could he could force it to open its mouth long enough to poor the liquid down? That would be hard. He didn’t want to touch its face. Did vampires even like cow’s blood? 

Pollen placed the bowl on the ground, by now the cow’s blood was nearly all gone, poured out and wasted. But there was a good inch left.

Pollen got a firm grip on the vampire’s hair. It winced a bit, before he even pulled.

Pollen took a deep breath and lifted the vampire’s head and smashed it into the bowl. The vampire immediately started to thrash and cough and wail. Pollen lifted its head above the blood for two seconds, letting it gasp for air, then pressed its face down into the bowl again. He continued like this four or five more times before releasing it.

Its whole face was covered in the watery blood, but it looked more like it’d gone for a swim than for a meal. It took shuddering breaths for a while, then as if declaring itself finished, pulled the blanket back over its head. 

Pollen checked the bowl. It was pretty much empty but most of the blood had probably been splashed out instead of swallowed. Pollen decided that was enough for the day. 

———

Pollen returned the next morning, ready with a fresh bowl of melted cow’s blood. 

The vampire whimpered as Pollen made his way down the steps, clearly less indifferent than before. 

“Don’t cry at me. Are you gonna eat today? Hm?” Pollen asked it, and set the bowl down by its head. 

The vampire didn’t move to drink so Pollen ripped away its blanket and took it by its hair again. It made a long, sad whine. 

“I know. But I can’t let you turn to dust on my watch,” Pollen explained, then dunked the vampire’s head into the bowl, trying to keep its mouth under and nose above the liquid. 

Like last time the vampire thrashed and growled. Pollen lifted its head and it seemed to cough blood back into the bowl before Pollen pushed it under again. Dunk. Breathe. Dunk. Breathe. 

It didn’t seem like the blood was actually going anywhere except the floor. Pollen dropped the thing’s head to the side of the bowl and sighed. It was hopeless. 

Maybe he could threaten it. Pollen got up and inspected the toolbox that Hyde had left. Many of the tools felt untouchable, too gruesome to consider, and the rest were useless. There was a little pocket knife… Pollen flicked it open. 

The vampire had closed its eyes again. Pollen pointed the knife at it, accusingly. “If you don’t drink everything in that bowl, I’m gonna cut you!” he announced, testing out the words. 

The vampire huffed without opening its eyes. Pollen doubted the vampire would even understand why it was being hurt, if Pollen really started cutting it. How absurd this must all be for a creature like that. To wake up one day in this nightmare. Pollen felt his resolve draining. “Shit.”

Pollen looked at his reflection in the blade of the pocket knife. The thought that entered his mind was so absurd that he laughed out loud. 

And yet… Pollen chewed his lip. He couldn’t be this soft. It was a vampire. Human blood was off limits. Didn’t Hyde say that? Right? Pollen wasn’t sure. 

Maybe a little bit of human blood would make it less… sick. Less depressed too. 

Pollen rolled his eyes at how much of a pushover he was for this. He’d never tell Hyde. 

Pollen crouched over the bowl that still had the cow’s blood. He took a few deep breaths then lightly pressed the blade into the pad of his pinkie finger. He hissed as it sliced open the skin but just as quickly the pain faded to a throb. A bead of blood welled up and slid off his finger, into the bowl, one drop of human’s blood lost in an ocean of cow’s blood. Plink. 

Pollen glanced at the vampire and his heart skipped a beat. It was staring directly at him, eyes alert and wide. Its irises were an undeniably beautiful color. Gold was rare for vampires. 

Pollen grinned in triumph even though his heart thrummed in his chest from its hungry attention. “Yeah, you can smell it right? You want this?”

The vampire’s nose twitched a bit, as if to confirm. 

Two more drops landed in the bowl. Plip. Plip. He’d really captured its attention now. It really was a beastly thing, so hungry for human blood. 

Pollen pressed his thumb just below the cut, pushing out a few more drops of blood. Plip. Plip plip plip. Plip. It seemed the vampire breathed a little faster, imperceptibly strained toward the bowl. But it made no moves, no sound. 

Pollen stuck his hurt pinkie into his mouth and stood up. He nudged the bowl toward the vampire, until the bowl touched the thing’s forehead. 

“Come on. I know you’re tempted,” he whispered. 

The vampire’s nose still twitched but it somehow still didn’t move. 

Pollen took a seat on the bottom stair. They were both out of each other’s reach. 

The vampire glanced at him, sizing him up, then the bowl, and Pollen thought he could see the gears churning in its brain. 

Finally, it shifted. Pollen held his breath as it laboriously got up on its elbows and lifted its head. It gave the blood a sniff and at last, lowered its mouth to the liquid and took free swallows. It even licked the bottom of the bowl. 

Pollen waited until it was finished before getting up. It startled, shooting Pollen a glare. 

But Pollen was just amused. “Good job today, Goldie,” he said, remembering Hyde’s nickname for it. 

[missinghan]

aria of an assassin ⤖ lee minho

❖ genre : assassin au; fluff; angst

❖ word count : 6,2k.

❖ warning : mentions of blood & violence, explicit language 

❖ summary : minho hasn’t been fazed for decades throughout his bloodied career until the next target happens to be a black cat and he’s suddenly incapable of pulling the trigger.

❖ note : okay, so it’s been a year? this tiny, stupid blog is turning one year old today? yea I couldn’t believe it either. this is to all of my mutuals and readers out there, I don’t say it enough but I truly appreciate each and every one of you 🖤 I wish I could have written something longer but due to school, this random piece will have to do for now.

❖ the sequel : with felix is out!

one.

“Shit.”

Minho grits in a hushed tone although all that has been accompanying him is the pitiful moonlight and icy breeze dissolving into every fiber of his skin. Every minuscule movement suddenly becomes too irritating to his eardrums. The hustle and bustle life of the city at night. Terrible traffic. Even the sound of his own inhales and exhales. 

What is that thing?

He thinks to himself, proceeding to expand his eyesight with the pair of scopes; confusion soon flares into curiosity, then faint anger and dead silence. He swears his heartbeat just paused awkwardly like a broken record for a split second there. Such strange, or odd targets are no stranger to him; nor do they stir something inside the coldness of his rib cage. 

Not an easy kill, they say. And not easy it is. 

Because whatever he’s watching with his very eyes is a cat. A goddamn cat with a coat as sleek pitch as the dark canvas upon his head and piercing golden eyes. The peculiar animal walks with its head held high like it’s lording over everyone else—such self-reassurance, such radiance some humans cease to possess. 

It’s dangerous, they say. But it’s a fucking cat! Irritation bubbles up at the back of his throat, makes his skin crawl, and causes a bark of profanity to leave his lips once more. Has it not occurred to his client that he doesn’t kill children and animals? When it’s clearly been written on the contract? In bold, underlined, and everything?

They could have at least given him more details on what he’s getting himself to this time. 

An exhale. He packs up his things, pulls his black cap down a little, and leaves the top of the building without looking back. If he did, he would have seen those starry eyes boring holes onto his back. 

two.

The road Minho is walking through is more than familiar. For one, he takes the same path every day to grab a drink at his go-to place—a vending machine near an old, plain high school. 

It’s fair to say he knows every corner of the neighborhood like the back of his hand—from the dark alley where bullies beat up their classmates to the small stall of lemonade of a middle school girl who waves at him every morning. He never reciprocates though; it doesn’t feel right. The amount of apathy in his heart isn’t enough for him to act normally when taking lives is what he does for a living.  

For two, he used to have a part-time job at that particular high school for an old request. Due to his conscience, he did go out of his way to take the kill outside of the school—causing a catastrophe in such an environment makes him uncomfortable.

Just then, he stops. His brow raises. Isn’t that…

The black cat slinks through the crowd of nosy students in the direction of where he too is heading. It raises its nose and gives the air a rough sniff, making a face as though the general stagnant with exhaust fumes stench of the city disgusts the entirety of its existence. 

Watching it take a slight dip to avoid being hit with someone’s bag, Minho holds back every urge to come running at the creature and wrap his arms around its small figure. He wonders how long it’d take for the cat to reach its final destination because it’s definitely taking some sweet ass time to stride through the front of the main gate like a supermodel. Meanwhile, he’s stressed to the core as if the harmless high school filled with teenagers is nothing less than a battlefield. 

Is it testing him?

Something is oddly unsettling about an animal staring straight into his eyes. Paranoia fuels the forgotten irritation inside his chest, sets out to make him actually think those golden eyes are memorizing every inch of his feature. Then, they soften with what seems to be exhaustion, its tiny head turning and its tiny feet take it skipping gently away from the scene. 

Minho finally acknowledges the knot inside his stomach and the breath he’s been holding. With a harsh gulp, he no longer takes notice of the fact if his cap is hung low enough or if he’s walking too quickly. For the first time in long, a rush of adrenaline hits him hard enough to make him speed walk through the herd of chatty teenagers. 

Questions naturally pop up as his shoes kiss the ground, his shadow sprinting into a dark, though familiar alleyway. Was he hallucinating? But he’s been getting enough sleep and eating well. What makes him so certain that it was the same cat? Instincts or some sixth sense bullshit perhaps. If it was the cat that’s assigned to be killed off in a week, what’s so dangerous about it? And how long has he been running for? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? And to where? 

“You.”

Half-way through trying to keep his thoughts off of his face, Minho stops himself when a rather feminine voice echoes through the narrow space. Unsure of whether the voice was reaching out to him, his legs stop moving while his eyes are peering through the dark. Much to his heart’s dismay, shivers run up his spine when something comes in contact with the warm flesh of his neck. 

“What’s your name?” 

Slowly, with his hands on the back of his head, he turns on his heels. “Excuse you?”

You retract your gun-shaped fingers into the pocket of your jacket, phlegmatic eyes gazing at him through the thickness of the night. “I want to know your name,” you try to make your point clear, utterly unfazed. 

Minho stares you down for a good five seconds. Neatly dressed in the school uniform, an oversized jacket thrown over your body but no backpacks. There’s a name tag being embroidered onto the fabric in red “Shin Yuna - 1A”. Whoever you are, he’s certain that isn’t your name. That name doesn’t even suit you. That isn’t your uniform. 

“What’s the point?” he questions, hands dropped to the sides in slight relief. 

You tilt your head, expression neutral. “I have a habit of collecting names of people who tried or are trying to kill me. It’s quite relaxing to write it down on a list actually. You know, easier to keep track.”

He’s trying hard to not let any impulsive urges overthrow the rational side of his brain. Everything suddenly twitches in slow motion. His silence seems to bore you. Your eyes are more dead than angry, more done than irritated. Like you’ve been through this shit one too many times already to care. 

“At least say why you’re sent to kill me.”

That, Minho can answer within a blink of an eye. “They sent me because I don’t exist.”

Your gaze glistens with a glaze of boredom. “Everyone said so.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock. Where’s your house, kid? I’ll walk you back. It’d be a pain in the ass if your parents found out how you’re wandering alone after school,” he brushes it off like you’re a slight nuisance (which you are). His heartbeat spikes up once at the mention of family, one that you’ve acknowledged with ease. 

Your arms are folded over your chest now, to cover up the sudden stab of sympathy inside your chest. “There’s no need. I don’t have a place to go back to nor do I have parents who will nag me for staying out late.” 

His mind automatically blackouts along with his senses, blurred with such peculiar feelings swirling at the pit of his stomach. You make it sound like it’s not that big of a deal like you’ve utterly been numb for so long. It’s tragic but understandable. This isn’t the first time he has witnessed a story like yours—your parents, dead or alive, he does not know; by the sound of it, you’re an orphan. Another unfortunate being to graze this planet like himself. This means you can’t afford school, so that uniform really doesn’t belong to you. 

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s Lee Know. Call me Lee Know.”

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.” 

You didn’t mean to expose anything about your life to a total stranger, or specifically an assassin. However, nothing matters when you most likely won’t meet him again nor will he succeed in taking your life. Even the fact that he chose not to give you his real name amplifies how much shit he does not give about you. You don’t expect anything more honestly. 

“Alright, we’re done here,” you feign enthusiasm before clasping your hands together. “Go home. The sun is already going down.”

Strangely enough, Minho can only watch as your shadow shifts to the outline of a black cat before dipping into the depths of the starless night. 

three.

To Minho it’s always just another day in the office. Except his office is a windy rooftop overlooking the mark’s exact location. His tools—rather than a computer—is a state-of-the-art rifle with a telescopic lens. A silencer isn’t very important since traffic and people are more than enough to drown out any suspicious noises. Most will mistake it for a back-firing van. He takes aim with no more qualms than one would gossip about a colleague, then pulls the trigger while thinking about what to order other than Chinese for lunch. When the work is done, he carefully packs everything up into an inconspicuous rucksack. And leaves the scene, like a phantom. 

It’s always been the same boring, bloodied cycle. 

Yet something’s changed since Minho met you. 

He used to maintain a cool detachment to his targets. His conscience prefers not to think of them; whenever he does, it’s as if they’re already dead, mobile meat bags waiting to be laid on a cutting board. He doesn’t like to think merrily of his job, he doesn’t see it as helping them meet their destiny. None of that bullshit. To put it more nonchalantly, everyone will die one day. Minho considers it as a good way to go. Oblivious and in pain for one moment before completely gone the next. 

Simple. Convenient. Much less agonizing than this brutal world. 

Although that doesn’t mean he isn’t traumatized by the amount of blood that has stained his hands. On good days, he might get three to four hours of sleep. Bad days, few minutes to none at all. Terrifying nightmares gnaws at his soul every night, the ugly scar like a reminder of every single one of his sins. He can’t force himself to lose his sanity like any fools out there going down the same path. 

“Shit…” Minho mutters, running a rough hand through his hair. He didn’t sleep well last night—like every other night; hence the bad temper and bitter taste at the back of his throat. 

After a deep breath, he stares at his Hecate II with mischievous eyes—those of a hunter framed in the expressionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands are steady as they lift the shiny weapon over the concrete of a rooftop, drawing out a dry shot in his mind. 

Through his scope, he watches as you’re crossing the road in your human form before stopping abruptly in front of a random tree. You then proceed to squint your eyes and look up in the opposite direction. Minho unknowingly holds his breath, waits for you to release your iron gaze, and move on with your life. But his expectations don’t prevail. 

“What the fuck?” 

Without much patience, he curses before shifting his scope to the same direction only to find another shadow creeping around on the balcony of a nearby building. No time to think of a rational solution—killing them is an ideal one—Minho feels his palms growing sweaty when a small, peculiar object comes flying toward his way. His head quickly moves away before the bullet pierces through his scope, shattering the glass completely. 

“Son of a bitch,” he lets out a shaky breath. Crimson starts to drip down on the side of his cheekbone, but he can care less. 

Because that’s the least of his problem right now. 

Another subtle ‘bang’ can be heard in the distance, like a broken record scratching against his eardrums. Kid…! Minho’s heart collapses in realization. 

four. 

It’s not hard for Minho to do research on quite an amount of vital information about you. When he saw your body dropped to the ground lifelessly and an ambulance immediately drove by to pick up your body, he knew things weren’t going to end just like that. 

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

He isn’t a believer, has never been one. Yet when he managed to take out your kidnappers in that ambulance, your weak breaths startled his heart and shook his mind into awareness of how serious the situation is. After that, he tracked down the hitman who delivered the hard blow, put a bullet through his brain, and found an USB full of detailed information about your existence. Which just makes things a whole lot more complicated to understand. 

Apparently, you’ve been ‘killed’ one too many times before—there are photographs of your supposedly dead body in a bag, thrown into the deep, dark woods, other times into a nameless river. The thing about you is that you were once an experimental subject to your own biological parents who are sickeningly vile scientists. At the age of nine, you fell down the stairs and had a big gash on your head. They never knew because your wounds were quick to heal themselves. However, your whole life was flipped upside down when they saw you shapeshifting into a black cat while running around at the playground. 

From then, your life became a living hell behind cold metal bars with needles stuck in your arms and strange pills being forced down your throat almost every day. Their sudden change only nourished resentment through time until you managed to cut down the laboratory’s power supply and fled from your own home. 

You have no one to lean on. No place to go back to. No nothing. And you’re just a teenager. 

Minho feels awful. 

Usually, he isn’t the type to be empathetic nor does he have the energy to. It’s very out of character for him to let his emotions linger on a homeless kid with some supernatural abilities that will make his life that much more dangerous. Because to him, more often than not, people tend to give their condolences only to forget after brief moments of grieving. At the end of the day, it isn’t their own problem, it isn’t their own life. But now when it comes to you, Minho feels a strong sense of responsibility that if you end up dying, it’s on him. 

It’s stupidly conflicted, it really is. His job—blowing people’s brains out—is the sole reason why he makes a six-digit amount of money for every job. Therefore, he isn’t sure what picking a random kid up from a fake ambulance and bringing her back to his shabby apartment is going to do him any good. 

“Ah, you’re awake.” 

You hate the fact that you can recognize that voice. 

Just then, you wake as if it’s an emergency, as if sleeping has become a dangerous task. Your heart is pounding loudly inside your ears, the sound echoing listlessly to the pit of your rib cage. It’s always like this. It takes you some time to calm your nerves before gathering what exactly happened the moment you blacked out. 

Right, you think to yourself, groaning slightly while pushing yourself up. You were shot right in the chest, and your body was probably discarded somewhere. After that, you’d grab a hitchhiker so they’ll drive you back into town. Like always. The only difference, this time though, is Minho placing your limp body on his bed with a blanket to warm you up. 

His face appears within your eyesight when you’re done adjusting your vision to the bright room—you’re not used to this much light around. “You look calmer than I expected,” he mentions. 

Minho grabs your face and scans it over. “Let me see. Did your wounds close up properly?” 

The tender action, which has become weirdly natural to him although this is his first time, accidentally triggers something inside you. Your hand automatically slaps his away. It is an upfront refusal, but it doesn’t surprise him. He only offers you a comfortable moment of silence before placing a tray on the wooden nightstand. 

“Eat up. I’m not going to feed you,” he cocks his head toward the bowl of porridge with his arms crossed in front of his chest. 

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

You glare at him in suspicion. “Bringing me home. Giving me a bed to sleep on. And even food to eat. What are you trying to get at?”

“Nothing. I didn’t kill you only because you’re too young for my moral code,” he pretends to roll his eyes, voicing monotonously. 

A frown adorns your tired features. “So you’re going to kill me when I get older then?” 

“Probably,” Minho smirks faintly with a cock of his eyebrow. “That depends if you still remember my name, Y/N.” 

One thing after another, this assassin only continues to baffle you. He was just going to shoot you the other day and now he’s giving you food? Preposterous! To put it simply, you’re unprepared for such kind actions, such gentleness from someone who takes lives for a living. You’re unprepared for dealing with people in general because they detest anyone who’s different from them—your kind, the kind with supernatural abilities and all. Hence, you’re left unwilling to befriend anyone and would rather be alone for the rest of your life. 

Until such twisted moira pushes you to—what was his name again? Not his real name, the made-up one that he uses in the underworld. 

You speak up softly after feeling safe enough to let your guards down, “Lee Know, was it?” 

“It’s Lee Minho.” 

“Pardon?”

He only smiles, “My real name. It’s Lee Minho.”

five. 

“Y/N! A little help over here?”

“Coming.”

“Y/N, go check the fog machine!”

“Got you.”

“Y/N, can you put these boxes over there?”

“Alright.”

That’s all you’ve been doing for the entirety of your boring day. Getting yelled out at, having people ask for help nonstop, and responding with a two-word answer at max. You’re not complaining—they pay you well enough, the job is more on the down-low side because you’re nothing but a mere stage crew for an above-average theatre studio. So you simply hoist the three final plastic boxes into your arms with a jerk of your knees and place it where they asked you to. Thanks to your parents, their experiments along with skeptical-looking substances have efficiently enhanced your general strength and agility. 

Another crew member perks up when you plop the heavy stack of cardboard boxes down with a loud thud. “Oh, can you carry those lights to stage left too?”

“Sure.” You could have pretended to pick up one box at a time and to drag your feet across the stage with difficulties to avoid being used. But you’re too lazy to repeat the same cycle two more times, so you really don’t have any other choice here. 

Nevertheless, you suppose it’s not entirely bad to do all of this heavy handiwork. Because it keeps your mind off of unwanted things, such as Lee Minho for example. Lee Minho, the assassin, not the actor—you’d gladly fangirl over that certain celebrity rather than admit that you actually enjoy the hitman’s abrupt presence in your life. 

The fact that you know he will find you even if it means traveling to the ends of the Earth and back doesn’t help to ease your insomnia. So for the past few days, you’ve been working extra hours along with picking up a job at a florist in hopes of not bumping into him. Stupid. You know it is. But how can you deal with a self-esteem crisis because the idea of being a burden just irks you so much? 

It’s like you’re hopelessly proving that you don’t need anyone when you, in fact, want that kind of unconditional love that every other human yearns for. 

After helping your colleagues out with the lighting, you simply sit behind those thick curtains until the show is over. Then, you head out, find a place to sleep, and head to an old lady’s place to pick up new clothes to change into for the next day. Since she’s been treating you with nothing but kindness, you’ve tried to pass by and helped her out at her son’s antique store too. 

Your routine is supposed to go that way and stay that way. You won’t die because you don’t like overworking yourself. You’re doing just great. 

“Hey, Y/N! Your brother is here to pick you up!”

Throwing your crewmate a blunt wave, you find your way out of the school’s theatre through a back door without shifting the expression on your face. You don’t have any siblings. And your colleagues don’t know anything about your family background either. So it, unfortunately, boils your guesses down to one. 

Despite knowing who it is and why they show up, you open your mouth to speak, “How did you find me again?”

Minho shows up with a more casual version of his working attire—instead of the fully black, monochromatic outfit, he’s changing it up with a leather jacket, white t-shirt and jeans. He leans on his shiny motorcycle smugly like he knows something that you don’t, in which you very much dislike. 

“Young lady, I’ll have you know that being an assassin helps me appear at places to do things I’m not supposed to do,” he ignores the fact that your question was purely rhetorical and chimes. 

You attempt to throw him a glare which isn’t intimidating enough. “Call me ‘young lady’ one more time and I’ll put my foot where it’s not supposed to be.” Who are you kidding? He’s a hitman when you’re just a kid. Pigs would be flying by the time you managed to physically shoo him away. 

“Am I supposed to guess where that is?”

“Enough. Go to work. Get out of here. Leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry, are you encouraging me to kill people?” Minho gasps, acting shocked and appalled. Clearly, he’s not good at it despite sharing a name with a well-known actor. 

You can only retort harshly, “Don’t put words in my mouth, you ass.”

“Come on, kid. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Why?”

His hand automatically reaches for your forearm. “Don’t people eat for pleasure? What’s wrong with you?”

Your heart leaps in, anger perhaps, pupils shaking when he closes in on you. Upon your reaction, Minho retracts his arm immediately. He should have thought better of it; you’re probably too traumatized to be dealing with him right now. 

At that, your eyes round at the remorse on his face and you could have glared him off right then and there. But somehow, your basic human manners overcome your usual snappy self, letting you think that maybe he means no harm. Maybe he’s checking up on you one last time before going on about his life. You shouldn’t be too riled up about it just because he tried to kill you once.

Minho catches the familiar anxious gaze and sighs, “Okay, we don’t have to get something to eat. I’ll give you a ride back. Do you have somewhere to stay the night?”

It’s rotten work, whatever he’s trying to do. So you shake the harmless tingle inside your chest away before pushing past him. “No,” you answer dryly and leave. 

six.

You go to work sick the day after because you couldn’t find a place to sleep in and had to make do with napping in front of a tattoo place. Yes, napping; because when you finally shifted into your cat form and allowed your eyes to rest, the sky started pouring waterfalls. The rain had soaked into your shiny black coat, making it frizzy and luring the sickness up your spine the moment you tried finding a different haven.

No one notices. No one.

Not even the mask, the extra layer of sweatshirt nor your hushed coughs every now and then. Despite downing the cold pills early in the morning, you’re only burning up harder by the second. Oh, you know! Maybe they just don��t care, that’s it. Because calling in off for work due to a minor cold isn’t a valid reason. However, you’re still shivering on the inside and burning on the outside. Enhanced genes or any of that bullshit isn’t enough to prevent you from getting sick like any other student. Perhaps something wasn’t complete, or they’d messed up somewhere. Perhaps that’s why they’re trying to get you back.

How foolish of you to think somewhere deep down, they still want you back. With a reason as blunt as you being their child. 

Drowning in deep thoughts, you almost crash into a pile of boxes filled with equipment when your foot gets tangled to a random cable. Your eyes automatically screw shut as you wait for the impact but it never comes. Only a gentle pair of hands on your shoulders did. From that point on, you can’t hear or see properly. You don’t even have enough stamina to register who’s holding onto you so reassuringly. Whatever is happening gets hazier by the tick of a clock. It’s either you’re hallucinating or Minho is giving you that mirthful scowl of his. 

Yep, you’re definitely hallucinating.

“Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“That’s a stupid fucking question.”

A frown adorns his perplexed features as his glassy eyes skim your face. He has a really pretty smile, he should smile more, you think. His hand latches onto your burning forehead, slides down on the side of your cheek with such grace as though he’s caressing you. A grumble leaves his lips at your dreadful state. This is why he should have never let you go in the first place. 

“Come on, kid. Let me help you,” Minho says before giving your arm a light tug.

You don’t like what you just heard. “I don’t need your help.”

“You can barely walk.”

“Who said so-” As if on cue, he lets go of your arm bluntly. Caught off guard, your legs go weak without any remaining strength. You stumble and would have most likely fallen on your face if it weren’t for his grip on your arm. A gasp comes out inaudible when he hoists you upright, not planning to let go any time soon.

Minho scratches the tip of his nose with his ring finger, sniffing lightly. It seems like he’s arguing with a younger version of himself. He now knows how it felt like for those caretakers back then. 

“You did,” he says with the same smirk when you woke up in his apartment for the first time.

seven.

That’s the only time you’ve ever allowed someone to help you with something. But Minho had to constantly check on you every two seconds, not wanting you to fall asleep on his bike while it’s speeding down the highway like a gust of wind. For a moment there, he really thought you would slip away into the night as he tried to find his keys because that’s just how you are. 

Minho is no doctor, but he doesn’t go to one for a cold or a really bad fever. He can manage, he tries to convince himself. 

After testing your temperature and giving you something new to change into, he slaps a cool gel patch onto your forehead before heading off to the kitchen to cook up something. You need to be full to be able to take your medicine anyway.

In the act of resting on his bed, you decide you can’t take staying in the same spot anymore so your body perks up in a sluggish manner. The aroma of home-cooked food wakes your senses almost immediately, causing you to look over at his busy figure by the marble counter. You think it’s endearing how he hasn’t bothered to change into something more comfortable. But he instead threw an apron over his working attire and dived right into the cooking process. 

You have always felt like you were missing out on something whenever you looked at Minho. Perhaps it was how his striking eyes stared at you, whether mischievous or else. Perhaps it was how his lips were turning down most of the time with less than affectionate words. 

Or it’s plainly how he has been trying to hide that he actually cares. 

“Hungry?” He tilts his head to the side playfully once his sixth sense starts kicking in. 

You can only nod. “Yeah.” 

It takes Minho a lot of convincing yet you won’t let him feed you. Like hell, you would. Therefore, with helpless eyes, he watches you from across the table. He doesn’t laugh or get annoyed when your shaky hand drops the spoon and splatters the soup all over the table. His hand simply reaches for a piece of paper towel to clean up the mess, tossing it into the trash bin later. The same cycle repeats in comforting silence until you finish the entire bowl. The soup definitely wasn’t five-star worthy. But it’s enough to warm you up inside and out. Of course, Minho chooses to let the dishwasher do the job—his hatred for doing dishes is always at its finest. 

Then, like the other night, he has already passed out on the table with a blanket draped over his body when you step out of the shower. Instead of plopping the weight of your exhaustion onto his bed this time, your legs stay frozen like cement on the floor while your eyes take in his reclined figure under the thin fabric. Minho is sleeping with his head buried in his arms, his glasses and messy files abandoned to the side. He’s definitely not a heavy sleeper because he doesn’t snore; only feather-like breaths can be heard through this endless beat of silence. The faintly blinking light from his laptop makes you feel exposed so you push yourself toward the balcony. 

A hiss comes out hushed and quiet when your feet come into contact with the cold tile floor, bringing you across the studio apartment with small tiptoes. You peer over your shoulder, gazing at the only available source of light. Unconsciously, you ball your fists. 

With a soft sigh, you slide open the glass door and step out to bathe yourself in the comfort of the moonlight. Despite the chilling air of the night, something warm fills up your lungs like an overflowed cup of wine. It suffocates you a little until the knots in your muscles and mind loosen; a sense of relief washes over you—you haven’t felt that in years. 

Nothing makes sense. 

A hitman hired by your parents shouldn’t be putting a roof over your head, tucking you into bed nor feeding you. Minho barely knows you; and your knowledge about him as a genuine person isn’t enough to convince you that this is reality. Because after years of wandering the streets, being tossed around like trash with plenty of a series of unfortunate events, you’ve made it a habit to sink into yourself. 

So the longer you stay here, the more you’ll get attached to him. And the more you get attached, the more he takes away your default instincts to turn your back on everything.

Guilt wells up inside your chest as though it’s an old habit, a setting by default. If you ever try to go over the moderate line, you will break. 

Holding back a croaked sob, you know that once you let it go, tears will only start flooding. With a push of your muscles, you effortlessly hoist yourself up the metal railings in one go. The wind combs through your hair like an empathetic hand but you ignore it, Minho’s sweater closing in on your skin. 

You should leave, you try to urge yourself. You should jump off and dive into the depths of the night, let the allure cradle you in its emotionless arms. 

Because after all, despite all those eyes on you out there, you’re ultimately alone within. 

A foot dips out into thin air once the slump in your shoulders goes weightless. Immediately after, an incredible force pulls you by the ankle, and to the ground with a loud thud. Minho falls onto his back harshly, groaning slightly with you on top of him.

He knew what you were trying to do, he saw it the other night with his own eyes. Even under the knowledge of your capabilities, Minho still feels a rush of panic rising inside his chest. It’s only until his arms fully have a hold of you does his racing heartbeats slow down. Supernatural abilities or none, you’re still sick. And he’d be losing his mind if he woke up to an empty bed tomorrow morning. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” he speaks with trembling vocal cords, in a tone you’ve never heard before. Strict but mellow. As though there’s a race inside his mind but he’s desperately trying to keep his cool. It’s fear. The moment he’s introduced to the idea of losing you—it’s genuine fear. 

“Minho, I can’t die. Didn’t I tell you—“

His grip squeezes you in a breath tighter, cutting you off completely. “The fuck were you thinking? You can’t just jump off the balcony like that!”

“I already told you. I can’t die. Minho, I’ve done that plenty of times before,” you furrow your brows in a troubled manner, unsure of how to react. 

Minho widens his eyes at you in sheer disbelief. Shock riddles his senses and gets the best of him. So now he’s fussing with his hands, incoherent profanity leaving his lips non-stop within the next thirty seconds or so. He’s usually very calm, collected, calculating, and cold. This is very unlike him. It makes you wonder why he’s acting this way. He knows that you can’t die from jumping off a building. So what’s there to worry about? 

“You’re such an idiot! Try doing that again and I’ll kill you with my own-“

You truly don’t know how important you are to him. Frankly, he hasn’t even realized that yet. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling him closer. Since you’re bad at resolving any kind of conflict, you opt for the most rational solution—going with his flow until he’s calmed down. “I won’t do that again, promise.” 

His lips fall agape at your words. He wasn’t expecting that. And even when you see how he’s reacting to your sudden change, you decide it’s no time to back down. This might be the only time you could show him that you’re at least grateful for everything he’s done. 

He’s quieted down now. And when he manages to speak again without tripping over his own words, his voice comes out as a whisper. “Hey kid,” he looks down at you, wanting to stroke your hair but drops his hand in sheer defeat. “You didn’t answer my question earlier. Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“Who would do my job when I’m gone? Isn’t that irresponsible?” You exhale deeply before fluttering your eyes close, finding odd peace within the rhythm of his heart. 

Minho says pointedly, “Well, you could have asked someone to help you with it.”

“No one would help me.”

“How’d you know? Have you tried asking them before?” 

Your eyes shoot open and flicker around your surroundings, you’re at a loss for words for a split second there. Heat rushes to the apples of your cheeks in shame, your head hung terribly low. “I’m not used to asking for help. I’d hate to be a burden,” you confess. 

Innocence glimmers in your eyes when you look up at him, waterlines threatening to break any second now. Your lashes are slightly damped and how lost you’re looking right now can physically draw crimson on his heart. At the end of the day, you’re just a kid. You had to grow up the hard way, with no one by your side telling you what’s right and what’s wrong, even simple things like how to react to non-verbal affection. 

Don’t let her go, Minho. Not now. Not ever.

“Then fix it now.”

“What?” You pause. 

“If you need help, ask for it. If things are hard, say it. I’ll be there to give you a hand.”

Tears well up in your eyes, croaked sobs shake your body, only prompting him to pull your closer. It’s warm. Damnit, why is it so warm? “I-I can’t sleep. Sing me something?”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Minho just knows that he would bleed with you even when the rain pours and the sky falls one day.