#he was camp so I had to make it more camp

[tovibeornottovibe]

Don't Panic

Friend!Nesta x Reader | Azriel x Reader (ish)

based on this request (thank you @suppppp97! i hope this meets your request, i had a ball writing it)

Nesta doesn't like you. Never has, not since the first time Azriel introduced you as his mate, and you chalked it up to a personality clash; namely, Nesta being prickly and you being, well, you. You had thought that was how it was going to stay, but when you and Nesta get captured by Illyrians, you have to work together, and you find yourself understanding each other a little more. You might even end up friends. [10.3k words]

warnings: canon-typical violence, swearing, Nesta and reader being assholes to each other (at the start), reader being a BAMF, plot, interrogation, az being a softie at the end

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You have to laugh. Just a day ago, you and Azriel were out on the balcony of the House of Wind, eating breakfast, talking about this upcoming mission like it was a sunday stroll over honeyed tea and buttered scones. As new as your mating bond is, it’s easy to take that gentle, domestic intimacy for granted. Now, your legs ache, your head is throbbing from lack of water, and you can’t quite feel your fingers for the burning cold. What’s worse, you’re stuck in this fucking cave in the middle of fucking nowhere with who else but Nesta fucking Archeron.

Truly, for whatever reason, she can’t stand you, and over these past few months, you’ve learnt to live with it. She’s hardly ingratiated herself to you in any case. Little digs here and there, things about how different you and Az are. You’re loud; he’s quiet. He’s tall; you’re, comparatively, short. You get paperwork done as quickly as possible; Az is as diligent as they come. He’s a broody, secretive male; and you’re a little ray of sunshine, his words, not yours, even in your angstier moments. When you talk, he listens and, well, Az doesn’t exactly talk much at all, does he? After that first meeting, when Az introduced you to the Inner Circle, she said, “Opposites attract, I suppose,” and you realised that you and her just wouldn’t click.

You don’t care. Az doesn’t care, even if it has soured their friendship somewhat. Not even Cassian cares. But by the gods, if it wouldn’t make jobs like this one a whole lot easier if you could just be civil with one another.

The Blood Rite. Heightened tensions. Pissy Illyrians with a penchant for making things difficult. You were sent to find out if there was going to be any trouble this time around.

You know the Steppes pretty well from your days travelling through the Court as a merchant, then you got to know the more dangerous parts as a mercenary when the trade dried up during Amarantha’s reign. You have contacts here with some of the more amenable war bands and it’s for this expertise that Cassian wanted you to come, so you could speak with those who are less willing to talk to a General. Azriel, of course, was never going to let you come to Illyria without protection, and Nesta scares the camp lords so much that she could be used as extra leverage if things took a turn. So, it was the four of you who headed off.

It should have been you and Azriel together. It should have been fine.

There had never been problems in Stonecross. It’s a camp tucked away by the northern coast of the Court, fairly progressive as far as Illyrian camps go, and absolutely vital for trade—particularly for the medicinal professions. In the rocky, sea-facing caves in the mountain under the camp exist the perfect conditions for certain plants to grow: fungi, flowers, some things not even Madja would fully understand the uses of. 

You all realise too late that they put it, whatever it was, in the food. You’d been too complacent. Too trusting. It didn’t even take ten minutes before the four of you started to feel drowsy, then nauseous, and then, in horror, you saw Az’s shadows drop off his body, like the magic which kept them tied to him had suddenly vanished. 

You don’t really remember what happened next, it’s all a blur, but you got grabbed, flown (or maybe winnowed, it is the days before the Blood Rite after all), and now, you’re here… 

You’re in a carved-out room of black, damp stone, the only light coming through the slight crack under a boulder which covers what looks to be a doorway. The air is thin, and you have to be far down because you can feel the heavy pressure in the fluid of your ears. Though you aren’t in chains, it feels oppressive, like you had been thrown in a prison cell and forgotten about.

At least Nesta’s still out cold. You wince at yourself for the thought, but honestly, you wouldn’t be able to think straight if she was hissing comments at you. In the sliver of light, you can see that she seems uninjured, as are you, and her breathing is steady, like she’d been knocked out without a fight. Sometime soon, you’ll need her up (unconscious, she’s a liability), but for as long as you can, you’ll take the drip-drip-drip through the walls as your only company.

The first thing you need to do is let Az know you’re awake, to try and see if he’s close by or if he needs help. You pull on the mating bon—

The mating bond.

You can’t—you can’t feel it. Another wave of nausea washes over you as you bolt up from the ground. The thread between the two of you, this new, wonderful, golden string which calls you to him time and time again, the Mother’s blessing which binds you together, it’s slack in your chest. Still there, thank the gods, but… useless. You can’t feel him anymore. Not even the little bits he sends you every now and then, when Cassian makes him laugh or he sees something that reminds him of you. It’s all gone. Like losing a limb.

You press your back against the cool stone of the room and remember to breathe. Force yourself to feel the rock beneath your feet, to focus, to think. 

Azriel, you know, you trust, will be okay. He has to be. Maybe he’s disorientated like you are, being held somewhere, either in Cassian’s company or without it. Maybe he’s already escaped and is coming to find you right now. Or maybe, you’ll need to find him. Regardless, you can’t afford to panic. Not now. Az wouldn’t panic; he’d find a way out, and you and him, you’re Cauldron-chosen mates, so you can find a way out too. You can get back to him.

You will get back to him.

You just need to look around and see—the light. 

They had to have got you two inside this room somehow, so that boulder blocking the doorway has to be moveable. Outside, something is causing that crack of light to come through, there’s a sconce, or a faelight, so there’s a walkway, and a walkway means that there’s some other rooms in here, connected by a complex of passageways. And passageways mean a way out. 

You need that boulder gone.

If you had your full arsenal of magic at your disposal, it would be simple. You could bolster your muscles and push it out of the way without breaking a sweat, but even as you walk towards it, you can feel how your legs drag and your vision blurs. Every joint feels like it’s grown rust, grinding uncomfortably across your bones. The poison in your system remains. Still, you try. Still, you steel yourself in case someone is waiting for you behind it and you need to take them on.

The rough stone cuts into your palms as you use every drop of energy you have left in you to push at it, to try to roll it one way or the other, but it doesn’t so much as budge an inch. In frustration, you kick at it, ram your shoulder into it and send shooting pain up your arm, but still, it doesn’t yield. 

You’ve been defeated by a hunk of fucking rock. So, yeah, you have to laugh.

Alone, there’s no chance of you moving it, not while you’re still affected by whatever they put in your food. You can either wait for gods know how long for it wear off, or…

You flick your attention to Nesta, half-slumped against the wall, and you sigh. 

For all your differences, you respect Nesta. You like her tenacity, the way she moves with such precision in the training ring, how she stands up for herself and her friends regardless of who it is she’s challenging (the first time you saw her go toe-to-toe with Rhys, you had almost wanted to cheer for her). Sometimes, you think that if you hadn’t gotten off on the wrong foot, you and her would get along just fine—for your love of dance if nothing else. More importantly, she’s your only hope of getting out of here on your own terms.

Muscles protesting every movement, you crouch down and nudge at her side. She doesn’t stir. You nudge harder and her eyes shutter. She mutters something you don’t catch under her breath. 

Oh, fuck it. 

You shake her shoulder more harshly than you need to and yell at her to wake up. Her eyes flick open with a start, and you have to catch her hand before her fist connects with your jaw.

“Relax,” you say as she struggles in your grip, “it’s me. Could you please not break my face?”

“No promises,” she snaps back, wrenching her wrist away from you, rubbing at where you were holding her. She opens her mouth again, probably to sneer something at you, when you see the words die in her throat as she pales, clutching at her chest. “Something is wrong,” she grates out. “What the hell did you do—?”

You roll your eyes as you pull away, settling yourself on the ground a little ways from her in case she actually does decide to break your face. 

“Cauldron, Nesta,” you say, “I didn’t do anything. It’s whatever they drugged us with. It’s dulling our magic, including the mating bond.” You tap where you feel the Azriel-shaped hole in your chest. “Must be some faebane alternative we’ll have to deal with.”

This seems to calm her burgeoning fear, but if looks could kill, you’d be dead. “How are you so calm about this?” she asks, murmuring something else which sounds distinctly insulting as she plucks herself off the ground and follows the stream of light to the doorway.

“Panic gets you killed,” you say, watching her come to the same conclusion you did as she pokes at the gap in the wall.

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “Az says the same.”

“It’s almost like we’re mates or something.”

“Almost.”

Though the bond might be dulled, your instincts flare at the insinuation before you tamp it down and keep your face carefully neutral. Again, even in the dark, you can tell she shoots you a glare. 

“Instead of doing something, you had to come and wake me up?” she continues, beginning to push at the boulder as your anger simmers in your blood. The audacity to suggest that you hadn’t tried… she’s something else.

“Would you have preferred it if I had left you behind?” you fire back, pulling yourself up and over to her, stopping just short of too close. “I already tried moving it and it won’t budge, not while we’re still weak. We’ll probably have to try it together—”

She cuts you off abruptly and goes back to the boulder. “I don’t need your help.”

Ignoring her, you barely lay a finger on the stone before she yanks you away and snarls at you to, “Back off.” 

Incredulous, you huff, but you relent, leaning against the wall as you watch her fail to get it to move, just like you did. After significantly less prodding than what you tried, she admits defeat and swears at the rock for being in the way without sparing you a glance.

A thousand snarky comments come to mind, including around nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine which include the phrase ‘I told you so’, but you refrain. Pissing her off even more doesn’t seem conducive to getting out of this cell, so you say, “Look, Nesta, I get that you don’t like me—”

“Understatement.”

“Fine,” you continue, “you really don’t like me. And while I don’t understand why, I do need you to get out of here and as much as you might hate to admit it to yourself, you need me too, so let’s just put our differences aside and…” you trail off as her face sours. “What?”

“You don’t understand why,” she says.

“We really don’t have time to get into it, Nesta.”

“Don’t we?” she asks harshly. “That rock is hardly going anywhere.”

Clearly, she’s up for an argument—maybe that’s how she blows off steam when Cassian isn’t around—but you most definitely aren’t.

“Neither are we if we don’t stop bickering,” you reply steadily.

She narrows her eyes at you. “Oh, you always have something clever to say, don’t you?” Your name slips from her mouth like a curse. “Az caught himself a real prize with you.”

Is that what this is all about? You and Az? You know Az and Nesta are good friends, or, at least, they used to be, and she would obviously want him to be happy with whoever he’s with, mate or not. But, as far as you know, he is happy, and you trust him to tell you when he’s bothered by something. Frankly, whatever Nesta thinks about your relationship is irrelevant, even if it stings a little not to be accepted by her. 

“Take it up with the Mother, Nesta,” you say, increasingly irritated, “but after we get the fuck out of here, please.”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” she snaps back. 

You roll your eyes. “Please. Let’s not.” There’s no warning in your tone, so she ploughs on.

“Az was fine before he met you.” He wasn’t, he was drowning himself in work and booze after the Solstice with Elain, but that’s his secret to tell. “My sister was fine before he met you.” 

“Gods, what does Elain have to do with this?”

“Don’t say her name like that—!”

“Why not?” you say, your anger bubbling to the surface finally as your patience snaps. “She’s my friend, you know, but I doubt she’d have told you that considering the fact you never see her. When was the last time you even stepped foot in the townhouse?” You know it’s unfair, you know Nesta can’t get down from the House of Wind without Cassian or exhausting herself on the steps, but you’re past the point of caring. 

When she doesn’t respond, you double down. “Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it, Nesta.”

To her credit, Nesta’s response hurts more than you were expecting it to. “I don’t need her to tell me,” she snarls, “if I were her, I’d resent you too.”

Scoffing, you drawl, “Oh, and why’s that?” but you feel the doubt creeping up on you like a wraith. 

Az had told you about what he had felt for Elain and how close they had been to getting together. For a time, you had agonised over it. It didn’t seem right to you that they had been prevented from acting on their feelings, even if it worked out for you in the end, and you had always thought, despite Az insisting otherwise, that Elain might not like you because of that. But, she had been perfectly pleasant the first time you met, and you managed to break the ice with a joke about flowers (it was rather specific and no one but Elain had appreciated it). From there, you’d become fast friends.

But if Elain is just humouring you like you suspected she might…

“Because,” Nesta says, “you stole Az from her. They were close, did you know? Even Feyre thought they were good for one another. But you come along and what’s worse, you rub it in by trying to spend time with her.”

“Heaven forbid I actually enjoy Elain’s company,” you say, though it comes out significantly less venomous than you meant it to. “Did she tell you all that herself or are you pulling it out of your ass?”

“You’ve got her fooled, I’ll give you that much,” she replies. She lets out a humourless laugh. “She even thinks you and Az are perfect together, but I see what you’re doing loud and clear.”

You blink at her.

Inexplicably, it isn’t annoyance which washes over you, it’s understanding. It becomes obvious to you now, despite what Nesta is saying, why she doesn’t like you. 

Of course.

She’s trying to look after her sister, and even at your own expense, you can’t help but admire her for it. Maybe if she actually talked to Elain about you, you could end your petty, little feud. Or maybe she’d just find another reason to dislike you. 

Either way, it won’t matter if you kill each other in this cave.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh. “Nesta, I really have tried to be nice to you. If you don’t like me, that’s fine, we don’t need to be friends. But I didn’t steal anyone from anyone, Az made his choices and I made mine, and I really do like being Elain’s friend. I’m sorry if I’ve somehow offended you or… I don’t know. Just, I’d like us both to get out of here, alive, preferably, and for that, I need your help. So, please, if you have to, pretend I’m someone else for a bit and then I promise I will never bother you again. Deal?”

For a long, long moment, she says absolutely nothing at all, as though she’s trying to work out if you’re being genuine or not, and the silence stretches over the space between you. Then she looks away, sets her jaw, and grumbles, “Just help me move this.”

“Gladly.”

It takes coordination, begrudgingly followed suggestions for which way to push and for how long, and the poison in your veins brings bouts of dizziness which means both of you need a break, but, eventually, the boulder moves, just a fraction. The beam of light at your feet grows. Again and again and again, you and Nesta use every ounce of energy you have left to get it out of your way. You just hope that whoever is keeping you here isn’t nearby, because the scraping of rock against stone is almost deafeningly loud.

You don’t know if it takes minutes or hours, but you get it so the two of you can see into the corridor, and then you open up the doorway enough for you to be able to squeeze through the gap. The jagged, black stone scrapes at your skin as you shuffle and you definitely pick up a few new scratches, but you suddenly find yourself in the middle of an uneven walkway, filling your lungs with air fresher than what you’ve had since you woke up.

You take it in greedily, looking around to see if there’s an obvious way out, but both in front and behind you look the same. An endless tunnel of stone, equally lit up by torches protruding from the walls. You wait a moment, trying to feel any sort of breeze or even trying to pick up faint sounds of people.

Nothing.

Inside the cell, Nesta says your name rather urgently. You peer at her through the gap and see a flicker of relief on her face before it’s gone.

With a different angle, you wordlessly make quick work of moving the boulder further, and Nesta manages to free herself not long after. All the while, a sense of foreboding settles over you. The lack of a guard, even a patrol, is starting to strike you as odd.

“Come on,” she says, making left—it’s as good a direction as any—but you stop her.

“Wait,” you say, “doesn’t this all seem strange to you?” You make a point of looking behind you and gesture around. “There’s no one here.”

“Good,” she replies, “maybe they’ve forgotten about us. Let’s go.” And she strides off, forcing you to follow behind her, shadows dancing with each other in the torchlight.

“Or maybe they haven’t,” you urge, catching up to her, “maybe they’re waiting for us somewhere. Or they’re trying to lure Az and Cassian down here and it’s a trap.” That makes her pause and look at you, considering sharply. “We should try and stay as hidden as possible,” you suggest, “keep to the shadows rather than storming down the middle of the corridor.”

She barks a laugh. “Are you doing that on purpose?”

You frown. “Doing what?”

“Saying what Azriel says. If I had a mark for every time he’s said the words ‘keep to the shadows’...” she trails off, shaking her head.

“I’m not—just—” you sigh, “—let’s just be careful, okay?”

She steps very slightly closer to the wall, further into what little shadow the torches are casting over the rock, and keeps going, so you follow her through the twists and turns of the cave system, hoping you’ve picked the right way. Every corner looks the same, your footsteps sound the same, the cadence of Nesta’s breathing is monotonous and steady. It feels like you’re going around in circles.

But you aren’t. You can feel the slight lightening of pressure in your sinuses, how the ground ever so slightly tips upwards. You even start to feel like you might be getting out of here without meeting a single obstacle.

And that’s when you reach a dead-end.

A mockingly sheer column of rock with a gap right at the top, where you can see a coiled up rope which is almost certainly used to manoeuvre up and down. Through the gap, you see beautiful, white light, and you reason that this must be some kind of exit. 

“Come on,” you say to Nesta, steadying yourself against the wall, “I’ll boost you up and then you throw the rope down for me.”

She looks at you incredulously. “That must be fifteen feet high at least,” she says. “There’s no way you’re getting me up there.”

As ever, you are entirely unimpressed by Nesta’s doubt. “I’m stronger than I look. And unless you have another idea…?”

Despite her general lack of faith in you, Nesta doesn’t even try and contemplate a different option; she knows as well as you do that there isn’t one. You cup your hands in front of you and bend your knees as Nesta tentatively uses you as a step-up. 

“Ready?” you ask.

She hesitates, peering down at you. “For what?”

“Just get ready to grab the ledge.”

Without warning, you toss her upwards, putting all your strength into getting her as high as possible, and she lets out a grunt as she manages to grab hold of the edge of the lip above you. For a moment, you think she might not be able to hold on—she sways and shakes, probably due to the poison still sapping your energy—but she eventually hauls herself up and disappears out of view.

Then you wait. It can’t be for more than thirty seconds, but as they tick by, your anxiety starts to spike. What if she just leaves you here? What if she takes her opportunity to get rid of you just so Elain can have Azriel? As much as you like Elain, the idea of anyone else having him sends shooting rage through your nerves, even with the bond absent in your chest. It’s a natural instinct, but before you can spiral—“Mind your head,” comes the call and down comes the rope, thick, old, and covered in dirt, but it’ll do. You make quick work of it, despite your screaming muscles, and join Nesta at the top.

You want to ask her what took her so long, but peering through the gap where the light comes through, it becomes quite obvious.

Illuminated by a great cut-out in the ceiling of the cave, covered in mosses and deep green hanging vines, is a lake nearly three-times the width of the Sidra. The water is startlingly blue, clear, and it looks deceptively shallow, but you’ve seen lakes like this before. They tend to go down so deep the pressure would kill you before you reached the bottom.

What’s worse, on the other side of the lake is an Illyrian encampment, populated by at least six warriors, maybe more you can’t even see, armed to the teeth and evidently waiting for something to happen. You can see them talking to one another, but what they’re saying is lost under the sound of running water coming from the cascade on the far side of the lake. 

Thankfully, the two of you are hidden in darkness under an outcrop. Perhaps if Nesta had taken you right when you got out of your cell, you would have ended up on the other side, right in the middle of your captors’ base. Either way, it looks like the only way out of this is in a fight.

“How long can you hold your breath for?” you ask Nesta, calculating roughly how far you’ll need to swim under the surface so the Illyrians don’t detect you. Without weapons, you’ll need the element of surprise to disarm them, and from there, well, you’ve seen Nesta spar with Cassian. It’ll be easy. By the side of you, however, she is almost eerily still. “Nesta?” you say, turning to her.

You expect her to be watching the Illyrians, maybe lost in thought about how to take them out, but you’re wrong. She’s staring down into the water, unfocused and unblinking. She almost looks frightened?

The thought occurs to you that Nesta might not know how to swim. Then, something Az said to you when you first met both her and Elain hits you. He told you to be careful mentioning the Cauldron, that, understandably, they don’t like thinking about it and suddenly everything clicks. Nesta doesn’t like water, doesn’t like being submerged in it, because it reminds her of being inside the Cauldron. Maybe something else too. She’s been through a lot, as Az tells you. In your chest, your heart lurches, not with pity, but perhaps with a profound feeling of sadness for her. 

“Nesta,” you say lowly. You aren’t about to coddle her, she doesn’t need that, wouldn’t want it anyway. You wouldn’t either. She flicks her gaze over to you, but it’s clear she’s still not all here. “I have a theory,” you continue, and you explain that there must be another passage to your cell, probably in the opposite direction to the one you took. As you talk, you see her eyes sharpen, not so dull, and she actually starts listening to you. “If you can distract some of them and lead them back to our cell, I can swim over and take out as many as possible while you keep them occupied.” It’s the only thing you can think of to keep her out of the water. “We can meet up over there once you’re done.”

Whether she appreciates it or not, you can’t tell, but she looks you over, then to the Illyrians, and says, a little hoarsely, “Get under the water. I’ll draw their attention away.” You nod, kicking off your shoes as you go to lower yourself in as quietly as possible, but she grabs your wrist and stops you. Her grip is firm, but not violent. “Be careful,” she says, and without waiting for a reply, she lets go. “Go on then.”

Glancing at the lake, you take a moment, and lower yourself in slowly.

The water is freezing cold and you swallow a gasp as you enter. Pushing through the pain, with one last fleeting look at Nesta, you take a deep breath, dip your head under the water, and start to swim. You just have to trust now that Nesta holds up her end of the plan.

You try to take the shortest, most direct route possible without getting spotted, but your lungs are burning and without your magic to help, you start to think that maybe you won’t be able to make it without coming up for air. The waterfall isn’t so far away from you and the running water might conceal you just enough to allow you to breathe for a moment. It’s your only shot, so you go for it.

The strength of the water batters you, but the first, quiet hit of fresh air is enough to make it inconsequential to you. For as long as you can chance it, you take it in, and push your luck by looking over at the encampment. From here, it’s difficult to see, but you think you count two males, looking around nervously, and you swear you can hear shouting from down one of the corridors. Seems like Nesta managed her distraction well.

Enough. You dive back under and move as fast as you can, ignoring how much of a struggle it is. You have to do this, you have to get out of here. You have to get back to Azriel. And, godsdamn you, you want to see Nesta get back to Cassian.

Your hands hit the other side of the lake before you realise it, and, as silently as possible, you emerge from the surface. Still, there are only two males in the encampment, and you definitely weren’t imagining the shouting. Here, it’s louder, and you can make out male voices, obviously irate. The two other Illyrians watch the alcove closely, not even whispering a word to each other.

One of them is older. He’s bigger and has more siphons, but he’s no commander; you’d guess he’s an Oristian just by the way he holds himself. You can feel his ego from here. The other one is younger, barely out of training. He fidgets with his armour and his weapons, his leg bouncing where he sits on a rock and pays so much attention to the alcove that he isn’t looking where he clearly is supposed to be: right at you.

You pull yourself out of the water with natural grace and drop immediately into a crouch, blending in with a darkness. Your wet clothes are making the cold seep into your skin, but you need all the protection you can get and the padding around your joints might be enough to buy you some time if things go wrong. 

The Illyrians are too close together, sitting around a central opening where the vestiges of a fire lay. Though you’re strong, there’s no way you can take them out hand-to-hand if it’s two against one. You’re trained in combat, but mostly for swords and daggers. You need another distraction, and, as you shift your feet to try and get a better view, you get one.

You kick a pebble and, thinking quickly, you snatch it from the ground before it can hit something that will draw their eye to you. You weigh it in your hand. If you want it to make an impression, you need it to hit something away from the water, so the sound of the waterfall doesn’t mask it. 

You catch something glinting in the corner of your vision. In the exposing light, a shield is propped up against a nearly empty weapons rack. Briefly, you consider making a rush for it, thinking a shield is better than no weapon at all, but you know that’s even more of a long shot than trying to take them out quietly.

So, you opt to aim for the shield, and as the pebble flies, you know you’ll reach your target.

A clang sounds out through the atrium and the two Illyrians startle out of their trances. The older one barks an order for the younger one to check what the disturbance is, then berates him for being a coward when he hesitates. You wait impatiently for there to be enough distance between them, then you strike.

You dash behind the bigger Illyrian, keeping to the shadows, and as soon as you can, you pounce. You wrap your arm around his neck, pulling him back and behind the rock he was sitting on, keeping him as out of view as possible in case the kid decides to turn around. He kicks, attempting to buck his hips and flap his wings to get you off him, but you’ve got him so firmly held that there is no chance of him overpowering you like this. Your hand closes over his mouth to stop him shouting, and you choke the air out of his lungs silently. Not to kill him, just to knock him out. Snapping his neck would take more force and compromise your position, so you settle for his unconsciousness and lower him to the ground.

Concealed behind the rock, when the other Illyrian turns, he sees no one. His following shout tells you he’s panicked, and you wait for him to come to you. He stands in the middle of the encampment, turning around, scanning for threats, and you quietly unsheathe the sword that the older Illyrian had strapped to his back. 

Sharp, Illyrian steel. You smile faintly. You and Az have sparred with these so often that it feels like an extension of your arm as you hold it.

You wait for the remaining Illyrian to be facing away from you and, when the time is right, spring up from behind the rock. Your blade meets the back of his neck before he even knows you’re there, and he immediately stills as you press it against his skin and blood wells at the edge. In the meantime, the shouting down in the alcove behind you has stopped, and you hope that means Nesta has dealt with the others.

“Throw your weapons away from you,” you say calmly. He does as he’s told without complaint, unsheathing even a hidden dagger in his boot. Smart male. “Turn around slowly.” Again, he does what you say, but you keep your blade at his neck and maintain a healthy enough distance from him. 

He stares down at you uncertainly, his hands away from his sides, and gulps as you assess him. Typically Illyrian, he has dark hair, tan skin, and brown eyes which betray his fear. A fully fledged warrior would have tried to disarm you by now, and, as a result, would likely be dead. This one seems to have more sense.

“Your name,” you say. Statement, not a question.

“Wilsen,” he supplies quietly, uncomfortably shifting as your sword remains firm at his throat.

“Why are you keeping us here, Wilsen?”

When he hesitates to respond, you press the blade against him and he grimaces. “I have orders,” he says, a little frantically, “that’s all I know. I swear it.”

It’s moments like these when you wish you had Az’s shadows whispering in your ear, telling you truth from falsehood, divining someone’s character. Ultimately, you have to rely on your gut feeling, and it’s telling you that Wilsen is lying.

You bring the tip of the blade to the underside of his jaw, cutting a fine line through the skin of his neck. “Try again,” you say. “Think more carefully about your answer this time.”

As he deliberates, the strangest feeling flows through you. Your magic, sputtering in your veins as it tries to come alive again, fighting against the poison. Hurriedly, you try to yank on the mating bond, but it still lies dormant under your ribcage, and it’s this fleeting moment where you lose your focus that you blame when you fail to notice Wilsen’s eyes flick to just above your shoulder.

A thick, calloused hand clamps over your mouth, another squeezes your throat as you’re dragged backwards. Instincts kicking in, you try to twist, to pull the hands away, but they just tighten their grip as you flail. The blade in your hand hits something, maybe Wilsen’s neck, as you’re forced to let go of it in the scuffle, but you’re too blinded by the pain to care. 

Some unseen Illyrian, maybe an escapee of Nesta’s wrath, has you trapped against him. You try to reach up to scratch at his face to get him to release you, but all you can feel is the heave of his chest as he laughs and wrestles your hand out of his sight, freeing your mouth. He’s choking the life out of you to the point where all you can do is gargle and thrash, to try and somehow get out of his hold.

Even the smallest bit of your replenishing magic seems to do nothing. You try fortifying your muscles, try directing some of it to weaken his, but to no avail. 

You come to the conclusion that, as your vision starts to blur and darken, you’re dying, and this Illyrian is enjoying it. You fight, scratch at his arm, but that only seems to egg him on, to draw it out. He’s not even taunting you, not in any way you can make sense of, he’s just amusing himself in the brutality of it. 

Your teeth feel like they’re fizzling. You can’t feel your body anymore, you’re weightless, outside of the bounds of reality where all that exists is the immense pressure on your neck and oh gods this is it, you’re dying you’re dying you’re dying and you’ll never see Az again—

Suddenly, the feeling stops. 

You must be dead, you think. 

It’s funny, though, you can still see, and there’s this throbbing in your temples. Dead people don’t get headaches, do they? How awful. You can’t escape migraines, even in the afterlife.

The Illyrian behind you (oh, he’s still here?) lists backwards, and it’s only logical that you tumble with him, but, for some reason, you don’t. Instead, there’s something keeping you standing, gentle, tender heat around your middle and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say there’s someone saying your name.

“Breathe,” they say, and then your name again. There’s something so familiar about it and—you can breathe.

Desperately, you gasp in air, your brain aching after being starved of it, but you take in too much and start to cough so much that your eyes water, pulling out of this person’s grip and doubling over. Again comes a gentle touch, this one at your back, as you feel like you’re hurling up a lung. Again comes the reminder to just breathe, and you do. Your coughing stops and…

You whirl around, meeting Nesta’s sharp eyes as she steps away from you. In her hand is a sword, slick with red which drips to the floor, and behind her, a dead Illyrian lying in a pool of his own blood.

You open your mouth, then snap it shut. 

Nesta Archeron just saved your life.

“Thank you,” you manage to wheeze out, the words catching in your throat as you struggle to regulate your breathing.

A muscle ticks in her jaw. “I’m not about to let some lowlife choke out Azriel’s mate,” she says pointedly, casting a dismissive look over to the dead Illyrian, “and you’d have done the same, if it were me.”

You would have, you just didn’t think Nesta would be the one to say it. 

She looks you up and down from your dripping hair to your crumpled clothes. “You look like a drowned rat.”

Just as you go to respond, you get interrupted by a low groan of pain, and you see that Wilsen is still alive, just bleeding profusely from his shoulder. So you did catch him in the crossfire. Nesta advances on him so quickly that you barely have chance to shout for her to stop. 

“He knows something,” you say, moving towards her gingerly, stepping over the Illyrian who tried to kill you without sparing him a second glance, wincing as you try to move your neck. “I was interrogating him before I got interrupted.”

“I don’t know—!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Nesta snarls at him before turning back to you. “You were interrogating him?”

You hum confirmation, the sound scratching at your throat. “With a sword.”.

She just looks at you. “Of course you were,” she mumbles, “Az’ll be so proud.”

“Cassian will probably pounce on you as soon as he finds out you took on three fully-grown Illyrians with your bare hands,” you reply, offering her a sly smile which almost feels normal.

And Nesta, to your surprise, laughs. A real, genuine, contagious laugh which rings through the atrium, and you find yourself chuckling along with her. 

“Neither of us are getting much sleep for a week,” she says, adding with a gesture to her blade, “and I caught the last one with this actually.”

You let out a giggle. “That’ll definitely get Cassian going—”

“Oh you’re both whor—”

“Shut the fuck up!” you and Nesta spit at Wilsen in unison, before you whip your gazes up in shock to look at each other.

And you both burst out laughing again.

It’s nice. You don’t think you’ve seen Nesta laugh so much in your presence ever. Maybe you’re delirious from the air loss, but you’d go as far to say you’re enjoying her company, and by the look of it, she might feel the same.

Still, you have Wilsen to deal with.

Once your bout of laughter dies down and you can breathe normally again, you peer down at him as he looks up at you. He looks quite deathly pale. Nesta steps aside, her face darkening, as you crouch down next to him, hand on the wound at his shoulder, but not pressing down, not to cause him pain. Not yet.

Azriel will provide that afterwards in any case.

“Do you know the way out of here, Wilsen?” you ask. Even though you can feel yourself slowly regaining your magic, the mating bond has still not burst back to life. You guess Nesta’s hasn’t either, considering how attentively she’s paying attention to the two of you. 

He swallows thickly, eyes you warily. When he takes a second too long to answer, you push two fingers down, right on his shoulder blade. It won’t kill him, but it’s not going to feel like a warm hug from his mother either. He yelps in pain while his blood seeps onto your hand. “Fuck, it’s—” he sucks in a breath as you release him, “—there’s only one way.” His eyes flick to the cut-out in the roof of the cave, right above the middle of the lake, and Nesta follows his gaze carefully. Just barely, you catch her flinch. “And unless you can sprout wings…”

You pull away, letting him sag into his body. Even if the vines growing down the hole can take your weight, and by the look of them, they might, you still need to get to them. You hope Nesta is coming to the same conclusion you are. When Wilsen says there’s only one way out, he means it, and it means you’re going to have to give her a very, very quick swimming lesson, if she can stomach it.

“Why did you bring us here?” she asks suddenly, aiming her question at Wilsen. 

A ragged sigh escapes him. “Give me something in return,” he says, his spit gurgling in his mouth as he talks. You’ve seen this before. He doesn’t have long.

“Tell us and you might live to see tomorrow,” you say hurriedly. 

He has the energy to scoff. “So your mate can torture me in his dungeons? No. I’d rather die,” he grits out, shifting on the floor, his arm deadweight against the ground.

“You’d rather bleed out here than have a chance at surviving?” Nesta asks, her tone increasingly agitated. She starts to say something else, but you motion for her to calm herself, and she does, all the while giving you a look as if to say Do you even have a plan?

You turn back to Wilsen, bracing your forearms on your knees. “You have family?” you say quietly, and the ensuing rage which comes over his face tells you that yes, he does. “If you die here, Wilsen,” you continue, your voice soft, “my mate will find every male in that family of yours and he will ask the question you refused to answer. If they don’t know, he’ll move onto the females. Your wife, sister, mother, whoever. And if they don’t know, he will go through Stonecross, Illyrian by Illyrian, until someone tells him what he wants to know. And if he does that, he’ll be sure to let everyone know it’s because you, Wilsen, did not give us an answer right here, right now. So, this is what I’ll offer you: not just your life, but the lives and dignity of everyone you care about. Happily, I’ll let you die, but how happy that would make them? I’m not so sure, are you?” 

Only the sound of the waterfall behind you lets you know time hasn’t stopped. Even Nesta’s breathing is so silent you can barely hear it, but you can feel her eyes on you. Wilsen is deathly still. You get the distinct feeling that if he wasn’t bleeding out, he’d have his hand wrapped around your neck. “Your choice,” you finish with a shrug.

His words are vitriolic. “You were supposed to die down there, you fucking bitch. Nothing more than motivation for the General and your mate to make a mistake. So you’d all finally understand how it feels to get kicked when you’re down,” he spits, but his voice shakes. Scared, or struggling to stay awake? Does it matter? Either way, you think he’s telling the truth.

“Seems a convoluted way to kill someone.” Nesta’s voice sounds more distant in the quiet. 

Wilsen shoots her a glare, from which she doesn’t baulk. “They were supposed to find you. It was supposed to hurt. We were going to take them on once they had. Make them pay.”

“They’d have torn through you,” she says. “You never would have made it out of here anyway.”

“It’s better to die standing than on our knees in front of a half-breed High Lord and his bastard brothers.” He starts to cough, like breathing might have become difficult.

“You’re dying, Wilsen,” you say, moving towards him to put pressure on the wound, but his hand shoots out to stop you and he shakes his head.

“Let me,” he snarls. “I gave you what you wanted, so let me die.”

“I can stop the bleeding,” you reply. It’s a strange kind of sorrow you feel for him. Dying alone, surrounded by people you hate, is no way to go, not even for males like him. He’s still young, still impressionable. Entrenched nonetheless. Someone will have to tell that family of his what he was willing to die for.

He winces, struggling to keep himself upright. “Don’t put your fucking hands on me.”

Nesta says your name and breaks you from your thoughts. “Leave him,” she says, “he doesn’t deserve your pity.”

You sigh and stand. As you do, you see relief flicker over Wilsen’s face before pain takes back over. If you offer him a quicker death, you’re not sure he’ll take it, so you don’t offer at all. 

“You’re sort of terrifying, you know,” Nesta adds, flicking her eyes from the lake and back to you. In her eyes, though, you don’t see fear. You see it in the way she assesses you, in how she holds her head. You’ve earnt her respect. 

Attention on your exit, you huff out a shaky laugh, eager to stop thinking of the dying Illyrian behind you. “That’s rich coming from you,” you say. When she frowns at you, you continue, “They call you ‘Lady Death’. You don’t get that name by preaching peace and love.”

“And what do you call me?” she asks, edging closer to the water, squinting up at the daylight.

You come to stand next to her. “I should like to call you my friend, Nesta.”

“Don’t push it,” she replies, but you can tell it’s not as serious as she meant it to be. 

“Not enemies then?” you suggest.

“If we get out of here without drowning,” she says, dipping her hand into the water and immediately pulling it back out again, “I’ll consider it.”

You offer her a small smile, seeing that for the olive branch that it is. “Good enough for me,” you say. “You know how to swim?”

She nods, but seems uncertain. “I can float well enough.”

“But, you don’t like water?” you ask tentatively. When she narrows her eyes at you, you hold your hands up in surrender. “Not judging. I don’t like heights.”

“Az takes you flying all of the time,” she deadpans, decidedly unimpressed.

You shrug. “He’s helping me get over it.” With a grimace, you add for her benefit, “It’s slow going.” 

Having only just managed to regain any sort of heat in your body, you’d hesitate to get back in freezing cold water, but with your magic not materialising any further than a few sputters in your veins, your conviction is all you have to get you through it. That, and the need to help Nesta out of here too. You crouch down.

“This is ridiculous,” she says, crouching with you.

Your eyes flick to the sword still in her hand. “You’ll have to leave that behind. When you get in, try not to panic. Your body will go into cold water shock if you do. It’s mind over matter, and once you’re used to it, you’ll be fine.”

“That,” she says, her voice dropping into something near enough trepidation, “doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Nesta. Just… trust me.”

With that, you push yourself off the edge of the rock and into the water, attempting to acclimate yourself to the temperature as much as possible, fully submerging yourself before you resurface, treading water with relative ease. You take deep breaths and stave off the biting cold, trying to show her that if you can do it, she can too. 

“Come on,” you urge, aware that even though you’re resilient, you can’t take much longer than ten minutes in here. A human would barely last five. “It’s not that far to the vines, and then we’re out of here.”

Laying the sword carefully down at her side, Nesta scans the water, as though she might be able to discern which parts are cold and which are tolerable, with little success, if the face she makes is anything to go by. You watch her take a few breaths, shut her eyes, and mutter something which might even be a prayer, or else a curse on your name if this goes wrong.

Then she jumps, feet first, into the lake.

You wait with bated breath for her to come back up, and for a few sickening seconds, you think she might be sinking until—

“Fuck!” she gasps. “That’s freezing.” She’s almost hyperventilating with how quickly her breath is coming. Not good, that’s panic. She needs something to focus on.

“Nesta,” you say urgently, wading over to her, “look at me.” With difficulty, she does. “You remember what I said before?”

Gaping, she nods.

“What did I say?”

“Try not to panic,” she says slowly.

“Right. What else?

As she thinks, her breathing starts to even out. “It’s not far to the vines.”

“Exactly,” you tell her, “we’re almost there.”

Thank the Mother, the gods, and anyone else who deigns to help you, Nesta starts to swim, and you let her get ahead of you just in case she needs you to support her. It’s tough and you are pushing with all your might to stay afloat, to make it to the first vine you see. 

Nesta grabs it and pulls herself out of the water, trusting that it can take her weight. The plant is thick and woody, so it does. She looks down at you, still in the lake, but you tell her to get out and up as soon as she can.

You find another, slightly thinner, but still strong enough to hold you. Your arms ache and your shoulders are screaming at you. You push and push and push, one thought in your mind: Get out. Get out. Get out. 

The vine seems to be getting higher the more you climb, like it’s growing faster than you can move, but you’re almost at the top. Just a little further.

Nesta, she’s somewhere, maybe above you, but you can’t hear her grunting as she hauls herself up anymore. You chance a look down and she’s not there either. You figure she must have made it out.

You’re so close. You can feel the sun on your face, can smell the fresh breeze of the outside. It must have been hours since you woke in that cell. Honestly, you’re not sure how long you’ve been gone. Maybe days. Gods, you’re so tired. The cold has sapped the adrenaline out of you and you’re running on fumes. 

The next hold you find on the vine snaps and you lurch to the side, yelling as you find purchase on a knot lower down. As you catch yourself, you force your ankle into a twist and something twinges. 

You hear Nesta swear faintly. You pull yourself in, steadying yourself, and you look up to see her peering over the side. She’s lying flat on her front, holding onto the edge of the gap. “You’re almost there,” she shouts down, her teeth chattering, her hair hanging loose in long, wet strands.

Every part of your body is telling you to stop, to rest, but you can’t. That’s a death sentence. You test how much weight you can put on your ankle and yelp as pain shoots all the way up your leg, but if you stay here, you’re doomed.

So, you keep going, using your arms to lift yourself up, your uninjured leg to hold yourself in place. Again. And again. And again. You grit your teeth and you lift.

When you’re within reach, Nesta lowers herself down as much as she dares and thrusts out her hand. Blissfully, you grab it as soon as you can. You feel her grip the back of your shirt as she pulls you the rest of the way out of the cave and the two of you roll to the ground, side-by-side, staring up into the cloudless, blue sky, chests heaving.

“Next time we hang out,” you say, breathless, “let’s just get a coffee or something. Go buy a book. Feed the ducks down by the Sidra.”

Nesta scoffs out a half-hysterical laugh. “Deal.”

She sits up and you meet her eyes as she looks down at you. “Your ankle?”

You hum roughly as you try to move it, but that shooting pain hits you again. “Totally fucked,” you say.

“I am not carrying you anywhere.” She looks around. “I don’t even know where we are. It doesn’t look like the Steppes.”

Letting out a sharp hiss as you pull yourself up, you take in your surroundings. “No,” you say, seeing how the snow is thin on the ground and the thick, tall pines of the Illyrian mountains have given way to bushier cedars. If you can find the source of that lake underground, a river or a stream, you can find a village somewhere, even in the middle of this unknown forest. When you were a merc, you did things like this all the time. “We’re further south, I think. Probably closer to the Hewn City than anywhere else.”

“How could you possibly know that?” she asks, frowning at you.

You raise a brow at her. “Observation,” you say simply. “There’ll be a settlement somewhere nearby. Or at least some shelter.”

“You,” she replies, “can’t walk. Not with your ankle like it is.”

“I have high pain tolerance.” 

When you try to stand, Nesta catches your wrist and holds you still. “We should wait for the poison to wear off a little more, then you might be able to do something.”

You shake your head, seeing how high the sun is in the sky. It’s past midday. “We don’t know how long that will take. If there are more Illyrians about, we need to move. I know you took them out down there, but you caught them unaware. We get spotted from the air? We won’t be so lucky. And just because we’re not in the Steppes doesn’t mean it won’t get dangerous come nightfall.”

Though she makes a face, she grits her teeth and gets up. She offers you her hand. “You’re as stubborn as him too.”

You take it gratefully and let her help you up. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” you say as she slips her hand around your back and supports you.

You pick a direction, and with Nesta’s help, you manage to hobble your way to a stream, then a village thankfully not too far from where you were being held. 

By the time the sky darkens and the stars illuminate the snowy ground, you two are in a semi-empty inn, sipping free soup by the fire, courtesy of the owner’s healthy fear of her High Lady and her sister. Nesta, you can tell, feels vaguely uncomfortable about it, and you like her all the more for her humility.

Come midnight, Nesta and you are half-asleep, dozing in the warmth and basking in the easy, quiet conversation you had been having about Sellyn Drake, of all people. When you go to your rooms, she bids you goodnight and you bid her the same. Your head hits the pillow and you’re out. 

You have a dreamless sleep for once.

In the morning, you jolt awake, pain erupting in your chest from the—gods, the mating bond. You desperately tug back, pulling so hard that the thread goes taut, telling Az I’m here! I’m here! Please, for the love of the Mother, please come and get me. Then you bolt out of bed, hop out of your room, and bash on Nesta’s door, calling her name and definitely waking the innkeeper.

Off-balance, you almost fall through her door when she opens it, but she steadies you. She looks like she barely slept, but then, you probably look similar given the day you had yesterday. A few hours isn’t really enough.

“The bond,” you breathe out. She needs no more explanation and you watch her concentrate, obviously calling on Cassian the same way you call on Az. “Is he—?”

“He’s alive,” she says sharply, “but… pained.”

“Shit. He’ll be okay.”

“I know.” But the worry on her face is pressed deep into the furrow of her brow.

“Az,” you say, “he’s on his way.” For good measure, you tug on the bond, now gorgeously back alive, fluttering in your chest, and he responds in kind. 

For a moment, her face lightens a fraction and her eyes flick behind you. 

You feel it then: the cold touch of a shadow wrapping gently around your wrist and, deep in your bones, that old, ancient warmth.

A grin breaks out on your face when you turn, seeing Az appear from shadow in the foyer, just as the innkeeper rounds the corner. She sucks in a breath and swears quietly, frozen in place, her eyes flicking between the three of you warily.

Az, his face carefully controlled, but with a bemused look in his beautiful hazel eyes, smiles at her gently. “Thank you for looking after them,” he says lightly, and you almost melt at the sound. 

You must send that down the bond because something akin to a chuckle skitters back at you.

“O-of course, my Lord.” Her mouth opens and closes a few times. Azriel waits patiently. “I’ll—w-will you be staying for breakfast?”

“No,” you say, “thank you. We’ll be heading off now.”

The innkeep swallows. “Right. Was e-everything to your liking, my lady?” Cautiously, she glances at Nesta, who does her best to soften her face, then back at you.

“Slept like a baby,” you assure her. You nudge Nesta.

“Yes,” she says. “A perfect stay, thank you.”

At that, Az raises a brow at you, more confused at Nesta giving you the time of day than anything else. Long story, you mouth at him.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” the innkeeper says decisively, promptly retreating back downstairs, presumably to cool her nerves.

“Cassian’s fine,” Az says to Nesta as soon as he’s assured it’s just the three of you up here. “He’s being dramatic about it.” Then he catches how you’re keeping your weight off your right leg. “What happened?” he asks darkly, his shadows coalescing around his shoulders.

“Just take us home,” you say, reaching for him. As he wraps an arm around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head, you inhale the scent of fresh, night-chilled mist and cedar, something so uniquely your mate’s that any tension left in your body drains out of you. “I think I want to sleep for a week.”

He huffs, pressing a kiss to your hair. Then, to Nesta, “Are they dead?”

“Difficult to kill a vine,” she deadpans. “I tried to get her to rest, but she’s worse than you. Get me back to Cassian, would you? He’s tugging on the bond like a child.”

His hand leaves your back to grab a hold of her and winnow you all back to Velaris through his shadows, which cling to you, fussing around your ankle like it’s a mortal wound. You barely feel the jump, Azriel making sure to keep you upright when you land on the terrace of the townhouse.

“He’s downstairs,” you hear him say. 

Nesta pauses for a moment, but then the door to the inside clicks, and it’s just you and Az.

“Do I want to know what happened to make Nesta look at you like she might actually like you?” he asks quietly, pulling away so he too can fuss over you.

You kick his shadows away. “I think we’ve come to an understanding,” you say. “Maybe we aren’t friends just yet but, it’s something.”

“...Good.”

Yeah, you think. It is.

[yoongihandfetish]

Hi… so I just finished Predator (for the fifth time — yeah, I’m not okay), and I have absolutely no idea how to function anymore. I’m sitting here like a dumbass, just staring into space, wondering how the fuck you managed to make a one-shot hit this hard. I am so fucking obsessed it’s embarrassing.

Like— “Predator”??? That title already had my knees weak, and then the summary?? “You’re tempting me�� you’re tempting yourself…” EXCUSE ME??? I was sold before I even clicked, and when I did click? I got annihilated. Obliterated. Emotionally and sexually wrecked. You did not have to go that hard, but you DID, and now I’m just a feral little gremlin rereading it on loop. Again.

Yoongi in this fic??? No, sorry — Predator Yoongi?? He’s not just hot. He’s not just sexy. He is dangerous. A walking goddamn thirst trap with a gun and a filthy mouth, and I ate that shit UP. The way you wrote him — the tension, the power, the fuck-you-up energy radiating off every line?? I wanted to throw my phone across the room and also tattoo every word onto my body.

And the smut??? The SMUT??? What the actual fuck. That wasn’t writing, that was black magic. It was so hot, I was clenching my soul. I had to stop mid-scene to just stare into the abyss like ???

You made it so fucking filthy and good that I almost ascended.

I needed holy water. I needed a fan. I needed therapy.

And yet — I still keep going back for more.

No thoughts, just Yoongi and sin.

And I love it here.

You’re a menace and a genius. The way you wrote the suspense, the pull, the mental chaos — you devoured. You made that dark tension feel so real, so tangible, that I forgot it was fiction for a second. I was like “yes ruin me, sir” with no hesitation. I know it’s a one-shot, and I respect the hell out of that. But if you ever drop a part two, a prequel, a bonus scene, or even a dirty little paragraph?? I’m here. Camped outside your inbox. Eyes wide. Thirsty. No dignity left.

Thank you for this brainrot. This masterpiece. This holy blasphemy.

You ruined me and I love you for it.

Yoongi supremacy forever.

Bless your sinful hands.

10/10 would let him kidnap me.

– a loyal, broken reader

😭🔥🖤💀

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 | MYG (m)

title. predator

summary. “Do you realize how dangerous this is? You're tempting me— you're tempting yourself to start something we both possibly don't want to know the consequences of.”

pairing(s). yoongi x female reader (oc)

genre. gangster au, smut

warnings. kidnäpping but not much of its descriptions, corruption and weapons, double thoughts, an..gst? , explicit warnings under the cut :)

wc. 7.8k+

a/n 1 : if you feel like some parts feel familiar to you, it's because this was previously posted in my old blog around a year ago which was inspired by ‘that that’. but this is a newly written and re-edited one :)))

taglist | main masterlist

smut warnings : masturbation(f), voyeurism and mentions of exhibitionism, fantasizing, dirty talk , slight humiliation, pet names teasing, chains and gloves 😗 , so much of teasing dear lord, bondage 🫣 , gagging with panties, bondage, oral (f. and allusions to m.) and fingering (f), finger sucking and squirting :D

“ f..fuck..”

Your eyes screw shut just the moment you feel your fingers working against the fabric of your clothed cunt, your wetness increasing with each flick of your fingers to your throbbing clit. You draw in a sharp breath, feeling your pussy clench around nothing as your moments get a bit faster, feeling your slick pool around your entrance. It's your fingers who are working, but in your mind, those ring clad fingers are the ones touching you. Pleasing you.

The feeling of your panties being the barrier is very much uncomfortable, you need to take that off to feel yourself completely.

You harshly pull your panties down your legs, feeling the cool air hitting your slick heat, making you shudder as you hiss in anticipation. You can't deal with this anymore, you need to do something. Or else you'd completely go insane thinking about that man.

It just happened like a daydream. A few days ago, you can guess, flying away like hours.

You wake up to a strong headache with your vision being blurred and watery. A pair of black Jordan shoes tapping the floor, in slow motions, comes to your sight, as if waiting for something to come is all that you could see at that moment with dots growing in your vision. The moment you feel a bit more awake, your whole body aches so bad, it feels as if you've been trashed up.

Your whole body feels as wobbly as jelly all over. Whimpering, you try to move slightly, but fail with a broken sigh. That's when you feel a strong arm wrapping around your figure, hauling you up swiftly, and you let out a small gasp at the action. Your head spins at the sudden movement as you squeeze your eyes shut. Your breathing was strained as your chest heaves up and down, trying to gulp as much oxygen as you could. You realize that you're no longer lying on the floor, but rather. . .a firm, clothed chest, which rose and fell with each breath, as you felt the thrum of heartbeats resonating in your own eardrums with each second that ticked by. Your eyes fly open at the simple realization that you were being hugged by someone, and that someone smelled like the subtle notes of lavender with a delicate undertone of citrus.

Your cheeks heat up when you realize how attractive you find this and how much your tired body seeks for the comfort his warm body provides you in the simple embrace. You want this small moment of comfort to last a bit longer, as you try to snuggle in, but the guy seems to have different plans. He yanks your fragile body away from his own, snatching away the small warmth you had, a whine building up in your throat in exhaustion.

You don't dare to open your eyes which feel as if they're burning with hot tears, but you do feel the strong gaze piercing into your skull as you feel yourself still being in his embrace, him still holding you with a single strong arm wrapped around your waist.

His unrelenting embrace felt sensitive on your skin as your muscles feel tight and sore, and you try to wriggle around a bit. Your limbs protest with pain the longer you stand on both of them, knees close to be giving up. You struggle to stay awake and not surrender to the lull of pain and tiredness which wants you to.

You don't know where you are, or how you came here, but you surely know, you can surely feel that the room, or wherever you stand is freezing cold. Suddenly, the oppressive and eerie silence was shattered by a sudden and chilling sensation.

A cold, metallic object pressed against your chin, and your eyes once again flew open with your heart racing,realizing that it was the barrel of a gun.

Your eyes can only pass away the unshed tears which had accumulated, soon finding yourself so close to a mass of silky but messy black hair, and you realize that you've been pulled back to your kidnapper’s embrace.

It felt suffocating how his alluring scent still clouded your senses, now sending them to a hayware as you take in the close proximity. You feel his grip on you tightening, his malevolent breath hot on your ear. A sinister, deep whisper slithered into your consciousness,

“Don't even think about it.”

As if you could.

Your fingers flick lightly against your heat, right above the protective skin of the sensitive pearl. Sharp gasps leave your mouth, feeling the pleasure build in your lower stomach the more you work on your delicate parts.

You were sure you were trembling on the table you were seated with your legs spread wide open, your viscous arousal dripping down to the table and making a mess on it. Would he love that it's all because of him?

Gods, if anyone enters the room without any notice of your position, the first thing they'd capture is your bare, pulsing cunt. But you were way too turned on to think straight or think about the possible consequences. Or did it rather turn you on? You didn't know.

A thin layer of sweat covers your almost nude body, your breasts heaving out with each breath and nipples begging to be touched, pebbled by the cool air and pleasure. But you're way too desperate to do that yourself- your mind screamed his name, physically unable to make any noises. Him, him, him.

“Ask no questions and be good. No harm would be done to you if you cooperate.”

His voice was laced with nonchalance, yet emerging as a sultry whisper with a slight rasp. He puts down your worn out figure to a black, slightly worn out couch, which seemed hard and dull with the appearance, yet it was more comfortable than the hard floor you had been lying on for what your spine told were hours.

You nervously squirm under his strong and unrelenting gaze, thinking that he’s implying your desire to escape from here. But much to your horror, or even delight, you are already craving the gush of the odd warmth he provided you, even if that was for a second. You gulp down your saliva, feeling your almost cracked throat ache in the process.

Your stomach churns at how wrong yet right this feels with your morals flying off the horizon, yet, a part of you asks if the ‘morals’ you were taught were actually morals, or were just ideals.

He passes you a bottle of water, sliding it towards you on the table as he keeps down the shotgun, followed by a small ‘click’ at the metal touching the wood. Your heart nearly pops up at the sight of how worn out it looks, the metal shining under the room's lighting almost looks dangerous.

The luster it holds reminds you that something as used and small could be just as dangerous regardless of how worn out it could be.

“But if you don't cooperate, this gun won't, too.”

You ought to be shivering at the tone he uses, and a part of you does. Despite the blood chilling threat, an unexpected thrill course through your exhausted veins, finding your kidnapper's dark charisma strangely alluring.

Your pupils fix on his right hand which still holds the gun. To make sure the gun wouldn't accidentally fire, he gently pushed the safety switch on the side of the gun to the "on" position.

It was a small, reassuring click that meant the gun couldn't shoot, even if he accidentally squeezed the trigger. You, or anyone else would be surprised at your knowledge about the parts of a gun but you'd rather think about your father’s ignorance of the specific part your kidnapper was cautious enough to push at the specific moment.

You were too exhausted to think that you were only eight when you first saw a similar gun lying on the coffee table, left open by no one but your father.

Your breathing is back to somewhat normal now. What actually clouds your senses is how you're obliged to agree that a man so beautiful like him, you had seldom encountered any in your limited time you were given access to freedom, back home. Yet, it surprises you that he's not some affluent multi-millionaire but a gangster or rather, a predator.

His fingers are pale and slender, with rings full on display. Following the veins of his wrist were shiny black bracelets and shell bands on top. You'd think that the color contrasts his beautiful pale skin so dramatically, if you'd stare at it enough it's gonna feel like a painting to you. Your eyes never quit checking him out silently as he sternly tells you that if you tried escaping, it won't be good for you.

From head to toe, you try to be subtle, but you cannot deny now when you'd hear your friends talk about what power the attraction towards a man holds. A small part of you wished if he could catch you checking him up, if he'd know your yearning for him.

How good would his fingers feel inside you ?

The thought alone makes your pussy gush out more arousal, your free hand toying with your hardened nipples as you moan quietly, or you try to.

You know that he would be around nearby, just to make sure you're not escaping..but you had no plans for that. You are already familiar that he's not idle enough to be camping by the cabin the whole day, and you're straight up delusional to think that the nightly visits (?) are for you.

You silently hope and pray that no one comes to rescue you sooner, because going back meant you could no longer be around him, and you'll no longer be free as you are now, as ironic that seems.

The irony intensifies because you trust him more than you trust your own father who was however on the verge to sell you off for his own benefit, for money. At times you'd wish to normally see Yoongi, not as some hostage and your abductor. So far, his men have been good, providing you food and water, and even some drinks to keep you going. You could be even proud of yourself to befriend one of them, or well, to have the goon talk to you if that is considered as befriending. They're all bark and no bite, you think, because they try a bit too hard to play even at times when you ask them for a silly stroll outside.

And if that was all, you'd happily agree to live with Yoongi. the man who seemed ice cold at the touch of eyes, but you knew he had much more for you to explore. You already know that a calm man like him gets enraged at the push of his extremes, and that leaves you pondering.

What would he actually be when his inner self is leashed out, as he pins you to the wall, hot bodies pressed against each other?

Would he bend you over the same table you're fucking yourself on?

Shit. It feels so wrong, but why does it feel so good? You're tormenting your enlarged clitoris in tight circles, feeling more and more slick drip down your hole. You cry out a silent plea, feeling the coil in your lower tummy twist harder with every flick, every touch to your delicate heat.

“Ahn..” you whimper pathetically, suddenly picturing his slender fingers working on your cunt instead of yours. His tongue which often he struck out to wet his lips..would lick your cunt lik—

Before you know it, your eyes roll back to your head, the coil in your tummy snapping into two. A loud moan of Yoongi leaves your throat, feeling your clitoris throb even harder with your orgasm. You shut your eyes close as pure waves of pleasure hit you in the form of white, pleasure so intense that you're seeing dots in your vision. You've never come so hard before like this, feeling your hole clench helplessly around nothing.

You cease your moments when you feel yourself jerk with overstimulation at a certain flick and you know it's time to stop.

Shame washes over you as you straighten up your back to a better position.

Fuck.

Yoongi was confused.

Or a bit concerned, even. It was nearly midnight when he was passing beside your cabin, already sure of you being well looked after. It was a small whimper which caught his notice and in the very first place it took him aback. He wondered what happened.

Though he had the most trusted men working under him, no one could ever know anything until something really happened. You can't risk anything. Worry itching in his veins, he advanced forward to the closed window of your cabin and listened closely. A string of profanities was all that he could hear, causing him to furrow his brows. Were you in pain ?

You weren't the target looked out for, merely just a bait. He did not want you to suffer, even if he knows that his men couldn't understand it at first when they bought you here. Even if he knows that he can’t explain it to you, he silently hopes that his further behavior could do that.

This was the reason why he immediately opened the door and the sight in front of him made his throat dry.

His eyes widened so slightly to see you spread out nude like an eagle on the table, your small hand pinching your erect nipples. Your head was lolled back and mouth hung open, occasionally the sweetest moans leaving your parted lips. his pupils shook violently to avoid travelling south and what he should absolutely not see. You were so desperately trying to get off, and he knew he should exit right away.

Fuck. He was definitely not a creep. Heat creeped up to his neck and cheeks at the realization and he turned back to leave.

Yoongi.

His name. You moaned his name and that upon reaching his ears, he needed to think. twice, thrice. With his head. the one on his neck, not with the one inside his pants, which twitched awake to life. He felt his heartbeat resonating in his own ears, and that left him feeling a single thing. Needy. He gulped, feeling his stomach churn with arousal and at the same time a gut feeling of this being wrong, and he couldn't think straight.

You let out a high pitched screech of his name with a strong of fuckfuckfuck, and he knew that you had already reached your orgasm. His cock now strained hard against the material of his pants, and Yoongi has to fight back a guttural groan from breaking free.

“You’re a lot more flexible than I thought.”

You freeze, your breathing labored as you recognise the voice. Fucking fuck. Blood reaches upto your cheeks as you peer up slightly with shock and embarrassment, shame doubling over inside you. You see him, Yoongi manspreading on the old couch opposite to you with a nasty smirk painted on his handsome features.

Had he been watching you?

You blink, feeling your whole body burn with embarrassment. You'd realize that if he did, he heard you doing sinful things to yourself while moaning his name. You were supposed to be scared of him, he even once held you at gunpoint, but you're not even a tad bit scared of him.

You feel oddly safe with him, around him, even if you're sitting naked and vulnerable infront of him. Maybe it's a bad idea to be so comfortable. He's not as crazy as you. How embarrassing, you consciously and immediately shut your legs close, shrinking under his strong gaze, cheeks warm and throat dry.

You gulp in nervousness, his expressions remain stoic but his eyes shine with amusement. You feel a bit too self conscious now, hoping to find your shirt where you last left it. But your eyes betray you, vision trailing down to his hands, clad with fingerless gloves which rests at his meaty, thick thighs clad with black leather pants. His manspreading has you gazing directly on his crotch area, and fucking hell.

He's girthy.

His hard-on does tell you that maybe he's been looking at you for quite a long time..

Your face heats up more if possible as your eyes succumb up to his face, an open mouthed, cocky smirk evident in his features. He cocks a brow at you, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“I’ll take it that you like what you see.”

Fuck. Fuck.

You did. You really did, and much to your horror you feel your clit throb with arousal once again.

“What if it was someone else other than me who heard you? Did you really like putting up a show like that ? ”

a deep chuckle left his throat, his voice much deeper than you've heard it to be. Or maybe you're just hallucinating.

“ tsk, tsk tsk. moaning my name so loudly in the middle of the night. Are you so okay with your moans waking everyone up, kitten?”

Fuck. Your hole pulses with arousal at his words and you're unable to answer him. Kitten. The nickname makes your insides go jelly, heart thumping loudly in your chest.

Yet, just sitting up properly and lowering your head is all that you can do, biting down on your bottom lip. You're inappropriately horny for him, and the shameless arousal which spikes inside you knowing that he's just as aroused like you makes you dizzy. If you're being honest, you can't care about anyone else when he's around. You blame it on the bubbling lust inside you.

He can be intimidating, he is intimidating, but for sure no one has made you feel this safer than he does, ironically being your kidnapper. You feel cozy inside a cabin rather than the luxurious bungalow you've spent your whole life till now in.

You're crazy, because maybe a wrong move from your side and you'll lie lifeless on this same floor with no one to give a fuck. That's how it usually works.

Yet, you want to take the risk. You do want to fall prey to the predator.

Suddenly, you feel a harsh tug at your chin, your cheeks squished together and your lips painfully rounded to a pout. You feel the leather of the glove of his palm directly in contact with your chin, cradling your face. Your shaking eyes meet his own, calm but burning eyes, and he almost lets out a growl. a guttural growl that almost has you feeling fresh arousal heat up your pussy.

“Speak when you're being spoken to. "

His face is so close to your own that it almost feels heaven to see him this close. His black hair is no longer slicked back, but now open and it parts beautifully on his forehead, long enough to reach his nape. His thick eyebrows are slightly furrowed, and wooden brown eyes were darker than you'd have seen them. They're blown out, the dim lighting of the room merging the brown of his iris to the black of his pupil into a whole dark mass.

You're so close that if you could, you could count the number of pores on his flawless, pale skin, which always seemed like no expensive skincare could afford such a glow. Even in a situation like this, it almost makes you feel as if you're bound under his spell, a spell which has your body going lax and sanity leaving you in an instant.

His grip on you is firm, but not harsh. He makes sure it's not too much. but however it makes him feel slightly different, slightly more confused to see nothing but admiration in your own blown out eyes and it makes him frown.

Why would you look at him with such a gaze? He's not dumb. He knows that look. With his free hand he brings his fingers close to his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose, frowning with his lips sealed tightly. Almost hiding a groan inside his throat, he chastises,

“I don't think you understand that I can kill you anytime with the same hands which you seem to be very fond of.”

It's a subtle warning he tries to jeer. He knew as much as he wanted this, you wanted this more. But after this would be done, things maybe won't be the same.

He got no response back, which silently pissed him more. He wanted you to speak. He wanted you to confirm that it's not a delusion. He wanted you to say it out loud. He didn't know if feeling this way towards your hostage could be rational, but lust can make you feel a lot— and he didn't know if this was right.

Squeezing your cheeks a bit more harsher this time, his right hand traveled down slowly, tracing an invisible path on your skin, leaving sparks of desire behind its wake. You feel your pussy ache with need, nipples pebble up and you nearly stifle a whimper.

His hand reaches for your knee, in such a soothing manner, prying it open that so are your legs. But it doesn't advance any further. It just rests on your heated, damp flesh, almost as if hesitant to move forward.

Your face heats up when you feel his touch ignite a passion in you and you feel a gush of your arousal trickle down your thighs. Fuck, you honestly did not expect that the touch of the cool leather could burn your skin to hell. Given that the hand belongs to Yoongi, you’re nearly gone. You're forced to look at him directly as he's still holding your face and his gaze is no longer icy.

They hold a certain glint you assume as softness, the ridges of his eyebrows no longer tight. Yet his feline gaze remains so firm that it has you feeling your heart course a foreign sensation that you could grasp as....shyness. Slowly, you feel just his fingertips on your knee run forward to the flesh of your inner thighs, testing you. Teasing you.

You're going to go insane.

“Pweash..” a whine escapes your puckered lips even before you know it. He only seems subtly pleased, opting to gently stroke the flesh of your inner thighs. Gods, the touch of leather. Did he really have to do this? Your hole clenches helplessly, having him toy with you so close to where you need him the most.

“What was that?” he lets go of his hand cradling your face, and suddenly snakes his arm to your nude waist and pulls you close. So close that you'd look at him, your noses will touch. Close enough to feel his breath fanning on your cheeks, close enough to have his fingers toying with your thighs dance near the skin of your dripping heat. Close enough to have your bare chest press against his own clothed one.

You huff slightly, both in slight ache in your cheek muscles and frustration of how smug he is.

“ Please, Yoongi.. ”

The smugness in his face disappears and the arm on your waist tightens. Yet, he makes no move to inch forward towards your aching center, and you're really lured to push your hips down to his hands, for anything. To relieve the ache. You don't know what he's thinking right now, but the seriousness on his face— laced with that deep voice of his — is a huge turn on for you, and you're shameless to admit it.

“Do you realize how dangerous this is?You're tempting me— you're tempting yourself to start something we both possibly don't want to know the consequences of,” his voice is oddly cold as his gaze remains fixed on your own. His voice sounds. . . uncertain, somehow, but not hesitant.

“Do you not want this?” you ask him, your voice small as you suddenly realize that the cabin is beginning to get colder and colder. His head drops down, his hold on you slightly wavering, but nevertheless still there— and he shakes his head. Almost as if he's trying to convince himself about his own inner questions. As if he's denying them all.

“I don't fuck around with people I'm not supposed to fuck around with.” his voice is laced with a questioning tone, you notice, and his fingers resting on your inner thighs twitch. “You. . . you're just being used as bait.”

“I know.” you ache to cradle his face in your hands, but then you realize that it maybe is a bit more intimate than you'd think. He looks dejected at you knowing the information, about the possibility that maybe your own father won't spare your life. Now or later, it's perhaps inevitable that he'd suspect you being not liable enough about his family business secrets, and he'd get a way out. To have you removed from his path.

“Why. . .?”

His expressions morph to one of despair, and his eyebrows furrow. He was so fucking confused that why'd he be so affected by something as common as that. He knows it's not something odd for patriarchal leaders killing members of their own families just for the sake of their business— he has seen a lot of them through the course of years. And what hit him in the chest was how casual you were about it— almost as if you were aware of your family’s intention all along.

He did not know why whatever he felt inside his chest for you was oddly soft, something he strictly banished himself to feel. He could not. He had no room for softness inside him. no fucking way. He tried ignoring it, but as days turned to weeks, he knew that he subconsciously broke his own rule.

“What why?” you tilt your head in confusion.

“Why are you so cool about it?”

“It is what it is.”

“You don't reali—”

“I fucking do. I fucking want you, Min Yoongi. I fucking want to stay with you. Please.” his eyes widen and you see his pupils shake and the gears inside his brain rotate.

“I do realize that you've never ever taken the responsibility of a person on your own shoulders. Your team is capable enough to take care of themselves, and you perhaps are thinking that I,” He sighs at your words, shaking his head and pressing his lips to a straight line in a grimace.

He's considering everything, not because of you or him, but for both of you. For the future.

Your thumb caressed the subtle hints of a stubble on his chin, no longer feeling the pull to stay quiet. Not when you've finally got the chance to be. “...that I possibly can't do that,”

“Even if you do, you must know that there's no going back. No looking bac—”

“No looking back, Yoongi. I got it.”

You bring forward your hands to cup his warm cheeks within your palms. His eyes widen and his mouth parts slightly, and you'd almost think it to be impossible for a dangerous, intimidating gangster like him to be so adorable. Your hands travel to his nape, where the silver jewelry rests, carefully running your fingers on the edgy metal patterns.

Your face falls at the silence and the stoic countenance you're met with.

The way his heart thumped inside his chest at your words was enough of an evidence to him, but he knew it could be just another dangerous game. He has never been with any woman he's kept hostage over the years— and he'd thought it wouldn't be his first time.

He wants to believe you— he wants to believe the honesty and innocence reflected in your eyes, but there's that part of his brain which has learnt the harder way. Yoongi knows that a single mistake and his whole group would be hustled to the blazes of the vermillion.

“Why are you doing this?” his eyes bore into your own, two pools of endless obsidian, threatening to shallow you in the mysterious depths of them.

His hand near your thigh caresses further your neglected heat, and you jolt at the sudden touch. His face inches closer to you, once again, so daringly close that once again you can make out how fierce his eyes seem right now. His warm breath falls on your now sweat dried skin near your cheeks, and there's a spike in your heartbeat.

He expects an answer, you know that he's not going to say that out loud, and the leather of his glove on the skin of your thigh feels rather soft. Your gulp down a mouthful of air, preparing to say something out loud which you haven't ever.

“It's because I. . . I want to live. I want to be set free.”

“Hnngh!!”

Some few moments ago, you were almost lured into thinking that you'll call it a night.

You felt like the gangster mode was switched off after your conversation, but he'd warned you that the conversation wasn't over yet. You'd breathed down a sigh of half relief and half wonder, pondering over how an act like. . .such, escalated to something you'd craved for. Embarrassment to confession.

But when his gloved pointer brushed the innermost skin of your thigh, your eyes widened as wide as saucers, looking up to him, who already had an open mouthed smirk painted on his face, almost as if he's amused.

“So how do you want me to fuck you?”

His crude words had a fresh wave of arousal pulsing out of you, and you'd gasped silently, accidentally batting your lashes at him. He'd groaned out loud, once again grabbing your face and pulling you close till his soft lips brushed over your own parted ones.

“Wasn’t that what you actually wanted, princess? Me to fuck you dumb?” you should've known that he indeed had a dirty mouth, but estimating how much it made your cunt throb and gush, you'd known that you didn't want him to stop. You'd moaned at his words, silently nodding furiously like a pathetic bitch.

“Did I or did I not tell you to speak when you're spoken to?” he'd growled right at your face, an arm snaking around your waist once again. His eyes had trailed down to your exposed breasts, and the hand on your waist had trailed closer to the swell of your boob. He'd licked his lips at the sight, but made no further move which had you squirming for his touch.

“Please Yoongi, please touch me. .”

A pleased smile had taken over his features at your pleas.

“Flashing these tits right on my face and then asking me nicely. Who am I to deny? Whatever princess wants, princess gets.”

And with that, he'd dipped down to your breasts, your back immediately arching up to his greedy mouth where he'd toyed with your hard nips till your breasts were spotted with blooming purple marks.

But right now, your throat already feels dry crying out his name repeatedly as you can only see the dark mass of raven hair peeking in between your thighs, tickling you over and over as his skilled mouth brings you closer and closer to a blinding climax.

Your eyes are glossy and your nipples hurt as how erect they are, but you cannot do anything about it. Your arms are restrained with the leather of Yoongi’s belt digging into your flesh, and the slight pain intensifies the sparks of pleasure traveling up your body from down your cunt.

You squirm with a muffled whine, eyes burning with tears at how many times your already sensitive cunt was brought closer to a teeth clashing orgasm, only to have it denied by him. He'd raise his head to look up at you, his lips shiny with spit and your arousal, absolutely smug about how his tongue alone has you fucked up completely. His gloved hands would stroke the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, gently bringing them closer to your sensitive clitoris.

His thumb would gently circle around the protective skin covering your nub and you'd muffle a needy moan, unable to speak because you'd riled him up so bad, he had to shove your panties down your mouth with a growl and a promise that when he's done with you, you won't be even able to hobble well.

Fuck, you were shameless to admit that him being in charge and asking you each time whether the belt hurt you, or did you really like that, made your pussy gush out more and more for him to devour it all up.

His tongue flicks right on the top of your clit, and your back arches like the nth time off the table at how light headed the pleasure is making you feel. You feel like combusting , but also, not quite yet with how his touches are intense but gentle. You're now on the edge to burst out to the sea of such a delicious torture of bliss— and you'd do anything for him to do it for you.

You grind your hips right on his face as his tongue laps down your arousal, sucking gently on your soaked folds as you feel your thighs shake with the little leeway he gives you. His nose nudges your clit and you shiver. His nose bumps against your flesh again, he's doing it exactly on purpose to have you writhing underneath him.

His face is flushed— hair sticking to his sweaty forehead and how dark his pupils are, you know that he's just as fucked as you are.

“This cunt is,” a lick to your soaked folds, the wet muscle nudging them open to dive in further, “fucking divine.” and he fucks his tongue right in, the vibration of his voice quivering through your body.

With a broken whine, you try to gyrate your hips to chase the immense euphoria he's bringing you, feeling your walls clench around his wet muscle. He fucks his tongue in a vicious manner, curling it up to touch the tips of your walls and fucking it back out; all whilst the plane of his nose rubs against your poor, tender clit with each commotion.

His tongue stills after he feels you grind against his face with a rough fervor and your velvety walls pulsate around his tongue. You whine at the loss of momentum, already having your peak being snatched away from you, once again.

His lips suck around your nether ones for a last, long caress and then parts away ; licking up his lips coated in your arousal and his spit, some of which dribbles down his chin. He's quick to collect them all using his fingers and hover over your figure; some of his dainty chains are long enough to brush over your bare clavicles, dangling over you.

His black shirt sticks to his body and you can almost figure out the planes of his body. It's completely unfair, you being completely naked and him being completely clothed. He seems to like the way you wiggle your hips underneath him, looking up at him with eyes you think you weren't capable of batting much.

Because he smirks at your fucked up, desparate expression and pushes away the long, sweaty strands of raven falling from his head to the side with his clean hands, and brings his soiled fingers to your lips.

“Taste yourself,” his voice has a rasp and you comply, opening up, only to have him push two of his fingers inside your warm cavern, having your panties dragged out. The material of the smooth leather with the viscous arousal wrapped around his slender fingers sits heavy on your tastebuds, and you immediately swirl your tongue to savor it more.

He groans, and immediately withdraws his fingers, now clean. His breathing is erratic as he leans down to steal a quick kiss from you, and you whine when you feel him pull away. He says nothing, but just whispers words of praise in your ears, mindful of your restraints. Your arms feel numb to move by the time he gently unbuckles the belt around your wrist, and he catches you off guard once again when he pulls you into a kiss, his tongue sneaking in between your gasps and tangling with yours.

Your heart beats erratically in your chest when he parts away from you, resting his forehead against yours.

“Gonna finger you now,” his voice is brisk with a pant at the end. His neck is flushed red, glistening with sweat with a slight pant. “Princess deserves the best of the night. Not just some fondling.”

Your face feels warm as you catch onto what he's referring to.

Once again, you find yourself laying down with a throb in your cunt, and him kneeling in between your spread legs to pepper soft kisses on the now dried, slightly damp thighs. When his tongue flickers on the sensitive skin, you jolt and struggle to get up on your elbows, because as much as you're enjoying this, it's a torture that he did not allow you to come at all.

Your cunt pulses and aches for him, but he seems to take his sweet time; softly passing his hands to stroke your flesh and mark them.

When a singular finger strokes the length of your soaked slit, your mouth falls open in a gasp. The leather of his gloves add to the friction as he drags his fingers in an up and down motion, spreading your arousal around. Yoongi is so keen on observing your cunt closely, and there's a desire inside you to tuck away the long, stray strand of his hair back. You're already inching your hand forward when his dark eyes snap up to yours, stopping you in your moments.

You don't even have the time to withdraw your hands when a pair of strong arms curl on the underside of your thighs and pull you forward, licking a stripe right above where his fingers are nested; and in no time you feel the plane of his tongue attacking your poor nub with kitten licks.

“God,” you gasp out loud, trashing your arms around to find any leverage as you fall flat on the table. Your fingers can only claw the edge of the table as his tongue passes over the slick of your skit with each lick, and the air is punched out of lungs the moment you feel two of his digits enter your slit with ease.

You feel his chuckle vibrate against you which goes straight to your clit. “No God will hear you out, doll.”

Fuck. Fuck. You can only arch your back in a broken moan of his name when you feel his fingers move inside of you, not yet thrusting, but curling up. It burns a bit, but the heady bliss is already making your head spin with the added slight pain. He raises his head up to see how fucked you already look, and he knows that all the edging has brought you so close already that he can feel your tight walls tighten impossibly tight around his fingers.

He feels his cock twitch in his pants, begging for attention when he notices your slick trickling down the material of his glove, right in between the joints of his fingers as he stays still.

“M-move, you can move..” the end of your sentence ends up in a whine as his fingers curl forward in full force, immediately finding the spongy area which has lights bursting behind your eyelids. He soons picks up the pace, his fingers thrusting in and out your cunt in a swift motion which has you gasping for his name.

The soft jagged edges of his glove brushes the walls of your pussy with each pump, and you've never ever felt so good during fingering without any clitoris stimulation. You'd tried that a few times, only to have you grumbling because of your much smaller digits and a need to have something more. And he's right there. Yoongi’s fingers, much thicker and longer than your own ones, feel delirious inside you.

“You’re so tight, princess,” Yoongi groans when he feels you tighten around him with each thrust, pushing you down to your impending orgasm with each pump, with each caress.

Your veins feel like they're on fire, your nipples aching to be touched, and so you do. Pulling them taut between your nimble fingers, your back bows off the table when Yoongi lunches down to close his pretty lips around your neglected clit. Oh fuck. . . ! That feels so fucking amazing, and you're sure you feel his fingers abuse that spot inside of you simultaneously, all while giving his attention to your burning flesh. You're so fucking close that you can taste your orgasm, and there's a slight rush thinking if he'd egde you this time too.

Your eyes shut close the moment his fingers go knuckles inside for a thrust and curls, and at once his lips suction around your clit, hard.

You're seeing Heaven.

You scream out when your orgasm washes over you, intensified with each you were denied off. Your back feels like it flew off the table as your orgasm dawn's down on you like an avalanche, sliding off all around your body in red hot euphoria as Yoongi’s speedy ministrations don't cease. You miss how audibly he moans out loud when a particular thrust inside your cunt has a gush of clear liquid squirting out, his mouth never leaving your now fully erect clit.

His tongue swirls around and sucks, while his fingers stroke the spot inside you. And this time when your hips gyrate up in full force to his face and he hears another scream of his name and a choking resistance to his fingers inside you, he knows that he's fulfilled his goal.

Your orgasm seems to hit you over and over, and over. Your abdominal muscles are dense by the time you feel yourself twitch with the aftershocks of your release, and dear fucking god. You've never come this hard in your life before, and you do know that the man between your legs is the reason.

You hoist yourself up to yourself up to your elbows to look at him who's half hovering over you, but oh god.

He's drenched.

His lower face glistens with moisture and his t-shirt looks like someone just shot him with a water gun, the damp material forming quite a big wet spot right below his collar. He's wide eyed, smirking with a breathy laugh which makes you want to curl up. Fucking hell. No wonder why your orgasm felt so blinding, and you can still feel his warm hands on your thighs, gently stroking your thighs with soft passes.

Oh god, you just squirted.

Yoongi made you squirt. Was that way too much? You don't even know! But for Yoongi, he's smiling as everything to him is riveting, of course.

You're about to hide your face in your palms when Yoongi stops you. His gloves felt damp on your skin, and when you peel your eyes open, he's so dangerously close. So close which makes your head spin and heart race, once again.

“That’s what a real orgasm is, princess. Don't be ashamed.” He helps you get up the table, your legs feeling like fresh pudding and thighs burning. He can only snort in amusement, when you pout at him. What's so funny?

“It was hot as fuck.”

“What?” face warm, you try to cover yourself to which Yoongi lazily raises a brow. He just points a finger to your parted legs. He. . .!

“You. Squirting. It was hot as fuck. Plus the screams were like cherry on the top,” he shrugs, almost as if he didn't fucking wreck you with just his skilled tongue and fingers. Your face burns up at how casually he says that, and before you can think, you blurt out, “You think so?”

“Mm.”

It's your turn to raise a brow. You don't feel scared of him anymore, not even when the post nut clarity is hitting you. You know what you two did, and there's no going back. You feel rather at ease with how he holds one of your palms and slings an arm around your waist to haul you down the table, and you know that this is your chance.

You drop down to your knees.

And now it's him who's wide eyed. His clothed erection stands right in front of your face, almost as if struggling to get out of the hard confines of his jeans. The dent looks promising in size, and you nearly poke out your tongue to give it a lick, but you refrain. You hear him inhale a sharp breath, his hand already coming down to your shoulder to hoist you up, but you swat his hands away.

“What. . .what are you doing?” his voice comes out in a slightly surprised tone, the rasp of it already making you impatient. How could he not pay attention to himself when he's himself so fucking hard? Your hands slowly grab his meaty thighs over his denims which tense under your touch. You lick your lips, purposefully batting your eyelashes when you peer up at him, trying to look as small as you can.

Trying to make him as good as he made you feel, but you doubt your inexperienced ass could do that.

“Can’t you see? Returning your favor.”

He looks torn. The crease in between his eyebrows tell that he's hesitant for this, and he doesn't like that bratty tone you'd just used. But the parted lips imparting short breaths tell otherwise. His reply comes rather quickly, “You don't have to.”

You were sure to be hallucinating, but you could see a small twitch to his length, and you immediately felt your nether gates flooding. Oh god. You must return the favour, then.

“I want to, Yoongi, would you let me, please?”

Completely naked, batting eyelashes, pretty face and tempting view of boobs. Nimble fingers tracing the pathway of his thighs, dangerously close to his aching cock. He did want you, but. . . fuck. . ! And not to deny the image he gets of you kneeling down in front of him, your toes facing outwards and ass purposefully wiggling out, Yoongi knows he's about to bust a nut. And that too, very soon.

Who the fuck is he to deny, then.

“Since you begged for it,” his hands reach to tuck a stray hair out of your beautiful face, feeling his abdominal muscles clench when your fingers brush against his length, he smiles with a shaky exhale.

“Go ahead and take what's yours.”

a/n : soo~ what do we think? 🤒

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[moonlitstoriess]

Could I request an angst to fluff fic for Cassian? The plot can be whatever you want, I can’t think rn

Make It Right- Cassian x fem!reader oneshot

Summary: On Y/N’s birthday, Cassian forgets the special day, caught up in the chaos of the world around them. Hurt and disappointed, Y/N tries to hide her feelings, but Cassian soon realizes his mistake. What follows is a heartfelt apology, and a love that reminds them both that sometimes, making things right takes more than just words.

A/N: Tomorrow is my birthday, yay!! 🥳 This is a little early birthday post I'm sending your way, hoping that you will enjoy it<3 Thank you for the request anon!

See masterlist

Warnings: Angst at first, cassian being an idiot

Y/N woke with a soft stretch, the warmth of sunlight streaming through the window and brushing her face. Today was the day—her birthday. She had woken up with a fluttering excitement in her chest, a smile already forming as she thought of the plans, the laughter, the quiet moments she might share with Cassian.

Her fingers brushed against the empty side of the bed.

Furrowing her brow, Y/N glanced at the space beside her. Cassian wasn't there, and for a moment, she wondered if he had gotten up early for training. But no, that didn't seem right. It wasn’t like him to leave without a word.

Her gaze wandered to the small table beside the bed, where a piece of parchment caught her eye. Cassian’s familiar handwriting sprawled across it, and her heart fluttered. Maybe he was just up to something… maybe it was a surprise.

With a little smile, she reached for the letter and unfolded it carefully, her eyes scanning the words.

My Love, I’ve gone up to the Illyrian camps for a few hours to speak with the warriors about some new strategies we need to implement. You know how it goes—these things are never quick. But I’ll be back before you know it. I know you’re probably still sleeping, so I’ll let you get your rest and will see you soon. I love you more than words can say. I can’t wait to see you later.

Yours forever, Cassian

Y/N blinked at the letter. There was no mention of her birthday. Not a single word about the day that should’ve meant something special between them. Her heart sank just a little, the fluttering excitement slowly replaced with an unfamiliar heaviness. She sat there for a moment, staring at the letter, wondering if she'd missed something, if she was misreading it.

But no, there it was in black ink—nothing about today.

Sighing quietly, she set the letter back down and ran a hand through her hair. Maybe he had something planned. Maybe he was just working on a surprise. Cassian always had a way of doing things in his own time, in his own way. He wouldn’t forget, right?

It was only a few hours, after all. He’d come back, and they’d spend the day together. Maybe he was just setting up something grand for later. Maybe he was waiting to make the moment perfect.

She took a deep breath, pushing the little pang of disappointment aside. He loves me, she reminded herself. He always does.

With that, Y/N stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her clothes and moving toward the window. She still had hope. Cassian was always full of surprises, and she knew, deep down, that he wouldn’t let today slip by without showing her just how much she meant to him.

Right?

The morning passed in a blur of warm wishes and gentle laughter, but still, Y/N couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach. The Inner Circle had been kind—so kind—and she was deeply grateful for their love and friendship. Rhys and Feyre had, without hesitation, invited everyone to the River House for a breakfast celebration in her honor. It was a gesture that spoke volumes, and it made her heart swell with affection. The beauty of their bond—of how they all looked out for one another—was something she cherished deeply.

When she’d arrived at the River House, she was greeted with warm smiles, hugs, and laughter. Nesta, for all her quietness, gave her a genuine hug, and even smiled at her, a rare moment that made Y/N’s chest tighten with appreciation. Amren had actually let out a small compliment—something about Y/N’s hair looking especially “charming today,” which made Y/N laugh.

The table was filled with an array of foods, a spread fit for royalty, and there was an undeniable sense of warmth in the air. Feyre had gone out of her way to make sure everything was perfect—her usual artistic flair evident in the way the food was arranged, the flowers placed just so on the table.

But even as the smiles and laughter surrounded her, as they all joked and ate together, there was an ache within her that refused to fade. She couldn’t help but feel a little hollow without Cassian by her side, his absence growing more pronounced as the day wore on. She couldn’t push the thought from her mind—why hadn’t he been here to wish her a happy birthday? Why wasn’t he here now?

Her eyes kept drifting over to the window, the soft breeze moving the curtains gently as though calling her attention to the world outside. She had expected him to show up at any moment, maybe swooping down from the skies in his usual fashion, grinning like a fool and pulling her into his arms, apologizing for being late with a cocky smirk. But no. He hadn’t come. And worse yet, he hadn’t even checked in through their bond, hadn’t sent even a whisper of a thought to her. It was unlike him, and it stung more than she cared to admit.

She tried to focus on the joy of the moment. She really did. She was surrounded by people who loved her. Her friends, her family—each one of them expressing their joy for her in their own unique ways. Nesta had even offered her a gift, something she’d made herself—woven from fine, shimmering strands of thread—and Y/N had been touched beyond measure. Amren’s usual sharp smile seemed more genuine today, her eyes glinting with something softer than usual. And Feyre, as always, had a way of making her feel special—her quiet words of gratitude and love making Y/N’s heart swell.

Azriel, ever the quiet and observant one, had given her a rare smile when he raised his glass to her. His dark eyes held a warmth that she didn’t often see, his gruff exterior slipping just a little in the presence of the people he cared about. Y/N couldn’t help but feel a sense of comfort from the shadowsinger, his support steady and unspoken, as always.

Elain, with her gentle kindness, had hugged her tightly when they first arrived, speaking softly about how much she admired her strength and how happy she was to be a part of the day. The warm sincerity in Elain’s words had made Y/N’s heart ache—she could always rely on her to brighten any room with her peaceful presence.

And then there was Mor. A force of nature in her own right, the bright, bold smile on Mor’s face never seemed to fade. She’d given Y/N a gift, a beautiful piece of jewelry that shimmered with a kind of magic. Mor’s exuberance was infectious, pulling everyone into her orbit, filling the space with laughter and light. She had gone out of her way to make Y/N feel like a queen today, fussing over every detail and making sure Y/N knew just how much she meant to the entire Court.

Each one of them had done their best to make today feel special. They were all here, surrounding her with love and light, and yet... Cassian’s absence loomed over it all, a shadow she couldn’t shake.

She reached for her glass, taking a sip, but her thoughts kept drifting. Maybe he’ll come back soon. She told herself again and again, trying to quell the disappointment. But the longer she sat there, the more she realized something: He wasn’t here. And he wasn’t even thinking about her. The bond between them was silent. No whispers, no gentle pull on her heart. She kept waiting for a flicker of warmth, some kind of connection—but there was nothing.

She pushed the thoughts aside for a moment when Mor raised her glass, calling everyone’s attention to make another toast in her honor. The cheerful clink of glasses around her made her smile, and she tried to focus on the love and laughter in the room. He’s not here right now, she thought, forcing herself to believe it. But I’m still loved. I am loved.

Azriel’s low voice cut through her thoughts, his words aimed at her but spoken with that quiet intensity only he could manage. “Don’t let today be overshadowed by his absence. You’re not alone, Y/N. We’re all here.”

Y/N met his gaze, his deep, steady eyes holding hers. She felt a little lighter, the weight of her worries lifting just slightly. You’re right, she thought, her heart grateful for his reminder. And yet… her mind couldn’t help but wonder, Why wasn’t Cassian here to remind me himself?

As the morning wore on, the atmosphere in the River House felt warm and alive with chatter, music, and the clinking of glasses. Y/N continued to do her best to push away the dull ache that kept settling in her chest, trying to enjoy the celebration for what it was. It wasn’t as though she didn’t appreciate everything her friends were doing for her. They had all been kind and thoughtful, their efforts unmistakable.

But still, she couldn’t quiet the little voice in the back of her mind. Cassian’s absence. The unanswered questions.

It was when Rhys approached her, a gift in hand, that her thoughts were interrupted. He gave her a knowing smile, his eyes gleaming with that familiar warmth. “Happy birthday, Y/N,” he said softly, offering her the small, beautifully wrapped package.

“Thank you, Rhys,” she replied, her smile sincere as she accepted the gift. She’d always adored Rhys’ sense of humor and his ability to bring light into any room, but today… her mind wasn’t fully there. She carefully unwrapped the present, revealing a small, intricate bracelet—crafted from what appeared to be moonstone, its pale light catching the sunlight in a way that made it shimmer like stars. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, touched by his thoughtfulness.

Rhys smiled, watching her with a quiet kind of affection. “I thought it might remind you that even when it feels like someone’s missing, you’re still a part of something bigger. The stars will always be there, just like us.”

Y/N’s heart swelled at his words. “Thank you, Rhys.”

He leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “I’m sure Cassian is preparing something extraordinary for you today. Don’t let the silence fool you. He’s up to something.”

Hope bloomed in her chest, delicate at first, like a fragile flower testing the air for warmth. “It wasn’t you who sent him to the Illyrian camps, was it?”

Rhys chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, definitely not. Why would I send him away knowingly on the day of his mate’s birthday?”

Y/N’s pulse quickened. Could it be that there had been a misunderstanding? Had Cassian been caught up in something unexpected? That seemed likely, didn’t it?

Rhys continued, his smile shifting to something more teasing. “He told me that the Illyrian camps had requested him—one of the commanders asked him personally. And I’m sure you know how those requests work. You don’t just say no to an Illyrian commander, especially when they come with an urgent matter. He also told me that he didn’t want Azriel to go since he already has too much on his plate.” Rhys paused, giving her a pointed look. “You know how it is. The more people you have, the more work piles up.”

Y/N nodded, still uncertain but feeling a spark of relief. So it wasn’t Rhys...

“But that’s not the only thing,” Rhys continued, his tone taking on a more knowing edge. “You know as well as I do that when you go up into the camps, you can’t come back before atleast a full day because of all that is going on there. He told me he’d be back by late afternoon. And trust me, he’s never one to be late when it comes to something important. Especially when it involves you. He’ll be here, Y/N. I’m sure of it.”

Y/N’s chest tightened as she processed his words. Cassian wouldn’t miss today. He wouldn’t let me down, not like this...

She looked up at Rhys, who was watching her with an intensity that told her he understood her internal struggle. “I know it’s hard, Y/N. But you have to know this: he’s coming back. I’m sure he’s planning something incredible for you, just like he has every year since you have been mates. It’s just not the way you expected it.”

Her thoughts swirled. I should trust him. I should trust that Cassian loves me enough not to forget today... But her mind kept circling back to the letter. Maybe he really is just caught up in something. Maybe he’s doing everything he can to get back to me.

“Thank you, Rhys,” she whispered, feeling a little lighter. She hoped he was right, hoped that Cassian would return with the grand gesture she was waiting for.

Rhys gave her a wink. “Anytime, Y/N. You deserve all the love in the world. Don’t let today slip by with doubts.”

As Rhys moved back to join the others, Y/N let the words linger in her mind. He’s coming back… he has to be.

But still, a part of her remained uncertain. What if there was more to this than just a simple delay? What if he’s forgotten entirely?

For now, though, she’d wait. She’d trust in the love they shared, in the bond that had always connected them, even when the distance felt unbearable.

As the hours passed, the River House buzzed with life and laughter. Y/N tried her best to keep her smile in place, to enjoy the company of those around her, but it was hard to ignore the absence of the one person she had been waiting for all day.

The birthday breakfast had come and gone, and now the afternoon stretched out before her, warm and full of promise—yet empty without Cassian’s presence. She was surrounded by friends, all of them who cared for her deeply, but somehow, it all felt incomplete.

Azriel and Mor had spent the afternoon lounging outside, talking quietly about their latest missions, their voices low and private. Nesta had wandered off for a while, clearly needing some time alone, but she’d made sure to hug Y/N tightly before slipping away. Feyre had suggested a walk through the gardens, a calm, peaceful escape that allowed them to chat more privately, and Y/N was grateful for the distraction. They’d discussed everything and nothing—how Feyre was adjusting to being a mother, how Y/N had been feeling about the latest changes in the Night Court—but the whole time, her thoughts kept drifting back to the empty space beside her.

Her eyes had lingered on the door, half-expecting to see Cassian come striding through it, his laughter booming in that familiar way, his arms wide to pull her into his embrace. But each time, her hope was met with nothing but the quiet hum of the house.

By the time the afternoon sun began to dip toward evening, Y/N had retreated to a corner of the house, seated in a comfortable chair by the window, looking out at the vast expanse of the world beyond. The river glittered in the fading sunlight, the gentle lapping of the water against the bank providing a quiet soundtrack to her restless thoughts.

She absentmindedly fiddled with the bracelet Rhys had given her, tracing her fingers over the smooth, cool surface. It was a beautiful gift—something she’d treasure forever—but right now, it felt like a reminder of how little she truly had today. She had expected so much more.

She was no stranger to the chaos of Cassian’s life, to the unpredictability of his role as General. She knew that sometimes, his responsibilities pulled him away from her. She’d always understood that. But today… today felt different. Today felt like it should’ve been the day—the one where he set aside everything else to focus on her. To remind her how much she meant to him.

Her thoughts drifted again to that damn letter from the morning. She could still picture the simple words, how they hadn’t even mentioned the significance of the day. Was he really too busy? Was it just bad timing?

A soft, familiar presence appeared at the edge of her thoughts, and she felt the lightest flutter through their bond—a tiny whisper, like a fleeting breath in the back of her mind. It was just a brush, a flicker. But it was enough to make her heart race, enough to make her wonder if perhaps Cassian was finally reaching out.

But no. It was gone almost as quickly as it came.

“Y/N?” Feyre’s voice broke through her reverie, and Y/N turned to find her standing at the edge of the room, watching her with gentle concern in her eyes. “You okay? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

Y/N forced a smile. “Yeah, just thinking.”

Feyre stepped closer, sitting on the edge of the windowsill beside her. “I know it’s hard, waiting for Cassian. But you have to know he’s going to be here soon. He wouldn’t miss today for the world."

Y/N nodded, but the words felt hollow. She appreciated Feyre’s attempt at reassurance, but it didn’t change the emptiness that had settled into her bones.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Y/N murmured, looking down at her hands, where the bracelet rested against her wrist. “I just… I expected more today, you know? More of him. It’s hard not to feel like I’m being forgotten.”

Feyre reached over, gently squeezing Y/N’s hand in hers. “Cassian doesn’t forget. Not about you, not about your worth. I know you know that, deep down. But his responsibilities… they take over sometimes.”

Y/N didn’t say anything, but her heart felt heavy with the truth of Feyre’s words. She knew this. She had always known how demanding Cassian’s work was. Yet, in this moment, none of that seemed to ease the ache in her chest.

They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet of the room thick between them.

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” Feyre said after a beat, “Rhys and I were talking earlier. He’s certain Cassian is planning something spectacular. He wouldn’t let this day go by without making it up to you, I promise.”

Y/N gave a small, shaky smile. “I hope you’re right.”

Feyre patted her hand. “Come on, let’s go join the others. The day’s not over yet, and I’m sure Cassian has something up his sleeve. Just you wait.”

Y/N nodded again, standing with Feyre and following her back toward the main part of the house, though her heart still felt heavy. She tried to lose herself in conversation with the others as they discussed plans for the evening, but every time the door creaked open or a breeze brushed past, her hope flickered once again.

Cassian would come, wouldn’t he?

-----

Cassian stood at the edge of the Illyrian camp, his eyes scanning the horizon, watching as his warriors trained, sparred, and carried out their duties. It was the sort of day he dreaded—endless, relentless, and filled with the tension of an impending conflict that threatened to boil over at any moment.

It had all started about a month ago, when he’d received the urgent message from one of the northern commanders. At the time, Cassian delayed coming over himself, choosing to send his trusted men instead. It was also because the communication had come at the worst possible time—just as he was looking forward to a few days of peace, maybe even a quiet evening with Y/N.

However, everyday the commander had kept asking for Casian himself, being very clear: the camps were on the brink of full-scale warfare, and they needed someone who could keep things in order before the situation got worse. And so, Cassian had packed up quickly, his mind focused only on getting things under control. The sooner he got in, the sooner he could return. He had promised himself that it would only be a few hours—perhaps a day at most. After all, how bad could it be?

But of course, as it always did, the situation had escalated.

In the last month, every plan he’d tried to set in motion had been thwarted by a new complication. A new leader from one of the factions had challenged his authority, a skirmish had broken out on the eastern border, and just when Cassian thought things were settling down, word came that another territory was in dispute.

Now, here he was, surrounded by the sounds of clashing metal and the low hum of warriors calling orders, his hands wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword as he surveyed the chaos. His mind was elsewhere, though—not with the men around him or the reports he was reading—but with her. Y/N.

He hadn’t forgotten her—he could never forget her. She was always in his thoughts, even now as he stood in the midst of battle preparations. But the more he thought of her, the more his frustration built. Damn it all, he thought to himself, running a hand through his dark hair. He was supposed to be with her, not stuck here in this endless mess. He had no idea how things had gotten so far out of hand, but there was no turning back now.

He’d hoped the day would be simple. He’d figured, a few hours at most, handle the worst of it, and then be back with her. Maybe they could have a quiet dinner, talk about the quiet things. But now, that hope seemed like a distant memory.

His mind drifted back to the report he’d just received. The situation with the northern factions had worsened. They were demanding reinforcements, and not just a few. This was the kind of situation where Cassian’s presence was absolutelynecessary. He couldn’t just leave it to the others; he had to see it through. The men under his command needed him.

But what about her?

A growl rumbled low in his throat, his frustration turning into a simmering rage. Cassian had thought that after a quick intervention, he’d be back to his mate, back to the woman who kept him grounded and whole. But that had been a naive thought, one that now felt like a cruel joke.

“General,” one of his commanders approached, his voice low and serious. “It’s not just the northern borders. We’ve got problems in the southern territories too. The peace talks fell apart. We’ll need to send someone there immediately.”

Cassian gritted his teeth. Three days. At least three days now. What the hell was he supposed to do? There was no way he could leave things in this state—not when things were this precarious.

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath, pacing away from the group. He couldn’t even bring himself to speak to the commander again; his thoughts were too clouded, his anger too sharp. The worst part? No one here seemed to understand. They were all too focused on the battle, on the logistics of war, to see the way his heart was breaking with every passing second.

Cassian growled under his breath, his frustration boiling over. He had to stay for the next few days. There was no other option.

But Y/N would understand. Right?

----

Y/N did not, in fact, understand.

When she saw Rhys leave and come back with a letter in his hand, his expression serious and slightly sorrowful as he headed straight for Azriel, she knew something was wrong.

Feyre and Elain were beside her, their soft laughter and conversation swirling around like a gentle breeze, but Y/N barely heard any of it. Her eyes were fixed on the two males standing by the doorway, voices hushed but movements tight with frustration. Rhys’ brow was furrowed as he handed the note to Azriel, and Az ran a hand through his hair as he read it, wings twitching slightly behind him.

Her stomach sank.

It was the way Azriel’s jaw clenched. The way Rhys’ hand dropped to his side, fingers curling into a fist. The kind of body language that meant bad news. And neither of them had looked her way.

Feyre nudged her gently, drawing her back. “Y/N? You zoned out for a second there.”

“Oh—sorry,” Y/N murmured, blinking and trying to force a smile. “I’m listening.”

But she wasn’t. Not really. Because now Azriel had started speaking, fast and low, and Rhys wasn’t looking at him—he was looking at her.

That told her everything she needed to know.

She stood slowly, the movement enough to draw the attention of both males. Azriel glanced down at the note in his hand, then up at her, his expression unreadable. Rhys looked like he was preparing himself for something—his lips pressed together, a crease forming between his brows.

Y/N didn’t wait for them to come to her.

She crossed the room silently, her heart pounding louder with each step. She kept her voice steady when she stopped in front of them, even though it felt like her lungs had been replaced by lead.

“What is it?”

Rhys hesitated. Azriel looked to him, clearly unsure if he should speak, but then Rhys sighed quietly and extended the letter to her. “It’s from Cassian.”

She took it with slow fingers. The seal wasn’t the one he usually used for her—no wax in her favorite color, no scribbled heart in the corner like he sometimes added when he was feeling particularly smug or sweet. Just plain parchment, a rushed signature.

Her throat tightened before she even unfolded it.

It wasn’t long. A few brief sentences. A quick explanation. He’d been pulled deeper into the situation than expected. The camps were at each other’s throats. He couldn’t leave—not yet. Not for another few days. I will send news soon. Take care of Y/N for me.

No mention of what today was. Not even a line.

She didn’t realize how tightly her fingers were gripping the paper until Rhys gently reached out, his hand brushing her elbow. “Y/N—”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, folding the letter with practiced calm. “He’s needed there. I get it.”

Neither Rhys nor Azriel looked convinced.

Feyre and Elain had gone quiet behind her. She could feel their concern, the heaviness in the room like a sudden shift in air pressure.

Y/N took a slow breath and looked out the window, blinking back the sting in her eyes. She had waited. All day. Told herself he was coming. That this wasn’t like him.

And maybe it wasn’t.

But the letter in her hand said otherwise.

Because it didn’t even say happy birthday.

And no matter how many times she told herself that Cassian loved her—that his duties were important, that Illyria needed him—there was a sharp, echoing silence in her chest where he should have been today.

Where his voice should’ve whispered through the bond, where his arms should’ve wrapped around her, where his presence should’ve reminded her that she mattered.

She swallowed tightly and turned away, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’m tired,” she murmured. “I think I’ll head home.”

“I don’t understand. How could he forget?” Rhys practically growled, pacing in the center of the room now. “Cassian has never—not once—missed her birthday. Every godsdamned year, he’s gone all out. The male made her a sunrise flight over the Sidra last year because she said she liked the color of the sky in the morning—”

“He always remembers,” Azriel cut in, his voice dark and tight with frustration. “He’s never been like this. Not with her.” His shadows curled tighter around his shoulders, restless and tense.

Feyre, standing near the window, arms folded, nodded slowly. “It’s not like him. Something’s not right. And even if he’s overwhelmed, even if Illyria is falling apart, there’s no way he doesn’t know what today is.”

“I’ll go to him,” Azriel said abruptly, already half-turned toward the door, his voice quiet but deadly. “I’ll tell him myself. I’ll show him that fucking letter and—”

“That idiot,” Mor muttered, appearing from the hallway with a sharp look in her golden eyes. “That idiot. She waited all day, Az. He should’ve been here. At least a godsdamned message.”

“I will make him listen,” Azriel continued, shadows snapping around his fists. “I’ll fly to him right now and—”

“Stop.”

Y/N’s voice was quiet, strained—but no one heard her. Or maybe they didn’t listen. The air was thick with indignation, protective fury, confusion.

“Stop,” she said again, a little louder, stepping further into the room. Still nothing.

Rhys was muttering about how he should’ve known, how he should’ve sent someone else to the camps. Feyre was pacing now. Even Elain, sweet Elain, had a worried furrow in her brow.

“Stop!”

The word cracked through the space like thunder.

Everyone froze.

The silence that followed was deafening. Y/N stood in the middle of the room now, chin high, fists clenched at her sides. Her breathing was steady, but the tremble in her fingers betrayed the storm inside her.

“No one,” she said, voice low but unyielding. “No one is going to say a word to him.”

Rhys opened his mouth to protest.

Y/N’s gaze cut to him with sharp precision, a warning that stopped him cold.

“I mean it,” she said firmly, looking at each of them in turn. “He needs to realize this himself. If any of you go running to tell him, if you scold him or guilt him or push him into some half-hearted apology… it won’t mean anything. He has to see it. He has to feel it. Not because you reminded him. Not because someone handed him the truth. Because he looked around, realized something was missing, and knew it was me.”

Azriel stepped forward, his jaw clenched. “Y/N, he loves you. He would never—”

“I know he loves me,” she said, gentler this time. “But love doesn’t excuse neglect. Love doesn’t mean never making mistakes. And I’m not mad that he’s busy. I understand his duty. But today? Today he forgot me. Not just the celebration—me.”

Elain opened her mouth, but closed it again with a sympathetic frown.

Y/N took a slow breath. “Please. It’s my birthday. And this is my wish. That none of you mention this to him. Let him come home on his own. Let him see the damage on his own. Let him fix it on his own.”

The silence returned, heavier now. And then, after a long pause, Rhys finally let out a breath, raking a hand through his hair.

“Very well,” he said quietly. “I will give him a few days to realize his mistake. But.” His violet eyes locked on hers. “There is no way in any world that I am letting you spend your birthday alone.”

Y/N’s lips parted, already forming a protest. “Rhys, really, I—”

“But nothing,” Feyre cut in, already taking Y/N’s hand. “We listened to you. Now you listen to us.”

“We’re your family too,” Elain said softly, stepping up on Y/N’s other side. “And you don’t deserve to sit in silence when there’s still joy to be found today.”

“The others will be back soon,” she added, already moving toward the doors leading to the terrace. “And we are not letting this day end with you hiding in a corner feeling forgotten.”

Before she could argue further, Feyre gave her hand a gentle tug. “Let’s go outside. Breathe. Laugh a little. Even if it’s just for a moment.”

Y/N nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She wasn’t sure she could laugh—not right now—but the way they looked at her, all of them, she knew they wouldn’t let her fall apart alone.

So she let them lead her toward the open doors and into the golden light of the setting sun, the scent of flowers on the breeze and the soft murmur of the Sidra below.

And even as she smiled for them, even as she tried to be present, there was still that hollow space inside her where he should’ve been.

Where Cassian should have been.

She didn’t even notice the tears at first. They came suddenly, soundless, slipping down her cheeks like they’d always belonged there. She was seated on a bench between Elain and Feyre, hands curled tightly in her lap, when it hit her again.

She didn’t speak. She just cried.

And neither sister said a word. Feyre looped an arm gently around her shoulders, drawing her into the curve of her body while Elain wrapped both hands around hers. They didn’t offer empty reassurances or tell her to cheer up. They didn’t need to. They simply sat with her, and that was enough.

Later, as the garden lights blinked to life and the air cooled, Nesta returned from Valkyrie mission—sharper than usual, but her expression softened the moment she saw Y/N. No questions. No demands. Just a nod of acknowledgment as she took the seat across from her and quietly passed over a little parcel wrapped in silver cloth. A gift she’d made herself—something small, personal, and thoughtful.

Amren appeared not long after, her hair swept back in a polished twist, the edges of her black coat fluttering around her like shadows. She sat beside Nesta with a huff, muttering about “tedious Court matters” and “being dragged into babysitting lesser fae politics,” but even she leaned over to ruffle Y/N’s hair with an uncharacteristically soft, “Happy birthday, girl. Don’t let the bat’s absence ruin it.”

And just when Y/N thought the night was over, Elain insisted they all follow her inside.

There, on the kitchen table, sat a cake.

Beautiful and slightly lopsided, covered in sugared wildflowers and soft frosting that shimmered faintly under the faelight. Elain had made it herself—had spent the past two nights sneaking time in the kitchens, hiding it from even Feyre. “I wanted to do something just for you,” she said shyly, and Y/N had nearly cried all over again

The rest of the day passed like a slow, strange dream.

They dined together after that. A warm, chaotic, makeshift dinner, thrown together by a dozen helping hands. Everyone gathered—those who had come and gone through the day returning for the final hours. They drank and toasted and teased one another with ridiculous, affectionate banter. Rhys told a story from centuries ago involving Cassian and a very unfortunate tree, and even Y/N had laughed until her ribs ached.

There were moments—fleeting ones—where she forgot the ache in her chest. Where the comfort of those around her dulled the sting enough that she could pretend everything was okay.

But only for a moment.

Because the ache always returned. It pulsed behind every laugh, every sip of wine, every flicker of candlelight.

Cassian hadn’t come. He hadn’t sent a message. He hadn’t said happy birthday. He had completely forgotten.

And no matter how kind the others were, how hard they tried to lift her up, his absence sat heavy on her chest like a stone.

Eventually, under Rhys and Feyre’s gentle insistence, she agreed to stay the night. They wouldn’t let her go home alone. Not like this. “Just take the guest room,” Feyre said softly. “Sleep. You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Y/N agreed.

She closed the door behind her as quietly as she could. The room was warm, cozy, with soft throws and a little vase of fresh flowers on the nightstand—typical Feyre. Thoughtful to the end. She changed into the clothes someone had folded at the foot of the bed, washed her face slowly, and went through the motions of settling in.

She told herself not to cry again.

She had cried enough.

She folded her dirty clothes. Brushed out her hair. Lit a small candle with a flick of faelight. Tidied a nightstand that didn’t even belong to her.

She did everything except lie down.

But eventually, her limbs couldn’t carry her anymore.

Y/N slipped beneath the covers, curled onto her side, and stared out the window. The moon hung low and silver, casting light across the bed in quiet streaks.

And that was when her heart finally gave in.

The tears came again, thick and silent, slipping down her cheeks and into the pillow as she clutched it tighter to her chest. Her throat burned. Her ribs ached. She didn’t sob, didn’t make a sound—but the pain was all-consuming.

How had he forgotten her?

How had the one person who knew her better than anyone not felt how much this would break her?

She thought of his arms. His scent. His laugh. The way he always kissed her temple before bed. The way he used to whisper goodnight into her soul through the bond.

Tonight, there was nothing.

No whisper. No warmth.

Only the sound of her own quiet, broken breathing.

--------

Cassian ran a hand through his hair, muscles aching, exhaustion carved deep into every inch of his body. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours in the past three days—not with the Illyrian warbands breathing fire down each other’s throats. He’d been everywhere. Breaking up fights. Mediating screaming matches. Holding war councils that felt more like babysitting sessions for ancient, prideful warriors who couldn’t see past their own egos.

The tensions weren’t just high—they were explosive.

What had started as a two-camp territorial squabble had now grown into something far more dangerous. Old rivalries, wounded egos, unspoken grudges—everything was bubbling to the surface. Cassian had tried, Gods he had tried, to get ahead of it. But every solution he carved out only gave birth to two more problems. Every ceasefire threatened to collapse under the weight of centuries-old hate.

Still, he pressed on.

He was the General of the Night Court. This was his job. His burden.

And yet…

He had thought about her. Hundreds of times.

Y/N’s smile. Her laugh. The way she scrunched her nose when she read something she disagreed with. The way she always tucked herself into his side like she belonged there—because she did. Her warmth, her scent, the quiet weight of her in his arms every night.

But now, that warmth felt so far away. And worse, she was… closed off.

He had reached for her through the bond multiple times since arriving in the camps. And every time, it was like pressing his hand against a locked door. Her walls were up, impenetrable in a way they hadn’t been since the earliest days of their bond.

That had set something cold and uneasy in his chest.

So, he had reached out to Rhys.

“Is she alright?” he’d asked through their mental link, concern thick in his tone.

Rhys’ response had come slower than usual. Clipped. “She’s fine. She’s staying with us.”

That was it.

No warmth. No elaboration.

Cassian had tried to rationalize it. Maybe Rhys was just busy. Maybe Y/N was tired. Maybe she didn’t want to worry him. But it gnawed at him—sharp and growing. She hadn’t answered any of his letters, either. He’d written three. All of them long, thoughtful—pouring out everything he couldn’t say across the distance. And still… nothing.

He frowned now, standing just outside the camp’s central tent, the icy wind biting at his skin despite the thick armor.

He didn’t understand. What was going on?

What was he missing?

He didn’t have the chance to spiral further—because a voice cut through the wind behind him.

“The Shadowsinger is here.”

Cassian blinked, turning immediately, his brow furrowing. “What?”

The young Illyrian warrior bowed slightly. “He arrived moments ago. He’s waiting for you near the ridge.”

Azriel? Here?

Cassian was already moving, striding across the frostbitten field toward the overlook, confusion swirling in his chest. What in the Mother’s name is Az doing here? He would’ve known if something had gone wrong at the River House. Rhys would’ve said something—surely.

And then he saw him.

Azriel stood with his arms folded, his expression unreadable, shadows curling languidly around his form as he stared out over the mountains.

“Az,” Cassian called as he approached. “What the hell are you doing here? Did Rhys send you?”

Azriel didn’t turn. “I came on my own.”

That wasn’t normal. Not with Azriel.

Cassian stopped a few feet away, arms outstretched in disbelief. “Okay, what is going on? Rhys is cold with me, Y/N’s got her walls up so high I can’t even feel her, and now you show up like death himself—what did I do? Did I commit a fucking massacre and forget about it?”

Azriel’s jaw ticked, but his voice was cool as ice. “You might as well have.”

Cassian’s stomach dropped. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Azriel finally turned to face him, his gaze hard. “You’ve been so wrapped up in this godsdamned chaos that you didn’t even realize what day it was.”

Cassian blinked. “What?”

Azriel shook his head, sighing harshly. “Go back. I’ll take over from here.”

“What—? Why?” Cassian stepped in front of him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “Does Rhys need me? Did something happen—?”

Azriel shrugged his hand off with practiced ease, brushing past him without another word.

But as he walked away, his voice drifted over his shoulder.

“Your mate needs you.”

Cassian stilled.

The words hit him like a punch to the ribs.

Y/N.

Something snapped into place—something instinctual, primal. Protective.

His body straightened, his heart roaring in his chest as dread crashed over him like a tidal wave. His wings flared, already preparing to launch him into the skies.

Something had happened.

She was hurting.

And he hadn’t known.

Didn’t feel it.

His mate needed him—and he was not there.

Cassian didn’t waste another second. He turned on his heel, barked a few quick orders to the nearest commander, and took off into the sky, wind slicing around him like blades.

What happened to her?

My wife needs me.

The sky was clear, painted in soft shades of spring blue with faint wisps of clouds drifting lazily across it. The garden smelled like lavender and sun-warmed stone, and a gentle breeze tugged playfully at Y/N’s hair. It was, by all accounts, a beautiful day.

She barely noticed.

Feyre sat beside her on a picnic blanket spread out over the grass, barefoot, a smudge of green paint on her cheek as she carefully filled in the petals of a wildflower on her canvas. She looked peaceful, serene even���and Y/N had tried, Gods she’d tried, to match that energy. To find something resembling calm.

Feyre had said painting would help. That it had always helped her.

A good distraction.

And maybe it was. For the first few minutes, dipping her brush in soft hues, dragging color across blank canvas, she’d managed to escape the haze of disappointment clinging to her.

But the relief never lasted long.

Three days.

It had been three entire days since her birthday. Since that night she’d cried herself to sleep in a guest room that wasn’t hers. Since the cake Elain had made. Since the weight of it all settled into her bones like something permanent.

Cassian still hadn’t realized.

Not even a whisper through the bond, though she wouldn’t have heard it if he had tried—because she hadn’t opened herself to him. Not once. She couldn’t. Not when every second of silence felt like proof that he had simply... forgotten.

She hadn’t even touched his letters. They sat in her nightstand unopened, their presence mocking her more with each day that passed. She told herself that if she read them, it would mean she was ready to forgive him.

And she wasn’t.

A shaky breath escaped her as she dipped her brush again—only to knock over the small pot of blue paint beside her. It spilled onto the grass, soaking into the roots like a spreading bruise.

“Oops,” she mumbled, reaching for a cloth.

Feyre chuckled softly beside her. “That was my favorite shade too.”

Y/N huffed a laugh, but it was empty. “Of course it was.”

Feyre leaned back on her hands, eyes soft. “You’ve been quiet again.”

Y/N kept blotting at the grass. “I’m trying not to ruin your peaceful moment.”

“Y/N…” Feyre’s voice lowered, all teasing gone. “You’re allowed to feel what you’re feeling.”

“I don’t even know what I’m feeling anymore,” she muttered, finally sitting back. “It’s like—I’m angry. I’m sad. I miss him so much it physically hurts, but then I remember he still doesn’t even realize what he’s done and—” She stopped herself, swallowing hard. “It makes everything worse.”

Feyre reached over, brushing a bit of paint off Y/N’s arm. “He’ll figure it out.”

Y/N shook her head slowly. “And what if he doesn’t? What if this is just who he is now?”

Before Feyre could answer, a voice shattered the moment like glass against stone.

“Y/N!”

Y/N’s entire body went rigid.

The brush dropped from her fingers.

That voice. That voice that lived in her soul, in her every memory, every dream—rough and deep and warm like a storm in the distance. She turned slowly, heart thudding so loud she could barely hear anything else.

And there he was.

Cassian.

Striding toward her from the River House doors, wind-blown and armor-clad, broad shoulders moving with frantic urgency. Behind him, Rhysand stood, arms crossed, mouth pressed in a line, expression unreadable. Feyre had frozen beside her, eyes wide.

But Y/N couldn’t stop staring.

Gods, he looked the same and yet... not. Exhausted, eyes bloodshot, hair wind-tangled. But his face—his face lit up the second their eyes met.

Her Cassian, this was her Cassian.

“Y/N,” he breathed again, and then he was in front of her.

Cassian dropped to his knees, his arms wrapping around her tightly, protectively, one hand cradling the back of her head as he pressed his face into her neck.

“Thank the Mother,” he whispered, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her temple. “I thought—I thought something happened to you. I couldn’t feel you, you weren’t answering, and Rhys wouldn’t tell me anything and—”

Y/N was frozen in his arms.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed his scent. His warmth. How much she’d been craving the weight of his embrace, his voice breaking apart with relief.

But then she looked up.

Feyre was staring in wide-eyed shock. Rhys was watching coldly, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

And suddenly the pain returned.

Y/N pushed against Cassian’s chest, slowly at first—then more firmly.

He pulled back, blinking, confusion flickering across his handsome face.

“Y/N?” he said softly, voice catching.

She stood, brushing off her skirt, not daring to meet his eyes.

“Go back to your job, Cassian,” she said, her voice quiet but sharp. “It’s far more important anyway.”

The hurt that flashed across his face nearly undid her.

He turned toward Rhys, clearly seeking answers, but Rhys just shrugged—cool and unapologetic.

Feyre opened her mouth, stepping forward, about to say something—

But Rhys gently nudged her back with a warning look, stopping her mid-breath.

And Y/N didn’t wait.

She pushed past Cassian, her heart hammering, vision blurring as she made her way down the garden path without looking back.

Behind her, she heard Cassian curse softly—and then the sound of footsteps as he ran after her.

“Y/N—” Cassian’s voice rang behind her, hurried footsteps following as she stormed back into the River House.

She didn’t stop.

He cursed behind her—something muffled and sharp as he bumped into a low table near the hallway. She heard the crash of something ceramic hitting the floor.

“Y/N, please—wait, just—talk to me—”

She marched deeper into the house, hands trembling, her vision hazy from the heat of unshed tears. Her name kept falling from his lips like a prayer, desperate and confused. But she wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Not until he caught up and grabbed her arm.

Not harshly. Just enough to pull her to a stop.

“Y/N—”

She spun around, wrenching her arm from his grasp with more force than necessary, her breath ragged as she shouted, “What?”

The hallway echoed with her voice, the sharpness of it slicing through the air like a blade.

Cassian took a step back, blinking at her, stunned. “I—why are you acting like this? What is going on?”

She let out a humorless, choked laugh, folding her arms as her eyes flashed. “Oh, I don’t know, Cassian. Maybe I’m just a little emotional. Maybe I’ve just lost my mind.”

His brow furrowed. “Y/N, don’t—”

“No, you don’t!” she snapped, pointing a finger at his chest. “You don’t get to walk in here after three days like everything’s normal, like you haven’t been ghosting me while I’ve been drowning in confusion and—hurt.”

Cassian’s wings flared, frustration bleeding into his voice. “I haven’t been ghosting you! I’ve been at the camps! I tried reaching you, you had your walls up and Rhys wouldn’t tell me anything and I—Mother above, Y/N! What?!” His voice rose to a thunderous echo, his hands thrown up. “What is it?! Why have you been acting this way?! What the hell has gotten into you?!”

Y/N stared at him, her lip trembling as the words tore out of her like a storm breaking loose.

“IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY!”

The world seemed to stop.

Cassian’s mouth parted, eyes widening as her voice echoed down the hallway. He stood frozen in place—watching her like he didn’t understand what he’d just heard. Like it didn’t make sense.

She saw the realization dawn on his face slowly. The shift in his eyes. The disbelief. The guilt.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, hot and fast, as she went on, her voice shaking with fury and grief.

“It was my birthday, and you left. You forgot. You didn’t send a letter. You didn’t say anything. No note. No kiss. Not even a godsdamned Happy Birthday, Cassian!”

She laughed bitterly, choking on her own tears. “Forget gifts or celebrations. I would’ve taken one sentence through the bond. One single thought. But there was nothing. You left me behind like I was—nothing.”

He opened his mouth, eyes already glossing with tears, but she kept going.

“And I waited,” she hissed, voice cracking. “I waited all day thinking maybe—just maybe—you were going to surprise me. I made excuses for you. Told myself it wasn’t your fault. But it’s been three days. You never realized. You didn’t even remember me.”

Her voice dropped then, just a whisper.

“Do I even mean something to you anymore?”

Cassian’s face crumpled.

“Do you even love me?”

A tear slid down his cheek.

“Y/N…” he whispered, stepping forward, voice raw. “*My love—*of course I love you. Of course I do. You are my everything. My soul is bound to yours—how could I ever stop loving you?”

He ran a trembling hand through his hair, jaw clenching as he cursed himself under his breath. “I’m an idiot. I’m the worst kind of bastard. I should’ve remembered—I should’ve—Mother, I hate myself for this.”

He tried to reach for her again, but she stepped back.

“No,” she said sharply, holding up a trembling hand to stop him. “Don’t. I can’t—not right now.”

“Y/N, please—”

“I think it’s best,” she said, quieter now, broken. “If we stay apart for a while.”

His face twisted. “No, you don’t mean that—”

“I do,” she whispered, shaking her head, more tears falling. “I don’t think I want to see you right now.”

“Just let me explain—”

She turned away.

Cassian took a desperate step toward her, but stopped when she didn’t pause, didn’t look back.

And with one final breathless, shattering beat between them, Y/N climbed the stairs—leaving him standing there, alone in the hallway, heart split wide open.

-------

Cassian sat hunched over on the plush River House couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He didn’t move. He barely breathed. The only thing keeping him grounded was the faint buzz of his own heartbeat in his ears, and the way his eyes were locked on the floor—unblinking, like if he just stared hard enough, he could turn back time.

The silence was tense. Suffocating.

And then—

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Rhys snapped, his voice sharp enough to slice through steel.

Cassian didn’t flinch. He didn’t even lift his head.

Rhys paced in front of him like a caged beast, his power a rolling storm beneath his skin, his violet eyes sparking with fury. “You forgot. You forgot her birthday, Cassian. The one day that’s about her. The one day she deserved your whole world without question—and you gave her silence.”

Cassian remained motionless.

“She cried for hours,” Rhys went on, each word like a dagger. “She didn’t even open your letters. Do you know how fucking heartbroken she had to be, to shut off your bond like that?”

“I tried to reach her,” Cassian rasped.

Rhys didn’t let up. “Not hard enough.”

Feyre, from where she stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly over her chest, said quietly, “Rhys…”

But Rhys was too far gone.

“She waited for you. Defended you. Hoped. While we all sat there trying to keep her smiling, trying to fill the space you left behind.”

“I should have gone to the camps myself,” he seethed, starting to pace again. “Azriel shouldn’t be there, either. I’m the High Lord. I should’ve handled it. Godsdammit, I should have known this would happen. I knew something was off with her and I—”

“She didn’t want you to know,” Feyre cut in gently, but even she sounded like the weight of it was pressing too heavy.

Cassian still hadn’t moved.

Not until, in a hoarse, barely audible whisper, he said, “I hate myself.”

That stopped everything.

Rhys stilled. Feyre’s breath caught. The room went deathly quiet.

Cassian slowly lifted his head, eyes glassy but burning. His voice was louder now, rough with barely restrained emotion. “I hate myself for what I’ve done to her.”

His fingers curled into fists against his knees.

“I keep thinking about her face,” he growled. “When she turned around and shouted at me. When she looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I didn’t even know her anymore.”

He looked up at them, jaw clenched so tight it trembled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Rhys’s face was unreadable. “She didn’t allow us to,” he said quietly. “She wanted you to realize it yourself. Said it had to be you.”

Cassian let out a low, agonized sound and collapsed back into the couch, throwing his head against the cushions and staring up at the ceiling like it held answers. “Of course she did,” he muttered. “Because she’s better than me. Because she deserved someone who would’ve remembered without being told.”

Feyre crossed the room and gently sat beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Cassian,” she said softly, “you messed up. But this… this doesn’t have to be the end of everything. She’s hurt, yes. But she’s still your mate. You can fix this—but not with words. Not with apologies. With actions.”

Rhys added from the corner, his voice calm but firm now, “Sitting here sulking won’t do you any good. The damage is done. The only question now is: what are you going to do about it?”

Cassian sat up slowly, his chest rising and falling with a deep, steadying breath. His eyes still glistened—but now, there was something steely behind them. Something solid.

“You’re right,” he said, voice low, determined.

He stood, cracking his knuckles, the gears in his mind already turning.

“I’m going to prove to her just how much I love her. I’m going to make this right, no matter how long it takes. I’ll grovel. I’ll bleed for her. I’ll get on my fucking knees if that’s what she wants.”

He looked between them, eyes fierce.

She’s my mate. My heart. My everything. And I will not lose her over this. Not without fighting like hell for her.

And as he stormed out of the room, the weight of his promise followed him like wings in flight.

--------

The moment Y/N had turned her back on him, the realization hit Cassian with the force of a war hammer. The words she’d thrown at him — the tear-filled accusations — echoed in his mind. It wasn’t just her birthday that he’d missed, but the very core of their bond. The trust that had always been between them, the connection that held them together, had been shattered.

For hours, he sat in the silence of the House of Wind, a pit of guilt consuming him. The only thing he could do was write.

The first letter was simple.

“Y/N, I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I didn’t deserve the trust you gave me, and I failed you. I’ve failed us both. I hope, one day, you’ll let me try again. Yours, always, Cassian”

He left it at her door with a small gift--a basket of her favourite flowers--, knowing she wouldn’t open it, but hoping the gesture would be enough. He left, retreating to the gardens to stand in the silence, his thoughts only of her.

Every morning after that, Cassian woke up before the sun, writing a letter. And then, as he left it at her door, he went back to his watch over the House, always close, but never too close. Each letter was more desperate, more vulnerable than the last, with a gift beside it.

“Y/N, Do you remember when we first met? I was a fool. I didn’t know then that it was you who would change everything. I didn’t know that one day, I would come to love you in a way I never thought possible. But I should have remembered you — every day, always. And I failed you. Please, don’t shut me out forever. I’ll wait for as long as it takes. With all the love I have, Cassian”

The gift next to this letter was a set of the books she wanted to buy for a while.

And the next.

“Y/N, I remember your laugh — it was always the highlight of my day. Every time I heard it, I thought I had everything I ever needed. But that laugh is silenced now, and I know it’s because of me. I’m sorry. I’ll keep saying it until you’re tired of hearing it. But I will keep saying it. Yours, in regret, Cassian”

The gift was an exciting array of her favourite sweets from the bakery nearby.

But still, nothing. Not even a glance in his direction. He kept his distance, his heart heavier each day, knowing that he had done this to himself.

A week had passed since Y/N’s birthday. The house was quiet, the laughter from before now distant and hollow. Cassian had spent every minute of those days trying to find a way to fix this, to make it right.

But he knew what he had to do.

The night before, he worked — with the help of Elain for the food, Feyre for the decorations, and Amren for the music — to set up the garden. He had been there before, countless times, but this time it felt different. The air, the atmosphere, the quiet, heavy regret weighing down his every step.

It wasn’t perfect. The cake was a little lopsided, the candles not quite the right height, the wine too sweet, but it was the effort he’d put into it.

Cassian stood under the arch of flowers, staring out into the empty garden, waiting for Y/N.

And he waited.

But she never came.

Well, that was expected. Time to grovel some more.

Each day, he wrote more. His words were no longer just apologies, but reflections of the bond he had with her, a bond he could never again take for granted.

The next letter arrived, tucked neatly under her door.

“Y/N, I thought I knew what love was before I met you. I thought it was strength, something built on the battlefield. But love with you — it’s quiet moments, tender glances, it’s all the things I never knew I needed. I won’t ever stop fighting for you. Not until you know just how much you mean to me. Cassian”

the gift beside the letter was a beautiful ruby glass heart container that stored a small vial of perfume, infused with the essence of the lavender blooms from the cliffs of Velaris — a scent that reminded him of Y/N’s laughter, the way her presence filled any room with warmth and joy.

The days dragged on as Cassian poured every ounce of his focus into making up for his mistakes. Each day, he sat in his favorite spot by the window, gazing out at the skies, thinking about the next moment he could make it right. He knew he couldn’t fix the damage he’d done with mere words — it would take action, sincerity, and time.

On the sixth day since the argument, Cassian finally gathered the courage to present the gift he had so carefully crafted. It had been almost impossible to get any sleep these past few days, his guilt and love driving him to the brink. He had even considered getting down on his knees to beg for forgiveness, but he knew it wasn’t enough to simply ask for her love — he had to show her.

Cassian stood in the heart of Velaris' gardens, a place where he and Y/N had spent so many peaceful moments together—under the sprawling canopy of ancient trees, surrounded by blooming flowers that burst with vibrant colors. He had chosen this spot on purpose. He knew that their love had always been nurtured here, where the earth seemed to echo the beauty of their bond, and the breeze carried whispers of memories.

He hadn’t expected her to come. After everything that had happened, he had resigned himself to the idea that Y/N might never forgive him. The ache in his chest was unbearable as he stared at the perfect arrangement he had created—a table set for two, draped with a soft, silk cloth that shimmered in the light of the setting sun. Candles flickered in delicate holders, casting a warm glow, while the scent of jasmine and lavender filled the air—flowers Y/N had once told him reminded her of serenity.

He wasn’t sure if she would ever forgive him, but he had to try. He had to show her that he had learned. That he was worthy of her love.

The gift he had chosen for her sat at the center of the table on a velvet cloth, a small, intricately carved box.

Inside it lay something special: a silver locket. A locket that held a tiny, hand-painted picture of Y/N, done in beautiful detail, her smile captured perfectly by the artist who had worked tirelessly to get every little detail right. The locket was attached to a delicate silver chain, with intricate swirls of magic carved into the edges. Inside, it also held a piece of stardust—a glowing reminder of their bond, a symbol of the magic that connected them, no matter how far apart they might be.

The locket was something personal, something Cassian knew would mean the world to her. He hoped she could see it as more than just a gift, but as a promise—of his love, his regret, and his dedication to never again make her feel forgotten.

He wasn’t sure if she’d come. The hours passed, the sun beginning to set, casting everything in a golden light that felt both beautiful and heavy with the weight of his regrets.

But then, just as he had almost resigned himself to the fact that she might never return, the soft sound of footsteps echoed through the garden.

Cassian’s breath caught in his throat. He turned around slowly, his heart pounding as he saw Y/N standing in the entrance, her eyes cautious but filled with something he could not yet name. She wore a soft, flowing gown that shimmered in the fading light. The sight of her took his breath away, but the sadness in her eyes made it impossible to smile.

She stood there, frozen for a long moment, her gaze lingering on the table and the gift. Cassian felt his chest tighten. Was she here to yell at him again? To push him away? Or was there a chance, a small hope, that she might forgive him?

"Y/N..." His voice was a low rasp as he took a step toward her, his heart beating painfully fast.

She still didn’t move, her eyes fixed on the gift and the flowers. The moment stretched, the silence heavy and filled with everything unspoken.

“Cassian,” she whispered, her voice so small, so unsure.

Cassian stepped closer, as if compelled by an invisible force, his arms trembling as he slowly reached for the small velvet box, his heart in his throat. He placed it in her hands, his voice barely a whisper. “I know I’ve hurt you… and I can never take that back. But this is for you. To show you how much you mean to me. Please, Y/N. Please just let me try.”

Y/N stared at the box in her hands for a moment, the tension between them palpable, before she carefully opened it, revealing the silver locket inside. Her breath caught, and Cassian watched the flicker of emotion pass across her face—surprise, confusion, and something softer that made him ache.

He’d prepared himself for rejection, for anger, but the quiet sorrow in her eyes cut deeper than any of that.

She gently ran her fingers over the locket, her touch reverent, as if she was trying to make sense of it. The garden around them seemed to hold its breath in that moment, the flowers swaying in the soft breeze as if waiting for her words.

“Cassian…” Her voice was a mere whisper, fragile like glass, and it sent a ripple of pain through his chest. He watched her carefully, wanting to hold her, but knowing she wasn’t ready for that yet.

“I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to fix this. I…” He trailed off, his own words failing him. What could he say to make her understand the depth of his regret? The weight of the mistakes he had made? “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life. And I—I know I’ve failed you. I’ve hurt you in a way I never should have. But please, just know that I would never, ever do it again especially not knowingly. I would burn the world down for you, Y/N.”

Her eyes flickered with emotion, her lips trembling as she finally looked up from the locket, meeting his gaze. “I know you love me, Cassian.” The words were quiet, but they were enough to shatter some of the walls around his heart. “I know you do. But love isn’t just in the words. It’s in the actions. It’s in showing up when it matters the most. And when you didn’t even think of me on my birthday—when you didn’t even check in—I felt... invisible. Forgotten. Like I didn’t matter to you.”

The pain in her voice stung, and he took a step closer, his own voice strained as he spoke. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I wish I could take it back. I wish I could have been there for you. But I didn’t—”

“No.” She shook her head, cutting him off. “It wasn’t just that you weren’t there. It was that you didn’t even remember. It wasn’t about the gifts or the gestures. It was about you—the one person I thought would never forget, never let me feel alone.” She swallowed hard, her eyes beginning to shimmer with unshed tears. “I needed you. And you weren’t there.”

The words were a dagger to his chest, and he couldn’t breathe for a moment. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness, I know that. But Y/N… I’m here now. And I’ll spend every single day making up for it. You mean the world to me. I’m nothing without you. You’re my heart. My mate. My everything.”

Her gaze softened, but the hurt was still there, lingering like a shadow between them. She took a deep breath, her fingers tightening around the locket as she held it close to her heart. “I was so angry, Cassian. I didn’t even know if I could forgive you. I couldn’t understand how you could forget me like that. But...” She paused, her breath shaky as she wiped away a tear. “But I love you. And I can’t just hold on to that anger. I don’t want to. I want to forgive you. I need to forgive you.”

Cassian’s breath caught in his throat. “Y/N… you mean it?”

She nodded, her tears now falling freely as she took a step closer to him, her voice soft but unwavering. “I mean it. You’re my mate, Cassian. And I know we’ve been through worse. I can’t lose you over this.”

Before he could say anything more, she closed the distance between them, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face into his chest. Cassian’s arms instinctively wrapped around her, pulling her close as if he never wanted to let go. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of her, the feel of her against him filling the empty space in his soul.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m sorry for making you feel like that. I never want to hurt you again. You’re everything to me.”

Y/N pulled back slightly, her eyes still glistening with tears, but the softness in her gaze was undeniable. “Don’t do that again. Please.” She punched him lightly in the chest, her laugh shaky but genuine. “Don’t you dare forget me like that again. Not on something so important.”

Cassian chuckled softly, the sound like music to his ears after the storm they had just weathered. “I swear to you, I’ll never forget again. You’re my heart, Y/N. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that to you.”

She smirked, shaking her head. “Better. Now, let’s sit down and eat. I’m starving.”

Cassian grinned and, with a gentle but firm hand on her back, guided her to the table he had prepared. The soft flicker of candlelight illuminated their faces as they sat down together, the world around them quiet and peaceful. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the candles, the rustling of the leaves in the breeze, and the occasional clink of silverware.

He smiled at her, that same playful grin she loved so much, and poured her a glass of wine. “You sure you’re not just hungry for an excuse to avoid the subject of my deeply regrettable failure?” He teased, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. “Maybe. But you’re lucky I love you, idiot.” She picked up her glass, clinking it gently against his. “To us, Cassian. To love. To second chances.”

“To second chances,” he echoed, his heart lighter than it had been in days. He leaned forward, brushing a soft kiss against her lips before pulling back and saying softly, “I’ll spend my entire life proving to you that I’m worthy of the love you’ve given me. I promise.”

They spent the evening together in the garden, talking, laughing, and simply being with each other. The night was soft and full of promise, and though the pain of the past few days still lingered in the corners of their minds, it was no longer all-consuming. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Cassian felt peace settle in his heart. He had his mate back. And that was all that mattered.

As the stars twinkled overhead, Cassian knew one thing for certain: he would never let her down again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"Flower." Daryl Dixon Imagine.

(Not my gif)

Summary: Daryl has been looking for ways to propose to you. However, something simple but meaningful is always best.

A/N: This is like a second part of "What it means to me" but you don't have to read it first. I stole Daryl and Carol's scene and the flower in Sophia's name, but I haven't slept in almost three days so I feel my attempt at explanation is garbage, but I tried hard, really, so here it goes. Thanks to everyone for liking and sharing my stories!

“How many times?”

“What?”

“How many times did you plan to propose to (Y/N) this week?”

“3.”

“And how many times did you waste?”

“3.” Daryl lets out a grunt of frustration, one that comes from the back of his throat, and he crosses his arms to shield himself from Carol’s words.

The music in the house shared by some family members isn’t loud for obvious reasons, but the people Daryl knew from the beginning are there, enjoying each other’s company. There are glasses and bottles, laughter and smiles you haven’t seen or heard in a long time, all of you together on a night that deserved to be celebrated after feeling fear for so long.

“How the hell ya expect me to do it if y'all are always on top of her? There’s never a moment when ya leave her alone, and when ya did, someone showed up.”

Carol finds a double meaning in a question Daryl never intended to make, so she covers her lips with the back of her hand to stifle the sound of a laugh.

“Excuse me but I assure you that you are the only one on her.”

A blank expression spreads across Daryl's face.

“Ya ain't helpin'.”

Carol shrugs apologetically, quickly silencing her laughter.

“Okay. Okay, the first one was our fault, but you had (Y/N) all to yourself out there at the lagoon twice and you didn't say anything to her. When I asked her how everything went she said you looked like you were about to pass out.”

A sharp ache grips Daryl's heart, like a reflection of the pain of a missed opportunity.

“I tried, but y'know I suck with words, an' I can't find 'em when m' with her. Everythin' disappears when m' with her—the noise, everythin'.”

Carol smiles slightly, seeing Daryl's eyes and the way he inadvertently used his words to speak about you, and she looks at him fondly like she always did.

"You're good with words, Pookie, it's just that you're so dazzled by her that it still makes you feel shy to be around her, like when you met her in the camp. Her gaze that's warm and deep when she looks at those she loves, all of it intimidates you still, even if you say it isn't. What i mean is: you’re in love, Daryl Dixon, that's why you feel that way."

Daryl swallows, stealing a glance from you sitting next to the high granite kitchen table. The wild journey outside had ended when the group found refuge within the walls of Alexandria, struggling now to adapt back to normalcy until you all finally did. Daryl Dixon had come a long way since that new, blood-stained world had risen (more than the others)—growing as a person, going from the loner, the outcast, the one who survived best alone, to one of the most fundamental pillars of the family, one who would silently give his life for someone else.

He had found a family.

But if someone had told Daryl Dixon in the past that he'd find you and have everything when he'd always had nothing (a wife if you said yes, a house if you wanted to start a family on your own with him), he probably would have sent them to hell for lying, or shot them in the face for making fun of something he thought he'd never have. A warm, real home was an inconceivable and unimaginable idea to Daryl, who always believed he was better off alone until he found you. Daryl was never one to commit to anything or anyone until you came along, and now he couldn't imagine his life any other way. Now he even wanted something that would tie you to him, something that would tie him to you.

There, an idea of ​​how to ask you appears in his mind, with a light so blinding it dazzles even him.

"Fuck it. Wish me luck." Daryl whispers before leaving his place in the living room, with Carol smiling at him.

It's a nice party, and he doesn't want to be out of place in the conversation so Daryl stands next to you, his side pressed so naturally against yours that, while sitting away in a corner, no one notices that he hasn't stopped caressing your skin under your shirt since he arrived (with you feeling the warmth of his calloused fingers) while Rick tells you all a story from his past, finally without a trace of sadness in his voice. And it's endearing for you to hear him speak, imitating his smile like Rosita and Glenn.

"Meet me at the picnic table outside in 5." He whispers, before walking away again.

Confused, you do so. With a minute to 5, you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom, walking straight toward the back door of the kitchen, the one that connects to the backyard. Amidst the green grass still holding a few drops of dew, the wooden table has two rectangular chairs on either side, but there's something about Daryl's deep gaze as he watches you the whole way over there, sitting with each leg on either side, too.

Like a hammer hitting the head of a nail, your heartbeat seems to pick up that intensity when Daryl slides down the wood just a little, so that his knees and yours touch.

"You're scaring me." You laugh nervously, tugging slightly at the collar of your t–shirt that seems to stick to your skin until it suffocates you. "Are you okay, love?"

Love. That blessed word that always came after your honest concern for him, way back when it all began and when the others were always tempted to get rid of the burden he seemed to represent.

“I am, Peach, s' just…” Daryl swallows, still holding your gaze, but he hates that is happening again, the way he chokes on his own words, like a barrier blocking his ability to speak. “Shit.”

“Do you… want to break up?”

There's no emotion in your voice, just a weighty question that makes his body shrink back a millimeter.

“What?” Now his heart gives him no respite or warning, and it starts pounding like Daryl’s on a marathon toward the end of the earth. “Y–ya wanna break up?”

The one second–fear is painful, more than the bullet when he was shot.

“No, of course not.” Even through his long hair, the strands covering part of his eyebrows, and the dimly glowing nightlight, you can see his brow furrow in worry, fear. “It’s just, you’ve been on edge this week, and every time we’re alone, it seems like you want to say something, but you don’t dare, and that’s not promising, you know?”

Daryl starts to shake his head, his eyebrows trying to knit together in an expression of real pain.

“Peach, no, shit, m' sorry. I never meant to worry ya or make ya feel like I didn’ want ya anymore 'cause s' the complete opposite.” He takes a silent but deep breath, allowing the air to find places to fill them and to continue living for a moment, or maybe a lifetime to spend with you. “I wanna tell ya a story, but please listen to it 'til the end an' then give me an answer, okay?"

You nod at the unknown even if it makes you feel you are walking blindly; at the overwhelming feelings this evokes in you.

Daryl reaches into his front pants pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper the size of his palm, only to place it between you two of you, on the wood: there's a flower drawn with a pen in messy lines.

“S’ Cherokee rose.” Daryl clears his throat, his gaze fixed solely on the image, but his voice deepens slightly in the night and with the weight of his words. “The story is that… when american soldiers were movin’ Indians off their land on the trail of tears… the Cherokee mothers were grievin’ and cryin’ so much cause they were losin’ their lil’ ones along the way to the exposure, disease, starvation. A lot of ‘em jus’ disappeared, so the elders… they said a prayer, asked for a sign to uplift the mother’s spirits, givin’ ‘em strength, hope. An’ the next day this rose started to grow right where the mother’s tears fell… an' I wanna believe that somewhere… one grew when I met ya.” When Daryl raises his head and his gaze catches yours, the intensity forces you to hold your breath for a moment, as if with a quick, sharp breath, the air could also carry away the overflowing emotions too fast. “What m' tryin' to say is… ma mom used to say this flower grows after someone’s pain an' s' funny to think how ya appeared jus' when I couldn't bear any more pain.”

Daryl smiles softly, and his gaze softens too even through the past he still feels, but even in his own darkness that blends with the night, there’s still beauty to be seen in the dim light.

“Does it still hurt?”

Your question glimmers with your own pain, causing your voice to crack slightly, but that little spark of concern is extinguished when Daryl shakes his head.

“Nah. The scars will always be there, but it all stopped hurtin' a long time ago.”

You nod, but the pain in response to his abuse reached you at a supersonic level, so fast it violently settled inside you.

“I’m glad. Honestly.” You laugh embarrassedly as you feel tears welling up in your eyes, so you slide your fingers from the edges outward in a failed attempt to keep them in line. “I’m sorry.”

“Shit. No, m' sorry, Peach.” Daryl leans forward until his fingers can cup the soft skin of your face and his thumbs can wipe away the first tear that falls from either side. “Didn't mean to make ya cry, I jus' want ya to understand that yer the reason m' here. Ya saved me from myself. Ya always felt like the home I never had, an' I wanted to keep that with me almost selfishly an' all the time. Why ya think I followed ya everywhere?” Daryl lets out a short but heartfelt laugh, and you manage to imitate it with less intensity. “Yer ma home, Peach, yer everythin’ to me, that's why right now I jus' need ya to be honest with me, okay?”

He pulls away, and the wind brushes and chills the skin where his warm fingers had been, but you nod, watching as Daryl reaches into his pants again, making a fist to hide whatever he's holding, until he places a ring over the drawing. Like lead, you feel a weight on your heart trying to drag it down with the sudden nervousness, perhaps heavy with all the emotions that have gathered there.

When you look up again, Daryl smiles sideways, a little with his own nerves.

"Would ya let me be yer husband?"

[wvyik]

dad! dean headcanons. d.w. ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

dean winchester x fem! reader

ᰔ summary: dean might slay monsters, but his heart belongs to his little one. from diaper disasters to sleepy snuggles, these headcanons show dean as the softest dad, proving that no matter how tough he is, his love for his baby is even bigger.

⤿ warnings: pure fluff, cuteness overload, you might need tissues, too much dad! dean for your heart to handle, this post is not responsible for any unintentional squealing or melting, i MIGHT make this a series, uncontrollable awws guaranteed.

⤿ notes: so, in case you didn’t know, i’m officially in my “dad! dean makes me weak” era, and i’m not sorry about it. if you’re reading this and you’re like, ‘why does my heart hurt in the best way right now?’ then welcome to the club. we all fam. ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

DEAN WANTS TO GIVE THEM THE CHILDHOOD HE NEVER HAD.. So he overcompensates. Birthday parties. Christmas mornings that look like a Hallmark movie. Camping trips. Home videos. He keeps everything. “I just want them to know they’re loved. Always.”

HE HATES MISSING MILESTONES.. If he’s on a hunt and misses a first word or first step? He’ll make Cas rewind time or beg Sam for a cursed object to see it. He’d call you in tears like “babe, what’d they say? Was it ‘dada’? Please tell me it was ‘dada.’”

HE BUILDS THEM A BUNKER-LEVEL PILLOW FORT.. Rainy day? You better believe that living room becomes a war zone of blankets, snacks, and Flashlight Tag. “No demons in this fort, soldier. Only snuggles.”

HE TEACHES THEM HOW TO RESPECT PEOPLE.. Manners. Loyalty. Standing up for others. “You protect the people you love. Always. No matter what.” Dean raises the kind of kids that other parents admire.

BUT HE SUCKS AT DISCIPLE WHEN THEY CRY.. One look at those watery eyes and he’s DONE. “Aw c’mon, don’t do that to me, sweetheart… I wasn’t even that mad.” Ends up cuddling them on the couch whispering “daddy’s not mad, just worried.”

ALWAYS TUCKS A NOTE IN THEIR LUNCHBOX.. Little post-its with stuff like “Be brave today, champ!” or “Love you more than pie. Almost.” You find the notes years later, kept in a shoebox.

DEAN HAS A WEIRD OBSESSION WITH CAR SEATS NOW.. He installed that thing like it was a bomb. Double-checks it every single time. “My kid’s not going anywhere unless it’s safely strapped into Baby’s throne.”

HAS ZERO CHILL WHEN THEY’RE SICK.. One cough and he’s pacing like a war general. Blankets, soup, forehead kisses. “You okay, bug? You want Daddy to beat up the virus?”

HE KEEPS BABY PICTURES OF THE KIDS IN HIS WALLET.. And he shows them to random strangers at gas stations, “That’s my little kiddo in their first flannel. Got that same ‘handsome’ face.” with that stupid grin on his face.

HE CRIES AT DANCE RECITALS AND LITTLE LEAGUE GAMES.. Tries to hide it behind his sunglasses, but you can see the sniffles. “That’s my kid out there. Did you see that spin?? Better than Michael Jackson!”

HIS RINGTONE IS THEIR LAUGH.. He recorded it one afternoon when they were giggling at his fart jokes. It’s been his ringtone ever since and he refuses to change it. “Best sound in the damn world.”

CARRIES THEIR ART IN EVERYWHERE.. You open the Impala’s glove box and there’s a crayon drawing of Dean with a giant smile labeled “My Hero.” He pretends to be chill about it but he’s totally cried over it in the garage.

HE TEACHES THEM TO SAY ‘NO’ EARLY.. “I don’t care how small you are. If someone makes you uncomfortable? You say ‘no’ loud. Clear. Mean it. And if they don’t back off, tell Daddy. I’ll handle it.”

BABY-PROOFING THE BUNKER TURNS INTO A WHOLE MISSION.. Sam walks in and Dean’s like “I’ve sealed every electrical outlet, covered all corners, and enchanted the nursery against monsters. What have you done today, Uncle Sam?”

HE STARTS CARRYING DIAPERS AND WIPES IN HIS WEAPONS DUFFEL.. Like a damn multitasking king. There’s holy water, salt rounds, and a pastel blue binky. He pulls it out like “don’t judge me, I’m prepared.”

TEACHES THEM HOW TO SHOOT WITH NERF GUNS FIRST.. You come home and find the house COVERED in foam bullets. He’s in full camo, kids are giggling like maniacs, and he’s yelling “Cover me, soldier! We’ve got a diaper bandit on the loose!”

WHEN THEY GET HURT, HE BLAMES HIMSELF.. They fall off a bike? Scrape a knee? Dean acts like the sky is falling. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve caught ‘em.” And you have to literally hold his face and be like “They’re okay, babe. You’re a great dad.”

HE STARTS READING PARENTING BOOKS IN SECRET.. You catch him late at night with What to Expect the First Year under a flashlight like it’s a case file. “Don’t look at me like that, woman. I just wanna be prepared. Babies don’t come with manuals; this is the closest thing.”

HE LETS THEM PAINT HIS NAILS AND DOESN’T WASH IT OFF FOR DAYS.. He’s out on a hunt with chipped sparkly polish and when Sam’s like “what the hell’s on your hands?” Dean’s all, “My daughter’s masterpiece. You got a problem with that?”

DEAN’S SECRETLY TERRIFIED HE’S GONNA MESS THEM UP.. Sometimes he stares at them sleeping and whispers, “You deserve better than I ever had, kid. I’ll never let anything happen to you.” And then he crawls into bed and pulls you close because you’re the only thing that calms that storm.

HE GETS JEALOUS WHEN THEY CLING TO YOU TOO MUCH.. Playfully, but still. “C’mon, they were on your hip all day. Daddy needs cuddles too!” He pouts until the kid crawls into his lap and he’s smug like “that’s right, Daddy’s the favorite now.”

GETS SO MAD WHEN PEOPLE SAY ‘JUST WAIT TILL THEY’RE TEENAGERS’.. Like— no. “I’m gonna love ‘em through every stage. You don’t stop being their damn parent when they get loud and moody. You step up. That’s my kid.”

ALWAYS MAKES TIME FOR ONE-ON-ONE DATES.. He’ll take each kid out individually for a milkshake or a trip to the arcade and call it “dad-and-me time.” He says it’s for them, but it’s really for him, too.

WRITES THEM LETTERS “JUST IN CASE”.. Stored in the bunker. One for every birthday. Every milestone. “If something ever happens to me… I want them to know I was there. I loved ‘em every second.”

WHEN YOU’RE ALL SNUGGLED UP IN BED, HE HOLDS THE BABY AND WHISPERS TO YOU.. “We really did it, huh? We made this little life. And I’m not goin’ anywhere, sweetheart. Ever.”

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⤿ wanna be tagged in my fics?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library.

[the-maid-of-witchwood]

Gimme your favourite au ideas and who you'd throw into them (or like one au idea you like because you have like the neatest ideas)

Again, I’m gonna pull out a list of AUs I have previously written because I’m way too prepared for this.

Carrie AU 2.0

Has no relation to the first beyond being another play on Carrie. The whole thing takes place at the Starlight Theatre where Ruth ends up playing the lead in Cinderella’s Castle. Zoey, pissed and bitter about playing second fiddle to some dorky soprano, just decides to trash her opening night. Or the one where Zoey takes method acting as the Stepmother too far. (If you’ve seen CC, you’ll know what I’m hinting at). Ruth snaps and wipes out half of Hatchetfield before curtain call.

Also Lautity are here just flirting in the background the entire time. Like, they are the only survivors because they thought the other looked good in this hot all done up and left to make out.

Cinderella’s Castle

The one where Stephanie doesn’t have a good time. I’ve already spoken about it on here but it’s essentially the plot of CC but set in Hatchetfield, with some of the lore weaved in. Just for fun and angst. So you know she’s being dragged through that ringer.

Corpse Bride

Pete is Victor, Grace is Victoria, Steph is Emily. Need I say more?

Crossed Timelines

Having been killed by Max, Ruth and Richie wake up in some random location with Pete, Steph and Grace. But it’s not their Pete, Steph and Grace. It’s the ones from another universe where Max killed them three instead of Ruth and Richie. Basically everyone argues who had it worst and trauma bonds. Essentially reincarnation.

Dæmons (His Dark Materials)

Just shenanigans involving everyone having dæmons. That’s it. Mainly fluff and chaos.

Dirty Dudes Must Die

Written as a mock Nightmare Time episode. Essentially follows Steph discovering the guys at school being shitty to Grace, the school refusing to do anything, Grace getting kicked out of home for ‘sleeping around’ and subsequently her deciding to take revenge. Only things go horribly wrong and she ends up with four bodies on her hands. Fortunately the nerds who keep getting in the way are more than happy to help.

Hatchet Swung the Other Way

Gabe is the bully and everything changes. Not really. Essentially just a role swap: the cool kids are now the losers and vice versa, Gabe - Max, Grace - Steph, Steph - Pete, and so on and so forth. Potentially might take place at Abstinence Camp.

Heathers

When Richie said he hated Stephanie Lauter and wanted her dead, he didn’t mean it literally. Would be nice if Max knew that. Also it’s totally unfair that he has to put up with her annoying ghost instead of Max when it wasn’t even his fault she was stupid enough to drink drain cleaner in the first place—

Ride the Cyclone Tearjerker

Six teenagers die at Watcher World. However, Miss Holloway refuses to let Blinky torture all of them - so they reach a deal, she can bring one back to life. However, rather than pick herself, she leaves the decision to the teenagers. Aka, Ruth lets out her inner theatre kid for an hour and a bit; Steph and Richie attempt to kill each other a second time; Grace has a mental breakdown/crisis of faith in the corner; Pete is literally the only ‘normal’ one; and Max honestly doesn’t know why he’s here.

Sail Away to Canada

An alternative NPMD ending where they do actually sail away to Canada and get new identities. A lot more slice of life and silly scenarios of them trying to remain undercover… until Solomon drags them back to deal with the mess (Max’s ghost) they left behind. Only there’s one issue: Grace may or may not have lost the winning card of her chastity to Lautski and they might have to aggressively play Rock, Paper, Scissors to decide who’s taking the bullet.

Something Fun, Something Tasty

Another alternative NPMD ending where Steph’s sacrifice isn’t the death of what she cherishes most, but they’re humanity. Pete and Grace struggle to adapt to their new life as… whatever the heck they are now. Monsters? Pets? Vessels? Steph just feels incredibly guilty; she’s also kinda the new Miss Holloway.

Take a Walk in My Shoes

Steph and Grace wake up in each other’s bodies in what they think is just a random nightmare. With the help of Pete, they slowly uncover that there’s something a lot more sinister going on at Abstinence Camp. And maybe a certain deal that was stuck between Mayor Lauter and the Jerries over a black book…

The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals

Essentially TGWDLM but Pete is Paul. And he has the unfortunate fate of losing one girlfriend to the apocalypse, while trying to escape with the other. This definitely isn’t something that’ll be used against him in the final act…

[geddyqueer]

wip wednesday :)

good morning. here's a scene from my 8x11 fix it "no crying in baseball" which i'm really trying hard to finish before 8x15 drops lmfao. not sure who has a wip going at the moment so i am throwing a bunch of penne noodle tags at the wall: @setmeatopthepyre @screamlet @chamacafeahorrible @r-o-s-e-f-i-r-e @beanarie @trombonechurchill and YOU [menacing glare].

They work on throwing. They work on catching. They work on sprinting and sliding and getting out of each others' way. They have batting practice and he convinces Kaylee to do a demonstration on following the ball.

"Okay, girls," he says at the second practice, and one of them pipes up, "We're not all girls, Coach."

"Oh," he says, looking around at them. "Uh, people?"

They shrug.

"Players" is written off as boring; "comrades" goes over most of their heads. "How about Scorpions," he says, and they holler and cheer and throw their gloves in the air.

"Alright, Scorpions, get working on your sprints," he says, and the cheers turn to groans, but it's fine.

Some days Tracy joins him at the field, with a cooler full of juice boxes and orange slices and animal crackers. Some days it's one of Tayla's dads, Marc, a dentist who looks a lot more uptight than he is. Some days it's Rae-Anne's step?mother?—Tommy's really not sure how anyone in that family is related, but he's not judging. Lucy even comes back for another afternoon when all the parents are busy.

Unluckily for him it's the day after they ran into Evan on a call, loading a patient into the air ambulance and stepping back and almost tripping over the guy, Evan's eyes wide as he scanned Tommy's face and clocked the still-lingering bruise.

"Tommy," Evan said, Hen on his other side jumping to attention, "are you okay?"

"Christ, Buck, leave him alone, we're at work," Lucy snapped, and that was enough to make Evan deflate entirely. He stumbled backwards and Hen guided him away from the helicopter before Tommy could fire it up and decapitate himself and everyone in the vicinity so he never had to have this conversation again.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, he's a great guy," Lucy says from her ever-present camp chair the next day. "But he's such a bull in a china shop with relationships."

That's not true, Tommy thinks; Evan may have been clumsy, but it was Tommy who had placed his own heart inside the thinnest, most fragile glass case. It was Tommy who had unscrewed one of the legs holding it up. It was Tommy who had handed over a baseball bat and allowed Evan to go wild.

"Well?" Lucy asks, and Tommy sighs.

"He's kind. He's funny. Curious. A really good friend. Caring and empathetic and gentle and he's going to make a really good d—"

He cuts himself off, feeling strangled, feeling breathless, and Lucy's eyes go wide as she realizes what he was going to say, and she waves him away, sends him down the hill to the pond to clear his head and get his breath back and he can hear her behind him clapping her hands, calling "Hey, Scorpions, let's do some stretches! Coach is fine, he just needed to take a call, okay, let's go," and he's so grateful nobody but the tadpoles and the ducks in this pond have to witness him breaking down over the fact that he thought Evan was going to be the one to finally give him a family.

[0tivez]

and there was only one sleeping bag

synopsis: you're sent on a mission with levi. once nighttime arrives, you realize you've forgotten your sleeping bag. will you be too proud and sleep on the ground in freezing cold or accept levi's offer to share the sleeping bag?

characters: levi

warnings: afab reader, tight space, unprotected sex, handjob (giving and receiving), mdni

wc: 2k

note: yes it's been literal years, yes it's out of nowhere. but tbh i needed this more than you guys probably will enjoy it. maybe not my best work but give this hag a chance, i haven't written ANYTHING in years. also yeah sorry about that.

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you let the cold soil embrace your feet. you feel all your tiredness leave your body and flow into the ground, as the heat of the bonfire levi has set leave soft, familiar kisses on your bare face. it’s been a long day of riding around the forest for a preliminary investigation for titans before the expedition begins once more, hoping it’d decrease casualties. erwin has assigned his two best soldiers for a daytime exploration, levi and you. you should have been back to the main camp by now, but two 15 meters had other plans. if only you weren’t caught by surprise, it would be child’s play, but you were. eliminating smaller threats, you were ready to return back when two fuckers appeared out of nowhere and attacked you. thankfully, you had managed to survive with minimal damage. as much as you wished you could travel back during the night when it’s the safest, you were too worn out to continue without some rest. so, you planned to rest for a few hours before heading back while it was still dark.

levi was wandering around the forest to look for dry branches while you let the heat relax your muscles. you hear levi coming back with a bunch of wood in his arms.

“we should have been on the move. i should feed you to any titans we’ll see tomorrow.” he nags. his tone is always serious, yet so un-intimidating to you. you stop taking his threats seriously when you receive them everyday.

“aah, you probably won’t have a hard time. i probably taste better than you anyway” you respond. levi clicks his tongue in response, you can feel his face go sour without even looking at him.

“we should sleep. the fire should scare wild animals away.”

“no night shifts? i thought you weren’t tired.”

levi scrunches his nose and furrows his brows. “i’m not going to spend four hours staring into the fire. i’ll try to sleep a little too.” you shake your shoulders in response.

levi turns around and approaches his horse as you take off your jacket and lay it on the ground. levi stands above you with a shocked face.

“what the hell are you doing?”

you look at him, confused. “making my bed.” only then you see the green bag in his hands. “what’s that?”

“it’s my sleeping bag, dumbass. where’s yours?” right, sleeping bag. the warm, cozy bag you sleep in. the one that’s resting in your tent back at the main camp.

levi sighs before you can even say a word. he hands the bag to you. “what kind of a soldier are you? take mine, i’ll sleep on the ground.”

you take offence immediately at levi’s mean remark. “it was supposed to be a daytime mission! i didn’t want to carry too much weight. and i don’t want your stupid bag. i’ll sleep on the ground.”

“tch. you’ll freeze to death. stop being annoying, take the bag.”

you throw the bag at him and turn your back against the bonfire and lay on the ground. levi’s not surprised at your stubbornness, he also knew you’d be shivering before he even fell asleep.

and you did.

levi saw your body trembling on the ground, he knew you’d be too proud to admit being wrong.

“just come here. sleeping together will make us both warmer.”

you humph and get up. levi has unzipped his bag and opened it to let you in. only then you realize, he’s half naked. you only see his pale skin and chiseled abs before turning around and letting a tiny scream out in shock.

“what the hell, you perv? why the fuck are you naked?”

levi sighs. “to increase heat circulation inside. you should take off your clothes if you want to get warmer too.”

“the hell? i’m not getting undressed you freak!”

“god, i won’t look. stop being annoying and get inside or i’ll just sleep here by myself.”

you stomp your feet on the ground in annoyance and quickly unbutton your shirt and get rid of your pants. you find levi with his eyes closed waiting for you to enter his bed. so you do. you snuggle inside the bag and zip it.

your cold back gets in contact with levi’s warm, bare chest. the space is too tight for things to not be erotic. it’s just, undeniable. you can feel every curve of his abs on your back, and you can’t help but notice how perfectly your ass is positioned in front of his bulge. you’re sure levi is aware of it too, but tries not to show it.

the awkwardness only increases once you and levi realize that his arm’s stationed in a weird position. he mumbles something you can’t make out and drops his arm down. his right arm is now wrapped around your waist. the sudden touch of his skin on your waist sends shivers down your spine. all the blood rushes to your cheeks, you can’t help but feel aroused by this sudden situation.

you turn your head to glance at levi. to your surprise he’s not asleep, not even pretending to be asleep. he simply has his brows furrowed, looking directly onto your face. your eyes meet for a second, before both of you move as if on command, directly against each other.

levi’s hot lips press upon your shivering lips. levi sucks in all the coldness out of you. his kiss is enough to send shivers down your spine. you feel the heat rise from below, slowly creeping up your spine. levi’s hand that’s wrapped around your waist tightens its grip. he’s gently kneading the soft skin around your torso before crawling up on your chest. you try to breathe in between kisses. it feels like levi’s on a mission to choke you out with his lips. he shows his incredible stamina once more, he hasn’t broken the kiss for a moment, and you’re a breathless loser.

you hold levi’s hand on your body and guide it on your boobs and under your bra, allowing him inside somewhere you never thought you would. levi’s fingertips play around your nipples as he bites your lower lip, sending too many signals to your body all at once. you free your right hand and grab levi’s face, pushing it further into yours. levi’s hand explores all over your breasts; kneading them and tracing around them as if he was trying to picture it in his mind. and god, you don’t even know how much levi wishes he could bury his face on your chest right now. because he can’t suckle on your nipple, he compensates with your soft lips instead. he sucks on your lower lip that has gotten wet and slippery from his sloppy kisses. he tugs, bites, and sucks on your lips. he’s too drunk on you to realize how much your soft moans have aroused him, he’s too focused on pleasuring himself with your lips.

you can feel his erection grow bigger on your back, fighting for you to play with it. you trace your hand down his body from behind your back down to his underwear. you play around the edge of his boxers as he continues to mark your lips. it’s the first time you hear him moan once you slip your hand inside his boxers and palm his erection. you let his cock fill your cold hands. his dick pulsates on your hand with the sudden touch of coldness. you can feel his eagerness, and how much he was offended at how easily you made him moan. you got a glimpse of his sly smirk on his face before he quickly sent his hand down your underwear as well. you rub his cock up and down as he takes his slender fingers down your wet folds. he nuzzles on your neck and sucks on the soft spot right down your jaw. he puts his wet fingers on your clit and starts circling around it, teasing you to beg for more. you don’t beg nor response, only let your fingers continue rubbing his cock. except this time, you let your fingers wait a little longer on his tip, which you figured out was his sensitive spot once he moaned with your first touch. levi instinctively bites your neck in frustration, and accepts his defeat. he starts applying pressure on your clit before rubbing circles on it. you feel the numbing pleasure wash over you.

it doesn’t take longer than seconds before levi whispers “fuck it” with a raspy and furious voice. he frees his throbbing dick and quickly moves your panties to the side. his pebbled sweat drops on your naked shoulder, yet it doesn’t bother you. you were now gasping for the cold air that once almost killed you.

levi lets out a low moan as he enters his tip. the tight space gives you very little room to move around, you have nothing else to do other than take it, take him. levi slips his cock inside with a swift motion without trouble. his masterful fingers have already prepared your hole for him. levi sighs out of relief and lets your warm, wet cunt welcome him. he enjoys the sight of you squirming next to him, waiting desperately for you to move. your eyes are shut close, eyes filled with tears, forehead covered in sweat, and lips agape with lust. he takes the sight in.

he thrusts his hips in the confined space. even though his movements are limited, he hits the spot too well. you scream in pleasure, so much that levi is almost scared he hurt you. he hastily moves again before you moan “more, levi, please” that drives him mad. he pushes his hips steadily, every move so powerful and effective. he pushes his thumb on your clit and starts playing with it. bolts of shock travel through your body, the pleasure almost too unbearable. his cock stretches your walls every time he enters you. your soft skin slaps against his balls with every thrust, the mumbled slapping sound echoing through the silent forest. the only other noise that fills the void is your desperate moans that call for his name. “levi, levi, levi…” his name never sounded better.

levi once again locks his lips with yours. he’s working all around you. your body is locked with his, you are under his control fully. his unreal stamina weakens you. you grow weaker as he continues to drill into you. you make sure to stay conscious enough to savor his low moans on your lips, a mission too hard for you at this moment.

your body is at its breaking point, and levi knows it. he knows you’re close, but he won’t let you cum until he’s ready too. he can feel your body as if it was his, or at least you think. he measures every movement; it’s almost like he can also feel when you’re close because that’s when he breaks his pace. that’s when the numbing feel in your chest dies down a little, only a little before levi picks it up again. he plays around with your body. he chases after you, he tries to catch up to you.

“levi, please” you beg him, and the sight of you drives him to the edge. you lay beneath him, face turned against him, your nails digging on his biceps to control yourself, cheeks wet from tears and sweat. you almost look like a painting, so beautiful and delicate.

levi doesn’t hold himself back as he made you do. he lets you clench around his cock with all your power before breaking apart under him. he empties himself inside you with a low moan that harmonizes with yours. you both crumble under the lustful touch of the other, fingers traveling around your bodies still.

your body finally falls limp. you’re gasping for air, almost as if you had just left a battle. levi releases hot breaths on your skin as his head falls on your neck. his soft lips touch your neck as he speaks again in a low and ordering voice as usual.

“i might have to reconsider feeding you to the titans.”

i missed levi so much i love him so much aot is still the most goated anime of all time ong and levi HHRRRAGAGGGHHH WOOF WOOF BARK BARK

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #14 死

† camping trip mysteries †

"You'd have never said you'd be involved in a Council of 9 meeting at any point in your life; yet here you are, suddenly thrusted into a mission with the Chief you've just hooked up with, because your life couldn't possibly get more complicated."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 9k

content: female friendships, silly conversations, Vyunjin, dodgeball, AD being horrible with throws, cryptic stuff, council meetings, having to work with jeon officially, gang loyalty and bestie gossip

☠ author's note ☠

 I really milked this camping trip for all it's worth, huh? Three whole chapters of outdoor shenanigans! I regret NOTHING. Anyway, here's the conclusion of our little nature excursion! Hope you enjoyed this slightly more chill setting (apart from, y'know, chapter 12's 👉🏻👌🏻 situation) because don't worry—there's PLENTY of time for everything to go spectacularly to shit later <3

MY KIWI HEAD 🥝🤧 I genuinely love him so much and I'm as surprised as you are! Who would have thought?? I seriously had ZERO intentions for Takama when I started this—no plan, no backstory, nothing. He just showed up in my brain one day demanding rights.

Maybe I love him so much because he's the only one with more than two functioning brain cells? Like, the man is just... chill. Nice. Using his fucking brain. Being all wise and grounding while everyone else is having emotional crises left and right. THE VOICE OF REASON IN THIS CIRCUS.

Takama x Reader endgame??? Jkjk this is a Jeon Jungkook fanfic ☝️ ...which doesn't mean shit won't happen before/after 👀

ANYWAY I'll leave you to make your own assumptions about our kiwi boy. All I'm saying is that sometimes characters write themselves into your heart and there's nothing you can do about it. Is it just me as an author having unhealthy attachments to my own creations? PROBABLY! You tell me!

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go cry about my fictional characters for the fifth time this week. It's only Tuesday. Send help.

xoxo 💋

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

The morning hike with Chaewon was exactly what you needed—fresh air, quiet trails... No drama.

But of course, you can't have nice things in Kkangpae.

Not when you return to find V lounging on a log like some tragic hero while J-Hope patches up his split lip.

"What the hell happened here?"

You eye the scene, already getting a headache. The thorny scent of roses fills your lungs as V gives you what immediately recognize as a smug smile.

"Just a little disagreement." V's smile is all teeth despite his busted lip. "Jeon can get rather feisty when he wants to."

J-Hope just rolls his eyes, clearly done with V's bullshit. He hands you a sanitary napkin without looking up, too busy sorting through his medical supplies—which basically means please help me deal with this drama queen.

You crouch next to V, ignoring how his eyes track your movement like he's a cat and you're the bird he wants to catch. The napkin comes away bloody when you dab at his lip, and his body tenses slightly under your touch—barely noticeable if you weren't trained to pick up on these things.

"Careful now." His voice drops low, playful. "I might bite."

You don't miss a beat.

"You bite, you get no help." The words come out flat, unimpressed. "I'm not one of your fangirls, V."

His games might work on others, but you've seen enough of his thorny side to know better.

Those roses have teeth.

A low chuckle breaks the tension. J-Hope's back with his medical supplies, but V's still watching you—though now with something that might be respect.

Or whatever passes for respect in that thorny mind of his.

"You really had it coming this time." J-Hope clicks his tongue, cranky doctor mode fully activated as he settles back down. "Jeon isn't someone you poke for fun without expecting consequences."

"Me?" V's eyebrow shoots up, all wounded innocence. "I was just having a friendly chat. Who knew our brooding Chief still had some fight left in him?"

The act doesn't fool anyone—especially not J-Hope, who (you bet your ass) has been patching up the aftermath of V's friendly chats' for years.

"Friendly chat?" J-Hope scoffs, dabbing at V's lip with more force than strictly necessary. "You two always turn everything into a dick-measuring contest. One of these days someone's gonna end up with worse than a busted lip."

V leans toward you like he's sharing a secret, mischief written all over his features. "He's just worried he'll run out of medical supplies if we keep this up."

You expect J-Hope to snap back—he usually does when people get like this.

But he just sighs, shoulders heavy with a worry that feels too genuine for the Kkangpae's ruthless doctor.

"Or maybe I'm worried you'll end up with a split skull, dumbass."

It's weird, the way it dribbles from his lips—like actual concern.

Which is weird in a place like this, where caring too much can get you killed. But then again, J-Hope's always been different. Maybe that's why he's one of the few people V actually listens to.

Sometimes?

V's eyes meet yours, like he's either hunting for something or escaping whatever was swirling in the doctor's pupils. Though, as everything with V, it vanishes instantly behind that shark-like grin.

"Ah, Hobi, always looking out for me. What would I do without you?"

"Probably be lying in a ditch somewhere." J-Hope says it casually, but his snark feels less blunt now. 

He gives V's shoulder a quick pat—kinda saying 'you're patched up, now get out of my face.' V nods his thanks, but his attention is already sliding back to you. His gaze lingers a bit too long, assessing.

"You've got a steady hand," he drawls, and you know he's not just talking about your first aid skills.

Thorns prickle your skin.

"And you've got a death wish." You hand the bloody napkin back to J-Hope, keeping your voice flat.

Unimpressed.

V's laugh shatters in the quiet. "Oh, you're interesting. I like you."

"Was that supposed to be a compliment?" You arch an eyebrow at him. "Coming from someone who just got his ass handed to him by Jeon, I'm not sure how much that's worth."

His smile widens; ever so slightly. Like what you said made him feel something—bad or good, you really don't care, but it's like his vines are slowly creeping into your lungs.

You just sigh, shrug it off. It's not your problem.

You've got enough on your plate without getting caught up in whatever dick-measuring contest is going on between V and Jeon.

Your attention abruptly shifts to Takama, sitting cross-legged in the grass like some zen master on his coffee break. Despite looking perfectly relaxed with his can of coffee, you know better—the man's probably cataloguing every movement in a three-mile radius.

He's just that kind of observant. It's just how he is, what he does, that much is clear from your training sessions with him.

Persistent without being belligerent; consistent without being insistent.

It's weird seeing him in casual clothes. The navy sweater and white collar combo is a far cry from his usual tactical gear, making him look almost... normal. Like he could be anyone's slightly intimidating older brother instead of Jeon's deadly second-in-command. Even his loose jeans seem deliberately chosen for comfort rather than combat.

He doesn't move a muscle as you approach, eyes fixed on the horizon like his mind has found refuge among the spongy dunes skittering away in the sky.

Or maybe he's just really into his morning coffee.

You plop down beside him, the damp grass immediately soaking through your pants because of course it does.

"Peaceful morning, isn't it?"

You break the silence, knowing Takama won't. Man's got the conversation skills of a particularly stoic rock when he wants to.

There's something calming about his presence though.

Like he's the drizzle after the hurricane.

Plus, he probably won't try to murder anyone over breakfast. Unlike some people you could name.

"Peace is rare around here." The corner of Takama's mouth quirks up slightly. "Savor it while it lasts."

You settle into the comfortable silence, watching the horizon paint itself in morning colors. Next to Takama, even coffee breaks feel philosophical.

"You and V," he starts, offering you the can. "You get along?"

You grab it and take a sip, considering your answer. The coffee's gone lukewarm.

"Hmm."

Yeah that's your answer, because you don't really know what to reply. It's definitely not a yes, but you don't... hate him either?

"He's a wildcard, but I can handle him," is what you end up settling for.

What follows is Takama's laugh—quiet, understated like everything else about him.

"V is... unpredictable. But he's loyal to the gang, in his own way." He pauses, choosing words carefully. "Just watch your back. Testing people is how he entertains himself."

You pass the can back, watching him take another sip. The liquid works through a swallow down his throat, and his Adam's apple bobs slightly. His head tilts towards you when he notices you've gone silent.

"And Jeon? How do you find working with him?"

The question makes your skin prickle, and you know it's not because of how sudden it is—but because of something else, as well.

Images from last night force their way through your mind like a wiggling worm unwilling to let go—callouses on skin, that silver lip ring, the way he'd touched you like you might break.

You take your time answering, very aware that this is Jeon's right-hand man asking—and that your neck probably still has marks his mouth left behind.

But you're not about to tell Takama that.

"He's... intense." You focus on shredding a blade of grass, needing something to do with your hands. "But we kind of... get each other, I guess."

Takama finally looks at you, and fuck—there's way too much understanding in those gray eyes.

Because with V you have a noncommittal answer.

But you just said you get along with Jeon. Kinda.

He doesn't comment on it, and it makes sense—being Jeon's second means he probably sees more than most.

About how hard exactly it is to be in Jeon's circle. Not part of it, not even near—just hovering.

It's not easy, you know that much.

"Jeon respects strength," he says quietly, like he's sharing a secret. "Stand your ground, and you'll earn his respect."

A pause. Then he adds, hushedly:

"Maybe more."

Your pupils flicker between his, trying to parse whatever the hell he means—but nothing in there gives you a hint.

He simply smiles, getting up and helping you up too.

You both turn back to watch the camp wake up, the morning routine starting to buzz around you.

Someone's cursing about cold showers. Someone else is complaining about AD.

You take another sip of lukewarm coffee, letting the bitterness ground you. It's easier than thinking about what maybe more might mean, or why your stomach churns at the thought.

Besides, you've got enough on your plate just dealing with regular Jeon.

You don't need to add cryptic messages to that mess.

The peaceful morning doesn't last long—because this is Kkangpae you're talking about.

Moon's voice cuts through your post-gossip haze, drawing everyone to the center of the camp like a very formal shepherd. Some people look about as thrilled as you feel about being up this early.

"All right, everyone!" He's got that tone—the one that says 'this is mandatory fun and you're going to like it.' "For today's lunch, we're doing something different. Group bibimbap, but with a twist: you'll work in pairs."

A ripple of murmurs spreads through the crowd. You catch Takama's eye—he just raises an eyebrow like 'here we go again'.

"These pairings," Moon continues, all business in his long coat despite the casual setting, "are chosen to mix different divisions and personalities. It's about teamwork and learning from each other."

You barely hold back a snort. Trust Moon to turn lunch prep into a team-building exercise.

Your attention snaps back when he calls out, "Y/N, you're paired with JM. I expect great things from you two."

Well, that could've been worse. At least JM's not likely to stab you over vegetable chopping techniques.

When you reach him, he's already smiling that gentle smile that makes him look more like a kindergarten teacher than a gang's financial mastermind.

"Looks like we're a team." His voice matches his whole vibe—calm as a lake on a windless day. "Any ideas on what we should tackle?"

You're about to answer when a groan cuts through your chat with JM.

You turn to see AD looking like someone just deleted his gaming setup, while J-Hope's already got that 'done with this shit' smile plastered on his face.

"Bro, why the fuck am I always paired with your annoying ass?" AD slumps against a tree, all dramatic like the gremlin he is.

J-Hope just rolls his eyes. "Because Moon loves to torture me, that's why. Come on, let's just get this over with."

Your eyes inevitably roam around the clearing, taking in the other pairings.

Jeon and Chaewon—they acknowledge each other with matching professional nods, something like 'we respect each other but let's keep this strictly business' hovering over them.

Takama and Jessi make an oddly perfect pair, his zen energy somehow containing her wildfire spirit as they huddle together, already plotting.

V's got Yunjin trapped in what looks like his usual chaotic storytelling, though she seems to be holding her own—and then there's Eunchae and Sakura, who look like they're planning to turn lunch prep into some kind of competition.

Meanwhile, Kazuha's hanging onto Moon's every word like he's sharing the secrets of the universe instead of just bibimbap instructions.

"So." JM's gentle voice pulls you back. "Should we handle the veggies? I think we could make a great team in chopping and prepping them."

"Sounds good to me." You find yourself matching his easy smile. "Let's show them how it's done."

At least someone in this chaos circus knows how to be normal.

You follow JM to gather supplies, falling into an easy rhythm. His gentle energy is oddly reassuring, and makes even veggie prep feel zen.

Plus, he actually knows what he's doing, which is more than you can say for half the pairs around you.

Because AD's already whining about something while J-Hope ignores him completely.

Yeah; that's Kkangpae for you.

But then you catch sight of V with Yunjin and your stomach turns, why, you don't know. Poor Yunjin's holding her knife like she's never seen one before, eyes darting around nervously.

And its knives, so yeah, V swoops right in.

"Let me show you," he purrs, and fuck him for actually sounding smooth.

You see his hand sliding over hers, like he isn't the same person who had blood on his lip an hour ago.

"There's a rhythm to it, like a dance." You watch him press closer, caging Yunjin with his body while he guides the knife. "Feel the movement. It's about confidence, purpose."

"Like this?" Yunjin's voice is small, breathless.

"Exactly like that." He eases into it. "Every slice tells a story of precision and care. And you, Yunjin, have a knack for it."

You grip your own knife tighter, fighting the urge to stab those thorny vines right out of the air. He's charming, you'll give him that.

But you fear the sweet floral scent roses simply masks decaying waste underneath.

And he needs to stay the fuck away from Yunjin.

You can't help noticing how she melts under his attention, all shy smiles and batting eyelashes. Like a moth drawn to a particularly deadly flame.

"There, you're a pro now." V steps back with a wink.

"Thanks, V." Yunjin beams up at him. "I think I've got it from here."

A slight movement catches your eye—JM's knife has stopped mid-chop.

His gaze darts between V and Yunjin like he's watching a car crash in slow motion, and it's real subtle, but you catch the way his jaw tightens.

"JM," you keep your voice casual, "you seem a bit distracted. Everything okay?"

He snaps back to his vegetables, gentle smile sliding back. "Oh, it's nothing. Just... observing the dynamics. It's interesting to see how different personalities interact, don't you think?"

You nod, watching V circle Yunjin. "True. Especially with V. Makes you wonder what goes on behind that smile."

"Exactly." His smile is halfhearted at best. "Sometimes, the most cheerful faces hide the deepest stories."

The way he says it makes you wonder just how many of V's stories JM knows.

And how many of them keep him up at night.

You and JM fall into a comfortable rhythm again, just hearing AD complaining about something, Eunchae's bright laughter, the clatter of pots and pans.

Then—crash.

Your head snaps up, muscles tensing automatically. Old habits die hard in Kkangpae.

It's Chaewon.

She's standing frozen, an overturned pot at her feet, staring at one of Jessi's guys like she's seen a ghost. His hand hangs awkwardly in the air where it had brushed against hers. You can see her breathing speed up—tell-tale sign of panic she's never shown before.

JM's knife stills mid-chop. Before you can blink, he's already moving toward her.

Jessi's there too, quickly motioning for the guy to back off—and he does, looking confused and apologetic, but you notice how Chaewon's shoulders drop slightly once he's out of reach.

JM murmurs something to her, too low for you to hear (though you bet that gentle voice of his could probably talk down a rabid bear). Chaewon gives a tiny nod, but her knuckles are still white where she's gripping her sleeve.

When Jessi touches her shoulder, you catch that silent conversation between the three of them.

The kind that comes from knowing someone's demons intimately.

"Alright, everyone, back to work." Jessi shouts. "Nothing to see here. Let's keep the focus on the task at hand."

Everyone turns back to their tasks, but you don't miss how JM stays close to Chaewon, or how Jessi's eyes keep scanning the crowd like she's daring anyone to make this worse.

JM hovers near her for another minute before coming back to your chopping station, and when he does, he picks up his knife and starts slicing carrots like nothing's happened at all.

"Guess we all have our off days, huh?" You keep your voice light, casual. No pressure.

JM's knife stills for a moment. He doesn't look up.

"Everyone has ghosts they're running from." The words come out soft. "Some just hide them better than others."

You let the silence settle. There's an unspoken rule in the gang—you don't go digging in other people's graveyards unless they hand you the shovel first.

"I'm gonna wash up," you mutter, already heading for the makeshift sink, feeling like he needs some silence before being back to normal.

Behind you, JM's knife resumes its path against the cutting board.

You're shaking water off your hands when footsteps approach from behind. Months in Kkangpae have taught you to be alert even for something as mundane as washing up after veggie prep.

"So you do know how to clean up."

The low drawl sends heat crawling up your spine. You know that voice—and the smirk that goes with it—without having to turn around.

"Turns out, I'm full of surprises." You flick excess water in Jeon's direction, catching his dangerous half-smile when you glance over your shoulder.

His chuckle hits you right in the gut, deep and rich and —fuck—suddenly all you can think about is last night.

His hands, his mouth, the way he'd made you shatter.

"Surprising indeed." There's that smug tone again. "Especially since I recall someone being too fucked out to help with cleanup duty."

"Well," you drop your voice low, just for him, "if you hadn't made such a goddamn mess, there'd have been less to clean up."

Your body remembers how close you'd been—how you'd ground against each other like teenagers, desperate and needy.

How his cock had felt pressed against you, so close but not close enough because someone didn't bring protection.

The frustration from last night still burns under your skin, reminder of what could have been.

If he'd just been prepared...

Jeon steps closer, and—fuck—even after last night, his presence still makes your skin prickle.

"A mess, you say? The way I remember it, you were just as responsible for the chaos."

"Chaos?" You meet his gaze head-on, refusing to back down even as heat crawls up your neck. "Don't flatter yourself, Jeon. It was... mild disarray at best."

His grin widens, and you hate how your eyes keep tracking that stupid lip piercing.

"Mild disarray? You were panting like you'd run through every back alley in Seoul."

You scoff, trying not to remember how he'd made you shake, how his hands had felt mapping every inch of you.

"Breathless, maybe. But let's not blow it out of proportion."

"Hah." His eyes narrow. "You've got a sharp tongue. But we both know—"

A shout from across the camp makes you both freeze. Your eyes meet his for a split second before you step apart, smooth as shadows. Professional. Like you weren't just thinking about climbing him like a tree.

Again.

You turn away, finally letting out that breath you'd been holding.

The banter gets you hot under the collar but fuck if you don't want more. Not that you'll admit that.

Even if part of you is already plotting round two.

This time with actual protection. Because seriously.

"Anyway," his voice cuts through your thoughts, "we should get back to work. Long day ahead."

"Right." You nod, and then go right back to prepping veggies.

Yeah. This is going to be a very long day indeed.

The smell of bibimbap hits different after spending all morning chopping vegetables next to JM's weirdly zen energy.

And yup—everyone's gathering around the portable tables, looking stupidly proud of their contributions like they didn't just spend half the morning complaining about Moon's team-building exercise.

You grab a spot next to Yunjin, who's already halfway through telling you about her latest drama obsession; eyes practically sparkling as she waves her chopsticks around.

"No but listen—the main lead thinks his brother died in that fire, right?" She leans in close, pink hair falling in her face. "But then in episode sixteen we find out he's actually been alive this whole time! Living in China!"

You nearly choke on your rice. "That's the most unrealistic plot twist I've ever—"

"Mind if I join?" Takama's calm voice slices through Yunjin's enthusiastic plot summary; slight smile that makes him look more like a monk than Jeon's deadly second-in-command.

"Pull up a chair." You scoot over to make room. "Yunjin's educating me on the finer points of melodrama."

"Ah." His eyes crinkle as he settles in. "The ones where everyone's secretly related and nobody stays dead?"

"Exactly!" Yunjin beams. "Like this one where the brooding CEO's got a secret relationship—"

"Should've fought harder for the meat distribution," you murmur, poking at your mostly vegetable bibimbap.

Before you can finish sighing about your protein deficiency, Takama's chopsticks appear in your line of sight, depositing a generous portion of beef onto your plate.

"Here. I prefer vegetables anyway."

"Liar." But you're already mixing the meat into your rice, trying not to look too pleased. "Thanks."

Yunjin pouts at that, surely expecting some meat too (even when her plate shows basically 0 vegetables anyway). You kick her under the table, and she almost bounces with a chuckle.

"So, V's actually a really good teacher," she says dreamily, pushing her rice around. "Did you know he used to work in a restaurant?"

You cough.

V's "restaurant" experience probably involved more knife-work than cooking.

"Is that so?" Takama asks, slightly puzzled.

"Mhm!" She sighs, all starry-eyed. "And he's so patient. The way he showed me how to hold the knife—"

"Speaking of knives," Takama cuts in smoothly, "your technique has improved, Y/N. Been practicing?"

You're grateful for the subject change. Watching Yunjin moon over V is like watching a butterfly land on a Venus flytrap.

"Yeah, well. Can't let the Seduction Division down, right?"

His smile is small but genuine. "Right."

Movement then catches your eye—Chaewon's heading your way, black bob bouncing with each step. She smiles when she spots you, but you don't miss how she falters slightly when she notices Takama. Her eyes dart between him and the empty space beside you, calculating.

For a second, you think she might turn around.

But then she simply strides over like she owns the place, sliding into the spot next to you.

You don't miss how she angles her body away from Takama, though.

"What's got everyone looking so serious?" She bumps your shoulder playfully. "Don't tell me Yunjin's got you all hooked on her dramas too."

"Not all of us can be as cultured as Yunjin." You grin as Yunjin pretends to be offended. "We were just discussing the finer points of V's... cooking techniques."

That makes Yunjin blush, but Chaewon's eyes sharpen. You catch that protective glint—the same one she gets whenever any of the male members get too close to her division.

"Oh?" Her voice is light, but there's steel underneath. "And how did you find our resident psychopath's teaching methods?"

"Come on, he was really patient!" Yunjin pipes up. "And his hands were so—"

"Speaking of hands," Chaewon interjects quickly, "I heard there was quite the incident at morning coffee. Something about Jeon's right hook meeting V's face?"

Trust Chaewon to steer the conversation away from V's charms while gathering intel in the same breath. Sometimes you forget she's your Chief for a reason.

Heels on grass make your eyes stutter behind Chaewon's silhouette.

It's Jessi; obviously—who claims the spot next to Takama, all long red hair and confident energy.

She's probably the only person who can make eating bibimbap look like a power move.

"Well, well." She waves her chopsticks at your little group. "What's this about dramas? Please tell me someone's finally calling out how unrealistic those chaebol storylines are."

"We were discussing layers," you explain, watching her pile kimchi onto her rice with the same precision she probably uses to plan weapons shipments. "You know, how people aren't always what they seem."

"Like how our fearless Chief here—" she angles her head towards Chaewon, "—pretends to be all business, but I caught her crying over cat videos last week?"

"That was one time." Chaewon tries to glare but can't quite hide her smile. "And you promised not to tell."

"Please." Jessi snorts. "Everyone knows you're a softie under all that badassery. Remember when you threatened to shoot that guy who made Eunchae cry?"

"He deserved it." Chaewon's voice goes flat, protective instincts flashing. "Nobody messes with my girls."

"And that's exactly what we mean," Yunjin pipes up, somehow making even this observation sound sweet. "Everyone's got different sides. Like how Jessi acts tough but always saves the last strawberry milk for AD."

"Oi—" Jessi points her chopsticks at Yunjin threateningly, but there's no malice in it. "Just for that, you're testing all the new rifles when we get back to the castle. Someone needs to make sure they don't jam."

Something about the easiness of the conversation makes something unfurl in your chest.

It's weird seeing these deadly women just... being friends. Sharing lunch and inside jokes like they aren't some of the most dangerous people in Seoul.

But then again, maybe that's exactly what Yunjin meant about layers.

"Sooo," Jessi prompts, "who wants to share their deep dark secrets? Come on, don't be shy."

"Real subtle, Joo." Chaewon rolls her eyes, but you catch that tiny smile she always gets around Jessi. "What's next, trust falls?"

"I'd let you fall." Jessi winks, making Chaewon snort into her rice.

Takama, who's been quiet this whole time, surprises everyone by speaking up. "Sometimes the secrets we keep aren't about trust. Sometimes they're about protection."

"Like how we all pretend AD doesn't secretly feed the stray cats behind the castle?" Yunjin singsongs then.

That breaks the tension, sending ripples of laughter around the group.

Even Takama cracks a smile.

"Or how Jessi acts tough but cried during that dog commercial last week?" Chaewon dodges the grape Jessi throws at her head.

"That dog was reunited with its family," Jessi hisses, but she's fighting back a grin. "Forgive me for having a heart."

"Yeah, buried somewhere under those nine inch heels."

You smile at that, and you note how the sun is high over head now, warming skin through the trees.

You should probably get back to work—those intel reports won't file themselves. But for now, you let yourself enjoy this moment of peace.

Even gang members need lunch breaks sometimes.

Dodgeball is usually fun. Keyword: usually—because when it's among deadly people... competitiveness is too light of a word.

You're in the middle of debating some strategy with Yunjin when Jeon's presence immediately freezes the whole camp. One second you're planning how to take down AD's team (he might be a tech genius but his aim is shit), and the next—

"Meeting. Council of 9, now."

Jeon's voice is calm, as usual. But it's precise, blunt in a way that makes your hackles rise. His face gives nothing away—typical—but something in his posture screams urgent.

The Council members share quick looks before following him into the trees. Moon's already at his side, glasses catching the sunlight. Chaewon squeezes your shoulder as she passes, and Jessi winks at Yunjin, but neither stops to explain.

Just like that, your cozy little camping trip turns into a war room—playful energy from moments ago gone, leaving behind the familiar sensation that comes with being in a criminal organization.

"Damn." Yunjin drops onto the bench beside you, pink hair falling in her face. "Even on a camping trip, we can't escape the threats."

Your little lunch group now feels weirdly empty without Jessi's loud energy and Chaewon's dry comments. You catch yourself staring at the path where they disappeared, like maybe if you look hard enough you'll develop x-ray vision.

So much for that epic dodgeball tournament you'd planned. Although honestly? Getting hit with rubber balls suddenly seems like the least of your problems.

"It's just how things work around here." Takama shrugs, wiping sweat from his shaved head.

Of course the dodgeball game's been put on hold, everyone too distracted by the Council's sudden disappearance to focus.

"Hey, Takemichi!" Eunchae bounces over, still flushed from running around. "Any idea what's going on? You're like, Jeon's right hand and all."

Takama's eye twitches at the nickname, but he doesn't comment on it. "No clue. But Jeon doesn't call meetings without good reason. Especially not during planned activities."

Your eyes drift to where the Council members vanished into the trees. It's odd seeing Jeon actually interact with people—the man's about as social as a brick wall. Even J-Hope, who he supposedly tolerates, barely gets more than grunts out of him most days. That whole don't-fuck-with-me hurricane aura of his keeps everyone at a safe distance.

And yet.

You'd fucked him.

Well, kinda.

Heat crawls up your neck as you mentally reminisce about last night.

Pride mingles with something else as you remember that untouchable Chief's face when he came all over your belly.

Focus, dumbass. Now isn't the time to replay your greatest hits. If Jeon's gathering the Council in the middle of fucking dodgeball, something's definitely wrong.

"Do you think it's..." Yunjin chews her lip, lowering her voice. "MDF?"

The mention of Myung-dong Faction makes everyone's faces go pale.

"Hard to say." Takama's voice drops to barely above a whisper. "But we did just wreck their trafficking ring. Hanjun's gone now. They're not known for letting that kind of thing slide."

You share a look with Yunjin and Eunchae. You remember Hanjun from your last mission—the way he'd crumpled when Kkangpae was done with him.

The way his whole operation had fallen apart like a house of cards.

Sakura's usually bright face is serious as she crouches next to you. "If it's MDF, we're fucked."

"They've been too quiet." Kazuha runs a hand through her wine-colored hair, eyes scanning the treeline like she expects assassins to materialize. "That's not their style. Not after what we did to their golden boy."

And she's right, isn't she? MDF isn't known for their forgive-and-forget attitude. Their silence these past weeks has been... unsettling. Like holding your breath underwater, knowing you'll have to surface eventually.

"Whatever it is, we need to be ready." Eunchae sighs. "Can't let our guard down. Not even here."

"We need to be united now more than ever." Takama's voice rumbles low as he scans the treeline."Division only makes us vulnerable, they might aim for that."

And he's right; because Kkangpae's strength isn't just in its firepower—it's in moments like this, when everyone's got each other's backs.

"Whatever the Council needs," you say, meaning it. "We've got their six."

The group falls quiet, the forgotten dodgeball lying between you like some sad metaphor for your interrupted normalcy. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls. You almost miss it under the sound of your heart pounding.

A rustle in the bushes makes you lean back.

Though it's just J-Hope, looking way too serious for someone who was laughing at AD's failed dodgeball throws ten minutes ago.

"They need you." His eyes find yours, steady and unreadable. "Jeon asked for you specifically."

You share a quick look with Takama, and he's wearing the same exact puzzled expression as you.

"Me? Why would he—"

J-Hope just shakes his head. Great. Because being summoned by the dude you almost fucked last night during a secret Council meeting isn't complicated enough.

But you don't really have much choice, so you trail behind J-Hope like a kid being called to the principal's office, mind racing faster than your heart.

What the actual fuck could Jeon want? And why during the middle of dodgeball, of all things?

The Council's little forest hideaway comes into view, and suddenly you've got nine pairs of eyes drilling into you.

Great. Just great. Nothing like being stared at by the most dangerous people in Seoul while you're in workout clothes and probably still red-faced from almost getting beaned by AD's wild throws.

Jeon stands like a statue among them, and he speaks immediately upon seeing you.

"We have a situation that needs your input."

No greeting, no explanation, just straight to the point. Pure Jeon. You'd roll your eyes if you weren't so aware of every Council member watching you.

"Remember your first mission?" Chaewon continues. "The women we rescued? You were the only one who actually saw them in that room."

Of course you remember—hard not to, even if you wish you wouldn't.

That cramped, dark room with its rusty bars and stale air. Women huddled in corners like broken birds, some too afraid to even look up when you'd entered.

Your first real taste of what the Seduction Division actually does.

Not the glamorous spy shit you'd imagined, but the ugly, necessary work of saving people from monsters.

"Remember what any of the women looked like?" Chaewon presses.

You try to remember, but the thing that comes first is the smell of fear and desperation—thick enough to choke on.

Then it's their faces. Burned into your brain. And then... hers.

"There was one girl," you start carefully, watching the Council's reactions. "Couldn't have been more than eighteen. Skinny thing, but her eyes..."

You pause, searching for the right words.

"Even in that shithole, she was... I don't know. Like she was just waiting for a chance to burn the whole place down."

You catch the tiny shift in Jessi's jaw, the way her fingers tighten around her weapon.

The air feels like a forest fire waiting to happen.

"Dark reddish-brown hair," you continue, the details getting clearer as you speak. "Matted to hell, but you could tell it was beautiful once. And the way she held herself..."

"That's enough." Jeon interrupts you. "Your recollection could prove useful. We believe that girl is connected to one of our own. This isn't some random MDF hit."

Your stomach drops. Because shit—that... That changes everything.

MDF might be brutal, but they're not stupid.

Kidnapping someone connected to Kkangpae? That's not just an attack—it's a message.

A very personal message.

You watch the Council's faces, trying to read between the lines.

If MDF knows enough to target someone specific, how much else do they know? How deep have they dug into everyone's past?

The thought makes your skin crawl.

"Now we know this is personal." Chaewon's voice is ice-cold, all business. "The question is, how do we respond?"

"We hit back." Jessi's voice cracks like a whip, raw and broken. "Show those fuckers what happens when you mess with Kkangpae."

J-Hope reaches for her shoulder, ever the voice of reason. "I know you want blood, Jessi. But an all-out war will only get innocent people killed."

Jessi jerks away from his touch, but you see how her hands shake. 

"I should've been there," she whispers, more to herself than anyone else. "I should never have left them alone."

The pain in her voice makes your chest tight; you've never seen Jessi like this—like she's barely holding herself together.

"Why don't we just storm their headquarters and slaughter them all?" V (who's been conspicuously quiet until now) raises his voice.

The guy is just leaning back against a tree, playing with a butterfly knife like he thinks he's the Joker or something.

"Picture it." His smile grows wider, more unhinged. "Their precious hideout painted red, bodies everywhere. We could string up their leaders—or what's left of them—as a warning."

JM gives him one look—one that somehow manages to pierce through V's psychotic haze. Like he's the only person besides RM who can actually rein him in when he gets like this.

V slumps back with an exaggerated pout, thorny aura receding slightly. The switch from bloodthirsty to playful is so fast it gives you whiplash.

"As entertaining as that sounds," JM's voice is steady, like a calm lake washing away V's chaos, "we need precision here. Not a bloodbath."

"You never let me have fun." V whines like a kid denied candy instead of mass murder. "But fine, we'll be civilized."

JM turns back to the Council. "Please continue. V's just... working through some things. He understands the need for balance."

Jeon's face gives nothing away, but you notice how his jaw tightens. Having to share space with V is bad enough—having to listen to his murder fantasies is clearly testing what little patience he has left.

"As I was saying..." Jeon continues.

JM gives V another one of those looks and V slumps against the tree.

The thorny scent of roses fades to something more bearable, though you can tell he's just waiting for another chance to suggest mass murder.

"I might have a better idea." AD clears his throat. "A bloodbath would be satisfying, sure, but we need intel first. Something clean and quiet that gives us some advantage."

You watch him run a hand through his messy blonde hair, thinking three steps ahead while looking like he just rolled out of bed.

"We know where their hideout is. Send in a small team, two people max. Get their data, their plans, their weak spots." He pauses, letting that sink in. "Information is better than bullets right now."

The Council members exchange looks. Even V stops fidgeting with his knife. You catch Jeon's shoulders relaxing slightly—he knows a good plan when he hears one.

"Stealth does play to our strengths," Jeon admits, and his eyes flick to you for a split second. "Who did you have in mind?"

AD jerks his chin toward you.

"She's perfect for this. Hanjun's well acquainted with Flower now, but Y/N? She was only there for the takedown. He never had time to report back about her or the other girls. But between all of them," he adds, "she's the only one who got to see all the girls."

Suddenly you've got nine of Seoul's most dangerous criminals staring at you. But you meet Jeon's gaze head-on, refusing to flinch.

Finally—a chance to prove yourself.

And maybe get some answers about what's really going on with MDF.

"She's just an ensign." JM mumbles. "She's gonna need backup."

The Chiefs exchange looks, probably running through a mental list of who they could trust not to fuck this up. Your heart's still pounding from being called in, from learning about this mission that could change everything.

"Jeon will lead this operation." RM's voice leaves no room for argument. Like he's announcing the weather, except the weather is your hookup being assigned as your partner.

Amazing, really love that for you.

"You're picking him for stealth?" V's voice goes high with indignation, like someone just insulted his knife collection. "I'm literally the Chief of Stealth Assassinations. What the actual fuck?"

Thorns prickle the air, sharp with offense. You definitely catch Jeon's tiny smirk—he's enjoying V's tantrum way too much.

"Jeon has the discipline this requires." RM's tone could freeze hell itself. "We can't afford your... creative interpretations of orders right now."

V opens his mouth—probably to suggest murdering everyone involved, knowing him—but JM slaps a hand over it. The look V gives him could kill a lesser man, but JM just raises an eyebrow.

"This mission's success is crucial." RM continues like V isn't plotting JM's death with his eyes. "We need strategy, not chaos."

You watch Jeon's face carefully. His expression gives nothing away, but you just know he's thinking the same thing you are:

How the fuck are you two supposed to focus on a stealth mission when you can barely keep your hands off each other?

"Come on," V's voice drags after getting rid of JM's hand, "we all remember how well these two work together. Like gasoline and a lit match. Either they'll kill each other or fuck like rabbits. Not ideal for a stealth op, eh?"

JM smacks his shoulder, but V just grins wider. Your face burns as Jeon goes rigid beside you, like a gathering strength.

If looks could kill, V would be six feet under from the glare Jeon's sending him.

You stare very intently at a patch of grass, fighting the urge to squirm, because V has no idea how close to home that "fucking like rabbits" comment hits.

Or maybe he does—you can never tell what that psycho actually knows.

"Enough." JM sighs. "RM's guidance is sound. Jeon, you're our best strategic mind. Tactical is probably our best approach right now."

Jeon's jaw works for a moment before he gives a sharp nod. "Understood. I'll lead the operation."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding.

Stuck on a stealth mission with the guy you've secretly hooked up with, while his psychotic sworn enemy watches and makes sex jokes.

Just another day in Kkangpae.

"For now," RM's redirects the conversation swiftly, "let's focus on the task at hand. This camping trip was meant to build unity and trust. We can't lose sight of that."

Unity and trust.

Right.

Because nothing says team bonding like sending you and the guy you're dying to have sex with to infiltrate enemy territory while pretending you've never seen each other naked.

"There will be time later to prepare for the mission." He adds. "But while we're here, I expect everyone's full commitment to this team-building exercise."

Jeon surprises you by actually looking... chastened? as he gives RM a short nod. "You're right. My priorities were misplaced. I apologize for the disruption."

And that's... New. You've never heard Jeon apologize for anything.

But then again, RM's probably the only person in Seoul who could make him bow down. The amount of respect Jeon has for him is almost an entity of its own.

"No need to apologize." RM's stern expression softens slightly. "Let's refocus together on strengthening our bonds as a crew."

More team bonding. Because that's exactly what you need right now... bonding,̶ ̶o̶r̶ b̶o̶n̶i̶n̶g̶?̶

You give Jeon one last look before V's voice cuts through, all manic energy as usual.

"Last one back has to clean everyone's dishes!"

And then he just... takes off running like the psychopath he is, thorns receding with him. Because of course he'd turn this into a competition.

"Oh, fuck no!" Jessi kicks off her heels, already sprinting after him in bare feet. "I am not cleaning after his ass."

Chaewon and JM share this look—probably something like 'we're both too dignified for this shit' passing between them before they're running too, probably realizing nobody wants to risk V winning anything.

"How childish." J-Hope rolls his eyes, but AD's already got that gleam he gets when someone issues a challenge.

"Childish?" AD's grin is pure evil. "I bet I could eat enough for ten people. Give you something real nice to clean."

"You little shit—" J-Hope takes off after him. "Get back here!"

You glance back at Jeon and RM, both still walking like they're above such peasant activities.

But fuck it—you're already sweaty from dodgeball, might as well commit to the chaos.

"Think I'll take AD's strategy." You flash Jeon your sweetest smile. "Eat everything in sight, let someone else deal with cleanup."

You're running before he can reply, laughter bubbling up.

And then, merely a few second later, you hear his steady footsteps turn into something faster.

Looks like even the mighty Chief can't resist a challenge.

The campsite comes into view through the trees, and you pick up your pace.

You jog into the clearing, lungs burning, only to find V and RM already there.

What the actualfuck?

"How did RM beat us?" The words come out between gasps.

The man runs a criminal empire in designer suits, for fuck's sake. He shouldn't be able to outrun anyone.

V just grins that Cheshire cat smile of his and then, Jessi, Chaewon and JM stumble in next, all tangled together and cackling like teenagers.

"JM's face when I almost tripped him—" Jessi wheezes, red hair wild from running.

Everyone else filters in gradually, catching their breath and comparing notes on who cheated (definitely V).

But oddly enough, there's no sign (or sound) of J-Hope or AD.

Then—

"You absolute fucking cockwomble, let go before I rearrange your face!"

"Not happening, you lil' bitch. I'm not cleaning your blood off the floor again!"

You turn to find J-Hope and AD crashing through the underbrush like drunk bears, locked in what has to be the world's most undignified wrestling match. AD's blonde hair is full of leaves, and J-Hope's pristine turtleneck is covered in dirt.

Seoul's most dangerous gang, ladies and gentlemen.

Truly terrifying.

"You wanna fucking go, asshole?" AD thrashes like a feral cat, trying to land a hit on J-Hope. "I'll rip out your spine and use it as a fucking ethernet cable!"

But J-Hope's got him locked down, using his height advantage like the bastard he is. AD might be scrappy, but the doctor's got experience wrestling patients into submission.

"You need to get out of this unscathed first, you dumbass—"

"Then I'll download your consciousness into a punching bag," AD snarls, still fighting. "Have you getting hit for eternity, you piece of shit!"

Their little death match stumbles closer to camp. J-Hope's got AD in a headlock now, ignoring the increasingly creative threats being spewed at his face.

"I'll be patching you up after this, you psychotic gremlin." J-Hope finally slams AD into the dirt, probably enjoying this way too much. "Maybe I'll sew a live rat in your stomach. Let it chew its way out through your organs."

They keep wrestling, but it's getting pathetic—like watching two drunk uncles fight at a family barbecue. Both of them are red-faced and panting, shirts half-ripped from trying to hold each other back.

You can't help noticing they look wrecked—covered in sweat and leaves.

Actually...

"They must've been holding each other back the whole way here." You snort.

No wonder they're last. These idiots literally spent the entire race trying to murder each other.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" V's voice rings out like a demented game show host. "Our esteemed winners, graceful as ever!"

J-Hope and AD freeze mid-choke hold, finally noticing their audience.

The look of pure horror on their faces is priceless.

"Dish duty it is, boys!" Jessi's grin is absolutely feral.

AD shoves J-Hope off like an angry cat, but they're both too winded from their pathetic wrestling match to do more than hurl insults at each other.

"This is all your fucking fault!" AD jabs a finger at J-Hope's chest, looking about as threatening as a wet Pomeranian. "If you hadn't grabbed me—"

"My fault?" J-Hope's voice gets higher. "Big words from someone shaped like a fun-sized candy bar!"

"Say that again, you overgrown fucking giraffe!" AD tries to lunge but stumbles, still panting. "I fucking dare you!"

RM steps in before they can start round two of the world's most embarrassing fight.

"That's enough, you two. We all enjoyed the show, but it's time to work."

They both shut up immediately—even AD knows better than to test RM's patience. But the glares they shoot each other could probably melt steel.

"Can't believe I'm stuck with your ass for cleanup duty," AD grumbles, brushing leaves out of his blonde hair.

"Trust me, I'd rather perform surgery blindfolded. But maybe next time you'll think twice before dragging me down with you."

"As if I need help being slow from someone who runs like a drunk giraffe."

Their bickering fades as they head back to camp, still shoving each other like kindergarteners fighting over the last juice box.

Well. At least you'll enjoy a show during dinner time tonight.

One would think dinner time would be dulled down now, after the Council meeting earlier.

But nope—gang members are scattered around the fires like this is some post apocalypse scavenging situation.

You can't help watching V with Yunjin. He's leaning in close and probably whispering some bullshit about knives being romantic or whatever gets him going.

And Yunjin—sweet, perceptive Yunjin who usually sees right through everyone's bullshit—is eating it up. She's doing that thing where she plays with her hair, pink strands twisting around her finger while she giggles at whatever murder joke V's telling.

You snort into your food, because you just don't get what's it with these two.

The weirdest part? Even knowing what V's capable of (the rumors about his "artistic approach" to killing make your skin crawl), you kind of get why people fall for his act.

He's got that whole dangerous charm thing down to an art.

"Hey stranger!" Eunchae drops onto the bench beside you, nearly knocking over your drink. Sakura slides in more gracefully across from you, because someone in your division has to have coordination.

"What was the super secret meeting about? You went in looking normal and came out all..." Eunchae waves her chopsticks vaguely. "You know. Intense."

"Classified." You shrug, trying not to think about what that meeting means for you and a certain hurricane-aura'd Chief. "Above your pay grade."

"Ugh, you're no fun." She slumps dramatically against your shoulder. "I wish I could join the Council just to know all the juicy stuff."

"We're here if you need to talk," Sakura adds quietly, and fuck—sometimes you forget how perceptive your division can be.

"Thanks." You bump Eunchae's shoulder, warmth blooming in your chest. These idiots might be professional honey traps, but they're your idiots. "I mean it."

You go back to your food, half-listening to Eunchae's story about some mark who thought cryptocurrency was foreplay. But your eyes keep drifting to V and Yunjin.

What's your friendly neighborhood psychopath plotting this time?

However, the first drops of rain quickly hit your food like tiny bullets. Within seconds, the drizzle turns into a full-blown downpour because of courseit does.

Nothing like a surprise shower to end your deeply suspicious dinner observations.

"Oh, come on." Eunchae snatches up her plate, already running for cover, chestnut hair plastered to her face by the time she makes it three steps.

Your eyes snap to where V still has Yunjin trapped in conversation. They're both getting soaked but Yunjin's still hanging on his every word, pink hair turning darker in the rain.

"Yunjin!" You pitch your voice to carry over the rain. "Unless you want to catch pneumonia, might want to wrap it up!"

She blinks like she's coming out of a trance, finally noticing she's halfway to drowned. The spell breaks—thank fuck—and she hurries over to you, gathering her stuff with slightly shaky hands.

"Thanks for the save." Her voice is quiet, almost sheepish. "Got a bit... distracted."

"Yeah, no shit." You grab her arm, steering her toward your tent. "Let's get inside before we both melt."

You dodge through the chaos of gang members running for shelter, curses mixing with laughter. Someone—probably AD—slips in a mud puddle and lets out a string of creative profanity that would make a sailor blush.

The relative safety of your tent feels like crossing a finish line. The rain hammers against the canvas, but at least you're dry.

Well. Drier.

The rain doesn't let up for hours, turning the campsite into something out of a moody indie film. But inside your tent? It's like a sleepover bubble—wrapped up in cozy blankets and the glow from Yunjin's phone where some poor actor is having his third dramatic breakdown of the episode.

Yunjin's using your stomach as a pillow, pink hair splayed across your hoodie while she decimates the bag of chips between you. Every few minutes her hand dives in without looking, too focused on whatever absurd plot twist is happening now.

"This one's actually decent," she murmurs, smiling at the screen where someone's probably discovering their evil twin or something.

"If you say so." You can't help grinning as the male lead clutches his chest like he's having a heart attack over a text message. "These writers must be on something wild. Like, who comes up with this shit?"

Her giggle vibrates against your stomach.

"That's why they're fun! You never know what's coming next." She tilts her head back to look at you. "Kind of like living here, right? Never a dull moment in Kkangpae."

"God, don't jinx it." But you're laughing too because she's not wrong. Your life has definitely taken some drama-worthy turns lately. "Though I hope we're at least more realistic than that."

You both fall into easy conversation, trading comments about the show and today's chaos. When the male lead starts laying it on thick with the female lead, you see your chance. Time to figure out what the hell V was playing at earlier with all that knife teaching.

"So." You poke Yunjin's side with your toe, aiming for casual. "What's with you and V today? The whole knife lesson thing seemed... weird."

Yunjin doesn't look away from her drama. Of course she doesn't.

"I mean, have you seen him?" She sighs dreamily. "He's like a walking thirst trap. Those hands..."

"Oh my god." You stare down at her pink head in disbelief. "You'd actually fuck him? Like, actually actually?"

She finally tears her eyes from the screen, twisting to grin up at you with zero shame. "Why not? Life's too short not to ride at least one psychopath, right?"

The silence stretches.

"What?" She raises an eyebrow at your horror. "You wouldn't?"

"Jesus fuck no." You mime gagging. "You know he probably has some weird murder kink. Like, he'd probably want to chase you through a haunted house with a knife while dramatic music plays."

"Haunt play?" Her eyes go wide  before she breaks into giggles. "That's... weirdly specific. But don't knock it till you try it, right?"

"Yun." You roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck. "He'd probably set up a whole haunted house just to get his rocks off."

"Okay but..." Yunjin props herself up on her elbows. "Haunted house but make it sexy? That's kind of genius."

"You're actually insane." You shove her shoulder, both of you dissolving into laughter. "I swear to god, if I ever hear spooky music from his tent—"

"You'll what, call the ghost police?"

Her laughter shakes your whole body, bright and infectious, and the small space of the tent makes this ridiculous conversation feel somehow safer, more intimate.

Just two girls discussing their terrible taste in men while hiding from a storm.

Even if one of those men happens to be Seoul's most notorious psychopath.

Yunjin flops back down, using your stomach as a pillow again. The drama's still playing on her phone, but you're too busy thinking about V's games to focus on whatever chaebol drama is unfolding now.

"For now," she sighs dreamily, "I'll stick to living through these ridiculous romances. Much safer than the real thing, right?"

You hum in agreement, watching raindrops race down the tent's surface.

"Sounds smart. But if you do decide to test out V's haunted house kink..." You poke her side. "I want every single detail. For science."

"Deal." Her giggle vibrates against your stomach. "But only if you keep saving me from his 'passionate teaching moments'. My knife skills are fine, thanks."

"Always."

The word comes out softer than intended, but you mean it. In Kkangpae, real friendship is rare as fuck. People either want to kill you, fuck you, or use you—sometimes all three.

But Yunjin? She's different.

And all the while; the rain keeps drumming steadily against the canvas, turning the world outside into a blur of gray and green.

In here, none of that exists.

Not V's thorny games, not Jeon's hurricane, not the Council's secret meetings.

Just you and your best friend, safe and warm while the storm rages on.

For now, anyway. Tomorrow's another story.

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[readngandweepng]

talking about ftm (high honor) arthur going through a pregnancy !!

some nsfw included but this is 90% sfw so still, minors dni. warning for lots of pregnancy talk and afab language. no pronouns for (top) reader mentioned. i’m not educated on pregnancy so bear with me on this. tbh this isn’t that interesting of a read, but i randomly started fixating on the topic of pregnancy and really wanted to do this. kind of long, only half proofread because i like to live with blissful ignorance.

btw the plot isn't really that fleshed out lol kind of due to it being formatted like a diary? but just imagine this in an alternative timeline where the gang is a lot more settled down. this is also entirely fluffy shit because i hate angst sorry,,,

i feel like arthur would be such a child magnet. completely against his will, town kids will flock to him and ask to see him shoot his gun or let them ride his horse. he’d return to camp with braids in his hair and crumpled flowers among weeds stuffed into his pockets. he’d be giving his silent blessings to abigail everyday realizing this probably isn’t even half of what she goes through everyday taking care of not only jack, but her own husband. arthur can’t blame you for the way you have to hide your laughter at the sight of him. he can’t catch a break, not only does he have to deal with the man-children at camp but he also has the admiration of kids he passes by occasionally in town who now have his face and horse memorized to the point where they’re waiting for him by store entrances. even more so than the bounty hunters, he thinks.

eventually they grow on him and he stops grumbling every time they stop him to ask to get piggybacked. and eventually, arthur starts to wonder just what it would be like to have a child with you—it’s a thought he brushes off just as fast as it came, but he can’t just brush away the dreams he has. soon, he starts thinking of hypothetical names; he meets a luther, sam, olivia, alexander, josephine. every person that introduces themselves, he stores them in the back of his head, just in case. because what if you had a daughter named dorothy? what if you had a son named jasper? would you name your children after charles, javier, mary-beth? it makes his heart ache thinking about it, but once the thoughts come flowing in they don’t stop. would your children have his eyes or yours? would they have curly hair or straight? would they have your smile? he hopes to god they do. he becomes so busy mulling over these things it gets you worried, wondering if something was wrong, if he was thinking of bad things. his face flushes beneath his hat when you ask and it quells your concerns. he can’t tell you what he’s thinking of though. honestly, he probably wasn’t even aware just how much he had on his mind. you leave him be, but your concern only makes his thoughts worse because it reminds him of how kind and attentive you are. he thinks about how good of a parent you would be and how good you’d be to him. 

he’s thought of pregnancy before, but it felt almost mythical—in what world would an outlaw like arthur morgan have a child? if you’d raised the idea to someone like sean or john, they’d surely laugh in your face, probably spitting out their beer in the process. however charles and hosea, they’d entertain it; encourage it even, under certain circumstances. of course he wonders what kind of father he’d be. in his mind he’d certainly be a deadbeat, something akin to his father perhaps, and with the kind of life he lives how could he be so selfish to even entertain the thought? it hurts his heart in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. he thinks about the weight that lifts from his shoulders when he’s with you. he’s spent so much of his life being loyal to someone who even he knows doesn't completely deserve it. he sometimes feels unworthy of having a better life for himself, but letting you wiggle your way into his heart gives him the courage to move forward and take the opportunity to finally do something good for himself, because maybe, just maybe arthur morgan does deserve something nice. so he brings up the whole, having a kid thing.

of course arthur isn’t going to just straight up ask you, he’s going to beat around the bush a little. it’s an incredibly difficult thing for him to articulate, so he just sort of goes like, ‘you ever think about what it’s like being a parent?’ and maybe you start talking about john and his less than ideal role as a father and the work abigail puts in to take care of both jack and john, and even half the camp if you’re being honest. and then eventually after some foot tapping he asks if you would ever want children someday. he doesn’t specify whether with him or not, but the implication hangs in the air. you shrug with a simple ‘maybe’ as your answer before flipping the question onto him. he tilts his head down to hide his face with his hat as he tries to find his words. it’s endearing how shy he can get with conversations like these, and his reaction proves he’s been pondering the question a while already. you’d have to reassure him as gently as you can manage for a man like arthur. “with you, i’d do anything.” it would make his heart swell. tears would prick at his eyes but he’d be happy. and for once, hopeful.

there’s a chance you’re probably not going to tell anyone at camp just yet. at least not until you have no other choice where it’s completely unavoidable to talk about the bump arthur would be bearing. this would be a private affair between you and arthur, which is almost humorous to say considering what the hell even is a private life at camp with people like sean and uncle loitering around looking for gossip to drink to? he won’t ask for a night in a hotel but he also won’t be opposed to the offer. he’ll get embarrassed if you try to be too romantic with him but he does appreciate the gesture(s). even though it’s not your first time together he’ll be acting like it is. suddenly his body feels hot at the softest touches, your lips on his neck make him feel like he’s melting. it all starts to feel extremely real to him. arthur, with some convincing, will sit back and let you take care of him as you slowly open him up with your fingers and tongue. he’ll be cursing under his breath the whole time, barely even being able to look down at you without his entire face blossoming red. he’ll flutter around your fingers when you tell him how handsome he is, but arthur will have to kiss you to shut you up when you start talking about how pretty he’s gonna look pregnant. 

when your cock slides into him he has to hide his face in your neck because he can hardly take it. his heart is racing and his palms become clammy but he doesn’t want you to stop. you go slow, making sure to bury your cock deep into him with every thrust. it’s not entirely different from your normal sex with arthur, however this time you do feel a different sense of urgency and desperation. his pussy sucks your cock back in every time you pull away with such ease, as if his body knows you plan on impregnating him. arthur’s legs shake beneath you but he denies that it’s from the nerves, until he double backs and tries to say, well, maybe it is because of the nerves so that he doesn’t have to admit his legs are shaking because your cock is hitting him so deep that he feels like he’s going to cry from how good it feels. 

arthur’s perfect for this sort of thing. he’s so obedient about laying down and staying still so that you can fuck him. he doesn’t ask you to go faster or to slow down, he just keeps his legs open and takes your cock, which is why you know that regardless of whether or not he gets pregnant the first time around, he definitely will eventually. you fit so well inside him that a part of you wonders if he’s hoping he won’t get pregnant just so you can fuck him like this again. arthur quickly gets very blissed out. his moans become sweeter and he’s much more complacent, easily responding to questions he’d previously be too shy to answer; as his orgasm builds so does his confidence. his legs wrap around your waist and he looks you in the eye as he bucks his hips into your thrusts. when you tell him you’re close he kisses you, encouraging you to cum inside him. you grab his hips with one last thrust, burying yourself deep before you cum. arthur holds onto your wrists as he gently rocks up into you, his orgasm following. he’s out of breath and his legs are even more shaky as he slumps against the bed. you don’t pull out. the both of you stare at each other before you exchange one more kiss, one much longer and candid. you gently lay down atop him and he wraps his arms around you as you feather kisses to his neck. his body is still flush with shades of pink and red but you keep the thought to yourself. after a minute or two you ask how he’s feeling and by now he’s back to his usual self, keeping his eyes down as he answers you. for a second he insists you stay inside, but with a little convincing he allows you to pull out. he tries not to look, but he can’t help himself; your cock is shiny with fluid and he can feel you twitch inside him one last time, and then he’s empty, aside from your cum that keeps him feeling warm and full. you lay down beside him and instinctively you rest your hand on his stomach. the action has arthur shooing you away with a bashful look but he does the same. he surveys his stomach, and you can see just by looking at his face what it is he’s picturing. 

a week later you and arthur have sex again. it’s at camp this time, in the comfort of your shared tent. he’s laid down on his stomach as you lift his hips up to fuck him. he takes you effortlessly, only occasionally having to keep his face to his cot to drown out a stray moan or two. before you finish you pull his hips up just a little bit higher, making sure you’re nestled as deep as you can go before spilling into him. the feeling of your cock pulsing against his walls makes arthur cum. his pussy convulses around you, making sure it squeezes out every drop. you both collapse back onto the cot as you pull out and roll off him to rest at his side. arthur immediately relaxes into the blankets when you softly drag your fingers down his back. his eyes open to look at you as he swallows, “think it’ll, y’know—work?” you swipe away the loose strands of hair that fall in front of his face and give a reassuring smile. “i hope so.” is your response, and it soothes him. 

about 2 weeks later arthur comes up to you talking about a nauseating headache. he’d just got back from a trip into town and you could see from the way he’d been clasping his forehead on the way down from his horse that he’d been hurting for some time. you fetch him a cup of water as you sit him down on your cot, planting a gentle kiss on his temple as he takes slow sips from the cup. “have you been hurting anywhere else?” he shakes his head no. you ask him if you can write something down in his journal and he flips to a blank page before handing it to you along with his pencil. you mark down his headache at the top. it’s not confirmed whether he’s actually pregnant or not, you both know this, but you make note of it anyway. unbeknownst to you, as arthur reads what you’ve written his heart skips with every letter. he feels an almost childlike excitement at the thought of filling the page with symptoms of his (hopefully) developing pregnancy. you ask him if he’ll be okay, and he tells you yeah, he will be. arthur says it with such confidence it alarms you momentarily but the giddy smile on his face cuts your words of concern short. his headache is gone by the time pearson calls for dinner.

arthur doesn’t bring up the fact you’ve begun to hover over his shoulder the next few days. he hasn’t experienced any further symptoms since the headache and he can tell it’s driving you a little crazy. you try not to make it obvious when you ask him if he’s been feeling ‘different’ but he can see through it right away. admittedly, you may be getting a little too overbearing about things; for god’s sake he’s not even showing yet, he doesn’t need to sit down after lifting one damn hay bail. your attempts at beating around the bush have caused some eyebrows to raise at camp. arthur will remind you a lot that he’s perfectly fine and that he can take care of himself. he doesn’t need people poking and prodding at him on top of you stressing out to the point of not even letting him get up on his own horse alone. he appreciates the gestures, of course not admitting that he finds your concern endearing, but he also is his own man who needs some space every now and then. you respect his wishes and (try to) lay off the mothering. 

the 4th week rolls in and arthur starts to experience some body aches. he wakes up some mornings and his hips and shoulders hurt like he slept on a boulder, which unfortunately dampens his mood for the rest of the day. you once reminded him a little too happily to write it down in his journal and he gave you a look so hauntingly sour you didn’t say another word to him for the next six hours out of fear. however you started offering massages to him that he gladly took after long days. one of these massages led into sensual heavy petting that resulted in you and arthur having sex almost three times in one night, where the next morning he woke up with a throbbing headache (which you wrote in his journal when he wasn’t looking). arthur had occasionally reminded you that his pregnancy wasn’t yet set in stone. despite his eagerness to become pregnant, he’d developed a habit of denial to protect himself from the disappointment of possible failure. however at the end of the week, abigail came up to him sipping a cup of coffee, another cup in her other hand, still in her night clothes. she handed him the full cup that he took with a quiet thanks. they stood in silence for a moment before abigail asked him if he’d been feeling alright. “just.. you need somethin’, don’t be afraid to ask, okay?” arthur tells you about the conversation and it makes you smile. he reminds you not to get your hopes up but the both of you know that by this point it’s a little too late for that.

a day into the 6th week and arthur throws up. he’d been making his way over to the stew pot for a bowl of dinner and the smell stopped him dead in his tracks. he stepped off behind some trees, vomited, and went to bed hungry. in the morning you brought up the idea of breakfast which unfortunately triggered another wave of nausea. you gave him some water to take sips from and let him have an hour before offering up an oatcake. he rejected it but didn’t vomit at the thought, so you urged him to have a bite or two to at least get some food in his belly. though reluctant, he ends up eating two oatcakes and on top of that stomachs a cup of coffee and eats a can of peaches you’d recently bought for dinner. the waves of nausea end up continuing on and off the rest of the week, resulting in a lack of appetite. he has to go to bed early because he can’t stand the smell of pearson’s stew. last night of the week you hold him against you, being sure to gently rub his stomach in slow circles. you place a kiss on his neck as your hand on his stomach stills. “so.. maybe?” your voice is quiet. he turns his head to kiss you on the lips. “maybe.” 

by the end of the 7th week, arthur has told you about chest soreness and muscle cramps. he says they’re not so bad, but it’s the nausea that keeps a hold of arthur. he’s thrown up almost every morning and it’s starting to grab the attention of others at camp. you and arthur have felt abigail’s eyes on you for days now but by now you’ve gotten used to it. however a new face appears one late morning. “sit down a minute.” it’s hosea who ushers you over to one of the empty tables where he sits with a newspaper in hand. “how have you been?” you tell him you’ve been fine. he hums. hosea’s face almost looks sculpted in the early sun. “and arthur?” you hesitate a second. he’s been fine. you look away from hosea’s stone-cold gaze. he sighs. hosea tells you a little story, something about him and bessie. he tells you how bessie had always wanted children but due to his lifestyle they decided not to have any. “we already had john and arthur.” you nod. you definitely understand that. he’s quiet for a moment. “it was like looking in a mirror,” he turns in his seat. “seeing you and arthur.” you stare at him. there’s a melancholic look in his eyes, but there’s also wisdom and gratitude, one you have grown to respect and admire. later in the day you see arthur grab himself a cup of water. going up to him you remind him to take small sips which he stubbornly abides. you don’t tell him about your conversation with hosea, at least not until arthur tells you about his own. though neither of you are surprised by hosea’s spot-on observations, you are surprised by the lack of lecturing. apparently hosea had told arthur something about the strength of parenting and the importance of children to our future. arthur’s retelling is unenthusiastic, but you can tell hosea’s words won’t be forgotten despite arthur not really getting it. you go to bed after having dinner. you bought an apple just for arthur but he didn’t have the energy to bite into it so you sliced it up and, to his chagrin, hand-fed it to him and chased it down with some crackers. before settling down to sleep you flip open arthur’s journal and write down his pains and nausea. he’s asleep by the time you finish.

week 8 and arthur’s nausea hasn’t gotten any better. he now wakes up an hour earlier than he usually does. it’s a schedule you’re still getting used to, but you’re motivated by your new ritual of hunting rabbits just to make a meal out of it for arthur. at the moment rabbit is the one meat he can stand to eat without getting sick, and he seems to have developed a strong liking for peaches of which you’re sure to pop a can open for arthur to eat on the side. he hasn’t been eating as much as he used to, but thankfully you don’t seem to notice any weight loss as of yet. your eyes are on him like a hawk the second he takes his shirt off to change, which embarrasses your lover to no end. arthur told you he’s convinced you would notice if a single freckle on his body disappeared and you don’t deny the statement. you tell arthur to write down what he eats and what foods he can think of without feeling sick. by the end of the week, he doesn’t write down much besides peaches, rabbit, strawberries, almonds. so at least there’s something new. you spend the first day of the ninth week in valentine, popping into saloons and bribing the bartenders in letting you pay for a pound or two of almonds. you return to camp and make arthur a meal that he delightfully scarfs down before asking for another plate. that night arthur gets a little restless and you two have sex, however the morning after arthur gets so nauseous even dutch told him to take the day off to rest. 

throughout the 9th and the start of the 10th week, you could see slight visible changes to arthur. one morning you’d woken up an hour later than him. you could see him hanging around the fire as he spoke to john, both of them sipping on a cup of coffee. you made your way over to them, and right when john turned to leave your eyes immediately darted down to arthur’s clothed chest. “what?” he asks, prickling under your gaze. for a second you couldn’t pinpoint what it was until it hit you. “your breasts got bigger,” arthur is dumbfounded as he hushes you down. “what the hell are you talking about?” your hands awkwardly fan out towards arthur but he just clicks his tongue and lightly shoves you. “don’t say them things,” he doesn’t have a hat on so he turns away to hide the color on his face. as he’s about to walk away you tell him to write it down and he damn near throws the coffee in your face. the rest of the week he still mentions some soreness in his chest (where he also curtly declined your offer for a massage..) and more hip pain. he also said he’d been a lot more tired lately. you told him to take it easy and rest early, which he normally would have declined, however the second he laid down he slept through the rest of the day and woke up to scarf down another rabbit and peach meal. 

the 11th week moves forward and arthur starts to wake up a little more tired than usual. abigail has begun stopping by your tent occasionally with a cup of tea. “it’ll help,” is all she says. he says the tea tastes like ashes and dirt but he drinks it anyway and the lingering soreness of his body slowly dissipates like water trickling from a spilt canteen. one early morning you wake up at the same time as arthur. it’s before abigail comes around to give him some tea so you help him unbutton his shirt to ease some of his muscle cramps. upon doing so your gaze fixates on his stomach. you maneuver yourself behind arthur, wrapping your arms around him. he asks you what you’re doing and you just settle your palm on his stomach. “arthur..” you attempt to whisper but you can barely contain your excitement. “you’re starting to show!” he looks down at himself in amusement. “looks the same to me,” your palm cups the faint bump. “i swear it’s different—” he bats your hand away. “it ain’t!” but he’s got a warm smile on his face as he looks back at you. you offer to make him a meal but he sighs at the suggestion and asks if you happen to have fresh peaches on you. unfortunately you don’t, so you spend the next hour buying fresh peaches for him. he ends up eating about two a day and has to carry a full canteen with him due to his increase in thirst. after downing lots of water, he’s able to work up the energy to do chores around camp. once or twice he’s stopped by micah or bill so they can badger him about not doing any work but hosea is quick to put a stop to it. you’ll have to help convince arthur to take it easy because he hates feeling useless, although he doesn’t want any small, measly tasks handed to him either. take him with you to town and arthur’s mood will lift. also, give him the opportunity to pick something out to eat and he’ll take home a little bag of treats of which he ends up savoring for so long that sean somehow sniffs them out and eats the last one.

the 12th week you go hunting with arthur for slightly bigger game. arthur still hasn’t eaten any other meat besides rabbit, but you’re hopeful that you can maybe get something more in his diet. you’d originally planned on getting turkey but arthur insisted on deer so you decided to get both. by the time you’ve hunted and killed a deer as well as two turkeys, you’re far enough away from camp that you decide to set up a tent and camp out for the night. arthur’s already gnawing on a hunk of venison the second he gets it cooked but you still take out a peach from your satchel and slice it into pieces so you can occasionally hand him a slice. unfortunately he can’t finish the venison before he has to get up and vomit so instead you let him eat the rest of the peach and grab some leftover rabbit from your bag to cook. despite the slight nausea, arthur tells you he’s fine. you both talk for a while before you go to bed. you hold him close to you, covering him in a warm blanket. he can feel you smiling against his skin but decides not to say anything. he clasps your hands together and falls asleep, only waking up once or two to down a few gulps of water.

the 13th week dutch has you and arthur meet him at his tent where he sits with a book in hand. he rolls off some evelyn miller excerpt before closing the book and urging the both of you closer. “now, i want the two of you to understand that we are family. alright?” it’s nothing he hasn’t said before, but his words sound almost solemn with care. he goes on about sticking together and working to sustain the life that we worked for! he looks between you as he says this, looking into your eyes but not really making the mental contact. it’s all sort of nonsense, something arthur is definitely used to by now. still, the conversation brings relief. it means that one, dutch knows arthur is pregnant which is most likely hosea’s doing (who you pray to god gave a convincing argument to settle any concerns of dutch) and two, you and arthur’s child will have a home. you’re positive abigail is ready with her arms open to assist with whatever is to come, and with hosea’s support you at least have two, if not three when you count dutch, people who are willing to help raise a child, especially arthur’s. you two share a look when dutch dismisses you, but you don’t get a moment to talk before grimshaw is in front of you, her foot already tapping with irritation, though she greets you politely nonetheless. just the woman you wanted to avoid. she’s sporting her typical who do i gotta yell at to get any work done around here? look, however she doesn’t yell or sneer, she simply asks, “how have you been keeping?” the question is directed towards arthur who nods his head with a ‘just fine, miss grimshaw’. she purses her lips. “i see you’ve been busy.” your heads drop as you shuffle in place; you should have known it’d be arthur who got the heat. you open your mouth to speak but she cuts you off with a dismissive hand wave and a little scoff. “though i rather we had discussed this beforehand, what’s done is done—you won’t be leaving camp any time soon, mister morgan, not until that baby comes out. there’s still plenty of work that needs to be done ‘round camp.” it’s not what you expected to hear but you’re grateful nonetheless. you can’t argue further so you walk arthur back to your tent and gesture for him to sit down. no doubt the news will reach the rest of camp soon but it’s expected. at the very least arthur will have things to do while he’s forced to listen to people blathering nonsense in his ears all day. 

14th week and you finally convince arthur to speak to strauss. you dislike the man as much as he does—if not more—but your concern for arthur’s health outweighs your disdain. you’d originally suggested a doctor in saint denis but the distance is what concerned you, figuring it’d be better to wait until arthur’s nausea was at its lowest before taking the risk, among many other things. so instead you kiss arthur goodbye as he makes his way over to strauss’ tent while you get on your horse and ride out of camp to find supplies you might need for the baby. now, you weren’t entirely sure what you were looking for, or what you were supposed to be looking for, but you waltzed into rhodes’ general store with confidence anyway. it’s the same as it always is, supplying the few things you usually get, however this time your attention is caught by the dolls that sit in the centerpiece. is it too early to buy something like that? what if your child doesn’t even like dolls? would they even have time to play with them? you move on. the cashier greets you, gesturing to the catalog of which you flip open. after going through the pages, among the cigarettes, soap, and ammunition, you find a few products that catch your eye; baby powder, more soap, blankets, clothes—not a lot, but some. the advertisements were foreign; you’re only just now realizing your lack of knowledge on child care. oops. as you scan the page(s) you hear the cashier retort some comment you ignore. what the hell is soothing syrup? you close the catalog. you decide not to make any decisions yet, at least not now—you’ll bring abigail with you next time—however you don’t leave the store empty handed; you cave, buying one of the dolls, one with a blue dress and dark, empty eyes. you figure you might give it to jack, see if he likes it. maybe him and your child will share toys and play together? feeling disappointed with just a doll in your satchel, you take the next few hours touring the tailors in saint denis. there wasn’t anything too interesting, only a small section for children’s clothes that didn’t offer much at all for a baby, but the experience was insightful nonetheless. on the way home, out of pure desperation you ransack an abandoned cabin. it was small, most likely only homing one or two adults. inside you find some blankets that you fold into your satchel, and sitting beside a rundown armchair, you spot a woven basket filled with yarn and fabric. the sight suddenly makes you feel guilty for taking it, as if there was anyone present to mourn its loss. you take it anyway, keeping it held close in front of you as you ride back home. the sun has begun to set, and arriving into camp you’re greeted by the smell of fresh stew. you make your way to your tent as subtle as you can with a basket in hand, and within it is arthur who’s nursing a bowl of stew. his mouth is full so your question comes first. apparently pearson decided on rabbit as tonight’s main course, as well as tomorrow’s. with a grateful smile, you gently set the basket down and greet your lover properly. 

15th week and you’ve gotten swamped with work. you’ve begun fulfilling arthur’s jobs on top of yours and damn is it exhausting. you don’t dare complain though, not with arthur around else he’ll jump to his feet and tire himself out, so you power through it. you knew that arthur’s role around camp was a significant one, but you weren’t expecting so many people asking you for things; train robberies, got that easy. stage coach, even easier. possible money stashed away in a fancy suite in saint denis, sure, whatever. but then you have the girls asking you for things, simple stuff like jewelry or things they’ve lost, things with barely anything to go off of. and then there’s micah who’s deliberately sending you on wild goose chases just because he knows that you’ll do it, basking in your blind obedience with beastly perversion. right now on your metaphorical list you need to find oleander, a pocket watch, a pen or two (one hopefully with red ink and one with black, of course) several books, some type of yellow flower (god knows what) some spices, thyme, and then pearson needs you on hunting duty for fish and venison and everything and you’ve only just gotten a sliver of what arthur has to deal with in his day to day life and though you’re happy you’ve taken this weight off of his shoulders you are overwhelmed. you hardly get to see arthur with his new sleep schedule and your now packed one, but some mornings he’ll drink a little more coffee than usual just so he’ll stay awake long enough to kiss you goodnight and fall asleep with you holding him.

the beginning of the 16th week you almost get yourself shot trying to rob a stagecoach with bill, and somehow arthur could tell despite you not saying a word about it. ironically, the most difficult part of taking arthur’s load of work is trying to convince him not to intervene. his nausea has started to subside, but he’s still on a lackluster diet. you’ve tried sneaking in protein packed meat alongside the rabbit but his pregnancy seems to have granted him a laser-eyed tongue that can detect the slightest discrepancies. strauss had suggested possible foods to keep arthur upright and make sure he doesn’t become underweight, but he’s hardly touched anything you’ve given him besides the rabbit and peaches and almonds. which is why it’s almost a miracle when arthur starts craving something he didn’t used to care much for: violet snowdrop. you asked him if he’s ever even eaten some before and he just shrugs. no, it doesn’t exactly make for the most hardy meal ever, or like, really make a meal at all, but it’s something new and that’s good enough for you. you get on track right away, riding out to annesburg and picking as many as you can find. arthur eats it up like he hasn’t eaten in days, using it as an extra flair to his rabbit. the girls come by occasionally, offering different herbs and fruits that arthur might take a liking to. you’ve learned that (at least during his pergnancy) arthur HATES pineapple. just looking at a can of it makes him double over, so you keep stocking up on the fresh peaches and almonds. on one of your tracks to find a stagecoach, you came across a small farm, one that harbored a single bush of strawberries among their crops. it lights a fire in you, and you make sure that its owner(s) don’t spot you as you pick the few full-grown ones and wrap them in a piece of fabric within your satchel. again, not the most fulfilling food ever, but it’s something new, and anything that arthur will eat is something you’ll protect like glass. when you bring them out to him, he visibly lights up. there weren’t a lot on the one bush, but arthur is satisfied anyway. after he eats you retreat to your tent and sit down with him. he sighs when he sits, immediately leaning his full weight onto you. you can see the faint outline of his bump beneath his vest and it fills you with pride. you unbutton it and pull his shirt up just enough to show his stomach. you can’t stop smiling and it makes arthur bashful at the attention, but he instinctively puts his hand on his bump, most likely feeling as happy as you are in the grand scheme of things. 

throughout the 17th and 18th week, mary-beth and tilly have come by your tent to check up on things. you can tell they’re excited, if not nosy, about the baby. mary-beth goes on about how romantic it is to raise a child with the person you love and tilly keeps asking about baby names. they’ve offered their ideas—most of them being names you’re certain are straight out of their fantasy books—and even their own names more so as a joke, though you’re not opposed to either tilly or mary-beth as a girl’s name. sean joins this as well, and every week or so he likes to remind you and arthur about how heroic the name sean would be for a baby boy. their investment is sweet and relieving, especially grimshaw’s when she bounds her way into a conversation however arthur doesn’t seem too happy about having to be reminded to wash up every day and drink as much water as he can handle. you’ve gotten your fair share of scolding although you can’t help but feel grimshaw is just going a little bit easy on you due to your hard work around camp if her screaming at uncle and reverend lazing about is any indication. she certainly is keeping the others in line, shooing away sean and the girls and anyone who tries badgering you within her sight. thankfully, no one’s been too pissy about it. you get an occasional comment from bill about giving us another mouth to feed but the malice dies down after a while and he starts to hang around like he’s invested in a story and is waiting for what happens at the end, along with kieran; you can feel his eyes on you when you’re with arthur, like he wants to be included and ask what’s up but fears rejection. you and arthur have deliberately not made any public announcements, instead resorting to let the news carry around naturally. it’s hard to keep things on the downlow when mary-beth is swooning at the thought of you taking care of arthur, and especially difficult when a drunk sean is going around offering to be the next one bed-ridden just so he can get out of doing chores like arthur. you suspect javier knows because he insists on singing specific songs while arthur is sitting by the fire, like he wants your baby to memorize them—and who knows, maybe your child will develop a love for music, become a pianist in a saloon, something like that (anything but an outlaw). regardless, things around camp are strangely serene, not as hectic as it may have been months before, and you can’t help but wonder if arthur’s pregnancy has somehow created a new environment, one more domestic and hopeful. sure, you get the occasional covetous looks from molly, or a passing comment from uncle and micah, but it’s nothing real. there’s something different being lifted into the air, something the gang hasn’t felt since blackwater. the future feels bright, and with the good word from strauss about arthur’s health, you’re no longer afraid, but at home. 

the 20th week you return to camp after a short (and slightly uneventful) stagecoach robbery to see arthur being swamped with attention by the girls. now that arthur’s bump is starting to become noticeable even under his usual attire, he can’t avoid the excited squealing every time he’s in line of sight of either mary-beth or tilly. he could deal with just them two, but now he’s even got karen standing over his shoulder insisting he lets her put a hand on his stomach to see if there’s really something in there; her words, not yours. it’s a sweet sight, even when arthur harbors a look that would put an o’driscoll to their knees; the girls are unaffected, much to his dismay. when you get closer you can hear mary-beth going on about how something is ‘just like in the fairytales!’ you can’t imagine what arthur has had to put up with while you were gone, but at least you don’t have to worry about your child growing up with a lack of attention if the sight of karen holding arthur’s bump and urging the other girl’s forward to feel doesn’t prove it. upon seeing you, arthur heaves a sigh of what looks like both relief and frustration (probably because you’re just watching this all happen and not doin’ anything about it). tilly and mary-beth retreat back to their original positions as they greet you with a frivolous tone. “go on, girls. arthur—and the baby—need some space.” they walk back to their stations, and a comment from karen seems to cause the other two to burst into giggles. you can tell arthur’s exhausted so you lead him back to your shared tent. next to the woven basket you found, you see a small folded blanket. with flushed cheeks arthur tells you the girls made it. “you know, for the baby.” he says nothing else to you as he pulls his journal out, most likely to write about his day. it makes you feel a bit giddy. not that you weren’t interested in the life that is held within his journal, but the thought of you and your unborn child being on his mind and possibly recorded on the thin pages is a feeling you’ll be happy getting used to.

for the rest of the 21st week, it’s all chatter among the camp. there’s barely a moment of silence aside from when everyone’s asleep. arthur’s developed a habit of putting his hand on his stomach every time he sits down or gets up that almost always raises a comment he has to brush off with rosy cheeks. you can tell things are livelier—molly and dutch haven’t been fighting, abigail and john are spending more time together, even reverend, of all people, has stopped asking for money. people are drinking in celebration (precisely sean and uncle) who thankfully have been less obnoxious than usual aside from sean’s occasional ribbing, “o’l morgan’s got himself knocked up, did he?” yet, with a bottle in hand, he welcomes the two of you over to a table anyway and doesn’t mention it further. dutch seems to be in high spirits, laying it low on the planning and scheming and letting everyone catch a break. you haven’t left arthur’s side in days, your mother-henning even making abigail shake her head in amusement. a lot of camp members have to talk you into giving arthur space, grimshaw and hosea especially. sadie comes up to you occasionally with warmth in her eyes and praise on her tongue. despite her disinterest in children, she offers to find supplies in your place to allow you time with arthur. your heart fights its love for arthur and concern for sadie, but she gives you no choice in the end. at the moment, you are surrounded by friends and family. arthur keeps trying to turn mary-beth and tilly’s attention to you instead of his ever-growing stomach (from what you can make out they’re trying to guess whether the baby will be a girl or not) until hosea makes a short toast that shoos them away once more. the lack of quarreling makes being at camp relaxing, not only for the overworked (and cain, whose arrival makes bill and jack lively once more) but especially for your poor lover. his body aches strike back like lightning, but for once he can sleep without feeling like there’s work he needs to do and people he needs to help.

week 22 and arthur’s pains start to flare up again. he wakes up with it in his hips, shooting up to his back and down to his ankles. they seem to be worse than they first were, judging by the amount of time he spends lying in the same position, trying to stay still so as to not irritate it. you can only assume it’s helping to ease the pain, because arthur refuses to expand on it, most likely to keep you from worrying. unfortunately, it only worries you more. you practically throw strauss out of bed in furious concern, but he says the pains are normal and hold no real threat. you retreat back to arthur to hold him in your arms, smoothing your hand over his hips and thighs to try and massage the pain away. he hums, melting before your touch. you strike up a conversation in hopes it might distract from the aches. you first ask him if he’s hungry, and though he says yes, he doesn’t let you get up from your spot which you hope means that what you’re doing is helping. after a pause, you ask him how he’s feeling about the pregnancy. there’s a bit of back and forth as he tries to change the subject to you, but eventually he starts answering. he’s got his doubts and fears, but overall he’s happy. he’s satisfied, or at least the closest he’ll ever get to it. he’s unsure of himself, but one thing he knows is that he loves you, and he loves his child. his child, the baby. his chuckle is sardonic. you still haven’t picked a name yet. you’re not sure when you’ll settle for one, or if you’ve even put enough thought into it with all that’s been going on. you make a joke about naming them after dutch or molly and he elbows you with a smile. now, hosea isn’t the worst option. neither is charles or susan, or even abigail. sadie, too. arthur thinks of john, though he knows if he named his child after him he’d never hear the end of it. regardless, he reminds himself to write them all down in his journal later. you suggest a name or two, just ones you’ve heard in passing that you thought were interesting. he doesn’t say much as he ponders them, but his hand goes to his stomach as if he were trying to imagine it. his body has stopped aching for the time being, though despite the crick that has now formed in his neck he turns over to kiss you. your massaging of his hips and thighs turn into playful squeezing as you kiss his neck. the two of you mutually decide to spend your morning in bed until either dutch or grimshaw calls your name to get the day moving and the work started. 

the start of the 24th week, arthur and you are eating breakfast together, away from the main campfire and away from the noise and smells. he’s eating strawberries that charles had found on his way back from a hunting trip. arthur finishes eating and wipes his hands on his jeans before he makes a surprised uhf! sound that has him staring you down with a tell anyone about that and it’s over for you kind of look on his face. you ask him what’s wrong and he tells you something about cramps in his stomach. you must have looked worried sick because he immediately adds that it’s not painful, just weird, like there’s a fish flopping around in his stomach. his description has you putting your hand on his forehead that he swats away like he would a mosquito. he means that it feels like there’s something moving—like the baby? a soft silence falls between you as you put your hand on his stomach. you feel nothing. he clicks his tongue, you ain’t feel it just yet  because that’s what abigail had said. you smile anyway, and he shakes his head with a little laugh. you keep your hand in place as you admire him. he becomes bashful under your gaze but doesn’t stop you. you only pull away when you hear the crunching of dirt behind you as javier calls the both of you over to join the others in some early-morning bickering.

funnily enough, it’s not until the 26th week that jack finally learns about arthur’s pregnancy. “i thought you were just fat, uncle arthur!” an ego-killer for sure, as innocent as it was. abigail hushes him the same way she hushes john who you can only guess learns the news about the same time as his son, silently questioning arthur with a look that practically screams wait, you’re pregnant? though it’s better not to talk about it, for john (and abigail’s) sake. your break gifted by dutch is nearing the last of its days (or perhaps hours, depending on any bright ideas he comes up with) so you spend them with arthur and arthur alone. sadie and charles have done you wonders, charles going out to hunt and gather arthur’s current favorites and sadie robbing as many folk as she could find to spare you extra dollars, something you’d been afraid to attempt in concern for your possible absence to arthur and your baby. she also found what looked like a doll made of fabrics and yarn; some threads had been pulled from its scalp of which sadie commented upon it looking like uncle. you don’t exactly disagree. arthur’s appetite has grown. he says it feels like he’s never getting full, being able to eat three plate-fulls of food and still be hungry for three more. this makes arthur feel extremely guilty, fearing that he’s eating food that could be used to feed someone who’s “truly” hungry. it’s difficult to knock arthur out of these thoughts, but bringing up the baby and how, in reality, it’s most likely the baby that’s hungry, he finds it a little easier to eat just one more peach. the herbs he craves aren’t filling enough, but charles gave you some advice on how to feed arthur something hardier while keeping the taste that he desires. you thought it’d never work, using a thick rub for the meat you cooked for him. you just assumed he’d notice right away and spit it out, but arthur’s intense hunger wins him over. thankfully, no one really makes any harsh comments on arthur’s eating habits aside from the typical jokes thrown from sean or john, or micah even. sometimes jack will see arthur holding one of his peaches and he’ll ask if he can have a bite and of course arthur just gives him the whole peach because he just can’t reject jack like that, not when his emotions are all over the place and he’s thinking about his future child asking him for a peach he’ll probably still have a shit ton of left over (though god knows after his pregnancy is over arthur is probably never going to want so see another damn peach again). jack ends up being a lot better company for arthur, asking him questions that are difficult enough to answer that arthur can swerve around them with ease, much to jack’s frustration. as arthur eats, he thinks of his baby, mostly of their name. and then he thinks of his mother, beatrice. beatrice ain’t too bad a name. arthur doesn’t say it, but from then on he’s silently rooting for his child to be a girl. maybe a girl would have a better chance of living a civilized, pain-free life, anything unlike his own. as long as they grow up to be as kind as mary-beth, strong like sadie and intelligent like charles or hosea, arthur will be happy. though he doesn’t view himself to be much of a father figure (lord knows he didn’t exactly have much to look up to) arthur promises to protect his child with all that he has until his very last breath. he doesn’t plan on making the same mistakes again.

the 28th week, hosea manages to convince you into taking arthur out of camp. you decide on strawberry, deeming the quaint town to be one of the safer options. there, the first thing you do is take arthur into the general store to buy him some clothes. he’s not far along to bust out of his clothes just yet but you want to make sure he’s got something comfortable for when the time comes. the shirts you buy him are a size or two too big, and though you get a glance or two from the shopkeeper as he watches you drape the large flannel over his body to see if it will ‘fit’, you leave the store pleased with your purchases. there aren’t exactly a large variety of things to do in strawberry which you are silently grateful for; boredom means safety. you and arthur walk through the town, stopping occasionally to give arthur a rest so that he can sketch some flowers and birds in his journal and whatever cat or dog passes by, giving them a pet and a scratch as they make their way through the road. after you tend to your horses, you rent out a room as well as a bath for arthur of which you keep watch outside the door (arthur insisted on washing up alone, much to your disappointment). you practically have your ear pressed against the door before arthur opens it to reveal that he was in fact, still in one piece. strawberry’s hotel was beautiful and homey. in your mind it perfectly encapsulated arthur due to its warmth and closure. in the amber lighting, arthur is like dripping honey, sweet and alluring. in fresh clothes and still somewhat damp from the bath, his body fills out the cream-colored shirt perfectly. the faint outline of his swollen breasts urges you forward and you spend the rest of the night in bed, snuggling into the warm blankets after a slow, passionate endeavor between the sheets. arthur’s out like a light in your arms, his soft breathing like a lullaby, but you don’t get much sleep, instead keeping your eyes on the door and your ears out for any danger. his grasp is comforting, like his presence alone could cure any ailment. your hand falls to his side, just slightly cupped beneath his stomach above his hip and you can feel the faintest thump against your hand and then one more before it’s gone. now you can blame your lack of sleep on the excitement you felt waiting for arthur to wake up to tell him the news. 

around 30 weeks is when arthur’s pregnancy takes a small turn. he’s been anxious for the baby since the start, but he’s now suddenly gained this excitement that has his typical pains and nausea pushed away to make room for his new schedule. you return to your shared tent to hand arthur a cup of coffee when you see him cleaning down the tables and cups. some of the clutter had been organized, the pictures safe, pushed the farthest away from the edge as possible. the lantern you kept had the same treatment, unlit and unlikely to fall from the edge. the basket you’d found is tidied, clothed with a soft blanket ( that you assume had been freshly washed considering you vaguely remember seeing it hanging from the clothes line) and set atop a table that rests right next to your cot. the doll sadie brought you sits next to it, still ratty as ever. usually the canvas falls down for complete privacy, but arthur had pulled away one of the ends to keep the sunlight shining in. he always looked ethereal in the morning, as if the sun shone entirely for him. he’s so focused on wiping down every surface he can touch in the tent he doesn’t see you approaching. when he notices you, he doesn’t stop cleaning but he keeps his head down with a shy smile on his face as he greets you good morning. you ask him if grimshaw made him do all this but he shakes his head and tells you with a soft voice, “jus’ felt like it i suppose.” you know that arthur is riddled with anxiety, but his words are just so sweet that you want to hold him close and cry. afterwards, you end up taking the girls into town. you originally only planned for you and abigail to go, but tilly and karen claimed to be painfully bored so now it’s them three, mary-beth, and sadie all tagging along with you. abigail helps you look for baby supplies as the other girls pop into saloons, probably finding folk to rob blind. at some point sadie ends up in the shop with you after throwing some drunkard into an alleyway and leaving with his pocket watch. it feels oddly comforting, just being in town with your friends and shopping for things for your child. you only wished arthur were with you, but the sound of yelling paired with the sight of tilly slapping a man flat across his face right outside of the general store makes you grateful he’s not. thankfully the trip wasn’t for nothing. though you’re not completely prepared (mainly due to the limitations imposed upon you by the lack of baby-prep valentine’s stores possess) you’ve got just about all that you need. and with what can be made by hand right at camp, clothing your child is no longer a concern even with so few store options. on the way back home, abigail had offered you some words of advice. they were blunt, but her words softened upon memory of the bond you shared with arthur. at least you had the choice—her final words of the day evoke a certain strength from you. back with arthur, you watch him eat peaches and strawberries, his hand resting on his stomach. his cheeks are rosy from the sun, and they only become more flush when you tell him how beautiful he looks, like he doesn’t look beautiful every second of every day anyway.

despite your compliments, arthur certainly doesn’t feel beautiful. at 32 weeks, arthur feels horrible. everything hurts, his hips, ankles, back, neck. he can hardly sleep, waking up multiple times at night due to an active bladder, most likely caused by all the kicking and fussing going on in his stomach. grimshaw has been on his heel more often, barking orders at him to sit and lay down if he’d been up on his feet too long. you’ve become victim to more and more of her scolding, partly due to your occasional absence when going out to gather food arthur will eat, and partly due to your ignorance as a soon-to-be parent. thinking about it, the whole camp has been facing grimshaw’s wrath, mostly the slackers who have now been distributed some of your work, allowing you to give arthur more attention. it’s frustrating how much he insists he’s fine, but at some point he can no longer keep up the facade, allowing you to slip a rolled up blanket between his thighs as he rests. he’d been getting a lot more hot at night, so you’ve kept a small tin of water by your bed to dip a rag in to lather some cool water onto his skin. at the very least, arthur’s nausea hasn’t worked itself up again, and he hasn’t thrown up in weeks. his headaches are back however, so you make sure that you bring arthur food he’ll eat enclosed within the comfort of your tent. every now and then you have to run sean or uncle off because they stink of alcohol but are too drunk to get the idea that arthur needs to be left alone. abigail is back to bringing over some tea she’d stashed away, generously letting arthur have the few amounts she had left. it’s definitely the most difficult part of arthur’s pregnancy either of you have had to endure. at least for the most part camp is relatively quiet, the only noise really being some of the chatter during breakfast and dinner, however groups begin to dissipate once the day really gets started and everyone splits off to do their chores. the best you can do for arthur is pull his hat down over his eyes to help with his headache and massage parts of his body that are in pain. unfortunately it’s not much help, the pain only subsiding naturally after hours have passed before coming back the next morning. you’ve tried several different sleeping positions, and only two have helped to lessen the pains, though not by a substantial amount. even through his exhaustion, arthur can look into your eyes and tell you he doesn’t regret a thing. there’s a bit of sarcasm on his tongue to mask his vulnerability, but you know it’s the truth. arthur morgan was never much of a liar anyway. his pains fade away with time, only leaving a dull ache in their wake. peaches are a good distraction, and though you were only able to get him the canned kind, he eats them anyway. he even has enough energy to sit with everyone by the fire before they all head to bed for the night. 

2 weeks later at 34, arthur is very exhausted. not only mentally, but physically. the pains are on and off, varying to last for hours or minutes. when he does finally catch a break he doesn’t know what to do with his time. when he has the energy to walk and stand about, he gives his horse some attention like usual, petting them and making sure they’re brushed and that they’ve been fed. his horse bathes in his care, pushing his head into his hand and flicking its tail. his stomach’s big enough that he has to take smaller steps to get around, so it is just a little bit entertaining to see arthur try and bend over to grab some hay for his horse. he can’t blame you for laughing, but he definitely can blame you for getting him pregnant and making him go through all this pain and he will dodge around the conversation when you bring up how it was his decision as well. he has to go sit back down despite only being up for like five minutes, but don’t bring it up or he’ll kick you out of your tent for an hour. arthur becomes a little snuggly between the pain intermissions, he’ll try to scoot as close to you as he possibly can with his belly getting in the way. it’s kind of revolutionary when you discover you can very slightly lift arthur’s belly. it’s relieving enough that arthur can drift off to sleep and not wake up at the times he usually might. he still gets kicked a lot, and laying down with arthur you’ll hear him cursing his unborn child out a lot under his breath. you definitely know what their first words are going to be and it ain’t gonna be pretty. he does think it’s endearing how excited you get when you can feel the baby kicking beneath your hand, but at the same time he’s really grumpy and is momentarily really allergic to fun, sending you a glare everytime you giggle or smile. it’s kind of silly how much of an old man arthur starts acting like when he’s in pain, but you better believe the second the pain goes away he’s feeling like this baby is the best thing that’s ever happened to him and he starts tearing up a little. arthur’s really convinced that he’s not deserving of most good things so he becomes a little anxious, thinking about all the things that might go wrong. the third trimester is a really tough one for him, probably one of the worst states the gang has ever seen him. arthur’s not the easiest guy to lift the mood of but it really does warm his heart at your care and attention when you attempt to put him into a position that might put less stress on his body. he ends up keeping a grumpy reputation even when he’s walking about painlessly but most people like to joke about how pregnant arthur isn’t any different to normal arthur, complaining about back pain and acting like everyone’s a nuisance. which isn’t entirely unwarranted, considering even you find yourself having to drive away some of the nosier camp members who offer ‘assistance’ to get out of doing any real work outside of drinking and sleeping all day. hosea’s told you that everything is under control. him and dutch have probably had hundreds of conversations since they discovered arthur’s pregnancy. hosea most certainly doesn’t blame arthur for his work leave, but you can only hope that at least dutch will give him a break to let him rest after he gives birth. you envision dutch with his hands on his hips, barking orders to your newborn. it’s not particularly something you'd look past him doing.

36 weeks and grimshaw has finished setting up a separate tent for arthur. it’s mostly empty at the moment, aside from a cot that resides in the middle. there aren’t many supplies inside but she says she’ll get everything when the time comes, that time being when arthur goes into labor of course. tilly’s become a little anxious which you guess is because she’s been assigned grimshaw’s backup to help with delivering arthur’s baby alongside abigail. mary-beth also seems a little on edge, though she appears just a bit more excited than tilly. grimshaw’s ordered you to keep close to arthur, saying that if anything goes wrong he needs you there to assist her in helping him. all of a sudden the cheery atmosphere at camp turns into a dark cloud of anxiety that seems to only be raining over you and arthur. grimshaw’s cynicism is expected, though you’d hoped there’d be a little less to be worried about than your brain was telling you. abigail tries to ease your worries realistically. birthin’ ain’t easy but his body will know what to do. abigail’s still here ain’t she? and so is jack, and they’re fine. you don’t expect his birth to have been anything less than long and difficult, but she’s not wrong. arthur is strong. he’ll get through it. and if he doesn’t then his baby will, because arthur won’t let anything happen to his child, you know that much. you try your best to spend the last weeks of his pregnancy as normal as possible. arthur’s appetite hasn’t budged, he’s still eating peach and rabbit with violet snowdrop rubs and some sort of herb that charles managed to get arthur to eat without causing a wave of nausea. strauss says his diet could be better but at least he’s eating. he seemed a little underweight but not dangerously so. his belly is the typical size for thirty-six weeks, fat and round and in the way, as arthur likes to mention. his flannels keep him warm at night despite the occasional hot flashes. oddly, he doesn’t seem all that worried. you consider the idea that he might have just tired himself out worrying the entire first two trimesters but arthur tells you that for the second time in his life he’s entirely sure of what he wants (the first being you) and what he wants right now is his damn baby. it’s very heroically arthur, the way he says it with his drawl hanging off his words and his mouth full of peach. you don’t know how he does it, always staying strong despite the misery he’s forced to put up with. his fly is folded down to make room for his stomach that looks like it’s threatening to pop the damn buttons off his flannel but he’s still resilient as ever. even when he finishes his can of peaches and looks at you with such dejection as he reluctantly asks for another, he is absolutely gorgeous. 

38 weeks and arthur wakes up with some, what you realize now, are contractions. it’s early in the morning where the only people awake are grimshaw and dutch. in about an hour or so the rest of camp will begin to stir. arthur doesn’t wake you up at first, assuming they were just regular pains. when the first wave rides out, he takes a deep breath and gets up to try and start his day. he’s not hungry, though he’s incredibly thirsty so he downs two cups of water before another wave of contractions begin. you’re not entirely sure how long they last, or how long they’ve been lasting, but by the time the sun has risen half the camp is awake now, and more importantly the girls and strauss are awake. you hurry over to grimshaw first and she has to ask you to slow down so you can properly tell her what’s wrong. she says something about it being early, early in the morning? early in the pregnancy? you can’t hear straight at the moment. arthur is trying to take deep breaths and the pain seems to be getting to him. you feel like you want to cry at the sight. grimshaw strikes you across the face, not too hard but certainly not delicately. it wakes you up and you can hear her now as she speaks to you. more hours have passed and arthur has been moved to the new tent. you’re crouched at his side, hovering but staying out of the way as grimshaw makes her way between strauss’ tent and the one arthur resides in. you try to stay calm so as to not pass your anxiety onto arthur, but he seems right as rain, breathing through the pain and letting you hold his hand that starts to feel wet coated with your nerves. you seem to be more scared than arthur, which both worries you more and also fills you with pride at his courage. you can only focus on arthur and the sweat that drips down his forehead, either from the pain or heat or stress. in an odd way you’d rather not know which one. thankfully he’s wearing a particularly large shirt so it doesn’t look like it’s too tight around his stomach. you unbutton it anyway, giving him some breathing room. at some point grimshaw takes off arthur’s pants, but she doesn’t seem concerned. from where you’re sitting you can’t see what’s happening. she’s focused, not talking unless she tells arthur to sit or lay down a certain way. at the very least she doesn’t mention anything about bleeding. at some point she tells you to get out to give everyone some space and you almost yell at her to let you stay but arthur is the final voice of reason who looks at you with such conviction you can’t even get a word out. you’re hesitant to go but charles comes in with a bowl and towels in hand and reassures you that everything will be fine. your legs move on their own, mary-beth even guiding you out of the tent before she’s directed back in by grimshaw. you’re at least greeted by hosea whose voice drowns out the chatter behind you. he walks you to a table, his hand on your back with friendly sentiment. some of the other camp members drop their chores to talk to you (only for a moment though, knowing grimshaw will get on their case if nothing gets done) but everyone’s presence just feels ghostly, like nothing is real. your blood runs cold. your hands are shaking so much you have to hold the cup of water hosea offers you with both of them. you can’t even take a sip because you’re certain it’ll just wind up on the ground and be a total waste. you keep looking back at the tent, it’s so far away you can’t hear the chatter but you occasionally see mary-beth coming out to fetch something from strauss’ wagon. when your eyes focus enough you can see some blood on her dress. 

it’s hours before abigail comes up to you. you’re not entirely sure how long it’s been, having been dozed in and out of sleep, but when you stand up your legs are numb and shaking from the stress put onto them. thank god, the first thing she tells you is that he’s alive, and so is the baby. you almost faint pushing through the tent, your eyes jumping to arthur’s exhausted form. he’s holding your baby in his arms who’s currently wrapped up in a light green blanket. you have a healthy baby girl is what abigail says when you crouch down next to arthur. she’s got some dark hair on her head, almost reminiscent to arthur’s where there’s some shimmery, somewhat gold color that shines through when the light of the lantern hits it. you’re so close to arthur that you can feel the heat radiating off of him like he’d been doused in melted copper. he’s crying, or he was crying since you can see his eyes are glossy and tinted red at the corners. he offers you to hold the baby, and hesitantly you take her into your arms. she’s so small and fragile. her skin looks flawless, her puffy face perfectly crafted. she’s making the softest noises, almost so quiet you can barely hear them over the sound of you and arthur breathing. grimshaw tells arthur something you can’t focus on enough to hear. your daughter wriggles gently in your hands and (very delicately) arthur takes her back into his own to help feed her. tilly’s beside you now, taking arthur’s abandoned clothes to wash them up. before she leaves she asks you what you’re gonna name her. it’s not much of a question by this point. beatrice, of course. you’d read it somewhere in arthur’s journal and his lack of reaction to her question proves to you that the name had been set in stone for a while now anyway. beatrice’s eyes peer up at you, hazy and pure. they bloom with color, blue and grey like a cloudy sky with the sun peeking out to burst into gold just slightly. she makes a little huff that has your face finally cracking into some emotion. knocked awake out of your daze you can see arthur’s color on his cheeks, his eyes still glossy and hopeful and alive. he looks at you with so much love as he wipes away the tears falling from your eyes. later in the night, beatrice is whisked away to be swaddled into a new blanket of which the next morning she bursts out of with a stronger perseverance than you expected out of a newborn. dutch luckily grants both you and arthur some time to spend with each other and beatrice. it takes immense effort to get everyone away, and though unfortunately a few strays make their way into your tent to say hello to your daughter, things don’t feel as bad anymore. arthur doesn’t bother trying to get on his feet, not even to defend his daughter from curious eyes. you've had jack on his tippy-toes trying to see her, mary-beth gushing with a little toy in her grasp as she attempts to entertain beatrice, and even kieran and sadie among the shadows to observe in silence, but arthur only sighs in a stubborn acceptance. grimshaw’s presence alone is reassuring of her safety, but your confident voice and tender expression is what helps arthur drift to sleep to get at least an hour or two of rest. he doesn’t tell you the details of the birth, though the lack of yelling and screaming should probably be enough to reassure you things went fine for the most part. arthur is tense in sleep, every coo from beatrice causing a stutter or jolt from his body. still, he eventually wakes with high-spirits, his eyes sunken but filled with solace. your daughter still breathes, alive and healthy, along with arthur. you don’t take your luck for granted—both you and arthur got more than you could have ever imagined possible. beatrice is heaven scooped up in your arms, and though arthur can’t speak due to a mouth full of peach, he’s thinking the exact same thing.

[dekariosclan]

What do you think are some things that would give Gale “the ick” ? I think we all know he values people’s character over all but everyone has some things that just make them go “egh”

Ah, an excellent question! 🧙‍♂️☝️💜

You are so correct that our wizard values people’s character above all; Gale is not put off by appearances, because he’s solely interested in the values and kindness of each individual he meets. In addition, he is extremely open-minded and forgiving, so I think his list of ‘ick’ traits is relatively small. I myself have narrowed it down to three things that I think give him ‘the ick’, two of which are linked to his in-game dialogue, and a third one that I personally think is just….very fitting of Gale. So let’s get into it!

1.Disgusting eating habits. Ah, the infamous ‘STOP LICKING THE DAMN THING!’ Which of course comes after Gale is so appalled at seeing Tav sampling rotting spider meat (and their…enthusiastic reaction…) that he floats the idea that ‘the time might just have come when you and I should split ways.’

I think his disgust here is more than just the unsavory food factor, because per Shadowheart, there have been times when the team has had to consume fish heads and stale bread just to survive. But this isn’t a matter of survival, it’s a choice to stick rotting spider meat in your mouth! The same mouth that issues orders to the team, talks to Gale in friendship, OR shares a kiss with him if romanced…just the thought of what Tav’s breath would smell like gives ME the ick!

2.Disgusting hygiene habits. Look, we all know Gale loves (and I mean LOVES) a musky Tav 😍. And oh, what’s this, a sweaty Tav in battle?! Muscles all shiny and sleek?? Why yes, Gale appreciates that too! Very, very much! What I’m talking about is the truly gross stench of the Goblin camp (‘this place is rotten!’ as Gale says), the foul sewers in Baldur’s Gate (‘nothing like the stench of human effluence to make you regret any and all prior life decisions’) and Act 2’s bloody disgusting illithid colony (‘Gods, that smell! Abattoir crossed with privy.’) Gale makes it quite clear he is not a fan of any of it.

The thing is, Gale isn’t a super fastidious guy—his home in Waterdeep has books scattered all over the place, and Tara even says he keeps his potions in disarray. All he’s asking is that Tav not kiss any diseased Goblin toes or take a dip in any sewer runoff. But Tav working up a bit of a sweat? That’s fine! Totally fine!

And finally, the last thing that I think would give Gale the ick (albeit a modern-day AU Gale) is:

3.The use of AI for artistic creation. I’m pretty sure Gale, the man who crafted a beautiful night sky with his own two hands and told Tav, “I know this is all unreal, but I created it for you,” would despise AI. Gale values creativity and imagination, and to have them thrown away for the sake of outputting an image or piece of writing faster would be appalling to him. Seeing the Ghibli AI art trend would make him shut down his computer, rub at his temples to try to calm down, fail miserably, and then burst out at the dinner table: “DO THEY NOT REALIZE THAT BY CREATING GHIBLI ART VIA AI THEY HAVE STRIPPED IT OF EVERYTHING THAT MAKES GHIBLI ART SO BELOVED IN THE FIRST PLACE?!” while Tara and Tav try to calm him down so he doesn’t spill his wine.

[rosy-hollow]

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ: Ambush

ᴀ/ɴ: yippee chapter one!! this is basically where most of my snippets I've released are from but enjoy!! full series masterlist here!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: cursing, mentions of death

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader

It’s dark. You’re alone.

That was your first mistake.

The second?

Not making camp while there was still light.

Oh, you're so fucked.

Your heart pounds against your ribcage, hammering in your ears, drowning out the eerie silence that surrounds you. Before the Games, you would have enjoyed the quiet—taken it as a moment of repose.

But now? Silence is dangerous.

As is everything else in the arena.

Silence means waiting. Either you’re waiting for something, or something is waiting for you. Neither bodes well.

Whoosh.

Your heart stops.

Your breath turns shallow, erratic. Fingers tighten around your sorry excuse for a weapon—a wooden dagger you carved from a stick.

A blur whips across your vision.

You pounce.

Your breathing quickens, shallow and erratic as you grip your dagger. A blur whips across your vision, and you pounce on instinct, fear coursing through your veins alongside copious (and probably unhealthy) amounts of adrenaline, every nerve on fire.

In the scuffle, your vision goes blurry for a moment, but you waste no time restraining whatever had ambushed you underneath your body weight, acting despite being disoriented.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Your grip your dagger, ready to fight for your life, only to see- Two piercing red eyes staring back at you, widened a fraction and pupils dilated.

Two piercing red eyes stare back at you.

Your own eyes widen in a flurry of emotions and thoughts as a name is conjured by recognition.

Bakugou Katsuki. District 2.

A Career.

You freeze.

Your breathing—once ragged—goes still.

You grip the dagger so hard your knuckles turn white, feeling the sting of blood dripping from your palm. But you don’t care. You can’t care.

One wrong move, and you're dead.

“The fuck—get the hell off of—mmph!”

You cut off the disgruntled blond with a panicked hand over his mouth.

“Are you crazy?! Do you want to get killed?” you hiss, gripping your dagger tight enough for your fingers to ache. Your eyes lock onto his, filled with as much murderous intent as you can muster.

But could you really kill him?

Even now, with your heart hammering so wildly it drowns out your thoughts, the reality of kill or be killed refuses to settle in. The one thing you do know?

This tribute is dangerous.

The boy from District 2 —Bakugou Katsuki— goes still, sensing your hesitation.

Then, in a blink, you’re flung backwards.

Your back slams into a tree, bark scraping against your skin, the impact rattling your bones. You bite your tongue to stifle the cry threatening to spill.

You can’t afford to make a sound - fighting off one Career was already a death wish. If you alerted any others? 

You’d be dead before you could think.

Bakugou rises with ease, dusting himself off like your ambush was nothing more than an inconvenience. You, on the other hand, are frozen—paralyzed by both pain and the suffocating weight of fear.

He steps closer, eyes flickering over your body with amusement.

This was too easy.

But then—he stops.

He squats down, leveling himself with you, red eyes sharp with something unreadable. His grin spreads wide—feral, canines flashing.

You let out a shuddering breath, clenching your dagger like a lifeline.

Because right now?

It is one.

Bakugou snorts, utterly amused that you think you stand a chance.

“Relax, sweetheart.” His voice is low, almost mocking. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

Your stomach twists at the nickname, filled with condescending. You just glare at him, venom in your stare. 

“I could kill you if I wanted to.” you say coldly, your voice thankfully steady and level.

The boy just blinks momentarily, amusement flickering in his eyes.

He leans back, resting his hands on his bent knees as he sits, snorting.

“Yeah? Bet you could, except…” he smirks dangerously “you’re scared.”

You flinch, unsettled by how easily he reads you. He didn’t seem as deadly as before, but your grip still tightens on your dagger.

“What do you want?” you ask, your tone low and flat.

This only makes the Career pause, standing up briskly and turning away from you. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“I want to win.” he says finally, and you body stills for a moment, wondering what the implications meant fo you.

Bakugou rolls his eyes, sensing your lapse of terror and scoffs. 

“Don’t lose your shit, I’m not gonna kill you.” he grabs his machete from the bushes - shit how long has that been there for?

“I’ll leave that to someone else. For now, I want to strike a deal.” he says, unbothered red eyes raking over your form.

“In exchange for me protecting you - you get us food.”

You frown. “Like a housewife?!”

Katsuki lets out a small tch, walking back over to you and sticking out his hand for you to take. “Like a ‘I do all the killing’, and ‘you make sure we don’t get poisoned or starve along the way’.” 

You stare at his outstretched hand, and after a moment of debating with yourself, you take it. Because, fuck it - you’re going to die anyways.

The blonde helps you up, and is ready to leave your sorry excuse for a ‘campsite’ - but he stops when he hears your hushed whisper.

“Wait! Let me just grab my backpack. I won’t take too long.” you say, and Bakugou raises an eyebrow, clearly not wanting to stay here any longer, but stays silent.

What he doesn’t expect you to do is scale up a nearby tree like a damn squirrel - your limbs moving with some practiced ease it was almost unnatural.

Quietly, you make your way back down, jumping down onto the soft grass silently with such stealthy precision that Bakugou has to look away at the last second so you didn’t realize he was staring.

You look up at him, his expression unreadable as you stand up, trailing behind him quietly as he starts to weave his way through the underbrush.

You flex your fingers, feeling the sore muscles strain as you do, the only sound you hear behind the soft crunch of your boots against the grass and your own breaths.

When you entered these games, the odds were never in your favor.

You’ve known that since you were twelve.

Now, you’re not sure.

Were you going to win? Fuck no.

But now, at least you knew you weren’t going to go down without a fight.

taglist: @attackonnat @ldk3347 @onlyisaa @luciapiacat @wonubby @snoo@attackonnat @ldk3347 @onlyisaa @luciapiacat @wonubby @snoopyluvrpao @kiromiix @delshmel @nijoll @babypeapoddd @mirajanestrauss1999 @kianatrg @blankk3 @witch-craft-works @midnight-drives-with-sunarin  @samxbaker @xanneeeyyyy @tom-hollands-blog @jazoewazoe @sixxe @poot2234 @beabamboo @yiz5uo @ilikeyyouverymuch @hauntedodette @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @rosekeu @grimm3r @m4y4wasnthere

[maddie0101]

game on

— based off of THIS request. I hope you like it nonny ! ❤︎

summary: you’re octavia’s best friend, but lately, bellamy’s been looking at you differently. you’ve flirted with him for ages, but he’d always brush it off. after the tragedy at mount weather, he starts flirting back—and now, you’re both caught up in a dangerous game of who will break first.

warnings: sexual tension, teasing, smut.ᐟᅟ (mdni), relentless flirting, bell finally caves, p in v, season 2 au, dirty talk, bell is hot in this fic, enemies to friends to lovers, language, angst!!, slowburn, some violence, hurt/comfort, bell and reader are both very bold in this lmfao, fluff (if you squint).

word count: 7.2k

note: this is somewhat of a s2 au? clarke isn't really mentioned after mount weather, so I made the fic between seasons 2 & 3. camp jaha is more like a small village now. (also, ik it's arkadia but they didn't name it that till s3, I think)

You met Octavia in lockup.

Both of you were young, too pissed off, and too stubborn for your own good. She was thrown in for existing and you were thrown in for fighting back.

What started as eye rolls across the cell block turned into quiet conversations through the walls, then whispers in the dark when the guards weren’t paying attention. Somewhere in between shared rage and shitty food, she became your best friend.

By the time the Ark decided to hurl y'all to the ground, the two of you were damn near inseparable. You always said if you were going to die, you were at least going to do it next to your best friend.

Octavia was the only person who looked at you and didn’t see a case file. Everyone else saw a troublemaker—another angry teenager with too much attitude and not enough fear. You fought back too hard, asked too many questions, said fuck you when the rules didn’t make sense. You’d been in and out of lockup since you were twelve. No parents worth remembering. No future worth chasing. Just time.

Over time, you found out why she was in there. She never outright said it but she didn’t need to. You pieced it together in the quiet. In the way she looked over her shoulder when she thought no one was watching. In the way she talked about “him”—her brother, Bellamy—like he was the only thing that ever made her feel safe.

And that's when you decided you’d be the second.

You became like a sister to her. Her shield. Her partner in crime. You picked fights with guards so she wouldn’t have to. Got extra rations by trading favors. When she had nightmares, you’d talk her down until she could breathe again. You weren’t soft, you never had been but for her, you tried.

You were rough around the edges, and she needed that. Needed someone who wouldn’t pity her, wouldn’t treat her like she was fragile. She was the first person who made you believe that maybe you weren’t alone in this floating cage of metal and bullshit.

So yeah, when they loaded the two of you into the drop ship, you didn’t say goodbye. You just sat shoulder to shoulder and said, “Well… if we’re gonna die, at least we’re doing it the fun way.”

Octavia laughed like it was the end of the world. You smiled like it already was. But then the ground hit. Hard and fast and unforgiving.

And that’s when you met Bellamy.

The moment your boots hit the ground, you knew you weren’t on the Ark anymore. The air was heavier, but fresh. The trees looked too tall, too real. There was blood on your lip from the rough landing, and yet—none of it mattered the second your eyes found him.

He was standing just outside the ramp, barking orders, eyes sweeping over the chaos like he’d already claimed this place. Towering over half the teenagers scrambling around him, jaw locked tight. His hair was pushed back off his forehead, and sweat was clinging to his throat like it belonged there. He was gorgeous. And you were drooling a little bit.

You didn’t mean to stare.

But he did too. Just for a second.

A flicker of something sharp and heated passed between you. Like he didn’t expect you. Like you didn’t expect him. Like the ground had shifted a little more when you looked at each other.

Then, right when your stomach dipped in that oh shit kind of way, Octavia grabbed your hand. “Come on,” she said, tugging you towarda the hot guy, her eyes lighting up like the sun just rose for the first time. “I want you to meet someone.”

The guy turned as you approached, eyes landing on his sister first, softening for a half second in a way you never expected. Then he looked at you again.

“Bellamy,” Octavia beamed, wrapping her arms around him, “this is my best friend. The one I told you about.”

You watched the flicker in his eyes—the way he clocked you head to toe, like he was trying to figure out what kind of threat you were. Or maybe something else. Maybe he was trying not to think about the fact that he’d already looked too long.

You stuck out your hand. “So you’re the big brother.”

He didn’t take your hand. Just nodded, slow and unreadable, voice low and guarded. “You’re the one she never shut up about.”

You smirked, unfazed. “Hope I lived up to the hype.”

His mouth twitched like it wanted to be a smile but didn’t quite make it. “We’ll see.”

Octavia rolled her eyes and gave your arm a shove. “Play nice, you two.”

You didn’t look away from him. And he didn’t look away from you. And just like that, something started, unspoken and simmering, tucked beneath the dirt and the sky and the smell of ash still clinging to the wind.

You didn’t know what it was yet, but you knew it was going to be trouble.

──────────────────────

From that day forward, you and Bellamy bickered and fought. Not full-on screaming matches though, you’d come close once or twice—but enough to make people look the other way when you were within five feet of each other. You questioned every plan he barked out, called him a dictator to his face, and made it very clear you weren’t afraid of him.

He hated that. Or… at least he acted like he did.

You sided with Clarke most of the time. Not because you thought she had all the answers, but because Bellamy’s bullshit rubbed you the wrong way. The power trip, the bravado, the way he threw orders like they were law. Something about it felt off—like he was overcompensating for something he didn’t want anyone to see.

And maybe that pissed you off because deep down, you knew exactly what that felt like.

But then you found out the truth—what he did to get on the drop ship. How he’d risked everything to protect Octavia. How he’d become a fugitive the second the Ark realized he was missing. And suddenly… he didn’t seem like such a bastard after all.

He was still a pain in your ass. Still sharp-tongued and stubborn and so infuriating. But he wasn’t just some power-hungry asshole trying to run the camp—he was just a guy trying to keep the people he loved alive, even if it meant becoming the villain in someone else’s story.

And after that, the fighting slowed down. The sharp words turned into sarcasm. The biting tone gave way to smirks. You’d toss a comment over your shoulder and catch the way his lips would twitch, like he was trying not to smile. He’d give you a hard time about your attitude, but you could hear the difference in his voice. The edge was gone.

You started to see him in the quiet moments too. Not just the leader, but the person beneath it—the way he’d stay up all night fixing fencing when no one asked him to. The way he carried the guilt of every death like it was stitched into his skin. The way he looked at Octavia like she was the only part of him still pure.

And slowly, carefully, he started letting you in.

It wasn’t some big confession. It was small things—little glimpses, a joke here, a story there. He’d ask you where you were from, what you remembered about the Ark, how the hell you and Octavia managed to survive lockup without killing someone. You’d fire something smartass back, and he’d just shake his head, fighting a smile.

But through all of it, from day one on the ground—he protected you. First, because you were Octavia’s best friend. That was the excuse. That was the line.

But somewhere along the way, that stopped being the whole truth.

He started looking for you first when things went south. Standing closer than necessary when strangers passed through camp. You caught him watching you during arguments, after fights, when you came back from patrol a little too scraped up. And when you asked why, he’d shrug it off with that low, gruff, “Just keeping an eye on you.”

You’d smirk, pretending not to hear the weight behind it. Pretending not to notice how his gaze lingered just a little too long. Because whatever this was, it was walking a fine line. He wasn’t just Octavia’s big brother anymore. And you weren’t just the best friend he was supposed to ignore.

You’d always flirted with him in that quiet, dangerous way that made people raise their eyebrows and Bellamy roll his eyes.

It wasn’t obvious, not really. Just little things. A brush of your shoulder against his when you passed. A sly comment tossed his way when the group was tense. A smirk you reserved only for him.

He’d call you a pain in the ass and you'd call him a buzzkill.

But you both knew it was more than that. You never crossed the line. Not really. Because you were Octavia’s best friend. And because Bellamy Blake didn’t do feelings. Especially not when the world was burning around you.

But still—you flirted. Even when he gave you nothing in return but narrowed eyes and that signature, “You done yet?” tone.

Especially then, and if you told yourself it was just for fun, just to get under his skin, well… maybe that was easier than admitting the truth.

But everything shifted the night you went missing.

It happened fast. One second you were at the edge of Tondc, just outside the walls, taking a moment to yourself after another long day of prepping for war, and the next—you were gone. No one saw them grab you. No one heard you scream.

By the time Octavia noticed you hadn’t come back, it was too late.

They’d taken you to Mount Weather.

──────────────────────

Bellamy didn’t take the news well.

Clarke told him right after Finn’s funeral, her voice tight, eyes red, and for the first time in days, his whole body went still. “They have her.”

That was all she had to say. Bellamy's jaw clenched and his shoulders squared. He didn’t even ask how it happened. Didn’t say a word, really. Just agreed to going into the mountain with Lincoln. Now, more determined than ever.

He remembered the way you joked with him just a few days earlier. How you’d bumped his shoulder walking past and said, “Careful, Blake. I’m starting to think you like having me around.”

He’d scoffed, muttered something like, “Delusional,” and kept walking, even though he felt his heart hammer against his ribs like it was trying to claw its way out.

And now you were gone. And if he had to burn the mountain down to get you back, he would.

No hesitation. No second thoughts. Because you weren’t just Octavia’s best friend anymore.

You were his.

──────────────────────

Bellamy hadn’t seen you once the entire time he’d been inside Mount Weather.

He’d looked down every hallway he crept through, every lab he passed, every group of terrified faces locked behind glass—he searched for you. Hoped for a glimpse. A whisper. Anything—

But still, nothing.

And he told himself maybe that was good. Maybe they hadn’t gotten to you yet. But that was until the moment Monty pulled up the live feed from the control room, fingers flying across the keys, screens flickering to life—one after the other.

Then he saw you.

Strapped down, bruised, pale as a ghost—barely conscious.

His heart stopped.

You were lying on a medical bed, skin waxy and bloodless, arms pinned at your sides. You looked smaller somehow. Fragile and hollowed out. Your eyes fluttered just once, trying to fight, but your body was so far gone.

Clarke sucked in a sharp breath beside him. “Oh my god…”

Bellamy didn’t hear her. His whole body was locked in place, eyes fixed on the screen, fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms. “What room is that?” he asked, voice low and sharp like a blade. “Where is she?”

Monty’s hands shook as he tapped through feeds. “Cage moved her. She’s in—shit. They’re prepping her again.”

“She won’t survive another round,” Clarke said.

Bellamy already knew that. He could see it. Your chest was rising, barely. Your lips were dry and cracked. They’d taken too much—drilled too deep. There was no way you’d make it through another extraction. You were already halfway to gone.

But then you screamed. The sound so raw, so real, it cut through the air like shrapnel. It came from the tiny speakers above the monitor, distorted by static—but Bellamy heard it. He felt it. And it hit him like a fucking bullet straight to the heart.

“Monty,” Bellamy barked. “Is it ready?!”

“I’m almost done—”

Another scream cut through the air and Bellamy’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. You were arching off the table now, or trying to. One of the techs held you down as the drill started to hum. And for the first time since landing on the ground, Bellamy panicked “Monty!”

“Got it!” Monty shouted. “You’re good—outside oxygen flow is ready,”

Bellamy didn’t wait. He couldn't. Him and Clarke grabbed the handles and pulled the lever down together.

The room shook as the outside air flooded in. Monitors flatlined. Systems failed. The screen cut out—but not before Bellamy saw the med techs start to drop, one by one, choking on the very air that was supposed to keep them safe.

He didn’t flinch or look away. He only stood there, chest heaving, jaw clenched, hands still wrapped around the lever like he’d never let go.

Because he didn’t just do it for the hundred. He did it for you.

──────────────────────

The moment the doors slid open, Bellamy didn’t wait for clearance. He sprinted. His boots skidded across blood-slick floors, past bodies of guards and doctors, and when he found the room—the one from the screen—he nearly collapsed at the sight of you.

You were still strapped down. Motionless. A dull red smeared across your arm where they’d started drilling. Your eyes were barely open, just slivers of hazy light in a face drained of everything but pain.

“Hey,” he said, voice hoarse, cracking as he stumbled to your side. “Hey—look at me.”

Your eyes twitched. And then slowly, god, so fucking slowly—you turned your head toward him. A ghost of a smile tugged at your lips. “Took you long enough.”

Something in Bellamy shattered in that moment. He dropped to his knees beside you, hands cupping your face without even thinking. “Jesus, you’re an idiot,” he choked out, brushing sweat-damp hair from your forehead. “Do you have any idea what you put me through?”

“You love the drama,” you rasped, blinking up at him like he was the only thing tethering you to this world.

And for a second, neither of you spoke. Just breathed. Until the door banged open again.

“Y/N?!” Octavia’s voice cracked through the hall like a whip and she rushed in, eyes wide and wild, skidding to a stop as soon as she saw you.

“Oh my god.” She dropped to the other side of the bed, grabbing your hand with both of hers. “Are you—are you okay? I thought—I thought they—”

“I’m okay,” you whispered. “I’m okay, O.”

But you weren’t. Not really. And they both knew it.

Bellamy met Octavia’s eyes over you, and something passed between them, something silent, heavy, and full of fear. They’d both almost lost you. And neither of them could pretend that didn’t mean something.

──────────────────────

As they got you back to Camp Jaha on a stretcher, your body too weak to walk, your pulse faint and flickering like a dying ember. Abby and the med team rushed in the second you arrived, but even surrounded by people, Bellamy never left your side.

Not once. He stood in the corner of medical, arms crossed, jaw locked tight as Abby worked. Watching. Waiting. His fingers itched to hold yours again, just to make sure you were real—but he didn’t move.

He couldn’t. Because his chest was filled with this awful, unbearable pressure—like everything he’d buried since the day you landed had finally clawed its way to the surface and was refusing to go back.

You could’ve died. You almost did. And the fucked up part was…it wasn’t just fear that crushed him when he saw you on that screen. He realized he was in love with you.

He’d spent years pretending he wasn’t capable of it, convinced himself he didn’t deserve it. But now? Now it was too loud to ignore.

So he sat by your bedside while you slept, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of your chest.

And in the silence of that makeshift medical bay, Bellamy made a promise to himself he didn’t say out loud: He was never letting you go again.

──────────────────────

You were still recovering. The med bay had cleared you for light activity, but the deep ache in your bones hadn’t gone anywhere.

Some nights, when the camp was quiet and everyone else was asleep, you’d lie awake and feel the phantom pain—like the drills were still in your spine, like your marrow was still being taken drop by drop.

But Bellamy made it easier. He wasn’t soft about it—he didn’t hover or coddle you. But he was there. Constantly.

Helping you walk when your legs gave out. Sitting with you when you couldn’t stomach food. Throwing that dumb smirk your way every time you grumbled about the taste of the medicine Abby forced down your throat.

He kept you grounded. He kept you here. And somewhere in that haze of recovery and exhaustion, the two of you slipped back into your old rhythm. The bickering. The sarcasm. The late-night banter over who had the worst luck since landing on the ground.

Except now… now Bellamy was flirting back.

And not in a joking, half-assed kind of way—no, he was actually leaning into it. Smirking at your comments, throwing little teasing remarks right back at you, giving you that look that made your stomach flip if you thought about it too long. It was weird as hell, honestly.

Because for the longest time, he never did that. He used to shut it down, gently but clearly, like he didn’t want to hurt your feelings but also didn’t want to give you the wrong idea. And you got it—you weren’t stupid.

He wasn’t into you. You were just Octavia’s best friend, and now apparently one of his best friends too. That was the box he put you in. So yeah, whatever the hell this was, it threw you off.

The first time it happened, you thought you were hearing things.

You were sitting by the campfire, rubbing at your sore shoulder while Bellamy passed out rations.

When he dropped yours into your lap, you grinned and said, “Aw, look at that—feeding me now? If you wanted to take care of me, Blake, you could’ve just said so.”

Normally, he’d roll his eyes. Maybe throw a snarky comment your way and move on. But this time? He paused. Just for a second. Then he leaned down, close enough that you felt the warmth of him against your cheek, and murmured, “Don’t tempt me.”

Then walked off like he hadn’t just short-circuited your fucking brain.

You sat there for a solid thirty seconds, staring down at the food in your lap like it had personally offended you.

What the hell was that? A joke? A heat-of-the-moment thing? You shook it off.

But then it kept happening and you didn’t know what the fuck to do with that.

A few days ago, you made a crack about him always watching your back on patrol, said something like “You sure you’re not just into the view?”

And instead of brushing it off like usual, Bellamy looked you dead in the eyes and said “Maybe I am.”Cool as anything. No smirk. No eye-roll. Just… said it and then kept walking. Leaving you standing there in the middle of the damn woods like your brain had shorted out and needed to reboot.

And ever since then, he’d been doing it more. Pushing back. Saying shit that made your stomach twist and heat crawl up your spine, and worst of all—he wasn’t backing down. Not even a little.

Which is how you ended up where you were now: sitting by the fire, pretending to sharpen your blade while Bellamy passed behind you. Close enough to brush against your back, to set your nerves on fire.

“You keep hovering like that, I’m gonna start thinking you like being near me,” you said, voice light, teasing.

Bellamy didn’t miss a beat. “What if I do?”

You looked up at him, blade in your lap, heart doing stupid somersaults in your chest. He smiled...smiled. Not that fake shit either. A real one—Lazy, dangerous, full of something you hadn’t seen in his eyes when he looked at you before.

And that was when you made the decision. Fine. If he wanted to play, you’d play that game too, and better.

You’d been dancing around this for months, always throwing your little lines and watching them bounce off that brick wall he’d built around himself.

But now? Now—he was letting things slip through the cracks and you were going to wedge yourself into every single one.

So, the next morning, you waited until the camp was half-awake, Bellamy still pulling on his jacket near the weapons rack. You wandered over casually, like you weren’t already keyed up and ready to stir shit. You leaned against the post beside him, arms crossed, that lazy smirk already forming.

“Early start today?” you asked, voice light.

He grunted, checking the straps on his pack. “Someone’s gotta make sure we don’t all die out there.”

You hummed. “And here I thought you just liked spending time with me.”

He looked up, narrowed his eyes just a little. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and you caught it.

You stepped closer, voice dropping just enough to make him freeze with the last strap still halfway buckled. “Come on, Bell. You flirt, I flirt back… you flirt again. That’s kinda how it goes now, isn’t it?”

Bellamy turned to you, jaw set, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to find the trick behind your smile. “You think that’s what this is?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I think you like the attention.”

He stepped in, just slightly and the air between you thickened. “I think you do too.”

God, you hated how your breath caught at that. Just a little hitch in your throat. Nothing big, nothing anyone would notice—but he did. Of course he did.

You recovered fast, smirking as you reached past him to snag a knife off the rack, brushing his hand just enough to make his fingers twitch. “Guess we’ll see who breaks first, huh?”

And with that, you walked off, blade twirling in your hand like the whole damn thing hadn’t just made your pulse spike.

The game was on now and you had every intention of winning.

──────────────────────

It started out like any other sparring session.

The usual crowd was gone, which left the training area mostly empty. Bellamy had offered to spar earlier, and you’d jumped at the chance.

You said it was to stay sharp. But you lied. You liked the way he looked during training—sweaty, flushed, half-wild. His curls stuck to his forehead, his shirt clinging to his chest, arms flexing with every movement. And most of all, you loved getting under his skin.

“Focus,” Bellamy warned, blocking your strike with a dull thwack of wood against wood.

You smirked, catching him off guard with a spin, ducking low and kicking his legs out from under him.

He hit the ground with a heavy grunt and before he could recover, you were on him. Straddling his hips, staff pressed across his collarbone, pinning him down. “Oh, I’m focused,” you said, breathless but grinning. “You just underestimated me. Again.”

Bellamy stared up at you, chest rising fast, hands gripping the dirt. His eyes dropped for a second—just a flash—to your face, to your French braids pulled tight, the strands messy at the crown from the fight.

God, he thought you were beautiful. Dangerously beautiful.

And you saw it, you fucking saw it, because your eyes sparkled with something wicked and knowing, and before he could stop you—you shifted. Subtle. Just a small, slow roll of your hips against his.

Not enough to cross a line but just enough to wreck him, make him go insane.

Bellamy's hands clenched tighter into the dirt and his breath hitched hard in his throat. And then, fuck—he groaned, low and guttural—like it had been torn right out of him.

“Something wrong?” you asked, feigning innocence, but your voice was soft, sultry, but lethal.

His dark eyes snapped back to yours, jaw clenched, lips parted like he was about to say something but couldn’t figure out what. You could feel how tense he was beneath you, every muscle pulled tight. One second more and he might’ve snapped it himself.

He gritted out, “Get off me.”

Your brow raised. “Why? Afraid you’ll lose?”

“I already fucking lost.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. You froze for half a second, long enough for the heat to crawl up your spine. And then you smirked. But this time, it was softer. Less teasing, a little more dangerous.

But you didn’t move, not yet. You just leaned in, voice low near his ear. “Then maybe you should stop trying to win.” And just like that, you rolled off him and stood up like nothing had happened. Tossed the staff to the side—dusted your hands off like it was any other day.

Bellamy didn’t move right away. He just laid there, breath shallow, staring at the sky like it might help him cool down. But It wouldn’t.

Because now? The game had changed, and he wasn't going to let you win.

──────────────────────

It started with a stupid knot in your shoulder—and ended with you damn near falling apart in Bellamy Blake’s hands.

You were sitting by the fire, exhausted from the day’s patrol, your back screaming from the gear you’d hauled and the tension you hadn’t stretched out yet.

The camp buzzed around you—murmured conversations, clanging metal, the occasional burst of laughter. But it all blurred out when Bellamy dropped down beside you, close enough that your knees brushed.

You’d shot him a tired smirk. “If I die from a snapped spine, tell Octavia it was the pack’s fault.”

He raised a brow. “Dramatic.”

You rolled your eyes, trying and failing to roll your shoulder. “I have a whole-ass mountain growing between my blades. Go fuck yourself.”

Bellamy didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you for a beat, his eyes dark, unreadable, and then shifted behind you without warning. The weight of his knees settled on either side of you as he moved in, solid and warm and suddenly way too close.

“Bell,” you warned, stiffening. “What are you—”

His hands landed on your shoulders and everything in your body short-circuited. “Relax,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, breath brushing your neck. “I’ve got it.”

You were going to make a joke, something smartass-y about him finally wanting to touch you—but then his fingers dug in. Deep, expertly—right on the knot and You exhaled a sharp breath. More like a gasp you thought but it was embarrassingly close to a moan.

Your body went still, spine arching instinctively toward the pressure.

Bellamy didn’t comment. Didn’t even flinch. Just kept going like he hadn’t just heard you make a noise you usually reserve for way more private moments.

His thumbs worked in slow, agonizing circles. His palms were steady, warm, grounding. Every time his fingers dragged down your shoulder blade, you had to fight not to lean back against him, not to let your head drop and fucking purr like a cat.

“Still dramatic?” he asked, low against your ear.

You swallowed hard. “You’re… not bad at this.”

He chuckled, and the sound vibrated through your back like he’d poured it straight into your skin. Then his hands shifted, one drifting just slightly lower. His fingers brushed the edge of your collarbone—slowly, and your stomach flipped.

A small sound escaped you but this time, you definitely couldn’t blame it on the knot. It was a soft half a sigh, half a moan. And it slipped out before you could kill it.

Bellamy’s hands paused for a fraction of a second and then he leaned in just enough to let you feel the grin in his voice. “Didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, tone damn near wicked.

You swallowed again. “You didn’t.”

You didn’t dare turn around. You knew what you’d find if you did—those dark eyes watching you too closely. That smug, infuriating look he gets when he knows he’s gotten under your skin.

Instead, you muttered, “You’re lucky I’m tired, Blake. If I had any energy, I’d knock you flat on your ass.”

His hands slid off your shoulders—finally, but not before his fingers gave one last, lazy squeeze to your waist. “Looking forward to it,” he said. “Night, princess.”

And then he was gone, leaving you buzzingc flushed—ruined.

Fine. If he wanted to start this game, you were going to end it.

──────────────────────

The party was loud, messy—exactly the kind of chaos Jasper thrived on. There were half-drunk kids dancing around the fire, someone already passed out near the speakers, and enough stolen booze passed around to dull the ache in all their bones.

You weren’t drunk. Just a little buzzed, a little bold. Just enough to stop pretending like Bellamy Blake wasn’t looking at you like he wanted to burn the clothes off your body with just his eyes. He stood near the drinks table, talking to Miller and Harper, but his gaze kept flicking to you.

And that’s when you noticed it. His belt was undone—fly half open, the edges of his shirt barely covering it like it had come loose without him realizing.

You smirked, crossed the space between you like you had no business doing it, like you weren’t already pushing the line between teasing and dangerous.

“Bell,” you said, casual, leaning in just enough to make him stiffen, “you’re kinda coming undone.”

“Huh?” His brows furrowed, the drink in his hand sloshing a little as he glanced down. “Shit.”

But before he could move, your hands were already there. You reached down, slowly, deliberately, and grabbed the open ends of his belt. The conversation around you died a little. You didn’t care. You didn’t look up at him as you looped the leather through, tightened it with one practiced tug, and zipped up his fly with a soft, satisfying sound.

“There,” you said, straightening up, smirking just a bit. “Wouldn’t want you walking around indecent.”

Bellamy was frozen. Tense. His jaw clenched, and his fingers gripped the cup in his hand like he was trying not to crush it.

You turned, completely unbothered, already walking away—until a hand grabbed your wrist, rough but careful. You barely had time to react before he tugged you past the crowd, past the music and firelight and straight out into the cool night air behind one of the abandoned cabins.

He didn’t say a word. Just pressed you back against the side of the cabin, eyes dark and wild like he was two seconds from losing every bit of control he had left. “You think that shit’s funny?” he rasped, voice low and wrecked.

You tilted your head, playing dumb. “Think what’s funny?”

He stepped closer—close enough that you could feel his breath against your lips. “You. Tearing me apart in front of everyone. Touching me like that like it’s nothing.”

“It was nothing,” you lied, breath hitching. “You looked like you needed help.”

He gave a dry, disbelieving laugh. “You think I haven’t noticed what you’ve been doing?”

“Then why didn’t you stop me?”

His eyes searched yours, burning hot and furious and so full of want it nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. “Because I wanted to see how far you’d push,” he said. “And now you’ve gone too far.”

You swallowed, chest rising and falling like you’d just run a damn marathon. His eyes never left yours. Not for a second. Not even as his hand slid from your wrist to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp, your back hitting the wood behind you with a soft thud.

You could barely breathe, barely think, and it was a miracle your knees hadn’t buckled under the weight of how he was looking at you—like he was starving. Like he’d waited too long. Like he was one second away from ruining you in the best goddamn way possible.

“I thought you liked it,” you managed, your voice low, shaky. “The game.”

His hand moved, tracing slowly along your side, up your ribs, stopping just under the curve of your chest. Not touching—not yet—but close enough to burn. “I did,” he said, voice rough. “But now I’m done playing.”

Your breath caught again, a tiny, involuntary sound slipping from you and his eyes snapped down to your lips.

And that was it— the breaking point. His mouth crashed into yours like he couldn’t take it another fucking second—like holding back had become unbearable. It was messy, desperate, needy—his hands gripped your waist like he needed to feel every inch of you under them, like he’d been dreaming about this and was finally allowed to have it.

You kissed him back just as hungrily, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, not caring how out of control this was.

It was Bellamy. It was finally Bellamy. The man who acted like you were just Octavia’s best friend, like you didn’t get under his skin, like he wasn’t staring at your mouth every time you smiled. But you knew now. You felt it now.

When his mouth tore from yours, it was only to drag hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, his breath ragged against your skin as your hips pressed together in a slow, unconscious grind.

“You think I don’t see what you’ve been doing?” he murmured against your throat, voice gravel and heat. “You think I haven’t been fucking dying every time you smiled at me like that? Every time you touched me and acted like it was nothing?”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, head falling back as you gasped, dizzy from the feel of his mouth on your skin. “You should’ve done something about it sooner,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, hair a mess, lips kiss-bitten, eyes full of that same raw, hungry heat. “I’m doing something about it now.”

He didn’t give you a second to answer—not that you could’ve if you tried. His mouth was on yours again, rougher this time, all teeth and tongue and months of tension finally snapping at the seams.

You barely registered when his hands slid down, gripping under your thighs and lifting you like you weighed nothing, like he’d been thinking about doing it for months. Your back hit the side of the cabin behind you, the old wood creaking beneath the sudden weight of it all—but neither of you gave a damn.

Your legs locked around his waist instinctively, and that sound he made—low, guttural, practically a growl, shot straight through you. He rocked into you, hard and slow, just enough friction to leave you gasping, head spinning.

“Bell…” You didn’t know if it was a warning or a plea, but it came out breathless, desperate. His lips hovered just above yours, breath mingling, voice wrecked. “Say it again.”

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

“My name. Say it again.”

So you did, you whispered his name softly. “Bellamy.”

That broke him. His hips rolled against you, harder this time, and you moaned, your head thumping back against the wall, fingers tangled in his hair, tugging. His hands were everywhere, palming your ass, sliding under your shirt, pushing the fabric up until your bare stomach hit the cool night air.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he muttered against your collarbone, pressing kisses there like he couldn’t stop. “Every time you laugh. Every time you call me an asshole and then wink at me two seconds later.”

“I was just teasing,” you breathed, even though you both knew that was only half true.

His hand slid higher, thumb brushing just under the edge of your bra. “Yeah? Still teasing now?”

You arched into him, a challenge in your voice. “What if I am?”

His laugh was dark, dangerous. “Then I guess I’ll just have to teach you a lesson, won’t I?”

And that was it, he dragged you away from the wall, still wrapped around him, and started toward one of the empty buildings near the edge of camp.

You didn’t ask where, didn’t care—you were too focused on the way his hands gripped you, the way his mouth kept finding yours between footsteps like he couldn’t go more than two seconds without it. And by the time he pushed through the door and kicked it shut behind you, both of you were shaking.

“Last chance,” he said, voice ragged. “Tell me to stop.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, lips swollen, chest heaving—and shook your head. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Bellamy’s mouth was on you again in a heartbeat, and this time, he didn’t stop. You whimpered against his lips, grabbing onto his jacket and dragging him closer. His other hand was at your waist, sliding around to the small of your back, holding you like he wasn’t letting go again.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together. “You drive me insane,” he said, breath hot against your lips. “You and your fucking mouth.”

You grinned, breathless. “Then do something about it.”

That was all it took. His hands found the hem of your shirt and shoved it up, baring your stomach to the cool air. You didn’t stop him—not for a second. You were too busy dragging your own fingers under his shirt, mapping out the cut lines of his torso like you’d earned the right to finally touch him.

“You’re gonna regret teasing me this long,” he muttered, pulling your top over your head.

“I’ve regretted nothing.” Your fingers dug into his shoulders as he pushed you back against the wall of the cabin, mouth trailing fire down your throat. “Except maybe not doing this sooner.”

His hands were everywhere—gripping, kneading, like he was trying to make sure you were really here. Yours weren’t much better. You practically tore his shirt off, raking your nails down his chest, relishing the way he hissed when you reached his waistband.

“Is this why you wore this tonight?” he asked, voice low and ragged, eyes dragging down your body like it was killing him to look.

“What, the braids?” You smirked. “Knew you liked ’em.”

He groaned and kissed you again, harder this time, biting at your bottom lip. “Smartass.”

“Guilty.”

He walked you backward to the bed, lowering you down with a hand behind your back like instinct. The mattress creaked as you scooted up, pulling him with you, legs wrapping around his waist. “Still think I’m playing games?” you asked, breathless.

“No,” he growled. “I think you’re fucking dangerous.”

His hand slipped between your thighs, fingers brushing against your center through your underwear. You bucked into the touch, a quiet moan escaping before you could bite it back.

That moan wrecked him. He yanked your underwear down with a curse, shoved his pants off just enough, and hovered over you, chest heaving. “Last chance to tell me to stop.”

You shook your head so fast it made your braids whip around your shoulders. “Bell—please.”

That was it. He sank into you in one smooth thrust, and both of you let out gasps like the air had been knocked out of your lungs. It was everything. Too much. Not enough. You clung to him, breath ragged, nails biting into his back as he started to move—slow and deep at first, like he wanted to feel every inch of you.

You wrapped your legs tighter around his hips, meeting him thrust for thrust, choking on every broken sound that spilled from your lips. The way he moved—like he already knew your body, like he’d thought about this a hundred times—it was dizzying.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “Should’ve done this the second we hit the ground.”

You laughed, breathless and shaking. “What took you so long?”

“I didn’t want to fuck up what we had.” His hand came up to cup your face, thumb stroking over your cheek even as he kept driving into you. “But I can’t stop now. I won’t.”

You pulled him closer, kissed him like you’d die if you didn’t, and arched up into him as he hit just the right angle. Your body clenched around him and his rhythm stuttered. “Bell—” your voice broke, “I’m gonna—”

“I got you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your jaw, your neck, your lips. “Come for me.”

Your body shattered beneath him, heat pulsing through every nerve as the orgasm ripped through you—loud and desperate. Bellamy cursed, hips faltering as he followed, burying himself deep as he groaned into your mouth.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing, tangled limbs and sweaty skin. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you, to really look at you. And you didn’t see lust anymore. You saw everything.

“I almost lost you,” he murmured, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “In that damn mountain… I thought —”

“I know,” you cut in gently. “But you didn’t. You saved me.”

Bellamy closed his eyes like your voice was the only thing keeping him grounded. “Yeah,” he breathed. “But it scared the hell out of me. Made me realize I’ve been pushing you away for nothing.”

“You weren’t,” you said. “You were scared, bell. I was too.”

He looked at you then. Really looked at you. And for once, there was no wall behind his eyes. Just honesty. “I don’t want to keep playing games,” he said.

Your heart squeezed in your chest. “Then don’t.”

He leaned in again, but this kiss was slower, warmer. A promise this time, not a battle. You melted into it, fingers gently trailing over his freckled skin. He held you like you were something fragile, even though he knew damn well how strong you were. And when he finally pulled back, you didn’t let him get far. Your forehead stayed against his, both of you breathing the same air.

“Bell?” you whispered.

“Yeah?”

You smiled, eyes still closed. “Next time, maybe just kiss me before we try to kill each other in a party full of drunk teenagers.”

He laughed quietly, the sound breaking through the storm of emotion in his chest. “Deal,” he said. And when he finally wrapped his arms around you, holding you against him like he never wanted to let go, you realized he meant it.

For the first time, this wasn’t a game. It was something real.

author’s note:

hii guys! I hope y’all liked this one! :) I’m a little slut for backstories so I kinda rambled about how they met. Ik they didn’t actually have cabins and ‘camp jaha’ only lasted a little bit but I wrote it anyways 🤷🏽‍♀️ basically an au, hehe. Hope you liked this one, nonny! ❤︎

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@rubydacherry42 @chalametsangel @imsiriuslyreal @dobfavgirl @kimxwinchester @tinas111

If you would like to be tagged please fill out THIS form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

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[stuck-in-jelly]

Fuck it

Ficlet

Amaya and Gren had left. They had left to see the final touched on Amaya’s tailored wedding outfit and now Janai and Corvus sat in awkward silence.

Its not as if they dislike each other, its simply that they never had to opportunity to speak to one another in a relaxed environment.

In the aftermath of The Battle of The Stormspire she led her troops, her orders being echoed to the human soldiers as well. There was much to do, traitors to be arrested, bodies to be collected, wounds to be tended to so they were unable to speak personally to one a other.

Then when Janai and Amaya returned to camp it was Corvus who informed Janai of the news of Miyana’s betrayal, worked to help track where her brother had decided to make his base.

But now, a merciful cool breeze whistled within Janai’s Royal tent, the floral aroma of some rather fancy tea filled the air, spicy veggie curry pleasantly filled their stomach, soft sounds or children playing filled the air, and joy filled the usually somber streets of new aurea.

In other words, it was painstakingly peaceful.

Corvus could see her ears twitch slightly at every small sound that came near her tent, hopeful Amaya or Gren would return to relive them of this weird tension. Her hands gripped her empty cup, one she kept pretending to sip out of a couple of times now.

The anxious energy in the room was getting worse by the second and Corvus knew he had to do something about it.

“So I-“ “would you like-“

They both stopped talking and stared at each other for a moment longer. Corvus bowed his head apologetically.

“Please, your radiance, go ahead. I did not mean to interrupt.” Janai regarded him with a shocked expression but cleared her throat.

“You, don’t need to refer to me so formally. You’re our guest! Amaya’s old friend after all.” She smiled gracefully recovering with the same royal grin worn and practiced by nearly all ruling monarchs. Even in Xadia apparently.

“We are in your court Queen Janai. I’d like to be respectful.” Even among the people he’s closest with he tries his best to place their titles above their relationship, with various degrees of success.

“But soon I’ll be part of her family. That includes you, no?”

Corvus blinked in shock his mouth dropping open slightly and closing it. This goes unnoticed to Janai who continues.

“Amaya tells me of your letters often, how proud of you she is. Though she did say you should write more now that you’ve settled down.” Corvus glances away in light embarrassment, this time, Janai catches onto Corvus’s discomfort and attempts to side track.

“So, Amaya tells me you’re a musician.” She supplies instead, leaning against the table.

“Oh-“ Corvus clears his throat and straightens his back more. “Yes. My mother owns an instrument store and growing up she taught me how to read and write music. Though I mostly specialize in strings.”

Janai seemed to consider this for a moment. a hint of hesitation in her eyes before she spoke again.

“Would you be interested in some traditional Sunfire songs?”

At her bedstand Janai rummages for a moment before she returns to the table with a collection of pages.

Corvus accepts the bundle with intrigue, studying the lines dutifully. Prominence Promenade, he read the title. To his surprise it seems the way music has been transcribed is universal though out elvish cultures as well.

While Corvus studies Janai walks towards her memorial shrine. Its a lovely shrine, lovingly decorated with memories of her late sister, her mother, father,grandmother, and more.

One of the first things Corvus noted from it was the lack of dust or mess, it was tended to daily and lovely greatly.

From the shrine Janai plucks a lyre and a pair of finger cymbals with a soft bow and a mummer of something in Sun’s Elvish.

“I admit, I’m rather poor with the arts. But i can play a mean back up cymbal.” she taps the tiny bronze instrument between her fingers with a smile. In turn he offers his own.

Janai nervously offers the lyre to Corvus. For this he stands, searching her expression rather than the lyre.

“Are you sure, your radiance?” She nods but doesn’t speak.

A lyre was one of the first instruments his mother showed him how to play, it felt nostalgic to feel the weight in his hands. It, no doubt, is a beautiful instrument. Sturdy holm oak wood, brass embellishments, carved figures of dancing elves and ribbons.

Truly a craft of love. Corvus almost wanted to ask who had crafted it but thought better of it, instead he tentatively tugs the strings listening for how the sound resonated.

A few sour notes lead into a rhythm and soon he begun to follow the notes of Prominence Promenade. Janai joins part way through.

Corvus was used to playing mellower pieces, deep, low, and sometimes sad. But this was lively, full of warm and joy. He could feel energy pulsing through him as he closed his eyes allowing the music to take him.

‘Queen Janai should give herself more credit’ Corvus thinks, ‘she has wonderful rhythm’.

By the time the pair reach towards the end of the song Janai had begun to sway and dance, her steps steady and confident. When the melody stops Janai pauses her dancing.

The performance has loosened her up, her previously tense demeanor melted away in a matter of seconds.

The queen begins “I-“

“What a show!” Corvus and Janai leap, snapping around to see Gren and Amaya had returned both with smiles on their faces.

‘At least I assume it was a good show.’ Amaya teases Gren doesn’t translate that part verbally.

Gren and Amaya join for an encore. Gren claps along and stomps while Janai taps the cymbals against Amaya’s face playfully in between actually playing them and Amaya plays her own cymbals and though her rhythm is way off, its fun.

A soft buzz fills Corvus’s chest being here. He should write more songs about moments like this.

On today’s episode of “More Dragon Prince Character Interactions I Would’ve Loved To See” I think these two deserve their own awkward one on one scene

[satancopilotsmytardis]

Finding Home

Pairing: Shigadabi

Rating: Explicit, 18+ only

Summary: Commissioned by @Lizybeth104-mommabatte. During a raid, Dabi get hit with a quirk that tears him out of the world he knows and into a new one. In this place, he is once again the odd man out as he discovered the world is made of half-animal hybrids and only a select few have ‘magic’ like his quirk that make them witches in this world. Thankfully there is a far stranger, but more helpful version of his boss here who is willing to give him guidance as Dabi is forced to confront the reality of what his life really means across worlds. 

Contents: Isekai AU, Fantasy AU, Naga!Shigaraki, Cannibalism, Dabi Angst, Violence, Size Kink, Breeding Kink, Feminization, Loss of Virginity, Grinding, Non-Human Genitalia, Monster Fucking, Double Penetration, Tail Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Dacryphilia, Biting, Blood Drinking, Bathing/Washing, Mating Bonds, Scent Kink, Belly Bulge.

Word Count: 31,314

Dabi really didn't think he was gonna be anywhere near the CRC raid, but when he shows up to the outpost that the rest of the League has been using after his initial talk with Hawks, he finds that the others are only just preparing to head out.

"I thought you guys were supposed to do this two days ago?" He had deliberately stayed away so that he wouldn't end up getting involved, not wanting to put the stress on his seams when he was already struggling to adapt without medicine readily available. Now that they're cut off from AFO's resources, he has to be wiser about how he handles League business or he won't make it to his fight against his father. 

"Ah, we were going to," Compress says, "But as we were keeping an eye out, it appears that one of the main leaders was still recovering from a stomach bug and they postponed the meeting, so we were forced to follow suit." Well, he supposes that's a better excuse than the other members just being lazy and directionless. 

"But now that you're here," Shigaraki says, putting his mask over his face, "You can join us." 

Dabi doesn't want the others to start thinking of him as 'fragile' so he just shrugs, cracking his neck to one side. "Yeah, whatever, boss." He hopes that they won't need him much. They're going to steal whatever valuables that they can get. He's certain that they won't want him to destroy everything the way that he knows he can if he actually uses his quirk to the full extent that he knows he's capable of.

Regardless, he trails along behind the others, letting their excited chatter of conversation flow around him. He doesn't want to get too involved with their shit. Hell, even this job, to his knowledge, is Spinner's personal grudge getting satisfied. Not that he's using the League for anything else. He just doesn't want them to catch onto that fact before he's ready to use it as a weapon on his own. They walk on towards their target and he doesn't draw any attention to himself as they go. 

///

He knew that the CRC was not just going to let them walk in and steal from them, but he has to say that he wasn't expecting them to put up so much of a fight either. It's a good thing that they do. He has been in a lot of fights throughout his life, but he knows that a number of them haven't been. They don't know how to keep their wits about them on the field when there are dozens of enemies and quirks flying every which way, their only experience the summer camp job and their training in AFO-controlled environments. He knew that Toga got a better taste of it when she snuck into the Hero Licensing exam, but she's still young. And he knows that the most field experience that Spinner has had period was the Summer Camp job. Driving the getaway car, poorly, during the Overhaul thing does not count. So he is trying to keep an eye out for them as much as he is for himself. The League is already so small now that he's worried that it won't have been worth the anonymity that he'd lost by throwing in his lot with them for the resources they no longer have. He needs allies to clear the path to his father and make it so that the hero world is so fragile that his very existence will shatter it into pieces. 

He's not actively protecting any of the others, he's just trying to control the battlefield so that they have a chance to learn from this experience as he does so. He is focused on his job and making sure that nothing comes near him. And then he catches a stray. He doesn't know who dodged out of the way, not aware of their surroundings and sending it towards the rest of the group because they just don't know how to watch their backs well. 

The stone spike that tears through his side puts a hard enough pressure along that seam that he feels the staples tear out of it higher along his side than he thinks that it should. Dabi is used to pain, and even as he stumbles slightly as his mind starts to shift, moving to try and work out how the fuck he is going to get medical attention after the monster maker cut them off post Compress getting his arm torn off, he keeps his wits about him. He knows to make sure the others are clear before he sends off a gout of flame so hot and so intense that it turns everyone on that side of the room to ash before they can even scream. The explosion of heat in the air has nearly everyone else in the building screaming, even his own people are reeling back in horror as they see for themselves just how much he's been trying to hold back so they never fully knew the amount of power he's been sitting on and waiting to let erupt. But he is going to need medical attention as soon as he can get it if he doesn't want to have to cauterize this wound himself and hope that's enough, so he is done playing around and letting the others use this as a training exercise. 

"Dabi--" It's Shigaraki's voice, him who notices first how badly hurt he is because he's the only one so far that he's actually seen growing into his role of a villain. He knows the value of keeping his pieces together and making sure he doesn't lose any of his party members when they are already strapped for resources. He can't do anything to help him though, and he hears Duster bark out, "Twice! Mustard!" 

He knows that Twos has all of their measurements and Dabi takes a deep breath and holds it in his lungs as the other man makes their arrested ally. It's no surprise that the double sees the combat and covers his own nose and mouth before pumping out the toxic gas that will help clear this room even faster. 

Dabi starts to feel light-headed far before his lungs start to burn from the lack of air, and his side is soaked with his blood. Compress is the one who swoops in immediately, getting an arm under his own and trying to lead him towards the doors. The others let the gas do its work as they try to clear the area too, everyone making their way outside so that they can breathe and block the doors. Twice doubles Shigaraki and they head around to the back entrance so that none of the CRC members can escape and tell anyone what they've been up to as the warm afternoon sun hits Dabi's skin as they get out into the fresh air. 

"Dabi--" Shigaraki's voice as he circles around him, reaching for his coat and shirt. He thinks the other is going to pull the fabric aside, but he doesn't get the chance. Those deadly hands that he's never seen slip before reach, but before they can grasp, Dabi's back is arching as he feels something else impact him at the center of his spine. He has been hit by other quirks before, and this one doesn't cause an immediate, searing pain, so he knows that it's bad. If a quirk doesn't hurt on impact, then that means it does something worse and he pushes himself away from Mister, away from Shigaraki, as he fears that it will do something to anyone near him as he feels his whole body start to go numb and tingly at the same time, like he's cut off the circulation to every inch of his body. He can feel the sensation in his teeth, in his eyeballs, and there is no escaping it. There's a furious resentment that goes through him as he feels like his consciousness is slipping away, his limbs too heavy to support himself anymore and sending him crashing to the ground. He was supposed to use the League to reach his goals, not be just another pawn that got sacrificed so that Shigaraki could hold onto his delusions of being king. He was supposed to burn it all down. He was supposed to make sure that Endeavor knew what he created that night on the mountain. 

He lets out a furious roar, his flames erupting along his skin, unable to be contained by his good sense as he feels the same helplessness that he was surrounded by as a child come crashing in on him again as the whole world goes weightless. 

He hits the ground for a second time, the air cooler, the sun set, and the smell of a forest in his nose for a split second before he's incinerating everything around him before darkness can rush up over his eyes. 

///

He's in pain, dizzy, and confused when he feels hands on his body, pushing up his shirt that has gone tacky with his blood, the motion hurting badly enough to stir him from unconsciousness as the fabric tears away the barely formed scabs. He manages to squint his eyes open, but there is no bright sunlight to burn them as he manages it. Just moonlight and embers. His mind feels foggy, but he knows it was day before. He is even more confused when his vision clears enough for him to make out the appearance of the person leaning over him who is certainly not a doctor. 

Shigaraki's hair has been growing out lately, but it is definitely not down to his waist and absolutely not such a pure white that it would be glowing in the moonlight like it is right now. He knows that his eyes are red, but he doesn't remember his pupils being black slits through them, doesn't remember that his teeth were fangs behind his lips, doesn't remember him having a forked tongue that flicks out from between them like a demon. 

"Shigaraki?" Is he seeing the world wrong? Some sort of hallucinogenic quirk? He doesn't know. He just knows that when he says the other man's name, his eyes go from his wounded side to his own and that the word feels like it takes out the last of the energy that he had in his body.

"How do you know me?" His voice sounds the same, but Dabi doesn't understand the words. 

He feels his whole body is heavy and floaty at the same time. The way he remembers it being the last time he got so sick that he had to seek out medical attention, and he knows that if he doesn't get it soon, he's not going to make it long. "Fuck, if you let me die, I'm going to come back and burn down everything you've ever touched." He manages to croak. He could demand that he take him to the doctor, but he just doesn't have the energy for it, his body starting to slump into the soil even more. He can't keep his eyes open even when he hears a loud, unfamiliar sound of something heavy being dragged across the earth. He just knows that there is movement near him and can only hope Shigaraki didn't leave them open to some other attack. 

"What a curious creature." He hears Shigaraki murmur before there are hands on his body. They're so cold that he shivers and doesn't have the wherewithal to think about how that might be strange as he is lifted from the ground and pulled into a solid, muscular chest before his consciousness is slipping away again. 

///

When he wakes next, it is with a throb in his side and a musty smell of cold clogging his nose. Dabi groans slightly, opening his eyes and finding himself still in the dark somewhere. He doesn't know where he is, has no idea if the League was able to get him to a hospital or not, but he knows that this isn't the worst pain that he's ever been in, so he thinks that he stands a fair chance of surviving this the same way he has survived everything else. Dabi forces himself to sit up a bit, letting what feels like a tattered blanket slip away from his body. He has to light up one of his hands to have anything at all to see by and as he does, his dread sets in as he sees that the others... did not bring him to the doctor. He knows that things have been strained with him, but he thought that they would still make an effort for him. He didn't expect them to instead bring him to a... cave. A cave, he realizes as he takes in the curved stone that makes up the walls and ceiling, a hard-packed dirt floor beneath him, a threadbare blanket put across his skin, and a poultice of what he really hopes are medicinal herbs packed over the wound and the places where his staples separated from his skin. Those fucking bastards. Hurt because of them in the first place and then they don't even really bother to take care of him. If he survives this, he's burning them alive.

Dabi means to try and scrape away some of this mess, even more annoyed to realize that he doesn't see his coat or shirt anywhere around him. He's sure the shirt is soaked with blood and completely unsalvageable, but if he's going to leave here, he would have liked to have his coat. That, at least, would have let him cover up the worst of the damage to his side, and hopefully not make him look like an easy target for anyone that he might come across. But as he tries to get his legs under himself to push up from the ground and try to find his way to medical help on his own, he hears the sound of something large moving across the dirt. Dabi keeps his hands lit up, ready to send a gout of flame in the direction of whatever is approaching him and turn it to ash completely. 

He's not expecting Shigaraki to emerge from the dark, looking... differently, but the way he remembers him from before he slipped under. He sees the long, wild white hair, the bright red eyes with the strange pupils, the thick muscle and knotted scars corded along his entire torso and making him look like he might have taken more hits than Dabi has seen evidence for in their time of rolling together. He absolutely was not this ripped, his hair not that long when he passed out before, and a cold dread spreads through his gut as he wonders just how long he's been asleep. 

And then he has an entirely different, entirely primal fear when Shigaraki keeps moving closer to him. The movement is accompanied by that same heavy sound of something, his body just seeming to stretch towards him out of the darkness and making him bring a wider arch of flame through the air as he doesn't hear any footsteps, as his mind reels as he sees Shigaraki's body far higher than it should be as it moves. He casts more of the flickering blue light of his flames all around the cavern and a scream gets caught in his throat as an icy fear saturates his veins as he sees the other man approaching.

"You're finally awake." Shigaraki's voice sounds the same as he pauses his approach, looking at his hands like he's the one who needs to be weary as Dabi sees that his torso is not attached to legs the way it has always been before, but instead transitions from pale, scarred skin to serpentine scales of black that glitter in his firelight. The tail that makes up the lower half of his body and stretches out behind him to a place that he cannot find the end of in the dark, is thicker than Dabi's entire body, and moves so fluidly that, although he has never been afraid of snakes before, the unnaturalness of the sight has his entire body going all the hotter with his distress. 

"What the fuck happened to you?" He knew that Shigaraki was getting experimented on by AFO and Ujiko, of course he was when Dabi knows that Ujiko is the one responsible for that entire hospital full of spares that took him in while he was in his coma. But he didn't know that the mad doctor would have any real interest in turning Shigaraki into a heteromorph. 

Shigaraki's head tilts to the side slightly, his tongue flicking out, long and forked, like any other serpent's and making Dabi shudder from the wrongness of the action. "You speak to me like we've met before, witch. You knew my name before we'd ever spoken." Shigaraki has always had a sort of awkwardness to the way he talks, too much playing a megalomaniacal villain and too much other nerd shit throughout his life, Dabi guesses. But he doesn't normally sound so stilted and formal. He calls them his party members, but Dabi is what Duster likes to call their 'glass cannon', not a 'witch'. 

"Did turning into a heteromorphic nomu turn your brain into mush? Of course I know you, you've been my worthless boss for months. Even more worthless if I get an infection and die because you put me on the ground and packed leaves into my wound. Where the fuck are we? Where are the others?" He asks, his hands starting to sting from having to hold his flames to see by. But he can't think of anything more frightening than to let the dark swallow him up and lose sight of the other man who is not what he is used to. 

Shigaraki's head tilts again, his tongue flicking out. "You're frightened... and hurting." His body lowers from the height that he was stretched to before, moving closer and making Dabi all the more skittish over what he might do to him. But he stoops down and pauses about half a meter from his burning hands. "Let me check your poultice. I promise that no harm will come to you from my hands, witch." 

"Stop calling me that, Duster!" He snaps, not letting his quirk waver. "You know my name, fucking use it, dick." 

There's a pause, a strange look that crosses the other man's face as he raises his hands placatingly towards them. "I think that you may be confused-- whether it be from your magic or your injuries, I'm not certain, but all I can say is that I am unfamiliar with you." His voice is softer than Dabi has ever heard it before. Gentle in a way that has his skin bristling further, like he's the wild animal that needs to be soothed lest he lash out. "I will provide the care I can, but I do not know you." He says again. "You know it already, but my name is Tomura Shigaraki. Perhaps you could do me the kindness of introducing yourself to me?"

Dabi stares, willing this all to be wrong, for this not to be real, but when Shigaraki lowers himself further reaching into a shadowy corner that he couldn't see into before and he picks up Dabi's coat with all five fingers, he is filled with a cold dread that tells him so clearly that this is not the world that he existed in before. 

///

Shigaraki, when he smells his flesh burning, insists on taking him closer to the mouth of the cave. He tells him that he brought him so deep inside so that no one would be able to smell his injuries while he was hunting, and that he can bring him closer to the fresh air so that he can light a proper fire to see by when he picks up on how scared Dabi is of being left in the dark with this unfamiliar man who is wearing his boss's face. Dabi tries to walk there himself, but he's so weak that he collapses almost immediately, Shigaraki catching him from falling with one of the thick coils of his tail, the scales chilly and smooth under his hands as he does so. Dabi can't help bristling when Duster-- not 'Duster', not anymore-- shifts his body so that he is sitting side-saddle on his back, his hands bringing Dabi's coat around his shoulders when he shivers, before he starts to move beneath him, taking him to the mouth of the cave. 

It is still night outside and Dabi's stomach sinks further just from seeing how many stars light up the sky. He never paid any attention to astrological signs or astrology, but just looking up, he can see that they aren't near any city. That the sky is so free of light pollution that, as far as the eye can see, there are stars. He can't think it's beautiful as he takes in the thick conifer forest around him and the entrance to the cave that he was brought into. Shigaraki moves easily over the dirt and twigs, pushing them aside so that he can find an old log and roll that onto its side so that Dabi can sit there instead of on his back. He an only just make out that his tail has to be long at least three of him from head to toe if he were going to lay down beside him as Shigaraki moves around the area, gathering fallen branches and stones, bringing them together into a small fire pit that Dabi is able to light and give himself more light to see by. He still feels his skin bristling with anticipation, but once Shigaraki has done that, he settles on the other side of the fire, his tail coiling up beneath him and his torso resting on top of it, those bright, foreign eyes watching him as it happens. He doesn't know what he wants him to say, but after a long moment, Dabi knows that he has to speak. He needs to make sense of wherever it is he is now. 

"Do you have quirks?" 

Shigaraki's head tilts, his tongue flicking out again. "Oddities of my personality? I suppose some would find the fact I was willing to associate with a witch strange." 

"No-- your hands, when you touch things with all five of your fingers, do you turn whatever you're touching into dust?" He suspects he already knows the answer to that question, but he can't help asking it again anyway. He doesn't want to be right. He wants to be wrong, wants this to be some elaborate prank that the others are pulling on him or some psychological experiment that Ujiko is running because he just can. But he knows it's not when Shigaraki answers so earnestly, 

"I can't perform any feats of magic." He asks a question of his own while Dabi is still reeling from that flat admittance. "You don't have a secondary species?" 

"A what?" 

"You aren't an animal as well as a man?" He asks with a little bit more of a gently prompting tone. 

"No. Only heteromorphs have-- is... magic rare? Are people without being animals not normal here?" He hates that these are the questions that he's being forced to ask, but he needs to understand this place, needs to know what is happening to him, around him. 

"Magic is very rare, I've only ever met one other witch in all of my life." Shigaraki tells him, sounding like that is as fascinating to him as Dabi wonders if the rest of this should be to him. "He could do many things with his abilities, shaping the world around him to his whims, until a warrior came to slay him." There's a melancholy laid plain on Shigaraki's face that Dabi isn't expecting, that he doesn't want to see because his Shigaraki has never been so blatant with his emotions like this in front of him. Not any that weren't anger or manic joy at least." He took me in when my family disowned me when my species became known." 

"All For One?" He asks hesitantly, Shigaraki's eyes snapping back to his immediately. 

"So you have the gift of sight as well as the elements?" 

"No." Dabi says, his voice a hoarse croak. "I'm not from here. I don't know what this is, but this isn't where I belong." 

Shigaraki seems to settle in further as he prompts, "Where are you from, little one?" 

Dabi has never been a chatty guy when it comes to the League, but there's no stopping the words now as they come spilling out from behind his lips. 

///

He talks for a while. Until his throat is dry and he feels exhausted, and the serpent version of his boss that does not know him, goes to a basin of stone that he has carved, and brings him a whittled ladle of the rain water collected there. Dabi is hesitant to drink it, worried about inviting sickness into his already vulnerable body, but he has no choice if he doesn't want to perish from thirst. Everything feels wrong around him, but Shigaraki takes in what he tells him about his world in easy stride. He assures him that he will be allowed to stay here until he's healed-- for as long as he wants really, and the earnest way that the other man looks at him tells Dabi... that he wants that companionship. That he's been alone for a long time and that he wants to not be alone any longer. He tells Dabi that he had been hunting a lovely rabbit, but as he lost sight of it in the thicket of the forest, he had started to smell smoke. And then an intense wave of blue fire lashed out and turned so much of the surrounding area to ash. He had moved closer when the fires had died down and found him collapsed and bleeding at the center of the crater. His curiosity about Dabi is what caused him to treat his wounds and make sure that he was safe in his den for the time being. But Shigaraki also tells him that witches are rare, that he has only met one in all of his life before Dabi, and that if they do exist anywhere, it would be in the larger cities, not out in the wildlands where they are now. 

Dabi is still hurt, that much is clear when Shigaraki pulls the medicinal herbs from his skin, but he is not nearly as hurt as he should be given what he remembers before he passed out. But his skin is not gouged as deeply as it looked before, and there is a comfort in the very fact that he isn't seeing any swelling or signs of infection along the wound. Maybe in this world, the plants are more magical than the pharmaceuticals that he's used to. He doesn't care as long as it means that he's not about to keel over at any second from how much damage his skin has taken. Shigaraki assesses the wound and tells him he'll likely need to keep it on his body for another week before he decides to travel, and he goes to procure more of the herbs from his stash, returning within half an hour and soaking them in the rainwater for a few minutes before he starts to apply them in careful layers along his side. 

"I wasn't certain if... the rest of it was something fresh or not." He says gently, carefully, as if this version of Shigaraki does not want to offend him when they had tried to kill each other practically on first sight in Dabi's world. But the comment doesn't offend him, it just puts a further pit in his gut as he's given a firm reminder that even in a completely new world, he won't ever be something that isn't strange and unpleasant to look at. "So I just treated any places that were bleeding. If you need more--" 

"Happened eight years ago." He tells Shigaraki, glad his voice sounds gruff instead of choked. "There's nothing I can do about them now." He tells him and this version of Shigaraki seems to be much better at picking up on social cues than his was because he drops the subject and just makes sure that Dabi's wounds are treated the best he can. 

"Are you hungry?" Shigaraki asks more gently. 

Dabi thinks he probably should be. The snake creature told him that he was unconscious for a few days, but everything in his head and the exhaustion that is still clinging to his body is stopping him from finding his appetite. He shakes his head weakly.

"I will hunt for you tonight," Shigaraki tells him anyway. "So you won't have to wait throughout the entire day before I can bring you something if you wake and need food then." Dabi doesn't protest, letting the other carry him back into the cave when his legs feel too weak to actually support his weight, and accepting the thin blanket that he was given. His coat and quirk also help with the spring chill in the air, and he makes due with curling up on the hard dirt floor. Truth be told, this is not the worst sleeping arrangement that he's ever experienced in his life, so he figures that he'll survive it for the night and figure out what he can do in the morning.

///

When Dabi wakes, he's not certain if it's still night or if it has ticked over into day. Shigaraki's den curves after a few meters from the entrance of the cavern mouth, creating a wall of stone between it and the entrance when one travels as far back as the naga insisted on keeping him when he brought him back inside the night before. With any possible light blocked off, Dabi realizes just how pitch black the world can really get. He lights a spark on his finger and finds that he's surrounded in iridescent darkness too, the thick coils of Shigaraki's body wrapped around him loosely, the other man's torso and head pillowed on the length of his tail as he sleeps, his breaths even and slow with the small candle flame flickering on Dabi's fingertip. He is careful as he extracts himself from the loose... embrace. For as weirdly kind and understanding as this Shigaraki has been, he doesn't know if that is going to last forever, especially when he doesn't know who exactly this is now, and he would much rather err on the side of caution with him.

He slips out and goes towards the end of the cavern, finding that curve and able to see the sunlight from the entrance beyond. His body doesn't feel as sluggish as it did yesterday, his legs carrying him even if he does have to lean against the wall to make it easier for him. He gets all the way to the entrance and has to squint against the bright sunlight. He can hear bird song and the buzzing of insects in the forest around him, the warmth of the sun immediately taking away the chill that was coming from deep inside of the cave. It's been a long time since he was somewhere so far away from the city that the smells of it couldn't reach him anymore, but this air is fresh and crisp as he takes it in. His eyes adjust and he tries to get a better look at his surroundings, stopping with a scream lodged in his throat as he sees, barely a meter from the place where his fire burned out the night before, a body laying slumped in the dirt.

Dabi has killed a lot of people in his life, he's seen a lot of corpses too, just in passing. He knows the difference from someone who is unconscious, and someone who is dead, and there is no doubt in his mind, even just from a glance, that this person is the latter. The person on the ground is a naked man with dark hair and small, dark ears that curve out from the top of his head, a long tail with long fur that lends it a sleek rather than bushy look limp against his legs. He sees that Shigaraki has scratched a message for him into the dirt, a brief note that Dabi still spends an eternity trying to make sense of. 

'Eat as much as you need.'

The other said that he had been hunting a rabbit. He told him that he had already hunted once the night before and that his appetite was sated. Dabi had wondered, absent-mindedly, when his mind was far more occupied with everything else that he needed to worry about right now, if that meant that he had unhinged his jaw like a serpent and had swallowed his meal whole. But when he had thought that, he had been picturing real animals. When Shigaraki said that everyone in this world was an animal, he thought that simply meant that they were animals as well as there being real animals in the world. But as he looks at this dead man and the innocuous note beside the body, he has a horrible feeling that he understands even less about this world than he thought he did.

///

Dabi is still hurt and he can't go far, but he does go into the forest. He knows that pine cones have pine nuts and that he can eat those. He hates himself when he reaches for his phone, intent on looking up other forms of foraging that he might be able to do, but finds that his phone, even though there is still a small charge left, is a useless hunk of plastic, glass, and metal. There is no signal of any kind to be found, no satellites for it to hook up to, no way of using it to help better his chances for survival in its current state and he makes the decision to power it off completely in the hope of conserving what is left of the battery if this strange quirk ever wears off, so that if he magically pops back to the correct universe, he'll at least be able to call his actual companions and find out what the hell happened. 

He gathers pinecones, looks for other food, water, anything, and after about half an hour of walking, making sure to burn little scorch marks into the trees as he passes so that he doesn't get lost in the woods, he comes across a burbling stream. It feels like just another cruelty of fate that he is going to be forced to eat fish to survive, but he will take anything that he can get that is not the dead man who is laying naked at the mouth of Shigaraki's cave. No. He's not nearly in dire enough straits to think that cannibalism is the way he should go to get through this situation for now. 

Dabi has never had to fish before, but without a line, hooks, or rod, he figures that he's probably going to be better off trying to use his quirk for the task. He hates to do it, but he has to take off his coat, taking two thick fallen tree branches and stabbing them as deeply as he can into the muddy bank of the stream. It only reaches his mid-thigh, so he is able to wade across it, tying the sleeves to each end of the post and then using the long tails of it, weighing it down with heavy stones he pulls up from the bottom of the bed. It doesn't stop the water from flowing through it, or the fish from swimming into, and then around it, but it does stall them for a moment and Dabi climbs back out, moving about a meter down from the coat and building a fireball as hot as he can make it into his hands. He throws it into the stream, twisting away quickly as it erupts into a burst of steam that would burn him as badly as the fire. The sound of the explosion echoes around the area and he moves as quickly as he can to try and get the fish that are now floating to the surface of the stream as the water rushes back in. He gets down into the bank and uses the barrier of his coat to gather as many of the dead fish as he can before they're swept away, managing to get seven, one nearly as long as his forearm, and toss them up on the bank before he retrieves his soaked coat. He runs it through the water, cleaning the bottom of mud, and then slings the heavy fabric over one arm as he heads back up to the bank. With his spoils in hand, he starts to make his way back along the trail of soot marks. 

He still has to go and gather more firewood and sticks to cook the fish on, and he realizes that if he's going to be here for days at least, he also needs to make sure he has a way of getting clean drinking water too. His side is aching badly, but he goes out anyway to do whatever he needs to, not wanting to rely on the snake to help him when the offering he was given was cannibalism. It's probably some time after noon that Dabi is back in the camp with a decent sized pile of branches to use as firewood. He knows some of them are probably too wet to use, but he can dry anything that isn't suitable.

The next issue is drinking water and a knife. He hasn't actually ever gutted a fish or scraped away its scales, but he knows that he needs to do those kinds of things if he wants to actually be able to eat today. It takes him a good hour of trying to find any stone that seems like it might be thin enough and sharp enough for the task, and even then, he's certain that he's going to make a mess of this whole process. Whatever. He just needs to make sure that it's cleaned enough that he'll be able to gag it down. Figuring out how to make a vessel to boil in is harder. The basin of rain water is a massive stone formation that cannot be moved, and he doesn't exactly have a lot of metal to use, even if he can get hot enough to melt most of them. It pains him to do it, but he takes his support cuffs off of his sleeves, splitting the seam along the welding line and taking out all of the internal bits that actually make them work, including the tiny canisters of liquid nitrogen. The metal then, is fairly thin and he takes it and the fish back to the stream because he's fucking stupid and should have stayed there in the first place. 

But he goes to the bottom of the stream and pulls out one of the smooth rocks that has been curved from the water constantly running over it. He sinks that halfway into the ground along the bank and then heats the thin sheets of metal around it, circling it with his hands and irritating his seams badly from having to keep contact with the material. But over the course of a few minutes, he's turned one of his cuffs into a small cup that he should be able to put into the fire. He does his best to make a handle so that it can hang over the fire but he doesn't know how long that will last. He also takes the second cuff and tries to melt it as hot as it will go and pound it out between two stones, one fairly wide and flat, to try to make a lid with an edge sharp enough to be used on the fish. He doesn't think he's as successful with making a knife from that, but at least he can cover the cup to keep too much water from evaporating. 

He's only just started to try and gut the fish, tearing through the skin and muscle beneath in a messy, jagged way, that he still has to hook his fingers into so he can actually, fully, tear it open, when he nearly jumps out of his skin as Shigaraki says, 

"You shouldn't have gone this far from the den," His voice is gentle and lightly chastising, but Dabi is too busy trying not to send the mess of things that he has with him into the stream as he jumps out of his skin. He had heard the snake creature the night before when he moved, but looking up now to find that he has been able to make his way through the trees without calling attention to himself at all, is a terrifying reality to be made aware of. "You're still healing." 

"Yeah, and where I'm from, we don't eat people." He snaps, turning his attention back to the fish. He has its sticky blood all over his fingers, his nails trying to scrape through the guts to take out the things that he knows he can't eat. But he's never liked fish, and this process is making eating the things even less appealing. 

"Your people only eat fish?" And just from the tone, he can tell that the other man is not at all impressed with the mess he's making of trying to do just that. 

"No. Where I'm from," he says, flinging the fish guts off of his fingers and back into the stream. He thinks he has to wash them out too before he skewers them and puts them over the campfire. "Only a small amount of the population are heteromorphs-- animal people. The rest of us are normal humans and unless you're really fucked in the head, none of us eat people, we just eat real animals." The fact that he's having to deal with an ally twice in his life that considers cannibalism perfectly normal and acceptable is truly a horror he could have never been prepared for, but he gives up on trying to make it make sense. He can only ask for his sanity to withstand so much. 

"True animals are rare," Shigaraki tells him, coming up to the pile of fish and taking one. Dabi opens his mouth to snap at him, but he simply extends a claw which normal, limbless snakes definitely do not have, and slits the fish along its stomach easily. He lets the blood and guts spill out, more careful in taking out the innards before he offers it to Dabi. 

He still has to scrape the scales from it, but he will take that over trying to dig around the insides as Shigaraki settles by him. "...Thanks." 

"I'm sorry I didn't ask for more clarity when it came to your diet. Will this be enough to sustain you?" 

"Until I'm well enough to go to one of the cities you mentioned, yeah." He mutters, trying his best to make these fish properly edible. "I need to see if I can find someone who can send me back home." 

"Witches are rare," Shigaraki warns him again. 

"Because people burn them at the stake or what?"

"At the stake?" The other creature sounds genuinely confused, but he shakes it off quickly enough. "No, the blessing of magic is just rare and it often takes a toll, stopping a person from gaining a secondary species. I think that Ustron is the nearest city that I've heard tale has a witch living within the walls."

"How far away is that?" 

"Nearly eighty kilometers on foot." Shigaraki tells him, "And the travel will be dangerous. Trade between cities is difficult to facilitate and oftentimes merchants who travel are ambushed by bandits from the wilds trying to take whatever they can get." 

"I can protect myself." He's certain of that, at least. 

"If I had wanted to kill you when I approached, I would have been able to do so before you even noticed my presence. You do not have nearly strong enough senses to keep yourself protected from those who would make a meal out of you."

Dabi wants to protest further, if anything even touches him, he'll turn it to ash, but if something is able to sneak up on him, if his neck could be snapped before he even notices that he's no longer alone, then his quirk won't matter at all. He doesn't like that thought, but there isn't anything to do for it. He needs to find a way home. He isn't going to make it long if he doesn't. 

"I can accompany you, once you are well enough to travel, and I can collect the fee." 

"'Fee'?" He doesn't necessarily want a babysitter, but at least this Shigaraki is actually trying to look after him instead of just leaving him to fend for himself the way he did after Kamino. 

"The 'civilized folk'," There is a clear derision in Shigaraki's tone as he says it, finishing with gutting the pile of fish and dipping down to the stream to wash them out for Dabi. "Believe that the 'ferals' will enter their cities and wreak havoc, devouring their citizens, mounting attacks, things of that nature. If a feral wishes to enter the city, then they must do so by bribing the right people. They only get very specific portions of meat from their dead and most of the predators subsist on fish, as you insist on. But the right guards want something else. For two of us to enter, we will need to procure thirty pounds of flesh." 

"What about the guy back at camp?" 

"Unless we leave tonight, which I would not recommend, the stoat will be long rotted." 

Dabi is not a stranger to killing people to get to his goals, so he shrugs. "Okay. I can last on fish for a while, though vegetables or something else would be good." He doesn't know much about edible plants and he really isn't surprised when, for as helpful as the other man has been so far, he doesn't offer him any other comments about that. He supposes if Shigaraki's diet really is that of a snake, then he probably doesn't eat any plants. "How long do you think it will take for me to be good to travel?" Especially after all of the activity today, his side is hurting, a dull throb on the edge of his awareness that he is going to have to deal with sooner or later. Once he gets something to eat and drink, he'll sleep for the rest of the night. It's not like Shigaraki seems to need him for anything in particular. 

"I'll check your dressings at my den." He tells him, helping Dabi finish up the process of cleaning the fish. 

When they're done, Shigaraki selects a large flat stone and he brings it easily back to the camp. The body is gone, a smattering of blood left on the dirt in its wake, and Dabi does his very best to not think about that too much. He arranges the fire, the flat stone put nearby for him to use as a cooking surface if he wants it, and he skewers the fish, hangs his cup filled with rainwater, and covers it so that it boils and the meat cooks.

Shigaraki doesn't make small talk with him as he prepares and forces himself to choke down the meal, every bite only just adequate enough to sustain him, but still absolutely foul. He can't believe that he was so unlucky that he would end up not only being hit by a quirk that sent him to another world entirely, but one where his only options for food are cannibalism or fish. It really is amazing just how cruel his life keeps turning out to be as he does his best to just make it through. 

///

Shigaraki shows him the plants that he's been using to make the poultice, how it is mashed between stones and a larger leaf is laid over top so that it keeps the moisture inside and helps to improve the healing process and keep out parasites or infection. Dabi learns well enough that he knows how to deal with it on his own, which is good, because after eating two meals in such a short span of time, Shigaraki is tired. He barely makes it through teaching Dabi before he's excusing himself to go deep into his burrow again and curl up. Dabi knows snakes eat big meals and then don't do much else for a while, but when the snake doesn't wake when he slips back into the den to go to bed for the night too, and he's still sleeping soundly in the morning, and all the way until sundown the next night, he realizes that must apply to nagas too. Shigaraki doesn't react to his footsteps or to him bringing in a torch, made from putting some twigs and embers in his water cup and holding it on the end of a stick so that he doesn't have to burn his hands again to keep the light going. He just slumbers on as the dim light flickers across his features. It's a far cry from his boss, the Shigaraki who is scrawny with his pale blue hair and nerdy references who never fucking sleeps. This Shigaraki didn't know him, but his curiosity had been enough to go out of the way to save his life, who is willing to go so far to help a stranger that he has decided to help him travel all the way to a city just on the off chance that he might be able to find someone with just the right kind of magic to take him back home. He doesn't know if his Shigaraki would have done that. Sure, the boss usually tries to do right by them now that they're the only thing that he has left, but if the League thinks that Dabi was straight up vaporized the way Magne was, then he knows in his heart that Duster will just use him as another martyr to rally behind. Dabi wasn't even supposed to be on that job. Pure chance that he was, pure chance that one of their fuck-ups got him killed like it did Magne. He hopes that when he gets back that they're all ready to sob at his feet and he can use that to get whatever else he needs to get to his revenge the way he so wants to. He holds onto those hopes as his new companion sleeps on. 

///

On the day that Dabi and Shigaraki are ready to set out, his side is still not healed perfectly. It is still tender to the touch, but the fresh pink layer of skin has sealed it up where it can, and has tightened around his seam enough that he's not worried about springing a leak and letting his guts fall out. Shigaraki considers him, considers their path of travel, and makes Dabi rest for the day. He has better camouflage at night and that is when he wants them to travel. 

"I can't see in the dark and walking around carrying a torch is going to get us noticed too." He says flatly. 

"You won't have to walk." Shigaraki tells him easily. "You can ride on my back." 

The immediate response of sputtering and blushing like a schoolgirl is not exactly very good for his ego, but he can't help it. "I'm not gonna ride you like you're the world's weirdest horse!" He's never even ridden a horse in the first place for god's sake. 

"Why not? It won't be a burden." Shigaraki tells him, moving in close without hesitation. He also doesn't hesitate to bend down and reach for him, picking him up from the ground and holding him in his arms. Dabi sees the ripple of muscle through his chest and arms, his stomach swooping as he is made so weightless as the naga lifts him like he weighs nothing. "You're very light," he tells him, shifting so that he can put Dabi onto his tail. Dabi scrambles for something to hold onto so he doesn't slip off of the side as the other starts to move, making a lap around the outside of the camping grounds as if that's the reason Dabi protested. "See? You'll be safe this close and you won't have to worry about being able to travel by sight."  

"I--" he loses his protests as he makes himself let go of the other man's waist that he'd been clutching onto for dear life. "Fucking, fine, whatever." He makes himself slide off of the other's tail. He's so much longer than Dabi thinks he should be, and the appendage is probably half as thick as Dabi is tall. He can easily support his body too, but it still feels humiliating to be made so small in such a new way. 

He stomps back over to the camp fire and continues to dry his fish into jerky. The taste has gotten no better, but he won't be very happy if he has to go multiple days of travel without food, even if he doesn't have to walk. Maybe when they get to the city-- A thought comes to him and Dabi looks up at the other man. 

"What about once we get into the city? The meat is a bribe to open the doors, but when we're there, what about money? I only have yen." He doesn't think, given everything else that is different about this world, that his money will actually be good here. Which means that he's going to need something else instead. 

"Trade is more common than coin, even in the city." Shigaraki tells him. "And I'll be gathering a good amount of the herbs that I used to help you so that we will be able to afford what we need." Shigaraki gestures for him to follow and Dabi gets up and does so. It's mid-afternoon, but this is the first time Shigaraki has been awake in days, and he is just glad for the company after several days of just sitting alone in the silence with his own thoughts. 

The naga brings him to a small area near his den that is lush with plant life. These are the herbs that he showed him how to use before and he isn't sure what the other wants to show him. "We were meant to live like this." Shigaraki tells him. "In the wild, with our instincts, strength, and wit. But centuries ago, when there were more witches, they created cities. People gathered there and over time, nature started to abandon them." Shigaraki leans down and starts to pick the plants, careful to do so in a way that doesn't damage the roots or too far along the stems. "Medicine became less potent, food became less filling, sleep less satisfying. But they insist that because they are able to farm plenty, even making places where they breed fish for their abundance, that the way they live is right and true. They are weaker, even if they have some luxuries that would benefit those in the wild." 

"So I guess you're not thrilled about my cup?" He asks, trying to work out how much of what he said is actually true and how much of it is just legends and hearsay. 

"Simple tools to supplement your abilities are fine." Shigaraki tells him with a shrug. "Using medicine to heal wounds, sharing an overabundance with a neighbor, those are all things that can do us well. It's the gathering together, forcing nature to bend to one's own will, that nature itself is punishing those in cities for." 

"So making a garden of medicinal plants is fine, but making a garden for vegetables is not? Seems like a weird double-standard to me." He tells the other because he just can't stop himself from being contradictory even when every ounce of good sense tells him not to offend the giant snake monster that could kill him in a heartbeat. 

"Perhaps, but my plants brought you back from the edge of death, and the ones in the city barely heal. Why do you think they have so many dead to use for their meat rations?" He posits, and Dabi really doesn't have any way of countering that claim. He helps the other man gather a large amount of the herbs, but still not enough to even cause a quarter of the plants to look bare as they do so, and is just glad that this means that he won't have to try and make money in a world he doesn't understand at all. He's spent more than enough time doing that just after his coma. 

When they've finished with their gathering, he manages, past his pride, to mumble, "Thank you." 

"Of course." Shigaraki tells him and Dabi has to make himself actually move to look the other creature in the eye. 

"Thank you." He grounds out. "If you hadn't pulled me out of that crater I would have died. If you weren't helping me now, I wouldn't have any way to get back home. You didn't have to do any of it and I would have probably been more useful to you as a snack. But you helped me instead of eating me and you're going out of your way to get me to the city. Thank you." 

Shigaraki considers him for a long moment, long enough that Dabi worries that this all hasn't been some act of grace after all. That this was some sort of scheme to get him to let his guard down so that he would fall victim to his fangs or claws in some other way that he just wasn't expecting. But then his head tilts slightly to the side, "In your world, do you have... bonds?" 

Dabi frowns. "What kinds of bonds? Like family ties?" 

"I suppose that's one way of considering them." 

That does not give him the answer that he wants, but this Shigaraki can apparently be as esoteric and weird as his own. "Some people do-- I don't. I want to destroy my family." He sees the way that something... dims behind Shigaraki's eyes as he says that. 

"I see." 

And Dabi hates the way that those two simple words can make him feel so painfully inadequate. "But you do, sort of. You made a group that I was a part of. You've been doing your best to lead us to a new future. In my world, everyone has magic and some people use it to pretend to be heroes of the people, but it's all just to cover up their own selfishness and ambition. The League that you made is supposed to be fighting back and destroying it all so that no one ends up forgotten or tossed aside like we were." 

Shigaraki takes that all in and tilts his head slightly. "And were you happy in my care?" 

Dabi isn't sure about the phrasing, but he tries to be a little more generous, "You got the job done for the most part, and that's the main thing that I cared about. But we weren't exactly hanging out when we weren't working. We don't have much in common. To be honest, I think I get along with you more than I ever did with him, and it's not just because you saved my life." 

He knows that the other man is a giant snake, but there's no other way to describe his demeanor than that he perks up like a puppy when he says that. "That is good to know. Come, let's finish preparing for our trip." 

Dabi trails after him, more than ready to stop with the genuine shit and get ready to leave. 

///

Traveling through the dark, sitting on Shigaraki's back, is a strange experience. The serpent can move nearly silently through the brush, his long body curving gently, and keeping his torso low, Dabi ducking along his tail as well, so that any other creatures will have a hard time of spotting them as they go. They don't speak a word, and Dabi tries to strain his eyes to ensure that no other creatures come towards them, but the truth is that he can't see more than a meter or so away from himself with how thick the tree cover is. He just has to trust the other man to guide them. They don't speak as they travel and Dabi doesn't know how he should feel about that. He's tried not to converse too much with the League, with his own Shigaraki because he was always of the mind that he needed to be careful so that none of them catch onto what he's doing before he's ready to actually achieve his goals. But traveling in silence now feels far less like he's doing it because he's worried about sharing too much with this stranger, and far more like any word could lead to their downfall if one of the other creatures that must be living in this forest finds them. 

They travel through the night, but when he starts to see the sky being brought just a few shades bluer as dawn starts to set in above them, Shigaraki starts to look for somewhere for them to rest. There isn't a good space for them, but they eventually find a felled tree and Shigaraki uses his tail to push the dirt up alongside of it, creating a little trench for him to lay his body in that will be nearly completely concealed by the tall grass and bushes that are in the area. 

"If you need anything, wake me. Don't wander off on your own." Shigaraki warns him, and Dabi hates the wave of helplessness that goes through him as he's made to feel like a child. He hasn't been helpless in a long time, has worked so hard to make sure that he never would be again, and the reality that he just can't help being anything but that in this unfamiliar world makes him furious. But Shigaraki has done so much for him already, so much he had no need of, to make certain he got even just this far. He isn't just going to spit in the face of that kindness when he could have been devoured the moment that the other man found him. So as Shigaraki lays down to sleep, he just stays sitting up, trying to keep an eye and ear out for anyone who might come near them. 

It takes about four hours, if he had to guess purely from the location of the sun in the sky, before he spots any kind of movement around him. It's at least ten meters away, a man, probably shorter than Dabi himself, climbing down from a tree. Like the other that Tomura ate, he wears no clothes, and he has a set of ears and a tail that are inhuman, The ears are small, thin, and rounded, while the tail is extremely bushy and brown, the length of it and the slight curl at the tip telling Dabi that this must be a squirrel. He watches the man gather pine cones and acorns, careful not to move a centimeter so that he isn't noticed, until the man goes back up into the tree again and stays there for a good long while. Dabi eventually decides that he should probably sleep too and when he shifts, meaning to take off his filthy coat to use as a blanket, Tomura cracks an eye open at him. That alone surprised Dabi, given how hard the other man slept, but he wonders if not being in the safety of his own den is making him more aware is the cause. He doesn't protest as the other pulls on his wrist and brings him down into the ditch, though he feels his face heat when Shigaraki pulls him into his chest and Dabi feels his entire face go hot. Physical touch isn't something that he's gotten much of in his life, certainly not since he became an adult, and absolutely not of the 'buff naked man' variety. Shigaraki lets out a soft, contented sigh and closes his eyes again, his breaths evening out like he was barely awake to pull him close, and Dabi is really glad that he doesn't stay conscious for long enough to see how much he struggles with staying where he's been laid. He hasn't ever... cuddled up to someone like this before, and he's not entirely certain where his hands should be, if he should have taken off his boots first, if he should have his nose pressed so close to Shigaraki's skin that he can smell him. He doesn't smell bad, not sour with old sweat the way Dabi's skin keeps feeling like it is despite his best efforts to rinse off in the stream before he knew he would be close to the other man for two days. Dabi wonders if snakes even sweat at all, because the scent that clings to him just smells like the forest. It fills his nose, his skin cooler against his own, even as the sun shines above them, and Dabi... lets himself slump against his body too, lets himself rest his hands against the other's skin and shift so that his weight is settled more comfortably over Shigaraki's body, and he lets himself close his eyes. 

///

By the time he wakes again, it's to Shigaraki gently shifting him and the sky darkening as the light leaves for the day. "You can go back to sleep, firefly." He murmurs softly. "I need to go hunt for our fee. I'll be  back shortly." 

Dabi shakes the dregs of sleep off very quickly at that, pushing up and trying to find his words. He has killed plenty of people, he's worked with other cannibals before, though his mind still catches on the reality that in this one, all people who eat meat are cannibals. That he can just exist in a world where the circle of life will take its toll day in and day out and there is no reprieve for it because they all have to eat, that this is a place that would punish its people for going against that very nature by trying to create outposts of civilization with more plenty. It's all so much, so horrifying in a strange way that he doesn't quite have words for. 

But this is the fee required for him to even attempt to find a way home, so he keeps his voice low as he catches Shigaraki's forearm, "I saw a squirrel, earlier. A man." A dull sickness stirs in his gut as the naga's attention sharpens on him intensely, his head tilting in inquiry. Dabi sits up from the ditch all the way with a shaky breath and strains his eyes to find the right tree in the dying light. "There," he points. 

"Thank you. This shouldn't take long, stay here, keep low, and be quiet. I won't be the only one starting my hunt." Shigaraki waits for him to tuck himself in the space that he's left behind and then watches as the naga turns to start to stalk towards the tree. Dabi keeps his eyes out, watching with bated breath. He's seen his boss kill people before. A lot of times now that they've been on the run. He's seen him exact bloody revenge. He knows what his Duster is capable of. But the body he brought back the first time seemed pristine. He wants to see how this version of him kills. 

He tracks him as he moves, finding the other man goes to the adjacent tree rather than the one Dabi pointed out and watching as Shigaraki uses the strong muscles of his tail to creep his body up along the bark vertically until his dark body is disappearing into the tree. Dabi watches, his heart beat loud in his ears, as he waits to see the snake strike. 

The crack of a twig to his left is the only thing that keeps him from being gored on claws, his twisting towards the sound allowing him to narrowly avoid the figure that comes lunging over the log to tear out his throat with a snarl. 

"Fuck!" The outburst and the other man's body slamming into the ditch as Dabi pushes himself out of it absolutely ruins any semblance of stealth that Shigaraki had, so he doesn't hesitate to light up his hands as he faces off against the creature in much closer proximity than he likes to. He only gets a better look at the other man as he sends a gout of flame towards him, and even then, all he can make sense of is dog of some kind from the way the ears look as the creature darts out of the way and skitters across the ground, hands against the dirt as he comes to a stop, claws tearing up lines through it. 

His ears pin back and he bares his teeth in a loud snarl. "A witch,"

"A fucking idiot." Dabi snaps right back, not even waiting for the words to be off of his lips before he has a much bigger arch of flame leaving his hands. This one isn't so easy for the other to dodge, so hot that just breathing in the air near it will scorch the lungs and give any skin within half a meter of it a first degree burn. It's more than hot enough, apparently, that even though the wolf is able to dodge the worst of it, he can't move away fast enough to keep his tail from catching. 

The yip that comes out of him as he drops to the ground, trying to put it out, has Dabi filled with a malicious satisfaction, that he's finally getting to show this strange new world that he is capable and dangerous. And then, just before he can throw his hand out to burn the man to death, he lets out a much louder, more resonant howl that chills him to his bones. Dabi burns him anyway. He knows they need the meat, but he doesn't know if anyone will want the mess he usually leaves behind when he does his business of killing. But he knows that he doesn't have another way of getting this done without his flames. They only need thirty pounds. Maybe Shig will be able to tear away the chunks of flesh from the charred skin and they'll be able to put together enough--

The sound of footsteps echoing through the woods and getting closer do not care about subtlety in the slightest. They come accompanied with howls and snarls and Dabi runs. The body is still burning, the grass is starting to catch, and he needs to not get caged in with the pack of wolves at his back and the fire separating him from where he saw Tomura last. He manages to make it to the tree, seeing the squirrel overhead crashing through the trees as he tries to flee, but he can't see Shigaraki up in the tangle of the branches as he pauses with his back to the thick trunk of the tree so that he's at least not exposed from that angle. He sees one of the wolves stop near the body of the first, the acrid smell of cooking flesh starting to spread through the air. But two more start towards him and Dabi lights his hands up again. 

"Didn't work out so well for your friend," he warns, putting as much venom in his voice as he can. "Back off, or I'll burn it all down!" He doesn't wait for these ones to get in close. He sends out a gout of flame towards them that tears through the forest, Dabi not having seen or heard a drop of rain fall since he arrived here. He really will destroy this forest if he unleashes himself completely, and if they're stupid enough to fuck with that, then he will. If he rolls up to the city as a serious threat, then maybe word will spread and other witches will come rushing to him to try and make certain that he doesn't do any more damage beyond what he's already sowed. 

He hears the wolves snarling and barking at each other and he doesn't know if they are actually speaking another language or if they are just doing their best to confuse him as they try to circle around to flank him on either side. Dabi throws out both of his arms, lighting up his palms separately to prove to them that won't split his attention enough to let them actually hurt him, but before the one on the left can be stupid enough to try to rush at him anyway, a rustle in the tree overhead has the wolf's head snapping up. He doesn't look quickly enough though, as Shigaraki lunges down, his tail holding him to the tree as his arms reach out and he catches the wolf with his fingers around his neck, hauling him up into the tree again in a split second. Dabi is breathless just from the sheer speed of the strike before he hears a snap and then the body is dropped back down to the ground where several other bones crunch as the entirely dead weight of it hits the hard earth. The other wolf that had been approaching them yips, this one sounding far more frightened, and he quickly turns, rushing back to the third who is still by the first body. He grabs the other by the arm and yanks them from the ground, the two of them disappearing into the growing dark.

Shigaraki slips down from the tree, "Can you douse those flames?" He asks as he sees them starting to spread more through the forest. 

"Not even a bit." 

"Come on then," he says, his voice tight with his urgency. He grabs Dabi's arm, hoisting him onto his tail before he slithers, so quickly that Dabi is having to wrap his arms around his waist and hold on tight with both his hands and his thighs as he clenches them around the other's body. And the naga grabs his kill too, not bothering to throw it onto his tail or even be delicate with it as he catches the ankle and drags it alongside them as he flees from the flames as fast as he can go. 

///

They keep that breakneck speed for a good hour, Dabi's body aching just from having to hold the other so tightly, doing his best to not look at the body being dragged along with them as he knows that dragging it over the dirt and vegetation have torn into it because he can smell blood following them as they travel. He can't see the smoke from the forest bleeding into the sky, but it takes a while before he stops seeing the glow of his flames against the dark backdrop. When they're fairly far, Shigaraki slows his pace, looking for somewhere safe for them to pause their travel. He seems to find it under the shade of two large trees, dropping the body before he's coiling his tail around, making Dabi let go of his waist, as he brings him to his front so that he can see him. Dabi is expecting to be reprimanded, he's not expecting for Shigaraki's hands to cup around his face, tilting his head up so that they can meet one another's eyes, something desperate and... frightened in Shigaraki's. 

"Are you alright?" 

No one's asked him something like that in a long time. Even the League. He was always just expected to be alright because he is the one that is supposed to be the best at this. Sure Compress and Twice have more years of experience than him, but Twice isn't all together anymore and Compress wasn't doing the kind of on the street villainy that Dabi has been just to survive for the past decade. Duster always just put him in charge when he had something else to do, and he was expected to figure it out. When he had gotten knocked out in Kamino and woken up, puking, slurring his speech, dizzy with the worst concussion that he'd ever had in his life, no one asked him if he was okay. They just threw a bucket into his arms and started to debrief him extensively on everything that had been happening while he was unconscious before. He was always expected to just be fine, so no one ever bothered to check that he actually was. 

He didn't know that one simple question to make something sharp slip in behind his ribs, but he feels it sink a hook into something that he thinks is best left untouched as he answers, "Fine, sorry. Don't know how they spotted me." 

"It doesn't matter, as long as you're alright." Dabi isn't expecting Shigaraki to move his hands from his cheeks, down to his neck, along his shoulders, his palms going over the fabric of his shirt as he reaches his waist, and then he's tugging it up. Dabi isn't expecting the way that floods his entire body with heat again as it happens, glad that his scars and the dark will probably hide his blush from the other man. He opens his mouth to get an explanation, but the other is inspecting his side, making sure the vigorous movement didn't tear him open again and Dabi is able to breathe a little easier again. His side is throbbing dully, but he knows that he's fine. He knows how much more his body can handle before it starts to fall apart. 

"I'm okay," he's not expecting his voice to be so... soft. It's quiet and he feels like he needs to clear his throat, needs to make some comment about the body that they've been dragging with them. But he can't actually find a sound to make as Tomura looks back up at him. 

"Okay, wrap your arms back around my waist, firefly. I want to get us there before the city catches wind of the fire if it continues to spread." Dabi would have just waited to get moved into the right position, but Shigaraki's hands linger around his waist for another second as he leans down, Dabi's breath catching in the back of his throat, as his chapped, scarred lips press to his cheek, on that thin sliver of unmarred flesh between his staples and scars. A part of his skin that gets hotter still as Shigaraki pulls away and shifts to get a better grip on the body and start to move towards where they are going. 

Dabi wraps his arms around his waist, having to fight the urge to press his cheek against his back because that isn't about to hide how much embarrassment is coursing through his body as they travel now. 

///

It takes them the rest of the night, Shigaraki pushing past dawn as Dabi sees the... 'city' looming ahead of them. It is a city, he supposes, but he also supposes, based on everything else that he's been shown and told about this world, he should have expected it to be more of a large, rustic village, not the sprawling structure of metal, glass, and concrete that he's always expected when going to a city. He sees the wall that has been built out of probably the hundreds of trees that they cleared so that they could make this homestead, pinned into the ground with guard towers stationed periodically along it, and a large gate that he sees is open and has guards on the ground and in the two adjacent towers that are absolutely certain to see them approaching from the short grass that covers the half a kilometer stretch between the end of the the forest and the actual village itself. Shigaraki doesn't hesitate though, the body with them as he makes his way to the gates. 

"Hault," The guard yells when they're about five meters away and Dabi's skin bristles as he sees that the guards at the top of the towers reveal that they've got bows and their arrows are already notched towards them, the ones on the ground wielding spears and swords as they move up a bit closer. 

"We come to enjoy the hospitality of your city and converse with your witch." Shigaraki doesn't seem put off by the scrutiny and Dabi tries to sit up a little straighter. 

"Do you--" 

"Toya?" The voice comes, softly awed, and unfamiliar to him, but it still has him flinching. He peers around Tomura's shoulder and sees one of the guards rapidly descending from the tower, sees the rest of the guards tense a bit more as well. "What are you doing here-- If dad finds out--" 

The Shoto standing in front of them is not his brother. He knows that. He knows that he can't possibly be because he's too old, probably eighteen or nineteen, definitely not human with the white and red wolf ears poking up from the top of his head and the red tail that swishes behind him. He looks at him with an earnest ache in his expression, and his voice is hoarse as he fully takes in his appearance. 

"What happened to your ears?" 

Dabi hates how horrified he sounds. Hates that this Shoto looks concerned over what has happened to him. He always meant to reveal his identity to the world and use it as a weapon against his father and the supposedly perfect family that he crafted, but he wanted Shoto to be terrified of the destruction he was. He didn't want the pity or sorrow that he currently sees etching itself across his youngest brother's features. 

"Not your brother, kid." He says, slipping off Shigaraki's back as casually as possible, cracking his neck as he goes. "From a different world, I guess. No animal parts to begin with, plenty of, well I guess you guys call it 'magic'. Looking for someone who can send me back to where I belong." He says, deliberately running his hand through his dark hair, hoping they'll see there are no stumps of ears or evidence that they've been removed. He also hopes that just the way that he's dressed will keep them from questioning too much. Their clothes are far more simplistic, rustic, homespun, than Dabi's are and he has his phone in his pocket as well as further proof of his claims. 

Shoto considers him, "You have magic?" 

Dabi flicks out a hand, starting a flame that dances along his elbow and curls all around his fingers in homage to his serpentine companion before he lets it coil in the palm of his hand and he closes his fingers around it, snuffing it out. "Did your brother not?" 

He sees more than hears the rough breath that comes out of this Shoto's chest. "No, he didn't." He turns his attention to Shigaraki and the body that he's tossed to the guards. 

"More than thirty pounds. Enough to keep us here until he's finished his business, surely?" Shig sounds almost bored, but his eyes are sharp. Dabi would really like to not get into another fight before they've been able to sleep, and after a moment, Shoto nods. 

"Sir," one of the guards sounds like he's going to properly reprimand him. 

"The exile was for my brother. Not this one. If he's a foreigner in a strange land, then the best we can do is show him our hospitality. I will go to tell my father about our visitor." Shoto reaches into a pocket and gets out a wooden talisman that has their family name engraved in it. "For anything you need while you're here." He says, offering it to him. "It's connected to our family funds." And he doesn't say it, but Dabi sees the vindictive flash in his eyes as he hesitantly reaches to take it. Shoto is taller than him. He saw his brother at the summer camp, and they were the same height. The bear, fox, coyote, and raven all watching as this happens are also bigger, and Dabi wonders if that's a result of their mixed species. It probably doesn't matter, he just knows that it makes him feel so small even as he tries to keep his spine straight and tries to ensure that this Shoto doesn't see anything waver in him. 

He doesn't want his family's charity, especially not from someone who isn't his. But he wants to know who this Toya Todoroki was, if he had just as much reason to want to burn this village to the ground, if he might have had his own grudge against his father that he was just waiting for. He wants to know why he was exiled. He takes the talisman and drops it into his pocket without looking, drawling instead, "My companion is rather large," still at least two and a half lengths longer than any of the other creatures here, even the bear woman who stands nearly half a meter taller than Dabi himself, "Any place in town that can accommodate us comfortably?"

"Well, I think that the Third Cherry would have the room." Shoto's eyes spark with his delight. "It's the large building on the main square with the red shingles. They should be able to provide anything that you need. I'll come by after my shift and we can go see Natsuo and Mom." Dabi bristles slightly. He never wanted to see Natuso again in his pursuit of getting his revenge, definitely never wanted to be in the same room as his mother. Natsuo was the only one who he thought was okay, who he didn't think deserved to burn, but his mother? Fuyumi? Those two had rolled over for everything Enji did. Even when Rei shattered, she crumbled and let him sweep her dust under the rug by putting her in the hospital while Dabi was left as nothing but a pile of glass shards looking to lash out at everything that he could cut. And to his knowledge, Fuyumi had gone off to college and then gone right back home to play housemaid for their father instead of cutting ties. It curls his lip and makes his stomach sour. 

"I'm here for business, not to catch up with some people I don't know." He says with as much dry venom as he can.

Shoto really looks at him then, his brows pulled together slightly, something that isn't quite pity in his eyes so much as it is... disappointment. Acceptance maybe. "Of course, but you see, Natsuo, Rei, and I are the only witches in the city." 

Of fucking course they are.

///

Dabi is able to walk with Shigaraki through the city, people darting out of the way for the naga with looks of abject terror. He sees plenty of other animal-people hybrids that he would expect to be dangerous, plenty more dogs, cats, boars, bears, and the like-- though he does note that the majority of them are all in guard uniforms, with most shop venders being... prey. Animals like deer, squirrels, rabbits, sparrows, sheep, and the like. There are some bigger prey animals that he sees moving larger bundles of wheat or bags of fish, but he doesn't see any prey at all that are dressed as guards. Neither he nor Shigaraki speak as they make their way through the main square, easily spotting a couple of other inns, but the largest of them is absolutely the one with the red shingles. He's not expecting that to put a little twist of worry in his gut. He doesn't know this Shoto, not that he even knows his real brother, but he doesn't like the idea of going somewhere that could result in their being found easily. But at the same time, he can't very well hide away from him if he really is one of the witches that Dabi is here to speak with. 

So they go to the Third Cherry and the deer at the front desk looks absolutely terrified when she sees Shigaraki. "We need a room," he pulls the seal out of his pocket and sets it on the counter between them. "On the Todoroki's generosity." 

The woman still looks like she would rather bolt than take out the logbook and see what she has available, but she does it anyway. "W-we have the bonding room on the top floor available. I-it--" Her voice squeaks as she rushes through the next words, "It's the only one with a bed large enough for your companion. But I can get you a separate--"

"That won't be necessary." Shigaraki cuts in, the 's' in the word lilting in a way that he's never heard him speak before as his tongue flicks out. "We'll be sharing the bonding room." 

Dabi wants to ask why a hotel has a room explicitly made for families, but then he considers that the secondary species might have closer family relationships than he's used to, and is completely distracted by the musings when the deer is quick to go on, "Of course, sir!" Her hand shakes as she picks up a quill and starts to write into the ledger. "A name for the room, or should I put it under 'Todoroki'?" 

"Shigaraki." Dabi tells her. He doesn't know if Shoto knows his chosen name, and he knows that no one should know Shigaraki's. "If someone comes looking for 'Toya', you can send up word, but my companion and I would prefer not to be bothered unexpectedly and would like to keep our privacy intact." He doesn't have fangs to bear, but the slow smile that he knows stretches his staples in horrible ways at the edges of his lips seems to be enough to help him to get his point across very clearly. 

"Yes, sir." She swallows, her eyes flicking from him to Shigaraki, and then back to him again, "T-the bonding suite comes with an hour in the bathing pools as well as a full meal prepared and arranged in your room. Would you... like to schedule that?" 

"We've been traveling for quite a distance," Shigaraki interjects smoothly. "If it's available, we would like to do both as soon as possible before we retire." 

"Yes, sir," Her voice is still a little frantic as she answers them. "We can have that arranged. Is there anything else?" 

"Fish, meat substitutes for the meal," Shigaraki tells her. "No meat." 

The look that crosses her face then seems more... confused than frightened then and Dabi feels his face flush slightly. He hasn't ever seen Shigaraki eat. He knows that he's hunted, knows he ate the first body he offered him, but he didn't think that he might be deliberately choosing to not eat in front of him to keep him from being upset. He wants to tell the other that he isn't some fair maiden with such delicate sensibilities that he can't handle the reality of what Shigaraki eats. 

"Meat is fine," he tells her. "Just make sure there's also fish and whatever substitutes you have." 

Her eyes flick back to Shigaraki, looking for approval, but he just inclines his head towards Dabi, seeming to show that he is the one that she should take into account first. "Of course." She finishes making her notes in the ledger and then turns to get a big, ornate key off of the wall behind her, handing it to him instead of the naga. "Top floor," she gestures to the double staircase that leads up from the first floor, "There will be a knock on your door when the bathing chamber is ready for you. Your meal will be prepared while you are in the baths." That's more than enough for him and he collects the talisman before he and Shigaraki turn to go upstairs. He's feeling the ache in his side, the dirt on his skin, and he wants to be clean, fed, and able to lay down in a real bed to rest until Shoto shows up.

He and Shigaraki head upstairs and he sees that there must be four floors to this building, the grand staircase going only to the second before it turns into a large hallway, at the end of which is a more normal and modest one that they take up the additional floors. He isn't surprised, based on the size of the building from the outside, that there are a good number of rooms on those floors. But when they get to their own, things start to differ clearly. The top floor only has four doors, three on one side of the hall, and a singular one on the opposite. When Dabi looks down at the key, he doesn't think he's really all that surprised to see the number for the single door. Shigaraki says nothing as they unlock it, though Dabi almost immediately wants to turn around and head back downstairs to say that, actually, this is too much, because the room inside is massive. Immediately he is blasted by light from an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, the area so big that it a bed that make a California King look like it it might be modest, a massive dining table that is low to the ground that could probably seat a dozen, but that only has two cushions set out. He doesn't understand that, nor does he think that a large lounge area with a full bar is entirely necessary either. 

But before he can say anything about all of this, Shigaraki is coaxing him gently into the room and he's going because even though this is excessive, that bed really is probably the only one in the world that would allow Shigaraki to fit comfortably on it. They get inside and close the door behind them and Dabi is left at a loss of what to do, having never been in a hotel this grand even on his own planet. it's not like he has luggage or anything to put down. Shigaraki moves through the room, going to a decently sized wardrobe that Dabi hadn't even noticed was built into the wall, and opening it. Inside hangs two crisp, off-white robes with pants and a cropped wrap top, a pair of similarly pale slippers beneath them and a small wicker hamper in the corner of the closet.

"Here, you can put this on and we can leave the hamper by the door. They will do their best to wash your clothes, though I can't make any guarantees." He doesn't want to get the clothes dirty with his sweat, but he does go behind the screen to change into the robe, hoping that the bath will be ready soon as he makes sure his phone and the talisman are tucked away so that they can't be stolen. When he's finished that, Dabi ends up pacing the room, it's more than large enough to do so, and Shigaraki watches him from where he's coiled himself up on the couch. 

"Do you know anything about the witches here?" 

"...Only that they were related. I had no idea that the you who must have existed here was also related to them." Shigaraki considers his next words for a long moment in a way that has Dabi locking in on him. "I wasn't certain, but the rabbit I was chasing before you appeared, it smelled like you. I thought that my nose was confused, that I had only been able to lock onto your smell through the smoke and ash, but if that person was you before you came here, then the Toya Todoroki here was a rabbit." 

That's an indignity that Dabi doesn't like to think about, though he doesn't know if it's better or worse-- "Let's not tell them that I might’ve vaporized him by turning into a fireball on impact. I don't know if they'll give me any help getting home if they think I killed their brother." He means for the words to be mostly flippant as he flops into place beside Shigaraki on the couch. But they don't feel it when the other man's sharp red eyes never waver from him. 

"It's a surprise they're offering you any assistance at all if he was exiled from this place." He says with deliberate slowness. Dabi had caught that comment, but he had filed it away for later. Shigaraki seems to think it's important enough to bring up now though. "If he was exiled then he must have broken an extremely severe law or someone wanted him out of the picture. Exiling a prey is a death sentence." He stresses. "The fact that this version of your brother greeted you without malice and with a willingness to allow you to speak with other members of his family, makes me think that the latter scenario is the more likely." 

"Wouldn't surprise me," Dabi says, only hesitating a few seconds before he decides that there isn't much risk in telling this version of Tomura more. "My father is a bastard and he had a habit of throwing away anyone who couldn't help him get closer to his goals. If this Toya didn't have the magic that he wanted, then I guarantee he wanted him gone." He pauses, "You said he was a rabbit?" 

Shigaraki hums in agreement. "A rabbit in a family of witches and wolves would be a dangerous thing-- for the rabbit. Witches can defend themselves and have a more singular reasoning than others with secondary species. I can't imagine the amount of stress that Toya Todoroki must have been under if he was surrounded by wolves." 

Dabi... isn't expecting that comment to put something sour in his chest. An ache that goes right through him as he realizes that even in an entirely other world, he was still born unlucky. He still wasn't what he was expected to be. He was still thrown out. Fuck. Is he just wrong in every universe? He never thought much about the afterlife, about String Theory, or alternate universes or whatever. His eyes were always on the goal directly ahead of him. But two worlds that show him that he... just wasn't meant to have an easy life or to succeed leaves him with that sourness trying to root itself through his entire body. 

He attempts to shake it by asking, "What's so special about a 'bonding room'? The way she was squirming made it seem like she was worried about giving us the honeymoon suite." 

"What's a 'honeymoon'?" Shigaraki asks him before answering his question.

Dabi rolls his eyes, waving his hand flippantly, "It's a holiday that newlyweds take so they can fuck." 

"Oh, then yes, it is just like that." Shigaraki isn't making eye contact with him anymore, the very tip of his tail flicking slowly and... nervously against the floor. 

The heavier thoughts that had been rattling around in his head come to a sudden stop as he tries to put things together. "What?" 

Shigaraki still doesn't look up at him and Dabi doesn't think he's ever seen the giant snake acting like such a guilty dog before. "In our world, we form bonds. Usually we're drawn together by fate and a scent that calls to us when we're close. When we've found our mate-- or mates-- we participate in a bonding. We cleanse the bodies together, share in a meal, mark one another's skin, and entwine our blood, before we bring our bodies into one as well. Bondings don't have to be as elaborate as all of this," he gestures loosely to the massive room that they've found themselves in. "It can just be a rag, a cup of water, teeth or claws on the neck, and then sex in whatever home the pair have made for themselves. But it is... important. Sacred for wildfolk and walledfolk alike." 

Dabi feels heat rushing back to his face. "So she thinks that we're here celebrating our wedding on the Todoroki's yen?"

"'Yen'?" 

"Fuck you, I know you're smart enough to use context clues to figure that out." He snaps, hating that the sunlight pouring through the window isn't going to help him hide his embarrassment any like it had before sunrise.

Shigaraki sighs softly and turns his attention to him. "Yes. You can clarify to the version of your brother when they come to see us if it's an assumption that displeases you." Shigaraki's eyes slip away from his own again. "But in all truth... I was not chasing the rabbit version of you to hunt. I smelled him as he traveled by my den and I followed my nose to him. He smelled like... overcooked sugar and his terror. I thought it might just be how a rabbit would smell, I haven't hunted many in my life. There are usually stoats, foxes, and wolves in the forest that focus on using those creatures as their main food source, so I usually take to the trees to do my hunting instead. But when I pulled you from the center of that crater of ash you made for yourself, you smelled just the same-- though there was blood on you instead of fear." Shigaraki looks back up at him, that same glimmer of hope that he saw shining in the other man's eyes from when he first asked him about bonds there again. "I know that you aren't from this world, and I would never begrudge you to stay when you have a home that you want to return to, I just hope that you will let me be beside you when you go, so that if that magic can bring the version of you who was from this world back, then I'll be able to meet him." 

Dabi feels like his throat might collapse in on itself, but he still manages to force himself to croak, "What if he doesn't come back?" 

He hates that he can see that there was always a fracture behind that hope, behind any help that Shigaraki has offered him since he pulled him from the ground. "Then I will be very grateful for the time that I've been able to spend meeting you." He smiles and Dabi feels an unexpected pressure coming up from beneath his eyes, the tell-tale ache that he feels now when he is... about to cry. Why? Shigaraki has been kind, but this isn't his fault. He just... picked the wrong fight and ruined Shigaraki's maybe only chance at having a partner. Not his fault, but it still seems like another way he's been fucked over by the entire universe. In this world, this Toya Todoroki wasn't able to live a good life in the city, he was probably stressed out of his mind surrounded by wolves, got exiled, probably was being hunted by other creatures besides Shigaraki, and before he could even meet the person this world said would have been right for him, he got fucking yoinked out of his reality and thrown into a world where... he'll have all of Dabi's criminal reputation and none of the quirk that he needs to actually fight and protect himself. Dabi wants to throw up, wants to cry, because how could the universe be so unfair to him across so many worlds? How could it choose to not just punish him, but make him complicit in punishing Shigaraki too? Sure his boss Shigaraki isn't his favorite person, but snake Shigaraki is... good. He's good, kind, he would have taken such good care of a rabbit who had been exiled and scared. He bets that he would have planted a garden for him instead of helping him gut fish by the stream. 

Before the blood can actually slip over his cheeks or he can find a new way to put his foot in his mouth, there is a light knock on the door. "Sirs?" The voice that calls through it is not the same woman as the front desk, this one a bit lower and possibly masculine, though he's not sure. "The bathing chamber has been prepared for you." 

Shigaraki gets up, "I'm sure that you're more than ready to be properly clean." He says easily as he moves over to the door quickly and easily, opening it before the fox has left. 

He sees them duck their head slightly. "Would you like your meal brought up for you after your bath?" 

"Yes. We traveled through the night and will be retiring after we've bathed and eaten." He tells her easily. 

"Of course. Your meal will be put out in an hour, unless you would like us to delay it further?" 

"No, an hour should be more than sufficient." He looks up, whatever wistfulness, hopefulness that was in his eyes has been so neatly put away and he smiles without that fracture in it even though Dabi feels even more like a mess of shattered glass. "Ready, Dabi?" 

He feels numb, but he makes himself get up from the edge of the couch and shoves his feet back into the slippers, feeling smaller than even his stature makes him here as he walks over to them. The fox turns and leads them down the stairs, back to the first floor, and into a large, open onsen. There aren't other people inside, but it is mid-morning and based on the bustle from the streets outside, Dabi expects that most people are already out and doing their work for the day. But they don't stop at the public onsen. The worker brings them to a private chamber that contains a large, sunken tub-- not nearly as large as the bed upstairs, but clearly made so that two bearfolk or other large creatures would be able to enter it comfortably. The main tub is full of steaming water, but there is also a rudimentary shower set-up, and a table with a variety of soaps, scrubs, loofahs, and the like as well as one with towels, and hooks mounted on the wall for their robes. 

"If you need anything else, please ring the bell for an attendant." 

"Thank you." 

The fox bows their head again, "Congratulations," and then they turn to leave. 

Dabi's skin bristles, but Shigaraki doesn't seem concerned. This is an onsen, and he is from the wilds. No one wears clothes there. Dabi isn't normally concerned about nudity himself, not when he knows that he has a lot more to deal with if he ever is stripped naked in front of other people, but he knows that the nudity feels different now because now he knows... that Shigaraki thinks that they're mates. That if Dabi belonged in this world, that even if he doesn't, he would want to bond with him, that the idea had brought him some kind of joy that he didn't know he would even be capable of offering to any other person, let alone Shigaraki of all people. Even if this Shigaraki is nothing like the one that he knew from his reality. 

The other man just goes over, not paying him any mind, and turns on the shower head and moves so that it can cascade over his head, wetting his hair and taking the dirt from his skin. Dabi hadn't noticed it before, but he sees the water cutting through the grime, sees his tail coil up beneath him, scales moving against themselves and looking like oil, as he tries to get himself clean. Dabi takes a breath. Shigaraki hasn't pushed anything about the bonding and if he does, Dabi knows how to tell him 'no'. He thinks that... he would stop. He hasn't ever done anything else that would tell him otherwise. He hangs his robe and goes over to the second shower head, set just beside the first, and cranks the water to as hot as he can stand it, letting the water take the smell of sweat, blood, and dirt from his skin, and he tries to wall up any other thoughts that could distract him from the simple, animal pleasure of getting clean. 

///

The bath is wonderful, when he lets himself soak up that by itself. He makes sure to scrub his body with the offered soaps until he finally smells and feels clean. Then he and Shigaraki both get into the larger pool together. Shigaraki has to coil his tail twice to fit inside of it comfortably, and the water he displaces with his bulk is nearly a small tidal wave even though he clearly tries to do it gingerly. Dabi laughs at him, and he pouts on the other end of the tub from him, his torso at least. Dabi's legs still brush against his scales as they sat together. And when an hour has passed, there was a knock at the door again to alert them that their meal was waiting for them in their room. Dabi pulls himself out of the water first, going to retrieve one of the towels and drying off as Shigaraki attempts to do the same. His scales don't hold onto a lot of water, but he has a lot of scales to get through, and once Dabi has pulled his robe back over his body, he has to take pity on him. He picks up one of the extra towels and moves over to him, 

"Come on, I want to go eat and sleep." 

Shigaraki doesn't protest the help, and when they're both dry enough to make their way back to their room, they do so, leaving the bathing chamber without difficulty. When they get back up to their room, Dabi immediately pales as he sees the amount of food that has been put out on the table. The entire thing, from end to end, is covered in dishes. vegetables, fish, rice, soup, cuts of meat sliced so thin and delicately that Dabi would have no way of telling what person they came from. His nose is hit with the smell of spices that are familiar to him, and he has to force himself to go put on the pants and wrap from the closet instead of setting upon the feast ravenously. 

But seeing that plenty when he makes himself take a second to pause before he can sit and enjoy it, he thinks he finally understands the distinction that Shigaraki said there was between the plants that he's cultivated in his garden and what the people of this city are accustomed to. That amount of food could feed a dozen-- maybe two dozen, and it's been provided for just their enjoyment. Even for a wedding, that is a lot, especially if they don't have refrigeration here, which, given the oil lanterns, he's really doubting that there is any electricity here at all. This is too much. 

The fact he's been given so little all of his life nearly takes away his appetite, but he's forced himself to eat things that had no business being in his mouth just to survive. He isn't about to make that harder by being stubborn now when he's been given a feast after choking down fish for so long. He goes over to the table and finds that Shigaraki has poured them both a glass of water and one of saké as well. Dabi surveys the table and he finds that the food here, like the language, is all mostly traditional Japanese fare, and that puts him more at ease. That means that he just has to avoid anything that is made of meat from his world to avoid it here. Dabi deliberately decides to lock away whatever part of his brain that wants to worry about the fat used to cook things in, the butter, the stocks that must have been used, and the eggs that he can see as toppings and mixed into the fried rice. As long as he's not eating an actual dead body, he is not going to think about it. 

Dabi serves himself and Shigaraki does as well, the snake gravitating towards the many plates of raw meat that has been put out. There is a little table-top grill that has been brought up, filled with coal and accompanied by flint to use to start the fire, but Shigaraki doesn't bother to cook any of the meat. "Do you just prefer your meals raw or are you trying to limit your indulgence with city stuff?" He asks, before he's shoving a bite of rice into his mouth. 

"Both, I suppose. But I doubt that nature herself will punish me for a few days of this after choosing the wilds and staying there for seven years now." 

Dabi pauses, "You lived here before?" 

"Not here," Shigaraki tells him easily. "But yes, I did live in a city, I was born in one." He seems to consider his next words, but perhaps like Dabi weighed how much telling him his past would do, he seems to decide that Dabi's ears are worthy of hearing his own. "The city I was born in was very far away, nearly a year's travel, and my mother was a sheep and my father was an ox." Shigaraki meets his eyes across from him at the table, deliberately taking a bite of his food, telling him, without words, that he won't go on if he thinks that Dabi is going to stop eating as he listens. Dabi shoves something else into his mouth. He doesn't know how his Shigaraki ended up in the care of AFO, but if there is a world where he gets back where he belongs, it's probably going to come through whatever version of All For One is here. That creep has to be a witch, and he will probably have all of the power that he needs to send Dabi home.  

"It's rare, normally a child is one of their parent's species, but I didn't fit in. I didn't start to show signs of finding my secondary species until I was already close to five, when most do so at three, sometimes even younger. And I became a snake. That was... a horrifying process for them to watch from the outside, I'm sure. But I don't remember much beyond how itchy I was when my scales were growing in, and how hot my body was from the fever. I think my father would have caved in my skull if he'd actually had the stomach for that kind of violence." Shigaraki takes another cut of the meat and dips it into one of the small dishes of sauces littered around the table. "But he only hit me the first time I begged for meat instead of vegetables that they were starving me on. It was stupid of him to hit a starving predator, and I didn't remember that night for a long time. I do now. I had to take my sister's arms off her torso to get her down my throat, but she was the only one small enough that I could manage that with. I fled the city with my stomach full, and a powerful witch happened upon me not too long later, and took me in." 

"What happened to him?" He asks, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice. He only realizes belatedly that he shouldn't have asked that first, "Fuck, sorry-- Sorry about your family being shit. I... I get it." He doesn't want to tell him just how little his father cared for him, that he had been too weak to ever fight back as violently as it sounds like Shigaraki was able to. 

"I take it that there is a person like my teacher in your world?" 

Dabi ducks his head slightly, "...Yeah. He's powerful." 

"He was here too. He would have been fascinated to hear about your world. But when I was fifteen, he got into a fight with a rival he had been dealing with for decades. They both perished in the fight. After that, I had the choice of trying to find a home for myself alone in the city we had been settled in, or going away from it all and living wildly. I chose the latter and have been doing so ever since." 

Fuck. "Sorry." He says again. He always was creeped out by the guy, but it does seem like Shigaraki's got some cruel luck across the universes as well if he just can't keep his father figure in his life no matter what he tries. 

"I've mourned him," it's such a flat statement, so at ease and so practiced when Dabi doesn't know if Shigaraki has even spoken to anyone else after he left his city. He could have been alone in that cave for years just telling himself those words to make the ache of the loss better. "And I would prefer to look towards the future. We shouldn't linger if we want to get any sleep before your brother's shift ends. Perhaps when he visits, your family will hold the solution to your problems." 

Dabi still feels hollow as they both turn their attention completely back to the food. He wonders if there really is something to what Shigaraki told him about nature's curse on the inhabitants inside the city when he ends up eating so much more than he usually does just to make that hollowness abait a bit. 

///

He wants there to be a solution. He wants things to be easy, but when a knock on the door wakes them from their sleep, their bodies not needing to be pressed together to share heat in the massive bed, and Dabi is forced to see his mother and brothers again, he is hit with the unpleasant reality that there just isn't. Natsuo and Rei don't have ears or a tail like Shoto, and they seem to find it more than a bit off-putting that he doesn't, that they have to tell him what his life was like here. That the Himuras are primarily a family of snow hares with occasional witches in their bloodline and that the Todorokis were wolves with genes of a similar magical stock. That Enji had been trying to breed an heir that was both a witch and wolf here, getting it in Shoto, and Toya losing his magic at twelve when he burned himself badly as he tried to train and prove he could still be useful even as a prey. Fuyumi has no magic and is a wolf, Natuso has no secondary species and is a witch. A healer specifically, who is more than happy to put his cold hands on Dabi's side and take away any trace of the wound he came here with. The scars, the staples, those are too old for him to do anything about, but he is just glad that he gets this much help. Especially when none of them have ever even heard about magic that can reach across worlds like this. They promise to look into it, but given how trade between cities is, just from what Tomura has told him about these little outcroppings of civilization, he understands that this is something that will probably take... months of travel. Of research. And they can't stay here this long, even if this version of his family seems to more than delight in them using Enji's fortune to get whatever they need. Dabi is quick to wheedle out where the next closest witch is, and that is something they tell him reluctantly. Another city. Two weeks of travel. 

It feels strange when the three of them give him hugs on their way out, but when they go, it's with a desperate look in their eyes like they want to keep him close even though he is a stranger to them. It makes more of that horrible hollowness bloom inside of him as he wonders if that's... how his family would feel about him if he ever showed himself to them. He doesn't say anything when they've gone. The staff collected the leftovers from their meal earlier and he and Shigaraki only got a handful of hours of sleep before they arrived, and he feels so much more exhausted than he did when they first woke up. He's glad the naga doesn't push at that and lets him just crawl back into the bed for sleep. 

Shigaraki doesn't say anything, but he slips back into the bed with him, close enough this time to press their spines together as they settle in for sleep again. It's such a small thing, but Dabi still nearly lets his seams split beneath his eyes as they ache with unshed, bloody tears. 

///

Two weeks of travel is a lot of travel. Just two days were dangerous for him, but Dabi needs to find a way home and this is all he can think of. So the next day, urged to keep the amount of people who see him small, he asks Shigaraki to go out and use the seal to buy anything he thinks that he'll need for traveling that long. And without fail, Shigaraki does. He comes back with a travel pack, a backpack made out of durable, if rustic fabric, a small sewing kit for any tears, a blanket and liner that can be stuffed with dry leaves for sleeping, a knife, some rations, a canteen, trowel, small pot and spoon, and other supplies for things like foraging and fishing. 

"We can leave tomorrow at dusk." He tells him as Dabi inspects all of the supplies. He never really had to camp, his time homeless spent in cities, but he thinks that this will be more than enough to get him through this time without issue. Sure, he's going to have to be careful to keep himself safe from predators, but he-- 

"'We'?" Dabi looks up, a small frown tugging at the edge of his lips. "You don't have to come with me. I mean, thank you for getting me this far, but I'm not going to make you stay with me when you have a place of your own to go back to." 

And Shigaraki doesn't miss a beat when he says, "There isn't anywhere in the world I would rather be than by your side, Dabi." 

It puts that lump right back in his throat. "I'm not your mate." 

"You could be," Shigaraki's voice is gentle when he says it. "But I know that you just want to go home and I wouldn't ask you to tie yourself here to be with me." He doesn't look away from him as he goes on, "But I can be with you for as long as I'm able while you're here. That is what I want. But if you would prefer to make your way without my company, then I will let you go." 

No one has ever wanted to hold onto him as badly as Shigaraki is saying that he does and Dabi hates that he feels like he's been fighting back tears for two days, because he can't keep up that fight any more. His vision mists red as pain starts in his eyes, blood slipping down his cheeks as he gives into that horrible ache in his chest. And this Shigaraki can't stop trying to be helpful, to be sweet, because he comes right into his space, he pulls him close and tucks his head underneath his chin and strokes his skin so softly as he embraces him. He holds onto him and doesn't say a word as Dabi falls apart. 

Two worlds. Two versions of himself, and he wasn't wanted by anyone in either. He was born wrong, chewed up by his father's ambitions, put through the agony of burning, and then still thrown away. Even if it took longer for it to happen to the Dabi who lived here, he still lost all of it. He would have never been able to get the revenge that he deserved. Would have never gotten any of it. Would have lived a short, awful life in the wilds if Shigaraki hadn't found him and tried to go to him to be his mate. And Dabi took that away from him. Is in the arms of someone that doesn't belong to him and that he shouldn't have. 

Shigaraki keeps holding him as he cries though, and it takes a long time for him to stop. When he finally manages to quell the emotions in him and tries to straighten out of the embrace to insist that the serpent lets him make his way through this world on his own so he can actually go find a real mate instead of holding onto him, if he even has another option out in the world, Shigaraki doesn't let the words leave his lips. His hand comes to his chin and he tilts his head up, dipping his own so that he can lick away some of the blood on his cheeks. 

"Don't--" The word hitches on his breath, another agonizing pang going through his chest as he knows that this is part of the way that they could be bonded properly. 

"Shh, you never have to belong to me, Dabi." He promises. "But I am yours for as long as you are in this world." 

And that brings a fresh ache of tears along his cheeks. Shigaraki doesn't hesitate to lick them away, to hold him close, to press soft kisses against his brow, over his cheeks, his eyelids, his nose. But he doesn't take his lips. It's the reckless, selfish, desperate need in him for something to be good when the world has shown him again and again that wasn't ever in the stars for him. He's the one who tilts his head up and presses his lips to Shigaraki's, and the truth is that that doesn't feel good either. He hasn't ever kissed anyone before, and just skin-to-skin is really nothing but the texture of their lips together, him able to feel the solidness of his fangs behind them, and wondering how his burned lip feels against the other's mouth. 

But like with everything else that he's done for him since Dabi arrived, Shigaraki guides him so gently. He threads his hands through his hair at the nape of his neck, cradling his skull carefully and tilting him so that he is in the position that he wants. His mouth slants back over his again, much more carefully, much softer, and Dabi lets out a weak sob as he tries to hold onto him, his fingers biting into his chest like if he just holds onto one thing it won't turn to ash in his hands like everything else. 

Shigaraki kisses him slow and sweet, moving his lips against Dabi's and making it feel... better. Nicer than the mash of their lips before. He keeps his hands above his neck, doesn't prod his lips with his tongue, doesn't try to give him the passion or violence that Dabi has always associated with sex and has been the reason he's avoided even the suggestion of it since he was so young. He's the one who pulls away and Shigaraki lets him, his grip immediately loosening, red eyes searching his face. 

"You should be with someone who can stay." He hates the rough croak in his voice, but he hates it even more when he lets himself fall apart when Tomura brushes away another tear from his cheek as he murmurs, 

"I want to be with you." 

Dabi is the one who pushes in again and Tomura takes him back. Holds onto him, pulls him closer, and he kisses him hotter this time. He uses his strength to catch him around his waist, arms encircling him completely and able to lift him up so that he can pull him into his body. He knows that he shouldn't let himself have this, but the show of strength, being made to feel so small in his arms as he picks him up, makes his whole body warm in a way that feels like the first threads of embarrassment, but turns sweeter beneath his skin instead of souring him. He brings his arms up around Tomura's neck, his hands tangling into that long mane of white hair that he hasn't gotten to touch before. It's softer than he expected it would be against his palms, and Tomura's tongue feels even stranger than he considered it might when it flicks imploringly against his lips. He doesn't know what he's doing, but he opens his mouth for the kiss that he wants so badly. He lets that forked tongue push in past his lips, lets it taste him and tries to taste him in turn. All the can make out is the copper tang of his own blood, but it doesn't matter, not when the probing touches of it inside of his mouth is sending more of that good, bright heat burning through him, burning away the melancholy that has been clinging so closely to him since this all started, maybe since he went wrong as a child. 

Tomura starts to move and Dabi squeaks, his legs instinctively wrapping around his waist at the start of his tail, so that he isn't dropped. The naga hums softly, a delighted sound at the closeness, as he moves them quickly over to the large bed. Dabi is breathless when he breaks the kiss to lower his body onto the bed, not going far as he slithers between his legs, his long hair falling around them in a curtain as he leans over his body. 

"You're so lovely, little one." He murmurs. 

And that makes the broken thing left in his chest try to force him to find some small sliver of decency in this mess. "I can't stay," he tells him, tries to tell him that they need to stop because this isn't fair. 

"You never have to, Dabi." He murmurs back, hand coming up to cup his face. "You never have to do this, never have to be mine in even the most basic way. You will always have my assistance and devotion while you are in this world." He promises him something that no one in two worlds has ever bothered with and Dabi doesn't know how not to be selfish as his whole body grows even warmer.

"I-- I don't-- I've never," He hasn't ever had to own up to that. It never bothered him that he didn't have sex before, he didn't think it was all that important, didn't think that anyone would ever want to touch him in the first place, and that he didn't need it before he got his revenge. And nothing would matter after that. But now he feels terribly inadequate as he is pinned beneath the weight of the goliath that is over top of him, his body already so different from Dabi's own that he would have been fumbling for that alone, and yet he still has to find a way of making this work. 

He's not expecting for Tomura's pupils to blow, for him to hiss softly as he presses back in to give him a kiss that seems to lick the air out of Dabi's lungs from how deep and hungry that it is. Dabi hasn't ever felt his... arousal start to build like this, normally only finding it in his sleep, and he isn't ready for the way that it makes every inch of his skin start to feel like it's more sensitive and tingly than it was just a second before. He's gasping for breath when Tomura pulls away again, his mouth immediately dipping to his neck as he breathes in his scent so deeply. 

"I'll make you feel good," he promises, his own voice thicker with his lust. "I'll have you howling your pleasure so loudly that no one in this entire building doubts that I am doing right by my blushing bride." 

Dabi's whole body goes even hotter at that, blood rushing to his cheeks as he blushes so brightly, proving the snakefolk right. "I'm not a girl." 

"No, and you're not my mate either." He says, his hands starting to move up to the tie that keeps the shirt he's been given in place. "But we could pretend for a little while." His voice is low, his lips against his throat and trailing down to his collarbone as his fingers tease that knot and Dabi's whole body feels like it is on the verge of melting in a way that he never has before. "You can be my bride, my lovely girl that I get to make feel so good for the first time. I promise that I'll make certain that your cunt, your clit, your pretty tits, every inch of my baby girl's body feels so good." Every word only makes Dabi's head foggier with heat. He thinks that his quirk might be boiling his brain in his skull. That's the only explanation for the reason that such words, that the thought of being... a girl for Tomura, is making his cock start to harden as he goes on. 

Dabi hears a tiny sound, a little whimper in the space between their bodies and it takes so long for him to realize that was him. He never thought he could sound like that, could feel like this when the other man has barely touched him, when he's desperate to be touched at all for the first time in his life. He must be delirious with the heat in his head to make him nod it weakly. 

Tomura gives him another scorching kiss, even though every place their skin is touching is chilled from his scales and skin, before his fingers deftly pull loose the knot on Dabi's shirt. The serpent knows what he's doing, knows how to kiss Dabi so deeply that his whole body is singing for more as his hands, his strong, large hands that make Dabi feel fragile beneath them, are able to lift him enough to gently take the fabric from around his chest before those same hands are moving over his skin. Dabi doesn't know what to do with his own, and ends up tangling his fingers in the sheets as Tomura's move across his chest. He has been made very aware that most of the other duel-species creatures that they've met are larger than him. He's known from the moment he woke in Shigaraki's den that he was so much smaller than the other man, but having him put a hand on his chest and being able to cup the entirety of the muscle in one palm makes his body flood with his arousal. He's never been particularly tall, but he was always intimidating from how he looked with his scars and the attitude that he cultivated for himself. But he's seen Tomura snap bones with barely an effort, knows that he could cave in his chest around his palm faster than Dabi could light his body on fire, and he is suddenly overwhelmed with the reality of just how large and powerful the other man is. 

And he wants him. 

Tomura proves it as his fingers rub against his nipples, his mouth dipping down to lick along his scars and the seam that cuts over his chest without an ounce of disgust or hesitation. "You're so beautiful, princess." He murmurs. "Ever since I saw you-- I was certain that you must have been a star that was plucked from the sky, you were so radiant when I found you."  

Dabi hasn't ever heard himself let out such a sound, but the wounded keen that comes from his throat is nearly as humiliating with how hard his is cock at those words. Tomura doesn't seem to think that any of this is embarrassing though, his hands moving down his waist as he kisses along his chest, his mouth replacing his fingers over one nipple, his lips rough against his skin, but the softness of his tongue and the dexterity of the two-pronged tip of it as it tugs at his piercings there making Dabi moan again. He tries to bite his lip to keep the sound inside, especially when Tomura shifts between his legs, putting the weight of his tail more firmly between them, higher along them, so that he can definitely feel Dabi's hard cock against his body, and Dabi can feel the coolness and the texture of his scales through the thin fabric. 

"Oh, princess," his voice is nearly a purr, hissing out those ‘s’ sounds in a way that has a shiver going down Dabi's spine as he feels and hears just how foreign Tomura's body is against his own. "Let me make you feel good?" 

It's so hard for him to find his tongue, and he still barely manages as he gives a weak nod. "Please, Tomura--" 

But he doesn't have to beg. Shigaraki is more than willing to move his hands down as he kisses along his stomach, until he's at his waist band. He unties that as well on either side and Dabi shivers as he moves away from him, letting the cool air of the room rush across his overheated skin as he sits up a bit. Tomura makes him slip the fabric from his legs and Dabi trembles as his eyes roam over his body so voraciously. It wasn't like this when they bathed together. Not at all. This is a look that changes the nudity to nakedness, to a prelude to the raw desire that alights every feature across Tomura's face as he presses back between his legs, hands curving over his hips and teasing his claws along the inside of Dabi's thighs. Despite the heat of his body, that light prickling sensation that comes so bluntly with the knowledge that if he wanted to, Tomura could split his skin all the way down to the artery, gooseflesh starts to prickle against his skin there. It doesn't keep his prick from aching between his legs beneath the hungry stare at Tomura is giving him. 

"Such a pretty clit, baby girl," he purrs, bringing a hand so he can carefully trail a single finger along the underside of him. Dabi has never felt himself so sensitive, never thought that being spoken to like that would have him biting his lip hard to keep another moan smothered even as the way his clit twitches shows Shigaraki how much he likes it. "Are all of the people in your world so decorated?" 

He manages to weakly shake his head. He only got the piercings because he thought the empty spots of his skin looked even worse. Because he just wanted a few pieces of metal in him that he picked for himself. 

Tomura doesn't close his hand around to stroke him, but his tail swishes as the naga leans back in to give him another kiss that makes Dabi feel like he's offered his body up as a feast for this creature. He's not sure that he would even have a chance to feel betrayed if Tomura did kill him, not when his whole body is already strung out on the anticipation of the intangible more that every touch and kiss seem to promise him. He hears wood against wood, feels the shift in the bed, and he pulls away so that he can see what the other man is doing. He brings his tail back from the edge of the bed, a corked bottle in his grip as he does. He pulls the cork out and spills the liquid inside over Dabi's skin, making him shiver from how cool the oil is as it drips along his clit. 

"Never been such a sweet little girl for anyone else," Tomura murmurs. "But have you ever touched your clit, baby? Rubbed it until you're left trembling and messy?" 

Dabi isn't sure he's going to be able to blush any hotter without actually turning into a fireball on this massive bed. But Tomura won't touch him again without an answer and he barely manages to shake his head. 

Tomura smiles at him, a look that he might have mistaken as sweet and innocent if he had given it to Dabi at any other time. "Good, let me show you your first pleasure then too, princess." He presses his tail back against Dabi's body, the muscles shifting beneath his scales even as he stays stationary above him. Dabi can't help crying out, his whole body going taut as he feels the smooth, repeating texture of Shigaraki's scales against him. The oil makes him slick and Dabi can't help rolling his hips up, trying to get even more friction. "That's it, baby girl," he purrs, his hands going to Dabi's thighs and then he rolls him so that Dabi is slumped against his body, clinging to his torso as the change in angle has his crotch pressed even tighter against Tomura's tail. He moans loudly, trying to rub himself against him. He knows that sex is supposed to be more than this-- he doesn't even know if Tomura has a dick-- but the sensation against him now makes him so desperate to hump him like he's nothing but an eager dog. 

"T-Tomura," he should figure out how to do this right. This is the only thing that has felt good for him in so long, he doesn't want to ruin it all by being so completely inadequate. 

Shig doesn't hesitate to put one of his large hands against the small of his back, making Dabi roll his hips to get more of that perfect pressure against himself, another moan tumbling off of his lips. "Come on, princess, you can feel good. Let me see how pretty you look as you rub your cute clit against my scales." 

Whatever thread of Dabi's sanity was left, snaps completely after that. He moans again and lets go. He loses himself in the slick slide, the soft texture, and the wonderful friction of the other's body beneath his. He rubs his clit against his tail the way that he's seen girls in bars rub themselves against their boyfriend's thighs when they get too drunk and horny to remember that they're in public. He lets himself chase his pleasure with moans falling off of his lips as Tomura's hands move to his ass to cup either side of him and spread him open as he drags Dabi's body in harder. He devours his lips as his tail moves again, the thickest part stays between his thighs, letting Dabi grind against him and chase that delicious friction, but the tip slithers between his spread ass. It flicks, slick with more oil against his hole, and before Dabi can feel any trepidation over it, the tip starts to push inside, rubbing around the rim of him. That movement paired with the ones of his hips, sends the pleasure across his nerves sparking even higher and he can't stop himself from moaning loudly as he starts to fuck himself on the bare inch of tail he's been given. Tomura's mouth dips to his neck, his fangs so sharp, but never breaking his skin as he devours him. 

Dabi thinks that he should probably be embarrassed when it only takes a few minutes of the movements, his hole getting more and more stretched as Tomura gives him his tail, before his thighs are shaking and his balls are going so tight. He's woken with the mess of an orgasm in his pants before, but he's never sought one out while he was awake, and as his thrusts grow erratic and frantic, Tomura catches him by the chin so that he can watch his face as Dabi falls apart. The realization that this man wants to see him enjoying himself, wants to savor every flicker of pleasure that he's sure is contorting his features, is what sends him over the edge. Dabi lets out a loud moan, eyes shutting, thighs squeezing tightly around Tomura's waist, as he pushes his hips against his roughly one more time before his balls are going so tight and his clit is twitching as it spills all over Tomura's scales. The pulsating pleasure that rushes along his length makes him dizzy as his whole body slumps so bonelessly against the other's chest, that blinding rush of endorphins making him feel like he might melt away into nothing at all. 

And then Tomura is pulling him back into another kiss, a soft hiss leaving his throat as he pushes another length of his tail inside of Dabi's hole, the muscles slacking from his pleasure. The movement has him keening, unable to make sense of just how much it is stretching him as Tomura pushes it inside. He feels one of Tomura's hands leave his skin and he looks down as the naga reaches for his pelvis, for the patch of midnight scales that Dabi flushes to see are painted white with streaks of his spend. He's not expecting to also see that there is a... seam. In Tomura's body. In the place that would have been between his legs if he had those at all. There is a thin parting that is getting wider as oil and Dabi's cum dribble onto it that is flushed as bright as blood on the inside. He watches breathlessly as Tomura doesn't use his fingertips, keeping his sharp claws away from his skin, as he instead bends his knuckles to rub along that seam, a clear fluid dripping out of him as he does so. 

"You look so cute falling apart like that for me, baby girl." The roughness in his voice makes the echoes of Dabi's pleasure sting his nerves, that coming even more sharply when Tomura moves his tail inside of him again, curling it towards Dabi's stomach and pushing it against something that makes his whole body jolt. His spine goes taut as that stinging turns into a burning as his body tries to warm back up for more, greedy for it even though his mind tells him that he's not ready yet. "And your pussy is so warm and tight," Tomura hums, his knuckles dipping into his slit and spreading it open wider so that Dabi can start to see inside of him. "Will you let me fill you up, princess? Let me put my cocks inside and fill you up so much that your tight little cunt thinks that you're swollen with my clutch?" 

Dabi whimpers, worried that his brain is not just boiled at this point, but that it's actively leaking out of his ears as smoke starts to trickle out of his seams. It's all animal instinct to have more of whatever he can get that is making him nod his head weakly as he watches Tomura's... cocks start to press out from his body. They're both thicker and longer than his own as they spill from his body, erect with the same dark coloration at their tips, getting more flushed with his blood and flesh-colored like the inner lips of his slit. He's shaped the way that Dabi expects cocks to be otherwise, and as he gets a look at him, the other man rolls Dabi onto his back again, shifting his weight and pulling his tail out from his cunt. 

His nerves fight through the haze of his body's pleasure and Dabi doesn't manage to find words or move as the other lays him back on the bed. He doesn't know if his trepidation is written across his face, or if the naga can smell his fear, but Tomura pauses too, shifting to cup his face between his palms. Dabi has always felt small against his body, but that is made all the starker now as the sheer size of this creature on top of him blocks out any light not reflected off of his ruby eyes. 

"We can stop, princess." He reassures him so gently that Dabi can't doubt the truth behind the words. 

But he wants to prove to at least one person, to the only person who has bothered to try to stick around in his life and care for him, that he can be worthy of the effort. He wants to make Tomura feel as good as he's made him feel. "Don't stop," he manages to whisper in the space between their bodies. Tomura's features soften, and then he leans back in to give him another kiss. 

It's only when Dabi's distracted by how his long hair is tickling his skin, and how sweet his mouth is against his own, that he coaxes his thighs open wider. His breath catches in the back of his throat as he feels the other man between his legs. Big, all of him is so big, but the twin cocks feel enormous as they prod against his hole. He isn't a snake. He wasn't ever really made to put something so big inside of him, but before he can lose his nerve, the slick cocks are starting to press. Dabi's breath catches in the back of his throat as it happens. 

At first it doesn't feel much different from the other's tail, Tomura easing his body into it as he keeps touching every sensitive inch of his skin, as his mouth descends on his neck again. But he gets a stronger pulse of pressure the further inside of his body that the naga sinks his cocks and weight into him. It doesn't hurt, the slickness easing his way, but by the time he's even halfway inside, Dabi is gasping for breath, so full already that it feels like there isn't room in him for the air. His whole body is starting to go so hot again too, his sore clit starting to fill for a second time as Tomura brings their bodies closer and closer until he's completely intertwined with him. Falling apart. He's falling apart around everything inside of him as he's filled up so completely. 

Dabi is seeing stars by the time Tomura is fully seated inside of him and begins to move. It's nothing like the frantic twitches of his hips that Dabi had managed as he chased his pleasure. This is slow, methodical, a shift against him again and a again that builds up a rhythm along his walls and against his clit as more of those smooth, soft scales rub against him. Tomura shows him how good it can be. Shows him how finding the right pace can heighten everything that came before and Dabi is just clawing at his skin, his throat raw from the sounds that are coming out of him as moans and wordless cries of his ecstasy are torn out of his throat. It's good, too good for him. He wasn't ever supposed to have something so good, this world and his own were constantly telling him that. But he wants it so badly. 

He clings onto Tomura's skin as the other keeps moving inside of him. He pulls him into more desperate kisses as he tries to figure out how to make his weak limbs work enough to roll into the thrusts too as his insides are stretched so wide that there is always a pressure against that place inside of him that spills liquid heat all along his nerves. He feels all of it, savors all of it. And he knows that he's going to crave it every second if he gets back home. 

But those kinds of thoughts threaten to sour the need inside of him, and Dabi lets himself focus on the way he feels as the pleasure builds, on the way that Tomura's body doesn't sweat, but his scales finally start to take on some of Dabi's overabundance of heat as they move together. He sees that his pupils are wide, sees the red of his eyes glinting as he looks down at him like... like he really would take a mate as broken and ugly as he is, and he really would love and cherish him if Dabi gave him the chance. 

He is the one who tugs Tomura back in for another kiss, his body going taut with his need again. Tighter and tighter, his muscles clenching around Tomura's cocks and making him not thrust so much as roll into his body, making sure to rub against every inch of his cunt. And then that tension snaps again. Dabi cries out as his clit twitches again, trapped entirely by Tomura's body as he makes both of their skin sticky and wet as he spills. That tightens his walls more, and that added pressure is already dragging out his second orgasm when Tomura reaches his first. Dabi feels the twitch of his cocks, hears the way that his long tail whips across the sheets in rapid succession, before he is suddenly soaked as Tomura pumps his cunt so full of his cum that even the tight seal of his cocks inside of him isn't enough to keep it all inside. it has to spill out of him again and he is left delirious and moaning as it happens. 

There is so much cum in his body that when the other angles his body up again, keeping him plugged with his cocks inside, Dabi can see that his lower stomach has expanded slightly. Tomura can’t purr, but the soft sound of delight that he makes as he brings a hand there and lets Dabi really feel how swollen his guts are with his cum, makes his pleasure clear and Dabi dizzy. He can’t be pregnant, can’t actually give Tomura a clutch of eggs, isn’t a girl, but this seems to be enough of an illusion of it to keep both of their pleasure ringing through their bodies for an extended period. 

Tomura brings him down from that high with more soft words and kisses pressed against his skin, but he lets his skin stay sticky and sour until Dabi is able to get up and go wash for himself. He can't blame the other for that. They had dinner together, he tasted his blood, he mated him. Dabi already wonders if it feels like torture to be allowed all of those things, but it would be far worse if Tomura let himself do the last thing to make a bond when he knows that Dabi won't reciprocate it. Not now. Not when he has to find a way home. Dabi is letting that sit heavily around his heart, ready to insist that the other go back to his den and not waste any more time on him, only for Tomura to immediately pull him back into the bed and wrap his whole body around Dabi's, making him feel so small, and so cherished as he's held against his chest. 

///

Tomura comes with him the next morning when they leave. Dabi leaves the seal in the mailbox outside of the Todoroki house, making sure that he doesn't see any of the people who are not his family before they go. And Tomura lets him ride on his back again as they travel. He always does. He follows him to the next city, two weeks away. And when the witch there doesn't have any way of helping them, but gives word of another, another three weeks of travel away, Tomura comes with him then too. He never asks Dabi to stay, never hesitates to keep him safe, never pushes him for sex, and alway touches him so gently when Dabi is lost in the anguish of not finding a solution to this predicament. He knows it's not fair to seek comfort in the other man's arms when things keep going wrong, but he keeps doing it, and Tomura keeps telling him that it's alright. That he's happy to have whatever relationship that he can have with him while he's still here. 

He follows him to villages further and further away. He teaches Dabi how to forage, how to tell when there are predators around, and tells him more about the world that he is in now. The cities are bogged down, as he sees as they travel between ones months away from Tomura's burrow, with the same kinds of problems as in his world, even without heroes in play. But things are better here in some aspects because even though the wilds are brutal, people can leave and try to make their way there instead of being trapped the way so many are in his home. The people in the wild aren't villains, but they're the ones who have seen what the cities have to offer and have decided that it wasn't better than the potential of the violence of nature itself. 

The city they're at now is the second largest they've been to, but that still means there have only been five witches for them to speak to. Five, and he has met with every single one as Tomura went to barter for more supplies in case they're sent somewhere new. 

"I've never heard of magic that could cross the space between worlds." It's a refrain that he has come to know well in the past five months of travel. "But there is another witch--" Dabi takes down the name of the city, charting it on the map they bought at the biggest city that they've visited so far. Five months so far. He's been working towards his revenge for eight years, and he tries to tell himself that this is fine. That he can make this happen just like he always worked to make that. But when he goes back to the inn that they're staying at and finds Shigaraki scratching at his neck, a pensive expression on his face, it feels much harder and more hopeless than it did even just half an hour before. 

"Dabi," 

"What's wrong? Were prices bad?" They don't have unlimited funds, but different cities have different rules when it comes to what they accept for trade. This city, with a far larger percent of predators, is more willing to trade with meat. Tomura can usually eat an entire person when he hunts, unless he takes down a particularly large species like a deer, moose, or bear. But when that happens, they butcher whatever he can't eat and Dabi dries the meat into strips of jerky. He still won't eat them, but Tomura can if for some reason he can't go hunting again in a week or two once that meal has finished digesting. He hoped that the jerky would go over well enough here for trade, but things are so subjective from place to place. 

"No, I got everything for our next trip but... I need to go back to my den." 

Dabi has been waiting for those words. For Tomura to finally wise up and realise that he isn't worth all of the trouble that he's caused him. He immediately bites back any bitterness, any sorrow, or other wealth of emotion that he feels building inside of himself. He has been expecting to be abandoned. He isn't allowed to be sad now that it's actually, finally, happening. "Okay, no problem. Thanks for coming so--" Tomura cuts him off, moving into his space and cupping his cheeks in his palms, forcing him to meet his eyes, his own serious and somber. 

"Dabi," and he says his name sometimes the same way he calls him 'firefly', the same way he talks about mates and bonds, and that really only makes the ache in his chest worse. "During the winter, nagas enter a state called brumation. It's similar to hibernation, but we don't sleep completely, we just become much less active to conserve our strength for the coming spring when hunting will be better. I'm not leaving you because I want to be away-- but I won't have the strength to travel. I have to go home to rest." His hand shifts, knuckles brushing against his cheek. "You are more than welcome to come back to my den for the winter, and in the spring, I will take you wherever you need to go to get you home." He promises. "But I understand if that's too long for you to wait for any other possible leads. I know that you have a purpose that you want to go back to and I would never begrudge you that." 

There is too much in his chest, too much in his head. He always feels like there is too much happening to him when it comes to existing in this world. So he forces himself to latch onto one thing: Tomura is not abandoning him. He would stay with him, would keep helping him, if he could. But this is something that is in his nature and beyond his control. Dabi thinks he can travel on his own now, but he knows that he is nowhere near as fast as the naga, and that his senses are dull enough that he could be in far greater danger trying to travel for three months alone than he would be waiting. He already isn't making much progress. But he's spoken to more witches now. Maybe they will have more chatter as people travel for winter holidays, if there are any. 

"Okay, we can go back to your den. Do you need anything to prepare? Do you eat while you're in brumation?" 

The smile that splits Tomura's features before he leans down to press a kiss to Dabi's forehead helps to warm him a bit more than he thought could ever happen before. He tries to let that burn away the shadows lingering around his heart. 

///

They get more supplies, different supplies, so that they can go back to the den and Dabi will be able to live relatively comfortably throughout the winter months. Tomura will mostly be staying deep in the den, the space filled with dried leaves and hay so that it holds onto as much warmth as it can, though Dabi's body lingering in the space will also help keep his companion comfortable, especially when they're sleeping. Tomura won't really eat for three months, but Dabi will, and he gets a couple of big bags of rice that he'll be able to cook along with dried fish and tofu. When the dried things run out, he'll be able to melt the stream and ice fish. He does his best to focus on the practicality of this all, and to that end, he thinks that Shigaraki isn't too worried about him. But when they actually do get back to the den and they finish making the space right for him, Tomura slithers deep into the den and stays there, sleeping most days.

And then Dabi is alone. 

It's not real solitude, because Tomura shifts and pulls him close whenever he comes into the den. He presses his lips to his temples and makes sure that he doesn't need anything, and Dabi curls into his chest and warms his body enough that Tomura is able to focus for longer and not leave him alone with his thoughts. But Dabi can't stay in his arms all day every day, and the hours he spends in the snow makes him so... aware of the heavy cold and thick silence that has fallen over the entire forest. He walks around. There are other creatures out, he sees the evidence of them through the tracks in the snow, but the snow crunches loudly under every step, and he feels like being here has given him an extra sense that keeps him aware when he's being hunted. 

He knows that he's alone when he goes to the large crater, cleared of trees, with snow sloping in on the ground that he shattered when he landed, and stands at the edge of it for a few minutes. There are no tracks here at all, as if all of the other creatures who call this forest home could also sense the strangeness of this occurrence and decided that they would be better off not coming near. Dabi's footprints are the only ones that crack the snow here as he walks down to the cauldron. Maybe it's desperation, maybe it's just stupidity, but Dabi ignores the cold of the snow seeping into the clothes that they bought for him at one of the other villages that had to replace his villain gear when the travel through the untamed wilds wore it down far faster than sneaking through Japan would have. He lays in the snow and looks up at the gray haze of the sky above and a pain so sharp and keen goes aching through him that it takes the breath from his lungs in an automatic sob. 

Years. He spent so many years preparing for the revenge that the League of Villains was supposed to give him. He was so ready to finally reveal himself, to show the world that Enji Todoroki wasn't worthy of the title of hero. He was ready to kill him. He was... ready for this all to be over. But the horses he hitched himself to got him hurt, got him sent here. He's not even sure if there is a person in this entire world who has the magic to send him home. Dabi knows how to be patient, how to bide his time and work to get closer to his goals. But he already waited eight years and his own world isn't waiting for him now. The League is probably going on, maybe the Dabi from here is still with them, though if he doesn't have a quirk anymore, then he won't be of much use to them. He won't know to keep his mouth shut about his family and maybe the Shigaraki that was his boss will think he's too much of a liability. Maybe he'll be dead and if Dabi can ever get home, he'll sentence his Tomura to a life without a mate because all that comes back is dust. 

It's a horrible tangled mess inside of him as he lays on the ground, like he did that very first day, blood slipping over his skin. He can look and search for the rest of his life. Until Tomura really does grow tired of this, or they make a bad call while traveling and get killed, or Dabi dies because he's still more fragile than anyone else in this world because he doesn't have the animalistic traits that make the natives so much faster and stronger than him. He could search the entire globe and still never find what he's looking for. And he knows, even if the other version of him is searching for someone to reverse this too, the chances of either of them finding it are slim to none. They might never get to go home. They probably won't. 

Letting that thought ring through his body has him letting out a cry of anguish, of fury, his quirk racing up to the surface of his skin and pouring out across the crater again, sending a cascade of frigid water sloping back down into the crater and drenching him again as that rage gives way. He could fall to despair or he can find some new determination. He has only ever been able to live his life through cultivating the latter and he pushes himself up, his body soaked, but his blood so hot under his skin that he can't feel the chill as he goes straight back to the den. 

His cry must have been loud enough to rouse Tomura, because he is trying to get himself out of the den, an arm pressed against the wall to try and keep him upright through his exhaustion. 

"Dabi-- I heard you-- are you--" Dabi doesn't let him finish, going over to their supplies. It's easy to snatch up the cup he made for himself and crack it through their basin of water that he melts every morning. He plunges it inside and takes half of the liquid and a scrap of fabric before he moves right in front of the serpent. Tomura sputters and hisses as Dabi throws the contents of the cup against his chest, frigid, he's certain. But he starts to wipe it away quickly, moving in before Tomura can fully recoil. "Dabi!" It's a little scandalized, but he doesn't care. He isn't getting home. He's not ever going to get the revenge that he suffered for all of his life. He was brought into this world, into every world, apparently, to suffer. But he is going to hold onto the one thing that he can that has made him feel good. To the one person who has cherished him, cared for him, loved him even though he’s never used that word before. There is nothing else that could explain why someone would go to the ends of the world for him of all people. 

He presses the cloth into Tomura's hand as he pulls loose the fastenings of his own shirt, not caring that the cold is making his skin and quirk clash terribly. He takes his coat and shirt off, and then he catches Tomura's wrist and he brings the cloth up to his face so that he can get rid of the tears still on his cheeks. He's tired of the sorrow, tired of crying over how unfair the world has been. No. He's ready to move past this. 

"Dabi, what's going on? What's wrong?" Tomura drops the rag to put his hand on his cheek instead, trying to pull him to a stop and make him slow down. But Dabi knows if he does, then the reality of never getting what he's worked for for years will tear him apart. He can't do it. He needs something else to replace that if he doesn't want to ignite again. 

He twists away, going to their food stores and pulls out a chunk of deep red jerky. Not fish. He knows that, knows that it's something they hunted, and that, maybe, makes it more special than the big meal they had together when they were actually in the bonding room. He hears Tomura move over to him, and he turns back around, pressing himself into the other's chest, trying to get his head catching up to where Dabi is at by trying to saturate his body with heat without actually slipping over the edge and burning them both to a crisp. Tomura opens his mouth to speak and Dabi brings the jerky to his lips, watching as the tiredness starts to fade away from his lover's eyes as he takes in what Dabi is trying to offer him. 

He sees that recognition come in, the joy immediately chased away as he puts his hand over his own, his voice far too gentle when he asks, "What about going home?" 

Dabi's whole chest feels shattered when he all but begs, "Can't this be it?" 

Tomura tears off a chunk of the meat, swallowing it without chewing the way he does with so much of his food, before he guides the piece to Dabi's mouth. He's avoided this for months, but this is normal here. And if he's going to stay, to make a home with Tomura, he is not going to make their lives any harder. He takes a bite of the jerky, chewing quickly, not recognizing the flavor as anything other than meat that is gamier than the beef jerky he's had before. It doesn't matter anyway, because he made sure to take a small enough bite he wouldn't be chewing it forever, able to swallow it away in seconds so that Tomura can curl his hand around the back of Dabi's neck as he pulls him in to kiss him as deeply, as passionately, as he always had, holding onto him a little tighter though because he doesn't have to be scared that he'll try to bolt if he is pinned down this time. Dabi throws himself into the kiss just as recklessly, his teeth still too blunt and entirely human compared to the other man's but he doesn't care. They're still sharp enough for him to catch his lower lip between them and bite. 

Tomura's blood bursts across his tongue and the naga wraps both arms around him. Dabi's twine around his neck, pushing into him as the larger creature lifts him, and wrapping his legs around his waist so that he can be carried easily. His lover takes him deeper into the den, to the stones that Dabi made sure were warm for his mate when he left the den earlier, and among the soft grasses and leaves that they selected to make sure that Dabi could be more comfortable. He laps up the blood on Tomura's lip, showing him as many ways as he can how much he wants this. How, if he's trapped in another world that didn't even want him in the first place, he wants to belong to the only creature who has ever wanted to have him too. 

Tomura slithers into their bed and lays him onto his back, his weight over him and deliciously smothering. "My mate," His lover murmurs, his eyes bright with his adoration and love. 

"Make me your bride," he begs breathlessly. He wants it to be real. Wants to show Tomura that he's not going to keep running towards a future that doesn't have him in it anymore. 

The words have his lover letting out a growl. Dabi never gave what he would like in bed any consideration before Tomura, because he thought he would die without his body ever knowing that kind of pleasure. But he likes to be his, likes to have him call him delicate and lovely. Likes it when he murmurs, "Forever, princess. Going to spend all winter having a honeymoon with my beautiful bride." He leans in, leans down, his mouth against his neck, "let me taste that blush I have admired for so many months." 

Dabi doesn't have words left, but he manages to tangle his hands in Tomura's long hair, a weak nod as his whole body warms with his arousal. Tomura's breath is cool against his overheated skin, but his teeth are so sharp as they sink into his neck that he doesn't even feel the ache of them for a moment. But when the pain does come, it floods his veins with pleasure so singular and unlike anything that he's ever known that he isn't certain that he'll be able to hold onto any of this at all. He moans loudly, his arms dropping away from Tomura's neck because he needs to kick off his boots, needs to tug the laces of his pants open, needs to have his mate's cocks inside of his body as quickly as he's allowed to get them. 

Tomura pulls his teeth from his neck, lapping up the blood as he hears his tail swish through their den to find their oil as his hands help to strip Dabi bare. "Your blood is so sweet, princess." He murmurs as he laps up the drops that spill over his skin as Dabi's clothes are tossed aside. 

"Tomura," he is breathless from how much he wants this to be more and faster. He needs to know that this is forever. Needs this to replace every rotten thing inside of him that he had before because it was all he thought he would ever be allowed to hold onto. He wants to cling to Tomura as tightly as he has his revenge, wants to focus on making sure that whatever life they decide to have, that he has been worth all of the patience, kindness, and compassion that Tomura put in to have Dabi get to this point. He wants to be his mate and not have the naga ever think that he'll be running away to some distant possibility of abandoning him ever again. His hand goes down to the place where he knows that his mate's body will open up for him, and he can't help the delighted sound that he makes when he feels the warm wetness that is already starting to drip out of him, his arousal so high that his sheath is already starting to open. Just being able to feel how badly his mate wants him has Dabi moaning in turn, his clit swelling rapidly too as he spreads his legs wider to show his eagerness. 

Tomura kisses him again, their blood mixing between their lips the same way it is going to mix in their bodies, as his tail moves up between Dabi's legs, slick with oil. He moans, grinding down against him, desperate for that because it's a necessary prelude to what he really wants. "I'm going to give you the world, love." Tomura promises him as the tip circles him only enough to get him wet before he starts to push inside. "I'm going to give you everything," His tail pushes inside as he presses their pelvises tighter together, making Dabi cry out, his hips jerking up instinctively, as his slick, soft scales cup his clit and rub against him. It's not often that Tomura lets him grind against his sheath, the lips incredibly soft and sensitive, but the sensation making his cocks ache as they can't press out the way they want to if there is something blocking his entrance. "Going to make sure that you only regret that you weren't born in this world because that was years that we went without meeting." 

The words shake loose the last bits or agony that have been sitting around his heart. He can't have the future he thought he was racing towards back. It's just not possible for him anymore. But he can have this. He can have Tomura loving him. Can have their soft, warm den, and the comfort of knowing that someone will always have his back and take care of him when he needs it. That he trusts him to do the same. 

Dabi didn't think that love was something he would be allowed to have either. But he thinks this has to be the thing that is rushing heat through his whole body as he reaches for the other again, his nails scraping along his back, as he pulls his body tighter against his own and begs, "Please, please, please!" Because he doesn't have any other words to tell the other man how much he wants to be full of him and joined together in a way that this world will never be able to take away. He begs and Tomura kisses him again, only fucking him open enough on his tail to make sure that his insides are warm and wet for him, before he pulls back. His hands move over Dabi's body, touching him everywhere that makes his body sing with pleasure, as he shifts so that his cocks can push out into the open air. They've fucked so many times since the first. Tomura has always been so attentive to him, but there is a franticness to their movements now, a passion that Dabi is only just realizing was missing before. A barrier that he had put up between them to keep himself from sinking into what Tomura was offering him. Love. Everything. He was offering him a future.

Tomura doesn't stop when Dabi pulls him in to get another kiss, his mouth desperate against his mate's as he pushes between his legs. Dabi gasps, the pressure of both of his cocks always so deliciously large as they stretch him open. He just pushes in, and in, and in, until Dabi is seeing stars as his arousal is so high from feeling the way that they're joined together forever now, that it takes him over the edge. If Tomura were anyone else, he thinks that he might be embarrassed about how easily that did it for him, but his lover lets out a low rumble of approval before his lips are peppering kisses all over his face as he starts to grind into his body again and again, loosening his muscles further so that he'll accept the thrusts when they work up to that point. Even that, as Dabi's orgasm washes through him, is enough to have him gasping and seeing stars.

"Gorgeous, princess, fuck," his voice is deeper with his own arousal, making him slip and hiss on the syllabate sounds in his words more than he ever does normally. "Love to watch you fall apart on my cocks, baby girl." He rolls his hips again and Dabi nearly sobs because his whole body goes even tighter with pleasure, his legs twitching around where they have been spread wide by Tomura's tail. His lover reaches a hand between their bodies and cups his much larger palm over him, his hand able to completely cover his sticky clit. His nerves squeal with oversensitivity, but he can't escape the touch. Tomura is just licking at his neck again, rolling his hips into his again as he sets them to a harder pace that leaves him seeing more stars. "Show me it again, princess. Let me see how good I can make my pretty bride feel." 

The words, the feeling of his insides stretched as far as they can go, the friction of Tomura's palm against him, has him keening as his clit is forced to stay hard even though his body wants to soften. He can't, not with his mate trying to push every inch of pleasure into his body that he can possibly feel. Dabi whimpers, but he manages to rock his hips up into his lover again. He wants it. Wants to be his, wants to let this pleasure take away every bitter, hurt thing that he's clung to for years. He wants to let Tomura fill up those spaces inside of him with his love, and if the only physical way he can have it is by feeling his cocks spill his cum deep inside of him, then that will be more than enough. 

"I love you," the words are gasped, more a desperate promise than a declaration. He wasn't made for love, but for Tomura? He'll remake himself to give him that every day for the rest of their lives. It's the least he can do when the other man has given it to him for months now even knowing Dabi might leave him, that he might have stolen away his only chance to have a mate after losing everyone else in his life that was ever important to him. 

Tomura kisses him again, the movements slowing, but dragging against his insides all the more tantalizingly. "I love you, firefly. My bride, my bonded, my mate, I'll tear down this world to make it perfect for you." 

Dabi shakes his head weakly, pulling him in tighter. He doesn't need Tomura to change anything about this. About his lifestyle, about the nature of the world around them. Dabi's world never wanted him, he doesn't need to make this world more like that. Not when he has a chance to be with Tomura and make all of this better than what it was when he was there. He can be better, can be happier. They can do that together just as they are. "Just like this," he begs. 

And Tomura proves that even across worlds, they were made for each other, because he doesn't need any clarification before he kisses him again so sweetly Dabi's heart aches as he continues to make love to him.  

By the time he's full of his cum, his clit is sore and aching from the three orgasms he's dragged out of him, and for the first time in all of these months, Tomura uses the strength the heat generated between their bodies has given him, and he goes and gets water, soap, and the washcloths, and then he spends a careful hour, cleaning away any drop of filth that clings to Dabi's skin, pressing kisses to each scar and seam with a reverence that has Dabi crying again. Tomura cleans up those tears too, and when he curls around Dabi's body when it's time for them to get settled back in the nest, Dabi feels like he's finally been allowed to come home. 

///

It's with a healing poultice on his neck that he sits outside the next afternoon and he turns on his phone. He doesn't know when the battery will not only die, but rot, but he doesn't have to keep it inside of the device for what he wants it for. He uses what's left of the power to type up a message. He writes down who he was, what he suffered, everything that Enji did to him and the rest of his family before he burned to death. He writes about the League and how they were a mess of fuck-ups who got him sent to another world and probably killed his only way back home. He writes that if they want evidence of his claims, then a DNA test against his relatives will prove the truth of it all. And he writes... that he's only making this brief memoir because he doesn't know if he'll magically poof back into his own world when he dies. It doesn't seem likely, but it is possible and he wanted a record of this all. He wanted someone to know that he ended up in a new world, that he gave up on getting home because quirks are magic here and witches are few in number. He wanted some record of the fact that he chose to be happy with this world's version of Tomura Shigaraki who is a far cry from the one he met that tried to kill him. He wants it all written down so he can take the battery back out of his phone and tuck the device back into his belt pouch, and let it sink to the bottom, not to be touched again. 

He writes it all so he can disown it and go back to the reality that he wants to live in so badly now, before he goes back into the den, immediately letting his own heart warm as his sleeping mate reaches for his body instinctively the moment he strays close enough. 

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[a13x-128]

Percy jackson x reader headcannons!!

this will be before and during the relationship cause i decided to and yeah.

Before:

Percy didn't realise he liked you at first, actually he just say you as a friend.

Annabeth had to literally convince him that he genuinely liked you a lot more than everyone else. It was SO obvious but it's Percy.

Whenever theres a cabin councillor meeting or anything like that he makes an effort to sit next to or opposite you, taking small glances every so often. He also just likes staring while you talk.

When you had to go on a quest without him he gave you a small bracelet with a seashell pendant. He swears it was for good luck!!

Whenever Sally sends Percy cookies, you are the first (and only) person he offers one or two to. He also only offers the good ones, not the slightly burnt ones.

Has definitely ranted to Annabeth about you. Little did he know that you did the exact same thing the night before about him.

He offers sparr a lot as well, sometimes purposefully losing and when he doesn't lose he's definitely not going all out cause he doesn't want to hurt you!

If you're a year rounder then one time after summer ended he convinced Sally to let you stay with them. Only because you haven't left camp in a while! There's no other reason at all...

How did you get together?

Percy got outed.

It wasn't romantic or anything like that at all, no. It was more embarrassing than anything else.

One day some campers got absolutely sick and tired of you two being obviously in love and decided to take it into their own hands!

Essentially you came over and a certain Hermes child (Connor.) just yelled that he liked you with Percy in the background looking absolutely mortified.

He literally didn't say anything for an entire day.

Then he invited you to his cabin so you guys could actually talk and not just be overly embarrassed because of Hermes kids that couldn't keep their mouths shut!

Turns out that you liked him as well!!

During!:

Percy loves physical affection like there's no tomorrow.

You're in his cabin? Then you're probably cuddling until you physically have to leave.

You're outside? His hand is on your shoulder or waist or holding yours.

Its his way of reassuring himself that you are in fact okay and not going anywhere. He also does prefer being given physical affection then having to give it though, you start the hug with him? He's on the floor melting.

He absolutely LOVES giving tiny gifts. Small things that don't cost anything, stuff he finds on the beach or he already has/can make! They aren't much but he knows you'd like it more than something expensive.

With permission you two bake every other week. Literally something that you two can somewhat make, brownies, cookies or cupcakes. Literally anything you two can snack on.

The baking tends to either end in perfection or everything is everywhere and you two get banned from the kitchen for two weeks.

Random matching things because he just decided to buy two. Things like plushies, seashells he finds, hell even like shirts.