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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 4 months ago

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I’LL MAKE A HOUSE INSIDE OF YOU, I’LL GO IN THROUGH THE MOUTH ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; what awaits you by the entrance to the woods is not a wolf, but a man. he thinks your grandmother can wait.

word count; 14.7k

contents; suguru geto/reader, gn!reader (’girl’ is used only in allusion to the actual fairy tale), fairy tale au, hunter/wolf!suguru x little red riding hood!reader, yan!sugu, captivity, forced caretaking, infantilization, excessive use of ’little one’, hints of stockholm syndrome, slightly suggestive in one part (suguru gets a hard-on, blink and you’ll miss it), noncon kissing but that’s the worst it gets, instances of gore (ie; descriptions of a corpse, horror-inspired imagery), depiction of cannibalism (not involving reader), violent undertones, suguru never physically harms you but it’s mentioned that he could. open ended + almost entirely from reader’s pov. meta narrative.

a/n; happy halloween <3 (i’m late)(it’s 2025) this au has been haunting me since last year so i’m happy to finally have it out …. i don’t dabble in yan!sugu v often but it’s . so so sooo easy to turn him into one just by tweaking him a little bit … if nothing else i hope he ended up awful & hot 🫡 + biggest shoutout in the world to my beloved mickey (@teddybeartoji) for all your help and encouragement w this fic :’< also my belovedest dilly for doing the same and supporting me always … i love u……

[ once upon a time, there was a dear little girl... ]

the sun is stuck in vitro.

a glance up at the sky, in tune with your rapid steps. you’re threading through a meadow, red hood over your head, a basket hanging off your arm; wine and apricots and slices of cake, covered by a crocheted blanket your mother made. the sky you see when you tilt your head is painted gray, a bottomless pit, cotton clouds sticking together like the light layer of mist laying its legs across the landscape. dewdrops stick to your bare ankles as you wade through tall grass.

everything smells wet, fresh, the heavy scent of leaves and dirt — the end of autumn. everything bursting and blooming and decaying all at once.

and you’re all alone. threading through the grass and flowers, nearing the edge of the familiar woods, on your way to see your sick grandmother. it’s a force of habit; from the basket hanging off your arm to the pep in your step, a feeling like that of a page being turned. all of it familiar. this story is your home, you live within its walls. you know your lines, you always have. you know how it begins, how it ends, what it feels like to be swallowed whole — you know your steps will lead you right into the belly of the beast.

you know this story.

(you should know this story.)

only this time, it is not a wolf that awaits you by the entrance to the woods. it’s a hunter.

it’s a man, of tall stature, a shotgun slung over his broad shoulder and secured by a thin leather strap. poignant, a threat and a reassurance all at once, barrel pointing at the sky like a maw wanting to open wide. the first thing you notice. his hair is tied up into a bun, neat and tidy, charcoal strands tousled by the morning breeze, bangs swaying almost hypnotizingly under the hunter’s hat he’s wearing; your eyes drink him in, from head to toe. a dark-furred vest, engulfed by a coat that does nothing to hide the outline of his meaty biceps. his boots are stained with mud.

it’s nothing new.

(but he isn’t supposed to be here.)

before you can look around, make sure you didn’t take a wrong turn, leave your mother’s cabin on the wrong clock-tick — the hunter turns to look at you. eyes like the bark of a tree, smudged at the corners with flecks of rusted gold, their warmth beckoning you forward. the jingle of a bell chime. and only then do you spot a splotch of red in his calloused hands, cradled closely, a poppy. young crimson petals.

he’s caressing them, and he’s smiling.

like he knew you’d be here.

molten, rainy clouds stick together in the sky, allowing no flicker of sunshine to seep through the gaps. once you step inside the woods, the mist will only thicken. a ceiling made of tree-leaves to obscure the world around you. it’s straight ahead, the main road that leads into their depths — the one you’re meant to follow. from where you’re standing, you can spot bugs on the mossy rocks, shimmering beetles, hear the buzzing of a lonely little bee busying itself with a honeyed tree trunk. shadows upon shadows. you’re right at the edge of the second act, but there is no wolf to be seen. no monster to fall into.

only a man, parting his lips.

”and where are you headed, little one?”

his voice is deep. steady, sturdy, seeps into your spine. but tailored with silk all the same; a pleasantly raspy undertone. he’s speaking softly, and your heartbeat slows down, grows quiet as a mouse.

it’s only him, after all.

(the ever reliable hunter.)

”… to my grandmother,” you answer, hands gripping onto the handle of your basket, a smile gracing your features. still confused, but polite, even sweet. he’s weak to it, you’re well aware. ”she’s sick, you see…”

he nods along, smile never changing shape — hand only briefly reaching down to his waist, slipping the poppy into his pocket. you wonder why he doesn’t just throw it away, but there’s no time to ponder on the smaller things; he speaks before you can try.

”i see,” he hums, a low buzzing in the back of his throat. ”and on such a lovely morning…”

the irony in his tone is evident, ripe like a peach. smiling along, you let out what could almost be considered a chuckle — it’s a little out of breath, your lungs constricting in wake of the mist-ridden air.

”mm… it’s alright. i don’t mind.”

that makes him pause, for a moment. ”how kind of you.” it’s praise, sweetened by a roll of his tongue — the hunter tilts his head, honeyed eyes ripe for plucking. ”i’m sure your grandmother will be thrilled.”

”… i hope so,” you hum, blinking through the dew. ”it’s the least i could do, really…”

golden eyes seep through the gaps between his lower lashes, gazing down at you. a piercing stare. you wonder if he can tell you’re lying. a moment passes, and then he’s speaking again, with a click of his tongue— that same pleasing lull to his voice.

”and where does your grandmother live, hm? not too far off, i’d hope…”

”it’s… still a bit to walk,” you chuckle, adjusting your hood, picking at a piece of lint dangling off the fabric. ”her house is just under the three large oak-trees, with the nut-trees below… you surely must know it?”

”… that i do.” for a moment, his smiles laces itself with sticky nostalgia; something warm.

then, suddenly, he’s taking a step forward. boots crunching against the ground, clicking against the gravel underneath his feet. like he’s walking on a frosted lake. aside from the low buzzing of tired bugs, and solemn whooshing of the morning breeze, it’s all you can hear. when he gets close enough for you to see the mole just below his jaw, he’s towering above you — shielding you from the wind, broad shoulders obscuring your view of anything but him. his eyes, his smile, the shotgun over his shoulder.

and he parts his pretty lips.

”would you do me a favour, little dear?”

a tug at your heartstrings. your eyes gaze up at his, wide with curiosity, rising up like bubbling foam in the sea of your iris. a request, something to do; it’s hard for you to ignore its call. always has been.

so you speak before you think.

”sure.”

a pleased hum. ”… i’m on the hunt for wolves, you see.” his eyelids flutter, but you don’t think he misses the way your smile evens out, your grip on the basket growing tighter. ”i know your grandmother needs you… but would you let me treat you to a cup of tea?”

”… tea?”

your baffled inquiry pulls a soft bout of laughter from the depths of his throat.

”tea,” he nods. ”any kind you’d like. i couldn’t sleep at night, knowing i’d left you all alone here with those beasts roaming around… and my home is close by.”

a pause. you inhale the earthy air, taste it on your tongue. a sense of delirious foreboding settles into your veins, a call from deep within your gut.

your mother told you not to let anything distract you.

(… then again, when have you ever been the type to do as you’re told?)

”i don’t know… i’m not really supposed to,” you try to convince yourself, fidgeting with the strings of your cape. you can feel the hunter’s gaze, heavy in a comforting sense; like a mother wolf gazing at her cub, making sure no harm befalls it. intimidating in the sense that you don’t know what he’s thinking.

”… how very well-behaved,” is all he says, adjusting the strap of his shotgun. he sounds like he wants to say something else, but he takes a moment too long to speak. then; ”you seem a little out of breath.”

and you are. your breathing is all out of sorts, your throat shivering under the force of your chilly inhales. it’s cold, and your legs feel sore. the fabric of your cape is too thin to shield you from the chilly autumn breeze, and your bones yearn for some respite.

your mind, however, yearns for something different. something new. a different story, another chapter.

(… you shouldn’t, but…)

”it was awfully reckless of your mother to send you off alone,” he mutters, a low click of his tongue, voice slipping down an octave— something rough gnawing at his vocal chords. ”a little thing like you…”

(… he shouldn’t be here at all.)

”i’d like to rectify that.”

there’s a stability to his words, something self-assured. he personifies a security you’ve never had, an absent smile that warms your numbed-out hands; there’s a warmth to it you couldn’t find in the woods, in the dark and gritty path carved out before you. it makes you think a cup of tea wouldn’t be so bad.

(maybe two wrongs do make a right.)

you stop to think, for a moment.

you could walk into the woods, down the main road, like you supposed to. one step after the other, right until you reach your grandmother — or a hungry wolf. you could wait by the flower meadow, and pick poppies until your hands grow weary, until you have enough to bring home to your mother. alternatively, just until the beast remembers his curtain call.

… or, you could follow the hunter. follow him, like a pliant lamb, until you reach his cabin.

(ultimately, only one of the choices entices you.)

”… alright, then,” your breath turns into white smoke. ”i’d be glad to. sorry for the trouble, though…”

his eyes gleam, suddenly; a honeyed whisper on his tongue. a sense of contentment in the sigh that slips past his lips, the sway of his bangs when he shakes his head. ”believe me — it’s no trouble at all.”

two sparrows take off from a branch ahead of you.

a breeze brushes past your cheek. he holds his arm out, ever the gentleman; waiting for your fingers to curl around his bicep, cling to it for stability. and you do, if only just to please him, because you know the hunter needs to be needed in the same way your grandmother needs pie and wine. the same way the wolf needs something soft to sink his teeth into.

his eyes crinkle, like autumn leaves on golden trees. pats your arm, once, then twice, and says;

”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

and you follow his lead.

you know this man. that’s why you aren’t afraid. why you can’t help but match his step, as he guides you away from the road you’re meant to take, slowing down his strides just so you can keep up. the sun is still obscured, a slob of amber in the middle of the sky, engulfed by sticky clouds. the woods sway in a solemn waltz, bugs scatter away like ravens from the moss-ridden rocks, and when you pass the bushes on your far left you swear you catch a whiff of iron.

before you know it, he’s led you away from the woods — across a field of poppies, beyond the bridge of a river, down to a cabin with a freshly-painted fence.

his home is as warm as his smile.

the moment you step over the threshold, a scent of sandalwood invades your lungs — thick like you just fell into a bag of sawdust. it seeps into your nostrils and burrows itself deep inside your chest, curls up and sleeps there. rich, earthy, firewood and basil from the living room and kitchen, liquid comfort in your veins. warmth, peace; even with the butterflies pinned to the walls, gleaming behind glass. a deer mount watches you from across the hall, its antlers curled up proudly, eyes dumb and dead and animal.

all you can think is respite. rubbing your chilly, frostbitten hands together, blowing hot air on the interior of your palms. the hunter leads you inside, hangs his coat and puts away his shotgun, takes off his hat and steps out of his heavy boots — waits for you to do the same. you leave your crimson coat as is. gently, he takes hold of your basket, gives your shoulder a break. it comes to him naturally, this sense of service; a perpetual motion machine.

you think him a dog, finely trained. it puts your heart at ease.

”make yourself at home,” he smiles.

an absent nod. you’re still busy glancing around, following just behind him as he moves towards the living room. it looks cozy. knitted blankets thrown over chairs, books gathering dust on the shelves, a lit candle by the windowsill. there are carnations in vases, all smelling of spring, the same colour as the eager fire crackling by the chimney — sparks of ember against freshly cut wood, fireworks for only you to see. an axe catches their angry flicker of light with its dull edge, where it lays against a pile of logs, leather sheath curled around it; serpentesque.

already, your eyes have strayed too long. he doesn’t seem to mind. when you raise your head he’s looking at you, standing by the threshold to the kitchen and waiting, lips curled into a soft, ikebana-like smile.

a flicker of amusement passes through his low-lidded eyes. and then he’s turning on his heel.

you follow him.

”take a seat,” he hums, dragging out a wooden chair for you to sit on; and you do so without putting up a fuss, absently scanning the walls and shelves, jars of honey and jam and spices, cloves of garlic hanging in a happy row. a kettle rests idly on the stove, white little petals soaking in a bowl of sweetened water right next to it, reminds you of a bleeding bride. the kitchen table is small, just big enough for two. cozy.

”thank you, mister hunter,” you offer him a smile.

”— suguru.” he pushes the chair forward again, makes sure you’re all sorted, and then steps away. ”just suguru is fine. no need to be formal, little red…”

his voice comes out as something like a purr, interwoven with a morning residue of smoke, fatigue. you can hear it, though, the tender hint of happiness beneath it. he faces the stove, lifts his large hands to open the cupboards above him, and you spot a vast assortment of tea bags; dried yellow leaves, petals and stalks, silken bags and paper wrappings, an earthy scent that pervades the air. cuts into it, forces its way through the thin gap. you inhale, deeply, and feel it take root in your kidneys — no exhale makes the feeling go away. chamomile, rooibos, earl gray…

a cacophony of remedies pulsing in your ribs.

as he busies himself with boiled water and strainers, you gaze out through the window to your left. all you’re privy to seeing is a field, speckled with ghostly pale flowers — barely visible under the shadow of a sky yet to be broken through. in the distance is your destination, the murky woods, tall pinewood trees and willows and clusters of dried up leaves. you wonder if your grandmother will worry if you linger here for too long, if your mother will be disappointed. if they’ll even notice. the basket of goodies you brought rests on the kitchen counter, unassuming.

”here you are,” suguru hums, setting down a mug for you. pure white ceramic. he slips in a teaspoon’s worth of honey, and fills it up with water from the kettle, piping hot, orange in colour, tiny calendula buds swimming like fish in the sea. ”drink up, little one,” he croons. ”we don’t want you catching a cold.”

when you reach out to touch the rim of the cup, you’re stung by the warmth — it sparks against the tips of your fingers, spreads throughout your veins. gives way to a soft smile. ”thank you, suguru.”

his eyes gleam under the dim lights.

”have a sip,” he encourages. ”tell me how it is.”

and you do. you bring the mug to your lips, feel the warmth of the tea seep through the ceramic, steam rising from it and tickling your skin. when you drink it’s an assault on your senses, like the flowers snuck inside your throat and bloomed along your windpipe. hot enough to burn your tongue, rich and sweet.

a sigh leaves your lips. laced with contentment.

”it’s delicious,” you compliment, still feeling the sting on the tip of your tongue. putting the cup back on the table, just to hear the clink against wood.

a warm smile.

”i’m glad.” seamlessly, casually, he leans forward; curling his fingers around the handle, bringing it to his own lips. you watch, owlishly, as he blows on the tea — quick to slide it back towards you. ”… there.”

he must notice your bewilderment, at his familiarity. but he only exhales a soft breath; grazing the surface of a chuckle. resting his jaw on the heel of his palm.

”… go on. have as much as you’d like.”

he doesn’t pour himself a cup until you’ve finished your first. watching you, from across the table, eyes melted into something fond, glimmering faintly.

enamored.

(in every version of this story, the hunter is in love with you.)

that’s why you aren’t worried. that’s why you can’t help but tune out everything except the faint glow of his kitchen, the budding warmth of his home, the tea he keeps on pouring you, cup after cup. the feeling of something deliriously new. listening to the purr of his voice, allowing time to slip you by — sinking into a state of dizzying comfort, slick with safety.

before you know it, he’s shown you around the house, told you all about the lilac-coloured flowers growing in his backyard, coaxed you into warming yourself by the fireplace — he insists. it’s already well past the time you would have made it back home after your outing. your grandmother’s basket is still resting on the counter, untouched, wine and pie and peeled apricots that have probably begun to grow stale. she won’t tell the difference, but you will.

with decision, you rise from the armchair you’re seated on, closing the book he lent you. feeling the stir of a pep in your step, like the kick of a rabbit.

a shallow breath — ’duty calls,’ you muse.

(perhaps it’s for the best; you were beginning to bore of the silence, anyhow.)

suguru makes a low noise, in the back of his throat, seated on the armchair to your right. sleeves rolled up; a light patch of dark hair running from his wrist to his elbow, muscles embraced by the flame-slicked shadows of the fireplace. he gazes at you, silently.

”thank you for letting me stay,” you smile, picture perfect, easy and polite; curling your fingers together as if praying. ”but i really should get going, now.”

the wind whooshes, sharpens its claws against the windows behind you. the sky still dark, rain drizzling down, nothing a cluster of trees can’t shelter you from. the hunter stands up, to his full height.

”… i don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

a twitch of his brow. covered up by a smile. for the first time since meeting him this morning — you catch a flicker of distaste dance inside his pupils.

you aren’t sure what to say.

it doesn’t matter, either way. he parts his lips to speak. ”it’s dangerous… and it’s already getting late. surely, your grandmother can wait until tomorrow?”

”i’m… not sure i should,” you try, fingers idly slipping into the pockets of your red coat. mustering a cheery voice. ”besides, i wouldn’t want to trouble you!”

”i insist.”

…

crackle, crackle, wood splintering into ash. the silence is deafening, thick like a slab of butter on bread. it makes a lump form in your throat, hard to swallow, though you aren’t sure why.

”… tomorrow,” he continues. smile a little stale. ”wolves roam around in the evening. it’s not safe.”

something in his tone tells you he’s already made up his mind. something staggeringly aware — like he’s stating a fact, something unquestionable.

it’s not safe out there.

(he’s right, of course, but…)

(when he opens his mouth, you swear his teeth look just a little sharper than they should.)

a kick to your heart makes you cough up a response, a string of jumbled words. it comes to you almost like an instinct, an unsteady voice. ”if it’s really okay…”

he perks up, at that.

”of course,” he smiles, a little wider. ”of course it is.”

a warm voice, and a warm home, the crackling of a warm fire behind you. it should feel peaceful — yet you can’t help but gaze out the windows, nervously, watching the faraway trees sway. if you squint you could almost make out those golden, piercing eyes, the black fur of a beast in a bush; unease settles in the base of your gut and gnaws at your flesh.

just until tomorrow, you think.

his cabin is a safe zone, of sorts. you’re well aware of that. nothing can get to you, as long as you’re here, with his shotgun close by. suguru is tall, reliable, the only one you can trust — at least he should be. even if he isn’t where he should be at the moment.

it’s in his nature. he looks out for you.

he loves you.

(it’ll be fine.)

”it’s about time for dinner, isn’t it?” he breaks the shaky silence, stretching his arms out, craning his neck with a quiet crack. a clean break of bone. his gaze is kind, attentive. ”time flies… let me make something for you. what would you like?”

”… anything is fine.”

”anything…” a low chuckle. ”what would you say to some warm stew, then? is that alright?”

it is. after a nod, and a moment’s pause, you sit back down; just to feel the soft fabric sink beneath your weight. suguru hums, pleased, makes his way over to the kitchen. the axe gleams under the glow of the fire, and the deer on the wall watches your every move. the butterflies, too. wings for eyes.

(just for the night, you repeat to yourself.)

a hearty dinner, a warm bed to sleep in, and tea with honey in the morning — it doesn’t sound so bad at all. your mother probably won’t be worried, and your grandmother probably won’t die. no repercussions, the script already broke. staying one more day is fine.

… except he doesn’t let you leave, the morning after.

it starts out small. it always does.

(creeps up on you like a bug in a carcass.)

“it’s too early.”

“it’s too cold, you’ll get sick.”

“don’t you want to stay for dinner?”

a warm smile, a smooth voice, a face with sharp lines and soft skin; tailor-made to put you at ease. suguru is beautiful, familiar, eerie in a sense that only makes you feel at home. he’s always been stubborn, you recall. some part of your body remembers.

but never like this. never, ever like this.

never as suffocating.

“you’re too small to know what’s good for you.”

— there’s that bite. it sneaks up on him and grows teeth. he pats your head, with a calloused hand, and you relent. only gnaw at your bottom lip, jutted out into a frown you hope won’t rouse his anger. you’re still not sure he can even get angry, but he’s scary enough when he makes these choices for you; makes you think you have control over your own actions, all the while stealing it from underneath your feet.

(soon, he’s outright denying you.)

“i— i really need to leave,” you try, almost pleading, on the third night. your lungs are constricting, from the heavy scent of peppermint in the kitchen air, and he’s watching you like you’re nothing but a child demanding candy before bed. “please.”

a sigh, and a shake of his head.

“you aren’t listening, little one.” he turns around, clinks a teaspoon against the edge of a porcelain cup. “it’s safer here. your grandmother can wait.”

nails paint crescents on your inner palms.

“… she’s waited long enough.”

frustration sneaks into your tone. bubbles up into your words like venomous pores. you think he must notice, because his smile is especially gentle when he turns to face you again, all lips and no teeth, still as composed as ever. he steps forward, curls an arm around your waist; he’s starting to lose all pretense of caring about your personal space, of not appearing too familiar. pulling you close. steady, steady, steady.

so much stronger than you.

even when you stir, he doesn’t budge an inch. only lets out another mellow sigh, that fans against the side of your face. you think it sounds a bit amused.

“she’ll be okay,” is all he says. “she doesn’t need you.”

…

“she needs you to be safe.” he must have noticed the crestfallen look on your face. “as do i. you’re staying here, for the time being — it’s no trouble at all.”

he gives you a smile, to ease your nerves, honey-slicked and sweet; but something rotten settles in your gut. bile at the base of your throat, sour. it feels constricting, to be held so close, to be forced to inhale the scent of oakwood and musk on his skin. he’s warm. squeezing you firmly, and you’re sure it’s meant as a comforting gesture, but all you can think is burly arms, solid muscles, the crack of a bone. all you can think is that you’re well and truly powerless.

”believe me.”

when he lets you go, lets you scamper upstairs, you feel as though you can finally breathe again. leaning against the door to the guest room — gazing out through the window at the end of the hall, finding comfort in the swaying of the jade-dyed curtains.

something is very, very wrong. wrong with the hunter, the story, wrong with the home you’re in.

(you think you’re beginning to realize what.)

the hunter’s name is suguru. he appeared right by the edge of the woods, seven pages too early — or four, depending on the edition. he hasn’t let you leave his home, despite his initial offer to shelter you for no more than a day. his voice is deep and smooth, gravelly in the mornings or late at night, like an axe dragged through rugged grounds; or the bark of a tree yet to be cut in half. rough. the pieces dig a grave inside your brain, start to reek of decay.

the hunter is trustworthy.

in the story you call home, this is code of law; a black-and-white truth.

(but hunters don’t smell like wolves.)

hunters don’t watch your every move, or keep you locked against their chests, or make you sneak out in the middle of the night when everything is silent. hunters don’t will you to run away.

but on the fifth night, that’s exactly what you do.

once you’re almost certain he’s asleep in his own room, just two doors down from across the hall, you crack your eyes open and slip out from underneath the covers. shivering, shielded only by the flimsy nightgown suguru lent you to sleep in, sheltering you from the cold seeping in through the windowpane. it’s big on you. every step you take is slow and calculated, soft enough not to make any noise; you hold your breath as you crouch down to pick your coat up, lying in a pile on the floor, stretching your arms out through the gaps and pulling it over your head. then you walk to the door, the window behind you leaking in the faintest strings of moonlight.

the sky is dark, the room you’re in cocooned by its shadow. you can barely even see your own hands when you reach for the doorknob and twist.

no noise. no creak.

a soft sigh slips from your lips, just under your breath. your fingers pull it open, and you step out into the hall— not bothering to close the door behind you. paintings line the walls on the second floor, all depicting landscapes, fields of poppies, sheep in circles, a house on top of a windy hill. watercolour on canvas. you wonder if he painted them by hand.

out of the corner of your eye, you gaze at his bedroom door — you can’t help it. under the light of the moon, it gleams like an omen. sealed tightly shut.

your heart strings together a tale of worry.

(it’ll be fine, you tell yourself. he’s asleep.)

and so you venture down the stairs. placing one foot in front of the other, gripping onto the handrail with all your might, trying not to put too much weight into your steps. heart stuck in your throat. one steps, two steps. you can see the fireplace from here, though the flames have long been stifled. pieces of coal gleam under the light streaming in through the windows, blue flickers that disappear when clouds devour the moon. red carnations painted indigo.

eight steps. nine steps.

when your foot meets the rug on the living room floor, soft under your bare soles, a pang of relief squeezes your veins; a moment where you allow yourself to simply breathe. inhale, exhale, because the hardest part is over. almost there, almost free.

your next couple steps are hungry. burning with delight, moving towards the front door, still careful not to stumble over or into anything — but really, all you can think is that the crispy midnight air is just beyond your grasp. it’s all you can think when you fumble for your shoes in the dark, glance up towards the top of the staircase every other second. anxious, despite your excitement. it all bleeds together.

it’s all you think when you pull up the rug by the front door, grab the key you knew would lie beneath it. all you think as you stick it into the keyhole and twist.

freedom. that’s what the air smells like, as it floods your starving veins — as you move your feet to cross the threshold. floods your lungs, as you gaze up at the moon, smiling in the sky like nothing’s wrong. welcoming you back to the narrative. the wind feels cold on your cheeks, streaming into his house when you push the door open, wild and untethered; swaying the field of flowers just beyond his fence.

freedom. freedom. freedom.

you take a decisive step, leaving the boundary of his home —

and the door slams shut behind you.

(a betrayal of the wind.)

it rings in your ears. you stay frozen in place.

the light flickers on, behind the window right above you. casts a glow on the frosted landscape, on your figure — and you know he’s watching. you feel it.

so you run.

it’s sudden, the spike of pure adrenaline rushing through your veins, completely flooding your senses and numbing your legs — you do not feel the cold of the air, barely see the way your breaths turn into mist as you inhale and exhale. you only think to leap towards the fence, fumbling with the lock, your shaky fingers pushing and pulling until you finally decide to simply climb over — placing the sole of your shoe on the picket and tearing your nightgown on the way down, tripping over your own feet and landing on your palms, scrambling to get back up again. the bruising doesn’t ache, the drag of your skin against gravel — you don’t even hear the tear of fabric. you only hear the pounding of your own heartbeat, feel it crawling up your throat like a snake suffocating on the rabbit it just swallowed whole.

it pitters and patters, against your windpipe, and you run. sprint. everything in front of you is dark, mist thick enough to drown in, clouds devouring the moon again — you don’t really know which way you’re going, only that it’s away from here.

your lungs feel on fire, the air gasoline.

and you hear the door slam shut behind you.

(— the hunter begins his chase.)

tall grass melts around your ankles, ice-cold drops of dew and frosted flowers whipping your bare skin, but you don’t feel it, only feel the fear in your heartbeat as it threatens to make your ribcage burst. fear, fear, the primal kind. everything ahead of you is dark but it doesn’t matter, you’re only focused on running as far as your legs can take you — you’ve never felt a rush like this before. never felt so much like an animal being pursued. the wind tugs your hood away.

distant woods beckon you closer, closer still, swaying and waltzing on a moonlit night. you think yourself mad, to follow that shimmer, but you’ve never been quite right in the head, never really. frost, mist, harsh nips at your skin. the sky above is wide and vast, and everything is silent. everything except for you — a litany of frightened whines tugging at your tongue.

you don’t need to look to know he’s after you. yet you still cast a glance over your shoulder, shuddering suddenly, a gasp pushing past your lips —

he’s stares back at you.

golden eyes, sharpened in the night.

you’re knocked off your feet. thrown forward, with an almost brutal lunge, your body hitting the ground of the flowered field beneath you — it knocks the air from out your lungs, and for a moment you can’t breathe, can only feel the wet earth under your cheek and the sickening weight upon you. he’s pressing you down, with all his body weight, and he’s panting into your ear. holding your wrist so tightly you’re scared it’ll break. the fight doesn’t leave you. the rush is still there. but it has nowhere to go, with your legs stuck, it’s just wasted blood sugar.

you can do nothing but wriggle like a worm. fruitlessly. feeling his hair tickle your neck, hot breath leaving goosebumps in its wake, you want to cry, the fear is coursing through every narrow of your bones and you’re completely out of breath. you trash and trash, a sparrow with broken wings, but it’s futile.

(he caught you. he caught you. he caught you.)

”i caught you,” he finally pants, like a wounded dog, collapsed on top of you. but you hear his smile, that sickening sound of relief. ”silly, silly little thing.”

it hurts. he’s heavy. your knee is pressing into the soil, uncomfortably, you feel the moisture seeping through the fabric of your nightgown, his pulsing heartbeat against your spine. now the adrenaline is leaving you, sinking out of your body, leaving you boneless. like an animal about to be devoured.

resigned. surrender.

suguru presses a kiss against the side of your neck, teeth just barely grazing your pulsepoint— and the fear inside you spikes like the snap of a mousetrap.

”what were you thinking, hm?”

he doesn’t sound upset, only gently reprimanding. fondly exasperated. somehow, that scares you even more — the shift, the dichotomy, his voice a soothing thunderstorm as he keeps you pinned against the flowerbed. his overwhelming strength, in contrast to how relaxed he sounds. like this is nothing but the natural consequence of your actions.

”… you never change.”

the vice grip on your wrist begins to loosen, as he lifts himself up, no longer crushing you. it’s easier to breathe, but you’re still too rattled to try. still playing dead at your instinct’s demand, eyes pried open as you stare into the eyes of bugs above your nose. you can’t do anything but go limp, as he scoops you up, holds you against his chest, stands up straight. one heavy hand on your head and the other on your back.

he turns around, begins to walk back to his house, and your stomach fills with dread.

”n-no…” is all you can muster, too exhausted to make anything other than a quiet whimper, a weak weep of a protest. but he hears you, and he croons.

“shhh,” he soothes, as you whine into his neck, panting softly. rubbing your back. as if shushing a child that just had a temper tantrum. “you’re okay. i wouldn’t hurt you, little one, you know that.”

but you don’t.

(you don’t know anything anymore.)

”you’re my baby,” he continues, another sickening coo, and it sounds like a death sentence. giddy. he leans down to kiss your throat and you can only think of his teeth. ”only mine. my silly baby.”

a final glance at the sky, before he’s closing the door behind you. you see darkness, only darkness, a page being sewn shut. worms crawling out of the moon.

your skin itches from the burning cold.

suguru wastes no time in seating you by the fireplace, cocooning you with knitted blankets, murmuring something else about how you worried him sick, doing something so reckless. you barely hear him, there’s still blood on your palms and bruising static in your ears, everything stings and you’re still shaking from the rough fall.

he apologizes for that, too.

”i’m sorry i scared you,” he smiles, cupping your chilled skin, the slightest tufts of hair running down the tops of his fingers. ”but you needed the lesson.”

maybe you did.

he can hurt you. he’s capable of it.

you’re sure of that, now, no matter how much he’d insists he wouldn’t — no matter what he says. he’s fractured any dream of a cohesive narrative.

the tea he brings you smells of cinnamon, hot and sweet, but you make no move to drink it. just kind of sit there, as he tries to comfort you, rub salve into your bruised skin, assure you that he isn’t mad. you vacantly stare at the butterflies pinned to the wall, until he says something that catches your attention.

“once i’ve found the wolf, you can leave.” he promises, rubbing your shoulders, your already aching muscles. as if it’ll soothe you, as if telling the truth. “it’ll be okay… just let me handle everything.”

you raise your head to look at him, to meet the river of gold inside his eyes, weaving webs of silk. holy grails are always hoaxes, that’s how the stories go.

”… do you mean it?”

his lips curl up, just a bit, at the sound of your raspy voice, at the sight of you taking shaky sips from the cup. and he nods, silky, only slightly tousled hair swaying tenderly with the lull of his voice. ”i do.”

when he kills the wolf, you can leave.

if only it were that easy.

this is what you know; the hunter’s name is suguru. he appeared right by the edge of the woods, seven pages too early — or four, depending on the edition, give or take. he won’t let you leave his home, never runs out of tea to pour you, his voice turns raspy when it’s late and his arms are hairier than they were yesterday. this past week, you haven’t heard a howl echo from the woods at night even once.

it always starts small. small, decaying pieces, molding together and creating something bigger, more rotten. more than just a carcass.

it’s a corpse.

(and he’s inside it. playing hide-and-seek.)

he’s still smiling at you, making his hands useful, throwing wood into the fireplace when the angry flicker begins to sputter out. you recall your mother’s words, her many warnings. wolves are dangerous. wolves only want to do you harm. wolves don’t know how to love, they only ever show it with their teeth. always the same old stories, the same monsters at the end of every book. wolves, wolves, wolves.

always a wolf, never a man.

when you glance up at the hunter, his ever so softly parted lips, his keen eyes — you think to yourself that you can scarcely tell the difference. that even if you could, it wouldn’t matter. rot is rot, it still decays. you’re still at the mercy of it, of him.

(you’re beginning to think that’s all there is to it.)

you make no move to protest, when suguru pulls you into his lap. holds you close and kisses your wounds until you’re all warmed up, his honeycombed eyes never leaving your face, lit like a slowly sinking sunset. like a man who finally has what he wants.

by the end of the first week, a pit has opened up inside your gut. it smells of a freshly doused fire.

the more time passes, the worse he gets.

the more comfortable.

(he must have taken your resignation as an invitation.)

every morning, when you walk into the kitchen, he pulls you in for a kiss — always just his lips, no tongue, as if he’s afraid of what he’d do to you if he parted them. his big hands squeeze your hips and even if you struggle, try to push him away, he brings you back in, keeps your wrists locked in a steady grip if you’re really putting up a fuss. purse your lips and he’ll pry them open, as simple as peeling an orange.

he’s sweet, about it. gentle.

”let me say hi, little one.”

all you can do is turn limp. just give in, let him take what he wants — which usually isn’t a lot. a kiss, and he’s satisfied, a kiss and he beams like nothing about this is wrong even in the slightest. a kiss, and then he’ll make you tea, and then he’ll watch you drink it.

it’s been just shy of a month since he lured you into his home. you know what he expects of you, by now, you’ve settled into some semblance of routine; one that mostly consists of you being doted on, coddled. suffocated by his presence. he makes you tea every morning, every night, homemade meals of chestnuts and berries and meat. right now, he’s making lemon tea; slicing them with the blade of his knife, dipping them in honey, coating them in sticky-sweet residue. it does nothing to get rid of the sour essence, bitter on your tongue — only makes it bearable.

there’s a gentle smile on his face when he fills a tiny cup and hands it to you, watches you gaze into it. watches as you put your lips against the porcelain and sip, sip, sip. he doesn’t look away until there’s nothing left, his stare like a dagger to your throat.

it’s rare that he lets you out of his sight.

during the day, you’re free to do as you please — anything that doesn’t involve leaving his home, which isn’t a lot. you spend most of your time reading through the books on his shelves, tracing their spines, writing stories on the walls with sharp marker, painting animals and forests on the canvases he lends you. there’s joy to be found in captivity; you think of the rabbits your mother used to own when you were little. anyone can find comfort in a cage.

and it’s not like he never lets you push the bars a little. you may not be allowed to step anywhere near the woods, or outside his field of vision, but he’s taken to letting you play in his garden when he deems the moment right. just to give you some fresh air, as much sunlight as this time of year offers. of course, even then, he has his eyes on you — watching from the window, cutting wood just beyond the fence, each swing of the axe ringing in your ears like the drop of a guillotine. steady hands, toned muscles and arms, broad shoulders and those sharp eyes, sharp like his teeth when he smiles too wide on accident. you can always feel his gaze, and it keeps you from running away, even though the animal inside your chest screams at you to do it already.

but you’re sure you’d fail again.

and were he to catch you — you’re sure he’d no longer be able to resist. the temptation would be too much for him to bear. you were lucky, last time.

(lucky that he still hasn’t realized what he is.)

you’re stuck here, for now. forever. stuck with a man who seems convinced that what he feels for you is love, and not possession, something to hang up on his wall. love like hunters have for headless deer.

or a wolf for a stack of bones.

anyone can find comfort in a cage. it’s true, it’s true, you repeat it to yourself every night, try to find the silver lining in the home he’s made you. he does make it comfortable for you — a soft bed and fluffy pillows, warm food that settles nicely in your stomach, arts and craft to keep you happy. silken bags that never seem to run out. there are always more dried petals to pour into boiling water, a flavour you haven’t yet tried. he always expects you to drink it all. then, when the moon hangs itself in the air, and you’ve tired yourself out — he tucks you into bed. gentle, doting, his voice like a lullaby when he drags the covers up and sits by your bedside, or curls up beside you and reads you bedtime stories until you’re fast asleep. like you’re his grandchild. it’s never easy to relax with his hands on you, but the stories help.

that’s typically when it happens. when you’re lying in bed, when he’s unguarded, his own mind beginning to drift into slumber. he flips through the pages of a dusty fable, smooths your hair down with a steady hand, and his voice loses an octave; a noise that curls around the base of his throat, rumbles through his chest. deep, raspy, gravelly. just shy of a growl. it comes suddenly, reverberates through you, makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

suguru clears his throat, and you pretend not to have noticed it. he rewards you with another page or two.

that’s how he is, you’re well aware. what he does best. he tells you things without opening his mouth, shows you his teeth without letting you see them. he knows you know they’re there, and he rewards you for pretending otherwise. keeping him content is in your best interest — he hasn’t hurt you, doesn’t seem like he wants to, but you know that he will.

no one can fight against their nature, and he has one set of teeth too many.

for now, playing into the part he’s made for you is your safest bet. the fire inside your eyes has dwindled, he’s suffocated it, and the rabbit in your chest is pretending to be dead. every morning, you drink the tea he makes you, go pliant as he kisses you, and every night you let him lull you to sleep.

a comfortable cage is exactly right.

(but the temptation to rebel never truly leaves you.)

it’s already been a month. a whole moonspin. that thirst for freedom is lingering, festering, pushing up against the walls of your throat. makes you nauseous, makes the thin thread of your patience tear at the edges. you yearn for the woods, the flower meadows, the squirrels and bugs of the forest grounds. willows and chestnuts and silky splotches of sunshine, fumbling fawns. your grandmother’s sickly stench, your mother’s striking hand. anything but this stasis.

you miss feeling alive.

(you’d cut your skin open to feel it again.)

you know running blindly would prove futile, but that doesn’t halt the desire. you’re trapped, one foot in a bearclaw, and you want out. he’s stronger than you, faster— and he’s always, always watching. you can’t outrun him, he’s always making sure you’re near.

the only advantage you have is this:

suguru believes himself to love you.

maybe, if you just beg enough — beg again, when the moment is right… he’ll let you go. maybe he’ll take pity on the pitiful, defenseless baby he caught.

(maybe if you hide your contempt, but show your desperation— you can win.)

the pot boils over with the stench of rotten apricots.

they’re still in the basket you brought with you, under the knitted tablecloth, discarded in a storage room linked to the kitchen. you just wanted a quiet place to read, but now you feel too sick. sick with the stench of rotting fruit-flesh. you can smell it even without removing the cloth, and you know what you’ll see if you do — a bottle of wine, molded slices of cake, and sticky, sickly-sweet decay. dirt-brown in colour.

you’re reminded of the day you came. reminded of how long it’s been, who these apricots were for.

and suddenly, you can’t take it anymore.

(no one can fight against their nature. that includes you, too.)

with a start, you stand up straight, and leave the rotting basket behind you; opening the door of the storage and making your way to the living room. a wreath of bluebells is hung above the fireplace, crackling and sputtering, snowflakes falling softly from the skies beyond the windowpane. suguru is right where you knew he’d be, seated on an armchair and knitting a sweater, looping two needles through thick thread. his hair is down, and his eyes are closed in pure contentment; formed into thin crescents.

the air smells of chestnuts and incense.

you inhale it, walk up to him with a plea on your tongue — your voice a desperate push of air.

”please let me leave.”

his smile falls. before he even has a chance to open up his eyes, caramel spilling out through slits, before he can usher you into his lap and knead his hands into your body, ’warm you up’ the way he likes.

it’s rare, to see him without it. it makes him look naked.

(it makes him look unsettling.)

but he’s still gentle, when he breathes out a sigh, places the needles on the wooden table to his left.

”… this, again?” he clicks his tongue, sounding disappointed in a way you don’t like, a quiet lull. ”and i here i thought you’d finally decided to behave.”

his tone makes you shiver. something about it feels final, like you’ve pushed too far, reached some kind of dead end he’d been keeping concealed until now. there’s a barely noticeable crease between his brows, and his jaw is tense, lips formed into a tight line. not rough enough to be truly reprimanding, but it’s close. you’re suddenly aware of how small you feel, like this.

how powerless you are against him.

but you push through.

”… i just —” you try, gnawing at your bottom lip even though he’s told you not to bruise it. ”i’m just tired. i don’t want this, i — i’m not happy.”

a slip of your tongue, and a twitch of his jaw.

(his lips curl into a scowl.)

”you are,” he exhales, strained, like you just struck a narrow nerve. ”you’re happy. i take care of you.”

a shuddering breath. you inhale, shallow, trying to stay your ground, trying not to falter after snapping on the twig of his patience. you know what sleeps inside him, and you’re afraid of it. terrified. the hunter is one thing, the wolf is another. but there’s a line between the two, and you can tread it through —

tread it through and through and through.

”… you take care of me,” you concede, watching as the muscle of his jaw slacks, softens, ever so slightly. ”but i’m still not… i’m not happy. i want to leave.”

the fire crackles behind you, logs of wood splintering and snapping, budding heat easing the tension in your bones. silence settles over the scene, stretches out and lays itself to rest there like a wounded animal. suguru just watches you, with smothering eyes, like he knows something you don’t; gaze focused, expression set in stone. knitting your features into his mind with a broken needle.

and then a grating sigh.

”… how many times have we repeated this, little red?” he asks, his voice thick with anger, though you’re unsure as to who it’s aimed at. his eyes burn with something devastating, something that smells of a forest fire and wails like a bleeding dog. ”how many times will you make me go through this?”

suddenly, he’s standing up from his armchair. rising to his full height, towering over you, lifting a hand up to caress the apple of your cheek. it makes you flinch, and his lip twitches, and suddenly his fingers are trailing down to the very base of your throat. as gentle as if he were handling one of the butterflies on his wall. you’re worried he’s going to squeeze down, but he never does, just keeps a hand there like all he wants is to feel the rapid thumping of your pulse.

and his eyes burn you to cinders.

”how many times have i had to watch you be swallowed down… by someone other than myself?”

the question hangs in the air like a noose. grates your ears, heavy with an anguish you couldn’t hope to understand. a skip of your heartbeat — except it feels more like a crash. his fingers never move and your body turns to ice, accepts the hand that feeds it, if only because he looks like he could swallow you whole and still not feel satisfied.

”… far too many,” he seethes. palm finally moving from your throat to cup your cheek, and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. ”you’re too frail, too — naive. i can’t trust you to be good.”

a gasp pushes past your lip, when his other arm curls around your waist and tugs you closer, keeps a possessive hold on your hip. his body heat is suffocating, it only makes your heartbeat sputter.

”… you can’t keep me here forever,” you murmur, the words laced with fear. spoken carelessly.

(and this time, you can practically hear the snap.)

a dangerous flicker, through his earthen eyes. it’s there and then it’s gone, and it’s enough of a warning on its own, a spark of fury that has you biting your tongue, squirming where you’re held against his steady frame. his grip around your waist morphs into something almost painful, just a pinch away, not quite enough for you to get away with pulling back.

you hear the words before he says them. they rattle against the back of your teeth.

”i can.”

spoken in a whisper, through gritted teeth, an echo from deep within his stomach— he practically spits them out, eyes burning into yours, an overwhelming density in how he carries himself. the words are heavy like lead, and you can tell he believes them.

he can keep you here.

(forever, and ever, and ever.)

a shiver claws against your spine, drags its nails down your back, and you think he can tell, that he feels you shudder against him. like a frightened fawn in front of a headlight. it’s enough to have his pupils dilating, his fingers loosening their grip, a breath of shaky air escaping his lips— like he’s finding it hard to keep his composure. to be tender and merciful.

once the silence has stretched on for a beat too long, and your breathing still hasn’t mellowed— he speaks.

”don’t you think it hurts me?” he asks, just above a tender whisper, brushing a thumb against your cheekbone. just barely grazing your lower lashline, streaks of black hair framing his burdened eyes. ”watching you be deceived, again and again…”

suguru exhales a bated breath, chest moving in tandem, pressed flush against your own. for a moment, you think he looks rather sad.

”… i’m tired,” he admits. ”i’m tired of having to cut you out of his stomach. you did this to yourself.”

…

when you empty your thoughts, you can still feel it. the warm embrace of succulent flesh.

(you never asked to be devoured.)

”you can’t protect yourself,” he tells you, with the same tone that he always has, the tone that tells you he knows best. ”so i will do it for you.”

a twitch of his fingertips. you feel it, as his hand slides down the expanse of your face, tips your head up with a finger underneath your chin. you’ve gone pliant, again. he leans in, until you can’t tell who the breaths you’re exhaling are coming from.

”do you understand?”

every bone in your body wants to move, pull away, but you’re worried his nails will sink into your skin if you dare to try. he’s positively suffocating, like this. demanding a response. you want to flee, you want to fight, you want to grab the axe behind you and drive it into his skull. you’re terrified of him. you loved him, once. the hands that are keeping you locked away are the same that dug through blood and guts to drag you out of your grave. he’s never letting you go.

never again.

no matter how much you beg.

you can see it in his eyes, the trail of ash they leave behind when he blinks. the carnal desperation in his voice. there is no ’leaving’ him — the fire that burns in him is brighter than yours, far more damning.

so there’s no point.

his lips are inches away from your own. golden eyes peeled open, palm covering the expanse of your jaw, arm like a bear trap around your waist — snapped shut. suguru awaits your response, and you give it to him with a voice that barely sounds like your own.

”… i understand.”

(obedience and ignorance, you echo inside your mind. obedience and ignorance is all he asks.)

a moment passes, and his muscles finally go lax, eyes softening like melted snow; a sigh slipping past his lips. closing in, claiming your own. you can taste what he’s feeling, but it’s too much to bear.

”… good,” he smiles, against your lips. ”good baby.”

the praise does nothing to soothe the pit inside your stomach, but it doesn’t matter. he’s not angry, anymore, and that’s as good as anything. you let him kiss you and it doesn’t even make you want to vomit.

it doesn’t make you feel a thing.

”if you just stay here, you’ll be fine,” he continues, breathing you in and out again. ”you’ll be safer.”

safer tucked between his ribs, or lodged inside his throat. so much safer playing dead all year.

(you think of rotten apricots, and bile rises in your throat.)

a moment’s hesitance. you find the will to speak. ”just… my grandma,” you murmur, pulling away from the kiss by a hair, not that he’d let you go if you tried. you look up into his eyes with a pleading gaze, voice a little broken. ”can you at least… give her the wine?”

suguru pauses.

then sighs, a rock from out his heavy chest. pulling back and giving you space to breathe, cradling a lock of your hair with greedy fingers. ”you don’t have to worry about her, anymore,” is all he says. ”believe me.” he’s smiling, just barely, voice meant to soothe you out of making a fuss. but there’s really no need.

you’re well aware of what he means.

(and that’s the end of that.)

”… okay,” you answer, the words pulled out of your throat by an invisible string. ”i won’t, then.”

the smile you muster is strained at best, but suguru glows in its light. looks proud, eyes crinkled at the edges, burning pages of paper on an open fire.

a coo on his tongue that he wants to let out.

”sweet thing,” he purrs, sweltering. ”you were just feeling a little cranky, hm…? must be hungry.”

his hand caresses your stomach, rubbing the skin just beneath your navel, and you feel the beginnings of nausea swell up in the very back of your throat. but you stifle it, lean into it, you have no choice.

you nod, and he smiles.

”i was meaning to use that wine for something, anyway…” he lets out a hum, thinking for a moment. ”coq a vin, perhaps? would you like that, little dear?”

”… mhm.”

he seems content, with that response.

the snow outside the window mocks you with its shimmer.

time continues to pass. the cycle repeats, the same as always.

you think you’re finally starting to get used to it.

suguru grows more wolfish by the day. there’s more hair on his arms and chest, his teeth are longer, when he kisses you he sometimes starts to drool. his voice is deep, his meals taste about the same, he still never runs out of lullabies or bags of tea. wolfsbane, lupine, ipomoea alba — he tastes them on your tongue, drinks them from out your mouth. you’re beginning to forget who you were before him. every day, he tells you that he loves you. you think you could believe it if you tried. maybe, you could even love him back.

if only you didn’t know the truth.

it’s more than a suspicion, now. no longer an if, but a when, a question you don’t dare ask — but there’s no need to. when the hunter falls asleep, the wolf makes tea in the kitchen. you live with them both. they’re a duo, a pair of lovers; never one without the other.

(one of these days, you’re sure they’ll eat you.)

the book you’re reading feels weighty in your hands. you’ve already read it before; you’ve read nearly all of them, fingers far too familiar with the dusty shelves. suguru promised to go get more, though you have no idea from where. you’re not sure knowing would do you any good. he’s upstairs, in your room, scrubbing at the walls to get rid of all your scribbles. it’s bound to take a while — if you dashed out the door now, maybe he wouldn’t notice. but the key is in his pocket, and he’d hear the crack of window glass.

it’s nothing more than a temporary comfort— something to indulge in, roll around and around in your head until you realize how silly you’re being.

you’re broken down, plain and simple, and winter is gnawing itself into the world. ice-cold teeth sinking into the ground beneath your feet, and eating the baby hares buried there. suguru chops wood for the fireplace every single day, just to keep you warm, made a sweater for you that smells too much like him. you sneak a glance out the window, admiring the heavy blanket of pure-white snow draped around the woods; a red fox scurries across your vision, yipping joyeously, skeletal trees shimmering faintly in the distance. a whole world just without you.

it’s comforting. the air smells slightly toasted and your feet are warm, clad in fuzzy socks. you haven’t been outside in some time; suguru’s been reluctant since you sprained your ankle on a sheet of ice in the backyard. you wish you’d hit your head instead.

(you miss the cold sting of the wind.)

each turn of a new page drags you deeper into your own subconscious, sinking into a fragile illusion of peace. paper-thin, falling upon your thumb, your eyes scanning the inked letters tiredly. stories aren’t worth reading more than once, you think, the magic fades away eventually. you can barely taste the citrus the protagonist eats, fingers dipping between the ridges, teeth sinking into the tender flesh. rinse and repeat. boring, boring, you want something new — a thriller, a romance, even something like —

a noise, echoing from the hallway.

rap, tap, tap.

(knuckles against wood.)

it rings in your ears. rattles down your spine. two seconds, eight, ten — all thoughts disappear from your brain and leave only misty foam behind them. a blank slate. rap tap tap, curling inside your ear canal.

when you come to, your heart is pulsing.

a moment of silence. the house is quiet, so very quiet, you’re afraid suguru will hear your breathing from the second floor. everything feels frozen solid and suddenly you want to hurl, get the sickness out of your gut — watch it spill out all over the floor. but you remain planted in front of the fireplace, watching flames flicker and lick a stripe from coal to wood, waiting for something to happen.

(it already has.)

another knock.

this time, you shoot up to your feet — like your mind just realized it wasn’t an auditory hallucination, another mass of hysteria seething in your frontal lobe — your hands clammy as they try to find solace in the fabric of your clothing. gripping onto the wool.

on shaky legs, you move forward. making your way towards the hall, slow and steady, soles against soft flooring. eyes blown wide, skittishly peeking around, out the windows and towards the stairs. suguru. you picture him on his knees, tail wagging behind him, dragging wet cloth against faded tapestry, salvaging his ruined walls so you can ruin them again. you picture him hearing the knock, rushing down, pinning you against the floor until your knees ache.

you picture him none the wiser, and inhale the air like you haven’t in days — gathering courage, dragging your feet towards the source of the noise.

pitter, patter, pitter, patter.

your heart throbs inside your chest, flexes its legs until it knocks against your ribs, makes you jolt — your lungs holding onto every breath you take with shaky fingers. the deer mount on the wall gazes at you, antlers pointing towards the front door, and when your eyes land on the handle you swear you can feel it. the presence of a living, breathing thing.

just behind the door.

and you can do nothing but stare. unblinking, heart still crammed at the base of your throat, scraping at the walls like a squirming bug. you feel like a deer trapped in headlights. your mind crackles, halts, comes to life again, the pages coming undone from their bindings and spilling out over the floor — smudged with ink, a seven-letter word.

freedom. freedom. freedom?

(hope.)

a third knock, more curt. it sends a tingle down your spine, down your bones, makes your hand twitch, as if eager to twist the doorknob. finally, someone is here. someone came to get you. no one forgot.

no one forgot about you.

you move your leg, and —

”keep still.”

… a breath brushes against your neck.

(ba-dump. ba-dump.)

only stillness. only silence, strangling you. there’s someone behind you and you didn’t even notice, there’s a hand on your hip to keep you in place, another latching itself onto your mouth to keep you from making any noise. your heartbeat spikes, collapses in on itself, but he is there to catch you.

he’s always there to catch you.

suguru has you enveloped, his scent like a heavy pelt tossed over your shoulders, familiar tones of earth and musk polluting your senses. you’re wrapped up in it. you feel so small, small enough to disappear into the dip between his chest and stomach, right between his ribs. he’s keeping you so still you barely remember to breathe, can only pant shallowly against his big hand and pray he isn’t angry at you.

too frightened to do anything else, you gaze at him out of the corner of your eye.

and ah, there it is. black hair, golden eyes, a silent quiver of his jaw; like he’s trying not to snap it, trying not to bare his teeth. they’re sharp. when he kissed you this morning you felt them nip at your skin.

(you think he was trying to control himself.)

his pupils are sharpened, eyes blown open, staring straight ahead. he’s making no noise, no sound, only the most subtle of breathing patterns — like a hunter in waiting, like he’s got one finger on the trigger.

yet another knock, impatient, and his grip around your waist grows tighter. a barely audible growl rumbles in his throat, you feel it against the back of your head, let out an involuntary whimper that has something growing hard behind you but you refuse to acknowledge it, refuse to think about it, you’d rather die. he’s immobile and you’re just as paralyzed, only able to watch the door, watch your salvation slip away. again. again and again and again.

one, two, six, nine. the seconds tick on in time with your mismatched heartbeats, and nothing happens.

then, the sound of boots against gravel.

moving farther, and farther away.

(they’re leaving, they’re leaving, they’re leaving.)

”… there,” he rasps, finally, lethally deep, as if culling a calm to your nerves. it doesn’t work, only makes your heartbeat pick up in speed, another tiny whimper muffled against his hairy palm—

you swallow down a sniffle.

and he loosens his grip, sharp eyes melting into liquored honey. a coo, as he spots the beginnings of tears at your lashline, glistening like morning dew.

(you can’t take this, anymore.)

”… my poor baby,” comes a croon, a voice thick with fondness; shushing you softly, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb. ”poor little thing.”

you’re still pressed against him, chest to back, he’s warm and suffocating and you’re reliant on his thrumming heartbeat just to find your own breathing. he’s cradling you like a mother to her child, and it makes you feel anything but safe— makes you feel like a bird in the maw of a rottweiler, like your clothes are soggy and dragging you underwater. your chest is caving in, hot tears burning at your eyes, and god, you’re just so fucking tired.

you’re tired of this. tired of him, tired of the story you’re in. tired of having to hope again and again.

(no one’s coming to rescue you. no one at all.)

”must have been so scary,” he continues, rubbing his cheek against your head, leaning down to smear a kiss against the side of your neck, ”’m sorry. i’ll handle everything, you hear me? don’t be afraid.”

another sniffle, you can’t help it. you bite down on your lip to stop it but all it does is make you taste iron, hot and heavy, a burning sting. your voice feels wobbly, forcing it into shape feels like trying to turn water into ice with your bare fingers; yet you try.

it comes out pitiful.

a broken, battered whisper.

”… i wanna go home…”

more of a whimper than a sentence, it pulls a sigh from out his lips. ”you are home,” he tells you, softly.

you struggle to withhold a bubbling sob, one you know will have you stuck in his arms for the rest of the night. your limbs feel limp but you still dig your teeth into your bottom lip and wipe at your eyes with frustrated humiliation, refusing to let him see you crumble. suguru stays still, just watching, waiting for the ripe moment to pluck your tears and comfort you, but he won’t get it. you won’t give it to him.

when he noses at your pulsepoint, something like an animal whine rips from your throat, scratchy and dry. you squirm, scratch at his forearms where they’re wrapped around you — panicked, feral — and he lets go. he lets you glare at him, through eyes wet with freshly spilled tears, only gives you a look you know means he’s feeling sorry for you. something like a silent oh, look how you’re trembling, look how much you need me, poor thing. it’s demeaning, but all you care about is pushing him away, storming up to your room. for once, he lets you. must think it’s best you deal with your little tantrum on your own for now.

you’re sure he’ll come knocking when it’s time for your bedtime story, but for now you’re alone. free to close the door behind you, collapse against it.

a weak, gurgling sob.

home. this is home.

(if you accepted that — would it hurt any less?)

all you can muster is the strength to smush your snotty face against your elbows, knees against your chest, curling in on yourself. choking out hitched little breaths, all broken and bruised and wrecked into bits. a marble bashed against concrete, over and over and over again, there’s nothing there but glass-splatter. you’re glad he isn’t here to see it. glad he can’t force you to seek out his body warmth, his steadying heartbeat, that you won’t have to hear him coo out reminders that you aren’t needed out there.

(nobody out there needs you. not your mother, or your grandmother, not the story you’re in.)

(you’re a lousy protagonist. better off in the ground.)

if only you could bring yourself to believe it. if only you were capable of swallowing down hope without spitting it back out again. if only you knew better than to trust a wolf, or a hunter, or anyone at all.

if only you weren’t you —

maybe this wouldn’t have happened.

broken, broken, a crack in the middle of your heart.

suguru comes knocking at your door, eventually. there is no lock, you have to let him in, but by then you’re fast asleep. faded into a dreamless slumber.

(you won’t feel it, won’t see it, won’t have to kiss him back. he’ll tuck you into bed without waking you.)

it happens, at last. a long overdue curtain call.

but not to you.

the smell of rot sticks to the walls, bleeds out against the carpet and wails like a dog. the stench of flesh, suffocating ever narrow of your cells, the marrow of your bones. he probably thought you’d be asleep. he probably doesn’t know how thin the walls are.

you stand by the threshold to the kitchen, and peek in through the gap left by the storage room’s open door.

pale moonlight spills in through the window, casts a dim-lit blue across the floorboards and shatters on suguru’s back. illuminates him, where he lays, hunched over like a dog. eating something.

someone.

(a man with a shotgun over his shoulder.)

you can barely make it out, seeing only shadows and shapes. hell on earth, hell permeating the world and forcing it down your throat. you can’t see his face, only his ears, his tail, beautiful blood pooled underneath his knees and glistening in the light. can only hear the noises of him chewing, the sickening crack of a bone being split, gnarls and growls like he’s having trouble fitting it all into his mouth, taking too-big bites all at once. they make you nauseous, make your stomach twist with panic and disgust. desperate to quell your terror-struck breaths, you keep a hand clasped over your mouth— willing your guts to stay unspilled. you’d rather not have him clean it up; rather not owe him any favours at all.

rather not interrupt him in the middle of his meal.

the stench is excruciating. iron and molding meat, damp clothes and patches of wet fur. thick. it makes tears sting behind your eyelids, burn at your lashline, your entire body shaking, skeleton rattling under your skin— panic wailing in your shuddering veins.

it’s happening. it’s happening, but not to you.

(and isn’t that a blessing? to play the role he always has. always just watching everything go wrong.)

(maybe you’ve always hated him. maybe you just couldn’t tell.)

it takes effort to keep yourself upright, to force your knees not to buckle. you’re scared, you’re scared, whatever rabbit made a nest inside your heart is trying to gnaw its way out and it hurts. you’re cold and hot all at once. you think you might pass out, like this; clutching onto the wall with unsteady fingers.

suguru seems to be enjoying himself, feasting on god knows who, tearing through veins and muscle tissue, carving a path that reeks of rotten fruit and guts. it’s horror incarnate. you pray it’s all a dream, a nightmare. you pray you’ll wake up soon. but you’re still frozen when you squeeze your eyes shut, and he’s still hunched over in the storage room when you open them. shallow breaths scrape against your throat, and you swallow down the bile building up at its base. taking a wobbly, wobbly step back.

you thank your lucky stars he does not peek over his shoulder. tip-toeing towards the stairs, leaving the blood and the grit behind before he spots you. you are gone by the time he’s finished, gone by the time he licks the entrails from between his teeth and cranes his head to look behind him.

golden eyes violating the dark.

when you crawl back into bed, fruitlessly trying to gain control over your trembling limbs, wipe the sight from your mind — you are sure of only one thing.

this is the tipping point. this is where the cup runs over. it has to, or it’ll break into pieces, bleed open. you’re never going to forget this; the buzzing of fleas, the smell of rotten apricots. the smell of death, hot and heavy, iron seeping into the back of your tongue and tearing out your teeth. warm, hot blood. gurgling up at the base of your throat with steady thumps.

(your story wasn’t supposed to be like this, a voice echoes in your head. not like this.)

terror. terror. desperation, a silent crack in the night. something in your gut settles, right when you feel so faint you’re sure you’ll pass out — a cold calm.

suddenly, you know what you have to do. you know exactly what the story is about to demand.

(keep that fire burning. even if you burst aflame.)

you stare at the ceiling until dusk turns to day.

a tentative sip.

you hold onto the rim of the cup with steady fingers, warm skin against cold porcelain, and drink slowly; one gulp after another. it tastes good. mellow and vibrant, makes a home on the roof of your mouth, sticks to the back of your teeth. there’s a nutty aftertaste that you can’t help but savour.

he’s trying out something new, today; a bundle of golden leaves, simmering in the liquor-like water, a trail of sweet-smelling steam wafting up into the air. beautiful, if nothing else. flickering softly.

it’s a wonder you still haven’t grown tired of tea. a wonder he keeps finding new ones for you to try.

(he’s fond of flowers, you’re well aware. fond of plucking them by hand, while they’re young and pretty, robbing them from the ground, putting them in hot water and vases and paintings on the wall.)

(yesterday, he asked if he could do your portrait.)

it’s time for your bedtime story. you’re curled up in bed, on freshly washed silken sheets, buried under a fluffy blanket with suguru to your right, sitting on a wooden chair with a fable in his lap. paintings of rabbits and foxes, girls and goats. they’ve grown more childlike, over time, the books he reads to you aloud; the ones he keeps on his shelves. he doesn’t like it when you indulge in anything too graphic.

a nightlight keeps you company, shines a light on the pages in the dark of your room. a small comfort.

in tandem with his words, the curtains sway, tender as the lull of his tongue— window barricaded just behind them. he’s wearing a blouse, with puffy sleeves that barely reach down to his elbows anymore. he’s gotten bigger. there’s a rasp in his throat when he speaks but the softness is still present, the silent turning of another page, he holds them in between his fingers before letting them fall. looks at peace. it’s raining outside, a quiet drizzle, warming up the earth from the frost and snow — a gentle pitter patter against the windowpane. you can almost smell the damp earth, the moss and worms, content to imagine it as tea trickles down your throat, pumps its way into your heartbeat.

content to watch your captor playing house.

(soon, this’ll all be over.)

(soon.)

”… your arms are hairy, suguru.”

your words cut into the silence, shatters the illusion of peace and quiet, spill into the open air. the wolf by your bedside looks surprised, for a moment; a silent series of blinks, raven lashes taking flight. usually, you’d be nothing but silent during this routine.

”do you not like it?” he asks, letting the page flutter shut, fall over his thumb. ”i can shave.”

you pay no mind to his response. only push yourself up on your elbows, sluggishly, reach your fingers out to curl around his roughed up knuckles.

”and your hands are big…”

a flicker, in his ashen eyes. he lets you trace along his hands, dip your fingertips down the valleys and across the bumps, the callouses and scars.

(and oh, he knows what you’re doing now.)

so he plays along.

”… the better to hold you with,” he whispers, low and sweet — bringing your hand to his lips, smearing a kiss against the inside of your palm. you feel the curve of his smile cut into your skin.

a beat. your hand slips away from his touch, travels down to his jaw, tips it up with a thumb beneath his chin. suguru eyes you. hungrily, your instincts tell you. he’s pliant, though, a domesticated thing — doesn’t bat an eye when your fingers tug at his upper lip and expose a row of white teeth. pink gums.

a silent intake of breath.

”… and your teeth are sharp.”

silence. you can see your own reflection in the gleam of his canines, watch it waver like great tides in the sea. you look nothing like you remember.

and suguru looks conflicted.

”the better to…” he whispers, latches onto your wrist and cups your palm— keeps it in place as he nuzzles against it, closing his mouth. ”protect you with.”

something in your chest tightens and coils, at that. he smiles, almost sheepish, and you want to kill him, want to drag his own axe through his stomach, hear the clanking of metal against the bone of a rib.

a voice like no other rings in your ears.

(at least have the gall to say it out loud.)

the fwhip of a book being shut. his thumb slips out from between the pages, comes to rest against the spine, and you know it’s time for bed. you feel a tentative lick, against the skin of your palm, before he’s letting go of your wrist. it makes you shudder, and his eyes crinkle like you just did something cute.

(it’s nearly over. it’s nearly over.)

you feel as if you might throw up.

”… goodnight, sweet thing.”

his voice curls into your mind, around your neck, wriggles like a worm inside your ear. you don’t say it back. you stay silent, as he pulls away.

the nightlight flickers off.

once upon a time, you’re sure your story had an ending.

it’s a distant memory, at this point. a bundle of blurry memories, a sense of knowledge about what goes where. but you can still recall the catharsis.

at its core, little red riding hood is a tale about foolishness. a tale about girls who stay snug in the bellies of beasts, curl up close to their intestines and wait patiently to be rescued. this is no surprise to you. you’ve been devoured thousands of times, it’s in your nature, what you were born to do— there is no version of the story where you aren’t tangled up in meat thread or being swallowed whole. no version where you aren’t a victim, born to wait your turn.

you’re well beyond accepting that.

all children must exit the womb, and all little reds must escape the wolf’s stomach. neither cage was meant to keep you, even if he’d disagree.

but now you really are trapped.

(trapped in the cage he made you, a bookmark glued to paper-skin.)

you sit in his armchair, and gaze into the fireplace. waiting for a cue. suguru is in the kitchen, as always, the sound of a whistling kettle seeping through the air, chattering with steam. gusts of wind claw against the windows, wail and whine against the glass. the woods sway in the distance, mocking shades of green shimmering faintly; beckoning you closer, closer still, into their depths. winter is about to end.

the sun is stuck in vitro.

the deer mount on the wall looks at you with dead, glazed-over eyes. dead like the pinned-up butterflies, dead like every single thing in his home. dead tea leaves, dead men in storage rooms, dead little reds.

the axe glimmers by the fireplace.

an inhale, inflating your lungs. it has to end. the story hungers for it — there has to be some way to reach it.

(everything’s already broken, anyway.)

crackling, splintering, wood on fire. ash gathers at the bottom of the hearth, tears itself into pieces and crumbles into a lifeless heap. your eyes watch the flames lick into each other’s mouths, make a home there. they’re consuming each other. getting their fill. you think of his tongue, his teeth, his voice— you think of the shotgun over his shoulder and the glint in his eye, his greedy hands squeezing at your midriff. you think of the axe, just resting there, leather sheath snug around the steel. waiting, waiting, waiting.

”the tea is ready, honey.”

— and you stand up.

his voice carries across the living room, a jumbled growl of syllables — you scarcely hear them, eyes fixated on the gleaming steel in front of you. fingers hungry for contact, eager to rip the sheath right off.

it’s time to choose an ending.

you could live in his belly, if you wanted, just like this. forevermore. could tuck yourself between his teeth and grow comfortable there. that, or you could cut your way out — stain the last page red yourself, before he gets the chance to. lick the excess off your wrist and tear the binding in half. it’s all or nothing, this or that; an axe in his stomach, his teeth in your neck. your choice, yes, but it’s time to make it.

you know which one you want.

(”and little red riding hood reached for the axe.”)

— it feels right, in your hand. feels right to hold, have it weigh you down, become part of your skeletal structure. everything finally feels just right.

an inhale. your breathing turns more shallow, quiet breaths seeping from out your throat, lips parting silently. a flicker, your gaze darting in the direction of the kitchen, zeroing in on the shadow cast across the threshold. heart, liver, lungs. you can feel them all, count them all. they’re all clambering up your esophagus. worms in your throat, under rocks.

(now. now. do it now.)

hunger. hunger. hunger.

you don’t care what the consequences are, anymore.

a moment of silence. you hear not the whooshing of the wind, the whistling of the kettle, or the sound of tea being poured into cups. you hear neither his voice nor your own footsteps — only the steady beating of your own heart, a bunny about to break into sprint. one step forward. two. his back is visible, the hair at his nape, he’s pouring tea into porcelain cups. he’ll never know what hit him, what he brought into his home. ba-dump. ba-dump. the floorboards split apart, and the binding comes undone.

his guts will spill out just the same.

[ … and ▇▇ ▇ne did ▇▇▇ing t▇ harm h▇▇, ▇ver again. ]

you creep up behind him, stealthy as a fox —

and swing.

#geto x reader #geto x you #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x you #jjk x reader #yandere geto #cw dark content #cw yandere

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smileycarat · 1 year ago

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idol!wonwoo x idol!reader pt 2

in which wonwoo and reader have more cute moments together in public that send fans into a frenzy

a/n: thank you soooo much for the love the other wonwoo x idol!reader received, it meant the world <3 this could be seen as a part two but it can also be read as a standalone! lmk what you think and pls like and reblog <3

talk about a power couple

the first time that you both get spotted at the airport, there was a mass surge of people and paparazzi trying to capture the perfect shot of you

not only did you have bodyguards form a circle around you both to separate you from the crowds, but the airport security also had to step in and provide another barrier

there were still video footage of wonwoo holding your hand and leading you out at a brisk pace as he followed the bodyguards in front of him

fans couldn’t handle the fact that you both wore matching bucket hats to the airport

there is also footage of him waiting for you to get into the car and away from the paparazzi's eyes before stepping in after you

since his Instagram post that confirmed your relationship, people have been all the more eager to capture moments of you both together publically

there was one day when there were pictures leaked of you both at the park, seemingly towards the end of a picnic date

in defense of you both, you had been at a park that was slightly more secluded and you had been in a corner under a tree

and you had both been wearing masks, but that did not deter fans from being able to recognize you

however, in the pictures, you were both sitting above a picnic blanket, and wonwoo was leaning against the tree that was providing you both with shade

you had your head lying on his lap as you spoke animatedly with your hands, and his own hands were playing with the ends of your hair as he listened to your story

there was another picture of where he was tugging you up from under your arms until your upper body rested on his own and he was hugging you from behind

lastly, there was a short video of you both still in the same position, looking around quickly (yet missing the camera facing in your direction) before removing your masks for a quick selfie

fans begged and pleaded under your posts for you to upload the selfie, but for now, they will have to deal with the grainy footage of you and wonwoo

you were known to tease your fans, so the day you posted a picture of the picnic, it being of the blanket with all the cute food set up, inadvertently confirming you knew about the picnic fiasco, people lost their minds

wonwoo was right behind you posting an instagram story of the sky, covered by the greenery of a very familiar tree...

at award shows, the dynamic between you two is very much similar to how it was before you started dating

you still sit with your respective groups, however, cameras are very much so watching for any and all interactions

especially how the corner of his lips quirk up when you send a bright smile his way

or how he slightly bows his head when your group walks by to approach the stage

whenever your group wins an award, cameras be damned, this man stands to applaud you

(this also prompts the rest of svt to join)

(you have some very enthusiastic cheerleaders thanks to him)

don't worry, he also gets the same treatment from you when svt receives a reward

you are one of the first people on your feet with your hands cupped around your mouth as you cheer along with the rest of the audience

cameras capture your adorable reaction to the win, projecting it on the big screen, and how your group members also join you in cheering

svt members (soonyoung and seokmin) copy your cheering and jumping on stage while seungcheol is giving their acceptance speech

wonwoo has to nudge them to calm down but he has a small grin on his face as he slightly bows in your direction

when walking past each other, you both smile at each other, and the cameras absolutely go OFF when he quickly interlocks his pinky with yours before continuing in opposite directions

despite being a very private person, this man is extremely down bad

when you perform, his eyes do not leave the stage, even leaning forward slightly to catch a better look

is always the first to stand to applaud after your performance

fans always await a photo from the event (especially if you both), and you deliver with a simple picture of both of your dress shoes from the event

when both of your groups have a comeback around the same time, people are begging for a dance collab

especially when other svt members collab with other members form your group

almost all the comments are asking for wonwoo and you

the day that your dance collab drops is the day that your fans will keep replaying

it very quickly became your most watched and liked tiktok video on both of your pages

anytime one of your groups were mentioned, the dance collab was to be mentioned as well

pretty sure it changed the trajectory of some people's lives

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innerfare · 8 months ago

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You See His Cabin For The First Time

Summary: You see their cabin (or in Sabo's case, his bedroom at the RA base) for the first time.

Characters: Luffy, Usopp, Zoro, Sanji, Ace, Sabo, Law, and Kid

Genre: Fluff

CW: None // SFW

———

Luffy: He's literally so proud of just his hammock. Insists it can hold the both of you and could probably hold the entire crew if you tried, asks if you want to try, asks you if you’re sure when you say no. Definitely has a couple of dirty dishes that he’s forgotten about, as well as a few wrappers on the floor. Has some fishing poles, a net, quite a few different games, and a bookshelf that’s full of both comic books and snacks so that he doesn’t have to go all the way to the kitchen if he gets hungry in the middle of the night.

Zoro: Your first thought is, why does it smell so freaking good in here? You expected dirty laundry strewn around and the stench of sweat and maybe a hint of metal from those blades he was always sharpening. And sure, there is a hint of metal in the air, probably more from the many weights against the wall than his swords, but it also smells fresh, like laundry detergent. He has his own wanted posters on his wall- not just the current one, but the old ones, too, all of them lined up in order so you can see his increasing bounty. He also has a collection of unique booze bottles from all over the world, his equivalent of keeping a map with pins in the locations he’s visited. Oh, and there’s an anatomy coloring book and some markers that belong to Chopper that Zoro keeps in his room because sometimes when Chopper is having a bad day, he wants to chill with his dad big bro.

Sanji: Sparkling clean, and yet, he’ll apologize anyway because the pillows aren’t fluffy enough, the rug isn’t completely straight, etcetera. His closet is very well organized, all of his clothes ironed and properly taken care of (Sanji’s the rare type to actually read labels and do his laundry accordingly). His most prized possession is a book on the All Blue, which he’s poured over countless times, using color coded tabs to flag various pages and writing detailed notes in the margins. He also came across one of Zeff’s old wanted posters in Loguetown, and he keeps it framed next to his own, the closest thing he has to a family photo.

Usopp: You’re surprised to find he has quite a bit of clutter in his small space. He has a collection of different style slingshots and a surplus of supplies to fix them should they ever break, as well as literal boxes full of special stars and ammunition. He has an entire set up rigged on his desk to create more, and some plants in his windowsill to grow ingredients. In addition, his bookshelves are heavy with various collections of fables and tales; he’s working on his own and hopes to publish it one day, but he doesn’t talk about it because he’s worried nobody will take him seriously, and you only learn about it when you see the notebook he left on his bed. He also has a couple of fun hats, crazy sunglasses, and feather boas that he definitely pulls out when the Straw Hats get a little too drunk. Oh, and there’s a picture of his parents on his nightstand.

Ace: His cabin is pretty sparse because he tends to travel light. He has a collection of animal teeth secured from a menagerie of wild beasts he’s taken down over the years, and he’s very proud of those teeth. He'll tell you about each one if you ask, is practically bursting at the seems with stories. He has way more animal teeth than he does clothing or books. Also has a pretty sick tiger pelt for a rug (he had intended it as a blanket, but he runs so hot he can’t actually sleep with it). He has Luffy’s wanted poster on his wall, and beside it, a note reminding himself to send money back to Dadan on the first of every month. Buried in the chest at the foot of his bed, he has the original ASL flag.

Sabo: His bedroom at the Revolutionary Army’s base is a total bachelor pad, and when you see it for the first time, it wasn’t planned, so he’s a little embarrassed by the state of it. He has some dirty dishes he forgot about, some dirty laundry on the floor, and a pile of books on his bed. He spends virtually no time there and probably wouldn’t even have furniture beyond a mattress on the floor if it wasn’t provided by the Revolutionary Army as part of his living quarters. That being said, he did pin Luffy’s and Ace’s wanted posters to his wall, and he has a couple of different lotions and skincare products on his bathroom counter.

Law: You don’t know what you were expecting- would it be sterile like an operating room? You’re surprised to see comic books and a few action figures. He has some records, too- a bit of rock, some low-key emo music- and to your complete and utter surprise, a candy wrapper on his nightstand. And then there’s the coin collection on his desk, tiny pieces of metal he picked up on his many travels. You’re careful not to have a big reaction to his personality showing through for once.

“I like your action figures.”

“They’re kind of childish, but-”

You cut him off before he can dismiss his own interests as dumb. “No, they’re not. They’re cool.”

Kid: It’s as messy and ostentatious as you’d expect, but he sheepishly tries to fold the leopard-print blanket crumpled on the bed and put some laundry in the hamper, though you quickly deduce he has no clue which clothes belong in the hamper and which go in his closet. It’s shocking to see him care what someone thinks. He has a pile of lipstick and nail polish on his desk and an impressive collection of weapons he’s stolen from various pirates; he could probably open a museum with all the weapons he has. Also has lots of tools he forgot were in there. TBH, he’s probably as shocked as you are by the state of his cabin because he spends most of his alone time in his workshop, anyway.

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

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narcoticv3nus · 6 months ago

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Ride or Die ❤︎ Arthur Morgan

Kinktober Day XXVI: Face Sitting

summary: you both have needed some stress relief good thing your man has the perfect remedy tags/trigger warnings: 18+, f!reader, face sitting, cunnilingus, praise, stress relief wc: 2.3k

MASTERLIST

The sweltering heat of mid-summer enveloped you as you stood in your dusty backyard in West Texas. The sun hung high in the sky, its relentless rays pouring down like molten gold, wrapping you in warmth. You balanced precariously on your toes, stretching to reach the wooden clothesline that sagged under the weight of the humid air. With each clothespin, you secured the damp fabric—its fibers still heavy from the wash—hanging them in a colorful line that fluttered gently, eager for the breeze to take hold.

After a long day tackling household chores that seemed never-ending, fatigue washed over you like the dew settling on the grass at dawn. Sweat trickled down your forehead and dripped from your chin, creating a sheen that glistened on your tanned skin. The air was thick and muggy, wrapping around you like a warm blanket, and you could feel the relentless sun creating that familiar weight in the pit of your stomach, urging you to seek shade and a reprieve from the day’s demands.

A sudden chorus of sharp barks erupted into the stillness of the afternoon, cutting through the air like a warning bell. You felt a thrill of anticipation as the rhythmic sound of hooves clattering against the grass reached your ears, stirring a smile on your lips. Rounding the corner, you caught sight of your "husband," Arthur Morgan, as he gracefully dismounted from his sturdy horse. He landed with a soft thud on the ground, letting out a weary sigh that hinted at the long day behind him. His presence, strong and rugged against the backdrop of the setting sun, filled you with warmth and a sense of home.

As you approached, Arthur turned towards you, his soft blue eyes locking onto yours, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Seeing you instantly eased some of the tension etched on his face. He removed his dusty hat, revealing a mess of sweat-soaked brown hair, and ran a calloused hand through the tangled strands.

“Looks like you’ve had a fair share of work yourself,” he said, his voice gruff yet tender. He walked towards you, closing the distance between you two, and brushed a strand of sweat-dampened hair off your forehead, tucking it gently behind your ear.

“C’mon inside,” he offered, his hand resting lightly on your lower back, “I think we both could use a bit of relaxation.” As you entered your home's cool refuge, Arthur took a deep breath, surveying the room.

Guiding you to the small bedroom at the back of the house, Arthur closed the door behind him, allowing the sounds of the world outside to fade into a distant hum. The room was dimly lit by a single candle burning on the nightstand, casting dancing shadows across the wooden floorboards. He moved closer, his gaze never leaving yours.

You gently pressed your palm against his chest, stopping him in his tracks. “Maybe we should wash up first,” you proposed, your voice slow and deliberate. The remnants of sweat clung to your skin, a sticky reminder of the heat, and you couldn’t shake the feeling of discomfort that came with it.

Arthur's gaze drifted downward, resting on your hand gently pressed against his chest. His expression was a mask of stoicism, revealing nothing as his intense eyes locked onto yours. The moment felt charged with a tension that lingered in the air between you.

“I want ya’ now,” he declared, his voice low and intense as he pressed his hand over yours. His fingers curled possessively around yours before he gently pulled your hand away.

Arthur moved closer, a hand resting on your waist as he gently guided you back toward the bed. The softness of the bedding awaited you, creating an inviting contrast to the moment's intensity. His presence felt warm and enveloping, heightening the tension as he leaned in, bringing you closer together.

The need for release and the desire to forget the world's harsh realities had consumed him, even for a moment. Arthur's hands trailed down your arms, his strong fingers gripping your hips and pulling you closer until you could feel the heat radiating from his body. He paused, looking deep into your eyes, silently asking for your consent.

He inhaled sharply, the scent of your skin mingling with the sweat and earthy aroma of the day's work, strangely alluring in its simplicity. Arthur leaned forward, brushing his lips against your neck, his tongue tracing a wet path toward your ear. He whispered huskily, "Let me take care of ya'.” he pleaded. “Let me help ya’ relax." With a gentle push, he guided you onto the edge of the bed, his fingers slowly working on undoing the buttons of your dress.

His actions were unhurried yet deliberate, each touch and kiss filled with a palpable hunger between you two. Arthur's breath hitched as your dress fell open, revealing the skin beneath. He pulled you to stand, sliding the fabric down your arms until it pooled at your feet. He stepped back, drinking in your sight, allowing the heat between you to build further. His hands roamed over your exposed flesh, feeling the goosebumps rise under his touch. Finally, with a low groan, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss as he guided you back onto the mattress.

The world outside seemed to disappear as his tongue sought yours, a dance filled with promise and passion. Arthur's calloused hands skimmed across your thighs, pushing aside the last barriers between you. He could feel the dampness gathering between your legs, his desire straining against his trousers. Breaking away, he gazed into your eyes.

"I reckon we both need this," he muttered, his voice gruff with want as he stood to undress himself. His fingers worked on his belt buckle with practiced ease, each movement deliberate and unhurried. His shirt came off next, revealing the hard planes of his chest and the tapestry of scars that mapped out his life's story.

Arthur's gaze never left yours, watching the hunger grow in your eyes as he exposed himself to you. Stepping out of his trousers, he returned to the bed, his naked form a testament to the raw masculinity that made up this rugged man. Sliding back onto the bed, Arthur positioned himself between your thighs, his gaze locked onto yours as his hands gently parted them. He lowered his head, pressing featherlight kisses along your inner thighs, teasing your sensitive flesh.

You could see his desire burning bright in his eyes, contrasting his usually guarded demeanor. His warm breath tickled your sensitive area, making you squirm in anticipation. Savoring the sight of your flushed skin and how your chest rose and fell with each ragged breath you took, he didn’t waste any time, diving right in to taste the sweetness he knew awaited him.

His tongue swirled and dipped, eliciting a moan from your lips as he explored your folds. Arthur loved how you reacted to him, your body tensing and releasing as he pleasured you. It made him feel powerful and needed, something he craved deep down. His fingers joined the dance, massaging your thighs before sliding further up to caress your breasts. He kneaded and pinched your nipples gently, feeling you writhe beneath him as the sensations built. Each sound you made only drove him further, pushing him to make you feel even better.

As he continued, Arthur could feel himself getting harder, his need for you almost unbearable. He knew you were close, your body quivering and muscles tensing around his tongue. He redoubled his efforts, wanting nothing more than to watch you fall apart in pleasure.

"Mmm...you taste so good," he growled against your skin, causing you to shudder in delight. His stubbled cheeks grazed your sensitive thighs as he continued to explore your cunt with his tongue, savoring every gasp and moan that escaped your lips. His hands wandered higher, gripping your waist firmly to keep you in place while his thumbs traced lazy patterns over your lower abdomen, heightening the sensitivity of every nerve ending.

He felt your legs tremble, your breaths turning shallow and erratic. Arthur knew you were on the precipice, so he slowed, drawing out the delicious torment. He wanted to savor this moment, to remind himself why he fought so hard to survive each day. He glanced up, watching your face contort in ecstasy as he finally brought you over the edge. Your nails dug into his shoulders as your body convulsed, riding wave after wave of pure bliss.

Arthur pulled back only when your breathing evened out, his chin glistening with evidence of his desire for you. He gave you a smug grin, his blue eyes darkened with lust. "Feelin' better?" he asked, his voice rough and husky. You nodded slowly, a dopey grin spreading across your face as you tried to steady your breath. Your heart raced as you gazed down at him, feeling a mix of exhilaration and affection that made the moment feel almost surreal.

“I want to be on top,” you confessed; gently running your fingers through his damp hair, you pushed it backward, feeling the warmth of his scalp beneath your nails as they glided effortlessly over his skin. The soft strands, slightly tousled from the moisture, slipped through your fingers, creating a soothing rhythm that sent a shiver down your spine.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at your request, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. After switching your positions, he sat back, allowing you to take control, and watched as you positioned yourself over him, straddling his lap.

“Can I…” you began, a warm flush creeping to your cheeks as you kept your gaze locked on him. Your eyes lingered on the curve of his nose, tracing the rugged outline and drifting down to his lips.

He nodded, his smirk growing wider. "Go ahead," he said gruffly, his voice barely above a whisper as he reached out to caress your cheek with the back of his hand. His thumb brushed against your lower lip, gently urging it open before tracing its contours.

You swallowed, climbing up his body until your thighs encompassed his face, your bottom hovering over his chest as your hands grasped the wooden headboard, giving you balance and offering support for the pleasure that was to come.

Arthur's hands slid to your thighs, gripping them firmly, guiding you into position. Your wetness brushing against his lips sent a jolt through him. He leaned forward, parting your folds with his tongue, exploring your most intimate spaces with a newfound hunger. He tasted saltwater, sweat, and a faint trace of your arousal—an intoxicating mix that only fueled his desire.

His fingers flexed against your skin, holding you close as he indulged himself. Arthur's eyes fluttered shut, focusing solely on the feeling of your body against his mouth, the soft moans that escaped your lips, and the sweet taste of you. His tongue moved with deliberate strokes, teasing your sensitive spots until your hips began to rock back and forth in response. Arthur's hands tightened on your thighs as you moved above him, guiding you with gentle yet firm pressure. He could feel the tension building within you, each gasp and moan urging him onward. One hand moved up, thumb tracing lazy circles around your clitoris, while his tongue delved deeper, probing and swirling.

"Mmm..." Arthur hummed low in approval, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure coursing through you. His fingers dug into your thighs slightly, urging you closer as he continued to lavish attention on your clitoris. His tongue swirled around it before dipping lower, exploring the wetness between your thighs with an insistent hunger. He savored each moan and whimper, his desire growing with each passing second. Feeling the tension in your thighs increase as your body responded to his ministrations, he pressed a finger inside you, moving in rhythm with his tongue, curling it just to hit that spot that made your breath hitch.

"Ride my face," he commanded, his voice rough with lust as he said your name. He opened his eyes to watch your reactions—the flush spreading across your chest, the way your nipples hardened under the cool air, and the unmistakable pleasure etched on your face. With a sultry moan, you obliged, grinding yourself against Arthur’s mouth, savoring the exquisite friction he created.

He held onto your thighs tighter, adjusting his position slightly to accommodate your movements. His finger steadily moved in and out of you, curling each time to massage that sensitive spot. His other hand found its way to your hip, guiding you with gentle yet firm pressure. He could feel your muscles tensing around him as you rode his face, your moans growing louder, more insistent. Arthur reveled in the sight and sounds of your pleasure—it was like a drug, and he was already addicted.

His mind fogged with lust as he watched your breasts rise and fall with each ragged breath. He increased his pace, tongue, and finger, working together in perfect harmony. His gaze never left yours, the fire in your eyes driving him wild.

"That's it, darlin'," he rasped encouragingly, his breaths growing shallower. He could sense your orgasm building, feel it in the way your body moved against him. With one final push, he sent you over the edge, drinking in your cries of ecstasy as you came apart in his hands. He didn’t stop until every last tremor had subsided, leaving you panting and spent against him.

Reluctantly, he released your thighs, allowing you to slide down his body until you were cradled against his chest. Arthur brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead as you caught your breath. You yelped and were suddenly lifted into the air bridal style. Arthur carried you into the washroom, his steps slapping against the hardwood floor.

“Let me clean ya’ up,” he grunted, setting you down as he filled the tub with water. “Then I’ll get ta’ have ya’ again.”

main masterlist, rules

#tw:nsfw #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x f!reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan fluff #2024 kinktober #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #venus.arthurmorgan #venus.rdr2

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littleredwolf · 5 months ago

Text

Home for Christmas

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: It's Christmas Eve at the Avengers Compound and you and Wanda are busy making festive cookies for the team to enjoy upon their return from a mission.

Warnings: none. This is pure fluff/cosy Christmas content.

Words: 982

A/N: I wanted to have a go at something fluffy and festive, so I hope this ticks all the right boxes! Merry Christmas!

The snow fell in gentle cascades, blanketing the compound in a glittery shimmer that added a touch of magic to the view. Inside, the compound had been transformed into a festive haven, every corner adorned with twinkling lights and tinsel, while Christmas music played softly over the sound system, mingling with the rich scents of sugar, vanilla, and freshly baked gingerbread. It was like a scene straight out of a Christmas movie, so cosy and picturesque.

“I think we may have overdone it,” Wanda mused as the two of you stood at the counter to admire your afternoon's work.

The kitchen sides were covered with trays filled with cookies of all shapes and sizes. There were snowflakes, gingerbread men, Christmas trees, candy canes, Santa, stockings, and even some questionable looking reindeer. To anybody else, maybe it was a little too much, but with a team full of superheroes to feed, you wondered if maybe it wasn't enough.

“I don't think that's possible,” you replied, straightening one of the cookies on the tray closest to you. “The super soldiers alone will get through most of these between them.”

“I'm surprised you haven't made Bucky his own personal batch,” she said with a teasing smile.

At the mere mention of his name, your cheeks flushed and your chest tightened.

It had been nearly three weeks since you'd last seen Bucky, he and a few other members of the team had been away on a mission, and while he'd sent a few texts and the occasional picture (one particularly adorable shot of him and Sam looking begrudgingly festive in Santa hats), you missed him more than you’d like to admit.

The compound had felt strangely empty since he'd been gone, you'd missed his dry humour, his quiet strength, and the way he always managed to put you at ease simply by being there. Your bed had felt too big without him in it each night, and the absence of his arms around you and gentle kisses to soothe you to sleep had thrown your sleeping pattern completely off balance.

The excitement of his imminent return had been bubbling all morning, making you so impatient and restless that Wanda had insisted you do something to keep yourself busy, hence the cookies.

Now you were finished, however, the nervous excitement was returning, and you couldn't resist the frequent glances out the window to see if you could spot the quinjet through the snow.

“You really love him, don't you?” Wanda smiled as she began to tidy everything away, sending the dirty utensils to the dishwasher with a wave of her hand.

You hesitated for a moment, contemplating her words, then slowly nodded. Although neither of you had used the ‘L’ word yet, there was no denying how you felt.

“Yeah, I do. It's different with him, Wanda - I can be myself around him without feeling like I have to dilute any part of my personality. I never thought I'd find someone who just accepts me as I am - even the messy, broken bits! He’s just, so damn perfect, you know? I feel like pinching myself sometimes because it feels too good to be true!” Your tone was light, but there was no hiding your insecurities from Wanda Maximoff - she knew you better than you knew yourself most days.

She reached over the counter to squeeze your hand, smiling softly. “He feels the same way, you know. Anyone can see it.”

Before you could respond, the compound’s security system chimed, announcing an incoming quinjet. Your heart leapt - they were home!

“They’re here!” you exclaimed, abandoning your work and rushing to the window. Through the snow, you could just make out the sleek shape of the jet landing on the pad outside.

Wanda laughed as she trailed after you.“I think you’re more excited about this than Christmas itself,” she teased.

You turned to her with a thoughtful expression. “I'd say it's a draw,” you smirked, and she shook her head with a laugh. You turned to the window again, but the snow was so thick now that you could barely see a thing.

“What are you waiting for? Go and greet your man!” Wanda urged, giving you a gentle nudge.

You didn’t need to be told twice - you slipped on your shoes and dashed outside, forgetting to even put on a coat in your rush. The icy wind bit at your cheeks, but you hardly noticed as the quinjet’s hatch opened and the team began descending the ramp. Sam was the first to emerge, his face lighting up when he saw you.

“Merry Christmas!” he called, waving as he approached and pulling you into a bear hug. “Now, where are the cookies?”

“It’s good to see you too!” You laughed, giving him a playful shove as you sent him on his way, your attention snapping to the next figure emerging from the jet.

Bucky stepped out into the snowy evening, his eyes scanning the landing pad until they found you. His face softened instantly, a slow smile spreading across his lips as he hastily made his way down the ramp.

You didn’t wait for him to reach you. You ran to him, flinging your arms around his neck as he caught you, pulling you close. The familiar scent of him - leather and something faintly metallic - wrapped around you like a warm blanket.

“You’re freezing,” he gasped, brushing his gloved hand over your cheek.

“I don’t care,” you replied, smiling up at him. “You’re home.”

“Yeah,” he said, his grin mirroring yours as he cupped your face. “I’m home.”

He pressed his lips to yours, filling you with so much warmth that it instantly melted away the agony of the last three weeks.

Out of all the gifts you could have received for Christmas, being back in Bucky's arms was by far the best one.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fanfic #winter soldier x reader #bucky imagine #bucky x reader #bucky x you #james bucky barnes x reader #mcu fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes x reader

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ihaznoclue · 30 days ago

Note

Can I just request like headcanons for ratchet and Optimus with like a young human reader (platonic) who doesn't really have the best home life and so she sees the base as a home and sees the two bots as parental figures

Hopefully I'm not too late, if I am please feel free to decline ^^

Love ur works btw :3

Pairings -> Optimus Prime and Ratchet x Reader (Platonic)

Warnings -> Family issues

Note -> Reader sees Optimus and Ratchet as parental figures

Genre -> Fluff

Optimus Prime and Ratchet

Ratchet

Grumpy Guardian Mode - Ratchet absolutely notices the signs that something is off at your home, even if you try to hide it from him. He's incredibly perceptive especially when it comes to injuries or behavioural changes. It just his medic instincts that just kicks in

Protective Dad mode - If anyone ever made a comment about your home life or tried to take advantage of you, Ratchet would not let that slide, not one bit. He would be so ready to throw a wrench.. literally

Tough love, soft heart - He's not super-touchy feely but you'll notice how he starts to make sure you have food to eat, a blanket and somewhere to rest when you're at the base, he always makes sure you are comfortable here at the base

Optimus

Gentle Authority - Optimus is calm, steady and safe. He's the kind of presence that makes you feel protected just by seeing or being near him, you start to feel more grounded every time he talks to you int hat soft and calming tone

Talks like a dad - He gives you wise advice, encourages you when you're down and supports you without judegment, your dad has never done that.. But Optimus will always remind you that you're more important than other stuff

Safe Haven - After a while, Optimus talk with Agent Fowler and quietly arranges it so you're allowed to stay at the base more often than staying at your house, under "security observation" but in all truth, Optimus just wants you to be somewhere safe

Together - Ratchet and Optimus

They will both notice how you are starting to relax and hang out more at the base, how your shoulders drop, how you smile more often than being upset and how you stop flinching at sudden noises

At some point, Ratchet will set up a little space for you in the corner of the medbay and Optimus adds a shelf of your belongings - books, sketchs anything you have brought

You would sometimes fall asleep near Ratchet's workstation and he'll cover you with a blanket if you didn't have any int he first place

Optimus checkin and just exchanges a glance with Ratchet who says "We have to protect her"

They may not be your actual parents but they become your chosen family, offering warmth and a gentle guidance in a world that has been harsh for someone so young

A/N - If anyone is struggling with family issues, I Hope it will get better for you <3

-A<3

#tfp #transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #transformers prime x reader #optimus prime tfp #optimus #tfp optimus #transformers optimus #optimus prime #ratchet x reader #ratchet tfp #tfp ratchet #ratchet transformers #ratchet #tfp optimus prime #optimus prime x reader

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aurorasgate · 6 months ago

Text

the corel incident

sephiroth x reader | 7.1k+ words

warnings: my little twist on what happens in corel, angst with a happy ending, gn!reader, graphic depictions of violence (towards the reader and others), drowning, protective seph my beloved - would and does kill for you, as usual with me sane!seph. please let me know if i missed anything!

dust kicks up under your feet with each step you take, the blaring sun beating down on your skin, the heat of it seeping into your hair and scalp, lingering on your clothes. the air is nearly as warm, almost hard to breathe in at the peak of the day's heat, and the smell of coal was just as prominent. it’s different from mako but the same kind of suffocating that could make one sick if you weren’t used to it and were more accustomed to cleaner air.

corel is different than you had expected. you knew of the economic decline for the need of coal with shinra building more mako reactors but there’s a quaint peacefulness to the town and a happy hopefulness to the people, though it doesn’t hide the signs of how badly off they have been. with the construction of the mako reactor however, a ‘promise of prosperity’, there was a reason to think things were truly going to turn around.

and of course shinra had pulled out the full stops to show them as much by bringing in water and supplies, public security, urban planners, and soldiers to clear out the monsters along with the construction crew. the project is nearly finished now, the reactor building shiny and silver, standing out against the brown dusty hues that paint the town, now in your line of sight and is your current destination.

you had joined sephiroth on this mission to corel hoping to help the townspeople however you might be able to but shinra seemed intent on putting on a show, the whole reason you assumed they had sent sephiroth to deal with monsters that could have been handled by a few 2nd class, and when you arrived you were quickly ordered to ‘enjoy the town’ and plan to attend the tour of the reactor. nothing more.

in no place to disobey, here you are, walking up the metal steps, the first few already blanketed in a thin layer of loose dirt, and joining the citizens already at the threshold of the reactor waiting for the tour to begin. you take a quiet place at the back of the group, thankful for the cooler air coming from inside that soothes your heated skin as you wait.

after a few minutes someone walks towards the front of the group dressed in a more casual dark blue suit, wearing a shinra hard hat and a smile that looks almost too excited. you don’t recognize the shinra employee who introduces themselves to the group as jaden, your tour guide for the day. not that you could say you know many employees outside of soldier.

based on his looks from the front to the back of the group, someone else has taken a place behind you and you feel a shiver run up your spine when you register their presence at your back. you hadn’t heard them approach or their steps as the group shuffled forward to meet the person conducting the tour and even as the tour starts with some bullshit introduction about the ‘wonders of shinra technology’, they don’t make any noise.

rolling your shoulders, you let the odd feeling slide down your spine and fall to the floor, finding your thoughts wandering to something, someone, else so easily.

what kind of monster might sephiroth be facing right now? or was shinra perhaps trying to force him in front of the camera? was he okay? realistically, you know that he’s unscathed but it wouldn’t stop you from worrying about your beloved until he was at your side again. it had only been a few hours since you had to part ways, so little time compared to how often you had to be apart at times, but it was enough to make you miss him already.

jaden continues to lead everyone down wide hallways and a series of doors that are all open for construction workers to get in and out of easily. a few of them pass by you carrying different tools and materials in their arms and over their shoulders without sparing anyone in the tour group a glance.

“these men have been working tirelessly to finish the reactor quickly and efficiently so it can be up and running as soon as possible for your town. soon, the prosperity of shinra and the miracle of mako energy will be shared with all of you,” your tour guide explains excitedly.

a few of the townspeople in front whisper among themselves, some of them not looking particularly sold on the words that they would likely hear a dozen more times in one form or another by the end of this tour. would they be sold on them by the end of it? was it really going to help as much as shinra promised?

“what do you think about the reactors?” the person behind you asks. her voice is so close, hushed yet gentle, and you nearly knock back into her as you startle. she doesn’t seem to pay any mind to it, doesn’t flinch or step back, she only waits expectantly for your answer.

“oh- i’m sorry!” you’re quick to apologize and had almost forgotten what she asked you in the slow moments it takes your heart to settle as you take in her kind looking features; light brown hair and dark hazel eyes with black lashes that could perhaps rival sephiroths in length and fullness. “i, um - i don’t know,” you finally answer, quiet and guilty like you shouldn’t be caught saying such things. jadens voice comes over the group, hopefully hiding the rest of your truthful answer, and you shuffle forward with the rest of them, tearing your eyes away from her. “i can’t say i agree with how wonderful they try to make them out to be.”

“hm,” she doesn’t seem totally pleased with your answer by the gruffness of her tone but doesn’t comment more on it and your tour continues with your mind floating between sephiroth and the familiar yet new things in front of you.

a place you had never been but a reactor nonetheless, hardly any different from the ones surrounding midgar or nestled in other cities and towns like this one. but really where you would rather be is with sephiroth, in midgar or far away from it. it hardly mattered as long as he was there with you.

you wish he was here with you right now, walking by your side, your hands brushing as you walk and observe the new reactor together. though you’re certain the people would be ogling him rather than the reactor if that were the case. most of them had likely never seen a reactor but just as so, they’d never seen him either and, like everyone in midgar, they’d fawn over the untouchable war hero without a care in the world.

what would it be like, you wonder, if both of you got to be here as normal people with a normal life. would you be holding hands like the couple in front of you, pointing things out to one another and whispering in each other's ears with a smile as you step just a bit closer into an embrace for lovers? would either of you have even supported the building of a reactor?

in your dreams of a life you and sephiroth would have together in another, kinder, life there was no mako or shinra and you had never been happier. is it possible these people would feel the same at some point?

perhaps. but there was nothing anyone could do about it now.

is it too late for you and seph to have a normal life without any of this too?

your thoughts are quickly cut off the moment you step into a spacious access room and feel the cold press of the metal to your side and an arm snake around your middle, capturing you against an unfamiliar chest. the room is lined with shinra boxes and big plastic blue tubs on one wall, a large window and open door leading into a small control room on the other side, devoid of anyone besides your tour group.

you’re quick to register just what is pressed to your side, to swallow the lump in your throat that’s keeping you from breathing and try to slow your heart that’s beating so rapidly inside your rib cage as you take in the situation. the huge metal doors leading to the next area are closed off, the people in front of you none the wiser to what’s about to happen and as soon as you look down to confirm that yes that is a handgun nestled to your side, the doors you entered through begin to close.

you’re all trapped.

“play nice, okay?” the woman who was behind you speaks in your ear lowly before addressing the entire room, pressing the muzzle of her gun deeper into your side until it’s digging into your skin uncomfortably through your shirt. “now listen here everyone,” she kicks your feet forward and you see everyone's gaze fall to you, quickly dropping into horror. “i’ll be taking over the rest of this tour.”

------------✧♡✧-------------

you stare at your phone as if continuing to watch it will make the gray and white blurs of the screen disappear and give you the chance to call or text sephiroth. it doesn’t and it’s hardly a distraction from the terrified aura that’s suffocating the room. it’s so palpable you swear you can grasp it with your hands and feel it stain your skin.

based on the fact everyone else with a phone was in a similar state and the very real lack of alarms going off, you can only assume whoever your captors are have done everything they could to prepare for this and compared to what was going on somewhere else in the reactor, the people watching over you were on the equivalent of babysitting duty.

the shinra employee jaden and the couple you had seen being affectionate towards each other earlier take the duty of trying to calm everyone down. they had from the moment your group was locked in the much too small control room, you being shoved in last, and though there was something uncomfortable, scared, sitting at the bottom of your belly too, you were more restless than anything. you needed to do something, anything.

you’ve sat here for too long but couldn’t afford to be careless. you needed to know more before taking action. you didn’t want anyone to die or to put these innocent people in any more danger than they were already in. did anyone outside know of what was happening?

what the fuck even is happening? where’s sephiroth?

you’d heard of the terrorist group avalanche before, had known they’d been a bit of a thorn in shinra sides. would they resort to trying to stop the completion of the reactor by.. what? holding random people hostage till shinra compiled seemed as stupid idea as any. shinra would never give into that.

moving along the back of the group with unhurried steps, you come to stand next to the bolted door and as though you might need to feel the coolness of it to ease your nausea, you wrap your arms around your stomach and lean against it with your head down, your ear pressed to the small crack between the door itself and the doorframe. what you wouldn’t give from some of that soldier hearing now, you think to yourself, letting the thought of sephiroth keep you calm. the voice in your head telling you he would be here soon is his own, deep and soothing, a most sacred promise.

the world outside is muffled and hushed compared to the worried words and cries inside the control room but you do your best to listen and gather what you can coming from the walkie talkies being used to communicate between the woman and the two others that had since joined her and those working with them elsewhere.

“but sir-,” the woman from before speaks.

the radio comes louder than her voice had. “a few casualties are sometimes necessary for change. do as you are told. team b is nearly finished and team a has successfully captured the target. we’ll continue as planned.”

silence follows.

“they said the explosion shouldn’t destroy more than core,” a man voices, one of the ones who had joined her armed with much bigger guns, chimes in almost soothingly. “if the building comes down that’s shinras own damn fault but we’ll get out of here.”

you hear the woman mumble something you can’t make out and then in a choked out cry, “they weren’t supposed to be here!” her voice rises at the end but you can tell she tries to swallow it.

another pause.

“we can’t save everyone eve,” the man speaks softer than before and had it not been for the words he was saying, you might have felt like you were intruding on an intimate conversation. “some people are just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

you don’t listen to the rest of their conversation and slowly make your way to the back of the group once more but this time you take your time observing the room in its entirety. the double doors closed tight leading into another sealed off room at the very back, the control panels shiny new buttons, the large vent on the left wall above one of the control panels and how it sits compared to the window, showing you the three people guarding this room.

with everyone complying without incident, albeit scared out of their minds, you wonder how often they had looked back to check on the group. as of now, the woman - eve, was tucked in close to a much taller man's embrace, their backs facing the window and the other man you could hardly see from where you stood but you can make out his shoulder near the door leading deeper into the reactor.

“you’re shinra too, right?” jaden breaks your concentration, his voice with a hopelessness to it. though you don’t love the identity of only shinra when addressing you. “you came with soldier?”

“i did.” you reply and try to quickly decide how much would be right to share with him from what you had eavesdropped. you aren’t even sure you’ve processed it fully. you couldn’t begin to wrap your head around who they might have been after and successfully captured. you didn’t want to think about a reactor being blown up, let alone with people inside of it. you wouldn’t imagine if you were to die here and leave sephiroth.. no. it wasn’t going to happen. you and everyone were going to get out of here if you had something to do with it. for now you decide the less he knows the better, probably. “would you help me get into that vent?” you point towards it. “and maybe try to talk to some of the more rational others so you can come up with a plan if.. if anything happens?”

he takes a breath before he answers. “are we going to die here?”

“not if i can help it. just do your best to keep everyone in here safe.”

jaden proves to be incredibly useful, keeping everyone as they had been, acting as though you weren’t standing on your tiptoes to reach the screw of the vent with the small tool one of the locals had given you that was barely enough to undo the screws holding it in place. jaden stood watch and took everything you handed him, delicately placing the items behind the control panel so they wouldn’t make a sound or be seen.

when you’re ready, with your heart still set to an unsteady rhythm, you lean down to give him the tool and whisper in his ear, quickly and quietly telling him what you heard your captors talking about so he could tell whoever arrived first to save them. “please keep that to yourself until the right time.” and then, as quietly as you could, you hop into the vent without daring to look back.

you thought you might lose your nerves if you saw any of their faces praying that you were going to get help. it was certainly an option but you were much closer to the core than anywhere else in the reactor and if anyone outside already knew that the reactor had been taken over, help was surely on the way and would reach them before the reactor core. you just hoped you could get to the core in time and be enough to hold whoever these people were off until help, sephiroth, arrived.

------------✧♡✧-------------

sephiroth was thankful for the quiet of fighting alone, even if it was stiflingly hot and the monsters prove to be no real fight at all. scarlet had insisted on a photo op that lasted much too long for his liking and then reporters swarmed him with questions and cameras to capture this historical moment for corel but he had been able to get out most of the questions in order to start his mission and begin to clear out a few monster nests lingering on the outskirts of town.

he was nearly finished, standing among the dust blowing in the wind, ready to come back to town to find you and whisk you back home or somewhere away from shinras gaze if but for a night, when his phone rings, a number he doesn’t recognize, and he begins to feel a heavy sensation in his chest before answering it, his feet already instinctively making their way to the last place you were supposed to be.

“soldier first class sephiroth,” comes the voice on the other end of the phone.

“what is it?”

“come quickly. the reactor has been taken over by avalanche terrorists and they’ve captured vice president rufus shinra.”

it’s mere minutes of running as fast as he possibly came before he’s back in town, trying your phone over and over the entire way but none of his calls go through. he immediately starts to make his way towards the reactor when an uneasy security officer stops him in his tracks, nearly petrified at the look sephiroth gives him when all he can think about is getting to you.

i’m coming. please be okay.

the officer stutters and all but pleads with sephiroth to follow him to scarlet. “w-we’re trying to get the - the c-cameras back up sir. they’ve shut down all e-electronic signals,” the words tumble out of his mouth almost too quickly to catch. “please sir.”

sephiroth follows for his own reasons, a chance to find where you are quickly instead of rushing in and slaughtering anyone who keeps him from finding you, but instead of leading him to the reactor he’s taken to another shinra building, shiny and new and full of people running around in a panic. the air is so much cooler inside than the mid days heat outside but it does nothing to ease the tightness in his chest and the impatience to get to you that’s already boiling over.

“this way, sir.” the officer says, leading them down a bustling hall and into a room that was in a different kind of panic.

the fuzzy screens of the monitors lining nearly floor to ceiling drowns the room in grays and flashing whites but unlike the rest of the building, the room was quiet, as if it was on bated breath, until scarlet's loud voice cut through the air, her voice sounding as if she had lost her calm long ago.

“i don’t care what you have to do! get the camera back on now so we can locate the vice president and plan an immediate extraction. and we need to find what the hell they’re doing inside the reactor! now!”

“y-yes ma’am,” it’s only thanks to sephiroths soldier hearing that the words of the small hunched over man in front of the screens working away furiously even meet his ears.

not an uncommon reaction to the woman scarlet is.

sephiroth steps are nearly silent across the room but his presence takes over the whole space in an instant. everyone, aside from scarlet and the man in front of the computer, turning to look at him and acting as though the world paused as he makes his way past them but none dare to meet his eyes.

not that he was focused on any of them anyways. every passing second he wasn’t any closer to being with you once more he was preparing for plan b; to leave here and start slashing through the entire reactor until you were in his arms. until then, his only focus was the screens in front of him and where you might be among them once they’re back on.

“good, you’re here,” scarlet says by way of greeting him as if he were a petulant child who hadn’t adhered to their curfew too many times to scold anymore. “once these fools get the cameras back up,” she speaks louder to ensure whoever ‘they’ were would hear very clearly, “and we locate rufus shinra we will be sending you to retrieve him. do stay put until then.”

“what’s going on inside the reactor?” sephiroth asks pointedly, coldly.

“another team is being sent to deal with that. your orders are to retrieve the vice-”

“i’m in!” the man in front of the computer exclaims in the same moment the screens start to clear from blurred lines to a live feed all around the reactor in a green hue.

sephiroth steps closer, his eyes trying to take in so much all at once, any sign of you anywhere, his pupils going so thin at the mix of bright and dark lights between the different screens reflecting back at him. he isn’t breathing as he searches, feeling like he’s losing a bit more of his sanity everywhere he looks and you’re nowhere to be seen.

this is where you were supposed to be. and while it would be an unbelievable relief if you found your way elsewhere, somewhere safe, something in his chest, his unanswered calls, told him that was not the case.

the screens change and the first security camera his eyes focus on is an access room, the control room behind it stuffed with people.

“this one,” sephiroth demands, pointing at the screen and without needing to be told twice the man enlarges the view.

mako eyes dart back and forth, studying everyone, every corner of the room and the leather gloved hands at his side clench tightly when he yet again does not see you. he can’t let himself think about if they might have taken you elsewhere, hurt you-

“the public tour group,” scarlet notes, studying the security view without any kind of hurry and hardly any interest but then, as if finding something amusing, her voice peaks up. “ah, that’s right. hojo said you’d grown fond of that little beast. they were supposed to be a part of the tour, no?”

ignoring her and the name hojo usually referred to you in, sephiroth takes in his first breath in what felt like so long. he looks down at the man sitting in the chair, noting how small and afraid he looks from sephiroths angle well above him. he tries to hold back his slipping rage that he usually keeps such a well and tight leash on.

“please show me more.”

“your orders do not change soldier,” scarlet says through clenched teeth, not even trying to control her own anger. “you are to locate and retrieve the vice president.”

sephiroth says nothing as the security view of the access room minimizes and he’s back to searching among the dozens of screen tiles with his heart in his throat and his body screaming to run and fight until he finds you. the screens change again a few moments later and before he can look at more than a couple, all of them without you, the man controlling the computer speaks quietly again.

“oh my god.”

sephiroth immediately finds what the man is looking at and in the next second the view takes over every inch of the floor to ceiling screens; an overhead view of the reactor's core room. it might look unassuming, nearly ready to be turned on, if not for the lone masked man standing in the middle of it and the cylindrical packages of explosives he strategically places all around. the red cylinders stand out, bright among the water below that’s already sparkling with mako and sephiroth recognizes the avalanche attire as the man moves.

he would have demanded going back to the other cameras had something, someone, not caught his eye in the corner of the screen. almost a blur compared to the main focus that everyone else watched and with scarlets demanding voice somewhere in the room behind him, there you were, holding tightly onto the long ladder leading to the platform, sliding down rather than taking them step by step.

when your feet hit the platform, followed by your quick steps forward, the avalanche man turns towards you and reaching for the gun at his side -

“get back here soldier!” scarlet's voice barely follows after sephiroth at how quickly he’s out of the room, out the building, holding masamune tightly in his left hand and running faster than he ever had before towards the reactor in the near distance.

------------✧♡✧-------------

you don’t know what you were thinking running straight for the enemy with no solid plan and no weapon. as if the heart on your sleeve that would plead for the lives of everyone here, including the terrorists own, would be enough or as sharp, convincing, as a blade.

but you meant what you said before. you didn’t want anyone to die if you could help it. you didn’t want to kill anyone. you didn’t want to be killed. you didn’t want to do nothing when maybe, just maybe, you could be enough.

your momentum hasn't stopped from the moment you kicked your way out of the vents and were able to sneak past one of avalanches look outs to a maintenance door leading right into the core. your feet carry you through the door and down the ladder so quickly, you hardly stop to confirm what is happening below before you’re sliding down the ladder and turning towards the danger with your blood pumping and pieces of hair sticking to your face and neck.

“wait! please!” you scream out, grabbing the attention of the only man who seems to be inside the room. the metal grated floor sounds loudly under your hurried steps, thundering alongside your heart beat.

the masked man turns on you so quickly, grabbing his gun with one hand, holding a stick of explosives in the other. your steps halt as he points the barrel of his gun right at you and though you can’t see most of his face, you can make out the surprise in his eyes.

“have you come to beg for your precious reactor?” he spits at you with venom, his voice rough and full of hatred.

“no,” you answer honestly, shaking your head and holding up your hands to show him you have nothing on you. “no. but i do want to stop you.”

“tch.”

he cocks his gun, the click of it joining the sounds of sloshing water below you. it’d be an almost calming sound if you weren’t in such a situation.

keep trying.

you take a tentative step forward that he doesn’t react to, your eyes locked on one another. “what about everyone that lives here? the innocent people that are in the building right now?” your voice cracks with emotion but you can’t let it stop you. you have to keep going. have to hold on. another step and this time he tenses and you will your heart not to drop to your stomach, to not let any of your fear show. “even if everyone survives the reactor being destroyed, what do you think shinra will do to this town when it’s nothing but a loss? what do you think they’ll do to you if you get caught? it's not too late to stop this and run!”

“will you be helping deal their punishment? shinra dog?”

“i don’t want anyone to get hurt. you included.”

“how can you say such things when you’re fine with hurting the planet?!” his emotions slip and you can hear how much this means to him in his voice.

“don’t send this town or your friends to their deaths - there has to be another way!” you can’t control the few tears that roll down your cheeks, the way your heart threatens to waiver with the loss.

“that’s enough from you,” his voice is eerie, unsettling, but it’s drowned out by another voice in your head, that of your beloved.

stay strong. i will always find you.

with all the strength you could muster, some you swore was lended by sephiroth, you launch yourself at the avalanche man, feeling more than hearing the ringing in your ears from the gun going off too close to your head. the bullet cuts through the grated flooring and into the water below behind you and the crashing of your bodies follows against the cold and hard platform, making it groan under your joined weight.

it was by sheer surprise you were able to take him down, you realize now with your much smaller body trying to keep him to the ground as you fight to get the gun out of his hands. he fights back with all his might, doing everything he can to keep hold of it and finish his job. ungentle fingers of his free hand find their way into your hair and pull with a tight fist, forcing you off of him enough for him to maneuver his body a bit and point the gun towards the bundle of explosives sitting on the core's control panel.

you swallow down the aching pain in your skull along with your fear and worry and use the adrenaline it gives you hold onto his arm, your nails digging through his shirt and into his skin so you can swing your legs up as you’re pulled off of him, the bottom of the guns handle hitting against the bridge of your foot just as the trigger clicks.

the reverberation of the shot kicks back on your foot but the following explosion is what sends the gun skidding all the way across the platform, out of reach near the main entrance door and both of you along with it. the bullet having hit another explosive that causes the whole reactor to tremble as it blows a hole in the side of it.

the air is so hot, full of smoke and dust and shards of metal that cut into your skin as you continue to tumble along the floor with the avalanche mans grip on you and yours on him. it’s hard to breathe, even harder to move with his crushing weight now on top of you.

sunlight coming through thick black clouds shines in your eyes from behind you, blinding the man when it comes through the bundles of smoke making its way out into the open air and you take the chance to gain the upper hand. using all the strength you can muster, you shove him off of you, almost tumbling right into the waters below, and you don’t hesitate to try to get on your feet as quickly as you can.

but he proves to be faster, long arms reaching out for you even as he struggles to get up himself and grabbing at your ankle unforgivingly, bringing you back down to the floor with enough force to knock the wind out of you. it’s not without a hell of a struggle that he hauls you over the edge of the platform but he doesn’t relent no matter how hard you kick or fight against and scratch at the hands plunge you into the sparkling mako waters, holding you below the surface.

it feels like chaos incarnate at first, the water sloshing and obscuring your vision, burning your eyes and ready to flood your lungs when you can’t fight it off any longer but moment by passing moment you feel the serenity of the water begin to wash over you.

it’s warmer than you had expected it to be, quiet and peaceful in your ears. the gentle sway helps to coax your muscles from fighting as your strength starts to leave you quickly. your head feels so very light, drifting from fear to searching for comfort while your lungs fill with water and your hands can no longer hold on.

it hurts at first, painful as your chest constricts and your lungs squeeze only to bring in more water than before. all you want is sephiroth. to cry in his arms like a child and apologize for leaving him. it adds to the pain in your chest but like most of your body, it numbs the longer you stay under the water and as you feel the hands holding you let go, so does your consciousness.

------------✧♡✧-------------

at the sound of the explosion, sephiroth runs faster than he ever has before. nothing more than a blur of silver and black kicking up dust and the embers of his powerful aura sparking in the air in his wake, ready to alight the whole planet in his fury if he were to lose you here and now.

smoke bellows into the sky on the opposite side of the reactor that he’s facing, the scent of it quickly invading his senses and like a beacon, he follows in directly to you. sephiroth doesn’t bother to enter the building by any normal means, choosing the fastest way to get to you, made possible by strength only few possess.

his heart is pounding, every breath he takes in only fueling the inferno kinding inside of him and the hand holding onto masamune is strong enough to have snapped the leather cords wrapped around her hilt had they been made of normal materials. still, they groan under his grip as he slashes through the outer siding of the reactor that he climbs to in the blink of an eye.

sephiroth can feel the steel ripping in two like aluminum underneath the edge of his blade that slash a clean x through the metal. the screeching sound of metal cutting metal doesn’t breach his ears, not when all he can hear is his own heart beating, searching for your own, and how it’s tearing through his chest and rib cage to get to you.

under the pressure of his boot, the bottom most part of the siding folds in and he forces the other panels away with his hands, tearing them away with adrenaline fueled otherwordly strength, allowing him to make a massive hole to step inside. the bright sun shines from behind him, a golden halo backdrop against the black of his coat and the shining in the silver of his hair.

it’s as if the world has stopped as he takes in the scene before him, a split moment that lasts minutes in sephiroths gaze that immediately finds you in the chaos of the room. your hands losing their strength to fight back as you’re being held under the mako waters by the same figure he had seen on the security camera. the blood dripping down arms that hold you there, bleeding and bruised from the fight you had put up in your attempt to stop this.

a choice that fills sephiroth with so many emotions he can’t and won’t begin to process them now. not until you’re safe in his arms.

like an angel, or perhaps more accurately to the dangerous expression on his face - a monster, sephiroth launches from his spot, the readying stance he moves masamune into cutting through the air as his broad figure consumes the light around the avalanche man. in the next millisecond the space around him is splattered in deep crimson red, droplets of blood trickling into and diluting among the water before the man's head has a chance to hit the grate under sephiroths feet.

without care and with more strength than was likely needed, sephiroth grabs ahold of the back of the man's jacket and throws him to the side, hard enough that as he pulls you from the waters with an unrelenting and yet gentle grip around your arms, the sound of the man's body hitting the metal door leading into the rest of the reactor echos in the space.

sephiroth handles you like porcelain, feeling himself breaking at the sight of your features losing color and your body completely limp, lifeless, in his arms. he can’t hear your heart beating. can’t feel any warmth from your body that’s only growing colder in his grasp. there’s no response to the urgent way he calls your name despite how his voice doesn’t reach his own ears either. his body works on muscle memory alone to give you first aid and it’s as if his eyes are watching someone else's hands give you cpr, trying to force you to breathe. water spills from your mouth and with each passing moment that you remain cold and unmoving, he feels his world crumbling around him.

“please..” with more force than he intended, he pulls your body into his. cradling the back of your skull with one hand while the other holds you completely and securely against him, he pleads into your wet hair. “don’t leave me..”

like in his nightmares where he’s coated in your blood and you lay against him like you are now, he feels frozen. in fear. in anger. in power that electrifies the particulars of the air that surrounds you both, ready to devour the world, and yet was not enough to save you. so unlike his bad dreams though, your warm palm was not there to smooth against his cheek, ready to hold the weight of his suffering like it was your own. your voice wasn’t there to tell him it’s all right and pull him back to reality. to help lull him to better dreams he hadn’t dared to entertain or give hope to until he met you. dreams that were now slipping through his grasp no matter how tightly he held onto them.

no matter how tightly he holds onto you or the remaining bits that would be left of him after losing you. jagged and bloodied shards that genesis nor angeal could -

*ba-dum*

a sound so tiny and small. enough to stop every movement of his body and light the darkness that was over taking him.

the first breath you’re able to take in is so painful. your lungs burn as you choke and fight for air and you can feel each aching beat of your heart, like it was sapping every last bit of strength from your muscles to pump and the echo of it riverates back tenfold throughout your entire body but trying to get your bearings through it all only proves to make it worse.

it’s so cold.. so hard to breathe. i’m still in danger, corel is still in danger - c’mon body you need to move.. everything hurts.. i can’t -

“it’s okay angel. you’re safe now.” sephiroth's voice. undeniably rough and wrought with overwhelming relief, it’s a soothing balm to the anxiety and pain coursing through you faster than your heart can keep up, that was keeping you from feeling his arms holding so tightly onto you and the warmth that always seemed to accompany him. “i’ve got you.”

you can feel all of him now, the shake of his hands that hold onto you like you might slip through his fingers, nothing more than a mirage. the wicked rate at which his heart beats. the deep irregular breaths he takes. the heat of him mingling with the chilling wetness of your clothes.

looking up at him, tears prick your eyes stinging and hot, you can’t help but smile. he made it. everyone was going to be okay. through your blurry vision, it’s hard to make out anything other than the curtain of silver hair that drapes over you both and the emerald of his eyes that stare back at you but you swear the air is alive with a mixture of his relief and pain.

the hands holding onto you tighten, his gloved fingers at your back flexing and the ones holding your head tangling further into your hair as he leans in to rest his forehead gently against yours and whispers your name softly, reverently, as though it was a prayer to the goddess; a secret spell that was meant to make everything right.

your muscles scream in protest when you bring your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer, his head a comforting weight against your own, smelling of sweet flora and warmth; home.

“seph..” you murmur, an answering call to his prayer; proof that he hadn’t been too late, that he wasn’t without you. through the soreness of your lungs and throat, through your tears and the way your body trembles you cling to him with what little strength you have but knowing you were alive and with him made it worth every bit of tiring effort.

footsteps begin to sound in the distance, echoing yells from the shinra army having finally made their way into the reactor. sephiroths hold on you doesn’t waver in the slightest as he begins to stand, his footing sure and steady, his strength immeasurable and unyielding in the way it swore to protect you from any further harm and the regret he feels for not having been in time to stop any harm from coming to you.

you always feel small in sephiroth arms, something precious - treasured - and looking down at you curdled into him now, soaking wet and calming a bit more each passing second, breathing easier, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to let you out of his hold again.

the reactor core door swings open, the room quickly swarming with familiar uniforms sephiroth walks past without sparing another glance. if they try to talk to him, he doesn’t know or care. with you safely in his arms, he passes by them all, steps over the headless body near the door and makes his way into the chaos outside the reactor where it might as well have been only the two of you in the streets of corel as everyone parts for sephiroth while you remain in the safety of his arms and chest, where he intends to keep you for as long as possible.

#final fantasy vii #sephiroth #sephiroth x reader #final fantasy vii x reader #final fantasy x reader #final fantasy 7 #ff7 #ffvii #ff7 x reader #final fantasy 7 x reader

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momo-minomo · 1 month ago

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Fic Fairy Friday: Civilian Tim Giving The Batfam Heart Attacks

I know, I know, this week's theme is weirdly specific but I was originally going to theme this 'Tim Joins The Batfamily Early' but like half of the ones I wanted to rec has him joining them late but fit the vibes I wanted so… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

BTW: Consider this a general TRIGGER WARNING. Jack and Janet Drake in the comics are, at best, neglectful parents and at worst vaguely emotionally abusive and physically threatening but no actual physical abuse. If the fic makes them more abusive than this canon baseline I will add a trigger warning. Feel free to let me know if you think I need to add an extra warning for something!

The Fic Fairy Friday Masterpost

Puzzles Made of Broken Glass by thatcuriouscat

Summary:

Sherlock Holmes retreats to his Mind Palace to think, to problem-solve. Superman has his Fortress of Solitude, reportedly. 9-and-five-sixths-year-old Tim Drake has his Blanket Fortress. Timmy Drake’s parents go missing. He’s the only one who notices.

Momo's Notes: I usually prefer to only rec fics that are complete but I occasionally make an exception for one that's exceptionally good and still regularly updating. thatcuriouscat is one of those authors that knocks it out of the park every single time and the characterizations are perfection so this fic is a must read. Tim's parents go missing so Detective Drake starts investigating even as his entire life, precarious emotional stability, and distressing lack of self-preservation is crumbling down around his ears. I love fics where Tim and Robin!Jason meet and become friends and the chapter where Tim and Dick meet had me squealing and kicking my feet.

One Smart Magpie by Marbles_and_Sweetpeas

Summary:

Tim Drake likes to think he's your typical 12 year old. Well, except for the sneaking around at night and doing detective work. And figuring out the Bats' identity. But that's it. Really. Except everything seems to be spiraling out of his control. Something serious is going on in Gotham, and Tim might be the only one who can put all the pieces together in time to stop it. Or: Tim is a crazy little detective who just wants to help in any way he can. Of course the Bats are going to adopt him.

Momo's Notes: Another fic for baby detective Timmy and joining the batfamily early! Tim is wandering around Gotham at night knowing the usual secrets he shouldn't know but also running his own investigations. He's trying to figure out the mysterious happenings in the city at the same time Jason, Dick, and Bruce are aggressively trying to adopt this sweet kid with zero self-preservation instincts or supervision. Timmy is seriously badass during this one while still being a kid overwhelmed with being in way over his head.

Holy security breach, Batman! by destiny919

Summary:

Janet finally shoos him away towards the hors d'oeuvres or drinks table with the tacit understanding that she doesn't want to see him again until the end of the gala. And probably not even then, it wouldn't be the first time the Drakes forgot to take him home with them and Tim had to discreetly call an Uber before the host noticed and made Tim embarrass his parents. For this gala, however, he almost hopes they forget him again, because tonight Tim has a plan. They're at Wayne Manor, and Tim is going to find the Batcave.

Momo's Notes: Short and sweet! Precocious 8 year old Tim decides to put his detective hat on while at a Wayne gala and manages to find and sneak into the batcave. Cue the distressed bat and bird noises!

A Brief Interview by Miss_Lazy_Tuesday

Summary:

When Damian finds a small child with an expensive camera on a rooftop in the middle of Gotham, he decides to follow in his father’s footsteps and take the boy home. After all, why should Bruce be the only one who gets to add to the family? Damian and Tim age swap fluff.

Momo's Notes: Short but hilarious. A version of a "Tim Joins The Batfamily Late" trope where he's the 8 year old fanboy to Damian's 14 year old Robin. Damian decides he's had enough of being the baby of the family and proves he's his father's son by picking up a new little brother while on patrol and bringing him home with no warning to the rest of the household. The others will surely marvel at his generosity and brilliance. Tim is mildly alarmed but mostly starstruck.

Boom, Boom, Pow! by LilaVaporizer9000

Summary:

If anyone asked the Batfamily which Robin had the funniest ’joining the family’ story? Well, everyone would start with, “Well it seemed like Jason had the spot taken for good after having the audacity to try and jack the Batmobile’s tires and hit Bruce with his tire iron.” And then they’d say, “But then tiny Tim decided to try and steal the whole thing.” Or: When Tim is 11 he figures it’s not hurting anyone if he. Ya know. Takes a picture in the Batmobile. But then the power goes to his head and all of a sudden he’s hacking the Batmobile and tearing through Gotham on a rescue mission.

Momo's Notes: Gearhead baby Timmy takes the Batmobile on a joyride and the Batfamily was never the same. Dick and Jason's budding rivalry has delightful Wayne Family Adventures vibes. If you've read WFA you'll know the chapter I'm referring to when you get to those scenes lol. They are such total goobers. Bonus points for the author including a link to a playlist they made for Tim's cringe car music. I love it when authors include a fanmix for the story.

bitty batty baby vigilante crew by deargalileo

Summary:

There were two kids up on the roof. They couldn’t have been older than ten, but frankly, they looked like babies. The boy had dark hair and a red jacket, while the girl was dressed in all purple with blond hair poking out from under her hood. Jason was pushing himself over the ledge before he could really think about it. What were two kids doing on a rooftop, in the middle of the night, in Gotham? the story of two kids conning their way across gotham, and (mostly) inadvertently into the batman family.

Momo's Notes: There aren't nearly enough stories of tiny Timmy meeting Stephanie early. The chaos and shenanigans those two get up to as teens are legendary. I don't know if Jason's nerves can handle them as kids with WAY more recklessness and distrust of authority.

Surveillance by smilebackwards

Summary:

Tim knows antagonizing Lex Luthor wasn’t exactly his safest move but the point is really driven home by the bullet to the shoulder. Or: The AU where Jason never died and Tim is a civilian who contributes to crime fighting by taking surveillance photos and leaving them on the desktop of the Batcomputer.

Momo's Notes: Here's an awesome 'Tim Joins The Batfamily Late' trope fic! His casual disdain for dangerous rogues who'd happily squash him like a bug combined with his careless disregard for his own health make for an especially stressed Batfam, especially Bruce and Jason. This one is actually part of a series and has TimKon! Score!

Northern Attitude (I Was Raised on Little Light) by theskeptileptic

Summary:

It's not Tim's fault Batman slept with his mom sixteen years ago, or Tim's fault that Bruce Wayne regrets signing away his parental rights fifteen years ago, but Jack Drake sure thinks it is. Now Damian is bugging him about cows and family and Jason and Dick won't stop kidnapping him and Bruce is acting like court orders don't matter, like he doesn't have a huge bat-shaped secret to protect from literally the whole freaking world. Why is Tim the only functioning adult in this situation? This was supposed to be coated in angst, but it fell in the fluff bucket instead. (So, update, some people are saying this may not be as fluffy as I am advertising it. I plead the 5th.)

Momo's Notes: TRIGGER WARNING for incredibly abusive Drakes here. That "fluff bucket" claim in the summary is definitely false advertising. This story is really good tho with some quality Tim and Damian bonding! The number of stress and panic induced heart attacks Tim gives the Batfam in this one is truly off the charts lol.

cards on the table by wesslan

Summary:

Tim's parents faked their deaths and fled the country years ago, but neglected to take him with them. He spent some time on the streets, and now at 16, he makes a living as a fortune teller, stalking and hustling the shit out of Gotham's elite by telling them eerily accurate fortunes based on the information he gathers about them. His life is peculiar but he wouldn't change a thing. When he gets booked for the big Wayne Halloween party, however, he finds himself getting all tangled up with the Waynes, and the more fortunes he tells, the tighter the snare becomes. or: Tim just wanted to scam Gotham's elite, not end up on the Batfamily's watchlist. But it seems they just won't leave him alone..

Momo's Notes: Another 'Tim Joins The Batfamily Late' fic! Despite Young Justice not appearing at all in this fic it still gives me the YJ98 vibes with all the insane plans and shenanigans Tim has up in the air, here. He's stalking half of Gotham's rich, famous, and dangerous so he can scam them all into thinking he's a legit psychic.

Latchkey by goldkirk

Summary:

or, How Tim Drake Found A Family, Became A Photojournalist, Learned To Love Coffee, and Grew Up, not necessarily in that order. Tim Drake is thirteen, runs the famous BatWatch blog that has spiraled hilariously out of control, has absentee parents that suit his purposes just fine, is training himself to run the streets at night, and is doing absolutely peachy, thank you. Alfred and Jason disagree, and get Dick and Bruce involved in figuring out their weird nextdoor neighbor kid’s life. Everything goes uphill from there.

Settle Our Bones by motleyfam, justbeyondstars, batmoniker

Summary:

Tim is good at galas. No, scratch that—Tim is great at galas. He’s been attending them ever since the age of three, when his parents first stuffed him into his little Gymboree tuxedo and gave him a stern lecture about ‘sitting quietly’ and ‘speaking when spoken to.’ He knows all the rules: what to wear, how to stand, when to smile, what to say, what not to say. He knows how to come across as polite and intelligent and charming, and on absolutely any other day, he would be rocking this. --- Or, my take on a ‘Tim Joins the Family Early’ AU, told through a series of sleepovers, most of which are unplanned. Featuring pre-teen Tim, Alive!Jason, and a whole lot of hurt/comfort.

Momo's Notes: The chances you haven't already read Latchkey and Settle Our Bones is slim if you're a Tim Drake fan but they are classics within the 'Tim Drake Joins The Batfamily Early' trope for a damn good reason so I had to include them on the off chance someone hasn't run across these amazing fics yet! TRIGGER WARNINGS for abusive Drakes! Also both of these series do a great job of depicting trauma recovery but that can also be triggering for some people so be careful.

PLAYLIST

Tim Drake Joins the Batfamily Early AU Spotify Playlist

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colonelkaboom · 12 days ago

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Does He Know You Call Me When He Sleeps?🍐🍎

✎AN: Caleb has a lot going on at work, so you've decided to spend some time with him in Skyhaven in hopes of making his days a bit easier to manage. Although you love getting to spend so much time with your best friend, there is another man occupying your mind. And Caleb can't know... (Very loosely inspired by an edit i saw on TikTok.) Word count: 1.6 k

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After an exhausting day at work, Caleb came home late seeking your comfort. Seeing his pained expression you pulled him in for a tight hug knowing it would bring him relief. He melted in your arms and muttered a string of thank yous into your hair whilst holding onto your body like it was the only thing keeping him from falling into the abyss.

You started to slowly aid him out of his Colonel uniform. Beginning with his hat before slowly prying him off your body to begin work on the buttons of his jacket. It was getting very late and you questioned if he had eaten. He claimed to have had dinner at work, but was unsure how many hours ago. There was no point in pushing it further as the obvious lack of energy was becoming clearer and clearer. He needed to sleep.

Using all your strength you hauled his large frame onto his bed. His long legs heavily hanging off the side. Still covered by a white t-shirt and trousers you kneeled down and began unlacing his combat boots. You glanced up at him only to find him drifting off to sleep. After gently pulling his boots off you winced at the stench that emerged as you revealed his socks.

“Ugh, Caleb, I’m not touching those.” With his eyes still closed he let out an amused chuckle at your honesty.

“I got it, Pips.” He slowly sat up and his groggy eyes met yours. He had that cute, teasing smile lingering on his lips. The same smile you grew up with. He tugged his trousers off before his back met the soft bed once again. He seemed to be falling asleep instantly. His breathing slowly steadied with deep and controlled puffs. Caleb was always warm, but the sight of his bare legs gave you chills. You draped a blanket over his lower half before turning to leave the room.

“Will you stay with me?” Caleb pleaded. His eyes were barely open but he managed to stretch an arm out in your direction. You smiled and returned to his side, of course you would. You gracefully climbed over his body and nuzzled into his back wrapping and arm over his waist. You had cuddled like this many times before. After a long day there were few things that brought you more comfort than his calming touch. He would never admit it, probably scared it would show too much vulnerability, but he loved being the little spoon when he had rough days. Letting all his guards down to properly relax, because you had his back, literally.

It didn’t take long before he was fully asleep, resting peacefully in your embrace. But there was something you had to do, something that had been on your mind all evening. Someone.

You carefully wiggled out of the bed, making sure not to disturb Caleb, before quietly leaving the room. You peak through the door one last time, making sure your best friend is still fast asleep. His arms are splayed out on the pillows and jaw hanging open. He’d surely start snoring soon. You smile at the beautifully familiar sight before closing the door with a soft click.

Safely in the living room you pick Caleb's jacket off the floor before folding it neatly and placing it on the bench by the entrance. His hat securely resting on top of the folded fabric. The clock on the wall tells you it’s almost 2am. He should be home now.

“Hello?” A calming voice emerges from the other end.

“Hi Zayne.” You smile, thankful he could answer your call. You’d been spending so much time with Caleb in Skyhaven that you’d barely seen Zayne lately. Finding a time where you were both available was hard enough, but having to also make sure Caleb was busy at the same time made it even harder. Late night calls when Caleb was sleeping was the best you could do.

“It’s good to finally hear your voice.” The deep sigh seemed to let out tension that he had held in for too long.

“I miss you, Zayne. I wish I could see you.”

“When will you return to Linkon City? Surely the Hunters Association misses your skills and abilities?”

“I’ve been getting small missions in Skyhaven, Captain Jenna has been very kind allowing me to spend so much time here since Caleb returned. So there is no need to worry, the Hunters Association is still benefiting from my skills and abilities.”

“Oh, I see. I guess I’m the only one missing out then.” You can’t see him, but you can perfectly picture that almost invisible smirk of his.

“Zayne…” You smile, feeling your cheeks starting to burn.

“What I’m trying to say is, I miss you too.”

“How was your day? Any exciting heart surgeries?”

“Yes, a few actually. Although, I find it quite hard to perform my work to the quality I wish when half of my own heart is so far away.”

“Dr. Zayne, if you keep talking like that I’m going to have to find an emergency cardiac surgeon here in Skyhaven.”

“Don’t you dare, silly girl. You know I’m the best in the field, no one else gets to handle that delicate heart of yours.”

You keep talking about everything and nothing for the next hour. Only when you hear him yawn for the third time in five minutes do you feel the need to put your foot down.

“Ok, Zayne, time for bed. I won’t be able to live with myself if I make you late for work in the morning.”

“Have you told him yet?” He suddenly asks.

“What?” You question innocently, but you know what he means.

“Does he know you call me when he sleeps?” Your silence gives him the answer.

“He cares for you in a way I’ve never seen before. Even when we were kids, it seemed like every choice he made was based on what would make you happy and safe. He and I might have lost touch over the years, but I do not like this continuous sneaking behind his back.” There was a short pause before Zayne continued.

“I think it is blatantly obvious to everyone, except you, that his feelings go beyond that of a childhood friend or adopted sibling. I trust you and your judgement, but keeping him in the dark for much longer is not fair to him.” You knew he was right, Zayne was always right.

“I don’t know how to tell him. I fear it might break him, and he is already so fragile. Some days I feel like I’m the only thing keeping him together.”

“I’m not saying you have to tell him today or tomorrow, but you know this can not continue indefinitely. I will remind you of my offer to be there with you when you tell him. Perhaps it could offer him some comfort hearing how serious I am about our relationship.”

“No, that would not be a good idea. He has too many guns at his disposal.” You chuckle, but a part of you fears you might not be joking.

“Alright, we can discuss this further at a later date. If you won’t allow me in the room with you, at least let me help with any necessary preparations. I want to be there for you.” You smile again, feeling like you finally found someone who views you as an equal. Someone you can stand next to rather than be hidden behind.

“Good night, Zayne.”

“Good night, my love.” You savour the last words before reluctantly hanging up.

“Who are you talking to, Pips?” Your heart nearly jumps out of your chest at the sound of Caleb’s stern voice behind you.

Unsure of how much he heard you remain silent.

“It sounded like it must have been someone important.” He slowly walks closer with his arms crossed. The tone of his voice was one you rarely heard directed toward you. It scared you a bit. It was the voice of the Colonel. However, once he got closer, it was clear that the emotion in his purple eyes did not match the facade his voice was trying to build. He looked hurt. Scared. Desperate.

“You were gone for a very long time Caleb. He took care of me when you couldn’t.”

“So this is my fault?” He questions, the tough facade starting to show cracks.

“No, it’s no one's fault. This is a good thing. He makes me happy.”

“He makes you so happy that you lie to sneak in late night phone calls? The Pip-squeak I know doesn’t hide her happiness like that.”

“We didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Tell me now then, who’s been keeping you oh so happy. Do I know who he is?”

“You didn’t hear that part of my conversation?”

“If I did, why would I ask?” It looked like he was bracing for impact.

“Zayne.” You say quietly as you prepare yourself to pick up the pieces of Caleb that are threatening to explode.

He remains silent, but turns his face away from you, attempting to hide. But you saw. His eyes were glossy and the lump in his throat seemed too big for him to swallow as his Adam's apple bobbed a few times.

The man who had never allowed himself to show any sign of weakness in order to remain your most secure haven, was falling apart.

You broke him.

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✎AN: This was more painful to write than I imagined when I first got the idea... Kinda want to explore this theme with some of the other boys as well, but I'm struggling with ideas.

⋆ Read more ⋆ Masterlist ⋆

- Colonel Kaboom

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fanfic #love and deepspace fluff #love and deepspace caleb #lads fluff #lads fanfic #lads caleb #caleb love and deepspace #caleb lads #love and deepspace zayne #zayne love and deepspace #lads zayne #zayne lads

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silent-stories · 1 month ago

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𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 (𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐁𝐀𝐅 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄)

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x reader

Summary: You find a photo book filled with pictures of Luna.

The apartment was quiet that morning. Luna was still at daycare and Noah was sprawled across the couch, one arm resting over his eyes, looking every bit as lazy as he had claimed to be when you asked if he wanted to do something productive.

"Define productive," he had muttered, which was apparently code for: I’m not moving from this couch unless the house is on fire.

Neki seemed to agree with Noah's decision as he slept at the foot of the couch, his brown and black fur rose and fell with each breath.

He looked completely at ease, stretched out on the couch in the softest, most comfortable-looking sweater you’d ever seen, his hair was a little messy from where your fingers had played with it while you cuddled. His face was relaxed in that way it only ever was when he was truly comfortable.

You, on the other hand, had found entertainment in perusing his bookshelf.

It wasn’t particularly well-organized—books stacked horizontally on top of others, some wedged into spaces too small for them, a mix of hardcovers and paperbacks that ranged from classic literature and thrillers to, unsurprisingly, a lot of music-related biographies and theory books.

But what amused you the most was that nearly half of the shelf was dedicated to Luna’s collection. Brightly colored spines with animated characters on the covers, well-loved picture books with worn edges from how often they had been flipped through.

You ran your fingers along the spines, grinning as you pulled one out. “Noah, you do realize you own more copies of ‘Goodnight Moon’ than any grown man should?”

He peeked at you from under his arm, unbothered. “Luna likes it.”

“You have three copies.”

“She really likes it.”

Laughing, you shook your head, sliding the book back into place before letting your gaze wander over the rest of the shelf. A few titles made you snort—some questionable self-help books, an old and well-worn poetry collection, and a novel you were pretty sure he had once claimed to despise but apparently owned anyway.

Then something caught your eye.

It was different from the rest, thinner and tucked between two larger books. The cover was soft pink and white, delicate, and though it was nothing overtly striking, something about it made your fingers pause over the spine without a title.

Your amusement faded slightly as curiosity settled in. You reached out, gripping the edges and carefully pulling it free.

The book felt light in your hands, its pastle cover smooth beneath your fingers. As you flipped it open, the first page revealed itself, and the moment your eyes landed on the photographs, you gasped softly.

Two pictures, side by side. Both of Luna, impossibly small, so tiny it was hard to believe she had ever been that little.

In the first picture, she was wrapped in a soft white blanket, only her face peeking out, her features scrunched in sleep. Her skin was smooth and rosy, her eyelashes barely visible as they rested against her cheeks.

A tiny knit hat, pink with a little embroidered heart, sat snugly on her head. Her hands were hidden, tucked securely into the folds of the blanket, and she looked so fragile, so new, like the world itself hadn’t fully settled around her yet.

The second picture made your heart swell even more. Luna, still wrapped in that same soft blanket, but this time, she wasn’t alone. Noah was holding her, cradling her against his chest.

He looked a bit younger but not so different, his hair slightly messy and way longer, exhaustion clear in his eyes, but there was something else there, too, something soft, something so deeply full of love.

His hand was cradling her head, supporting her with a gentleness that you could almost feel through the image. She was resting against him, her little mouth slightly open, completely unaware of the world around her.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. Then, louder, as you turned on your heel and hurried to the couch, “Noah. Noah, oh my god. Look at her.”

You dropped onto the cushion beside him, holding the book open, your heart bursting at the sheer tininess of Luna in these pictures. “She’s so small! She’s a little bean. A tiny bean! A tiny bean who looks like you. I can’t—look at her! Look at you! Noah, this is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Noah chuckled, running a hand through his hair as he glanced down at the pictures. There was a softness in his eyes, a fondness that never quite faded when it came to Luna. “Yeah,” he murmured, smiling. “She was really small.”

You traced a gentle finger over the edge of the photograph, eyes still fixed on the image of him holding her. “Tell me about this,” you said, nudging him. “This moment. What was this?”

Noah exhaled, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. “That was the first time I held her,” he admitted. “She was just a few hours old. I was so scared.”

You turned to look at him, eyebrows raised.

He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “I had no idea what I was doing. She was so tiny, and I kept thinking I was going to hold her wrong, or she was going to start crying, or—” He sighed. “But the second they put her in my arms, she just… settled. Fell asleep like that.”

His fingers brushed the edge of the photo, the ghost of that memory in his expression. “And I remember thinking—okay. I can do this. She’s here, and she’s mine, and I’m going to figure it out.”

Your chest ached, but in the best way possible. You turned your gaze back to the pictures, your lips curling into a smile. “Well,” you murmured, “you did figure it out. And she’s perfect.”

Noah let out a small chuckle, tilting his head toward yours as he glanced down at the book. “Yeah,” he said softly.

You carefully turned the page. The next set of pictures greeted you, and immediately, your heart melted all over again.

These photos captured Luna at just a few months old, still small but no longer as fragile as she had been in the first set. In the first picture, she was lying on her stomach on a soft blanket, her chubby arms struggling to keep her tiny body propped up.

Her dark hair, slightly longer now, stuck up in little tufts, giving her an almost cartoonishly adorable look. Her wide eyes were locked onto something—or someone—outside the frame, and her mouth was slightly open in what looked like the beginning of a gummy, drooly smile.

The second photo was even cuter. Luna was in Noah’s arms again, but this time, she was laughing. Full-on, tiny baby laughter, caught in a still image.

Her eyes were squinted with joy, her little tongue poking out just slightly. Noah was grinning down at her, his face pressed close to hers, his expression filled with nothing but pure, unfiltered love.

You couldn’t help but let out a small, delighted squeal. “Noah. Look at her little face! Oh my god, she was so round! She had the cutest baby cheeks I’ve ever seen.”

Noah chuckled beside you, glancing down at the pictures with a fond smile. “Yeah, she was a little marshmallow back then.”

“She still is,” you murmured, eyes locked onto the second picture. “And this one? I need to know everything about this one.” You tapped the photo of Luna laughing in his arms.

Noah let out a breath, his smile stretching wider. “Okay, so—this was when she was about five months old. She had just started trying to roll over and sit up on her own. And she was obsessed with sounds. Like, she loved any kind of noise, especially silly ones.”

You glanced up at him, intrigued. “Silly ones?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, nodding. “Like, fart noises? Top-tier baby comedy. Any kind of raspberry sounds? Absolute gold.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Of course.”

“So,” Noah continued, “one night, I was sitting with her, and she was getting fussy. I had tried everything—rocking her, singing, playing with her stuffed animals—nothing was working. And then, out of pure desperation, I just—” He paused, grinning. “I blew a raspberry.”

Your eyes widened. “And?”

“And she lost it,” he said, chuckling. “Like, full-on, baby giggles. And once she started, she couldn’t stop. It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen.”

You glanced back at the picture, seeing it now with the full story behind it. “That’s adorable,” you said softly. “She looked so happy.”

“Yeah,” Noah agreed, his voice almost nostalgic. “I swear, for a week straight, that was the only trick that worked. If she was upset? Raspberry. If she was tired? Raspberry. If she was just bored? You guessed it—raspberry.”

You giggled, shaking your head. “So basically, you had to humiliate yourself daily just to keep her entertained.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Noah said without hesitation. “And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

Something about the way he said it made your chest ache in the best way. “You’re a really good dad, you know that?”

He exhaled a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… I try.”

You nudged him lightly. “You don't just try. You are.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, he cleared his throat and gestured toward the book.

As you carefully turned the page, two new pictures greeted you, each one featuring Luna with different people. You found yourself immediately smiling.

The first picture was of Luna with Matt and Folio. She looked even bigger now, maybe around seven or eight months old, her chubby little cheeks still as round as ever. She sat in the middle of the two men on what looked like a couch, her tiny hands resting on her lap as she beamed up at the camera.

Matt was on her right, making some exaggerated face—his mouth wide open, eyebrows raised, as if he had just been caught in the middle of telling a story. His arm was slung over the back of the couch, relaxed but clearly amused.

Folio, sitting on her left, was mid-laugh, his head tilted slightly back, eyes nearly shut from how hard he was grinning. One of his hands rested on Luna’s back, steadying her, while the other seemed to be reaching toward her, like he had just been playing with her and pulled back at the last second for the picture.

“She was such a little star,” you murmured, running your fingertips lightly over the image. “Look at them. Completely obsessed with her.”

Noah chuckled beside you. “They really were. Well, they still are."

You spent what felt like forever flipping through the pages, completely caught in the journey laid out before you. Each photo showed Luna growing right before your eyes all over again.

Noah narrated each picture like he was reliving the moments himself. You saw her first time at the beach, sitting on a towel with a sunhat almost too big for her head while Noah held her tiny hands so she wouldn’t tip over.

There were pictures of her bundled up in a onesie for her first winter, her round cheeks pink from the cold. One of your favorites was a chaotic but adorable shot of Luna covered in cake on her first birthday, frosting smeared all over her chubby hands while Matt and Folio grinned beside her, clearly also responsible for the mess.

It was surreal—watching her grow again through these pictures, remembering the times Noah used to bring her into the café when she was still so little.

Back then, you barely spoke beyond the polite greetings of a customer and bartender. You’d watch from a distance as he balanced a coffee in one hand and cradled Luna in the other, gently bouncing her as he placed orders.

And now, here you were, sitting next to him, your fingers tracing the very moments you had unknowingly been watching from afar.

Then, you turned the page again.

There were two pictures. But these weren’t just any pictures. These had you in them.

The first one was of you and Luna on the couch. You were asleep, your body slightly curled on one side, and Luna was tucked right into you, her tiny hand clutching onto your shirt. She must have fallen asleep first because your arm was wrapped around her protectively, like you had instinctively held her close even in sleep.

The second picture was in the kitchen. You were standing by the counter, helping Luna mix something in a bowl. She was wearing a Hello Kitty t-shirt, which nearly swallowed her whole, and her hands were gripping a spoon way too big for her.

You were leaning slightly, guiding her movements and smiling at her. Luna, in turn, was looking up at you, as if whatever she was stirring wasn’t nearly as important as the fact that she was doing it with you.

You blinked, stunned. “I… I’ve never seen these before.”

Noah shifted beside you, his voice quieter now. “Yeah. I took them.”

You turned to him, eyes wide. “When?”

He gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “The one on the couch? That was a few months ago. You fell asleep after reading to her, and she wouldn’t let go of you. I just… I don’t know. I wanted to remember it.”

Your heart squeezed painfully in your chest. “And this one?” You pointed at the kitchen photo.

He exhaled softly. “You weren’t even paying attention to me, but I remember watching you both, and I just—” He shook his head slightly, almost like he was embarrassed to admit it. “I wanted to keep that moment.”

"These are so cute. Thank you for taking them."

You continued flipping through the pages, taking in every detail as Noah told you story after story. There was Luna in a pumpkin costume for her first Halloween, barely able to sit upright but looking determined nonetheless and one of her wearing Noah’s beanie, the fabric swallowing her tiny head, while she grinned up at the camera.

There were quiet moments too—a shot of her sleeping on Jolly's chest, her tiny fingers curled into his hoodie. A photo of her sitting in a laundry basket while Folio pulled her around the room like it was a racecar. And one where she was clutching Ruffilo’s face with both hands, smushing his cheeks while he laughed.

You kept flipping, until suddenly, you noticed Noah had gone quiet.

You turned to him, your teasing remark dying on your tongue the moment you saw his face. His eyes were glassy, dangerously close to spilling over, his jaw clenched like he was trying to keep himself together.

“Noah?”

He blinked quickly, clearing his throat. “What?” His voice was rough, but he wouldn’t meet your gaze.

You tilted your head, searching his expression. “Are you okay?”

He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “I’m fine. Just—” He exhaled, glancing away. Allergies, you know? This fucking pollen is everywhere now.”

You didn’t believe him for a second.

Without another word, you shifted closer and cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips.

Instead of arguing, you simply leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. Then another. And another. A flurry of kisses along his jaw, his temple, his nose—everywhere you could reach.

“Noah,” you murmured in between kisses, your voice gentle but teasing, “you can cry if you want to.”

He scoffed, but it lacked any real conviction. “I’m not crying.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, the corners of your lips twitching with amusement. “Mhm,” you hummed, brushing your thumb across his cheek. "It's okay getting emotional sometimes."

“I’m not,” he insisted, but his voice wavered slightly, and you caught the way he blinked a little too quickly.

You just laughed, pressing another kiss to the tip of his nose. “Okay, baby. Whatever you say. I love you."

He sighed, exasperated, but you felt his hands finding your waist like he needed to hold onto something.

“You're impossible,” he muttered under his breath, "and so persistent."

You relaxed into him, your head resting against his shoulder, your fingers tracing gentle patterns on his stomach as you let your hand slip under the hem of his t-shirt.

“And I love you too, by the way” he whispered after a moment.

You giggled into his chest.

Tags: @anything-more-than-human @ladyveronikawrites @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @bloody-spades @fadingangelwisp @xmads-omensx @iwasntstable @thisbicc @pathion @flowery-mess @into-the-grey @lacy1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @stardustsirenmelody @thewrstinme @hurricanesfollowyou @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @missduffsblog @pandora-08 @geminigirlfromfinland

TBAF Tags: @klutzy-kay24 @mrscevans @concreteangel92 @iconic-taurus @niicoleleigh @cheyyyyr @supersquirrel1996 @respectfulrebel @clickmedead @whenyouwannafindlove @kenjipepsi1

#noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfiction #dad!noah sebastian #dad!noah sebastian x reader #bad omens fanfiction #tbaf #to build a family #x reader

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