#however actually straight traffic has right of way over turning traffic

[loving-jack-kelly]

it's not whoever is turning right, if 2-3 cars stop at the same time it's whoever is furthest to the right who goes first regardless of how they are turning. if its 2 cars across from each other than you start w the car turning right

i was answering as if four cars pulled up to a four way intersection like this

at the exact same time. there is no furthest to the right because every car has one to the right, one to the left, and one directly in front of them lol

[mackenzielovee]

Hi, I loved crazy love. Literally I become obsessed, so I was wondering if you could write something about them when they are moving to their new apartment near to college and both of their families are helping them to have everything in order, but Rafe only want them to leave to be all alone with you in their new home. Maybe a little bit of smut?

a/n: this idea had my heart bc i'd really been wanting to write something like this ;) i hope you enjoy! thanks so much for the request!

Warnings: swearing, smut, mentions of planned pregnancy, discussion of sex

crazy love masterlist

my writing

our home: crazy love blurb - rafe cameron

"No, no a little to the left. Ward, are you listening to me?"

You sigh as you set the very last box down on the kitchen counter, stealing a glance at Rafe, who is sitting on your new couch. His head is in his hands as he listens to his parents bicker back and forth, trying to hang up the painting they had bought the two of you. Rose had gushed over it when she bought it, telling you it would match the rest of your decor perfectly.

"Of course, darling. You're talking loud enough," Ward gripes, shifting the painting to the left as Rose demands.

"Oh, come on, now. Back over to the right-"

"It's straight!" Rafe raises his voice, standing up from the couch.

You inhale sharply and step into the living room of your new apartment, wrapping an arm around him to try and calm him down. Ever since his parents and Wheezie arrived with the moving truck to help you both, he's been on edge. When your parents showed up with Macy, you thought he was about to go into cardiac arrest.

"Actually, I think it might just be straight," Rose nods, "Good eye, Rafe."

"Thanks so much," he remarks sarcastically.

"Hey," you whisper to him, trying to tell him to quit being mean to his step-mom, "They're here to help, remember?"

Rafe rolls his eyes, "I could do this shit myself."

"Because you're such a handy man?" you snort.

Rafe clenches his jaw as he looks down at you, but can't help the smirk on his face. He pulls you closer to him, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"Where did Macy and Wheezie go? They should start on those kitchen boxes," Rose tells Ward, stepping away from her husband to look for them.

"We can handle the kitchen boxes," Rafe tells her.

"Y/N?" Rose looks to you for a final answer.

You glance up at Rafe only for a second, noting the look on his face, then nod your head in agreement.

"I like the kitchen organized a certain way, anyway," you tell her with a smile.

She nods her head, "All right. Ward and I can start on your sheets-"

"Y/N's parents are taking care of that," Rafe informs her.

Wheezie and Macy come tumbling into the front door, running past all of you and into your bedroom with your parents.

"What the hell are those two up to?" Ward questions.

Wheezie and Macy have become as thick as thieves, the best of friends, over the summer. One day, you'd shown up at Rafe's only to find your sister in her kitchen with Wheezie, baking away. Ever since then, you and Rafe have had to be extra quiet upstairs.

Rose and Ward step toward your bedroom as well, which is down a small hallway just off the kitchen. Rafe grabs your hand and yanks you with him, following the crowd of people.

"Can everyone get out of our bedroom, please?" Rafe grumbles, standing behind his father and watching your parents finish up making your bed.

Your parents had not been crazy about you and Rafe living together right as you both make the transition to college. You had cried, begged, threatened to not go to school, and even dragged Rafe over for a family dinner so all of you could talk the situation out. You'd never seen Rafe's face so red as the night he had to sit at a dinner table and discuss with your father how the two of you would be sleeping in the same bed.

When your parents found out that the Camerons would be financing your rent bill, however, the living situation had changed. Your parents hadn't realized how expensive dorm living is, and the thought of not having to pay for housing on top of tuition sounded like a dream come true.

Which is how you land in your new, empty kitchen, trying to hold Rafe back from killing every family member the two of you currently have within arms reach.

"It's quarter to three," your dad tells your mother over your bed.

"Macy," your mom speaks, "Get your stuff, honey. We have to get going."

"Yeah," Rafe perks up, earning the attention of his parents, "You guys should get moving, too. Y'know, lots of traffic, and Wheezie's got that thing early in the morning."

Wheezie opens her mouth to speak, but stops suddenly when Rafe gives her the death stare. She looks to you, to which you just shrug, and then turns back to her parents.

"What thing?" Rose asks her. Ward's phone buzzes in his pocket, earning his attention.

"Uh," Wheezie hesitates, looking to Rafe once more.

"Girl scout meeting," Rafe blurts.

You cover your face with your free hand to try and prevent Rose from seeing your laughter. You truly have no idea where Rafe gets this idea that Wheezie is old enough to be in girl scouts. Wheezie narrows her eyes at him, shaking her head slightly.

"Girl scout?" Rose questions to herself, still trying to figure it out when Ward speaks up, eyes still glued to his phone.

"Wheezie, get your stuff. You won't want to be tired in the morning at your meeting."

Wheezie rolls her eyes but does as she's told, making her way out of your bedroom and down the hall to collect her things in the living room.

"Seriously, Rafe?" she hisses, "Girl scouts? I'm fourteen-"

"Shut up, Wheeze," Rafe says back to her through gritted teeth.

Wheezie turns to you, "He's your problem, now."

"Oh, boy, do I know it," you tease Rafe, smiling with Wheezie. She laughs, but it's short lived when Rafe shoves her away.

"Get your shit," he mutters.

"Stop it," you demand, stepping in front of him and holding onto his forearms as they are wrapped around your waist.

The one thing you love about Rafe more than anything is how he always shows affection to you, even if your parents or his parents are around. He just doesn't seem to care about anyone except you.

"I want them to go," he defends himself, keeping his voice quiet, "I just want to be alone with you. In our home. I didn't realize that was such a difficult request."

You smile up at your fussy boy, dragging one hand up to his face to stroke his cheek. You can faintly hear your families moving around the two of you, but you're too lost in your own little world to think too much about it.

"Be patient," you whisper to him.

He smirks, "Will you make it worth my while?"

You give him back the same look, loving the way he smirks at you and allows his eyes to rake over every inch of your face and torso. It takes everything in him not to just grab you by the throat and kiss the hell out of you, only controlling himself because your dad is ten feet away.

"Don't I always?"

Rafe groans, trying his best to keep his composure. He has to close his eyes as he continues to whine, knowing that if he keeps looking at you, he'll be hard in no time.

"All right," Rafe says loudly, tugging himself away from you, "Thanks for coming, everyone, but we have a lot to unpack here. Dad, Rose, Wheezie, I'll show you to the door."

You snicker as you watch him attempt to lead his confused family out the door. You turn to your own family, giving hugs and promising to call whenever you can. Rose refuses to leave without giving you a hug, which pisses Rafe off, as he's gotten Ward and Wheezie out successfully and only needs one more.

Rose promises to send flowers, one that match the color scheme of course, and tells you she'll call you to check on Rafe, since he doesn't bother to return her calls. You give Wheezie a hug and give Ward a polite smile and wave from the doorway.

The second they're all out the door, Rafe slams the door shut and locks it before any of them can decide they forgot something.

"Ah, free at last," you joke.

Rafe turns around, licking his lips as he thinks about how you two finally have an empty house and he has you all to himself. No distractions, no parents, no little sisters listening intently at the door for secrets and drama. He eyes you up and down once, and when he brings his blue orbs to meet yours again, you know what he's thinking.

"Come here," he demands, but he can't help himself.

That boy rushes over to you, pushing you up against the wall in the entryway of your new apartment, kissing you as if his life depends on it. You accept his kiss without a second thought, allowing your hands to wrap themselves around his neck.

"Up," he mutters against your lips, hands guiding themselves to your waist as you jump up and let him position himself in between your legs, wrapping them around his torso.

He moves his kisses to your cheek, then your jawline, then your neck, while his hands relentlessly roam your ass.

"Rafe," you say, tilting your neck to give him more space.

"Hmm," he hums against your skin, not stopping or slowing down for anything.

"I really do have to unpack the kitchen if you want to eat dinner tonight," you tell him, although you're fully aware he would never set you down for anything right now.

"Not hungry."

"Rafe-"

"I think," he stops you, wet kisses trailing your collarbone, "We should fuck everywhere. Y'know, break the place in."

Even though you two have been together for a while, him saying things like that to you always seems to send tingles through your whole body. He always knew what to say, what to do, to get you riled up in all the right ways.

"That would take us all night," you whisper, smirking because you already know what he's going to say.

"Fine with me, baby."

You smile, then reach down and grab ahold of his cheek with your hand. You lead his lips back to yours, kissing him harder than you had been before. He moans into your mouth and you know you have him right where you want him now.

"Kitchen first?" he questions, breathless, "Or should we mess up that pretty little bed your parents just made up?"

The raspiness in his voice gets you going, enough for him to notice you squirming in his grip. He grins, knowing exactly what it is you need.

"Kitchen," you tell him, watching as he barely nods before he kisses you again, carrying you over and setting you on the counter.

With ease, he removes your shorts and underwear, dropping his own shorts to the floor beneath him. He kicks all of the clothes away, knowing the two of you won't be needing them for a very long time.

"I can't wait, baby," he mumbles, excusing his lack of foreplay.

You shake your head, and he already knows you don't mind based on the way you're dripping onto the granite, "Please, Rafe."

He smirks and then grunts as he enters you, breathing out a sigh of relief that you two are finally home.

By the time you and Rafe even make it to your bedroom, he has to carry you because your legs can't physically function anymore. Rafe's proud of his work, but pretended to pout when he finished you off on the couch and you told him you needed a break.

He lays you down on your new, freshly made bed, moving the pillows out of your way and tucking you underneath the duvet. He climbs in beside you and molds you into his body almost instantly, inhaling your shampoo scent and perfume, thinking about how perfect this moment truly is.

"I can't believe it," he whispers.

"I know."

"Our home."

"Yes, it is."

You two lay there for a while, staring out at the tens of boxes that have each of your names written on them, just begging to be unpacked. You're sure Rafe's boxes will still be sitting there in two weeks, as he had packed a separate duffle bag of his 'essential' belongings.

"You know," he starts after a while, a devious smirk finding it's way to his cheeks, "The next big step is having a mini you. Or a mini me. But, I'd rather have a mini you."

"We just moved into our college apartment and you're talking about impregnating me," you laugh, as if to ask him if he's serious.

"She'll be so cute," he goes on, "A little girl that looks just like you. And she'd have your smarts, thank God, because she'd be screwed with mine. But she'd have my humor, of course."

"Of course?" you tease him.

"And then we'll have a boy."

"Wow, Rafe Cameron, you really just have this all figured out," you move your head up to look at him, noting the small, cheesy smile plastered across his face.

"I do, baby. He'll be a hellion, though. Never listening, always running away, but a total momma's boy. Never wants you to leave his side-"

"So, just like his dad, then?" you grin, watching Rafe clench his jaw and shake his head.

"Break's over," he grunts, rolling you on your back and climbing on top of you, "We're trying, now."

"No, we're not," you say forcefully.

Rafe rolls his eyes, "I'm joking. We'll wait until, like, junior year or something."

"Rafe."

"Fine. But the second you walk across that stage with your diploma, I'm putting a baby in you."

"Deal."

Tags:

@hollandsour @flowerkidlxrry @kookkyra @pogueslandia @sarahwasfound @fuzzyhumanpersontrash @rafecameronn @rafeswh0ree @outerbankies @morganwilliams

*if you would like to be added/removed from my taglist at any time, please send me an ask!

[cryptiql]

smoke signals

pairing: dabi/m!reader

warnings: smoking, mentions of anxiety and abuse, but otherwise okay. please do not read forward if any of the listed warnings might trigger you in any way, and stay safe <3

words: 6.5k

a/n: this is my first ever mha fic and the fact that i decided to do dabi first shows i have some massive balls but i'm giving it a try! if he seems ooc at all or i get some facts wrong, please lmk and i'll fix them. (heavily inspired by smoke signals by phoebe bridgers—would recommend listening to it or any of her other songs while reading)

dabi found the meaning of life in a simple strum of chords; a melody twisted by melancholy tunes that resonated deep within the gates of his mind. they haunt him—either by breaking his conscious from a much needed rest to bring him tossing and turning in the damp air of the loft, or making sure that he stayed wide awake during the late hours of the night and well into the creeping day. the lyrics are so surreal that he has to sit down and contemplate their meaning like an english teacher would to the color red, but they're painted saccharine and drip with honey flowing from the mouth that sings them and he hates it. he hates that he's wasted moments better spent wrecking havoc just to understand that stupid little ditty that clings to his heart like a leech. but this song did not come from his own craft—no.

dabi had known the putrid stench of sweat and vermillion blood when the flames licked at his skin, breaching the coarse flesh of his palms to rain hellfire upon all those who dared oppress him. he could weave lies with knots that would take years to unravel, and set whole cities ablaze with a mere finger. clawing oneself from a well built to drown them in their trauma does tend to leave scars on ones hands, and dabi's body was practically a canvas for mutilation, so he could consider himself an expert on the matter. he could attempt to make such a song by strapping in with his many hours of free time and diligent persona, but his hands were not made for music; neither delicate, sonorous tunes or dark, grating strains. they were made for war.

so if anyone had asks, "no" is his answer. "i don't play." and yes, it is while he's drumming a rhythmic beat that he claims this to be true, but the last thing he thinks about is donning a set of drums during his free time. he's far too distracted by the image of your taper fingers curled around the neck of your guitar to consider anything else.

the gentle but keen plucking of chords startles him from yet another ridiculously long-winded spiel by shigaraki, and dabi swallows a strangled groan behind his grinding teeth. it's in his head, now, and so far the only thing that has succeeded in reaping it from his memory—if only for a few minutes—is the blood stained battlefield that he's found himself fighting on far too many times this month alone.

what's he complaining about, though? it's not as though he minds getting down in the dirt. in fact, he's ecstatic to dig his claws into any gruesome ordeal so long as it benefits him in some way, so why is he so invested in this little to and fro game of twenty questions with the likes of you; someone as significant in the world as a paperclip without paper to hold? why come back, despite there being nothing in it for him besides a series of migraines?

not from you, a voice answers from inside. you're an absolute pleasure.

dabi nearly snarls at the confirmation that his own mind is turning against him, and as he does this, a plume of smoke erupts from his lips, billowing and curving to create intricate patters before dissipating into the atmosphere. a second time. a third. a fourth drag from the cigarette has completely obscured his face from anyone's view, and he relishes in the instant of privacy it gives him. however, it has also blocked him from seeing everyone else in the room, and while he normally would have considered that a blessing, it appears tomura has had enough of it.

you get headaches because you smoke too much, comes a second voice; yours, scolding in a way he'd only expect from a worried mother. dabi only has a split second to register it before shigaraki's head pokes through the fumes, red eyes alight with rage and lips pulled back into a snarl.

"would you quit doing that inside? it's fogging up my brain and i can't think straight." he grates.

"strange—i assumed there wasn't a brain in there to fog up in the first place." tomura's nostrils flare and dabi's pride spikes.

"besides, you came in here and looked directly at me as i was smoking—why didn't you ask me to stop then?"

"i was telling you with my eyes, idiot. you should know when it's time to either take it outside or put the damn thing out. there are ashtrays for a reason, and not everyone here wants to inhale that shit." he interrupts their intense staring contest only to wave his hand to clear the smog. now he can see the rest of the league clearly (oh joy, he thinks) and gives an indignant grunt when spotting toga at the bar table, covering her mouth and nose as a pitiful aim to block her lungs from the smoke. twice, who had unfortunately used up the last pack of his own cigarettes that morning, leans forward to take a whiff, exhaling soon after with satisfaction.

kurogiri stands at his usual spot behind the bar, seemingly unaffected as he idly scrubs away at grime infested glasses, while sako lounges at the opposite end of the room. his mask is on, leaving dabi to wonder if it's been like that all day, or if he just recently put it on to better fend off the fumes. he doesn't really care, whatever the case.

after a beat of silence, dabi wets his lips to respond, a lopsided smirk growing on his features.

"oh, i'm sorry your frail body hasn't adapted to a bit of vapor in the air. and with that flakey skin of yours, it's no wonder you're extra sensitive—"

shigaraki's hands come flying through the next waft to slam against the tabletop where dabi's feet lie, causing it to wobble and creak in protest. the ravenette doesn't even flinch as the harsh, raspy words are spat in his face.

"if you're not going to pay attention, then leave. actually, i'd prefer you do that either way."

and dabi would have happily disregarded his request if not for the faint ringing in his ears, rising higher and higher before receding back into his skull like the tide. a scowl morphs its way onto his once vacant expression as he puts pressure on his temple, rubbing softly where his eyebrows knit together. just for today, he'll indulge his so-called boss's whims. the piercing screech that emits from below when he pushes his chair back does nothing to help with the ever-growing headache, but it hardly matters now that he's headed out the exit. he's able to catch the last fragments of shigaraki's raving before the door closes, leaving him to stand amid the tumult of the city in all of its glory.

the alleyway is dark with looming shadows, but people are still milling about, so dabi considers himself lucky for already being dressed in his disguise. he flips his hood up, pulls the surgical mask over his nose and quickly slides on his sunglasses for good measure before slipping out into the traffic, sometimes going with the flow and then weaving past those moving too slow for his liking.

right now, his patience is a mere thread; hair thin and on the edge of snapping whenever someone bumps his shoulder. their negligence is infuriating, and he's tempted to roast them into a charred, mangled mess then and there—the consequences of blowing his cover be damned—but by some miracle, he manages to refrain from doing so. it takes about five minutes for his temper to shorten to the length of a matchstick, and he knows that one more shove will be what strikes it. dabi pauses for a moment to crane his neck, allowing the sea of people to flow around him like a stream to a rock as he searches for an alternative route. it appears as though he'll have to take his chances with the crowd until he hears the repetitive ringing of a bell and a man's voice calling for passengers to board. public transport was risky, what with him being a menace to society, but he can't possibly be the single most shady dressing person on the train, right?

he wouldn't bother answering his own question when daylight was burning, so dabi pushes himself from the swarm and leaps for the streetcar just as it begins pulling away from the stop. there's a shuddering jolt before the passengers settle in for their departure, and as his palms squeeze the metal railing in response, he notices the peeling red paint clinging to the car's exterior and finds himself staring at it for a ludicrous amount of time, not thinking about anything in particular.

the rickety trolley is semi-packed with civilians, none of whom regard his presence with anything more than a noncommittal glance. good—that makes his job ten times easier. to his chagrin, it runs over more than a few opposing train tracks or crudely paved bumps in the road, and this causes the whole cart to jostle before stilling completely, the process repeating itself over and over.

the knowledge that his trip to the outskirts of town is a short one is the only thing that calms his nerves.

when dabi finally arrives at his destination, the sun is gradually descending from its peak in the sky, and the clouds are more like wispy tufts than the luscious, cotton candy lumps they were just hours earlier. overhead, the baby blue hues turn to shades of opal; a forewarning of rain. the feelings of irritation and malice from earlier are still bound to him like chains that threaten to snap him in half when drawn too tight. the crippling weight causes his feet to drag along the gravel path at a sluggish pace, his own hot breaths fanning against his face from behind the mask. if anyone actually lived out here and they were to see him, their first impression would be that a living corpse had just waltzed onto their property. it was just his luck, then, that you were the only person out here, and by extent, the only one not deterred by his appearance.

even so, dabi's mind kicks into gear. was this a good idea? he doesn't even know why he came here—he just needed a place to blow off steam and his body had already made the choice on its own. this isn't any different from all the other times, though, and he can't ignore the fact when it sits in the pit of his stomach like an anchor. you're always the first person he goes to at times like these (dabi subconsciously rules out the man working at the local 7/11 who sells his liquor cheap, though he's still appreciative of the bottle to numb his thoughts). that tells him more than he wants to know.

your house is quaint, like those old country cottages he sometimes sees pictures of, and squats on a large, grassy mound of earth surrounded by heaps of rocks and sand from the neighboring beach. it merges with a towering lighthouse, and dabi notes that there must not be any sailors due to make port yet, otherwise the light would be on. the second thing he takes in are the flowerbeds sitting under your two front windows, and how they look withered and close to death.

"i wanted to add some color, but i can't keep plants alive for shit." you had said, huffing in amusement to yourself as you tended to the weeping alliums. "succulents are the only exception."

a small pot of them sits on the windowsill, but they seem to have gotten to big for it; the rubbery leaves spilling over the cracked rim. he hardly registers how much of a stalker he must look like until he stands on your welcome mat, peering through the dirty glass panes to find you nowhere in sight. the lights aren't on, so he can only see the outlines of furniture when bands of light stream in to reveal them.

sitting back on the balls of his feet, dabi curses under his breath. it's not like he was expecting anything. how was he supposed to know whether or not you were home when you had no way of telling him?

"jesus, patch!" a shout startles him from his brooding, but he doesn't let it show as he looks towards to ocean. you're hauling yourself over a large rock to wave him over, wearing a familiar grin. so that's why he couldn't see you. dabi makes careful work of leaping over jagged stones and threatening to bake any nosy seagulls as he makes his way to where you sit, with your favored instrument slung over your shoulder. the ghost of a smile graces his lips when he recalls how you would have scolded him for being mean to the birds, but that was before last week.

"pesky fucking bastards—they keep shitting on my music sheets!" another seagull waddles into your vicinity, only to squawk in distress as you shoo it away with your foot. "i wonder if this is natures way of telling me to quit while i'm behind. . ."

after breaching the treacherous terrain and nearly scraping himself in the process, dabi squats on the stone beside yours, looking up at you with hooded eyes. you meet his gaze with nothing short of merriment and a shake of your head.

"if someone had seen you, you would have been arrested on the spot for being a peeping tom." you chuckle, combing a hand through your hair with a smirk. "what? you lookin' you catch me in the nude or something?"

dabi scowls, choosing to ignore the question rather than give into the bait. as if i would be satisfied by looking at anyone but you in that state. he swats the air as if it would drive the notion from his mind like a bothersome fly.

"in the middle of fuck-ass nowhere? i'd never get caught."

"aw, don't be like that. if you really wanted a peek you could've just asked." the mocking tone in your voice spurs him to smack your thigh, which earns a hearty laugh in reply.

"ooh, don't treat me so roughly, or i might begin to like it!"

dabi has had more than enough experience with your flirtatious tendencies, and he feels he should have gotten used to it by now, but his heart still clenches every damn time. the worse part? he can't say that he minds. you don't give him a chance to respond, but dabi hasn't a clue what he would have said, so he lets you continue, watching intently as you rifle through your bag to fish out a guitar pick. shifting into a crisscross position, you perch the guitar on your lap and begin tuning the strings, idly talking about how uneventful the past days have been. dabi pretends not to have heard that it was because he wasn't there to visit, and instead gives his attention to the lighthouse in hopes that you won't see the faintest of reds dusting his ears.

five minutes pass before you actually start playing, and even then, it's only a few experimental notes here and there that help you build towards the perfected melody.

it's too sweet for his taste; dabi swears that's why his stomach turns so ferociously and prompts him to lean against the boulder to his right for some sort of stability. he won't even humor the idea that it's because of the way your lips twitch into a near half-smile before melding back into a concentrated frown the moment you strike a wrong cord. an embarrassed flush captures your cheeks as you study the music sheets, briefly pressing down on them when a sudden breeze flutters the pages. the pencil that was once tucked behind your ear now sticks out from one corner of your mouth, a flash of pink and orange melding together when you go to absentmindedly gnaw on the wood.

many more minutes fly by, and you've long since abandoned the new tune just to pick up an old one. dabi's back straightens at the first set of strings you pluck, and he recognizes them as the same ones that have been playing on repeat in his head since the day you met.

dabi's heart hammers in tune with every footfall that slaps against the pavement, tearing through the small pools of water that grow with every second. it hasn't stopped raining since the chase began, and there isn't an inch of him that hasn't been soaked through. still, something good must come from this little dilemma—the burning sensation that clings to his arms has almost settled down. the silhouettes of trees merge with inky blackness when he blinks, and he reaches with trembling hands to wipe the droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes.

a yellow square of what assumes to be light shines in the distance, contrasting wildly adverse to the darkness that sweeps him up from under his feet and pushes him forward. the sound of police sirens has been reduced to a mere memory in the time that was running, but he isn't about to risk going back to the league's base in fear of a stakeout waiting to get the jump on them. besides, why stop there when the possibility of shelter awaits him?

the bottoms of dabi's shoes are slick with mud, and blades of grass have snuck their way under the cuffs of his jeans to scratch at his skin. the sensations paired with the numbing cold are beyond uncomfortable, but he won't have to worry about that once he gets inside—that being if the person inside doesn't put up a fight.

he'd expect them to be mad if they did anything except that, no matter how welcoming the house looked. dabi's instincts tell him that someone out this far from the city doesn't a have a lot of connections, and thus killing them wouldn't cause an uprising if it were needed, but the minute he grips the doorknob, a thought occurs. if they have a quirk, its power could level my own or even surpass it. . . he grits his teeth. but like hell i'm going to let them win.

the hesitation vanishes in an instant as dabi turns the knob and thrusts himself inside, wielding a blue flame in his dominant hand to further illuminate the room. the wind is so fierce that it pulls the door shut for him, and the villain finds himself staring down the unperturbed figure of another man, perhaps around his age, hunched over a stove and glaring at a steaming kettle. they lock gazes, and almost immediately, the kettle gives a high pitched whistle. you look away first, lifting the pot and turning the burner off whilst opening the cupboard overhead to pull out two mugs, both of which adorn ugly christmas-themed patterns that dabi wishes he could forget ever seeing.

his glare hardens when you move to the table in the far corner and begin pouring what he assumes to be tea, taking one cup into your own grasp and leaving the other at his own disposal. your one mistake is grabbing your phone from the counter, but when dabi's flame enlarges, you hold your arms up in defense. then, before he can even formulate a proper threat, you toss the phone to him. he catches it easily and observes the dark screen, masking his astonishment with a more sinister expression.

the only other move you make is to drape yourself across a cushion on the window seat with an acoustic guitar in hand. you look more relaxed by the second despite being cornered by a dangerous criminal, and dabi has to refrain from voicing his shock when you address him with an almost bored tone.

"if the tea isn't to your taste, there's more in the cabinet. shower is down the hall to your left, and there's a spare bedroom upstairs to the right. do whatever the hell you want, just don't burn the place down or touch my freddie mercury records."

dabi is stuck to the spot for one of three reasons, he determines. one, your attitude has surprised him into a stupor that not even hiw own will can break. two, his refusal to believe that you're handling this situation in a calm manner is really just his defense mechanism kicking in, and he won't move until proven that you won't do anything when his back is turned. and three, you're quirk is similar to that of madusa's and you've successfully turned him into a fleshy mannequin.

"if you're worried about me calling the cops, what you're holding is the only working phone here. the power is out due to the storm, so my landline is dead, and the nearest form of help is a crippled old widow five miles west. i'm not going to risk running when i'm up against someone with a quirk."

dabi considers everything said, but never once allows his fire to dim. he took the surrounding area into account while making his escape, and he can see the landline is in fact out of service, so the male's assurances checked out. hell, the light source that guided him here was nothing but an old-timey oil lamp. the fact that you're quirkless does him a great amount of good as well.

with cautious steps, dabi makes a beeline for the bathroom, but he stops halfway to stare at you again. you respond by quirking a brow and kicking your feet up, something akin to mischief in your guise.

"i can take the shower with you since you're so afraid i'll make a break for it." you drawl, and dabi snarls, a fowl cuss bubbling in his throat as heat crawls its way up his neck.

"why, with a blush like that you might not need any drying off~."

dabi decides that he's had enough and storms down the hall, already peeling off his dripping clothes and and silently promising that he'll burn the guy to a crisp if he so much as tries to catch a peek. he can hear you calling out in hilarity even as he slinks into the shower and attempts to drown you out with the static-filled haze that captures his senses.

"the name's, y/n, by the way!"

try as he might, dabi had never been able to keep from coming back. now the reason why has been revealed to him on a silver platter, and he won't even spare it a glance.

your soft singing snaps him from his reminiscing as he stretches his legs, stifling a groan when something pops as not to disturb you. while digging through his pockets for a cigarette, he stops momentarily for fear of forgetting how to breathe when he lays his sights on you. you're in your own little world; everything else—him included— seems to have disappeared as you play from the heart. you need no standing ovation, no adoring fans or fantastic lightshows. you've said it once, that fame and glory mean nothing to you, and that you have all you could ever want or need right here, nestled in the beachside view of what you call home.

"and i have you." a cool breeze ruffles your dirt stained overalls as you reach up to wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead. the sun beats down on you, never shining half as bright as your smile, and the shore kisses the boulders with waxing and waning waves of aquamarine; frothy, foamy masses washing up with it to carry lone strands of seaweed. "otherwise i'd go mad without your company."

okay, that was lie. the truth is right there, practically spitting in his face how much of an idiot he is for trying to deny it, and dabi is glaring right back at it. he feels like an impatient kid on christmas eve, sneaking glimpses of gifts under the tree and feeling like he's committed a felony after getting caught. and you do catch him.

"penny for your thoughts, patch?" there it is—that stupid nickname. it's always been laced with mirth when you call him as such, but now it's replaced by genuine curiosity. and is that a hit of concern he hears? you study him with pursed lips and stony features that gradually morphs into that of concern when the silence stretches on. dabi forces himself to sneer at you, and something stirs inside his chest when you don't flinch.

he hates it. he hates you.

dabi nods to the sky, a guarded noise building in the back of his throat as he tugs on his earlobe.

"s'gonna rain." your jaw visibly clenches, but you humor his evasive habits just like you always have, looking to the clouds, which have darkened considerably in the last hour or so. it's around this time that the weather patterns become more unpredictable, but you've noticed the distinct lack of rainfall in spite of the gathering storm brewing overhead. you could sit out here for a while longer without much activity in the sky, and it would take more than a little shower to drive you inside, especially when you finally had the chance to enjoy some quality time with dabi. you notice the way his shoulders droop and the tension from his facial muscles all but disappears when he sits amidst the smell of fresh salt water and unpolluted air—the weight of his past slowly but surely ebbing away. you'd like to hope you have some part in that. oh god, do you ever hope.

you plead to whatever omnipresent being above that he's not just here to hit a blunt without getting reprimanded for it, or that he's making these daily visits out of pity.

"nah. it's been like this for a little while—looks like a storm will hit, but then it passes before it even begins." you sling the guitar back over your shoulder and gather up your music sheets, eyeing dabi from your perch. you're challenging him now, and normally you would never dare force him to speak if he didn't want to, but something about his aura is off. you can sense it in his words; the very air he breathes; and it compels you to hold him close, if only he would let you.

"so, you gonna tell me why you're avoiding the ques—" a deep rumble interrupts you, and dabi lets out a sigh of relief that you're thankfully too distracted to hear. a single drop of water hits your nose, followed by another, and another, and—

"you were saying?"

"oh shut it." you don't get to finish speaking, for a crack of lightning strikes the far end of the beach, scattering sand in every direction. you just barely manage to scoop up your belongings before sliding from the rock, but your footing betrays you and send you stumbling to the ground. dabi is there to catch you, wasting no more time in hauling you to your feet and rushing you as carefully as possible through the jagged maze. he can't refrain from smiling when you splutter a string of profanities pass poorly hidden laughter, an unmistakable "FUCK ME!" spilling into the cold evening when you accidentally stub your toe on a particularly sharp stone. it's pouring within seconds, and no sooner do you reach the doorstep do you both realize how sopping wet you are.

the last thing you think of is your chattering teeth, however, when you see dabi's spiky tufts of hair dripping with residue and his electric blue eyes gazing into yours. what you do think is that for the first time in your painfully ordinary life; your twenty three years of mediocrity and progressive isolation from the world around you; you have found the single person who understands your struggles and has chosen—for some unfathomable reason—not to abandon you. you wish you could say your parents were the same, but you also have scars from a distant childhood that brought you to this place.

this old lighthouse is your home, yes, but dabi is your sanctuary. he might as well be a god by how often you worship him from afar, wondering if ever you'd be so lucky; so eternally blessed; as to call him yours.

you don't register that he's opened the door to let you both inside until a cozy warmth envelopes you. no, wait, that's dabi's fire. it should terrify you that the same man who threatened you with those flames is now at arms length, but you trust him not to hurt you in any way, and so you lean into the gentle licking of heat on your skin, humming in content as your shivering comes to a halt.

dabi's fear of burning you diminishes when you flash him a grateful smile, a whisper of thanks echoing across the walls and pummeling his heart without resistance. he averts his eyes with a curt nod, a feeling like molasses weighing down his tongue and drowning the words he wants to say.

"you're welcome." is all he can muster.

half an hour later, your guitar is drying by the hearth and the two of you are huddled on the window seat, nursing cups of coffee and watching the storm in a comfortable silence. you haven't blinked in a while, meaning you've wandered off the tracks of consciousness as suspected, and pretty soon, you start singing quietly to yourself; the deep crooning used as background noise to your aimless meditation. dabi nudges your calf with his foot and is rewarded with a brief quirk of your lips and a nudge back. he doesn't have the patience nor the brain power to decipher how long this goes on for, but it doesn't matter.

this is fine. the image of red hair and a tall, intimidating figure invades his train of thought, and dabi curls inwards on himself. this is fine.

but it's not.

trembling, he places his mug on the table before retracting back into his seat, clasping his hands together. he tries visualizing the ties of his life coming together to form a rope. the fingers on his left—memories from his past—linking together with those from his right—memories made with you. his palms connect, bringing instant relief with the knowledge that he's here now, practically nestled between your legs, out of harms way. you're both fine.

dabi takes the swelling anxiety and pretends to crush it within his fist; clenching and unclenching it until his peace of mind returns.

"penny for your thoughts, patch?" you ask again, still in somewhat of a trance. this time, dabi answers.

"why do you call me that?"

you're caught of guard, half expecting him to ask why you haven't turned him in to the authorities. you've seen him without his disguise, you know his name, and for the past eight months you've been socializing with him like normal human beings do. that's more than both of you could have said in the past. of all the burning questions, he chose that one? "i've heard 'patchwork' and 'staples' and just about everything in between. why shorten it to patch?"

you gape at him, opening your mouth, then closing it, and so on. the pitter patter of rain against the window has ascended into relentless pelting. it sounds like gunfire to dabi; assaulting his ears in floods; but to you, it's nothing more than a waterfall hindering your view of the ocean. the deep breath you take seems to put more suspense in the atmosphere than needed, and it makes dabi's heartrate quicken for an entirely different reason, yet he makes no sign of stopping you.

"because my first thought whenever i see you is how much you remind me of a doll." oh. what?

you can tell by dabi's reaction that that wasn't what he was expecting, so you gesture for him to wait. he isn't sure he likes the forlorn expression you're wearing.

"typically, when kids first get a doll, they treat it like glass and make sure to tend to it with love. other times, doll owners are reckless and tear them apart just to stitch them back together like nothing happened. you use that camouflaged to blend in with the public, and i'm lucky enough to see what's under it. . .but sometimes i wish you'd keep the mask on so i don't have to see you upset."

upset? a fizzing sound erupts from his palms that he struggles to put out. he's not upset.

"don't try to hide it. you're always scowling when you think i'm not looking, or when you forget i'm even here, and i know it's because someone broke you without the intent of fixing you up."

once more, red clouds dabi's vision, and he moves to stand up.

"you had to clean up after their mistakes because no one else would, but instead of reusing the bits and pieces of your old self, you burned them. you destroyed any and all evidence of who you used to be and now you're patching yourself together with parts that aren't your own, because you don't want to hold onto what happened. though, something tells me you still haven't let go, otherwise you wouldn't be so angry."

"you don't know that!" he snaps, but he knows it's not true.

your hand closes around his wrist, and dabi recoils with such strength that it yanks you from your seat. dabi doesn't want you to let go, no matter how much he thrashes in place, because the sensation of your skin on his grounds him. somehow you know this, and you give a comforting squeeze to his pulse.

"but that's not all i see. because dolls are beautiful, and it's the ones who still love them after they're broken that they need the most. no one's told you they think you're beautiful, have they?"

dabi shakes his head, refusing to meet your gaze even when you cup his cheek with your free hand tilt it towards you. every touch is filled with hesitancy; feather light and more intimate than anything dabi has ever witnessed, let alone experienced personally. with the way you hold him like he's water in your hands, your eyes overflowing with a love he hasn't known in forever, dabi knows he won't find another feeling like it. you're not the embodiment of good—at least not by society's strict standards—but at least you can sit there and say you've committed a crime. you've never bloodied your hands by hurting others, much less gotten a thrill from doing so, and that's why he pulls away. he has to, because dabi is a harbinger of war, and if he holds you any closer it will only be to kill you.

he says something; a snarl mixed with a broken plea that he prays will make you stop; and you do. his silent victory doesn't last for long, though, because then you're using both hands to cradle his face and fuck, the pads of your thumbs grazing his scars feel like heaven. "won't you let me be the first?" how could he say no? how, when the taste of honey and whiskey is so addictive that he's already drooling into the kiss and willing to beg for more; when your mouth slots perfectly with his and dabi begins to wonder if he's stumbled right into the scene of a cliché wattpad story. the idea causes him to huff out a growl, and although neither of you can talk, he can imagine how strongly you must want to poke fun at him for the action. he can feel you smirking—the smug little bastard you are—and dabi ponders how long it will take to reduce that attitude of yours until you're submitting to him.

not yet. he chastises himself, completely unaware that you're currently thinking the same thing. dabi kneads the flesh of your hips through your jeans while you comb your fingers through his hair, gasping sharply between bruising, wet kisses and keening when he leans down to nurse your lips with soft pecks afterword. you're still trying to process the fact that you've coerced this devious criminal into making out with you in the pale glow of your seaside residence, but for the moment, you need not concern yourself with the details. you've forgotten all about dabi's ego and how this whole situation is no doubt feeding its flames. his grip on your waist is making you too delirious to care.

"fuck." dabi's breath is staggering when you finally pull back, an aura of clarity and desire hanging between the two of you.

"y-yeah. . .that was. . ." you can't produce a word, or even a paragraph to describe it. you know you're going to hit yourself later for admitting such a banal phrase in the midst of what could be classified as your very first kiss, but that is neither here nor there, and you would rather suffer an agonizing death than let dabi find out that he stole your first. you're too preoccupied envisioning all the other firsts to come, so you don't notice the way he stares at you like some precious jewel, but his fingertips brushing your bottom lip succeed in snapping you out of it.

"hm?"

dabi goes quiet, contemplating what to say as the thunder moves abroad and the rain comes to an end, leaving the house in a numbing state of tranquility.

"why not call me doll, then? it'd be easier."

you chuckle in response, playing with the hairs at the base of dabi's neck and making sure not to miss the way he melts into the affection. "i thought that'd be moving too fast." and dabi; still drugged from your kiss and what he can only hope is love; rasps out a genuine laugh, cupping your jaw with a tenderness that makes your knees weak.

"you offered to take a shower with me the night we met, and you think a nickname is moving too fast?"

you stick your tongue out at him, and dabi resists the urge to grab it, even if it's just a bluff.

"would you have let me call you that anyways?" you ask, something hopeful ridden in your tone. dabi feigns consideration as he looks to the ceiling, snickering when you smack his chest. eventually, he murmurs what you audibly hear as "brat" before resting his forehead on yours, an impish glint in his gaze.

"no."

you turn your chin up at him, giggling when he nips at the skin. dabi knows just as well that your attempts at escaping him are halfhearted, so he encircles his arms around your waist tighter, delighting in the flush that paints your cheeks.

"then i think i'll settle for my love, or darling, if that's alright with you."

dabi can't fend off the blush for his life, but he's not afraid if you acknowledge it. he can get you back easily, and he plans to. "fine by me, doll."

[thefanficmonster]

I’m Right Here

Corpse Husband x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Mentions of a car accident (minor), Injuries

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff

Summary: There is nothing scarier than those moments when every breath you take is shallow; when your heart is racing and your body is drenched in cold sweat. When you are rushing to the aid of a hurt loved one, knowing you can never be fast enough because your mind and fear are at least a mile ahead of you. Corpse has to experience these exact moments after a frightening call that informs him of his girlfriend’s car accident.

Requested by @sugiliteshadow . Hi! Thank you so much for you request, darling. Sorry to be posting it so late and I can’t thank you enough for your patience. I hope the fic itself makes up for the wait. Please enjoy! Stay safe! Love, Vy ❤

It’s been about an hour since I got off the phone with Y/N and my concern is through the roof. She called me from the parking lot of the office building where she works at, telling me she’s be home in less than half an hour and asking if I needed her to pick up anything along the way. I have been trying to brush away the worries, comforting myself with the fact that I did request a specific type of iced tea and knowing Y/N, she’s probably looking for it in multiple stores because she couldn’t find it in the convenience store that’s along her way back home. I should’ve told her not to sweat it considering I don’t need it right away or anything.  I have tried distracting myself with editing just to hinder myself from picking up my phone and debating weather to call her or not. I may be worried but I don’t wanna put her life in danger by calling her while she’s driving.

I keep my hands on my keyboard and mouse, my phone halfway across the room just in case. Another thirty minutes pass by with no sound of the door being unlocked or even a car pulling up. My fingers are beginning to drum over the buttons on my keyboard anxiously. I have had to go back and redo so many things with the video I’m editing because my mind simply isn’t present. It’s wandering around the city, looking for that one familiar car that’s always outside our house, parked in the driveway. That’s currently being driven by my girlfriend of two years Y/N.

My phone’s ringtone snaps me out of the downwards spiral of my thoughts, simultaneously picking up the speed of my heartbeat. I basically launch myself out of my chair and towards the bed where the ringing is coming from. I feel a wave of relief rush over me when I see Y/N’s name on the lit screen.

“Hey babe, where have you been?“ I ask as soon as I answer the call. It feels like my whole body shuts down when I finally pick up on the sound of blaring sirens in the background.

“Sir, I’m sorry to inform you Miss Y/L/N has been in an accident.” The words the female voice on the phone says cut through me like a knife, sending chills of paralyzing fear all over my body, “You were the last person she contacted before the accident which is why we’ve stepped in contact with you. However, if you are not able to come collect Miss Y/L/N, please contact a family member of hers.“

The calmness of her tone is freaking me out of my skin and mind, “Is she ok?! Where is she?!“

“She’s alright, sir. She’s not completely conscious yet, though. But she will be by the time you arrive. Her injuries are not in any way life-threatening. She has a few cuts and bruises and a concussion. A medical team has already taken care of her.“

Before I know it, I’m already out the door, the location the policewoman gave me in my head as I get behind the wheel of my car which I rarely use. Thankfully, the road the accident happened on is less than fifteen minutes away. Due to the late hour there is close to no traffic on the roads so I make it to the scene in no time.  Y/N’s car is surrounded by two cop cars and two ambulances. I barely even notice the black Honda Civic that is almost equally as beat up as Y/N’s Toyota. Speaking of the Toyota, its front bumper is completely obliterated - the headlights, blinkers and windshield in pieces and shards on the pavement. 

In the first ambulance there’s a guy passed out on a gurney with an ivy rip connected to his arm. In the one next to it is Y/N, sitting hunched over with her head hanging low, her hair falling over her face. 

“Y/N?“ I rush over to her, reaching out to touch her shoulder but withdrawing my arm in case she has a bruise in that spot.

She lifts her head, a look of relief and happiness flashing across her face. She lets out a sigh, a small smile appearing on her lips as her eyes fill with tears. “Corpse...” her hand reaches out for mine which is still hanging in the air. I give her my other hand and she uses me as support to slowly stand up. She lets go of my hands and wraps her arms around me in a tight hug as a quiet sob leaves her chest. “I was so scared when I woke up. I couldn’t remember anything.”

“It’s ok, you’re ok now. I’m here, I’m right here.“ I gently smooth her hair while carefully holding her in my embrace. She has a few purple bruises along her arms and cuts on her cheek and neck which are covered in white bandages with small dark red stains. The most major thing I can see is the cut on her left temple which is also covered up. I press a tender kiss to the right one. “Are you in any pain?“ I pull away to get a better look at her.

Thankfully she shakes her head, “No, I’m ok. My elbow hurts a little but that’s it.”

I nod, moving a strand of hair behind her ear, kissing her forehead. Just as I’m about to ask her what exactly happened one one of the police officers approaches us.

“A drunk driver. He ran the red light and crashed straight into her car.“ The officer says, judging by her voice it’s the same woman that called me. “You don’t remember that, do you?“

Y/N turns to her, “I just remember hearing a loud crash and then darkness. I didn’t know what had happened until you told me when I woke up.”

The policewoman gives us a sincere smile, lightly touching Y/N’s shoulder “It’s ok, sweetheart. You are alright, that’s what matters. And you have someone here by your side.”

Y/N’s eyes meet mine when she gives me the most loving glance, the one that I often catch in her eyes - the one that always melts me. “He always is.” she says, running her fingers down my arm, interlocking hers with mine when they reach my hand.

The policewoman tells us good night and walks over to the other ambulance. We stick around to see the cars get taken away and Y/N gives her info so they can contact her when the car is repaired. I know how much she loves that car - it’s the first and only car she has ever owned. She has had it for about seven years and calls it her child basically. I never thought I’d be jealous of a car in my life - just kidding. But my point has been made - she’s never been apart from it or driven another car.

Wrapping my arm around her while she watches her car being taken away, I turn her around, leading her towards my car. “Let’s get you home. You’ll be 100% under my care and no complaints will be accepted.”

She rolls her eyes playfully, snuggling up into my side, “Don’t make a big deal about this please. And, for the love of God, don’t baby me too much, ok?”

I grin down at her, “What was that, I didn’t quite catch it?“

“Corpseeee...“ She pouts, a frown on her face, making her look so childish it’s absolutely adorable.

“Save the whining, it ain’t gonna work.“ I open the door to the passenger seat, stepping aside so she can get in the my car.

Surprisingly enough, she actually doesn’t complain the rest of the way home nor when we arrive. Nor when I instruct her to stay in bed and not move unless it’s absolutely necessary. I basically bring all the snacks from the kitchen into our room while she compiles a list of movies we will be watching because no sleep will be had tonight.  “I love you.“ Y/N says through a sigh halfway through the second movie.

“I love you too. But don’t fall asleep.“ I tickle her side, causing her to giggle and squirm in an attempt to get away from me.

“Ok, ok, but you’re gonna have to help me. If I blink, I’ll be a goner.“ She yawns, shuffling back towards me. When she flashes me that hinting wide smile, I know exactly what she’s insinuating.

I sigh, giving in with ease. “When you were here before...“

“Couldn’t look you in the eye...“ she backs me up just as I knew she would

“You’re just like an angel...“

“Your skin makes me cry...“

Needless to say, we end up duetting random songs - rap songs, heavy metal, pop songs, some of my songs, some Christmas songs, Disney songs - making it one of the best movie marathons we’ve ever had, the unfortunate events of the day far behind us and completely gone from our minds.

@maat-the-prescriptive  @simonsbluee  @save-the-sky  @itsminniekat  @hacker-ghost  @bi-andready-tocry  @imtiredaffff  @jazzkaurtheglorious  @hereforbeebo  @fandomgirl17  @chrysanthykios  @maehemscorpyus  @loraleiix  @letsloveimagines  @annshit  @i-cant-choose-a-username-help  @enigmaticmaze  @divine-artemis  @waterlilypat  @idontknowwhatthisisfam  @evi-ka  @classyandfabulous00  @redperson58  @lilysdaydreams  @the-fuck-up-of-today  @chiefwombathoagiepizza  @solowheein  @mythicalamphitrite  @axen-gers  @luckygirl144  @nj01  @buddyemily   @the-albino-lioness  @stardream14  @gdhdkfnn  @nomadicgypsyy  @preciousskye  @fluffysuicideunicornsworld  @symphony-butterfly  @manacharlotte  @awkward-youtube-trash  @baby-iyania  @bonky-beerns  @meme-lord-and-savior-sebastian  @strawbrinkofdeath  @pinkhairedsapphic  @teenloves  @tams0527  @browneyespinkhair  @starstruckllamapuppy  @daisychains012  @y0ulooked  @tinytacosuitcaseflap  @maybe-im-dead-idk  @supernatural-is-my-only-life  @jula-pauline  @melodykitty  @just-that-bi-girl  @crazybutconfidentaf  @lowellshade  @chaoticgayandnerdy  @alphakees  @bellero  @weallneednamjesus  @strawberrycheesecakekenzistuff  @starryhanji  @boiled-onionrings  @husherstan  @fockingwhore  @melaningoddessthings  @prettypastelpetals  @haleypearce  @godwhyamiawkward  @y-napotat  @daisychainyoonmin  @little-miss-rebel3  @free-wheelin-bi-sexual  @redmoon261 @amysingh2512  @wiseflamingoqueen  @into-the-end  @faepetersen  @namikhai-i  @nastiablr

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Already Gone

Dr. Spencer Reid x Reader

Words: 3477

Part One of Two

Summary: With a relationship interfering with your dangerous job, you force yourself to break things off with your boyfriend. Reid tries to maintain a professional relationship, but can’t deny his heart break. Inspired by Already Gone, a cover by Sleeping at Last. 

Notes: Welp. I can’t resist putting my boys through as much pain as possible and Spencer is no exception. I was actually inspired by a pair of imagines I did for Bellamy Blake a couple of years ago, so I recommend checking those out as well. As always, let me know what you think and what you look forward for in part two!

Warnings: Plenty of angst and violence

More Criminal Minds: HERE

-

It never would have worked out right

We were never meant for do or die

You had finally let it happen. You’d let your feelings cloud your judgement and nearly got a hostage killed. Throwing your badge down on your desk, you hunched over it, hands gripping the wooden edge and breathing heavily. You wanted to break something, anything, but most of all you wanted to punch the wall until your knuckles split. 

The rest of the team walked by your desk silently. They each knew you were beating yourself up, but they collectively decided it’d be best to let you cool off before anybody said anything. Even Hotch just gave you a reassuring nod and went to his office to fill out paperwork. While the group all moved on, one person remained. The one person you couldn’t look at right now. 

“Not now, Reid.” You snapped, jerking your head up to see his concerned eyes. You had hoped that your aggressive tone would make him steer clear, but he stood his ground. 

“You know what happened wasn’t your fault-”

“Don’t you start on me too.” You fell back into your chair, wanting to just disappear into the floor. 

“Can we at least talk?” Spencer’s quiet and hurt voice was breaking you and you just wanted to shut it out. You buried your face in your hands and felt his hand on your shoulder. You melted into his touch, your body giving in while your heart still ached over your mistake. You knew what you had to do. It was the only way to ensure nothing like today ever happened again. 

“Yeah, let’s go talk.” You said suddenly, heading to the elevator. Spencer followed you hesitantly, his face still painted with worry and confusion. As soon as the doors closed, he spoke. 

“I understand that you are upset about how things happened, but we still saved a young girl today.”

“No, Prentiss saved that girl. I almost let her die.” The elevator started its descent and you felt your body pulling you down with it. The weight on your chest was crushing you and while part of you knew that Spencer was the only one that could lift it off of you, you couldn’t afford to be that selfish anymore. 

“Y/N, that wasn’t your fault.” He reached out for you, but you pulled away. You kept your eyes forward, avoiding the wounded look in his eyes. 

“Yes. It was. Reid, the unsub got to me by using you.” 

“W-what do you mean?” His eyes widened. 

“He could tell that we’re together. Somehow, he knew and he used that against me. He told me everything he would do to you and I almost killed him.” You balled your fists at your sides, your mind running through everything that psycho had threatened to do to Spencer. “I almost killed him and lost that little girl because I couldn’t control myself. If Prentiss hadn’t found her in time…” 

“Y/N,” This time, when he grabbed your hands, you didn’t back away. He brought them up to his lips and gently kissed your knuckles- bruised from your struggle with the unsub, “it was one mistake. You hesitated. Agents hesitate all the time when they’re in a situation like that.”

“Not us, Reid. Not me.” You started to pull away, but his hands gripped yours. He wasn’t rough, but it was enough to keep you in place. 

“That’s another thing,” He started, his voice sounding more hurt than before, “why do you keep calling me Reid?” He was right. Like J.J., you always called him Spence, or Spencer, even before you’d started seeing each other. You never called him Reid like the rest of the team. Spencer let go of your hands so he could put a hand on your cheek. “Something else is wrong.”

“Yeah, Spence, it is.” You resisted the urge to lean into his touch. Instead, you stepped away from it. “We can’t do this anymore.” You kept your expression cold and collected, even if you were shattered within. Spencer’s face fell, eyes filling with even more confusion and pain. 

“What?”

“Come on, Reid. We were kidding ourselves into thinking this would work. There’s a reason team members aren’t supposed to hook up.”

“We aren’t just ‘hooking up’, Y/N. We understand each other and-and we make each other better at our job, not worse. We’ve made it work. That doesn’t have to change.” 

“You’re supposed to be the logical one, right?” You snapped. “Tell me the logic in us staying together.” He had tears in his eyes now and you had to fight to hold your guard up. 

“I love you.” He said softly. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out. He just kept looking at you in that way that made you want to hold him and say you were sorry. But you couldn’t. Not this time. “Logic isn’t a part of it.” 

“That’s the problem.” You put as much anger into your words as you could. It was the final piece for him and a tear escaped onto his cheek. You tore your eyes away, looking down at the pavement. “I have paperwork to do.” 

You kept yourself from all out running until you got inside. You didn’t have the patients for the elevator, so you just sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time and tripping more than once. You kept a straight face until you closed the door to Garcia’s office. 

“Hey girl, what’s-” She started, but immediately stopped when you threw your arms around her and started to sob. 

-

I want you to know, that it doesn’t matter

Where we take this road

But someone’s gotta go

You were never sure if he was looking at you because you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. You’d spent the weekend at Penelope’s house, bawling and convincing yourself that you did the right thing because you knew that even one moment of hesitation, and you would be at his apartment begging him to forgive you. 

Sensing the tension at the table, Morgan and Prentiss exchanged an uncomfortable look. Hotch had called you in on another case, but Rossi was stuck in traffic so you were forced to wait in a painfully awkward silence. 

“Jeez, kid, what’s going on with you?” Morgan looked at Reid, trying to get a read of what might be bothering him. 

“Nothing’s going on with me.” He replied coolly, keeping his gaze on the smooth surface of the desk. You felt Morgan’s inquiring stare turn to you, but you kept your eyes forward, desperately hoping Rossi would get there soon. 

“Sorry I’m late,” He entered the room with a scowl and took a seat with the rest of the team. “Damn roadwork.” 

“Alright, everyone,” J.J. began, passing out the files as she went around the table. Her hand briefly grazed your shoulder in a sign of sympathy. Somehow, she always knew. “Local authorities in Maine found the bodies of two women who had been reported missing two weeks ago. Their wrists showed signs of being bound, probably with duct tape, and they suffered multiple wounds to the chest. The M.E. thinks it was an arrow.”

“Bow hunting?” Prentiss suggested. 

“They said from the looks of the injuries, the arrow had to have been shot from a distance, so hunting is a possibility.” 

“Why shoot them more than once?” Morgan wondered, taking a look at the crime scene photos. 

“There’s one more thing.” J.J. sighed, clicking to a new picture on the screen. It was a smiling woman holding a child. “Rachel Bratton, 32, was reported missing a week after the first two victims. Police didn’t find her with the others so-”

“The unsubs might be holding her somewhere.” Hotch finished grimly. “Alright, everyone. Let’s move. Plane leaves in fifteen minutes.” 

Everyone hurried to grab their things from their desks. You just wanted to get out of that room. Before you grabbed your bag, however, you heard a quiet voice. 

“You aren’t even going to talk to me?” Spencer wondered, his voice sounded soft and broken. “I thought we could at least be friends.” 

“Reid, don’t do this now.” You begged. If he kept this up, you would break too and you couldn’t afford for that to happen. His jaw clenched and he reached into his jacket pocket. 

“Here.” He held out a closed fist, slowly opening his fingers to reveal a small golden star. It was your favorite hair pin. “You left this at my apartment. I thought you might want it back.” You picked up the small metal clip, running your fingers along the points. 

“Spence…”

“I’ll see you on the plane.” He snapped, snatching up his own bag and heading out. You cursed to yourself, shoving the pin into your pocket and following the team out to go to the airport. 

You found a seat to yourself and focused on looking over the case files despite the aching feeling in your chest. By the time the plane was ready to take off, everyone had found places and a blonde-framed face appeared in front of you. 

“Alright, spill.” J.J. ordered, crossing her arms over her chest. You sighed, keeping your eyes on the M.E.’s report. 

“I’m fine, Jen.” 

“Come on, don’t give me that. You’re lucky I convinced Morgan to back off. He was ready for a full on interrogation.” 

“I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Y/N, everybody knows something happened between you and Spence. You’ve been distant from everyone. He has been burying his head in books every spare second when he isn’t painfully looking at you.” She was blunt because it made you listen. “We’re worried.” 

“There’s nothing to be worried about. We got into a little fight. Friends fight.” 

“Just friends?” She raised a brow. She always knew. You leaned back in your seat, defeated. 

“We dated for a while, but it got in the way of work so I broke things off.” You finally admitted, trying to read her face for a reaction. “Happy?” She frowned sympathetically. 

“How long were you together?” She asked. Just thinking about it still stung. 

“Almost a year.” 

“And you two didn’t tell anyone this whole time?” She gasped. You shook your head. 

“We knew that Hotch wouldn’t approve.” You turned to the team as they got ready to make a plan. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over.” Just saying the words made the lump in your throat bigger. 

Hotch briefed everyone on their focus and where each member would be headed. You would be meeting with the missing woman’s fiancé. Along with Reid. 

“Shouldn’t I go with Morgan and Rossi to the dump sight? I feel like I can be more helpful there than talking to the distressed fiancé.” Reid said, his gaze slipping in your direction. Hotch just blinked in annoyance. 

“If we can understand Rachel’s routine, we can figure out how and where she was abducted. I need you to work on the geological profile.” He said sternly. He wasn’t oblivious to the awkwardness on the plane, but it wasn’t remotely on his list of problems. Reid didn’t say anything for the rest of the meeting. 

-

I didn’t come here to hurt you

Now I can’t stop

“I still feel like it’s my fault.” Brendon Nathonson sat with his head in his hands. “I was in a rush to get to work so I didn’t stop to see if she came back from her run that morning. I should have checked.”

“Does Rachel run every morning?” You asked, your tone sympathetic and soothing. You’d lost count of how many grieving or panicked loved-ones you’d spoken to over the years. It was one of the common parts of the job, but sitting next to Spencer made it feel different. Brendon nodded. 

“She was a track star in high school. Guess she never grew out of it, right?” He sniffed, wiping his face on his sleeve. “Do you have any idea where these psychos could be keeping her?”

“That’s actually what you might be able to help us with, Mr. Nathonson.” 

“What do you mean?”

“If we can figure out exactly where Rachel was taken, we can compare it to where the other two women were taken and found and possibly create a geological profile that could help us narrow down where the unsubs may operate out of.” Reid explained. The poor man still looked incredibly confused so you translated. 

“He means that these guys probably have an area that they’re comfortable working in, meaning both where they take their victims and where they may be keeping them.” 

“Oh god,” Brendon cried, covering his eyes with his hand. “You know, we kept pushing it back? The wedding. It was supposed to be in June, but then her sister couldn’t make it so we made it October, but then my best friend got sick. And now I might never get to marry her.” 

“We are going to do everything we can to bring Rachel home, Mr. Nathonson.” You tried to give him a reassuring smile, but the presence beside you was making your heart beat out of your chest. 

“She’s my everything, you know?” Brendon finally looked up again. “When you lose that… it’s like losing a part of yourself.” 

When the interview was over, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. Everything that Brendon Nathonson said was searing itself into your brain, echoing around and around like a bad song on repeat. You slammed the door of the main office, making sure no one was already in there. You pressed your forehead against the cool wood of the door, trying to calm yourself down. This was why you wanted to end things to begin with. You couldn’t control your emotions around him. Even now, despite the case, all you could think about was him and how much he hated you. 

A quiet knock startled you. You jumped back from the door, and forced yourself to calm down. Spencer slowly stepped inside, closing the door again behind him. 

“I saw you run in here.” He started softly. 

“I didn’t run.” You scoffed, more frustrated with yourself than anything else. “You probably need some time to do the geological profile. I’ll call Hotch and tell him what Nathonson said-” You started to leave, but his hand gently grabbed your arm. 

“Wait.” He pleaded, those perfect eyes staring deeply into yours. “Can we just talk?” 

“Spence…” You trailed off. Frankly, it’s all you had wanted to do. He at least deserved that. You blew out a heavy sigh and sat down. “Honestly, I haven’t been able to focus on this case because of all of this.” You ran a hand down your face.

“Neither have I.” Spencer sat down across from you, placing his hand on top of yours. “All I can think about is you.” Before, whenever he was with you, he thought clearer, focused more, and noticed every little detail of a case. Now, all he could think about was how much he missed you. 

“Once we get through this case, I promise that we’ll talk, okay?” There was so much you wanted to say right there, but you couldn’t find the words. I still love you was all that came to mind. Spencer nodded. 

“Then let’s make sure we solve this.” His awkward, crooked smile made you laugh and the two of you got to work trying to find Rachel Bratton.

-

You know that I love you so

I love you enough to let you go

The team circled the building, ready to go in. You were with Reid and Rossi, guns drawn as you went in the back door. It was an old meat processing plant that was located right in the middle of both the abduction and dump sights. Without Reid, you wouldn’t have been able to find it. You checked the back warehouse before moving onto another room, but not before you noticed something. A big metal door was cracked open just enough for you to get a peek inside. 

“Guys, over here.” You signaled, seeing Rachel Bratton sitting on the far side of a cage just inside the room.

“Please help me.” She begged. You tried to pry the door open more, but it wouldn’t budge. The opening was just wide enough that you could barely slide through, but you would have to take off your vest to fit. Before Rossi or Reid could say anything, you had undone the straps and were sliding through the narrow gap. 

“Is anybody in there with you?” You asked, still keeping your gun ready. Rachel shook her head. 

“No.” She gulped back a sob. “No, they went out that hatch.” 

“Y/N, maybe you should wait-”

“I’m fine, Reid.” You glanced back at him as you finally slipped into the room. “She said that they went outside. Let Hotch know.” 

Reluctantly, Reid followed Rossi back outside in pursuit of the killers. You made quick work of the lock on the cage and helped Rachel stand up. She collapsed against you, sobbing and thanking you over and over again. 

“Can you walk?” You asked gently. She nodded and you approached the hatch on the floor. Sure enough, it led down to the forest floor. You helped her down and kept your weapon out in front of you, keeping Rachel close behind. 

“Y/N!” Reid shouted, joining you again. Rossi flanked Rachel’s other side, keeping his eyes on the trees. 

“Have they found them?” You asked, afraid of the answer. Rossi shook his head. “Alright, we need to get back to the car so we can get Rachel to the hospital. Let’s move.” 

The four of you moved cautiously towards the front of the warehouse. The trees surrounding you rustled and groaned in the midwestern winds. You thought it was a trick of light at first, but when you saw the shining tip of an arrow, you aimed your weapon and fired. Mikah Roman tumbled across the forest floor towards you. Rachel screamed and latched onto Spencer. 

“Mikah Roman, you’re under arrest for the murder of Abbie Stockwell and Bonnie Andrews and the kidnapping of Rachel Bratton.” You yanked Mikah’s arms behind his back, causing him to scream out. The shot in his arm was gushing blood as you cuffed his wrists. 

Rossi’s gaze jerked upwards suddenly and Reid pushed away from Rachel, calling out your name. You whirled around to see what they were looking at.

“No!” Spencer screamed, watching the arrow enter the center of your chest. You didn’t hear your own gasp over the sound of Rossi’s gun shot, taking out the second killer without hesitation. Funnily enough, you couldn’t hear Rachel’s screaming sobs. You just heard a small voice in your ear. Arms were holding you up off the ground, pulling you into their lap. When did you fall? Why was your shirt wet? 

“Spencer…” You started, but your words came out garbled and breathy. What was happening? Why was your chest so sore? 

“Shhh, don’t talk.” Spence put his hands on your wound. Why did he look so scared? 

“W-what’s going on?” You gasped, the pressure from his hands making you cry out. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He muttered, blood quickly coating his hands. Rossi was lifting Micah to his feet and speaking into the radio in a panicked voice. That’s when Spencer started yelling. “Somebody help! Help us! Agent down! Somebody help us! Please, she needs help!” You finally understood what was going on, the initial shock of your injury clearing from your mind. 

“Spencer…”

“Somebody help!”

“Spence.” You reached up and touched his cheek. “I-I’m okay.” 

“Help is on the way.” Through the sound of his heart pounding, he could hear footsteps approaching. The rest of the team gathered around, Prentiss stopping cold at the sight in front of her. Spencer smiled with delusional relief. “See, Hotch and Morgan and Prentiss are all here. They can help you-” He looked back down and stopped. 

Your head was tilted back, a small trail of blood trickled down from your mouth. Your eyes blankly staring up at the clouded, grey sky. His crimson stained hands reached for your face, smearing the blood on the skin of your cheek. He recoiled from the sight, instead wrapping his arms around you and pulling you closer to him. 

Morgan made a step towards Reid, the younger agent’s quiet sobs growing louder and louder until they were unbearable. Hotch put a hand out to stop him. He knew that Reid needed this moment. He needed to say goodbye.

And I want you to know, you couldn’t have loved me better

But I want you to move on

So I’m already gone

-

General Tag: @rae-gar-targaryen; @takemepedropascal; @childhood-imagination;  @mylovegoesto; @yellowbadgergirl; @itmejado; @suckmyapplejacks; @kendahl0216

[fermented-writers-block]

Lus and the Human Portal Clone Theory

Even before Keeping Up A-fear-ances aired, I have been working for almost a year now on running through all the possible various suspects with wonderful folks like @sepublic​ , @anistarrose​ , and @elementalist-kdj​ . Like the post title indicates, from sheer process of elimination, the only conclusion that made sense to me was a clone made of Luz by the portal door, and I’ve been working on refining and reworking said conclusion up to the version I will lay out here.

Now, as @safetayy​ , @theowlhouseheadcanons , and @50shades-of-blue have heard from me before, the portal I've long suspected was not made to go from the Demon Realm to the Human Realm, but rather to go from the Human Realm to the Demon Realm by humans, for humans. This is because it then could tie into the hypothetical existence of a Luz clone without having the issue of asking where Eda, Lilith, and King's clones are, as the clone in this case is the result of a function of the door to create a basic level duplicate of any human that passes through it rather than it happening for just anyone that passes through.

With this, it's because the suitcase form of the portal looks as thought it indicates it was used for temporary trips to the Demon Realm, much like how suitcases were used when railways and international boats made travel more accessible for the middle and lower classes. For example:

Going by the way the door “faces” and the way it swings open, the ergonomics of the portal makes it look an awful lot like a right handed out swing door, with the Human Realm on the “inside” and the Demon Realm on the “outside.” And the arrow in the diagram depicts the general direction of traffic that such right handed, out swing doors are typically design with in mind - ergo, showing what way the portal appears to facilitate travel in.

Now, before you ask, the reason why I think the portal could have been created in the human realm in the first place is that it might require an extra component/bit of help or two from the Owl Deity which I’ve discussed before in the past as hinted by these connected designs:

I’ll explore how I feel the revelation that such a twist about the portal’s origins could play into the themes and narrative of the show under the cut, but overall, I feel these are potential significant details to keep in mind for the rest of this arc of building a new door and handling the idea of Lus having initially been made as a temporary-duration clone, hence how "Luz" comes off so uncannily in the letters as she wasn't meant for long term impersonations.

That, and why I named this the Human Portal Clone theory, for those wondering about the name.

Alongside this, my thought has been that walking back through the portal to the Human Realm basically makes the portal send a recall signal to tell the clone to return to it, where the clone would be reabsorbed into the portal and its memories are given to the original. However, with Luz going back into the Demon Realm for a brief time in YBOS, I am of the mind that it doesn’t just make another clone, but rather that doing so merely made the door turn off the recall signal and allowed "Lus" to resume the impersonation.

And as for the clone itself and why they’re writing letters to Camila, well, imagine it from Lus' perspective. To her at the time of creation, the last thing she probably knew was that she had been chasing the cute little owl that took her Azura book into the woods, and right when the bus to Reality Check Camp was about to arrive.

Also, if you think about it, Lus being the work of someone we/don’t know yet raises way more plot threads/questions than answers compared to being the work of the portal, as outlined below:

TLDR at end of post for those wondering

Belos? How and why before YBOS where he actually started paying attention to Luz for the first time and actually got his hands on a portal? 

Eda? Why would she do all this and not tell Luz she can goof around without needing to worry about her mom or the camp/in time to fool the camp, especially when it took a good amount of time for Eda to even start feeling that close to Luz? 

Hooty got ruled out from the getgo since he can’t hold pencils, King just isn’t that subtle, and everyone else that Luz knows has the major issues of just straight up not knowing about the camp in the first place. Well, that and a lack of another known method of getting to the Human Realm in the first place.

The camp? Why would they worry about a missing camper whose disappearance is all HER fault and thus would more logically result in a call to her parent than some convoluted clone conspiracy? 

And finally, some currently completely unknown third party?

If we’re talking a Changeling, A) it’d be easy for Luz to dismiss them and B) that just makes all the ominous portrayal of Lus super straightforward instead of a subversion like is the show’s shtick.

If we’re talking dimensional counterparts, A) they have to REALLY have led a very similar life to Luz’s in order for there to be enough common ground for Luz to listen, and B) dimensional counterparts aren’t even a confirmed or likely thing that people cooked up from Episode 1 side characters influenced by Amity’s concept art.

And if we’re talking some complete surprise third party group or another, it doesn’t make sense to introduce a third party and their motives and plans to the show this late in when Belos is already taking up the bulk of it all.

Hell, if anything, the continued existence of the duplicate in of itself would indicate that the target of the conspiracy is none other than Camila Noceda than anything to do with Luz or Eda, especially with the complete lack of anyone taking advantage of Luz and or Eda. 

From the getgo, Witches Before Wizards already hard-baked into the show the idea that Luz is NOT inherently special or anything into the foundations of the show from the getgo - ergo, Camila likely just is an absolutely regular human being, someone who has no justification for such a convoluted conspiracy to surround them.

That said, I believe that the idea of the portal having originated from the Human Realm could potentially play into some interesting stories to be had with Camila and Lus here, especially as the conspiracy board shot from the promo was confirmed by Dana to apparently be from S2A, not from the episodes past Yesterday’s Lie:

After all, with Luz searching the library for a way home this coming episodes, perhaps she might figure out something the next couple of episodes that allows her texts to send through, which would logically lead to the above picture. That, and Camila and Lus being confused by and trying to figure out what’s going on there.

I mean, the cabin in the woods likely has a very close connection to the portal and it’s origins given how closely tied the two structures seem to be, and as far as we can tell, Luz never mentioned the cabin in her videos to Camila, but if Lus tries to retrace her steps, that would be a natural vector to lead Camila to the cabin and thus allow us a chance to actually investigate it.

That said, all following the trail would do is lead her and Lus to a dead end at the abandoned cabin, where they would have nothing else to do except discuss their complicated relationship concerning Luz and twiddle their thumbs while waiting for Luz to finish things on her end - which while something I think would be interesting to see, I just don’t see how much of a way to keep them in the greater picture of the show without some kind of project or activity that the two of them could work together on on screen. 

And that’s what leads me to a particular train of thought here, starting with the question of what if Luz FAILS to make a working portal over the course of S2A and such?

With the possible in-universe mystery over what the heck is going on with Lus, perhaps the cabin might hold some notes from the original last human owner - if not potentially the creator - of Eda’s portal as well as potentially some of the same materials and such from previous trips.

Cue CAMILA building a working portal, following in the footsteps of the original creator and such and thus finding a reason to stay on screen, all the while potentially demonstrating both why Belos wanted the portal instead of making his own, as well as diving into the Owl Deity’s connection with the original portal. Heck, maybe the Owl Deity is only accessible in the Human Realm and that plays a part in Belos wanting to get to the Human Realm, which would bring Camila directly into contact with the magic her daughter has been interacting with.

Also, just imagine the internal conflict going on here with Lus. After all, helping Camila build a portal to get the original Luz -and hoo boy would that be a tough thing to grapple with- would most definitely do that and make both Lus AND Camila question how much the latter likes Lus vs Luz.

Like, just imagine it. There would be major chances for Lus and Camila to discuss what would happen if and when they’re finished with the portal, and what will happen to Lus’ relationship with Camila if and when Luz gets back.

Does Camila really prefer her daughter to be all more “normal” like Lus, or does she prefer the old, “weird” daughter from before the summer with Luz?

Perhaps she might be able to figure out how to strike a nuanced balance between the two, and all on a metaphorical journey to truly build a better connection between her and her daughter(s?). 

TLDR: Or in short, I can’t help but feel it would be fitting to see Camila building a bridge WITH Lus TO Luz. 

Particularly, by being the one to craft an actual working portal in the Human Realm instead of Luz in the Demon Realm, showing a parent putting in an active effort to get down to their child’s level rather than waiting for said child to try to get up to their parent’s level even if they can’t or find it incredibly hard to do so.

[legitlaur]

lightweight // harry styles boxer au pt. 1

boxer!harry x reader

Warnings: language, nsfw content (in future parts), violence

word count: 5k

summary: Harry Styles is a notorious boxer in London. He has been in a funk for a while and can’t stay focused in training or matches. One day he sees you. You change his perspective, and however the universe blesses Harry because he keeps bumping into you. 

a/n: this is a disclaimer if anything. All boxing and medical references are sourced from google. I don’t know much about either. But please enjoy some boxer!harry because he is currently my favorite harry

Sweat was dripping down my face, my hair was sticking to my forehead and my head wasn’t in the right mindset. I kept my hands up, I was playing defense this morning.

“Harry!” My coach, Sam, barked but not fast enough.

A gloved fist swung around and smacked me in the face.

I grunted in pain but stood my ground.

“Get over here man.” Sam shook his head in disappointment.

I walked across the ring to the broody man. I rested my arms on the ropes and opened my mouth wide. I was about to get a lecture and I wasn’t in the mood.

Sam took my mouthguard out and started pouring water down my throat. “What’s your problem today? You’re not hitting a single combination, and even on defense you’re getting the shit beaten out of you.”

A lecture.

“I know.” I panted, “I can’t focus today, something is going on. I, I. I just don’t know what.”

“Hmm. Why don’t you take a 15-minute break? Go outside, hopefully, the fresh air will do you good.” Sam untied my gloves and pulled them off.

I ducked under the ropes back onto the carpet of the gym. Even with my back turned to him I knew Sam was shaking his head in disappointment, but I didn’t care. I didn’t have any big fights lined up for the next few months, I was just training for the off-season. He must have noticed there was definitely something going on because he never let me have anything more than a quick water break.

A few people were in the bathroom when I walked in, but they left without saying a word once I made eye contact with them.

They feared me, as they should.

I was Harry Styles, one of the best boxers in London.

Some people liked to call it fear, others liked to call it respect. I didn’t care what it was, so long as I was in the ring winning.

I looked in the mirror of the rusted bathroom. My hair was getting too long, Sam was going to start getting on me to go to the barbers. I took out the little ponytail that rested at the crown of my head, it was coming apart and this was a shit practice anyway. A few curls landed in front of my eyes, I ran my hands through my sweat-soaked hair trying to push it out of my eyes.

“Make yourself worth it!” I repeated to myself.

I stared at my opponent. His hair covering half his face, his eyes had less determination in them. The bruise on his right cheek was finally healing. He looked tired, sad, and weak. Nothing like a champion.

I was staring at myself.

Somehow, I had become my biggest competition. My mindset was all wrong. I didn’t have the motivation and drive I had when I put on my first set of boxing gloves. The spark burned out. Something was missing.

I slapped my face and shook my head. After bouncing around a few times I left the bathroom and went straight to the front door of the building. I could hear the busy London streets before I pushed the door open.

A cool breeze hit my bare chest. I walked a few feet away from the gym to clear my head. I had my hands resting behind my head as I inhaled and exhaled the polluted London air.

I looked around at the people walking past. Most of them were either giving me a weird look because I was walking around shirtless in the street with both hands wrapped. Others knew who I was and were nodding at me.

My head was spinning, I wasn’t sure what was happening. I felt like I was overheating but freezing at the same time. The sounds of traffic were making me panic, I couldn’t get enough oxygen into my lungs. Something was wrong with me.

When my eyes landed on you, it left like the biggest fist to the gut I’d ever taken. The air that I couldn’t inhale was somehow knocked out of me.

You were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen before. When you walked past me, it wasn’t the confusion, fear, or respect that you gave me. No, you gave me pity.

I looked into your eyes and felt peace and passion all at once. There was a mutual understanding of what I was going through. Even if I wasn’t sure what it was. I felt like we were staring into each other’s souls.

I turned around as you walked right past me. Not even giving me a second thought. Why would you?

I tried to keep my eyes on you for as long as possible, but you turned the corner before you could blend into the crowd. I was pretty certain a woman with your beauty and confidence would never blend into a crowd.

I pinched the bridge of my nose when you disappeared. I knew the chances of me seeing you again were slim to none. I never had much luck in my life, except maybe boxing.

You. The bizarre angel sent from heaven above to show me pity.

I didn’t even realize pity was what I needed until you showed it to me. I wasn’t sure how you’d shown it to me, there had been nothing but eye contact.

A dreary man in a suit bumped into me. “Watch where you’re going, man.” He gave me a disgusted look. It was probably deserved after my sweat got all over his blue blazer.

“Sorry," I muttered as I walked back into the gym. Sam was sitting at the front desk with his hand covering his face. He was getting more and more frustrated with me. My practices hadn’t been great recently, and neither of us knew how to fix whatever problem I was clearly having.

I didn’t know what came over me or why the next words came out of my mouth, but I had a feeling I would regret them soon enough.

“Schedule me for a fight.”

Sam's head popped up. His eyes were wide. “What?”

We both knew me getting in the ring for an actual fight right now would end with me in the hospital. I didn’t care, if anything I hoped it would inspire me to find some form of inspiration.

“I want to fight someone! Anyone!” I reiterated as I walked up to my coach.

“Are you sure you wanna do that? We both know you’re not ready for a real fight.” Sam offered.

I wasn’t sure, hell maybe this was suicide. I shrugged, “Why not? I haven’t had a real fight in months and it’s starting to show. The fans are losing interest.”

Sam nodded, “That’s true. Maybe this will get you out of the funk you’ve been in.”

“So you’ll schedule me for something soon?” I was getting a little too eager.

“Yes, but if I don’t think you’re ready for it I’m pulling you out.” He was already on his phone, probably trying to find me a decent opponent that wouldn’t ruin my title.

-

A week later I was in the locker room of the York Hall. I was getting my hands wrapped in preparation for my match that evening. I could hear the audience through the cinder block walls. Word had spread that Harry Styles was going to be back in the ring tonight. People from all over London were coming to see me fight. I had an audience, now all I needed was to put on a show.

Once Sam gave me a quick pep talk and I was in my gloves I threw on my robe. I waited for my walk-out song to start. It was my cue to head out to the ring.

The song “Death May Die” began, dramatic violin blasted through the speakers I stood up straight and walked out into the arena. The crowd erupted into cheers when they saw me. I kept my stoic face and didn’t interact with the fans at all. It was part of my act. Harry Styles was someone to fear after all.

Once I climbed up into the ring my team took off my robe and tried to get my adrenaline pumping. They pushed my mouthguard up against my teeth and climbed out of the ring.

“In the middle.” The ref called out.

I turned to face my opponent. Jack ‘JawBreaker’ Jones. He walked out to Machine Gun Kelly’s ‘Jawbreaker’ a little too pretentious if you ask me.

He was 6’1 and 150 pounds. His long blonde was tied back into a bun, I wasn’t sure how he managed to have such long hair while boxing. It was nearly impossible for me. I had long hair for a few years, but when I got serious about my boxing career I had to chop it off. Jones was rather tan for a Londoner, and he was chiseled out. From what I’d seen and heard he was a good boxer too. This would be an interesting match.

The plan to win was simple. Sam and I knew I had the better cardio, so we strategized that I would go with defense and tire Jones out. When he started getting too tired to keep trying for the offense I would knock him out.

We made eye contact, tapped gloves, and started the match. There were five rounds, each for three minutes.

Once the bell rang Jones and I started dancing around each other. Waiting to see who would make the first move. I did my best to keep my distance and not let him back me into the ropes. I had a longer wingspan than him, which meant I could be further away and still land a punch.

Finally, Jones threw a punch. I ducked and spun out of the way, keeping myself away from the ropes. He got closer again and jabbed me in the ribs. I fought back, swinging an uppercut to his face, and landing it right on his nose. Blood started dripping down his nose. I knew I didn’t break it, but I’d had a similar injury and I knew his head was pounding right now.

The bell rang through the arena. I finally heard the crowd again, realizing they were there watching. Just as fast as the round started, it ended and I was back in my corner on my stool guzzling water and listening to Sam tell me to go for Jones’ jaw.

Once the break was over, Jones and I were staring into each other’s eyes to start round two. So far he wasn’t wearing down as we anticipated. His cardio was pretty decent. The round started and Jones immediately landed three punches to my side. I groaned in pain but kept standing. I couldn’t let this wanna-be boxer beat me.

I inhaled deeply through my nose, my torso ached as the oxygen reached my lungs. I landed three or four punches to his side and arms, but Jones kept his hands up to guard his face the entire time.

We were in the fourth of five rounds, and I was out of it. I barely made it through the third round. I was up against the ropes getting the shit beat out of me. All I could do was keep my hands up to try and protect my face.

I had a busted-up lip, slip-open eye brown, and definitely a bruised rib. I had to take the defensive side this round. Jones had landed enough blows for the ref to call the match and the judges to easily declare him the winner.

I threw a few here and there as we bounced around the ring, but he was landing just as many punches. Before I knew it, I was back up against the ropes. My eyes were hardly open, I was trying to keep my gloves up but my arms were so tired and sore I couldn’t raise them high enough to keep my face out of the line of fire. My knees were beginning to wobble, I was going to blackout any second.

I turned my head slightly, that’s when I saw you again. In a crowd of hundreds of people, I saw you. Everyone else was a blur, you lit up like a Christmas tree. Your eyes caught my attention like a firework in the middle of a blizzard. You looked frightened but the concern and pity were screaming at me through your dilated pupils.

I don’t know how, but I felt an adrenaline rush kick in. I threw punch after punch right into Jones’s face.

Make yourself worth it!

With my mantra in my head, and you in the crowd I knew I had to finish off ‘Jawbreaker’. I flipped us, he was backed up into the corner against the ropes and I was slamming my gloves into his face, really going hard on his jaw again and again. The ref stepped in and pushed me off Jones.

I gave them a little space while the ref gave him his eight-second stand. When the ref yelled six, Jones fell to the floor. His knees gave out and his head crashed against the mat.

The crowd went wild and started screaming. There were chants of my name and boos from every corner. I went back to Sam, he took out my mouthguard and untied my gloves. Once my hands were free he had me follow a pen with my eyes. It was harder to stay focused on the pen than I cared to admit, but it wasn’t because my head was pounding from the beating I’d endured. It was because you were somewhere in the audience and I had to find you.

I’d won. Even in my darkest months I still had some grit in me. Perhaps it was only because my eyes somehow found yours in my weakest moment, or maybe it was the fighter in me finally resurfacing. The moment I thought I would end up on the mat with a concussion I ended up getting my arm lifted into the air and called a champion.

The title ‘Best Boxer in London’ still rang true.

I ran into the locker room, not bothering with any post-fight interviews or fan interactions. I wanted to get okayed by the paramedics, get showered, and get into the crowd to find you. I had to find you.

My legs were bouncing up and down while the paramedics cleaned up my cuts, and stitched me up. They took a look at my ribs and told me to take it easy for the next few days. My eyes were fine but I did have a gnarly black eye forming on my right eye.

The paramedics finally left, it had taken everything in me to let them take their time with the stitches and checking for a concussion. I flexed my hand muscles and frowned at the light purple bruising on my knuckles. Once I was alone in the locker room I stripped and limped into the shower. The hot water seared against my aching muscles, but I had a feeling this would be the only warm shower I had until I was able to get back into the gym.

Once the water ran clear again and was no longer slightly red, I hopped out of the shower and dried myself in record time. I was dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, and back in the arena before Jones left the ring. He still had doctors looking at him.

The number of people still in the arena dwindled significantly from when I had won. I could only pray that you hadn’t left yet. Maybe with some grace from God, you would be waiting out the traffic of leaving York Hall.

I scrambled through the groups of people congregating together. I couldn’t describe you to anyone, I didn’t know your distinct features. All I knew was that when I saw you, I would know it was you.

I looked and looked, but you were nowhere to be found. I sighed through my nose and dragged my feet back into the locker room to grab my bag.

“Awesome job Harry, I don’t know how you managed to pull through in that last round. I was certain Jones was going to knock you out.” Sam pulled me in for a hug.

I wrapped my arms around him and patted his back then released him. I went to my locker and grabbed my duffle bag. “I had a random burst of energy I guess.” I shrugged and left the room before Sam could ask me any more questions.

I’d won a fight when I was at my weakest. Normally all I wanted to do was go get my earnings and spend most of it at the bar or club to celebrate. Today, I just wanted to find you. I wasn’t sure why you were so important, or why you had such an impact on me, but I needed to find out. I was determined to find out.

I went to the back office where I found myself at the end of every match. The bright lights in there burned my sensitive eyes. Inside the ring, the light was bright but the rest of the arena was pretty dark. I only ever focused on my opponent, the light was never an issue.

“Styles! Congrats man, that was an epic fight.” Jeremy, the owner of York Hall (and also the guy who organized all these matches) greeted me as I opened the office door.

I nodded, “Thanks, Jeremy.”

The tall skinny man stood up from his desk, “You know you brought in quite a fanbase tonight.” He picked up a thick white envelope and handed it to me, “There’s your cut. $1500.”

“$1500? I fucking won man, that fight was worth $2000 easy.” I threw my only good hand up in the air, “I knocked out ‘Jawbreaker’!” I raised my voice but added a sarcastic flare to Jones’ stage name.

Jeremy only shrugged, “I don’t know what to tell you, Harry. The business has been slow lately. Maybe it’s time to find some other way to make money if this isn’t enough for you.”

I grabbed the envelope, stuffed it into my hoodie pocket, and left the office before I did something I would regret.

I was fuming when I went down the stairs. I needed to get out of York Hall. This day had been a complete shit show, and on top of it all, I was getting paid absolutely nothing. Not to mention I had rent due, and Sam was expecting his next paycheck soon. $1500 wasn’t going to cut it.

I huffed as I pushed the doors open and walked out into the dark and muggy London nightlife.

“Took ya long enough.” A voice called out.

“Excuse -” I began to yell but clamped my mouth shut when I turned and saw who spoke. It was you.

You were leaning against the street lamp post on the corner. You were wrapped up in an oversized black trench coat, and your hair fell perfectly at your shoulders.

“Excuse me?” I finished the phrase and started walking closer to you.

“Knocking him out in the fourth round, when you should have knocked him out at the beginning of the third. Your head is out of the game, Lightweight.” You stated matter-of-factly.

“Lightweight? Is that meant to be some kind of insult?” I mused.

You shrugged, “What do you think?”

What did I think?

Only that the universe really thought I deserved something good in my life right now, because I was standing less than a foot away from the girl that had been stuck in my mind since the day I first laid my eyes on you.

I cleared my throat, “Have we met before?” It was a trick question, one you shouldn’t know the answer to. I wasn’t even sure if I knew the answer. We’d never officially met, I’d just been seeing you in my mind over and over again.

“Not officially.” You shook your head. “I’m y/n, y/l/n and I already know who you are. The infamous Harry Styles ‘Best Boxer in London’.” You used finger quotes on the last half of my name.

“What’s with the finger quotes?” I mimicked your actions.

“The best boxer in London should have knocked ‘Jawbreaker’ out in the third round. Not gotten his ass handed to him before a weak knockout at the end of the fourth.” You explained.

My lips formed a thin line, as much as I hated to admit it (even to myself) you were right. Sam worked hard to make sure I was guaranteed a win, but I almost lost.

“How do you know so much about boxing, y/n?” I tried out your name for the first time. It felt good rolling off my tongue. It was a beautiful and eloquent name for a beautiful and graceful woman. Very fitting.

You shrugged your shoulders nonchalantly, “I’ve been in the ring here and there.”

You’d boxed.

“I’d love to see you in action sometime,” I smirked.

“I suppose something could be arranged.” You stepped out into the street and lifted your arm in the air. Hailing a taxi. When a small black taxi pulled off and stopped you opened the door. “If we meet again, Lightweight.”

The taxi door slammed after you climbed in. I had a pit in my stomach when I watched the taxi drive off into the night. My initial thoughts were that I’d never see you again, but I’d thought the same the first time I saw you. Then against all odds, I somehow spotted you in the crowd at my weakest moment in the match; and I bumped into you while you were waiting for a taxi. I had a feeling I would see you again when I least expected it.

I didn’t see you again. Not for a long time. The morning after my fight with Jawbreaker every headline read something along the lines of:

JawBreaker gets his Jaw Broken by Harry Styles the Best Boxer in London

Sam called me and was freaking out. Apparently, I broke Jones’ jaw during the knockout. The media went crazy, and I was blowing up on the internet. I took the next two weeks off to recover - doctor's orders.

When I finally was able to go back to the gym Sam had me doing press and interviews instead of training. He kept telling me I had to have a name in the media to have fights to train for. I understood what he meant, but I had become a local celebrity overnight. I couldn’t even go into a local coffee shop without someone asking for a photo or autograph.

I’d come up with the tough scary guy persona to avoid this. I didn’t want to interact with people. I absolutely loved my fans, but most of these people weren’t boxing fans. They saw my knockout on social media somewhere and thought it was cool. They were not real fans, they were the trend followers.

After a month of not being in the gym, I finally had to sit Sam down and tell him he had to start doing what I paid him to do. Train me. He agreed and got me in the gym the next morning.

I spent another few months doing the most intense training of my life. Not to mention I now had a fight every other week. These random guys kept showing up at York Hall telling Jeremy that they could beat me.

They were easy fights, and they kept the cash coming in. I hadn’t had this many zeros in my bank account since I went bankrupt in college. Only this time, there was no negative sign.

I was in the best shape of my life, and my head was finally getting back in the game. I did everything I could to keep myself busy. When I wasn’t busy, I would start to think and get in my own head. That’s how I got to my dark place only months before.

Today I was finishing up my last set of weights before ending my workout with a quick sparking session with one of the gym’s trainers.

Once I put all the weights away properly and wiped the sweat off my neck and hands I went upstairs to the ring. When I got up there I heard a sparring match in progress.

Two women were in the ring. I couldn’t see much of their faces. Only what they were wearing and their skill. The faster and more agile girl wore a black sports bra and matching black shorts. She was able to throw a lot of punches, but the ones she did land were weak.

I started watching her opponent. She wore a white sports bra and lavender shorts. She was stronger and preferred to throw perfect punches. She landed every punch she threw. Overall the two of them were good boxers. I was impressed with what I’d seen.

Sam was a few feet in front of me watching. I closed the distance between us and crossed my arms across my chest. “Who are they?” I asked.

“Hannah Lee, and y/n y/l/n. They’ve been practicing here once or twice a week for a month now. They said it was just a fun workout, but I think with some serious training they could really be something.” Sam explained as he watched the match.

y/n y/l/n. There was no way. I knew you mentioned you’d been in the ring before, but seeing this sparring match. This was different.

“Did you say y/n y/l/n?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but the chances of someone with the exact same name as you sparring in the same gym as me were almost 50/50.

Sam nodded. “Yeah, you know her or something?”

“Not really. We met once, at the ‘Jawbreaker’ match. She called me Lightweight.” I smiled as the memory of you insulting me ran through my head.

“Sounds like y/n.” Sam chuckled.

Did he know you? Had you been right under my nose all these months and I’d been too self-centered to notice? Would you even want to talk to me? Was I worthy of you?

Make yourself worth it!

I reminded myself of my mantra.

Sam and I watched in silence as you and Hannah finished up your session. You ducked under the ropes, someone I didn’t recognize untied your gloves. Once your hands were free you grabbed a water bottle and downed it.

Sam walked up to you and started making a conversion, I stayed by the stairs. There was a pit in my stomach from just thinking about talking to you again. I wasn’t sure how it would go, I didn’t even know what I would say.

“Lightweight.” Your voice could bring me out of trance, but your voice calling me - even if it was that horrible nickname - was enough to end my life.

“Really? You coulda picked any name and you went with that one.” I quickly shook my head in disappointment while trying to keep my cool. I blinked a few times and refocused on reality.

You were standing in front of me, unwrapping your hands. This was the closest I’d been to you in decent lighting. Your eyes were still as electrifying as the last two times I’d stared into them. You had the kind of eyes that made people feel like you were peering into their souls.

Your eyes remained focused on the white tape you were unwrapping as you spoke, “Lightweight suits you,” you shrugged your shoulders.

“Long time no see. Looks like you finally got to see me in action.” You quoted my eager words to watch you in the ring months ago. “I figured I’d be running into you soon enough. This is where you train, no?”

“Yeah, it is.” I wasn’t sure what else to say, I was still stunned that you were here and even more so speechless that you were more than decent at boxing.

Words started tumbling out of my mouth before I could filter them. “When you said you’d been in the ring here and there I didn’t realize you really knew your way around the ring.”

You kept your head down but I could still see the small smile that grew on your face. “Maybe if you weren’t so busy being a hotshot media magnet you would get your ass back in the ring and train with the rookies.”

You’d noticed that I had been properly training in the last little while. Maybe you’d be able to convince Sam that I needed time working on combinations for matches, instead of working in front of cameras for the press.

I threw my hands up in the air dramatically, “You hear that Sam? I need to get back into the ring with the rookies!”

“Cut him some slack, you’re not his only client ya know.” You defended my coach.

“Wait, is- is Sam training you for a match?” I asked with a little too much enthusiasm.

You nodded, “I have a really small one this weekend, if you’re not too busy being ‘the Best Boxer in London’ you should swing by.” You used finger quotes for my title again. “It would be really motivating to have a ‘pro’ there.”

“What is it with you and your finger quotes when it comes to my skill?” I rolled my eyes.

You picked up a small duffle bag from the floor and walked past me towards the stairwell. “Buy me a smoothie and maybe I’ll tell you.”

[missinghan]

aria of an assassin ⤖ lee minho

❖ genre : assassin au; fluff; angst

❖ word count : 6,2k.

❖ warning : mentions of blood & violence, explicit language 

❖ summary : minho hasn’t been fazed for decades throughout his bloodied career until the next target happens to be a black cat and he’s suddenly incapable of pulling the trigger.

❖ note : okay, so it’s been a year? this tiny, stupid blog is turning one year old today? yea I couldn’t believe it either. this is to all of my mutuals and readers out there, I don’t say it enough but I truly appreciate each and every one of you 🖤 I wish I could have written something longer but due to school, this random piece will have to do for now.

❖ the sequel : with felix is out!

one.

“Shit.”

Minho grits in a hushed tone although all that has been accompanying him is the pitiful moonlight and icy breeze dissolving into every fiber of his skin. Every minuscule movement suddenly becomes too irritating to his eardrums. The hustle and bustle life of the city at night. Terrible traffic. Even the sound of his own inhales and exhales. 

What is that thing?

He thinks to himself, proceeding to expand his eyesight with the pair of scopes; confusion soon flares into curiosity, then faint anger and dead silence. He swears his heartbeat just paused awkwardly like a broken record for a split second there. Such strange, or odd targets are no stranger to him; nor do they stir something inside the coldness of his rib cage. 

Not an easy kill, they say. And not easy it is. 

Because whatever he’s watching with his very eyes is a cat. A goddamn cat with a coat as sleek pitch as the dark canvas upon his head and piercing golden eyes. The peculiar animal walks with its head held high like it’s lording over everyone else—such self-reassurance, such radiance some humans cease to possess. 

It’s dangerous, they say. But it’s a fucking cat! Irritation bubbles up at the back of his throat, makes his skin crawl, and causes a bark of profanity to leave his lips once more. Has it not occurred to his client that he doesn’t kill children and animals? When it’s clearly been written on the contract? In bold, underlined, and everything?

They could have at least given him more details on what he’s getting himself to this time. 

An exhale. He packs up his things, pulls his black cap down a little, and leaves the top of the building without looking back. If he did, he would have seen those starry eyes boring holes onto his back. 

two.

The road Minho is walking through is more than familiar. For one, he takes the same path every day to grab a drink at his go-to place—a vending machine near an old, plain high school. 

It’s fair to say he knows every corner of the neighborhood like the back of his hand—from the dark alley where bullies beat up their classmates to the small stall of lemonade of a middle school girl who waves at him every morning. He never reciprocates though; it doesn’t feel right. The amount of apathy in his heart isn’t enough for him to act normally when taking lives is what he does for a living.  

For two, he used to have a part-time job at that particular high school for an old request. Due to his conscience, he did go out of his way to take the kill outside of the school—causing a catastrophe in such an environment makes him uncomfortable.

Just then, he stops. His brow raises. Isn’t that…

The black cat slinks through the crowd of nosy students in the direction of where he too is heading. It raises its nose and gives the air a rough sniff, making a face as though the general stagnant with exhaust fumes stench of the city disgusts the entirety of its existence. 

Watching it take a slight dip to avoid being hit with someone’s bag, Minho holds back every urge to come running at the creature and wrap his arms around its small figure. He wonders how long it’d take for the cat to reach its final destination because it’s definitely taking some sweet ass time to stride through the front of the main gate like a supermodel. Meanwhile, he’s stressed to the core as if the harmless high school filled with teenagers is nothing less than a battlefield. 

Is it testing him?

Something is oddly unsettling about an animal staring straight into his eyes. Paranoia fuels the forgotten irritation inside his chest, sets out to make him actually think those golden eyes are memorizing every inch of his feature. Then, they soften with what seems to be exhaustion, its tiny head turning and its tiny feet take it skipping gently away from the scene. 

Minho finally acknowledges the knot inside his stomach and the breath he’s been holding. With a harsh gulp, he no longer takes notice of the fact if his cap is hung low enough or if he’s walking too quickly. For the first time in long, a rush of adrenaline hits him hard enough to make him speed walk through the herd of chatty teenagers. 

Questions naturally pop up as his shoes kiss the ground, his shadow sprinting into a dark, though familiar alleyway. Was he hallucinating? But he’s been getting enough sleep and eating well. What makes him so certain that it was the same cat? Instincts or some sixth sense bullshit perhaps. If it was the cat that’s assigned to be killed off in a week, what’s so dangerous about it? And how long has he been running for? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? And to where? 

“You.”

Half-way through trying to keep his thoughts off of his face, Minho stops himself when a rather feminine voice echoes through the narrow space. Unsure of whether the voice was reaching out to him, his legs stop moving while his eyes are peering through the dark. Much to his heart’s dismay, shivers run up his spine when something comes in contact with the warm flesh of his neck. 

“What’s your name?” 

Slowly, with his hands on the back of his head, he turns on his heels. “Excuse you?”

You retract your gun-shaped fingers into the pocket of your jacket, phlegmatic eyes gazing at him through the thickness of the night. “I want to know your name,” you try to make your point clear, utterly unfazed. 

Minho stares you down for a good five seconds. Neatly dressed in the school uniform, an oversized jacket thrown over your body but no backpacks. There’s a name tag being embroidered onto the fabric in red “Shin Yuna - 1A”. Whoever you are, he’s certain that isn’t your name. That name doesn’t even suit you. That isn’t your uniform. 

“What’s the point?” he questions, hands dropped to the sides in slight relief. 

You tilt your head, expression neutral. “I have a habit of collecting names of people who tried or are trying to kill me. It’s quite relaxing to write it down on a list actually. You know, easier to keep track.”

He’s trying hard to not let any impulsive urges overthrow the rational side of his brain. Everything suddenly twitches in slow motion. His silence seems to bore you. Your eyes are more dead than angry, more done than irritated. Like you’ve been through this shit one too many times already to care. 

“At least say why you’re sent to kill me.”

That, Minho can answer within a blink of an eye. “They sent me because I don’t exist.”

Your gaze glistens with a glaze of boredom. “Everyone said so.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock. Where’s your house, kid? I’ll walk you back. It’d be a pain in the ass if your parents found out how you’re wandering alone after school,” he brushes it off like you’re a slight nuisance (which you are). His heartbeat spikes up once at the mention of family, one that you’ve acknowledged with ease. 

Your arms are folded over your chest now, to cover up the sudden stab of sympathy inside your chest. “There’s no need. I don’t have a place to go back to nor do I have parents who will nag me for staying out late.” 

His mind automatically blackouts along with his senses, blurred with such peculiar feelings swirling at the pit of his stomach. You make it sound like it’s not that big of a deal like you’ve utterly been numb for so long. It’s tragic but understandable. This isn’t the first time he has witnessed a story like yours—your parents, dead or alive, he does not know; by the sound of it, you’re an orphan. Another unfortunate being to graze this planet like himself. This means you can’t afford school, so that uniform really doesn’t belong to you. 

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s Lee Know. Call me Lee Know.”

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.” 

You didn’t mean to expose anything about your life to a total stranger, or specifically an assassin. However, nothing matters when you most likely won’t meet him again nor will he succeed in taking your life. Even the fact that he chose not to give you his real name amplifies how much shit he does not give about you. You don’t expect anything more honestly. 

“Alright, we’re done here,” you feign enthusiasm before clasping your hands together. “Go home. The sun is already going down.”

Strangely enough, Minho can only watch as your shadow shifts to the outline of a black cat before dipping into the depths of the starless night. 

three.

To Minho it’s always just another day in the office. Except his office is a windy rooftop overlooking the mark’s exact location. His tools—rather than a computer—is a state-of-the-art rifle with a telescopic lens. A silencer isn’t very important since traffic and people are more than enough to drown out any suspicious noises. Most will mistake it for a back-firing van. He takes aim with no more qualms than one would gossip about a colleague, then pulls the trigger while thinking about what to order other than Chinese for lunch. When the work is done, he carefully packs everything up into an inconspicuous rucksack. And leaves the scene, like a phantom. 

It’s always been the same boring, bloodied cycle. 

Yet something’s changed since Minho met you. 

He used to maintain a cool detachment to his targets. His conscience prefers not to think of them; whenever he does, it’s as if they’re already dead, mobile meat bags waiting to be laid on a cutting board. He doesn’t like to think merrily of his job, he doesn’t see it as helping them meet their destiny. None of that bullshit. To put it more nonchalantly, everyone will die one day. Minho considers it as a good way to go. Oblivious and in pain for one moment before completely gone the next. 

Simple. Convenient. Much less agonizing than this brutal world. 

Although that doesn’t mean he isn’t traumatized by the amount of blood that has stained his hands. On good days, he might get three to four hours of sleep. Bad days, few minutes to none at all. Terrifying nightmares gnaws at his soul every night, the ugly scar like a reminder of every single one of his sins. He can’t force himself to lose his sanity like any fools out there going down the same path. 

“Shit…” Minho mutters, running a rough hand through his hair. He didn’t sleep well last night—like every other night; hence the bad temper and bitter taste at the back of his throat. 

After a deep breath, he stares at his Hecate II with mischievous eyes—those of a hunter framed in the expressionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands are steady as they lift the shiny weapon over the concrete of a rooftop, drawing out a dry shot in his mind. 

Through his scope, he watches as you’re crossing the road in your human form before stopping abruptly in front of a random tree. You then proceed to squint your eyes and look up in the opposite direction. Minho unknowingly holds his breath, waits for you to release your iron gaze, and move on with your life. But his expectations don’t prevail. 

“What the fuck?” 

Without much patience, he curses before shifting his scope to the same direction only to find another shadow creeping around on the balcony of a nearby building. No time to think of a rational solution—killing them is an ideal one—Minho feels his palms growing sweaty when a small, peculiar object comes flying toward his way. His head quickly moves away before the bullet pierces through his scope, shattering the glass completely. 

“Son of a bitch,” he lets out a shaky breath. Crimson starts to drip down on the side of his cheekbone, but he can care less. 

Because that’s the least of his problem right now. 

Another subtle ‘bang’ can be heard in the distance, like a broken record scratching against his eardrums. Kid…! Minho’s heart collapses in realization. 

four. 

It’s not hard for Minho to do research on quite an amount of vital information about you. When he saw your body dropped to the ground lifelessly and an ambulance immediately drove by to pick up your body, he knew things weren’t going to end just like that. 

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

He isn’t a believer, has never been one. Yet when he managed to take out your kidnappers in that ambulance, your weak breaths startled his heart and shook his mind into awareness of how serious the situation is. After that, he tracked down the hitman who delivered the hard blow, put a bullet through his brain, and found an USB full of detailed information about your existence. Which just makes things a whole lot more complicated to understand. 

Apparently, you’ve been ‘killed’ one too many times before—there are photographs of your supposedly dead body in a bag, thrown into the deep, dark woods, other times into a nameless river. The thing about you is that you were once an experimental subject to your own biological parents who are sickeningly vile scientists. At the age of nine, you fell down the stairs and had a big gash on your head. They never knew because your wounds were quick to heal themselves. However, your whole life was flipped upside down when they saw you shapeshifting into a black cat while running around at the playground. 

From then, your life became a living hell behind cold metal bars with needles stuck in your arms and strange pills being forced down your throat almost every day. Their sudden change only nourished resentment through time until you managed to cut down the laboratory’s power supply and fled from your own home. 

You have no one to lean on. No place to go back to. No nothing. And you’re just a teenager. 

Minho feels awful. 

Usually, he isn’t the type to be empathetic nor does he have the energy to. It’s very out of character for him to let his emotions linger on a homeless kid with some supernatural abilities that will make his life that much more dangerous. Because to him, more often than not, people tend to give their condolences only to forget after brief moments of grieving. At the end of the day, it isn’t their own problem, it isn’t their own life. But now when it comes to you, Minho feels a strong sense of responsibility that if you end up dying, it’s on him. 

It’s stupidly conflicted, it really is. His job—blowing people’s brains out—is the sole reason why he makes a six-digit amount of money for every job. Therefore, he isn’t sure what picking a random kid up from a fake ambulance and bringing her back to his shabby apartment is going to do him any good. 

“Ah, you’re awake.” 

You hate the fact that you can recognize that voice. 

Just then, you wake as if it’s an emergency, as if sleeping has become a dangerous task. Your heart is pounding loudly inside your ears, the sound echoing listlessly to the pit of your rib cage. It’s always like this. It takes you some time to calm your nerves before gathering what exactly happened the moment you blacked out. 

Right, you think to yourself, groaning slightly while pushing yourself up. You were shot right in the chest, and your body was probably discarded somewhere. After that, you’d grab a hitchhiker so they’ll drive you back into town. Like always. The only difference, this time though, is Minho placing your limp body on his bed with a blanket to warm you up. 

His face appears within your eyesight when you’re done adjusting your vision to the bright room—you’re not used to this much light around. “You look calmer than I expected,” he mentions. 

Minho grabs your face and scans it over. “Let me see. Did your wounds close up properly?” 

The tender action, which has become weirdly natural to him although this is his first time, accidentally triggers something inside you. Your hand automatically slaps his away. It is an upfront refusal, but it doesn’t surprise him. He only offers you a comfortable moment of silence before placing a tray on the wooden nightstand. 

“Eat up. I’m not going to feed you,” he cocks his head toward the bowl of porridge with his arms crossed in front of his chest. 

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

You glare at him in suspicion. “Bringing me home. Giving me a bed to sleep on. And even food to eat. What are you trying to get at?”

“Nothing. I didn’t kill you only because you’re too young for my moral code,” he pretends to roll his eyes, voicing monotonously. 

A frown adorns your tired features. “So you’re going to kill me when I get older then?” 

“Probably,” Minho smirks faintly with a cock of his eyebrow. “That depends if you still remember my name, Y/N.” 

One thing after another, this assassin only continues to baffle you. He was just going to shoot you the other day and now he’s giving you food? Preposterous! To put it simply, you’re unprepared for such kind actions, such gentleness from someone who takes lives for a living. You’re unprepared for dealing with people in general because they detest anyone who’s different from them—your kind, the kind with supernatural abilities and all. Hence, you’re left unwilling to befriend anyone and would rather be alone for the rest of your life. 

Until such twisted moira pushes you to—what was his name again? Not his real name, the made-up one that he uses in the underworld. 

You speak up softly after feeling safe enough to let your guards down, “Lee Know, was it?” 

“It’s Lee Minho.” 

“Pardon?”

He only smiles, “My real name. It’s Lee Minho.”

five. 

“Y/N! A little help over here?”

“Coming.”

“Y/N, go check the fog machine!”

“Got you.”

“Y/N, can you put these boxes over there?”

“Alright.”

That’s all you’ve been doing for the entirety of your boring day. Getting yelled out at, having people ask for help nonstop, and responding with a two-word answer at max. You’re not complaining—they pay you well enough, the job is more on the down-low side because you’re nothing but a mere stage crew for an above-average theatre studio. So you simply hoist the three final plastic boxes into your arms with a jerk of your knees and place it where they asked you to. Thanks to your parents, their experiments along with skeptical-looking substances have efficiently enhanced your general strength and agility. 

Another crew member perks up when you plop the heavy stack of cardboard boxes down with a loud thud. “Oh, can you carry those lights to stage left too?”

“Sure.” You could have pretended to pick up one box at a time and to drag your feet across the stage with difficulties to avoid being used. But you’re too lazy to repeat the same cycle two more times, so you really don’t have any other choice here. 

Nevertheless, you suppose it’s not entirely bad to do all of this heavy handiwork. Because it keeps your mind off of unwanted things, such as Lee Minho for example. Lee Minho, the assassin, not the actor—you’d gladly fangirl over that certain celebrity rather than admit that you actually enjoy the hitman’s abrupt presence in your life. 

The fact that you know he will find you even if it means traveling to the ends of the Earth and back doesn’t help to ease your insomnia. So for the past few days, you’ve been working extra hours along with picking up a job at a florist in hopes of not bumping into him. Stupid. You know it is. But how can you deal with a self-esteem crisis because the idea of being a burden just irks you so much? 

It’s like you’re hopelessly proving that you don’t need anyone when you, in fact, want that kind of unconditional love that every other human yearns for. 

After helping your colleagues out with the lighting, you simply sit behind those thick curtains until the show is over. Then, you head out, find a place to sleep, and head to an old lady’s place to pick up new clothes to change into for the next day. Since she’s been treating you with nothing but kindness, you’ve tried to pass by and helped her out at her son’s antique store too. 

Your routine is supposed to go that way and stay that way. You won’t die because you don’t like overworking yourself. You’re doing just great. 

“Hey, Y/N! Your brother is here to pick you up!”

Throwing your crewmate a blunt wave, you find your way out of the school’s theatre through a back door without shifting the expression on your face. You don’t have any siblings. And your colleagues don’t know anything about your family background either. So it, unfortunately, boils your guesses down to one. 

Despite knowing who it is and why they show up, you open your mouth to speak, “How did you find me again?”

Minho shows up with a more casual version of his working attire—instead of the fully black, monochromatic outfit, he’s changing it up with a leather jacket, white t-shirt and jeans. He leans on his shiny motorcycle smugly like he knows something that you don’t, in which you very much dislike. 

“Young lady, I’ll have you know that being an assassin helps me appear at places to do things I’m not supposed to do,” he ignores the fact that your question was purely rhetorical and chimes. 

You attempt to throw him a glare which isn’t intimidating enough. “Call me ‘young lady’ one more time and I’ll put my foot where it’s not supposed to be.” Who are you kidding? He’s a hitman when you’re just a kid. Pigs would be flying by the time you managed to physically shoo him away. 

“Am I supposed to guess where that is?”

“Enough. Go to work. Get out of here. Leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry, are you encouraging me to kill people?” Minho gasps, acting shocked and appalled. Clearly, he’s not good at it despite sharing a name with a well-known actor. 

You can only retort harshly, “Don’t put words in my mouth, you ass.”

“Come on, kid. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Why?”

His hand automatically reaches for your forearm. “Don’t people eat for pleasure? What’s wrong with you?”

Your heart leaps in, anger perhaps, pupils shaking when he closes in on you. Upon your reaction, Minho retracts his arm immediately. He should have thought better of it; you’re probably too traumatized to be dealing with him right now. 

At that, your eyes round at the remorse on his face and you could have glared him off right then and there. But somehow, your basic human manners overcome your usual snappy self, letting you think that maybe he means no harm. Maybe he’s checking up on you one last time before going on about his life. You shouldn’t be too riled up about it just because he tried to kill you once.

Minho catches the familiar anxious gaze and sighs, “Okay, we don’t have to get something to eat. I’ll give you a ride back. Do you have somewhere to stay the night?”

It’s rotten work, whatever he’s trying to do. So you shake the harmless tingle inside your chest away before pushing past him. “No,” you answer dryly and leave. 

six.

You go to work sick the day after because you couldn’t find a place to sleep in and had to make do with napping in front of a tattoo place. Yes, napping; because when you finally shifted into your cat form and allowed your eyes to rest, the sky started pouring waterfalls. The rain had soaked into your shiny black coat, making it frizzy and luring the sickness up your spine the moment you tried finding a different haven.

No one notices. No one.

Not even the mask, the extra layer of sweatshirt nor your hushed coughs every now and then. Despite downing the cold pills early in the morning, you’re only burning up harder by the second. Oh, you know! Maybe they just don’t care, that’s it. Because calling in off for work due to a minor cold isn’t a valid reason. However, you’re still shivering on the inside and burning on the outside. Enhanced genes or any of that bullshit isn’t enough to prevent you from getting sick like any other student. Perhaps something wasn’t complete, or they’d messed up somewhere. Perhaps that’s why they’re trying to get you back.

How foolish of you to think somewhere deep down, they still want you back. With a reason as blunt as you being their child. 

Drowning in deep thoughts, you almost crash into a pile of boxes filled with equipment when your foot gets tangled to a random cable. Your eyes automatically screw shut as you wait for the impact but it never comes. Only a gentle pair of hands on your shoulders did. From that point on, you can’t hear or see properly. You don’t even have enough stamina to register who’s holding onto you so reassuringly. Whatever is happening gets hazier by the tick of a clock. It’s either you’re hallucinating or Minho is giving you that mirthful scowl of his. 

Yep, you’re definitely hallucinating.

“Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“That’s a stupid fucking question.”

A frown adorns his perplexed features as his glassy eyes skim your face. He has a really pretty smile, he should smile more, you think. His hand latches onto your burning forehead, slides down on the side of your cheek with such grace as though he’s caressing you. A grumble leaves his lips at your dreadful state. This is why he should have never let you go in the first place. 

“Come on, kid. Let me help you,” Minho says before giving your arm a light tug.

You don’t like what you just heard. “I don’t need your help.”

“You can barely walk.”

“Who said so-” As if on cue, he lets go of your arm bluntly. Caught off guard, your legs go weak without any remaining strength. You stumble and would have most likely fallen on your face if it weren’t for his grip on your arm. A gasp comes out inaudible when he hoists you upright, not planning to let go any time soon.

Minho scratches the tip of his nose with his ring finger, sniffing lightly. It seems like he’s arguing with a younger version of himself. He now knows how it felt like for those caretakers back then. 

“You did,” he says with the same smirk when you woke up in his apartment for the first time.

seven.

That’s the only time you’ve ever allowed someone to help you with something. But Minho had to constantly check on you every two seconds, not wanting you to fall asleep on his bike while it’s speeding down the highway like a gust of wind. For a moment there, he really thought you would slip away into the night as he tried to find his keys because that’s just how you are. 

Minho is no doctor, but he doesn’t go to one for a cold or a really bad fever. He can manage, he tries to convince himself. 

After testing your temperature and giving you something new to change into, he slaps a cool gel patch onto your forehead before heading off to the kitchen to cook up something. You need to be full to be able to take your medicine anyway.

In the act of resting on his bed, you decide you can’t take staying in the same spot anymore so your body perks up in a sluggish manner. The aroma of home-cooked food wakes your senses almost immediately, causing you to look over at his busy figure by the marble counter. You think it’s endearing how he hasn’t bothered to change into something more comfortable. But he instead threw an apron over his working attire and dived right into the cooking process. 

You have always felt like you were missing out on something whenever you looked at Minho. Perhaps it was how his striking eyes stared at you, whether mischievous or else. Perhaps it was how his lips were turning down most of the time with less than affectionate words. 

Or it’s plainly how he has been trying to hide that he actually cares. 

“Hungry?” He tilts his head to the side playfully once his sixth sense starts kicking in. 

You can only nod. “Yeah.” 

It takes Minho a lot of convincing yet you won’t let him feed you. Like hell, you would. Therefore, with helpless eyes, he watches you from across the table. He doesn’t laugh or get annoyed when your shaky hand drops the spoon and splatters the soup all over the table. His hand simply reaches for a piece of paper towel to clean up the mess, tossing it into the trash bin later. The same cycle repeats in comforting silence until you finish the entire bowl. The soup definitely wasn’t five-star worthy. But it’s enough to warm you up inside and out. Of course, Minho chooses to let the dishwasher do the job—his hatred for doing dishes is always at its finest. 

Then, like the other night, he has already passed out on the table with a blanket draped over his body when you step out of the shower. Instead of plopping the weight of your exhaustion onto his bed this time, your legs stay frozen like cement on the floor while your eyes take in his reclined figure under the thin fabric. Minho is sleeping with his head buried in his arms, his glasses and messy files abandoned to the side. He’s definitely not a heavy sleeper because he doesn’t snore; only feather-like breaths can be heard through this endless beat of silence. The faintly blinking light from his laptop makes you feel exposed so you push yourself toward the balcony. 

A hiss comes out hushed and quiet when your feet come into contact with the cold tile floor, bringing you across the studio apartment with small tiptoes. You peer over your shoulder, gazing at the only available source of light. Unconsciously, you ball your fists. 

With a soft sigh, you slide open the glass door and step out to bathe yourself in the comfort of the moonlight. Despite the chilling air of the night, something warm fills up your lungs like an overflowed cup of wine. It suffocates you a little until the knots in your muscles and mind loosen; a sense of relief washes over you—you haven’t felt that in years. 

Nothing makes sense. 

A hitman hired by your parents shouldn’t be putting a roof over your head, tucking you into bed nor feeding you. Minho barely knows you; and your knowledge about him as a genuine person isn’t enough to convince you that this is reality. Because after years of wandering the streets, being tossed around like trash with plenty of a series of unfortunate events, you’ve made it a habit to sink into yourself. 

So the longer you stay here, the more you’ll get attached to him. And the more you get attached, the more he takes away your default instincts to turn your back on everything.

Guilt wells up inside your chest as though it’s an old habit, a setting by default. If you ever try to go over the moderate line, you will break. 

Holding back a croaked sob, you know that once you let it go, tears will only start flooding. With a push of your muscles, you effortlessly hoist yourself up the metal railings in one go. The wind combs through your hair like an empathetic hand but you ignore it, Minho’s sweater closing in on your skin. 

You should leave, you try to urge yourself. You should jump off and dive into the depths of the night, let the allure cradle you in its emotionless arms. 

Because after all, despite all those eyes on you out there, you’re ultimately alone within. 

A foot dips out into thin air once the slump in your shoulders goes weightless. Immediately after, an incredible force pulls you by the ankle, and to the ground with a loud thud. Minho falls onto his back harshly, groaning slightly with you on top of him.

He knew what you were trying to do, he saw it the other night with his own eyes. Even under the knowledge of your capabilities, Minho still feels a rush of panic rising inside his chest. It’s only until his arms fully have a hold of you does his racing heartbeats slow down. Supernatural abilities or none, you’re still sick. And he’d be losing his mind if he woke up to an empty bed tomorrow morning. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” he speaks with trembling vocal cords, in a tone you’ve never heard before. Strict but mellow. As though there’s a race inside his mind but he’s desperately trying to keep his cool. It’s fear. The moment he’s introduced to the idea of losing you—it’s genuine fear. 

“Minho, I can’t die. Didn’t I tell you—“

His grip squeezes you in a breath tighter, cutting you off completely. “The fuck were you thinking? You can’t just jump off the balcony like that!”

“I already told you. I can’t die. Minho, I’ve done that plenty of times before,” you furrow your brows in a troubled manner, unsure of how to react. 

Minho widens his eyes at you in sheer disbelief. Shock riddles his senses and gets the best of him. So now he’s fussing with his hands, incoherent profanity leaving his lips non-stop within the next thirty seconds or so. He’s usually very calm, collected, calculating, and cold. This is very unlike him. It makes you wonder why he’s acting this way. He knows that you can’t die from jumping off a building. So what’s there to worry about? 

“You’re such an idiot! Try doing that again and I’ll kill you with my own-“

You truly don’t know how important you are to him. Frankly, he hasn’t even realized that yet. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling him closer. Since you’re bad at resolving any kind of conflict, you opt for the most rational solution—going with his flow until he’s calmed down. “I won’t do that again, promise.” 

His lips fall agape at your words. He wasn’t expecting that. And even when you see how he’s reacting to your sudden change, you decide it’s no time to back down. This might be the only time you could show him that you’re at least grateful for everything he’s done. 

He’s quieted down now. And when he manages to speak again without tripping over his own words, his voice comes out as a whisper. “Hey kid,” he looks down at you, wanting to stroke your hair but drops his hand in sheer defeat. “You didn’t answer my question earlier. Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“Who would do my job when I’m gone? Isn’t that irresponsible?” You exhale deeply before fluttering your eyes close, finding odd peace within the rhythm of his heart. 

Minho says pointedly, “Well, you could have asked someone to help you with it.”

“No one would help me.”

“How’d you know? Have you tried asking them before?” 

Your eyes shoot open and flicker around your surroundings, you’re at a loss for words for a split second there. Heat rushes to the apples of your cheeks in shame, your head hung terribly low. “I’m not used to asking for help. I’d hate to be a burden,” you confess. 

Innocence glimmers in your eyes when you look up at him, waterlines threatening to break any second now. Your lashes are slightly damped and how lost you’re looking right now can physically draw crimson on his heart. At the end of the day, you’re just a kid. You had to grow up the hard way, with no one by your side telling you what’s right and what’s wrong, even simple things like how to react to non-verbal affection. 

Don’t let her go, Minho. Not now. Not ever.

“Then fix it now.”

“What?” You pause. 

“If you need help, ask for it. If things are hard, say it. I’ll be there to give you a hand.”

Tears well up in your eyes, croaked sobs shake your body, only prompting him to pull your closer. It’s warm. Damnit, why is it so warm? “I-I can’t sleep. Sing me something?”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Minho just knows that he would bleed with you even when the rain pours and the sky falls one day.

[ninnodesu]

“Can I See You?” || Modern!Thomas

Modern-day AU:

It's still Thomas B. Hewitt we know, the only thing that's different is the fact that it's set in modern days! Making it easy for our Big Man to actually communicate with the help of text messages. He gots one of those nasty vocabularies.

I'm still learning how to write smut, okay :( Also, try changing my mind that Modern!Thomas wouldn't have both tattoos and a frenum piercing.

Oh, and sorry that this is AFAB, but it's easier for me to practice writing smut since I'm cis myself, but one day I might evolve!

You sigh as you lean your head on your steering wheel and bonk it a few times. “Please. Move. Please. Move. Please. Move.”, you chant in rhythm to your head hitting it, and glare out at the cars in front of you.

Of course, you got stuck in traffic. And of course, you still had about maybe two hours left to drive to get home, meaning, you would get home much later than you had hoped. Turning your head, you decide to unbuckle your seatbelt and just lean in more comfortably on your wheel instead and look out at the horizon to your left.

“I jus’anna’go’ome.”, you mumble into your arms and groan slightly before fishing your phone out of your pocket to lazily browse your social media in a rotation, hoping something will happen, knowing nothing will. The line of cars is ever un-moving in front of you, and you can even see some people going out to check on the miles of cars. Checking the news section, you see the cause of the traffic jam. A big accident, apparently. With several cars.

“Well, I’m not gonna get home any time soon…”. A thought crosses your mind as you scroll through your contacts, looking for a specific little icon you know so well at this point.

A chainsaw one.

You press it and bring up the message window to your earlier conversations and start typing.

“I’m stuck.”

It takes maybe five minutes before you hear the familiar chime.

“In a baby swing?”

“Ha-ha. No.” “In traffic.” “And I’m bored.”

You knew he had a particular small pet-peeve to other people multi texting but had a habit of doing it himself.

“And you think I care?”

“I know you do.”

“I don’t.”

“You seem in a happy mood…” “What made you so grumpy?”

“Can’t get the shower to work.” “And I really want to take one” “but my uncle is an ass and refuse to fix the plumbing” “so I have to.”

All you do is sit there and watch as the pet-peeve he so vehemently screams about when you do come through.

“Uh-huh. All I could focus on were you, naked, alone.”

“No.”

“What do you mean by “no”?

“I won’t do it.”

He saw right through you. You’d been talking with this somewhat mysterious man for a few months now, you’d never seen him, all he’d done was to describe himself to you, but you had never seen his face directly before. He refused to send any kind of clear picture of himself, but you loved teasing him about it in a friendly way, making sure to never sound like you were making fun of him. And even if he seems like he didn’t want to, he also seemed to loosen around this subject, one time going as far as to send half of a mirror selfie to you. Showing a strong arm with a tattoo covering most of it that pictured a chainsaw - the sole reason why you’d saved his phone number as a chainsaw icon, not thinking about asking him for his name - shoulder long brown hair flowing in locks and the half of what seemed to be a broad chest. He had his face turned away, sadly, but what you saw made you more curious. It seemed like he was wearing a mask in the photo that covered the parts of his face that were visible in the mirror.

“Aaw, come on. I know you’re hiding something really handsome. I won’t tell anyone~” “What if I send you something naughty? ;)”

This time he seemed to disappear on you for a longer time and during the thirty minutes he was gone you thought you had almost offended him or finally made him tired of your ramblings. But then the chime came back.

“Finally!”

“Finally I’m getting a nude?”

“...”

“I’m just messing with you, big man.”

“Look, you won’t like what you see, okay?” “I’m nothing more than a freak” “I’m ugly and disfigured” “that’s all there is to this.” “People don’t like looking at me” “so I don’t bother showing my face to anyone”

A part of you broke when you saw his confession. He had never told you why he didn’t send you pictures, and you didn’t want to pressure him by asking. All you did was type one reply.

“Try me.”

Silence. Pding! This time, however, you froze when the notification said that “ Has sent an attachment ”. Your thumb hovered over the small icon with its glowing and angry red one. You opened the chat, and the attached photo showed you a man, who looked to be in his mid-thirties, he had one arm laid over his broad chest, the one heavily tattooed arm taking the mirror selfie resting on the one crossed over the chest. He did have a mask on, it looked homemade, but what you could see showed a strong jawline and a masculine face. The most striking part of him was his eyes, they were amazingly blue, and he looked directly into the camera. And you melted. Your eyes traveled over his tank topped clad shoulders, down his biceps, and up to his arms. He looked like he was made by an artist. His dark locks sweaty after seemingly working the plumbing, a sheen of sweat lingering on his collarbone.

“Jesus fucking… christ…”, was all you could mumble behind your mouth. Seemingly in a trance, as you just ogled the stranger you’ve barely gotten to know, the two of you mostly using the other for some sexual relief during the nights. You glanced up to the traffic in front of you, making sure it was still stuck and yes, just as stuck as when you first messaged him. Your phone chimed into a melody as a series of short sentences came through, and you woke up from your trance.

“I’m sorry…” “I’m not what you expected, am I?” “I figured.” “This is why I never sent you anything back.”

“No, I… You’re just really… really handsome. I couldn’t stop looking at the picture.” “I really can’t. I had no idea this is who I was having such naughty thoughts about at night.”

“Heh… No need to be polite.”

“I’m not being polite! I’m being honest!”

“You really like it?”

“Yeah… I do.” “Can I ask why you wear the mask, though?”  

Silence. You tapped the side of your phone as you saw the three dots.

“My face isn’t like everyone else's” “I don’t want to scare you off” “like I do with everyone else”

You bite the side of your thumb. His responses made your heart sting. How would anyone be scared of him? You want to see more of him, want to see him without the mask. And suddenly, you felt nervous. You’ve never been nervous about having sessions of dirty talk with him before, but now? When you’ve seen him? You were. And you decided to take the plunge and ask for more.

“Can I see more of you…?”

For some reason, you were shaking as you pressed send.

Why do I suddenly feel like a fucking schoolgirl?!, you thought as you waited for a reply, feeling a small tingle starting to emerge in your body.

A new picture came your way, this one accompanied by a text on top of it.

“Time to give the new plumbing a test drive…”

He had no shirt on this time, your breath hitched slightly as you saw his bare torso. His mask was off, but he had one hand hovering over his face, parts of it seen through sprawled fingers. Like he did want to show you, but not all at once. What you saw was shocking, yes, and you couldn’t deny that fact. His nose was missing, large parts of his face were scarred and dried, but you didn’t care. All you could really focus on was his blue eyes. Your own traveled over what you could see. He was gifted with the absolute perfect ratio of muscles and fat all over his body. A towel wrapped around his waist, the angle of the camera showing a beautifully delicious happy trail leading down from his navel down below the towel.

“Are you sure you’ve never taken photos like this…?”

You couldn’t help but tease a little bit.

“Positive…” “Am I doing good?”

You breathe a laugh out.

“You’re doing great.” “I hope you think of me when you shower~”

The cars finally started moving again after that message and you happily went on your way home. Having a hard time ignoring the chiming that went on in the passenger seat next to you, having to chew the inside of your cheek as to focus on the road the best you could. Absolutely not thinking about this mysterious man you’ve never met before having a shower… naked.

When you finally arrived home you basically threw everything on the couch and almost ran to your bedroom. Sinking down on your bed, covered by big pillows, you take a shaky breath while opening your phone to check your messages. There weren't many, but the few you had from the giant man was enough to send chills running down your spine to end up exploding in tingling fireworks between your legs. You chewed your lip slightly as you opened his chat.

“Would be nicer if you could join me, though.”

Another picture had joined the chat while you were driving.

The bathroom is foggy, the mirror covered by condensation, but he’d wiped straight across it so he could take another picture in it.

This was the one where he had - apparently - gathered enough strength to show his entire face. His hair was dripping, laying over the upper half of his face, eyes peeking through it, and he had a towel laid over his shoulders, the one hand not holding the phone in the midst of wiping excess water from his thick and wide neck. Although now, a smirk was splayed across his lips, lips that seemed to be missing a few pieces, but god did they look kissable. His smirk letting you know he knew something you didn’t. This angle also showed a bit of skin like the earlier one had done, but this time you couldn’t see a towel in the fogged-up mirror. This bastard had consciously wiped the mirror off just enough for you to see his face and down just above his navel where the fog took over, covering the rest of him up. This one also had a message over it, strategically placed on the lower end of the picture.

“I hope you make it home fast, I want to practice this thing. ;)”

You trace the shape of his body, thoughts running wild at how his hands would feel, what sounds he would make if you bit down on his throat, his strong hands gripping and groping every part of your own body. You two had exchanged dirty texts for a long time now. It had mostly only been dirty words, with you sending him the occasional picture, but he’d never sent anything back. Until now. You couldn’t help but smile at that fact.

“This is a new side of you.” “I’m home now, by the way” “I like these welcome home messages ;)”

All you do as you wait for a reply is look at the pictures again. You had no idea this was the man you’d been talking to. He did describe himself, but it was obvious he was oblivious to just how attractive he actually was. You did guess it was because of his facial deformities, and while you could agree that it was bad, all the words you’d exchanged between each other made so it didn’t matter. This man was hot.  

“Heh… Welcome home.” “Mmh. I’m not sure what happened” “but I wanted to make you happy” “and if showing my ugly mug makes you happy” “so be it.”

You frowned when you read how he called himself ugly.

“You’re not ugly. I can’t stop looking at you. I couldn’t stop thinking about you on my drive home, either. My thoughts have been nothing but impure because of your pictures~”

“What did you think about?”

“You really want to know such dirty things?”

“Mmh. Tell me.” “‘specially if it’s dirty. ;)”

You sank down lower on the bed, biting your lower lip as you pondered how to word your response. Deciding it’s time to bring the teasing out and see if you can lure more pictures from him.

“Mmh~ I don’t know… What do I get if I do?”

“Are you starting to bargain?”

“Maybe~ ;)” “Maybe I just need some convincing before I actually tell you such naughty things”

“You’ve never had any problems in telling me naughty things before, little lady.” “Why now, all of a sudden?”

“Tell you what, big guy. If you do me two favors, I’ll tell you what I was thinking about…” “Deal?”

Your phone got quiet for a minute, you figured he was thinking about your proposal.

“Deal.”

“First, tell me your name. I want a name to moan while cumming to that handsome face of yours” “Secondly, I want another picture~” “It doesn’t have to be spicy, I just want to see more of you.”

It was weird, but you’d never thought about asking his name before. You guessed it was because you didn’t have a face to him until now. Apparently, he had decided to play along, seeing as he’d sent you a new photo.

It showed you a lap, thighs that looked just as muscular as his upper body, he was sitting down, relaxing it seems. This man was either a huge tease by nature, or he knew how attractive a guy in gray sweatpants was because he had chosen to put a pair on. His left hand lazily resting on his left thigh, big fingers adorned by clunky rings and a worn-out watch on his wrist. Nothing sexual, if it wasn’t for the generous outline of what seemed like a properly proportional dick resting in between his meaty thighs. And a name sprawled in simple text.

“Thomas.”

You hummed to yourself.

“Well, Thomas, I guess it’s up to me to uphold my part of the deal then...“

“I’m waiting, darlin"

A tingle runs down your back again, he’s never called you that before.

“I was thinking about you in the shower. How the water ran down you back, how much I would love to be in it with you, pressing my tits against your back as my hands run down your strong arms” “then back up to massage your shoulders. You don’t know how much I wanted to do that, to join you in your shower. I want to run my tongue on your throat, I want to know what you taste like”

“You can’t.”

“I know, and it’s killing me. And now when I’ve seen you, I want you more. Want to hear you breathe in my ear as you fuck me” “to hear you moan” “you have no idea how hard you make me cum when we talk”

“This is definitely a new side to you” “I didn’t know you could talk like this” “what’s made you this bold? ;)”

“You, Thomas. You awoke something in me when you showed me your face.”

You can’t help but be honest with him at this point. You agree that you’ve never talked to him like this before, even if you’ve been texting dirty, it’s never been to this point. Arousal starts to build up between your legs and you press your thighs together, not wanting to give in just yet.

“That makes me happy, baby.” “Nice knowing I have this effect on you” “so, you’re telling me I make you horny?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know you do.”

“I do, but I want to you say it” “I want to see you admit I make you horny” “tell me I’m the one who makes your pussy wet”

A shaky breath escapes you seeing him talk like this, but you give in and give him what he wants.

“Thomas, you make me so horny. You’ve always had.”

“That’s my girl” “You like how I talk about how I would fuck you?” " Is that what you like hearing?”

“Yes…”

“Mhm.” " I bet you would look lovely stretched around my cock”

That was the point where you couldn’t ignore the growing arousal spiking through your body, and you could feel yourself starting to get wet by the thought of him ravishing you. Him moaning as he pushed inside your wet cunt. Your thighs rubbed harder, your hand shaking as you could only watch the three dots come up as he was typing.

“Show me.” “Show me how your body reacts to me” “I want to see how wet I make you”

“Persuade me…”

You grinned, thinking you had the upper hand this time.

“Nuh-uh” “you don’t get to set the rules this time” “this time; I’m in charge” “and if I want you to show me your pussy before I give you more” “that’s what you’ll do”

You shivered hard at this series of texts from him. You loved that he showed his dominant side. Pulling off your jeans along with your moist panties, you sit back on the bed, half laying, snapping a cheeky photo of your lower half, fingers only crazing your mound, being more in a teasing mood than in a give-him-what-he-wants-straight-away kind of mood.

A satisfied smirk dances on your lips as you send it away. Not long after a reply comes.

“Don’t play games with me, now.”

“Or what? You’ll spank me?” “You know you can’t do that~” “So what’s gonna stop me?”

A few minutes of silence followed before you got another picture, one that made you moan slightly at the sight of it.

His left hand was grabbing over his crotch, fondling what looked like a half-hard cock through his pants, nothing fancier. But it did look like he was definitely… proportional to the rest of him that you’ve seen.

“if you don’t stop playing games, the pictures stop here” “and I think you want to see more than this.”

You cursed him silently because he was right. God did you want to see more than that. You huffed at his reply and decided to be good and give him what he wanted.

Spreading your legs as wide as you could, you snapped the photo he wanted. Showing him how wet you already were.

Over it, you slapped a text.

“See how wet you’ve made me by only showing me what you look like. This is what only your words did earlier, now this is because you showed me ~”

You scrolled up to watch the latest picture he showed you and massaged slow circles around your clit while waiting for a reply. You wanted to see what he was hiding inside his pants. Finally, his reply came.

“That’s what I wanted to see” “to think I did that to you” “you make me hard, baby”

His multi texting habits were really going strong today, and you giggled a bit at it before replying.

“Oh yeah?” “I’ve shown you mine, now show me yours ;)”

“Mmmmhhh…. No”

“Why not? You can’t tease me with a picture like that and then not follow up with more”

"Because you haven’t earned it yet” “and I just don’t feel like showing you my fat cock just yet is all”

“What do I have to do to deserve it, mister?”

He’d admit it early on that calling him mister or sir sent chills down his spine, something you’ve used sparingly, as to not overuse it on him. The thought of him caving in and finally showing his cock made you rub your clit a little harder, earning a low moan as you tried picturing it behind closed eyes.

Pding!

“Hmm…” “surprise me with a movie” “but don’t tell me what it is.”

Oh, you liked that idea. You thought for a bit before you figured something out.

Pulling your top off, laying naked on your bed, you started the recording.

Angling the camera to focus on you sucking on two fingers, making them nice and wet, and making sure a string of saliva was attached between your lips and your fingers as you removed them from your mouth. You slowly moved your hand down together with your phone, until you reached one of your breasts where you circled a hardening nipple with your saliva drenched fingers, making sure to amplify your breathing.

As your hand traveled downwards, the one holding your phone stopped right at your navel and returned up to your face to focus on your expression as your fingers reached your wet cunt and pressed down on your clit, something that was accompanied by a breathy moan of his name. “Thomass…”, right before you turned the recording off you made sure to look straight into the camera with lustful eyes.

On the receiving end of that video, Thomas quickly opened the message. Eyes wide as he followed the way your fingers moved down your body, around your breast, gingerly moving around a nipple. He cursed silently to himself as you stopped filming downward right above your navel, but when the camera returned up to show your face and the way he heard his name escape your lips as you reached that sweet, sweet spot between your legs, some part of him snapped.

He shot up from the chair he was slumped in and silently sneaked over to his door to listen if anyone needed him in the house, it was silent, which was a good sign. He closed the door and locked it. Making sure no one would disturb him.

Sitting back down he smirked as he grabbed the base of his now rock hard cock, still tucked away in his sweatpants to snap a new picture, a small dark stain resting where the head was located.

“That was dirty, see what you’ve done to me?”

Right after sending the picture, he sighed as he slid his hand down into his sweats to lazily stroke himself, closing his eyes, he fantasized about how your lips would feel gliding over his cock and stroked it a way he thought your tongue would move, a trembling low groan left him at the thought. All regrets he had earlier have about starting to send pictures blown out the window as your voice replayed from his phone.

It dinged with a reply and he quickly looked at it.

“I can get even dirtier~” “You remember how I told you I went shopping a few days back?”

He gulped, his hand was shaking slightly as he tapped away with this thumb. He did remember you had briefly told him you went “shopping” a few days ago.

“Mhm. I remember that.” “What did you get, baby?”

His breathing went up a notch as he sent the question. His hand stopped moving, having to already calm himself down a notch. Your video and photo had worked him up something awful.

“Do you want to see~?”

“Oh hell yeah"

It took a while to receive a response from you, but when he finally did, it was a photo. One that made his dick jolt in excitement.

It showed you, holding a dildo against your tongue. He shivered hard at the sight, a tingle reaching his cock.

“You got that just for me? ;)”

He smirked slightly.

“I did… I thought of you when I bought it.” " Wanna see me use it~?”

“Fuck yourself for me” “I promise to give you material” “you won’t regret it, believe me”

He finally let his erection spring free, the hefty weight of it making it bounce back on his stomach and he sighed again in relief. He pondered if he should send another photo already, but decided to tease a little longer before giving in. It took a while to get a new reply, during this time he entertained himself with lazily stroking his leaking dick. Smearing precum over his sensitive head, a finger caressing over the silvery barbell placed right under it, his breath hitching as his sensitivity had gone up tenfold since got the small jewelry. The other arm is flung over his eyes as he tilted his head back and smiled as he always did when he was stroking himself, and deleted every single regret about getting the erotic piercing.

The ping of his phone jolted him back to reality. A video. He hesitated at first but decided to press play.

It was you, at first sucking the dildo, swirling your tongue around the head of it, a string of saliva snapping as you smiled into the camera before moving both the phone and dildo slowly downward. A small gasp escaped you off-camera as you slowly pushed the fake dick into your already soaking cunt. You started slow, just teasing yourself with how it filled you, but after slowly pulling it out you suddenly shoved it in, and he vaguely heard his name escape you again.

One part of him couldn’t believe you were actually sending him videos, while the other part of him kicked itself for not asking for it earlier. This was pure bliss for him.

This video was what made lust take over, though, and he decided it was time for him to give you what you’ve asked for for a long time

Checking the lightning around him, he grabbed his cock at the base, angling it just right, he snapped a picture, doing his best to really show the sheer size of him. He was fully aware of the fact that he was way above average. His butchering job making sure he’d seen a good amount of men, making him realize how big he actually was. His small light made the silvery part of him glint.

“I hope this is what you’re thinking of when you fuck yourself like that” “because I sure as hell am thinking about fucking your tight pussy right now”

Sent.

The smile on your lips transformed into a needy grin as you bit down on your lower lip when you opened his convo, a quiet moan leaving you as you saw it. All you could do was stare. You dropped the toy to hide your blushing cheeks and needy grin behind your hand, for whom you hid, you had no idea. What you saw must’ve been the biggest dick you’ve ever seen outside of porn.

He must’ve been around 7 - 7,8 inches long, the girth almost scary, your toy suddenly felt way too small for you and you spasmed around nothing. You couldn’t help but drool slightly as you followed every inch of him, brows furrowing in want when you saw the barbell snugly fastened under his swollen and leaking head.

After ogling the huge cock, you gave him what he wanted; you to admit that he was right.

“You’re right, big boy.” “I did want to see this” “I wanna taste you”

"Yeah?” "You wanna suck my dick?”

A shiver runs down your back as your fingers play through your folds at the way he’s talking to you.

“Yeah, I do” “I want to hear you moan as I swallow your big fat cock down my throat”

The phone went quiet for a minute or two before you got an attachment sent your way, this time, he had sent a video, and you thought you were going to lose your mind at what you saw.

Pressing play, you saw his cock twitching in his hand before he slowly started stroking himself. He was slow at first, teasing himself - or you, you weren’t sure and didn’t care at this point - before he decided to up his tempo. Off-camera, you could hear his heavy raspy breathing, a deep moan, and something that sounded like a breathy “ fuck ”, it was low like he didn’t mean for it to escape his throat.

"Where have you been all my life?" "Your cock is amazing"

This time, you grab your dildo and sit down in front of the full-body mirror you've placed in your bedroom. Spreading your legs, you tease your slit with the toy smiling straight into the camera and furrowing your brows with want and need before pushing the toy in your wet cunt. You fuck yourself slowly as you decide to start talking instead, asking one simple question. “Want to watch me cum?”

When Thomas' phone dinged he almost dropped it out of excitement.

His head rolled back against his chair as he watched you fuck yourself, a growl low in his throat as he started dreaming of how it would feel when your muscles clench around him, making sure to squeeze his own hand in a desperate way to mimic that feeling. He started thinking how in the hell he’d been happy just reading your words earlier and seeing the occasional nude photo coming from you.

The videos were so. much. better. He almost couldn’t type anymore. He’d lost his words in fogginess that was lust, if he talked he’d be speechless at the amazing view coming from his phone. He was close, but he refused to cum without seeing you do the same, letting his aching cock go, he pulled up the keyboard.

"Please… " "I do want to see you cum" "need to" "need to see that beautiful pussy cum because of me"

You huff slightly as you see his desperate plea for you to show him. But at this point, you can't keep edging yourself. Your pussy clenched hard as you watched yourself in the mirror.

Alright, you thought. I'll give you what you want

"Do you think of me when you cum, Thomas? Ever think of how I would look covered in your cum?"

Hurrying, you prop your phone up in a standing position, making sure you are well visible in the camera you hit record; Your toy pumps in and out in a hectic tempo, hitting a really sweet spot inside your cunt, the other hand rubbing your clit.

Your orgasm was approaching fast and just moments before it hit, you look straight into the camera and with a breathy voice you say; "Because I think of you when I do." And just as your orgasm hits, you throw your head back, your voice loud as you scream his name in ecstasy.

Before stopping the recording, you lean in close to your phone and whisper; "I hope you do."

He was in the middle of replying to your questions when he saw you’d sent him a video, completely ignoring to reply to you, he pressed play. Thomas’ mouth just hung open as he watched the - for him - most beautiful and erotic scene he’s ever seen play out on his phone. His hand pumped in time with the way you fucked yourself and he almost had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from moaning out loud in fear of his family heard him.

The sounds your toy made as it went in and out of your wet cunt sent shivers down his spine and exploded in a myriad of tingles in his dick, making it twitch, his own orgasm building at a rapid speed.

But when he heard and saw you cum, and the way you screamed his name as you did, he couldn’t hold it at bay any longer. His orgasm washed over him, a low choked groan left his lips as his thick and almost cream-like seed shot over and covered his hand, landing a good way up to his chest. He forced himself to let his phone go because if he didn’t, he would surely have crushed it the way his fist clenched until his knuckles turned white. He grit his teeth, heavy, huffing and wheezing breaths coming from his lungs.

You’d made an absolute mess out of him, and you hadn’t even touched him. Sweat was running down his temple, his hair stuck on his neck, he was absolutely spent .

If only you knew, he tilted his head back, trying to catch his breath, how much I think of you when I do.

It's been two weeks since you've heard from this man who now has a name resting before his little chainsaw icon. It wasn't that weird not hearing from him for a few days, but never two weeks. You'd gotten a special assignment from work, meaning you'd had to travel to Texas. Before you left you sent him a short message.

"I just wanted to tell you I'm going to drive for a while, so can't text much."

No response. You guessed he'd had his fun with you, gotten what he wanted, and now he was tired of you.

You were stranded at a small dip in the road, your car had broken down in the middle of it, but you had managed to push it into a safer spot away from the traffic - if there actually were any. It was hot and humid. And you hated yourself for actively choosing to drive instead of taking a flight as you kicked your car out of anger.

"I. Fucking. HATE YOU! You absolute…" Kick "piece" Kick "of" Kick "trash!"

You were hot and you suspected your skin was starting to turn red due to the angry sun screaming down at you.

Footsteps coming your way distracted you momentarily from abusing your poor car and you got happy for only a moment as you went to turn to the person. Before you had the chance to fully turn towards them the butt of a gun slammed against your temple and everything went black.

You wake up with your head throbbing, you move to sit up from an apparently horizontal position but notice you can't.

You're bolted down.

"What…", you try looking around, but your position makes sure you can only flip your head from side to side, the room is cool and dim. From a distance, you hear voices shouting in what sounds like a heated argument. "Hello…?", you try to yell out. Your heart begins to beat in a rapid rhythm as the voices quiet down. They heard you. Not long after they go quiet, you notice the floor above you start cracking and creaking with footsteps, and soon after a door slides open. "Hello?", you try again.

An angry voice rings out again; "You heard me, boy! I don't give a rats fuckin' ass about what you say. You take care of 'er now, or I will!", the door slides shut again.

Heavy footsteps are coming your way, and your breathing starts picking up. "Who's there?", you hear heavy breathing in the room, the person is moving closer. "Please… I beg of you.", you try pleading to the stranger. You're so, so scared, you don't know if you're about to get killed, or used for other things, to be locked up on the surface you’re pinned down to only be viewed as an object. You don't know anything.

The person stops close to you, you see them in the corner of your eyes. But they're not saying anything, only watch you in silence.

You turn your head towards them, and they back off into a shadowy corner. They seem… afraid. "What do you want from me? Who are you?", they seem to flinch slightly at your words. You can see their whole body moving with each breath. "I don't know what you want!", tears start prickling in the corner of your eyes as panic sets in. "Please, let me go! I… I don't… I was just passing through!", you thrash against your restraints as your tears start streaming freely. Pain shooting through your restraints digs into your skin. "I don't want to die…", you sob.

Thomas can't move. He's frozen. He wants to move, he really does, but his body refuses to cooperate.

You're here. In the basement. Where everything grim happens. Where no one gets out alive. Where he is supposed to kill and butcher you. The person who’s been so nice to him over text messages, keeping him company during lonely nights. The one who willingly showed herself reaching her climax thanks to him, even after he had shown you his face.

Charlie has already told him he can't keep you. He didn't care that Thomas knows you, he didn't give a fuck about how nice you've been, how you didn't stop talking to him after you've seen his face. Thomas had a job to do, but he couldn't. He's breathing heavily as your voice pierces the otherwise quiet basement, his mind flashes back to the video saved on his phone. All those late nights where he’d read your words with his hand down his own pants.

You're here. What are you doing here?

Three words from you wake him up from his trance-like state.

You sigh. "Just do it..", you've given up. You realize you won't get out of here alive, a part of you already accepting that fate. You won't see your family anymore.

You'll never hear from Thomas again. The last thought makes another stream of tears run down the side of your face and you turn to your captor. "Please, do it fast… I… I don't want to feel pain.", a weak defeated smile reaches your lips, "Just kill me." Your last words seem to trigger movement in the figure as it moves towards a wall close to it, a small click and a light flicker on. You're bathed in a harsh white light, your newly cried eyes burn slightly as you adapt to it.

And you guess this is it.

The figure moves close to you again, and suddenly; he's right next to you. Your eyes widen in nothing but pure shock as you see dark, shoulder lengths locks. "What…", your heart beating a panicked drumming melody against your ribs. "You can't be…". The man reaches up to his head, and that's when you realize he's wearing a mask that looks way too familiar to you. He unbuckles it, and that’s when it clicks in your head. You see a face you recognize. A face you've dreamed off. A face you've masturbated to almost every night for two weeks.

But seeing this face makes tears well in your eyes for the third time and a cry that almost makes you scream bubbles up from your stomach. He just looks at you with sad eyes, eyes you wish you hadn’t seen, eyes you wish you didn’t recognize.

Thomas’ eyes.

[hopeless-starry-kingdom]

Drivers License | Peter Parker

Summary: Peter broke your heart and now its time to let it out

Song: Drivers Licence by Olivia Rodrigo

“I want each of you to write a poem that has meaning to you. Make it heartfelt and make it good. At the end of the week you all will present them to the class.” The whole class groaned in annoyance at the thought of presenting. You dint say a word, though.

You sat quietly with your head in your hand and stared straight ahead. You tried not to look at him as the class session went on but you found it so hard and stared right at the back of his head. His brown curls were messy yet groomed, just like how he always wore his hair. And today you seen him wearing a science pun t-shirt and a jacket over it. His jeans were dark blue and his shoes were vans. You liked his outfit today.

The bell rang as your English teacher reminded everyone of the assignment. You walked out after him and when Ned called his name from the classroom behind your guys’, he turned his head. You both made eye contact and you could see him swallow harshly as he sent a timid smile to you. You didn't smile. You didn't wave. You held your head up high and walked straight past him.

As you began to put your change away in your wallet, you seen your brand new drivers license. You got it last week. You were so happy that you had passed the test and ran to your phone to call Peter because that was all he was talking about for months. But you stopped short as you opened his contact name and realized what he had done. He broke up with you. And It hurt.

“Stop staring at it. He’s an asshat. There’s no going back, you have to try and forget about him now.” You looked up and tried to blink back your tears as MJ held your arm.

“It just hurts still. A-and he's in two of my fucking classes, god MJ.” The curry haired girl sighed and nodded. She was never one to show affection but she could see you were hurting. She knew first hand how much you loved him and MJ swore Peter loved you just as much. MJ was usually never wrong and when she told you not to doubt Peter hanging with Gwen Stacy so much, she swore up and down Gwen was just using him for a good grade. She never actually thought Peter would leave you for her. Because MJ was usually never wrong.

It caught everyone by surprise. All your friends and family. It was all so sudden. The school caught wind of it the next day it seemed. The girls called Peter a jerk for not waiting to jump into a new relationship. The guys all patted Peter on the back and saying they didn't know he had it in him. It only made it worse. But now almost two weeks later and the breakup still wasn't easier.

“Is she with him?” You asked and you knew it wouldn't help your case but you just had to know.

“Y/N--”

“MJ, please.” You begged. You didn't want to turn and look for yourself, afraid that if anyone caught you, or worse he did, you’d be the laughing stalk of the school. MJ sighed and turned her body to see Peter and Gwen laughing with each other. Peter had his arm wrapped around her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Ned looked uncomfortable.

“Yeah, she is.” You sighed and bit back the tears as you looked down at your drivers license and remembered how he broke up with you.

“I can't do this anymore” You furrowed your brows and stood up from his bed to face him.

“What?” You whispered and you felt your throat clog up as tears blurred your vision. Everything was fine, you were rambling about the drivers test and how hard it might be for you. Everything was fine, or so you thought.

“Y/N, I just, Im not really... I don't know how to tell you this, I-”

“Peter just spit it out!” You threw your hands out.

“I like someone else.” He clenched his jaw and sighed as he ran a hand down his face. “I’m sorry but you and I, I just don't feel that way anymore.” He finished in a whisper and the tears finally fell from your face. You didn't know what else to say in that moment. So you fled.

You then found out it was Gwen Stacy who he liked. The girl he said was just his lab partner, his study buddy. Just friends he said.

“C’mon, we have to get to class before we get detention.” You stared long and hard at your drivers license and had a thought. You quickly put it away and stood with your best friend.

“Right, next up. Y/N.” Everyone turned to you as you picked up the piece of paper with your poem on it. You were nervous to recite it since Peter was in the room. However you were also ready to let out how you felt since Peter was in the room.

You sighed shakily and looked up. You met eyes with Peter and felt your jaw clench.

I got my drivers license last week

Just like we always talked about

Cause you were so excited for me

To finally drive up to your house

But today I drove through the suburbs 

Cryin’ cause you weren't around

Peter immediately tensed up as your words ran into him. He took a glance around and seen some of his classmates looking at him and whispering to their partner. Peter gulped as he focused on you again and nearly fell out of his seat at your words.

You're probably with that blonde girl

Who always made me doubt 

You said not to worry about her

Yeah, I drove through the suburbs

Cause how could I ever love someone else?

Your eyes began to blur as tears came forward and you tried to blink them back, you didn’t want the whole class and soon the whole school to know you cried for Peter Parker during a presentation.

And I know we weren't perfect but Ive never felt this way for no one

And I just can't imagine how you could be so okay now that im gone

Guess you didn't mean what your wrote in that letter about me

Your words were harsh as you spit out each syllable and made direct eye contact with Peter, who wished he could shrink into the floor in this moment. Now everyone was looking at Peter with a disappointed look.

“Okay, well thank you for that Y/N. Everyone give a round of applause for Y/N.” There was scattered claps as you hastily wiped your cheeks.

You ran to your desk and grabbed your bag before leaving the classroom. Your teacher didn't say anything when you pushed the door opened and stormed into the hall, ready to go cry in the restroom or better yet, your car.

“Y/N!” You didn't turn around but was now forced to turn as he grabbed your hand and twisted you.

“What-What the hell was that? In front of everyone? Couldn't you-”

“How could you be so okay? Im hurting inside and you-your with Gwen Stacy!” You screeched as tears rolled down your cheeks. Peter cleared his throat and stepped back.

“MJ is tired of me telling her how much I miss you but she doesn't know you the way I do! I drive in the suburbs and picture that you're there with me.” You whimpered and Peter felt his heart break. He knew you were hurting but he never imagined you would be so torn like this.

“Y/N, please I never meant to hurt you like this. You have to believe me, I just-”

“I can't drive past placed we used to go because I still fucking love you! And I still hear your voice in the traffic, you are everywhere! Tell me you love me the way I love you! It’s okay that we aren't perfect because I've never felt like this, please Peter. You said forever.” You step up to him and he sighs before shaking his head,

“I-Im so sorry, Y/N..” A sob rips through your throat as you turn and walk away from the boy. You make it to your car and you begin to cry as you hit the steering wheel.

You know you shouldn't be where you were at. But you couldn't help yourself. You parked your car and stared up at Peter’s apartment. You turned down your music, only a bit as you rested your head on your window.

Cause you said forever now I drive alone past your street

[prolestariwrites]

Ashes [Chapter 1] by lickitysplit

Fandom: Resident Evil Characters: Jill Valentine/Carlos Oliveira Rating: M (Mature)

Summary: A year after the destruction of Raccoon City, Jill is ready to put the past in the past and get back to her life. When she and Chris are recruited to go after Wesker, it seems like the perfect opportunity... until she's partnered with the last person she ever wanted to see again.

Read below or on AO3 ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Jill jumps when a hand presses to her arm, and she swings her gaze from the window. She relaxes immediately when she registers it was just Chris, slumping a bit in the back of the taxi as she catches her breath.

“You okay?” he asks, half-concerned and half-laughing.

“Yeah. Wool gathering.” She shakes herself and blinks at him. “What is it?”

“Just wanted to check,” he says. “You seem nervous.”

Jill chuckles a bit to hide her nerves that are very much on edge. “Nah,” she scoffs, shifting in her seat to adjust her seatbelt.

“I get it if you are. I mean it’s not every day we meet with the feds.”

“Maybe for you,” she laughs, “but I saw plenty the past eight months or so. No big deal.”

Chris’ lips press together in that look he gets when she makes light of Raccoon City. But he nods and turns to look straight ahead as the taxi weaves through the traffic. “Still…”

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” Jill says, keeping her tone light. “You’ve been meeting every official who’s crawled out of the woodwork. This should be a cakewalk for you.”

“County, yeah. State sometimes. But the DOJ?” Chris shakes his head. “This is gonna be big. I can feel it.”

Jill folds her arms and turns to look out the window again. He’s probably right; Chris usually is.

The taxi pulls up outside of a slick-looking office complex, and Chris pays the fare as Jill climbs out. She holds her hand up for shade against the late morning sun that is reflected brightly off the windowed stories. “Looks like something the feds would waste money on,” she comments after he joins her on the sidewalk.

Chris chuckles before giving her a nudge. “Let’s go.”

They pass through metal detectors that are set off by Chris’ weapon, which he surrenders at reception while they present their ID’s. Jill eyes the Glock almost longingly as it is tagged and set inside a locker, scowling a bit as Chris is handed a ticket to retrieve it later. It’s not fair that he’s been allowed to keep his weapons while she hasn’t, but that is an argument she’s been having with anyone who cares to listen for months. Not that it's gotten her anywhere.

She takes her license back from the receptionist before being pointed towards the elevators. They wait in silence until the doors open, and when they step inside Chris presses the button for the fifth floor. “Did you read the stuff I sent you on this guy?” he asks once the elevator begins to move.

“Yeah,” Jill replies. “Agent Donner, DOJ, blah blah. Probably wants to ask us about everything again, like we haven’t told them everything we know about Umbrella a thousand times.”

Jill can practically feel him give her a side-eye, which does little to help her already dampened mood. “Maybe not.”

“If it was just you, maybe not. But all I’m good for now is giving blood samples apparently. Can’t let the bioweapon have a badge.”

Her tone is harsh, and she hates taking it out on Chris. It’s not his fault that he’s been allowed to keep working, now reporting to the county since Raccoon City is gone. But it still stings that whatever powers-that-be that still exist won’t trust her to come on full time as an agent. Nobody knows Umbrella more than the former S.T.A.R.S. team, and as one of the surviving members, it’s beyond frustrating that she’s the only one not allowed to actually do anything.

The elevator dings and they step into another reception area. The secretary offers them something to drink before heading down a hallway, leaving them to wait. Jill examines the pictures on the wall, most of which are group photos of recruitment teams by year, alongside a handful of formal portraits of agents in dress attire. A pang presses sharp into her stomach, thinking of the similar memorial wall in the police station. Do all law enforcement groups have such traditions? Jill had never thought to wonder before.

“Agent Redfield!” They both turn as a man enters from the hallway, walking over to shake Chris’ hand. “I’ve heard so much about you. Welcome.”

“Thanks.”

“And Miss Valentine,” he continues, turning to her with his hand outstretched. “A pleasure.”

“Agent Valentine,” she corrects as she returns the shake.

He clears his throat. “Of course. Henry Donner. Let me show you where we’ll be meeting.”

They exchange a glance before following Donner down a long hallway. At the end is a meeting room, and conversation stops as they are introduced to a handful of other agents. Two are also from the Justice department, one from FEMA, and the final one is an FBI agent. It annoys her how Chris seems impressed, taking a seat quickly once the introductions are done.

“Do you need anything? Coffee?” Donner offers.

Chris declines but Jill decides to get to the point. “Why are we here?” she asks.

Donner clears his throat. “As you can imagine, the United States government is interested in finding all responsible parties for the unfortunate incident in Raccoon City. The FBI and the Department of Justice have been working closely together to track down the former executives of Umbrella, as well as information on any and all scientists who were knowingly or even unknowingly working on bioweapons.

“The search is going well,” he continues. “We’ve taken dozens of people into custody, and thankfully many former employees of Umbrella have come forward to volunteer information.” Donner glances around the room. “However, the investigation is not moving as quickly as the department, or even the president, would like. That’s why we’ve asked you here.”

Jill sighs. This seems like another afternoon of questions going hours on end, and she tries to think of a way to shut it down quickly. “What do you want exactly?”

“Your help, Miss— Agent Valentine,” he replies with a little wink.

Jill narrows her eyes as Chris quickly interjects, “We’ve given dozens of interviews. They’ve been recorded and on tape, we’ve handed over everything we know from our investigations. What more can we give you?”

“Agent Shields?” Donner prompts.

The one from the FBI stands, walking around the table as he carries a folder. “We’re prepared to bring you both on in an official capacity. Not as members of the department, mind—that would be impossible giving the time constraints. Rather, you would be sworn in as ad hoc agents, to assist with finding one particular suspect.”

Shields lays the folder down in front of Chris, and he opens it as he moves it so Jill can also see. Her eyes go wide as they fall on the picture paperclipped to the front cover. “Wesker?” she asks in confusion, looking up.

“He’s dead,” Chris argues. “He was killed in the Arklay Mountains.”

“We have reason to suspect he is alive,” Shields replies.

There is a moment of silence as Jill absorbs the information. Wesker, alive? Images of the mansion and the last time she had seen him form a grotesque slideshow in her mind. “That bastard,” she mutters. “He started this. He’s behind all of this.”

“How do you know he’s alive?” Chris demands.

“There’s intelligence the federal government has received that he’s been spotted overseas,” Donner replies. “I can’t indulge too much, but his identity was confirmed via DNA. Only…” He clears his throat, glancing at the other agents. “There were markers in his DNA that indicate some kind of mutation. We’re working with FEMA and the CDC to identify exactly what and how he has mutated, and there is suspicion that it’s an ongoing condition. Which is why we must find him, and fast. There’s no telling what he has, and what he can spread.”

Donner glances at her, and Jill’s face heats. “If he was infected with something, you’d know it,” she says. “It’s not like the infected were hard to miss in Raccoon City.”

“We know it’s not the T-virus,” the FEMA agent interrupts.

“It’s a yet-unidentified strain,” Donner continues. “Further intelligence from other Raccoon City survivors confirm at least one other Umbrella strain exists, known as the G-virus. Whatever is in Wesker, it’s neither of those, as we have samples of both.” He nods at Jill before saying, “You have antibodies from the vaccine you were given, as does Sherry Birkin, another survivor who had been inflicted with the G-virus. But we can’t say for sure that Wesker has such a precaution. And until we know for sure, we need him in custody, or else the entire world is at risk.”

Jill’s heart pounds as she looks back down at the file. Finally, a chance to do something, get the hell out of the lab and her cramped apartment where she’s under near-constant surveillance. A smile curls on her lips as she thinks of finding Wesker and bringing him in, right after she puts her foot right up his ass.

“So you’re sending us to find Wesker?” Chris asks. “Why us?”

She resists the urge to poke him. “Do you want to do this or not?” she hisses.

“Of course I do. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on Wesker since that damn mansion.” He frowns at Donner. “You have every agent probably looking for him. So why us?”

“Chris.”

“It’s a fair question,” Donner says. “Truth is, we’ve been chasing him for well over a month. There’s just not enough information to get a lock on him. We can’t predict his movements, and with almost everything from Umbrella now destroyed, we’re fumbling in the dark trying to guess his associates, his contacts, find his safe houses.”

Shields leans against the table and taps on Wesker’s picture. “You two worked with him. You know him, his movements, how he thinks. We’re confident if we put you in the field, you’ll be able to identify the right movements for the department.”

Jill is nearly vibrating with excitement. “You’re going to deputize us then?”

Donner nods, and Jill grins, giving Chris an elbow. “Come on, Redfield, don’t you want to partner with me again?”

He gives her a wry look, but Donner shakes his head. “You won’t be partnering together. That was the original plan, but things have changed.”

Jill’s brows go up as Chris looks unconvinced. “What changed?”

“New intelligence points to Wesker making contact with an arms dealer,” Shields explains. “Seems like he’s running out of cash and needs to sell a few secrets. Problem is, we don’t know which dealer.”

“We’ve narrowed it down to two,” Donner finishes. “You’ll both be sent on recon with an escort. Interpol is also interested in securing Wesker, and we’ve been given additional support from the UN to find him.”

Now even Jill is impressed. “Interpol? Really?” She decides she doesn’t care what Chris says; this is too good to pass up. “I’m in. I’ll do it.”

“Me too,” Chris agrees, closing the file. “Finding Wesker is what’s important.”

“Great!” Donner rubs his hands together as he stands. “Let’s get started then. You’ll need to fill out some paperwork, get briefings, and we’ll take care of onboarding this afternoon. Follow me.”

They say their goodbyes and follow Donner out again, who takes them back towards the elevator. “Oh, wait here,” he says once they return to the reception area. “I need to get a few things. Then I’ll take you down for processing.”

As soon as they are alone, Jill turns to Chris with eyes wide with excitement. “Can you believe this?” she whispers. “The fucking FBI is sending us on a mission. We’re working with fucking Interpol. Can you believe this?”

“No,” Chris chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “This is the last thing I expected. I mean, can they do this?”

“It’s the government, they can do whatever the hell they want.” Jill sighs, her eyes closing briefly. “Finally, I’m going to get back to my life. I’ve been sitting around for months as they’ve poked and prodded and ran every test on me, and even with a clean bill of health they still won’t let me go back to police work.” Jill smirks to herself, folding her arms. “Bet that county sheriff is gonna eat his words now. Not cleared for duty my ass . Can’t wait for the prick to find out I’m an FBI agent now.”

Chris gives a snort as Jill enjoys her moment of smugness when Donner returns. “Perfect timing! Your partners just finished their own briefing, let me introduce you—Redfield, this is—”

But Jill doesn’t hear the rest, because as she turns, her smile melts into surprise when she sees Carlos Oliveira standing in front of her.

He looks exactly the same, without the blood and grime. Same curly hair that is way too long and falling into his eyes; same dark eyes that remind her of a puppy dog, eager and bright; same build, tall and broad and definitely a soldier. Her face heats as they stare at one another for a long moment until Carlos breaks into a grin. “Supercop! Are you kidding me? How are you?”

Before she can answer he sweeps her up into a hug, and Jill gives an oof as she is squeezed tightly against him. His arms are solid and his grip is strong as he presses his cheek to hers, but Jill is in too much shock to return the embrace. When he finally releases her, he keeps his hands pressed to her arms, smiling wide as he looks her up and down. “Thought they were messing with me. I can’t believe it’s really you! You look great!”

Jill stammers, “C-Carlos? What are you doing here?”

She looks around for an answer. Chris and the other guy are chatting, but Donner gives a nod. “I thought it would be a good idea partnering the two of you,” he says. “Oliveira’s been working with the UN in establishing protocol for viral outbreaks around the world.”

���I’m a liaison,” Carlos grins. “Pretty sweet, huh?”

“But you…”

She shakes her head to clear it, not even sure what to say. Thankfully, Carlos releases her arms, turning to Chris with his hand outstretched. “Redfield. Heard a lot about you. Nice to meet you, man.”

“Uh, same,” Chris answers awkwardly, glancing at Jill. “You’re the one that rescued Jill in Raccoon City, right?”

“I rescued him,” she mutters.

“Yeah, supercop here saved my ass more than a few times.” He pats the other man on the shoulder. “You teaming up with Nathan here? That’s awesome.”

“But what are you doing here?” Jill asks, louder this time.

All four men look at her. She can feel the color blooming on her neck, but she refuses to be the first to glance away. She had not gone through all the shit from the past year and a half, hell the past ten years : surviving the army, putting up with every comment and remark when training for Delta Force, fighting and clawing her way to prove that she was more than a girl with a gun, surviving a zombie apocalypse and a damned nuclear bomb to be ignored now.

“Well?” she demands.

“What do you mean?” Carlos laughs. “We’re partners again. Ain’t that great news?”

Partners. With Carlos Oliveira. The last man on Earth she had ever wanted to see again.

[restlessfandoming]

“the president and the troublemaker” (part 12) (chilumi fic)

“Lumine is the student council president and Childe is the school’s number one troublemaker. They cross paths more than they’d like. Especially when Childe finds out Lumine’s big secret. Highschool AU à la Kaichou wa Maid-sama.”

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6] [part 7] [part 8] [part 9] [part 10] [part 11]

[Fic Masterlist] // [AO3 Link] // [Main AO3]

i know these be delayed af :’) i am trying very hard :’)

* * * 

the president and the troublemaker (part 12)

“The winner gets to go on a date with Lumine,” Venti said.

“Sounds like a deal,” Childe agreed. 

“Hold on!” Lumine interjected sternly. “I haven’t agreed to any of this.” 

Venti and Childe both turned towards her—Venti much more scared, embarrassed, Childe much more amused, inquisitive. 

“I’m not going to be fought over like some stupid carnival prize,” Lumine seethed. 

“Ah...sorry, LuLu…,” Venti said quietly. 

Childe regarded Lumine for a second. “Okay,” he said, turning to Venti. “How about just a regular competition then? No prize.” His blue eyes glinted. “Except pride of course.” 

Lumine rubbed at her growing headache. Why is he so dramatic? “You two do whatever you want. Just don’t make me a part of it,” she told them, sitting down on a nearby bench to spectate. 

Venti also glanced at Lumine, before nodding to Childe. “Okay. Pride it is.” 

“Highest score after...six arrows?” Childe suggested, examining one of the arrows. 

Venti nocked an arrow on the bowstring. “How about only three?” 

Childe scoffed. “Getting a little confident, are we?” 

The bard drew back his arrow, and fired. The arrow sliced through the air, implanting into one of the gold rings on the target—the ring just outside the bullseye. 

“I’m not confident without reason,” Venti said with an all-knowing laugh. 

Childe looked at Venti’s score, a slight twitch of a smile on his lips. “Not bad. A challenge—I like it.” 

“Childe,” Lumine said, brows furrowed, “since when did you do archery?” 

“Since never,” he answered, nocking an arrow, then drawing it back. Even with no knowledge of archery, Lumine could tell his posture was all wrong, the tilt of the bow too slouched—compared to Venti’s refined stance. 

“There’s always a good time to start,” Childe finished. He fired the arrow, the arrow landing in the black ring near the edge. Venti held back a snort, and Lumine’s eyes flickered to Childe’s face. 

His eyes were slightly narrowed, focused on the arrow. She expected them to be void of light, as they were when he was deeply serious, however there was a sharp glint now—the promise of struggle. 

She knew he loved competitions (why else would he be pursuing the same career as her?) but he hated anything that came too easily. He found solace in turmoil. He found solace in coming out on top after a dark, bloody battle. 

“How about we call this a practice round?” Venti said with a cheeky grin. 

A smile from Childe while his eyes remained unmoving. “Where’s the fun in that?” He turned to Venti. “Your turn.” 

The bard blinked warily at him a few times, before prepping for his second shot. This time, the arrow landed further from the center, planted into the middle blue zone. 

“Drats,” the blue-hair boy hissed. 

Instantaneously, Childe fired his second arrow, finding it in the same blue zone. He tilted his head, shifting the bow around in his hands, inspecting it. 

“Your turn,” Childe said again, still examining the bow in his hands. 

Venti wordlessly raised his bow, one eye closed for precise aiming. He took longer lining up this final arrow.

Is he actually worried Childe’s going to beat him? Lumine wondered. There was no way, right? Venti had training while this was Childe’s first time handling the weapon. 

Venti fired the arrow, completely still as they all watched it soar through the air. 

It landed in the blue. 

He let out a sheepish laugh. “Seems like I’m a bit rusty,” he said. After a moment, he shook his head, setting the bow down. “No worries, LuLu. Childe has no way of beating me,” he whispered to her. 

She nodded; that’s what was expected, wasn’t it? Then why do I feel disappointed?

Childe stepped up to the line, bow and final arrow in hand, rolling his shoulder. Then, he threw the arrow at the target. 

He threw the arrow at the target. No bow used. Just his hands. Like a javelin. 

Venti and Lumine’s eyes widened as the arrow slammed into the gold circle—the same gold circle Venti had hit earlier. 

Childe looked at the board briefly, an obvious look of pride on his face as he turned back towards the two. 

“What do you think of that, Pres?” he asked. 

Lumine huffed and rolled her eyes. “Very impressive,” she said sarcastically. “Only you would think of doing something like that.” 

“I must say,” Venti said, “Though unorthodox, you picked it up quite quickly.” He smiled and held out his hand. “A good game, sir!” 

Childe raised a brow, a tiny smile at his lips as well. “Good game,” he echoed, accepting the handshake. 

Well, that went better than expected. Honestly, she had expected Childe to sock Venti in the face, and she was glad this was the outcome instead.  

“How about another game?” Venti suggested. 

“Watch out,” Childe said. “You might end up being the loser next round.”

“At least I wasn’t the loser this round,” Venti retorted with a stuck-out tongue. 

Lumine sighed. And there they were, back to bickering. “I need to check the time. We’ve got to get back to the bus at some point,” she told them, standing up to head back to the lockers. 

She stopped in her tracks. 

Even from across the arcade, she could see a man pulling out her white messenger bag from her locker. And he already had Childe’s and Venti’s belongings under his arm. 

Without a second thought, Lumine lunged, sprinting across the building. 

“Wait, LuLu! Where are you going?!” Venti shouted behind her. 

At the sound of Venti’s yelling, the thief’s head snapped up, and he immediately noticed Lumine running at him. His eyes widened, and he booked it out of the arcade with all their belongings, and disappeared from sight. 

Lumine made it to the front of the building, stopping to look down the streets for a sign of the thief. 

Behind her, she heard Childe and Venti catch up, panting. 

“What’s wrong?” Childe asked. 

“Thief,” she spat. “Took all our stuff.” Her eyes scanned the streets.

A flash of white in an alleyway. Her bag. 

Without a word, she dashed towards the alley, Childe and Venti following her lead. 

Turning into the alley, she saw the thief, still running. The thief had slowed down, just a bit, but seeing the three students barreling towards him, he picked up speed, turning a corner down another narrow alley. 

He led them through a maze of narrow alleyways, crossing them through street after street. 

Lumine’s lungs were on fire, as were her legs—every alarm in her body screaming to stop—but she needed to catch that thief. Her hearing was all tuned out, save for the pulsating rush of blood in her ears, and her eyes tunneled in on the thief. I have to catch him. I have to catch him. Ihavetocatch—

Someone grabbed her arm from behind, yanking her to a stop. 

!!!

With the adrenaline coursing through her veins, she immediately used the momentum to swing around, leading with a powerful punch. 

Childe easily deflected her punch with his forearm, and—before she could try to kick—he swept his own leg under hers, knocking her off her feet. 

She felt like she was falling backwards in slow motion, watching panickedly as Childe let go of her arms. Her mind was bewildered at the notion that Childe would purposefully let her fall like this—he had always saved her so what was he doing?

But then he scooped his arms under her, catching her in a princess carry, one knee on the ground. 

The air rushed from Lumine’s lungs, and she let out hoarsely, “Why did you do that?” 

There was a slight frown tugging at his lips. “Lumi, you were about to run into an intersection.”

Lumine blinked, and the world filled in around her. 

The thief had in fact led them to a bustling intersection, and only now did she hear the WHOOSH of speeding cars rush past them. She glanced around; if Childe hadn’t stopped her on the sidewalk where they were, she would’ve run straight into oncoming traffic. 

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Lumine grumbled, climbing out of his hold. 

“You didn’t have to punch me,” he replied, one hand still on the small of her back. 

Venti jogged up to them from the alley, out of breath. “Wha-Why are we stopped?” he managed to get out. 

“Unless you want to become roadkill, the chase ends here,” Childe said, pointing at the street. 

Lumine bit the side of her cheek, eyes still searching the area for any sign of the thief. There was nothing. 

“Uhm, quick question guys,” Venti said. “Where are we exactly?” 

The three of them looked around. 

The area was completely unrecognizable. In their desperate chase, the thief had led them far away from where they had started, with no way of knowing how to get back. 

Lumine cursed. “Did any of you keep your phones or wallets on you?” The two guys shook their heads, and Lumine let out a frustrated groan. “How are we going to get back?” 

“We could ask around for help?” Venti suggested. 

“Not going to happen, unless you know how to speak Chinese,” Childe countered. 

“It’s worth a shot,” Lumine said with a sigh. She started walking down the sidewalk, looking for any passing civilian or store. 

They seemed to be in a more residential area, more run-down than modern. It definitely looks like a sketchy part of town...

After some time, they reached a small stretch of commercial buildings. However, the buildings were even more run-down than the previous houses, and dark figures were huddled around the vicinity. 

A group of three men stood outside of a rusty pharmacy, eyeing the students as they approached. They all donned a sort of bandana masking their faces, and arm guards wrapped their wrists. A treacherous aura surrounded them. 

Maybe we shouldn’t ask here…, Lumine thought. Before she could turn them all around, Venti stepped forward towards the men.  

“Hello, gentlemen! Could you guys show us the way to the Stone Gate?” he said, completely oblivious of the situation. 

The men looked at each other, and the tallest one with a sleeveless blue vest, stepped forward. “Are you kids lost?” he asked. 

“Oh, Archons! You fellas speak English!” Venti cheered. “Yes, we got separated from our school field trip.” 

Lumine glanced at the other two men, hearing a whisper of, “Look at their school uniforms. They must be rich.” 

She looked over at Childe. He was also assessing the group, and she noticed him subtly stretching. He was preparing for something.

Childe looked at Lumine, and she nodded at him, already reading his expression. He nodded back at her, turning to the group. 

The two men in the back were obviously beginning to size up the three of them, while the leader was still speaking with Venti, stalling. 

Venti...always too trusting of people. 

“So, you kids are on a school trip?” the leader asked. “Long way from home, right? You bring a lot of cash with you?”

Venti sheepishly rubbed the back of his head. “Oh, yeah, I guess. But funny thing is—”

The man pulled out a knife. “Okay, so here’s what you all are going to do. You’re going to give us anything of value on you, and we will send you on your way to the Stone Gate...unharmed.” 

The two other men pulled out weapons as well, one with a sharp broken bottle, the other a hammer rusted with dried blood. 

Venti took a step back, gulping audibly. 

“Or,” Childe said, raising his fists. “How about you leave us be, and you escape...unharmed?” 

The men laughed boisterously. “Look at this kid. Trying to be tough—how cute,” one of them mocked. 

“LuLu, we have to run,” Venti whispered to her, eyes darting back the way they came. 

That would have been the sensible option. The men had weapons, they were older, they were crueler. 

But seeing these men reminded her of her painful past, the very past that fueled her through her entire life. Because these men, that thief, were exactly like her father. Putting others in pain while they got off without consequence. 

Not today. 

Lumine raised her fists also, standing alongside Childe. “Last warning,” she said lowly. 

The men burst out in laughter again. “Wow, these kids are funny!” 

“What are you guys doing?!” Venti hissed. 

“Don’t hold back, girlie,” Childe murmured. 

“Never,” she said. “Big one together.”

Childe nodded. 

The two of them crouched. Then, they sprang forward. 

Catching them off-guard, the two of them focused on the leader first. Lumine threw out a high kick, hitting the leader right in his knuckles, while Childe slammed his knee into the man’s gut. 

The man dropped to his knees, his knife clattering to the floor, before his crew even registered what happened. They cried out in surprise, and Lumine kicked the knife far away. Childe applied a swift hit to the back of the leader’s head, registering him unconscious.

Childe and Lumine turned to the two other men. 

“Well?” Lumine asked them. 

“Are you two still up for the challenge?” Childe said.

The one with the bottle growled. “Damn kids need to be put in their place.” He charged at them, the one with a hammer following suit. 

Glass bottle slashed at Lumine. She quickly jumped back, and he jabbed forward towards her. Too slow. She ducked, and he slammed into her shoulder. She then wrapped her arms around his waist, squatting to utilize her lower center of gravity, and easily lifted him with the strength of her legs. She threw him back over her shoulder, letting his head crash into the ground. He went limp in her arms, unconscious just like his boss, and she let his body fall to the floor.

She turned to Childe just in time to see him uppercutting Hammer. Hammer stumbled back, cradling his jaw. But he still lifted his weapon, ready to throw it right at Childe’s head. Lumine started to jump towards him, rushing to disarm the man. 

Then something whistled by her ear, and collided with Hammer’s hand, and the weapon clattered to the floor. A sizable rock fell next to it.

Lumine turned to see Venti holding a similar rock, aiming, and ready to throw. Of course Venti hit with that much precision. 

“There’s more where that came from!” he shouted. 

In Hammer’s stunned state, Childe easily threw a powerful punch at his face, and the last member was knocked unconscious.

The three of them stood still for a second, all panting into the otherwise silent street. 

After a while, Venti’s eyes flickered between Lumine and Childe.

“So…,” he breathed. “You two...want to explain what just happened?”

Lumine’s own breath hitched as the realization dawned on her. 

Venti had just witnessed her fighting. Her secret side. Shitshitshit—

“You can do crazy things when your body is pumped full of adrenaline,” Childe said, massaging his hand. 

She nodded, eyes sending a silent Thank You to Childe. “I needed to protect you, Venti,” she said. “My body just went on auto-pilot I guess.” 

Venti dropped the rock in his hands, a frown now visible. “No...that looked...coordinated. Trained. Not just some random street moves.” 

Lumine swallowed the lump in her throat. She glanced at Childe, who was only silently observing her now. 

She knew what Childe was doing. He was watching to see what she was going to do. Was she going to lie to her dear childhood friend? Or was this childhood friend so precious that she couldn’t do that? 

Venti devoted so much of himself to her—he loved her. He was always that shining beacon of optimism for her. He believed in her. 

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t lie to him. 

Lumine stood up straight, looking Venti in the eyes. 

“I’m a professional fighter.”

* * *

[part 13]

[spices-and-cherries]

Faster Than a Kitten on Parade (Benoit Blanc x Reader)

Okay, not to toot my own horn, but this is actually kind of good? Like I’m kinda proud of myself... I spent a large amount of time trying to figure out southern accents and their corresponding regions that I kinda gave up and said Mississippi. Louisiana is another safe bet? Anyway, to all Bostonians reading this, I’m sorry. I wrote what I wrote for the sake of plot. 

I did not reference race, gender, sexuality, or physical appearance. If I missed something, please let me know so I can change it!

Warnings: brief description of near car accident and reckless driving

***This is pure fluff with not even a hint of angst***

Every day you take the bus to and from work. While it’s thankfully a straight shot from where you live, Boston’s public transportation leaves much to be desired. The buses rarely run on time, the traffic is miserable, and in the winter it’s living hell. Snowy, cold, wet... It makes you wonder what made you think of moving away from your hometown to this. Was the career move really worth it? Yes. 

But that doesn’t mean that your commute lacks any perks. The bus stop you wait at in the morning is right outside a coffee shop, people keep to themselves (unless there’s a game coming up), and it provides you with the time you need to reflect on the day. Most of all, however, is the new guy. 

One of the things that comes with riding the same bus everyday is that you tend to ride with the same people as well. So of course your curiosity is piqued when you first saw him. Everything about him seemed so different from the usual folk you see walking around Boston: kind, gentlemanly, smart...

That being said, you have yet to actually meet him...

Normally, that would be completely fine, but you have to admit something’s going on when a fellow commuter has continued to make your day more than several days in a row. Was it his smile? The way he holds himself? That time he gave up his seat for an older lady? Is it just because he’s so clearly not from Boston?

You’ve been trying to build up enough confidence to actually say something - literally anything - but you always chicken out. The first time it was because he was reading a book and you didn’t want to disturb him. The second was because he was standing barely a foot away from your seat and you blanked because that ass. The third and fourth (and admittedly fifth) time ended in a similar fashion.

That is until one glorious and blessed day.

It was snowing hard, but as usual, the city chugged along without a care. So, you had left your apartment with several layers of sweaters and more handwarmers than you could count (That’s a lie. You were carrying ten.). The bus was unusually full and by the time his stop came around, there weren’t a lot of seats left. 

Did you forget to breath when you watched him look at the seat next to you?

Were your hands getting sweaty even though that shouldn’t be possible considering the temperature?

Was your heart running faster than a kitten on parade?

Yes, yes, and yes.

“May I take this seat?” His accent somehow prevented you from speaking so you just nodded and smiled. “Thank you kindly.” You shift slightly to give him some space and to try and get rid of sudden spike in adrenaline that his unexpected (and totally welcomed) accent caused...

You watch him out of the corner of your eye, trying really hard to not look weird or creepy. He has on this grey pea coat and a deep maroon colored scarf. His blue suit pants stretch just a tad over what looked to be some muscle. And his aftershave...is amazing to say the least. But all these fine details aren’t what really catch your eye. For what ever reason, this man has no gloves on. His finger tips are turning purple! Hurriedly, you look in your work bag for one of your spare handwarmers. You find it at the bottom, still in it’s packaging. 

“I couldn’t help but notice that you don’t have gloves...” You hand it to him. He looks at you with surprise. 

“Oh, no...! I couldn’t possibly...” His voice sounds like honey... 

“I insist. I buy so many, I won’t miss one.” You push it into his hands. 

“That’s mighty kind of you.” He smiles again. It’s very soft. Like marshmallow clouds kind of soft. 

“Oh, not at all!” And in that moment, you did something very daring: you introduced yourself. “Um, I’m (Y/N) (L/N), by the way.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mx. (L/N). I’m Benoit Blanc, but please, call me Blanc.” He offers to shake your hand and you take it. You can feel how cold his hands are through your gloves, but it barely even registers. You’re far too busy trying to memorize his name.

Benoit Blanc. 

“Is that French?” Oh. My. God. Really?

“Yes.” He chuckled a little. One side of his mouth went up, scrunching that side of his face. It was a hella cute scrunching. “On my father’s side. Immigrated several generations back.”

“I was gonna say that you don’t really look French...”

“I take after my mother.”

“Ah. That explains it.” You smile, genuinely amused. “Sothen, where are you really from then?”

“A small town in Mississippi. You wouldn’t have heard of it.”

“Yeah, probably not.” You nod slightly. “I bet that it’s super different than here.”

“Heh, yeah it is.” Mr. Blanc holds the handwarmer up for a second as emphasis. 

“I, uh, I’m from (hometown) - (region) - so I know where you’re coming from. Boston sure is something else, isn’t it?”

“Never have I ever - and I mean ever - been in a town as - as - as unique unto itself as Boston!” A few people look up. You don’t care. You had no idea that a man of his age could look so cute. “Apologies.” He lowers the volume of his voice - not that he really needed to. “Now, comin’ from the South, I’ve had my fair share of human nature, but the drivers here are a whole ‘nother species. It’s like the jungle out there.”

“Did you ever make the mistake of taking a taxi when you first came here?”

“Much to my chagrin, yes, yes I have.” He shakes his head disapprovingly, but you can see a little twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “Not too long ago, in fact. The man was speakin’ on the phone and nearly drove us off a bridge... Nearly had a conniption of the heart.”

“That is pretty bad. In my first ride I was this close-” You bring up your thumb and pointer finger, the pads barely a millimeter apart. “-to getting run over by a cement truck because the driver ran a red light. He got mad at me too ‘cause I didn’t tip him.”

“Good lord, that is quite the experience...” His brow furrowed slightly. 

“I saw my life go past my eyes.” You say dramatically. “But hey, that’s Boston.” You sigh heavily. “Anyway, how long have you lived in the city?”

“Jus’ a couple of months.” Aha. Just around the time he first started taking the bus... “Yourself?”

“A couple of years. I feel more and more like a true Bostonian every day that passes.” You chuckle. “The plus side though, is that I can show you where all the good food is. I can be your personal tour guide!” It takes a couple of milliseconds for your brain to register what you had just said. “Well, if you’d like that... The offer, uh, stands?” What are you talking about?

“I think I jus’ might take you up on that, if you wouldn’t mind.” This man. Bless this beautiful man. God, that smile. “That bein’ said, I do believe this is my stop.” 

“Already? Time flies when you’re having fun.” You smile.

“Yes it does. It was a pleasure meetin’ you, Mx. (L/N),” He stands up. “And thank you very much for your kindness.” He waves the handwarmer a little. 

“You can call me (Y/N) and you are very welcome.” 

“Then call me Benoit, if you please. Now you have yourself a good day.” He smiles, waves a little, and hurries off the bus. And just like that, your whole year has just been made.

Did you pass your stop a while ago?

Were you smiling like an absolute idiot anyway?

Was your heart running faster than a kitten on parade?

Yes, yes, and yes.

I hope you all like this! I had so much fun writing it and it just flowed out of me. Side note, the title is inspired by Trixie Mattel’s song, Gold. She’s a country singer, but it’s actually good, so check it out! If you have any constructive criticism or requests, please let me know! I am also a big fan of comments - they make my week every time! See you all in the next one! - Simpy

[godofplumsandthunder]

Twisted Fate

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Cancer, both Bucky and reader have cancer, Major Character death, brief hospital terms mainly reffering to cancer treatment. References to amputation.

A/N: This was written for the lovely @eurynome827​ 2k celebration. I got a lovely quote of lyrics from Hadestown, which I wanted to do something that was based off of the musical, but I couldn’t figure anything out. Then I had a big anniversary come up and this was came out instead. It’s very angsty, I cried a lot, and well I hope you like it.

The low, steady hum of the fan fills the awkward silence. The psychiatrist, newly assigned to the case, still doesn’t feel comfortable. “Case number 32557038” was widely known in the health care center. The whispers and rumors floated their way down the hall, past the copy machine, filling the office with this chilling tale. Some regarded it as a terrible series of bad luck, others thought it was an act of some benevolent God, pouring his rage on this poor couple. Dr. Breynord, after reading the notes on the file, Breynord knew that this case was perhaps the worst case of bad luck she ever saw in her career, and, maybe it was her stubbornness or naive belief in medicine, but Dr. Breynord was going to help this poor man get the peace he so desperately needs.

“James,” Dr. Breynord’s voice breaks the silence of the office, “I’ve read what my colleagues had to say about your case, but, I’d like you to tell me what has happened if you feel comfortable.”

Shifting in his seat, James sighs, with a small nod of the head, he starts at the beginning.

Bucky Barnes was used to change. Granted, it was other people’s change, but it was still change nonetheless. The poor folks that sat next to him each clinic visit changed, his caretakers changed, it seemed as if the whole world changed around him, while he was stuck in some perpetual hell. Every day dragged out in the same dull, and nauseating feeling, and at times, Bucky felt he was in an endless loop, forsaken by some deity he didn’t believe in. But, for however long Bucky has left in this fallen and cruel world, he’ll remember when you walked in, shattering the miserable purgatory he was banished to, he’ll always remember the day you changed his life.

It happened during his first transfusion session after his surgery. His arm, still wrapped in bandage, IV tubing leading straight to his heart, pumped his body full of liquids, as he waited for the toxic poison to enter his body. He always found it ironic, the “medicine” that was supposed to save his life, that was too dangerous for the nurses to touch with their bare hands, was willingly flushed into his body. Hair loss, mouth sores, and muscle aches were the better side effects. He can’t help but think about what is coming, especially as he sees his nurse, Thor, come over with the freshly made batch of poison [STRIKE THROUGH], chemotherapy as his doctor would want him to call it. Hanging the bag on his IV pole, Thor looks over at Bucky, giving him the “I’m going to go on a rant about something you should care about” look. 

“Now James, we’re getting a new patient today. It’s their first transfusion. They’re going to be sitting in the pod next to you. I swear to the gods, I best not hear another complaint about your attitude.”

“Me? An attitude? No, I think you got me confused with someone else. I’m the brightest little ball of sunshine here!” Bucky can’t help but chuckle. It’s not his fault he wasn’t a “warrior”, blasting “Fight Song” 24/7, as he sips on a kale smoothie with coffee suppositories shoved up his ass. T

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Barnes,” Thor shakes his head as he cleans up his station, “don’t think I won’t throw your bald ass out of here. That cancer sob story, won’t work on me.” 

Bucky goes back to his phone, already feeling the effects of the chemo. No matter how many anti-nausea meds they fed him, Cisplatin always makes him sick. So, he had the right to act like a grumpy old grandpa. While he scrolls through his social media feed, seeing all the accomplishments, brags, and just shit of his friends, Bucky hears your sniffles, as you make your way down to the end of the Oncology clinic, taking a seat next to Bucky. Even if Thor hadn’t given him the heads up, he would have known you were fresh meat. One infusion, his mom asked him how he could tell. It was easy for Bucky, it all had to do with the eyes. A cancer diagnosis shatters you. It kills all hope, light, and goodness that’s in you. You turn completely numb to the world, to the point where your own wailing and sobs feel muted. Bucky saw all of that in your eyes. Behind the puffy, redness, saw the shards of hope, the fear of the unknown. Before you could reach your seat, you stumble, spilling your possessions that you carried all over the floor. Bucky watches quietly as you quickly pick up your items, collapsing into the chair next to him. 

“Sorry I couldn’t give you a hand, only have the one,” he wiggles his stump, and he's met with silence. Talk about a rough crowd, he thinks, his nephews love his stumpy jokes. “So,” Bucky continues, “what are you in for? I’m a sarcoma, in the arm.” You sniffle as you turn your body to look at this new man.

“Leukemia,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper. It takes a real effort to say it out loud because then it makes all of this real.

“That’s good then,” the “sarcoma” man says to you, and Bucky can see the confusion, and pain on your face.

“How is that good? How is cancer good?”

Using his arm, Bucky points around the room, giving you a tour of the room.

“See him, that’s Riley, he has an inoperable brain tumor. That young kid, with the Switch? His name is Peter, his body is chemo resistant. So yeah, leukemia is good. If you haven’t learned it yet, not all cancers are made equal.”

“Oh,” you barely make out. What were you supposed to say to that? 

=====

Much to Bucky’s surprise, he actually enjoyed having your company. Your treatments lined up and so you both got to know each other well. Bucky enjoyed having someone close to his age that understood his problems. And it also didn’t hurt that you had such a great personality, you got Bucky’s dark humor (and it went without saying that you understood it was his way of coping), and you looked great. Not many people can rock a bald head. And Bucky has seen his fair share, and he can say with confidence, you rocked it. Not covering it up with caps, scarves, or wigs. Because why should you hide away? For the first time since his diagnosis, Bucky had a purpose. So, while his immune system allowed him to leave the house, he picked up a bouquet of fake flowers (neutropenia life, am I right?) and a box of chocolates to take with him to the next transfusion. When he got to the clinic, Bucky was a bit worried to see that you weren’t next to him. Instead, there sat Barb, 75 years old with breast cancer. 

“Oh sweetie, are those for me?” Barb looks at the flowers in Bucky’s hand. 

“No!” He snaps, as closes the curtain that surrounds his chair. He hears some huffs and complaints from Barb, but frankly, he doesn’t give a damn. Bucky only has one thing on his mind: you. 

“Are you alright? You’re not here at Club Med” Bucky texts as quickly as his one hand would let him. Dropping his phone, Bucky stares at it all while the nurses prep him. And because of damn, HIPAA, none of the nurses can tell him where you’re at. Minutes turn into hours, and by the time Bucky’s infusion ends, you still haven’t responded to him or shown up at the clinic. 

“Hope you’re okay. Call or text me. I'm worried” Bucky sighs, realizing how much you made his chemo treatments more bearable. How your laugh could make him forget of the poison he had to take, or how the light in your eyes could make him forget, even just for a bit, how much his arm stump was hurting. You were a drug, more potent than any he’s had before, and Bucky was becoming addicted. He’s picking at the hamburger he got for dinner, not having much of an appetite when his phone goes off. Seeing it’s from you, he rushes to answer. 

“Y/N! I… Where were you? I missed you today. I had to sit by Barb and…” The sounds of your cries cut Bucky off. 

“Are you okay?”

“No, Buck. I… Got some bad news today.” 

“Where are you?” He asks. He knows you’re alone, and speaking from experience, you never want to be alone when you get bad news. He knows from experience.

“Buck…” you sigh, “It’s fine. Really.” 

“Please, Y/N, I know what it’s like to be alone after getting this kind of news. Please, let me be there for you.” Breaking further down into tears, you cry at Bucky’s actions, actions of love. 

“I’ll send you my address,” Bucky gathers the flowers and chocolates as he rushes to your apartment, breaking a few traffic laws to get there faster. When he gets there, the image of you, opening the door, eyes swollen from crying breaks his heart. 

“Oh, Y/N,” Bucky sweeps you into his arm, as he closes the door behind, “tell me what’s going on hun.” 

You both sit on the couch, the bag with the flowers and chocolate lay at your feet, as you stay in Bucky’s embrace. 

“I’m… I’m dying Buck!” You manage to say in-between odds. “Dr. Fair... gave me three months to live. There’s nothing else they can do.” You break down in his arms, that last straw finally breaking, as you tell your newfound best friend, the person you were supposed to beat cancer with. Bucky tries his best to remain strong, to be the rock, the foundation you need, but you’re not the only one that is losing a friend. You sit in each other's embrace, as you mourn. You cry for all the missed opportunities, laughs, and memories that won’t be made. 

“What am I going to do,” you whisper, your voice hoarse from crying. 

Kissing your head, Bucky pulls you in closer, “we, are going to make these three months, the best three months you’ve ever had.”

Bucky lives up to his promise, spending every hour he isn’t in the hospital with you. The time you spent together changed your relationship. Neither had to officially say the words to make your relationship official. It was just you, and Bucky. Holding each other close, as the tempest waged on, trying to beat you into submission. You go on walks in the park, picnics, and one night when you both had the energy, went skinny dipping. Your logic being, what are the cops going to do? Arrest two cancer patients, with one of them being terminal? You threw caution to the wind and simply lived. Lived, breathed, and loved. Things seemed to be perfect until reality hit.

Your body wasn’t keeping up. Your cancer was spreading faster than they predicted. The doctors couldn’t give you an explanation as to why the cancer was spreading so fast. It shouldn’t have been. Soon, home hospice came, to try to make you more comfortable. And like the good partner he was, Bucky spent every minute by your side. That’s why, when you felt the inevitable coming, you felt your body give in to the tiredness of fighting, you grab Bucky’s hand. 

“I love you, James Bucky Barnes,” you weakly say, giving him one last affirmation, as you went to sleep, for one last time. 

As Bucky wakes up from his nap, feeling your cold body, he tries to ruse you back awake. Once he realizes what has happened, the last bit of humanity inside of Bucky snapped. He lets out a blood-curdling scream, as tears stream down his face. He strikes your face, pleas escape his mouth. Pleas to you, to a God he has long stopped believing in. His body shakes, his tears wetting your hair, as he holds you for one last time. 

=====

“Oh James,” Dr. Breynord grabs herself a tissue before handing Bucky the box of tissues. “I truly am so sorry to hear that. I want you to know that I am here to help you get happy again, and to heal.”

Bucky sighs and turns away from the doctor as he wipes his eyes. “You’re just like the rest of them. You didn’t listen to me.” 

Breynord was surprised that this was Bucky’s complaint. The other doctors had warned her that Bucky could be sarcastic, standoff-ish, and even flat-out rude to them. Breynord thought she did a good job listening to his story, what did she miss.

“I… I don’t think I understand what you mean, James.”

Bucky lets out a heartless, empty laugh, “you want me to be happy again. I’m never going to be. Not only do I have to live with the guilt of surviving, when she died, in my arms, but I’ll also never find another soul like hers. We had a connection, you know. It felt like we met before. When I held her in my arm, and her arms would wrap around me, it felt like I had the whole world in my arms. I didn’t need anything else when I had Y/N.” 

“So tell me doc, what’s the point of carrying on?”

[katsuflossy]

Bakugo & Shinsou with a s/o who likes drill & they get hype playing it in the car one day

Drill Listener s/o

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugo x reader, Hitoshi Shinsou x reader

TW: Obscenities, gang stuff (👀 I am not gang related)

A/n: IM HYPE LETS GO IM BNHAINTHEWOO FOR A REASON. Also, requests are open!!

Taglist: @melanimed @iiminibattlehero @photosbyameil @ecao @mypimpademia @plutropica @myhoodacademia @lunabby010 @strawberry-ice @soy-diablito

💥 He actually doesn’t have a problem with drill at all...just how loud you play it (he’s an old man in disguise after all).

💥 That’s what drew him to you. When you used to live in the dorms, it was a regular occurrence of him exiting his room to knock on your door, screaming that you’re playing Bizzy Banks too loud.

💥 You taught the bakusquad how to woo walk. You had to smack Denki thrice for twirling on Fivio’s tracks. Katsuki cussing about how dumb the dance is but when he feeling sturdy, he feeling sturdy.

💥 The only thing he’s really irritated about is yo ass putting up gang signs.

💥 If he sees you greeting anybody outside in the public with some Hats or Woo rep he slapping the fuck out of your hands. He doesn’t know anything about gang sign and language but he’ll be damned if you get in trouble for dumb hand signs.

💥 Anyways you both are on your way to have dinner with his parents.

💥 He’s too busy ranting about what’s going on at work to even notice you got the aux. He starts complaining about the upcoming traffic before hearing through the stereo.

💥 “Then fucking Deku just HAD to give the dumbass board that idea of--”

💥 “ICED OUT AUDEMARS.”

💥 A red stare turned directly to you, who already amped the stereo up to the max.

💥 “Hol on Katsuki babe, lemme pay respects to the big woo.”

💥 The whole car was vibrating from the beat to the point where Katsuki felt it through his seat. You, however, seemed unaffected. One hand on your belt and the other in the air, swerving in the seat as if you’re Pop Smoke himself (rip pop I dead miss him).

💥 Boy thought when the song was done he could finally hear his thoughts but nah.

💥 Bizzy had to play

💥 You didn’t even give him any warning, just jumped out of the passenger seat in jam-packed traffic.

💥 “I told rilla chill can’t move like a rapper cause I’m up in the fields.”

💥 You’re mad hype, woo walking as if you don’t hear Bakugo screaming over the drill.

💥 You’re trapping in the middle of the road before you hear the music shut off.

💥 “Get the fuck back in the car dumbass!”

💥 The radio was off for the rest of the ride.

💥 And your door now has child lock on.

🔮 Vibes with drill heavy.

🔮 The bass just hits different when he smoking.

🔮 Learned all the songs, moves, slang from you.

🔮 Denki stole all his lingo from you.

🔮 “Ayo it’s mad brick outside.

🔮 “Brick means it’s cold, Denki...not hot.”

🔮 Get him loose enough, he may feel sturdy too, even twirl sometimes (again I am not gang-affiliated)

🔮 Now, he was just chilling in the car, scrolling through his phone while you were on the wheel. The playlist shuffling through all your songs on your phone. The vibe was chill, jumping from RnB to Trap without messing up the mood.

🔮 Then Whoopty had to play.

🔮 “Bitch, I’m outside it’s a movie,” Mans started to hold on to the little bar at the top of the car, already knowing how hype you’ll get.

🔮 However, you’re the one driving, or at least were driving until you let go of the steering wheel, hands pumping in the air. You’re belting out every lyric.

🔮 “Smoking the zaza, it goes straight to the māthā. Then I'm uppin' the choppa. I'm hittin' the cha-cha, open his lata, then he dancin' bachata.”

🔮 His grip on the bar could almost break the bar right off, heart hammering straight out of his chest.

🔮 “Ayo, (Y/n)?”

🔮 “Yurr?” Your nerves were numb as he took over your senses with his quirk.

🔮 “Pull over there, safely,” he doesn’t release you until you closed the door on the passenger side, him taking the driver role for the rest of the trip.

🔮 “I love you, babe, but I love my life more.”

🔮 You sat in the passenger seat, jamming to every song while Shinsou drove safely to the next destination.

[pretchatta]

swoon june day 15: masquerade

this wasn't supposed to be one of the mature ones but I think it's ended up being too suggestive to call it teen. oops.

rating: mature; kanan jarrus/hera syndulla; 2.1k words

---

For most beings, traveling inconspicuously meant wearing more clothes. A cloak, a hood or a full-face helmet made for a great disguise and could hide a person such that a casual observer wouldn’t look twice.

For Hera Syndulla, the opposite was true.

A twi'lek pilot was a rare sight in the galaxy. While her usual clothes blended in with most of the places she visited, there were always a few double-takes when people noticed her lekku. No-one expected to see a twi’lek in overalls and flying goggles, especially not a woman.

The result was that, for Hera, the easiest way to avoid attention was to remove clothes.

She would swap her cap and goggles for wrapping her lekku, wear something skimpy and revealing, and smear a bit of makeup over her cheeks. It was perfect – everyone looked right past her.

She hated it.

Her chosen aesthetic for today's recon was bar-dancer-on-a-break. Her skintight bodysuit felt like it was more negative space than material, with its low-cut neckline and several geometric shapes cut out of the sides and legs. The evening air was balmy enough that she didn’t need a jacket, and she felt very exposed. The chunky necklace she had accessorised with felt more like a slave collar than jewellery, and she shuddered as she wondered if that was why the look was so popular.

Hera resented the reason why an outfit like this worked so well. Her people had become almost synonymous with slavery, despite their numerous achievements as individuals and as a species. And yet here she was, donning the stereotype like a costume, reinforcing it to anyone who saw her. She just wanted to finish her recon, get back to the Ghost and take the whole lot off. In a normal way, not putting on a show for anyone.

Well, maybe she'd let Kanan watch. He was the only being in the galaxy she trusted to still see her as a real person afterwards. He would also never ask for it. If she ever did something like that for him, it would be because she wanted to do it, and because she knew he would take only what she was willing to give; he wouldn’t ask for more. A year of being more-than-crew had shown her just how selfless a lover he could be.

She shook her head to clear the train of thought as she approached the spaceport. It only took a few moments for her to realise she'd need to use the other advantage the outfit offered to get inside, for the place was crawling with stormtroopers. There had been a few on the main gate when she and Kanan had left earlier that day, but now she could see them patrolling the perimeter in pairs as well as actively checking the IDs of everyone trying to get in.

Hera sighed. She wanted to believe it had nothing to do with Kanan, but her hopes were not high. He was always finding trouble. Still, if she could get back to the Ghost then even if he wasn't able to meet her she could always fly out to his position and save him from whatever hairy situation he would undoubtedly be in.

She made her way around to one of the lesser-used entrances she'd been scouting on her recon, hoping for an easier way inside, but found it also guarded. The surrounding street was empty, however, and she could work with that.

Hera adjusted her well-padded cleavage in preparation for what she was about to do. Taking a deep breath, she fortified herself by squeezing one breast. The hard press of the small blaster tucked amongst the padding – the real reason she’d sewn extra into the bodysuit – reassured her that at least she wasn’t going in unarmed.

The two troopers standing guard noticed her as soon as she stepped into the road. Exaggerating the sway of her hips as she walked, she drew her lekku over her shoulders to twirl the end of one between her fingers. The troopers watched her approach.

"It is okay to go into the spaceport?" she asked with wide, innocent eyes. Her old Ryl accent came back to her easily, adding to the charade.

"We have to check your ID before you can go in," said the shorter trooper. He stood perfectly straight, holding his blaster a little higher than his fellow guard, who was leaning against the wall somewhat more casually. Hera guessed the one speaking to her was newer to the ranks of the Imperial army, and she hoped he wasn’t still sticking to the regulations so diligently that he would prevent her from doing what she needed to do.

"Oh… I have left my ID at home today,” she pouted, tilting her chin up and subtly pushing her chest forward. “I only want to visit my sister who runs that little food stand just inside for lunch. I won't be going anywhere – I have only ten minutes left of my break.”

The trooper was shaking his head. “We can’t let you in without ID.”

It would’ve been nice if that alone could have worked, but she hadn’t expected it to. She took a half-step closer to him and lowered her voice to a sultry purr.

“There is no way I could persuade you?”

He shifted nervously. “W-what do you mean?” he asked, glancing at his companion. “Like, credits?”

Another half-step closer, and she managed to tilt her head so that she could look up at his visor through her false eyelashes, even though they were a similar height.

“I don’t have any credits, but I’m sure there is something I can do for you,” she murmured. She was exaggerating the accent, rolling each resh and turning every thesh into a senth.

“Uhh… You – you mean…” he stammered. Hera heard a soft snigger from the other guard. Hopefully he would find this amusing enough to let her drag the rookie around the corner. She only needed to separate them; the rest was easy from there.

She cut him off by pointing down the road. “There’s an alley where I can show you what I mean. I think it even has a clean patch of ground that will not get my knees dirty.”

“Your – your knees–”

"Tell you what, kid,” the taller one said, finally pushing himself upright from the wall. “You watch the door and I'll sort out her payment."

That worked too. It didn’t matter which one went with her; stormtroopers were easy to take down individually when they weren’t expecting an attack.

They left the bewildered rookie to his post as Hera led the more seasoned soldier to the alley she’d pointed to. As they rounded the corner and out of sight of the door, she tossed one lek over her shoulder and turned to face him, breathing in deeply so that her chest rose noticeably. Now she knew where his attention would be focused.

Her fist swung up in a quick jab to his neck. She was aiming for the gap between his helmet and shoulder armour, where a hard enough blow should incapacitate him for at least a few seconds. Her other hand went for his blaster to disarm him.

But he was faster than she anticipated. Much faster; it was almost like he was ready for her. One gloved hand caught her fist, stopping it in its tracks, while the other dropped the blaster to the ground completely. Hera immediately twisted out of his grip and pulled out her own gun. She’d hoped to do this quietly, but making a scene was better than getting arrested.

The trooper quickly stepped back and pulled his helmet off.

“Woah, stop, it’s me!”

Hera was momentarily dumbfounded.

“Kanan?”

“Yes! Could you maybe put that down?” He indicated to her blaster, which was still pointed at his head. She dropped her arm to her side.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, dropping her accent to speak like her usual self again.

Kanan looked sheepish. "Well, I was hoping for a-"

"I mean in stormtrooper armour, guarding the spaceport!” she interrupted. “And do you really think I was going to go through with that? I didn’t even know it was you under there!"

“I thought you’d recognise my voice!” he protested.

She looked at him incredulously. “Not coming from under a bucket! And not when I wasn’t expecting it!”

"Okay, yeah, I realise I maybe didn’t think that one through,” he admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck. “But when I heard they’d increased security I was worried about you, so I was keeping an eye out to make sure you could get back to the Ghost. I thought you'd try one of the side entrances and this was the closest one to where you were going to finish your recon."

She opened her mouth to berate him again but realised it was actually a pretty good plan. Not to mention sweet – it couldn’t have been easy to take that guard’s place. He was lucky to have found one with a rookie for a partner. Maybe he hadn’t caused whatever it was that had got the Imperials worked up, either.

“Alright, your thoughtfulness has redeemed you.” She tucked her blaster back into its hiding place, noticing how his eyes followed her hands for a few moments before snapping back to her face when she continued. “Let’s get out of here.”

"You sure you want to go right now? We’re probably not expected back out there for a while yet..."

She could tell he was at least half-joking.

"Really?” She gave him a raised eyebrow. “I was lying about the clean patch of ground, you know. This alley is filthy, and I want to change."

"Okay, okay, I get it." He at least had the decency to look chastened, but she wasn’t really upset with him. She just wanted to go home.

"Just stun your friend and we can get back to the Ghost, love," she said gently.

He gave her a small smile before putting the helmet back on and retrieving his blaster. A few seconds later she heard the stun blast and followed him back to the road, where he was dragging the rookie’s unconscious body away from the entrance to hide it behind some crates.

Inside the spaceport, no-one stopped them. She was just a citizen with an escort, nothing to worry about. The Ghost was exactly as they’d left it this morning, and Chopper only needed a little encouragement to open up and let Kanan in. When the ramp closed behind them, Hera sighed in relief. It was good to be home.

She had to remind traffic control that she would have already had her ID and intent checked at the entrance to the spaceport. They begrudgingly gave her clearance to take off, and she heaved a deeper sigh as the Ghost entered hyperspace. They were away, no-one was watching her now, and she could be herself again. Kanan and Chopper didn’t count; they both saw her for who she was. They were as much her home as the ship.

Beside her, Kanan pushed himself out of the co-pilot’s chair. "I'm going to get out of this armour, then I'll fix that squeaky vent in the ‘fresher that you've been complaining about."

She heard him cross to the door.

"Oh, Kanan, could you hold on a moment?" she called over her shoulder.

He paused with one hand on the door control. "What is it?"

Hera engaged the autopilot and got out of her chair to slink over to him.

"I know I said I wanted to change, but there’s a problem,” she began, stepping close to him and lightly running a finger over his chestplate. “See, there's a stormtrooper guarding the door, and I need to figure out a way to get past him."

She glanced up at Kanan and saw he was grinning. "Maybe you could offer him something," he suggested.

She pushed herself up onto her toes so that their faces were level, her eyes on his mouth.

“I wonder what he might accept,” she whispered, her lips barely an inch from his own.

Then she closed the gap and kissed him with a slow, simmering heat. His arms came up to hold her, one hand stroking along her back. It worked its way around to her side, sliding up until his thumb brushed the side of one breast.

He broke away abruptly with a serious look in his eyes.

“You put the safety on your blaster, right?”

She gave him a sly smile. “Why don’t you check for me?”

His answering grin was accompanied by both hands sliding up her sides, and then he was giving a very thorough and enthusiastic check for hidden weapons.