#lets get to the root of the situation its HIM

[undermattsun]

pls skate ratify stray kids

yeah yeah yeah i hear u (follow @underskz lol)

(this is a draft btw)

[4giorno]

unexpected but callum might be one of my fave book characters Ever

[astralmarionette]

finished rereading and annotating Great Gatsby. Daisy and Tom make me sick /non negative.

[julymusings]

you're good to me, baby

with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet, like the ashes of ash i saw rise in the heat. settle soft and as pure as snow, i fell in love with the fire long ago.

or; because the red hood bleeding onto your living room carpet is exactly what you need right now [3.6k]

Jason Todd x fem!reader; based on this lovely ask; ngl this turned into a personal vent jason doesn't show up until 1k words in LMAO; warning there’s blood (duh) and reader is suggested to have heavy anxiety; pre-established relationship where reader doesn’t know his identity + muzzle red hood bc HOT next: love in withdrawal

Compartmentalize. Create baskets in your mind. Analyze the situation, and drop the corresponding emotion in the appropriate basket.

One: You had a fight with your best friend. She called you selfish because you weren’t enthusiastic about her new relationship. She just can’t seem to understand that no matter how happy you want to be for her, it’s painful to see everyone find safety in another person when you can’t. Every attempt at romance is squashed by something or the other that you keep doing wrong. I thought you were hot, your latest dating attempt had said when you ran into him and asked why he never texted back. But you’re kind of a lot. Not something I have the space for right now, you know?

Two: There’s an important presentation today, one that could determine the fate of your position in the company. Your coworker, the one who’s convinced you stole his promotion (he just flirted with the higher-ups while you actually completed the requirements), refuses to let you forget how much is at stake. All it takes is one misstep, one stutter, one hesitation, and he will take it as an excuse to demand your demotion— or worse, termination. You’ve been preparing for this presentation for three weeks. If after all that effort it’s still not good enough, maybe you should be fired.

The emotions here? Frustration. Anger. Exhaustion. Jealousy. Just to name a few. But there’s no time to dwell on anxieties right now, so you shove those thoughts aside. Drop them in their compartments and move on because, after all, if you can strip them down to their bones and find where they stem, you can yank those anxieties from the ground before they have the chance to root. And then there’s no need for unnecessary heartache, right?

(Who cares if the baskets are overflowing, crumpled fragments spilling over the sides like garbage in a landfill? Who cares if the room of your mind is so packed that you’re pressed against the wall and breathing becomes painful.)

The digital clock beside your bed reads 6:12. The numbers blink in and out of the window, their red dots and dashes taunting your heavy eyelids. You still have forty-eight minutes of peace before it will scare you awake. Its beeping will ring so loud and angry that the adrenaline from the startle will power you through your morning routine, and your beating heart won’t dare still to entertain wishes of just five more minutes. 6:13 now. You have forty-seven more minutes of peace, minutes which should be spent sleeping, giving your poor brain a break from itself. But you can’t. Every time you close your eyes and begin to sink below the level of consciousness, your heart pumps a house-special cocktail of cortisol that laces through your bloodstream and convinces you that if you fall asleep you will miss your presentation and you will get fired. The off-grid escape plan formulating in your head switches from hypothetical to tentative when your neighbors, apparently awoken to lust as well as tired by it, start going at it again. You want nothing more than to bang on their door and scream obscenities until they hate each other enough to never touch again, but you resign yourself to consciousness, giving up on the dream of what would now be forty-four more minutes of sleep. 

It’s Friday morning; only one more day to get through before the sweet release of the weekend finds you. (The whole weekend will be spent contemplating the start of a project, feeling like two days is not nearly long enough to complete anything, and dreading Monday until it finds you with nothing done and the same, endless cycle awaiting.)

After completing your morning routine 44 minutes early, you use the spare time to go through your presentation once more, just for good luck, wrapping up the third run-through just in time to hear your alarm to leave for work.

The presentation goes decent, at least well enough to quell any doubts about your ability to do your job. Your coworker ate his words for sure, and you might have enjoyed the look on his face had you not mentally checked out as soon as you finished your closing remarks. Rush hour traffic has the ice cream tub you bought at the convenience store dripping condensation all over the passenger’s seat and your hips hurt from being in the same sitting position for most of the day, but you remind yourself that peace is only a few miles out. Stopped at yet another red light, your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Breathe in. Breathe out. The line of cars starts to move forward.

When you get home, your frustration is close to boiling over. You kick off your shoes right at the door, your keys and bag following close behind.

Far be it from you to break down on the floor in the middle of the room, the plan begins to formulate. There’s a box of tissues on your desk– that can go on the nightstand, along with two of the chilled water bottles you keep in the fridge for after you work out. And you’ll need something for the tissues, right? The small wastebasket from the bathroom should be fine. You drag it over to the side of your bed, sitting in your usual spot to make sure you placed it at a reachable distance. You won’t want to get out of bed to wash your face after this, so a washcloth should go next to the tissues. And an extra one, just to be safe.

You keep a set of comfortable clothes ready, the nicest, softest pajamas you own that you only wear after an everything shower. This shower, however, is a quick one, not much more than a few minutes under scalding water to comfort you, if nothing else. The light pink pajamas are a high-quality cotton and you feel like you’re in the clouds when you slip into them. Remaining is the ice cream, which you set out on the counter right before your shower so it would thaw just enough to be soft but not melted, With everything in your room ready, you go to retrieve the ice cream but stop with a startle when you round the corner.

“Jesus,” you mumble.

He’s just sitting there, doing nothing except bleeding out on your cream-colored carpet. He’s spread out on the couch like he owns the place, head leaned back against the wall as he lets his injured arm hang over the armrest and drip blood and dirt onto your cream-colored rug. The liquid seeps into the expensive wool, staining it with reddish-brown hues and the scent of iron, and he doesn’t even notice.

“Hey.” The Red Hood lifts his head when he sees you.

On any other day, you’d be quick to action, hauling him up off the couch and sprinting for the first aid kit under the bathroom sink. Today, your arms are too heavy and your gaze remains rooted on the widening splotch of red against white. Your throat feels dry. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.”

He peers over the armrest. “Oh, shit,” he curses, lifting his arm to hover it over his lap. He sounds robotic through his muzzle mask. His hood, pulled down to reveal his thick black hair curling at the ends from humidity and sweat, rests on his back.

I don’t have time for this, is what you want to say. You want to scream it in his face and kick him out for having the audacity to think he can come and go as he pleases, that you’re nothing more than a drive-through emergency room who will drop everything if he gets so much as a paper cut. But you can’t say any of this, and you do want him to come to you whenever he needs help. God knows he won’t go anywhere else.

Holding back your heavy sigh, you wordlessly walk to the bathroom. He takes that as an invitation to follow. 

It’s clinical. Rehearsed. Neither of you speak. It’s a partnered dance long since committed to muscle memory, steps you can take in your sleep. He knows to seat himself on the step stool you got just for him, for nights like these. He knows where to find the first aid kit and which supplies to hand you first. You know the exact steps to follow. Check the palms for abrasions. Antiseptic to the lacerations. Concussion exam. 

Maybe he can sense the air of tension surrounding you, because he doesn’t say as much as he usually does (though, granted, it’s still not much). It’s a reflection of your dynamic several months earlier when this arrangement began, back before you’d managed to chip away at the surface of his rough exterior. You notice the way his fingers curl against his thighs when you, somewhat carelessly, wipe the dirt from his skin with more pressure than necessary and the way his eyebrows tilt inward when you work slower than usual. You notice, but you ignore it.

We both know you have at least a dozen people who could do this for you. The words echo in your mind. Don’t act like I owe you this. If anything, you owe me a new carpet. These are things you wish you could say, but never will. Being realistic, you’ll probably never be able to say things like this. You’ll be subjected to all the shitty coworkers and unsympathetic friends and exploitative vigilantes of the world for the rest of your life.

This isn’t his fault, you remind yourself, but still, your lips turn down and your jaw feels tight with the effort to keep your face still, to not burst into tears right on the spot. In the second it takes for you to calm yourself, your hands pause. He notices. He says nothing. 

It’s not until you’re finished with cleaning the blood from his arm wound and giving him a wad of gauze to hold against it that he tests the waters and asks, “Is it too bad?” 

He sounds automated, but over the last few months, you’ve learned a thing or two about reading even these robotic actions. There's a certain quietness to the beginning of his sentence like he’s debating if he should say it or not. 

“It’s fine,” you say, shortly. 

“Sorry about your rug,” he says. He tugs at the strap of his muzzle with one finger, rubbing at the skin underneath the leather. “I can get the stain out.”

You retrieve the needle and thread from the kit and don’t respond. You don’t even look at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, he continues. “It’s easy. You just need salt and—”

“Okay.”

He goes quiet.

You don’t mean to be so tetchy, but you don’t have the energy for anything more. Every little thing has you feeling on the edge of shattering. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

It’s when you’re kneeled at his side, staring into the gaping wound on his bicep and trying to thread the needle, fingers trembling from the chill of the tiled floor with nothing but a layer of thin cotton to keep you warm, that it happens. He shifts on the stool, a mere twitch in an attempt to get comfortable, but it brushes his bloody arm against yours. Flecks of fresh red on the light pink fabric. First your carpet, now your pajamas. Your favorite, special, extra soft matching cotton pajama set, a rare splurge after your promotion that stood out among old t-shirts and sweat shorts. Ruined. Again, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did I say something?” Hood asks. He waits for your response, but when none comes, he adds, “I’m sorry if I did.” He speaks so quietly you may not have been able to separate his words from the whirring filter of his mask, if not for the chilling silence of the bathroom floor. The insulating brick walls of your old apartment building are something you’re usually grateful for, but tonight you find yourself wishing for the city’s commotion to seep through the walls. Something, anything to buffer his proximity to you.

You hear his inhale as he prepares to say something else.

“Can you just let me work?” You snap before he has the chance to speak again. It’s loud, louder than you’d ever dream of speaking to him, and he flinches. Your eyes shut in apology, but only for a moment before you get back to it. He looks away. His feet point towards the door.

He wants to leave, you can tell, and you don’t blame him. You just messed everything up. But you started this, so now you have to finish it.

You sit in silence for the several minutes it takes for you to clean his wound and stop the bleeding.

He’s not looking at you, gaze transfixed ahead of him on a chip in the paint. At least, you assume. It’s difficult to guess what’s going on behind the milky white covering over his eyes. His subtle body language can be read if you pay close enough attention, you’ve learned, but that’s not something you care to do right now.

(Maybe you noticed in the back of your mind that he’s not exhibiting any body language since you snapped at him, but the compartment in your head for guilt is already overflowing, so maybe you didn’t notice it, you tell yourself.)

You stare at your sleeve, at the patches of blood blooming like ink blots. The red and pink hues blend together behind your blurring vision. You sniffle.

“Are you—” Hood starts. Because now he’s looking at you.

“Excuse me,” you say, pushing yourself off the ground and stumbling out of the room without so much as a glance back at him. You stagger into your room, needle and thread still in hand, and push the door closed. The lights are off, and the darkness is calming, quieting your buzzing thoughts. You close your eyes and lean against the door. Breathe in. Breathe out. You continue this exercise, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth to soothe your sympathetic nervous system, the same way a therapist instructed that one time you went. You wipe away the moisture that has collected in your eyes, roll out your stiff neck, dry your sweaty palms over your thighs. You toss the needle and thread aside, because they are definitely not sterile anymore, and take a few more breaths before opening the door and going back to the bathroom.

You avoid his face, following the lines of grimy grout between the tiles before resuming to your spot at his side. His inspecting eyes burn on the side of your face. You wipe down the forceps with a sterilizing wipe and rip open the plastic packaging for a new needle, holding it up to the wound, but your hand refuses to steady.

Another deep breath. Then another.

Hood sighs. It’s almost chastising. “I think I should go.”

“What?” You’re just surprised enough to be torn away from your thoughts and look him in the eye (mask) for the first time all night.

“You can’t do this,” he says, gruffly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll let you figure it out.”

You scoff. “Yes, I can. I’m fine.”

Before he can argue, you grab him by the wrist to hold him in place just as he starts moving to get up. He winces, but you keep your grip tight on him. You can feel his scrutiny through the cold, expressionless barrier of his disguise, practically track his pupils as they search your face.

You both pretend he couldn’t break from your hold in an instant if he wanted to.

“You’re shaking,” Hood says. His voice is much softer now.

You follow the turn of his head to your hand where it hovers the needle right over his skin. You are shaking. Trembling, in fact.

“No, I’m not.” It comes out as an empty whisper.

You focus all your strength on steadying yourself, but the harder you try to stabilize, the harder you tremor. Your other hand releases his wrist to clamp over your dominant hand and force it to stay in place. It guides the needle closer to the skin, but now your vision is blurring. You blink rapidly, but it’s not enough. The tears start falling. You look away from him, but a warm hand settles over yours. You don’t dare look at him, unable to bear showing him your shameful face, wet and blushing and screwed up in misery. You turn your face into your sleeve. Clamp your eyes shut tight, thinking maybe if you keep them closed, this darkness will swallow you up and he won’t be here anymore.

But the warmth of his skin on yours is the first feeling of softness, of relief you’ve felt in months, and then it’s gone. Your shoulders are shaking, quaking with the effort to keep your sobs quiet.

One finger ever so gently hooks around your chin, pulling it back up to face him. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see him see you like this, but the tears are still streaming. He brushes them away. Whether that makes it better or worse, you can’t be sure, because you cry even harder, snatching your face away from his grasp to muffle your sobs into the back of your hand. You don’t realize he’s pushed himself off his stool to sit cross-legged on the floor until you feel his hand circling your arm and pulling you closer. The tools in your hand clatter on the floor as your palms come up to press against his chest, fighting against him with half-hearted protests murmured through your cries. But even with only one good arm he’s too strong for you, and you’re pulled into him.

He’s so gentle with you, rubbing your back and resting his chin atop your head while you cry and cry and cry into his shirt. Several minutes pass like this, with your face buried in his chest and his good arm holding you tightly against him while the other dangles lamely at his side, throbbing with an intensity he’s trying to ignore.

When your sobs die down, and you’re sure you’re all cried out, you linger against him. He smells like smoke and gasoline, and his shirt is soft and warm from his body heat seeping through. His hand continues to stroke up and down the length of your back, even after you’ve quieted. The edge of his mask digs into your scalp where his chin sits, but it feels worth it. Your hands, still pressed to his chest, slide higher, completely of their own volition, out of a newfound desire to wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t hear it, but you can feel his sharp draw of breath, his chest rising quickly under your touch. Your hands lose their nerve at his clavicle as you hold your breath for fear of the smallest movement drawing attention to your forwardness. You wait for him to rebuff you, to lean away from your touch, or grab your wrists and pry them off. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. His chest finally falls.

Eyes opening, your thumb swipes over the edge of the red bat symbol just below his collarbone.

His movements pause, lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt for just a moment, before releasing it. “It’s alright,” he tells you.

You pull back from his chest to look at him, the way his cold and unfeeling expression stares back at you. You wonder from time to time what’s under the mask, but tonight the desire is overwhelming; you ache with the want to know what he looks like. The color of his eyes. What his mouth looks like when he winces over a deep cut or chuckles at one of your anecdotes. You wonder if his lips are soft or chapped. If he’d like it if you dragged your thumb across the bottom one.

The metallic odor spreading through the room brings you back to the present, and you hope the flush from your tears hides your cheeks’ growing heat when you realize where your mind had wandered. 

“Oh, fuck, your arm.” You speak in a watery voice, wiping at your face as the urgency returns to your senses. Though you try to move away, his firm hand on your back pulls you back in.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” He says, resuming his caresses up and down your back. “I can take care of it.”

“Then why do you even need me?” You sniffle with a small smile.

He stays silent. But when you search his face, waiting for an answer, his hand moves to your side, palm sliding a fraction of an inch closer to your waist and fingers tensing, you can almost see through the mechanical muzzle to the way his lips shape the words. At least, he wishes you could.

You know why.

this was lots of fun to write and thank u for your patience ik i said i was gonna "knock this out in a day" 2 weeks ago😬😬 also we're gonna pretend they aren't just letting his open wound marinate for half an hour when it should be getting stitched up bc it's fiction ok? everyone say thank you mostly-imagines for proofreading this😚

but anyway happy new year!! it's been barely 2 months but starting this account made my year so much better🫶🫶🫶and ty for 500 followers that's crazy🫣🫢

listen to the inspo song!!!

[lay-z]

cotton candy clouds | 2

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samojede (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts and personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

“Fuckin’ hell…” Simon mutters under his breath, face twisting into a deeper frown as both exhaustion and annoyance settle in; etching into his features behind the itchy, damp cloth still covering his face. 

Another giggle bubbles up in your throat, resounds freely around the room as you keep beaming at him from your spot on his couch, though no matter how melodic it sounds, Simon can merely feel his stomach churn and his skin crawl. “Wowee, you sure do cuss a lot, Simon!” 

“Stop calling me that.” Simon deadpans. 

And the curses keep burning and festering on the tip of his tongue, some directed at himself self-deprecatingly, as he simply decides to ignore the stray currently taking up residence in his sacred space. He swallows those insults down. His wet boots squeak on the floor as he turns on his heels and marches towards his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it with finality like some pouty teenager. 

The mask comes off swiftly; uncaring of the sharp pain as he tugs at his own hair harshly, pulling out a few damp, dirty blonde hairs by the roots from his scalp before he tosses the mask onto his neatly made bed, and Simon takes a deep breath. 

He discards his BDU’s methodically, throws his dirty clothes into the old laundry hamper in the corner of the manageable bathroom, and takes a quick shower despite his aching muscles and bones screaming at him for more warmth from the hot water. And even after his quick wash, Simon cannot find it in himself to relax, not when he’s all too aware of the strange intruder currently occupying his living room. 

In spite of the hole in his stomach, the angry grumbling vibrating from its empty pit all up to his chest, Simon goes to bed hungry, though it’s nothing he’s unfamiliar with from his past; he simply refuses to deal with you and he’ll try his damn best to keep the contact to the barest minimum until he’s forced to face you again in the morning to take you back to Price’s office–to let the old geezer sort this messy situation. 

Now Simon lies on his knackered mattress at barely 0830 p.m., stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling in utter darkness; ears strained to pick up every little sound you might be making. For a moment, he wonders if you’re snooping around through his stuff, even though he doesn’t really own many personal belongings or sentimental keepsakes. You certainly don’t give off any of those threatening vibes he can easily pick up on with new people; he simply thinks you too daft to be deceiving. 

As thick as two short planks, Simon muses to himself, snorting softly with a straight face. With your bloody tail and stupid dog ears; way too soft and defenceless, dependant on some stranger to be your bloody handler as if you’re not a grown, capable woman yourself– 

His thoughts get disturbed by a sound he hasn’t heard in a long, a very long time. It’s almost too subtle at first, but it still makes him jerk up in his creaky single bed, causing the prickly military-issued blanket to slip off his bare chest and pool around his hips. Simon hates how his heartrate increases slowly and despises the myriads of emotions crashing over him like a tsunami wave. 

And then he hears it again–a steady, high-pitched yet soft noise; alternating between pathetic whinging and gut-wrenching squeaks. 

Simon tries to ignore it for another moment, closing his eyes to will himself to sleep when it seems you’ve given up, until you pick up right where you’ve left off. 

Heaving his massive body out of his bed nearly silently despite the creaking bedframe and the soft groan escaping his throat, he puts on a pair of tattered sweatpants, its waistband hanging baggy and low on his hips from years of wear, and pairs it with an old Army shirt before leaving the safety of his bedroom begrudgingly to sneak back into the living room. 

There is no need to hide his face from someone who has no common sense to even care about his identity, so he doesn't bother to put his mask back on. 

As Simon walks down the short hallway from his bedroom to the open living room, he notices the change of scent as he keeps approaching with caution. It’s sweet, but not too overwhelming. Flowery and fresh, like chamomile and daisies drenched in honeydew, and it gets stuck on the back of his tongue as he can’t stop himself from inhaling deeply.  

The whining stops as soon as he switches the light back on, tawny brown eyes zeroing in on the spot on his couch where you’d arranged the few cushions into a meagre nest, and when your head pops up from within your little den, blinking at him with twitchy ears and wide eyes, Simon gets triggered and thrown back in time in a way that has his breath stutter momentarily and his chest ache as if hit with a sledgehammer. 

A memory of his late mother flashes in front of his inner eyes; lithe body curled up in a makeshift nest to keep her own cubs safe inside a cold apartment in one of the worse corners of Manchester. But it’s gone in a blink and slips back into the dark, rotten corners of his mind before he can begin to process it properly. 

He hasn't thought about her in too long, and the realization makes the shame even worse as it lodges itself in his throat, choking him slowly but surely. 

“Hello,” you chirp suddenly, pulling him back to here and now, and Simon notices the huskiness to your voice from crying out so much. “Oh! Your mask is gone,” you remark with fluttering lashes and a soft chuckle. “You’re so handsome, Simon–” 

Simon huffs. “O’right, stop,” he grumbles before rubbing a calloused hand over his face, scratching his stubble as he feels an unfamiliar heat rise in his pale cheeks. “Whaddaya doin’? Why are you whinging like some bloody puppy?” 

Your ears flatten, nearly disappear under your hair as you avert your eyes from him, and Simon catches himself wondering briefly how you make those cotton balls hide so easily before he hears you answer ruefully: “I'm scared. I don't like sleeping alone in the dark.” 

Ah, shite.  

Simon stares at you for a moment, unblinking and unmoving; shoulders barely rising with shallow breath.  

“Then sleep with the bloody lights on,” he counters eventually. “I don’t give a shite. I'm no' the one payin' for the fuckin' power bill.” 

The pout on your face makes his nose wrinkle in anger, and he hates that he didn't put on his mask, that he's giving you the privilege to judge his facial expression. He tries to reign them back in, keep his ugly mug more neutral. 

“Can I... sleep with you in your bed?” 

You actually manage to throw him off balance with that. His heart skips a violent beat at your innocent question and casual tone, like you're some damn child scared of the dark, but you're not. You're a grown woman asking to share a bed with a stranger, with Ghost of all people! Don't you know who he is? Did nobody bother tell you or are you really that foolish to care? 

“No.” Simon nearly growls at you, trembling hands balling into fists at his sides to keep himself from ripping his own hair out in frustration. He wants to say more, wants to lecture you, get some sense into your idiot hybrid-brain, but he only manages a curt answer. No.  

Your face drops even more, a soft keening whine reaching his trained ears before you swallow it down with great effort as Simon notices the way your delicate throat bobs. The sound brings back more memories of his mother, and pity along with it. For you, for him, for her. He doesn't quite understand the sentiment and he adds it to the list of things he hates, because he can't control anything he’s feeling right now, because you keep confronting him with it unwittingly. 

What Simon does remember is the way his mother had always found comfort in his father's scent. No matter how much of an abusive prick he was towards her, or her children. The memory makes bile rise in his throat and he swallows it quickly. 

“Here,” he gruffs eventually, reaching for the hem of his worn shirt and pulling it off in one smooth motion; uncaring of the way it leaves his broad, scarred torso bare in front of you. “You can have this, but no more whinging, lass.”  

Pity. It’s pity making him do this, he assures himself; something else he hasn’t felt in a bloody long time. A feeling right up there with mercy. It’s what makes him do it, despite knowing that you shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t need this from him. He isn't your handler, definitely not your friend. Simon is a stranger to you as much as you are to him, and yet– 

The fabric is thrown at your head with unmatched precision, hanging in front of your face for a moment, surprisingly soft and drenched in his heavenly, musky scent, before you slowly pull it off, tail finally wagging and thumping dully against the couch. But when your eyes uncover and you blink to clear your vision, the spot where Simon was standing previously is empty; leaving you lonely, sad and cold once more. 

As Simon slips back into his own bedroom, silent as ever, his jaw clenches tightly when he hears how the soft thudding of your tail stops at once before his door clicks shut behind him, and one thing becomes even more clear to him– 

He needs you gone. 

@lucienofthelakes @kakashiislut @jggykhug09090 @edgarapoecolouredglasses

[daisybvck]

thinking abt prof!Bucky eating you out in his little office...

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warning: 18+ (MDNI), smut

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

you had been on his mind for the whole entire day, the hunger inside him so irritating that he had no other chance to break your little rule of not doing anything in public.

now down on his knees and between your thighs, he’s messy being and he’s being sloppy – he’s got your slick running down his chin as he fucks you with his tongue, and his glasses keep fogging up from the way he keeps burying his face into your warm cunt. he’s like a starved beast, devouring you as if you’re the last meal he’ll ever get to eat. 

with your free hand, you tug at his roots and it only makes things worse for you because the action makes bucky groan into you and the vibrations that sends all over your body are so intense that your eyes go cross. 

voices coming from the hallway fall deaf to your ears, your mind solely set on your sweet professor’s tongue. he moves his whole head, not just the muscle, and soon enough you’re guiding him just the way you like with the hand in his hair.

you can’t keep your hips still either, grinding into him every time you push him against you. and he lets you do it. he lets you do it all. 

Bucky isn’t ashamed to get on his knees, nor is he ashamed to let you use him for your own pleasure – despite the fact that it was his aching cock that got the two of you into his situation, he’s more than willing to forget about his own needs as long as he knows that you’re feeling good. 

he loves the way your brows furrow and he loves the way your chest rises and falls. he loves to watch beads of sweat form on your forehead and he loves to watch you try and muffle your moans. he loves the way your body keeps on twitching and he loves the way you keep clenching around him. and he fucking loves the way you taste.

his cock throbs under the layers of clothing, just begging to be set free but Bucky refuses to take his hands off of you.

he’d rather suffer from actual blue balls than to give you any less attention than you deserve. his boxers are ruined with his pre-cum, his balls full and heavy, as he gets off on the mere sight of you. he reckons he’s never been this fucking hard before, better yet this close to cumming untouched, and he’s sure you’ve actually bewitched him. not that he’s complaining though. 

you make him feel alive.

hell, he'd go to fucking war for your pretty little smile. when you give his roots a particularly rough tug, he knows you're close. so, he lets go of one of your thighs and brings it to your pussy instead; latching his lips around your sensitive clit, he sucks on the nub while lining up his two digits with your weeping hole.

the face you make when he pushes them in is fucking priceless - your lips part in a silent moan, your eyes screwing themselves shut as you approach your high.

using his middle and ring finger, the professor makes a wave-like motion inside you and suddenly there's a weird type of pressure building inside you, making your eyes shoot wide open again.

"ah! fuck- wait!" your broken whines are like music to his ears. "gonna- gonna make a mess!"

you paw at his head in a weak attempt of making him back away but to no avail, if anything he presses himself even closer - his fingers are so deep that they're touching places you didn't even know about and his lips are so soft and his tongue so warm and skilled and the band in your tummy gets tighter and tighter with every passing second.

Bucky takes his mouth off of you for only a fraction of a second. "make a mess then, doll, c'mon."

your glassy eyes meet his dark, lust-filled green ones and the determination pooling in them is the last push you need to finally unravel. your back arches off the chair and you can't hold back the loud moan that forces its way out from the depths of your lungs.

Bucky’s shirt gets completely soaked when you squirt all over him but he doesn't stop. the liquid seeps through the flimsy material and he can feel it on his skin, and fuck, is it hot.

a tear runs over the apple of your cheek and Bucky itches to kiss it away. your lip wobbles as you writhe in utter bliss, mind all hazy from the overstimulation.

as the wave of pleasure flows through you, the exhaustion finally settles in, making you drop your hand from his hair.

but before it can go any further, Bucky takes it into his. with his arm still under your thigh, he just presses it into your side and just keeps it there.

he helps you ride out your orgasm and the thought of not stopping, of going further, floods his brain - he wants to make you do that again, he wants you to make an even bigger mess but the clock on the wall behind you is clicking awfully close to his next class and he can't put either of you at any more risk.

hesitantly, he pulls his fingers out of you and tears his eyes from you to look at your abused hole. he groans at the sight of it and then he's already leaning forward to get one final taste. swallowing a whimper, you do your utmost best to stay still and to let him have his little reward.

he pushes himself off the ground, grinning from ear-to-ear with pride blooming in his chest as he looks at your disheveled form. biting your lip, you reach for him but are barely able to ghost your fingers over his bulge when he's stopping you.

"no, but...?"

Bucky’s lips smash against yours in a sloppy, haste kiss. and then he's pulling away again.

"Y'gonna suck me off while i give class, hm?" he teases while brushing some damp stray hairs from your forehead.

"i would."

Bucky’s heart stutters - no, it fucking stops working for a few good seconds. he stares at you with his lips parted and you get to watch in real time how the tips of his ears grow red again.

"don't- don't fuckin' say that." he grumbles at you, averting his gaze. "shit."

you laugh at his reaction but don't let him go away too far, tugging on his belt loops to bring him back. "yours or mine, professor?"

"mine, hm? i'll make ya something to eat."

cocking a brow you tease him a bit more, unable to let any of the opportunities go to waste. "like real food or...?"

he gives you a real professor-like look and you boop his nose. he lets you do as you wish but then he's wrapping his fingers around your wrist. "real food."

"okay."

"yeah?"

"yeah."

there's a moment of silence between you. the most comfortable kind. neither of you look away from each other's eyes, smitten and a bit giddy. excited.

"go change your shirt now, mister."

you poke a finger at his chest and almost cringe at the big wet stain you've given him. "wait, do you just have a change of clothes here with you?"

"no."

you cock a brow. "no?"

"Tony- i mean, mr. Stark, will bring me something."

"what the hell will you even tell him?"

"spilled my water." Bucky’s voice is calm as ever, deep and raspy, and all you want to do now after he's been so good to you, is to cuddle with him. "don't worry about it, doll, yeah?*

with a nod and a quiet hum, you comply. he leans to give you another kiss and an ass squeeze and then he's bidding you goodbye with a smug grin as you straighten out your clothes and collect your belongings before making your way out of his office.

you give him one last wave and disappear into the hallway, leaving Bucky standing there with a raging boner and a squirt-stained shirt.

he is not complaining.

[neodazed]

enhypen -🎀- when reader has an oral fixation

clarification: author and, considering that, obviously Y/N ARE ADULTS. when reading the tags and the fics, take the emphasis on the word PLAY exactly as it is. i do not support pedophilia in any form.

ot7xfem!reader - when reader has an oral fixation

warnings: oral fixation, rough oral (m), finger fu<king (mouth and v), 34+35, slight age-play or sick(?)-play, mild daddy kink(yes its jay), heeseung is a little weird, jake is very eager, mean sunghoon, cocky riki, mdni

HEESEUNG

Heeseung notices and sees it just like how he always notices and sees all of you.

Notices the way you always just need to have something in your mouth. The aggressive nibbling on your poor nails and fingers, your drawer being stuffed full of gum, how your mouth never seems to be comfortable unless it’s full. How your teeth is all gummy and itching, how your jaw gets tired and slack from all the movements, aching for the tiniest bit of friction.

It’s never you who asks for help.

He is looking out constantly, like you have a chronic illness he needs to keep in check.

“Does my baby’s teeth hurt?” You shake your head, and try to explain that no, it’s just this weird feeling…but he is already pushing two of his digits past your lips, to examine your roots for himself. You shut up immediatelly, and let him carve out his own pattern across the inside.

Once he is sure he is capable of making it easier for you, he makes it his daily task.

Your fingers, gums, lollipops? Out of the fucking window. His tongue, fingers, and cock? All fucking in and out of your mouth.

He puts his cock between your lips, pushes it to the back of your throat. And what amuses, sometimes scares you is that he never starts fucking your face unless you ask. He does it just to ‘help’ you more than to pleasure himself.

You’d be watching a movie, your head resting in his lap, suckling on your thumb, and he’d take it out without a word, and replace it with his member. He doesn’t thrust up, doesn’t push your head even when you suck on it or lick around the head, your saliva covering him full.

“It’s better, right? I always know how to soothe your little mouth, don’t I?”

“My poor girl just needs my dick to suck on, right? “

“Don’t worry, I’ll make the pain go away. Just be a good girl and take the medicine”

“Don’t try to soothe it with anything else. I know what’s good for your little mouth the best”

“Swallow it, don’t let a drop go to waste…I’ll give it to you until you’re settled.”

JAY

You tell Jay about your oral fixation after you move in together - it’s impossible to keep it to yourself, anyway. Not that he doesn’t enjoy the sight of you stuffing your face full of your fingers, all while already having a lolly in your mouth, drooling like a helpless puppy - he just can’t help but look for better solutions in his head.

He kisses you with fevor, not phased by the way you try rentlessly to keep his tongue in your mouth. He doesn’t flinch when you get lost in the satisfiction and almost bite it off as your teeth grazes againts it. His grip on your jaw is incredibly tight, and he takes all of this as an opportunity to suffocate you in all the ways he can.

“Daddy might go a little too hard, but it’s only to make you feel better”

Is what he would say before fisting a handful of your hair, and pushing your head down onto his dick. You can’t even say he’s being selfish or taking advantage of the situation - you are addicted.

To the way you don’t have to do anything to feel the dazing, comforting fullness, just lie on your side on the bed, and have it handed to you by Jay. Your mouth is watering, stretching, aching, and it’s perfect. And knowing that while doing such a blessing to you, he also enjoys himself at the same time is just the cherry on top.

You’d reach your hand down, slipping your finger inside your panties to circle around your clit, but he pushes it away gently, and sinks in his, deep.

“Shh, you don’t have to. Daddy’s gonna stuff all your needy holes”

JAKE

Having an oral fixation at your grown age - you are fucked.

Having a constantly horny boyfriend who also has an oral fixation - double fucked.

And it’s kinda cute at the beginning, how he is so excited upon realizing they share the same odd, and can help each other with it, too.

You overlooked the fact that Jake can never be normal about his quirks though, and he’d be equally addicted to fix yours and his. Both at the same time, if possible. That’s why 69 has became one of his favorite positions.

Like, he’d already be in fucking heaven, lapping at your soaked cunt, your clit bumping against his nose again and again, blocking his source of air, suffocating him in your sweet juice and musky scent - and then you’d freaking start to suck his soul out through his dick. That’s how he wants to see the light approach him, he thinks: face enveloped by your pussy, cock buried down your throat.

He wants both, all the time, no exaggeration. He never says no when you ask, but it’s never enough for him either. “Of course you can suck it, baby. Swallow, lick, spit, nibble, bite, I don’t give a fuck.”

“You want it now? Just tell me and I’ll get it out”

“You don’t have to do anything, just keep it in your mouth and sit on my face.”

“Come on, please! One more, and we can sleep. I know you feel empty.”

SUNGHOON

It pisses him off so fucking much it’s crazy.

Every filthy sound you make…

Sucking on those raspberry flavoured lollies you have stacked his drawers full off. Swirling your tongue around all freaking five of your fingers that you decide to stuff your face with on any random occassion. Eating any…ideally shaped food like you wanted to choke on it. And you did it like it was the most normal habit on the earth.

While watching a movie, falling asleep, brushing your teeth…

When he is trying to get work done, and you not only seat yourself on his lap but also nibble on anything you can find like a starved whore.

He’d take a hold of the candy, and push it to the back of your throat - since you’re so fucking desperate.

“Is this fixing enough?” He asks as he forces three of his fingers into your mouth, not giving you a chance to answer verbally or phsycally, holding you tight in his lap.

You’d whimper, clenching your thighs together, cause it hurts. Cause it hurts so good you could cum just from that alone. And that would make him only push further, use both of his hands. Each on your warm, empty holes.

He makes you kneel, and grabs a great fistful of your hair. You want to suck in the head of his hardness, rub it across the roof of your mouth, lick it until you’re drooling to the base.

And he does the opposite.

He keeps your head still, buries himself to the hilt over and over again, till you are droolling, drowning, dretched. It’s not to help you - It’s to shut you up.

“All that in your mouth and you’re still whining like a little girl who didn’t get enough candy?”

“A-a. Graze me one more time and my cum won’t be the thing you’ll choke on”

“Fuck, just like that. Suck it like the dumb little thing you are.”

“If you don’t stop slurping after this, you’ll have to sleep with it in your throat, I swear-“

SUNOO

Just like in any other situation, Sunoo is a fucking tease.

You could literally say ‘let me suck on your dick’, and he would still keep you on edge, offering other, dumb solutions that could ‘help’.

“I can take you to the dentist, maybe it’s your wisdom tooth”

Or

“Wanna get a chew toy? I won’t tell it’s for you, don’t worry”

At first, you huff and flush in anger and embarassment, and punch him on the shoulder. He let’s himself be entertained by it for some time, before finally giving in. Somewhat.

He holds your hair, tightly, and keeps your mouth at a ‘reasonable’ distance. Orders you to keep your mouth wide open, and your tongue rolled out.

He’d place his warm, heavy length on the dry muscle you’ve presented to him eagerly. Rubs against it lazily, sometimes slides in deeper to have a little moment with your throat, resulting in a hiss from him and a gag from you. When he wants to be a little mean, he leaves your mouth completely, and shoves a single finger inside for you to lap at, all underwhelming and empty all of a sudden. There is no in between, he switches between these.

“Aw, don’t cry, babe. I’ll put it back”

“You almost bite it off there! Pull your fangs back”

“That’s it, babe. Suck me dry”

JUNGWON

Jungwon is still a little shy when it comes to trying new things in bed, or in general even.

So when you ask if he could put his entire fist in your mouth and fuck it, his body and brain goes still for a good five minutes.

“Like…my whole hand?” He blinks confusedly, tracing your thighs gently as you straddle him.

“Yes, Won. Can you?” You flatter your eyelashes at him, a slight pout painted on on your lips.

How could he say no to that?

He inserts his fingers slowly, one by one, not wanting to hurt you nor with or without intent. He is very careful with them, with you. He doesn’t push them all the way in, but does his best to rub at the places that seems to soothe you, judging by the way it drawns out a dazed sigh from between your lips every time. While doing so, you grind your pelvis against his, the thin layers of panties and boxers giving just enough stimulation to the intimate moment.

He accidentally goes deeper, and you gag, your mouth finally full, so good your pussy clenches around nothing, wishing it could suck him in without any annoying latex in the way. His face flushes in shame, and he hurriedly tries to stop, but you grab his wrist in a dead grip, keeping him right where you so desperately need it.

“Oh, okay. I don’t want to hurt you but if you like i-“

A groan escaping him at the feeling of your soaked cunt pressing against him. Your underwear is wet, his briefs are wet, your saliva is dripping down onto his hand and sliding down onto the mess you’ve made in your laps.

And both of you finish just from that.

“Next time you’ll fuck my mouth” You whisper into his ears, and his gaze darkens from bewilderment and desire.

You’re definietly in for a ride.

RIKI

Don’t get him wrong — he’d never in a million years would complain about anything remotely close to this, but as your realitionship with him gets serious, it’s hard not to catch on to the fact that you’re highkey addicted to sucking his dick.

That’s what it looks like to him, to put it bluntly.

You try to explain that it’s a little more complex than that, but he lets it fly past his ears on purpose. And the thought of you loving his cock to this extent makes him cocky.

Like, very cocky.

Everytime you escalete from foreplay and decide to get down onto your knees, he smirks.

So knowingly, so arrogant that it almost makes you not want to do it at all.

Emphasis on almost.

What you enjoy the most while going at it is the veins.

When you slide your tongue from the base to the mushroom shaped head, it rubs your slimmy muscle in the best way, and gives your taste pads the most delicious preview of what you’re currently working for.

You love taking your sweet time on them. Or like, would love, since he sabotages you after he gets impatient most of the time.

Forcing your mouth open and your head down.

Or the opposite, taking himself into his own grip, and also steadying you by the hold of your hair.

“You make such a mess for my cock, Y/N”

He’d say, in mock amusement, while nudging, hitting his pre-cum covered head against your lips. And you still feel as if they are dry.

He’d have you deep throat him for a while, just enough to prepare him for the edge,

He pulls out before both of you can feel his release approaching.

“Mouth or face?” He asks with a shit-eating grin, stroking himself in a good pace, like he’s trying to rush you with the already obvious decision before he ‘accidentally’ cums.

When you aggressively swat his hand away to pull him back into your ready mouth by gripping the base, he lets out a dark chuckle, and finally gives it to you.

“So good. You really want my cum, shit-“

“Gonna come down that greedy throat of yours, okay?”

“You begged for it, so you better swallow every last drop…”

“This mouth was made just to suck my dick and take my cum, am I right?”

[luvvcho]

✧・BLEACH

SYNOPSIS — your husband comes back from a mission with his roots grown out.

WC — (1.8k)

CONTENT: SFW, female reader, fluff, established relationship, husband!nanami

a/n: don't ask me wtf this is idk either. i wrote this while stuck on a train i hope u like it, if you dont its ok neither do i :)

m. list divider

As much as you hated when your husband had to leave for missions, you loved waking up to his warmth after falling asleep alone.

You always knew the moment he was back. Not by the sound of the door, not by the weight of his keys hitting the counter, but by the way you woke up pinned beneath him. His arms locked tight around you, his body flush against yours, his grip possessive even in sleep. If not for the steady rise and fall of his chest, you might’ve thought he was awake with how firmly he held you.

Most mornings, you had to coax him out of it, peeling yourself from his grasp to get to work on time. But not today.

It was Sunday.

Slowly, carefully, you shift, twisting in his hold, the movement difficult but familiar. His arms tighten instinctively before loosening just enough for you to turn and press your face into his chest.

You sigh, breathing him in, warmth seeping into your skin as his heartbeat thrums steadily beneath your ear.

For once, you don’t have anywhere else to be.

And neither does he.

“Morning, beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep as he stirs awake, arms giving you a comfortable squeeze.

You nuzzle further into his chest, smiling against his skin. “Hi, Ken,” you whisper. “You’re back.”

“I am.” His voice is warm.

You shift, pushing yourself up just enough to cup his face in your hands, tilting his chin toward you so you can get a good look at him. Your eyes scan over every inch of his face, searching. “No marks? No bruises? Did you get hurt?”

He chuckles, the sound deep and rich, his hands sliding to rest at your waist. “I have a small cut on my leg, but I’m perfectly alright, my love.”

Relief washes over you, and before he can say anything else, you close the space between you, pressing your lips to his in a slow, lingering kiss.

He hums into it, his grip on you firm but gentle, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your back. Your hands move instinctively, threading into his hair, tugging lightly, and the way he exhales against your lips sends warmth blooming deep in your chest.

“Good,” you murmur between kisses, brushing your nose against his. “I missed you.”

Nanami smiles. Soft, genuine, the kind he only ever gives to you. “I missed you more.”

Your fingers stay tangled in his hair, lazily threading through the soft strands as you tilt your head, eyes flicking up to where the dark roots are starting to peek through.

“Your roots are growing out,” you murmur, brushing your thumb along his scalp.

Nanami exhales slowly, his grip steady against your waist. “They always do,” he replies.

You purse your lips, pretending to consider. “Want me to book an appointment at the salon?”

His response is immediate. His shoulders tense just slightly before he shakes his head. “No.”

You raise a brow. “No?”

Nanami sighs, rubbing slow, soothing circles against your lower back, his expression unwavering. “I don’t like other women touching my hair.”

A slow grin spreads across your face. “Oh?”

His jaw shifts, eyes flicking to the side as he mutters, “It’s… uncomfortable.”

You hum, fingers toying with the strands between your fingertips, watching the way his brows twitch just slightly. He enjoys it when it’s you.

“You know,” you say, voice laced with playful mischief. “I used to bleach my own hair in high school.”

Nanami is quiet for a moment, then sighs, his eyes sliding back to you, already resigned. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

You beam. “That depends. Are you saying you’ll let me do it?”

He exhales sharply, his grip on your waist tightening just slightly. “If I say yes, do I have any control over this situation?”

“Not really,” you admit, grinning.

Nanami shakes his head, but there’s something fond in the way he watches you. “Fine,” he mutters. “But if you mess up, I’m shaving my head.”

Your eyes widen. “You wouldn’t.”

He levels you with a look. “Try me.”

His hand slides up your back, fingers curling around the nape of your neck as he finally closes the distance between you, pressing his lips to yours, slow and deliberate, like he’s making you savor it.

Five hours and a grocery trip later, you find yourself in the bathroom, your very large husband perched awkwardly on a tiny stool between your legs while you sit on the toilet seat, gloves snapped onto your hands and a mixing bowl full of bleach balanced on the sink.

Nanami sighs, tilting his head back slightly as you run your fingers through his hair. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters.

“You agreed to it,” you remind him, suppressing a grin as you comb through the strands, parting them to start applying the bleach.

“Hm.” He exhales, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Remind me why I did?”

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to consider. “Because you love me?”

He scoffs, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.

You dip your fingers into the bleach mixture, working it through his roots carefully. He’s silent for a while, letting you focus, his hands resting lightly against your thighs as he leans into the touch.

After a few minutes, you break the silence. “You’re awfully still for someone who complained the whole way home about how unnecessary this was.”

Nanami huffs, closing his eyes briefly. “I figured if I was going to let you do this, I might as well make it easy for you.”

You smirk. “So considerate.”

“Always.”

You take your time, carefully coating every strand, fingers gliding through his hair with practiced ease. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t complain. He just sits there, warm and solid between your legs, letting you take care of him.

By the time you’re finished, the smell of bleach is thick in the air, and Nanami’s shoulders have visibly relaxed under your touch. You slide your fingers through his hair one last time, gently massaging his scalp before pulling away.

“All done,” you announce, tugging your gloves off with a snap.

Nanami opens one eye, glancing up at you. “And now we wait?”

You nod. “Twenty-five minutes.”

He hums, then, without warning, rests his face on your thighs, his arms sliding around your waist.

You blink, surprised by the sudden affection. “Oh?”

“Shh.” His voice is low, lazy, his grip tightening slightly around you. “Since I’m stuck here, I might as well make myself comfortable.”

You laugh, carding your fingers through his hair again, softer this time, careful not to disturb the bleach. “Big baby.”

Nanami doesn’t argue, just sighs contently, his face buried against you as you sit there, waiting for the bleach to do its job.

You let your fingers glide through his hair absentmindedly, careful not to disturb the bleach at his roots but unable to resist the feeling of the soft strands between your fingertips. Nanami hums low in his chest at the motion, his grip around your waist tightening just slightly as he nuzzles deeper into your stomach.

"You enjoying yourself down there?" you tease, tapping your nails lightly against his scalp.

"Hmm," he murmurs, voice drowsy. "If you’re offering head scratches, I’ll stay here all night."

You roll your eyes, but your lips curl into a smile as you let your fingers massage gently against his scalp, nails dragging lightly. "You’re ridiculous, you know that?"

Nanami sighs, shifting slightly but refusing to lift his head. "And yet, you love me anyway."

You hum in agreement, running a soothing hand down his back. “That I do.”

The bathroom is warm and quiet, the faint scent of bleach lingering in the air, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. If anything, it feels... intimate. Cozy. The kind of domesticity you never really imagined for yourself until you met him.

A few moments pass before Nanami finally speaks again. “How bad would it be if I fell asleep like this?”

You snort. "On a tiny stool, covered in bleach? Not ideal."

He groans but doesn’t move. "Fine. Then wake me when it’s time to rinse."

You shake your head, affection swelling in your chest as you trail your fingers through his hair again.

"Whatever you say, big guy."

Nanami blinks at his reflection in the mirror, his brows furrowing slightly as he reaches up to run a hand through his newly orange roots. The rest of his hair is still its usual shade of blonde, but the top? A soft, warm, unmistakable tangerine hue.

You, on the other hand, are panicking.

“I’m so, so, so sorry,” you rush out, practically vibrating with guilt as you grip his shoulders. “I love you so much, please don’t kill me.”

Nanami is quiet, tilting his head slightly as he continues to inspect the damage. You watch him carefully, bracing yourself for some kind of reaction—a sigh, a groan, maybe even a look of mild disappointment. Anything.

Instead, he simply hums and says, “I don’t hate it.”

Your mouth falls open. “You—wait, what?”

He shrugs, turning his head slightly to get a better look. “It’s not terrible.”

You blink. “Baby, your roots are orange.”

He nods. “They are.”

“You like it?”

Nanami exhales through his nose, placing a hand on your waist as he turns away from the mirror. “I don’t mind it.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “You can’t seriously be okay with walking around looking like that.”

He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, entirely unaffected. “If it bothers you that much, you can fix it later.”

Later turns out to be three weeks later, because despite your insistence that he let you fix it immediately, Nanami genuinely does not care. He wears it with confidence, as if his roots aren’t two shades away from being neon.

You, on the other hand, nearly lose your mind every time Gojo snickers behind his sunglasses or when strangers do a double take as they pass by. But Nanami remains steadfast in his indifference, only raising a brow when you dramatically throw your hands in the air.

“This is your fault,” he reminds you dryly every time you try to argue.

It’s not until you physically drag him to a salon, your fingers curled around his wrist with an iron grip, that he finally allows the disaster to be corrected. The moment you step inside, he’s already looking for a way out, until you sweet-talk the receptionist into assigning him to a male stylist. Only then does he begrudgingly settle into the chair, watching you from the mirror with mild irritation as the stylist gets to work.

“Happy now?” he mutters as the bleach is applied.

You grin, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Very.” You know," he says, voice softer now, "I kept it because it made you fuss over me."

You blink, startled.

He glances at you through the mirror, lips twitching. "You were cute when you panicked."

Your mouth drops open. "You… Nanami Kento, you let me suffer for three weeks just because you thought it was cute?"

His eyes crinkle. "Maybe."

Nanami sighs, but there’s the ghost of a smile on his lips as he lets you have this one.

pls do not copy, repost, or claim my work as your own :) if you have any issues with what i wrote or noticed any mistakes, let me know privately. thank you for reading <3

kisses,

aza

[yukinohiko]

caleb admires the parallels between your shared childhood and current habits. when you were younger, you often found yourself chasing after him, tripping over roots and stones, following him like a puppy chases its shadow.

he always caught you, don’t get him wrong. wiping your tears after a particularly painful fall, smoothing bandages over your bruised knees, kissing your flushed cherubic cheeks. teasing and cooing until you smiled again.

you often pushed at him, one time going so far as to bite his hand when he tried to chuck your chin.

“it’s not funny,” you warbled, blinking soft, wet eyes at him. a rainswept flower he wanted to pluck and preserve — but not yet.

“I know, I know,” he said instead as he had carried you back home, lifting you onto his back while you swung your legs and wrapped your little arms around his neck. “you’re all right, though. gege won’t let you ever get hurt, not really.”

you bite him the same way years later; cry the same, too. the sedative he’d given you is slipping through your system; as you stir, you fight him at every turn while he holds you still.

really, he thinks, it shouldn’t be this difficult. he’s doing this for your own good, don’t you see? yes, perhaps his methods are a bit unorthodox, perhaps a bit coercive, but he’s only ever had the best of intentions for you.

when he says all this, so fondly, so warmly, and tries to chuck your chin and make light of the situation, you bite him. just like you had all those years ago; your teeth land in the same place they once had. his blood rushes; something hot and slow pooling like honey in the bottom of his stomach.

he slowly lifts his gaze, pupils dilating as though he were the one drugged, from the bite mark up to your face. you see the glint in his eye; the curve of his lips.

“really? again?” his smile is too sharp. it only unsettles you more, though his voice is as indulgent as ever.

your same gege, the wolf shedding his sheepskin.

“it’s not funny,” you say again, the same warble trembling in your voice. “let me go, gege.”

“don’t cry,” he coos, kissing your tears away so tenderly. “gege would never hurt you, not really. you know that already — don’t you?”

[holybibly]

this is such a weird scenario ..but imagine a little red riding hood concept, the big bad wolf being san, and him tricking innocent reader into "playing" with him and just fucking her dumb in the woods !!

God baby, I love the Little Red Riding Hood concept. I'm such a slut for it, to be honest. I'm a little obsessed with dark, twisted gothic fairy tales.

You should have heeded the warnings before you wandered alone through the woods on a full moon night. Or where you're meeting a big, handsome and very mean wolf from whose clutches you won't easily escape and maybe that's exactly what you want.

Warning: Dub-con, Werewolf! San

The night air was unpleasantly cold against your bare skin, ripping you from the sweet embrace of Morpheus. You reluctantly shivered and slowly opened your eyes, only to be greeted by the dense darkness of the forest. The sudden lack of sunlight jolted you from your half-sleep state, sending an unpleasant shiver down your spine and your heart pounding loudly in your chest as the forest around you continued to sing the song of the night. 

You shouldn't be out here, especially at such a late hour. You hurriedly gathered your belongings and cursed yourself for letting the beautiful meadow of flowers enchant you and for letting your guard down. You had been warned that ancient magic lived in these woods and that you should be very careful when you walked along the path through them, but of course you hadn't listened, and now you regretted it. You had always assumed that all these warnings had been given because of your gender. Most of the people in your small town were still stuck in the Dark Ages, thinking that a girl couldn't go through the forest alone. You wanted to prove them wrong. 

Another cold gust blew across the clearing, and you wrapped yourself tighter in your heavy cape. The velvet fabric was expensive and luxurious, a rich scarlet that earned you your nickname, Little Red Riding Hood. 

You were sure that you were going to be all right. You were smart and savvy, and you had a hunting knife with you. You'd think that would be more than enough to handle anything that might be lurking in these woods and get you back to your grandmother's house unharmed. At least that is what you thought. 

A long, blood-curdling howl echoed across the clearing, freezing you in place and halting your frantic gathering. Dear Lord...

Your eyes automatically rise to the night sky, only to find your worst fears confirmed: Through the dry, tangled branches of the trees, the brilliant face of the full moon illuminates the earth with its diffuse silvery glow. The words of your grandmother, which she had been repeating to you ever since you were a child, came to your mind at once: "Beware of the moon, whose face is full and merry, my child, for this is the time when its children have their feast. And their hunger is insatiable and greedy'. Another howl pierced your heart, a reminder of the situation you were now in. 

Wishing that you had listened to the warnings, you ran, clutching your beautiful wicker basket tightly with your hands as your scarlet cape evolved behind your back. You weren't sure of the right way as you ran through the dense thicket of the forest. You sobbed softly as the sharp branches of bushes and trees dug into your skin, leaving long, lacerating marks; the warm, crimson liquid running down your thighs, soaking into the fabric of your tall, white socks, spreading the seductive scent of your blood through the forest. 

Nothing seemed to be familiar to you in the thick, impenetrable darkness of the night. You stumbled through the massive roots of the trees and almost fell into a thorny bush with heavy, glistening bunches of poisonous berries hanging from it. You're so tired already—you can hear your heart pounding in your chest through your laboured, hoarse breathing.

Another furious growl echoing through the air keeps you from stopping, forcing you to keep running. You could almost feel the hot, wet breath of the wolf on your neck and the sharp claws on your skin, and it seemed to you that if you stopped for even a moment, the wolf would tear you to pieces. The hair stood up on the back of your arms, and the image of the sharp-toothed monster pinning you to the ground filled your mind's eye. No. No. No. You shake your head, hoping to banish the dark thoughts and push away the horrible images of blood and broken bones. 

A sharp pain blossomed on your face as you fell face first, stumbling over a large dried log and almost losing consciousness from the combined sensations. It was horrible—your mouth was full of dirt mixed with blood from a busted lip, your knees were skinned and bleeding, and in general you want nothing but sobbing with despair and fear. 

The hopelessness of your situation was more palpable to you now, when you're sitting in a pile of dirt and leaves, than ever before. A deep and low howling sounded from behind you, sending a shiver of cold down your spine. It made you jump to your feet, in spite of the sharp pain that you felt at such a sudden movement. You looked around anxiously. You glanced around anxiously, letting out a small sigh of relief at the fact that there was no one in your wake. But you didn't stop, the edge of the forest was already in sight, the soft welcoming light of the nearby village's lanterns calling to you. 

Your relief was short-lived, however, as a warning growl suddenly sounded directly in front of you, a pair of sacred silver eyes glaring out from the shadows of the forest. You gasped loudly as a tall, broad-shouldered fellow emerged from the thicket, his plump scarlet lips raised in a snarl, tongue slowly sliding over sharp teeth as he began circling you. 

This was not good, so damned not good. Cold fear gripped your heart with a tight grip, your hands clutching your basket tightly, shaking slightly at the low rumbling growl that came from the guy. Your frightened, wide-eyed gaze darted from the wolf to the forest path leading to the village; if you tried hard enough, you could get away from him. The boy noticed your gaze and shifted his sharp eyes to the narrow path leading out of the forest. He snorted slightly, as if the thought of you running from him amused him.

"You shouldn't even try, sweetheart. You can't escape me, little Red." The man's husky, deep voice made you flinch, but the way he addressed you by name as if he knew you made you drop the basket and cover your mouth with your hand to hold back your terror-filled scream."

He turned to face you again, and you could see his lips curl up in a predatory grin, revealing deep dimples on his cheeks. You couldn't help but notice how beautiful the wolf was—perhaps the most handsome man you had ever seen—and that fact made you fear him even more. Nothing ordinary and natural could possess such breathtaking beauty, which meant that the guy in front of you was many times more dangerous than any real wolf prowling around this forest thicket that night.

"Why are you so scared, little Red?" He slid his tongue over his lips as he kept his dark gaze on you. "I can almost feel your fear on my tongue." He murmured, the deep sound practically vibrating in the air. "I just want to play with you, beautiful. I promise I won't bite you... hard." His voice trailed off at the last word, his breathing getting heavier as he began to slowly approach you. 

You began to back away from him, trying to put as much distance between you as possible, and he clearly didn't like it. 

"You're not running away from me..." He growled, and those were the last coherent words you heard before he pounced on you, digging his claws into your skin and tearing at the edges of your cloak and skirt that prevented him from reaching you. The loud sounds of tearing cloth echoed through the forest as you tried to grab onto anything that might help you crawl away from him. 

"You'll have no run from me..." He growled, and those were the last coherent words you heard before he pounced on you, his claws digging into your skin and tearing at the edges of your cloak and skirt that were blocking his path. The loud sounds of ripping cloth echoed through the forest, and you tried to grab hold of anything that might help you to crawl away from him. 

"No. Please, no. Let me go, please...". But your words fell on deaf ears. In one swift motion, he flipped you onto your stomach, and you squealed loudly. Limiting all movement, his broad hand pressed between your shoulder blades. "No!" You cried out again, but a sharp slap on your bottom, which was suddenly bare, made you stop all your movements. You didn't even notice it as he tore off your clothes completely, leaving you vulnerable and naked for him to see. "I-I... please let me go..." All your energy has left your body, and you sob softly. He lifts your hips with one hand and puts you in the position he wants you to be in. 

"You were warned, little Red. Weren't you? You have been told to stay out of the woods, especially during the full moon. But have a look at where you are now. A stupid little girl, too self-confident to listen to anyone's advice, and that's what girls like you get. A big, bad wolf will eat them alive." The last sentence came out of his chest in a low, vicious growl before you felt a hot, slippery tongue travel between your buttocks. 

The pointed tip slid between your labia, salivating over your tender folds. He removed his hand from your back only to dig his fingers into your buttocks and spread them wide apart, holding you completely open for him so that he could feast on your cunt with ease. Pitiful sobs escaped from your mouth as you felt his rough, long appendage snaking its way between your folds, rubbing against your clit and poking at your hole as it tried to force its way in. His claws dug themselves into your flesh in painful fashion, leaving bloody marks that were sure to become scars. 

The sensation of the wolf's tongue licking desperately at your cunt and the wet, feverish breath that washed over your sensitive centre caused your body to react against your desire.

A shameless moan of pure pleasure escaped your lips faster than you could stop it. Covering your mouth with your hand, you tried to swallow the embarrassing sounds as the werewolf's long tongue continued to wash your clit with its warm, viscous saliva. You couldn't enjoy it... it was simply impossible. This guy was dangerous; he wasn't human; he was a horrible, hungry wolf pinning you to the ground in the middle of the night forest. You were terrified, but that didn't stop your body from responding joyfully to his touch. 

Every movement of his tongue on your pussy made your hole clench around nothing and ooze juices. This only excited him more as he greedily licked up every drop of sweet slime that flowed from you onto his tongue. Eventually it wasn't enough, and the wolf pressed his whole mouth against your little hole and began to literally drink from your pussy. 

Your hips began to shake as you approached your orgasm. Your fingers dug into the loose soil, dirt collecting under your fingernails as you tried to fight the rush of pleasure coursing through your entire body. It was completely futile. Against your will, the werewolf made you scream in blinding pleasure as the first of many orgasms shook your entire body. 

As your fluids poured into his mouth, giving him a full taste of your sweet flavour, he growled low as he thrust his tongue into your hole and licked your juices from your trembling walls. This went on for a few minutes until you felt his hands leave your body. A vague sense of relief filled you as you hoped he would leave you now that he had got what he wanted. But that relief was quickly replaced by panic as his clawed fingers pinned your fragile shoulders to the ground and his unnaturally hot and massive length rubbed against your arse, staining it with sticky pre-cum. 

He rubbed against you like a dog in heat, his hips pressing against you as if he were too lost in his lust to pay attention.

Hot breath scorched your cheek as he pressed his entire body against you, laborious growls and puffing escaping his throat as his heavy, hard cock dragged between your buttocks. You turned your head slightly to the side to catch a glimpse of the man looming over you, his sharp fangs glinting in the moonlight, and you almost regretted looking.

Every movement he made against you made your stomach twist with a mixture of fear and pleasure, and although the rational part of you was in a state of pure terror at the realisation of what awaited you, on some deep subconscious, twisted level you enjoyed it.

The werewolf's cock seemed almost as long as your torso, there was no way you could take it all in. But that didn't seem to bother him tonight. As the head of his cock entered your hole, you sobbed from the painful stretching and squeezed your eyes shut as he began to push his cock deeper into you. It was thick, so fucking thick that the tender edge of your pussy burned when the entire head of his cock was inside, but that was only the beginning.

The first few inches were enough to awaken your senses, pleasantly stimulating your quivering walls, but as he pushed further into you, the pain came. But that didn't matter to the werewolf on top of you. You whimpered and shook your head from side to side as the man above you moaned deeply as he continued to thrust his cock relentlessly into you.

"Please…" You sobbed openly now, hoping this would be over quickly.

"Mmm, look at you, you're acting so nice now. You were warned, little Red, but you decided to be a naughty girl and came to the wolf yourself, knowing full well what would happen to you. So don't play hard to get and take what is given to you." The wolf towering over you growled in your ears.

The more it pressed into your body, the more you became afraid and grabbed at tree roots and plants. For anything within reach that might help you free yourself from him. Your face crinkled in pain and your teeth clenched tightly together, grinding against each other. When it finally settled into your body, you'd never felt so full. You couldn't see it, but you could feel the great bulge in your belly, perfectly mirroring the contours of his cock.

When he begins to move, pulling his monstrous length out of you, you find it strange. His cock entered you much deeper than it could be possibly, and when it was completely out of you, you felt so empty, your cunt clenched around nothing, already missing the warmth of his cock. When he entered your cunt again, you let out a sound mixed with eroticism and a painful cry. It wasn't bad, but not necessarily good. His cock seemed too hot, buried deep inside your body, but every thrust in and out of your pussy rubbed against a sensitive ball of nerves that made your eyes roll to the back of your head.

"No! I don't want this! Please stop..." The voice in your head did its best to drown out the sensations overwhelming every other sense in your body, but it was useless. The wolf's large body pressed against your back, his feverishly hot, wet skin rubbing against the exposed areas of your skin that were visible through your tattered cloak with each sharp thrust into your body. 

His rhythm grew rougher and sharper as he stretched the tight confines of your pussy. Promises to fill you with his cum and give you his puppies came in steady succession with each thrust of his hips.

Wide eyed, you watched his fingernails dig into the dirt beside your head and thanked the gods that those nails were no longer digging into your skin. They pulled the earth a few inches away from your face, reminding you of the strength in those hands. He could have easily broken your neck with a snap of his fingers. Instead, he shifted his stance, his foot pressing your face deeper into the dirt beneath you.   You should have been disgusted; it was wrong, but something dark and twisted inside you made you even more aroused, enjoying everything that was happening.

Your quivering, slippery walls tightened around him, and you heard him moan deeply in response.

"You like it, don't you? What a dirty bitch you are, little Red. Do you like it when I claim the rights to your tiny human cunt? Does it turn you on that I'm fucking you like a bitch in the middle of the forest?"

"Please..." Your voice was swallowed by a loud, air-piercing howl as the wolf howled over you in pleasure. 

Your entire body shook beneath him as he fucked you with reckless abandon, his hips slamming painfully against your arse, causing the tender skin on your buttocks to become irritated and red. It was disgusting; you had dirt in your mouth mixed with blood from the previous fall, your whole body aching from his assault, but you wanted more; you wanted him to destroy you. 

Something hot and tight pushed into your entrance, and you almost mistook this sudden invasion for his balls until you felt your pussy being forced to stretch even further to accommodate it.

"Please, no! You're going to hurt me!!! Don't do this!" Pleasure was replaced by pure terror as you tried to crawl away from him. Sharp nails pierced the skin of your thighs as he clawed at you and growled in warning, making you freeze. 

"Take this! You're going to take all of me, and you're going to love it, you little slut." Each thrust felt like he was trying to shove a baseball inside you. 

He was determined to complete his task, and when he did, you screamed in pain, tears staining your rounded cheeks and making your face look even dirtier. A loud howl pierced his chest, and his nails dug into your back, drawing blood as he tied you up with his knot and poured his sperm into your waiting body. You could feel every pulse of his cock as it emptied into your pussy, and against your desire, your walls clenched around the invasion, squeezing out all he had to offer you. His warm, viscous cum splashed into your body, making you shiver.

"I hope you've learnt your lesson and won't wander the night woods alone again, little Red." The werewolf whispered hoarsely in your ear, licking the tears from your cheek. 

You turned your head to the side, meeting his slanted silver eyes and gloriously sharp cheekbones. 

"Maybe I should learn that lesson a few more times, San. You know I'm not good at memorising, love."

[lustagel]

⊹ fuckin’ amateurs rick sanchez, smut

brief. feeding his god complex

rick fills his free time with inventions and fucking his sweet girlfriend—his sweetheart who laughs at all his stupid jokes, patiently listens to his endless rants, cringes whenever he makes a joke about their sex life around his family and adores his cranky moods cause she likes to be fucked silly while he goes on about his day.

“and oh, baby—the way i shot their heads off,” he drones on, barely paying attention to his own words as he watches your wetness cling to his pubs. he always does this, so consumed in the way your pussy is pulling him in, your hole so sloppy and wet that it’s damn near disgusting, that he barely remembers what he talked about after. you’re no better than him with how foggy your brain gets. he hears you hiccup, the soft sound snapping his focus back to you.

“are you uurrp listening?” he slurs, narrowing his eyes at you, the smugness in his voice impossible to ignore. it takes you a moment—almost too long—to nod, your breath shaky as you cling onto his lab coat. but he’d put up such a stubborn fight that you finally let him win. it doesn’t help that last time, he refused to wash the damn thing for weeks, claiming it smelled like you (not like he does anyway), and he wasn’t ready to lose that like clingy dog and its favorite toy.

“good,” he mutters, a grin tugging at his lips. “’cause I’ve got some news that’ll blow your tiny little mind.”

you hate this part—hate how he always demands a reaction to every word, every sound he makes, even when he’s completely wrecking you. it’s not like you can form coherent thoughts when he’s like this, but that doesn’t stop him. no, he thrives on the power trip, on making sure you’re there for every word he spits out. and when you tell him to tone it down, to maybe not be so loud for once, he just sneers, his voice dripping with arrogance. “i can do whatever the hell i want, babe. i’m rick fucking uurrp sanchez. let ’em hear.”

and you let him. you always let him because he’s got you wrapped around his finger, and he knows it. besides, if you don’t, he’ll draw this out for as long as it takes, leaving you dangling just out of reach. “mm, w-what is it?” you stammer, barely able to form the words. he grins, pushing himself closer, deeper, so you can feel every word reverberate through you.

"y'know, word on the cosmic grapevine is you've got the best uurrp pussy in every universe—at least, that's what all the other ricks won't stop runnin' their mouths about." he chuckles, the sound rough and guttural, before clearing his throat, his tone dropping lower. his hips move in deeper, slower rolls, and your eyes follow suit, fluttering back as he pulls every bit of control from you.

“but they don’t know what the real one feels like, do they?” his teeth grind slightly as he mutters under his breath, “amateurs.” you almost laugh at how ridiculous it is—him getting jealous over his own clones—but the thought barely takes root before his hips snap into yours, stealing the breath from your lungs.

through glossy eyes, you look at him, your voice trembling, thick with need as you reply, “no, no—you’re my god, rick.” you know it's what he loves to hear most, no matter the situation.

he looks back at you with bloodshot ones, his smirk widening as his ego swells with every shaky word you manage. “that’s right,” he huffs, his voice dripping his smugness. “means something coming from you, sweetheart. don’t let it go to your head.”

[pretentious-blonde]

the talk

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: the talk

warnings: death, crying, arguments, descriptions of dying, st lore, panic attacks, grief, therapy mention, yelling, suicidal tendencies???

a/n: i finally had some time to myself after getting accepted into my postgrad! also this was sad to write, i struggled with it, but i hope either way that it meets expectations.

series masterlist

Steve is trying not to crumble—something he’s horrifically skilled at by now. He attempts to cling to the details of the room.

The couch, the wooden floor, the secondhand rug—

Your bedroom door.

Everything suddenly feels so fragile, as if it’s all balancing on a precarious edge. He draws in a measured breath, chest so tight it makes him think of grief. Like trying to breathe through water, its thickness catching against his throat. 

He hears a drawer slam shut in your room, your footsteps hurrying back and forth. And it hurts.

Hurts more than he ever would have expected. Because you didn’t know. And part of him almost envies you for that—envies the naive curiosity that led you here, not realising how deep the roots went. Not realising what you’d uncover.

There’s nowhere to go from here.

No smooth lie that can paper over what you’ve found. 

He’d been so stupid. 

Letting this spin out, never suspecting you’d pry in ways that cut this close.

His palms start to tremble, the betrayal sliding through his veins. Betrayal, yes—but not only yours. His own, too. 

You both played a hand in this.

A door hinges open; you step out of the bedroom. Even that small shift in the air jolts him—reminds him he needs to act normal, though he knows he can’t.

Your presence usually stirs up tenderness inside him. Normally, his arms would ache to hold you, to keep you close.

But now they ache with something else entirely—something restless, hollow.

He’s not sure where to put them.

He’s not sure what to do.

Like the part of him that knows how to reach for you has been carved out, leaving only the wanting behind.

His gaze is stormy, and you’re standing only a few feet away, wearing one of his jumpers like it still means something—like this isn’t about to fall apart, and it’s not helping at all. 

You’re wrapped up in this.

In him.

All he can think is how your curiosity dragged both of you into the fire. You barely notice the tension in his posture as you come over, the way his whole body looks ready to snap.

“If they’ve already run out of those hazelnut croissants, I swear to—”

You pause mid-thought.

He’s not even looking at you. Just standing there, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles look bloodless.

“Steve?”

Your voice is soft, uncertain, not at all what he expected to hear moments before. He doesn’t respond, can’t respond. He’s got that haunted, distant stare, like he knows a single wrong move might crack him open.

“Are you alright?” You step closer, caution in your voice. “If you need a moment, we can—”

“How long?” he cuts in, blunt and cold.

You freeze, attempting to decode his words.

“What?”

His jaw goes taut; you see the muscle twitch. When he speaks, his tone is low, like he’s forcing each word out through sharp edges in his throat.

“How long have you been—” He swallows, staring at the floor, too afraid to look at you. He doesn’t want to see your face right now. “How long have you been… keeping tabs on me?”

It sounds awful, but that’s what it was.

He lifts the notebook from the coffee table, like evidence presented in a trial. Pages flutter, showing the scrawl of your notes, the newspaper clippings. His fingers truggle to hold their weight. 

“I—I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t.” 

His voice cuts across the room. Harsh.

“Don’t you lie to me right now, alright?”

The situation’s already too fragile.

The notebook trembles in his grip. He stares at it, as if waiting for it to burst into flames.

“You need to tell me—right now—how long this has been going on.”

Your stomach lurches. His voice is so cold it hardly sounds like him at all. Gone is the gentle man who held you so close last night. Now he’s distant, like he’s bracing for something he can’t bear to face.

You can’t recall the last time he looked like this, body rigid, posture screaming that he’s holding himself together by sheer will. 

One wrong breath and he’ll shatter.

Instinct tells you to reach for him. But this conversation is a landmine—one wrong word could blow everything apart. 

Not just him; both of you.

You should’ve been more cautious. You knew this would hurt him, but not like this. Not to this extent.

“Not—not long, I swear—” you try, your voice stumbling.

He exhales raggedly, drags his hand through his hair. 

“That’s not good enough.”

You’re not sure who he’s addressing—you or himself. His knuckles bleach around the notebook. When he finally meets your gaze, there’s no tenderness left.

“How long,” he whispers, laced with anger barely contained, “how fucking long have you been spying on me like this?”

Your stomach twists. He looks so pale. You can’t hold his gaze, so you stare at your socked feet, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

“A few months,” you manage.

“A few months?” he echoes, voice climbing an octave in disbelief.

That long?

You nod again, your throat tight. 

“Y-yeah, well, I don’t have an exact number—”

"You don't?"

He lets out a choked sound, halfway between a scoff and a sob. 

“Because from the looks of it, you’ve been keeping a pretty good fucking track.”

His voice cracks on the last consonant, betraying him, and you see the glassiness in his eyes. 

He’s on the brink of losing control.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammer. “I didn’t know what I was looking for—”

“That’s not the fucking point!” he roars, a sudden burst of rage that leaves you reeling.

You still did it. 

In tossing the notebook aside, he feels as though he’s casting away the last shred of trust he had. It lands with a thump on the table, pages splaying out like an ugly secret finally bared. His face looks hollow. You watch as the devastation settles, and you realise how deep you’ve cut.

“You looked anyway.” His voice hitches, a painful break. “You—you let me pour my goddamn heart out, and you never once mentioned this?”

His accusation lingers in the air. The weight of your betrayal strikes you like a blow. Your eyes well with tears, but you stand rooted to the spot.

“It was just curiosity, Steve, I swear—I didn’t mean—”

“Curiosity?” he repeats, bitterness sharp as glass. “That’s your excuse?”

He’s so tense, you’d swear his heartbeat alone could crack bone. 

“You—you weren’t telling me anything, Steve,” you say, trying to keep your own tears under control. You take a hesitant step toward him.

He flinches—barely, but enough to stop you cold. 

He’s never flinched from you before.

“And—and I thought if I knew more,” you continue in a smaller voice, “maybe I could help.”

“Does this look like helping?” he snaps, voice scaling with every syllable.

You squeeze your eyes shut. 

“No, but—but it doesn’t matter anymore, right?” The words tumble out too quickly. “We’re—we’re gonna go away, and—" your hands lift in a silent plea, "and you can tell me all of this yourself. I’m sure I’m wrong, and you can—”

You stop because he’s not even looking at you now. Just staring off at the wall, body taut with fear.

He can’t fucking do that. 

“You let me talk last night,” he mutters, pained, “knowing what that meant. How much it meant.”

“I do know,” you insist, desperate. “I do know what it means—”

But you didn’t. 

Not really. 

Not the way he lives it, every day.

“Then why?” he demands, voice piercing.

“I… I needed something. Anything. I thought if I understood you better—”

“Yeah?” he sneers. “What do you understand now, huh?”

He raises his voice, but the anger barely holds. It wavers, thinned out by something far more fragile.

He’s being cruel now, and he knows it. Throwing your mistake back in your face, twisting the knife. 

But how can he not?

He loves you.

Told you so. Showed you last night in every word, every touch.

It wasn’t his choice to keep this from you. It never was. But he had to. He had to protect you—protect both of you.

And now here you are, standing in the wreckage with shaking hands and tearful eyes, threatening to bring the whole thing down.

To destroy everything—including yourself—in the process.

He can’t let that happen. So he goes back to what he knows. What always works.

Push.

Make it hurt. Break something if he has to, just to figure out what you know.

And if it turns out to be too much—if you’ve already seen too far into the darkness—then he’ll have no choice.

You’ll have made it for him.

And he can’t afford to let you stay.

“No, seriously,” he presses. “What did you learn?” He steps closer. “Because I need you to say it. Out loud. What do you think you found?”

He needs to know how dire this truly is.

You hesitate, heart hammering like a drum. 

“...I know the mall was a cover-up.”

He flinches, like you physically struck him. Old memories tear across his features.

“Carry on,” he grits out, jaw muscle jumping.

“Steve…” you whisper, voice trembling. “It’s making you uncomfortable—”

“Is it?” He laughs—short, harsh. “Didn’t stop you before.”

Panic tangles with anger, lacing his words until they’re as sharp as needles.

“Anything else?” he demands. 

Let him see just how far you went.

“What. Else?"

His voice dips, low. You can feel the tension like an electrical charge in the air.

“You’re… scaring me.”

Good.

“Well, you should be scared!” His voice rings out. “This is fucking scary! Don’t you get that? You need to tell me what else you know.”

You’re shaking as you answer, but his guilt is drowned out by his need to know. 

“The earthquake wasn’t what it seemed.”

He closes his eyes momentarily, exhaling a shaky breath through his nose. He motions with a hand for you to continue, fingers jittery with panic. You draw in another unsteady breath.

“… you had something to do with Eddie Munson.”

The name is a lightning strike. 

He jerks back, colour draining from his face. The entire world seems to tilt around him.

His face drains of colour. His mouth parts, but no sound comes out. Eyes wide. Staring straight through you like the world’s dropped out beneath him.

Not that name.

It hurt when he read it in your handwriting, but nothing would have prepared him for the sound of each syllable filling the charged room. 

Grief and terror merge violently, rising so fast it makes him nauseous. Every carefully built wall, every coping mechanism, every stupid little trick he’s used to survive the years since—gone.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

“I—I can’t do this,” he stammers, voice barely more than a breath.

He turns without thinking, his body moving before his brain catches up. A blind, desperate need to get out.

“What?” Your voice spikes in alarm. “Steve, no, wait—”

"I can’t fucking do this.”

Way too fucking close. 

His words are slurred with the rush of adrenaline, the absolute need to flee. 

Shoes. 

Where are his shoes? 

He stumbles over the edge of the rug, trying to reach them, heartbeat pounding in his ears like a siren.

He’s jamming them onto his feet, grabbing blindly for his jacket. Each movement is frantic, borderline clumsy. He mutters under his breath, breath hitching as he tries to keep from hyperventilating.

“No, wait—please!—”

But he’s already bolted, crossing the living room in uneven strides. You follow him, tears welling uncontrollably, fear lacing your voice. You call after him, your pleas echoing off the walls as he pounds down the stairs to the bookshop.

“Steve!”

Your voice rings out behind him, but he doesn’t stop.

He reaches the bottom step, rushing toward the exit, fingers fumbling with the door. He yanks it open like it’s the only thing keeping him from drowning.

Morning sunlight floods the shop, and it stings his eyes.

It’s too bright.

Too fucking normal for what’s happening right now.

His heart hammers against his ribs, like it’s trying to punch its way out. Each breath is a gasp, caught up with emotions he can’t pin down.

He has to get out. He has to—

“Steve!”

Without warning, you lunge forward, arms wrapping around his waist from behind.

The impact jars him, halting his steps as your body crashes into his.

His hand clenches around the doorframe, white-knuckled. Your arms are desperate, shaking, locked tight around his middle, not letting him take another step further.

“Please—please don’t go.” Your voice breaks, high and wrecked. “I—I can’t do this again.”

You don’t know if you could survive him leaving like this again. The last time nearly destroyed you, and this time would be worse.

Because this time, it’s your fault.

If he walks out now, you won’t be able to reach him afterwards. You’ll have burned that bridge with your own hands.

You had one thought.

Don’t let him leave.

Because if he walks out that door, there’s a terrifying certainty in your gut.

He’s not coming back.

The sound of your voice splits something in him, yanks him back to the present, with only one word echoing around in his mind. 

Again.

There’s a sob rattling in your throat—completely terrified. 

He’s never heard you like this. 

So utterly desperate. 

“Please—I’m sorry—” You manage to get out. “I’m so sorry.”

Fuck, you sound young. 

Like a kid who’s broken something important and doesn’t know how to fix it. Like you’re bracing for him to bolt.

He stares ahead, jaw tight, vision beginning to blur.

How did he let it get this far?

You’re trembling against his back, body convulsing with quiet sobs, and he can feel the weight of your collapse. It’s his fault he let it come to this.

Come to this again. 

He’s doing it again. 

His nostrils flare, and a tear slides down his cheek before he can stop it.

Were you like this the last time he ran?

He wants to scream. Or throw up. Or fall to his knees.

To be loved this much—and still be capable of hurting you like this—he doesn’t know how to live with it.

Even if what you did was wrong.

Even if it shattered something.

Even if he doesn’t know how to forgive it yet.

You’re not the only one breaking.

“Please don’t—don’t run away.” Your voice cracks in half.  “Please— don’t leave me.”

Oh, angel.

That—that—is what finally does it.

His lungs seize. His vision goes white at the edges. And something inside him just snaps.

He chokes on a breath, spins around in your arms so fast your hands scramble to keep hold—and then you’re in his chest.

He wraps you up with everything he has.One hand cradles the back of your head as you bury your face into him, sobbing like your heart’s falling out of your body.

You’re both shaking now.

He squeezes his eyes shut, hard, like he can physically stop the flood rising inside him. His lips find your hair, as his arms tighten around you with a desperation that borders on panic.

Panic over how he’s supposed to keep you afloat, how to stop you from slipping under.

“I’m not gonna leave,” he manages, barely.

You sob harder at that, a broken sound from deep in your chest, and your arms cling tighter like you think he might disappear anyway.

You’re petrified. 

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m here—it’s alright.”

But how could it be?

His own tears fall freely now, slipping down his cheeks and travelling toward his jawline. His chest jerks, uneven and laboured, each inhale snapping him in half.

He kisses the top of your head again, again, like repetition might make it real. Might fix it.

You’ll fall apart if he lets go.

He almost let go.

Your breath stutters, hitching in your throat. “I’m—I’m sorry—”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, voice trembling. “I know—I know you are.”

He doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do next—only that he can’t run. 

Because he loves you. 

God, he loves you.

And that love is carved into the way your fists are still gripping the back of his jacket. He pulls back just enough to see you, to cradle your face in both hands. His thumbs sweep gently across your cheeks, catching the tears even as his own keep falling.

“I’m not mad,” he whispers.

You’re swollen-eyed and blotchy, lips quivering, barely holding yourself together. He gives a wet sniff, the corner of his mouth twitching with tenderness, but nonetheless broken. He leans in and rests his forehead on yours.

“I’m not mad, angel.”

He means it. 

He’s not mad—he’s fucking terrified. But you didn’t deserve his anger. Not when it pushed you past your breaking point. Not when you were just trying to understand him. 

To love him better.

Even if it was misguided.

It spills out of him in a shaking breath. His body sags with the weight of it, and more tears slip free. You lift a trembling hand to his cheek, brushing his tears with soft fingers. He leans into the touch like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

“I didn’t mean to—” your voice catches, wrecked and tiny, “I just wanted—”

“I know.”

He knows. 

His voice is thick. He’s never felt so emotionally raw, like every nerve ending is on fire. His hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking your hair in a repetitive motion.

He knows what he has to do.

He hates it.

He hates being forced into a corner like this—into a choice that feels more like a noose than a path.

His whole life has been made up of risks—always choosing the uncertain route, the one that might lead to something better but usually led to something worse.

But this time, he knows what happens if he doesn’t act.

There’s no alternative. If he doesn’t tell you now, it’s over anyway. 

And worse, you’ll still be in danger.

He loves you too much. That’s the truth of it. And some selfish, stupid part of him just can’t leave. Not when your body’s still vibrating in his arms.

You wouldn’t survive it, and he wouldn’t either, knowing that he did that to you. 

You love him. That’s what makes it so impossible.

You’re both fucking fools.

It took him months to tell his therapist. To unravel the truth in pieces, to hand over the trauma one cracked fragment at a time. But he doesn’t have the luxury of time now. Not after what you’ve uncovered, with everything now at stake. 

You need the truth. His truth.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. 

He starts to pull away, hands careful, movements gentle. You resist instinctively, your grip tightening.

“I’m staying, sweetheart,” he assures, leaning in to press another trembling kiss to your temple.

He closes the door like it’s sealing off the rest of the world.His back rests against it for a second too long before he moves back to you.

“We…” he swallows, glancing up. “We need to have this talk.”

You nod, still crying, though your breathing has steadied enough to move. You hate that it’s come to this. That you pushed him here. That it hurts this much.

But you understand.

You let him guide you.

He leads you through the quiet bookshop, hand still wrapped around yours. Past the bright sting of morning light pooling in the windows. Past the shelves stacked with stories that suddenly feel too far away.

He takes you to the old couch in the back, tucked in a pool of shadows where the world feels slower. Where he helped you unpack your order all those months ago. He hopes the happier memories will help with the more raw ones he has to reveal.

His steps are shaky. He keeps glancing back like he needs to make sure you’re still there. When he finally sits, he doesn’t let go of your hand.

“You’re already too close.”

You blink at him, lashes still wet with tears.

“I—I can’t have you digging into this stuff anymore,” he says. “It was… it was stupid of me to let it get this far.”

He scrubs at his cheeks with his sleeve, breathing hard through his nose. He’s a mess—red-rimmed eyes, flushed skin, chest still heaving. He reaches for you again, pulling you closer until your thigh presses against his. He needs that contact, needs to feel you still here.

The silence stretches, brittle and loaded, and he’s steeling himself for the worst. 

No more running.

No more hiding.

His fingers find yours again, and he holds on tight.

And now, his real story finally begins.

He exhales, shifting his weight on the couch, trying to find a position that doesn’t make him feel like he’s collapsing in on himself. He glances at you, begging for some kind of absolution he’s almost certain can’t exist.

When he speaks, his voice is rough, raspy with all the tears he’s been holding back—unsuccessfully.

“It started in junior year….”

He’s never forgotten those days. Never truly left behind the basketball courts, the letterman jacket, the face he saw in the mirror each morning—the King Steve facade. 

He swallows, it’s been so long since he started from the beginning and now, saying it out loud, he realises something.

He really was just a boy when it happened.

“It started small.” He begins quietly. “Kid went missing—Will Byers. He was the first.”f

His gaze drifts down, searching the dusty floor for the memories. 

A missing kid—hardly the biggest news story in small-town Hawkins, but it would shape everything.

“We didn’t think anything of it—I didn’t think. I was—”

He was busy throwing parties, failing class, cruising around town with the latest fling on his arm…

Only Nancy was not a fling.

She was special to him. 

He grimaces, the weight of regret has settled behind his eyes. 

Nancy. 

The name still makes his chest tighten, even if the heartbreak has long since turned into something softer.

“I—I had a girl at the time, her name was Nancy. I didn’t think it was anything special, but…”

“But it was?”

It was. 

He nods, pressing his lips together, remembering the nights he spent losing himself in those big eyes of hers, the way she made him feel for the first time. Like she wasn’t with him for the reputation alone. It wasn’t like she stuck around for it anyway.

“Yeah… yeah, it was.” His voice softens, eyes drifting somewhere far away. “I was so caught up in her, I didn’t even notice what was happening.”

A bitter breath. A pause.

“Her best friend disappeared next... right outside my window.”

He hadn’t given a shit about Barb when it happened. More concerned with what his dad would say about him throwing a party. 

She was just Nancy’s weird friend. Too quiet, too awkward, too out of place. Invited out of politeness, not because anyone actually wanted her there.

And he let her leave alone. Didn’t think twice.

Didn’t care.

She died scared. Alone. In the dark. And he was upstairs—only thinking about getting a pretty girl into his bed.

Fucking idiot. That’s all he was.

He cringes at the memory, shame burning through him like acid. 

She’s dead because he was too busy being a selfish piece of shit.

“I think that’s why it didn’t work out.”

His laugh is wet, choked, and bitterness lines the edges of it.

“That’s what Rob said, anyway,” he murmurs, voice thin. “Every time she looked at me, I could see it—what she was thinking. If she hadn’t listened to me… Barb would still be here.”

He swallows hard.

“And I get it. I do. I understand why she believes that.”

But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

She was his first love. His first real everything. And you don’t forget someone like that.

“Will came back,” he says quietly. “But Barb didn’t.”

His fingers tighten around his knee.

“But where he went… it wasn’t just some missing kid story. It was something else. Something wrong.”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down, knowing there’s no turning back once he jumps.

This is the part he’s never let anyone close enough to touch. The part he’s fought to keep buried. He’s never wanted to put this weight on you. Never wanted you anywhere near this.

But you’re already in it.

And he can’t keep pretending you’re not.

“The old lab opened something,” he says, voice low and tight. “Something really bad.”

His hands flex in his lap, like he’s trying to ground himself.

“They were messing with this shit for years, without even knowing what they were doing. They—” his throat bobs. “They took kids.”

He pauses. His jaw clenches as his mind spirals—trying not to, but failing anyway.

What kind of life was that? 

He thinks about El. About the pain in her eyes. She never told him the details and they weren’t always close, but they trusted each other in the way soldiers do—when you’ve seen the same kind of ruin and made it out alive.

She was just a kid.

They all were.

His chest tightens. He thinks about his students now—their crayon drawings, the way they laugh at silly stories. How small their hands are.

He can’t imagine one of them in a place like that. Used, then broken.

It made him sick.

“There were experiments,” he finally says, voice shaking. “They opened a gate. To another world.”

He looks up at you, and his eyes are haunted.

“One just like ours… but off. Alive, somehow. And it didn’t stay contained. It started to leak into our world.”

His hands curl into fists.

“It was hell,” he says. “And it came here.”

Hell. 

That’s the only word that fits.

So many people gone. So many lives lost.

And somehow he’s still here. And most days, he doesn’t understand why.

“The things that came out of there…” he starts, then stops, swallowing hard. “They weren’t normal.”

His voice drops lower, rougher.

“Dogs that—weren’t dogs. Their heads would open up, and it was just teeth. Rows and rows of ‘em.”

Demo-dogs. The sanitised name for what they really were. 

“I was the oldest. I had these kids with me—Dustin, Lucas, Max… they were just kids. They couldn’t fight those things off.”

His jaw clenches. 

“I told them to stay back. And they did, they listened.”

A pause. 

“But sometimes I just wish…”

The words trail off, lost somewhere in the weight of everything he can’t say.

His eyes drift, unfocused, filling with something heavy and distant—memories.

Memories of running. Of screaming. Of blood on the floor. Of holding the line so they wouldn’t have to.

They got out.

He didn’t.

Not all the way, because he’s still in it.

Still sees it when he closes his eyes. Still hears the growls. Still wakes up some nights expecting something to tear through his door.

His hands start to shake and you reach for them again without thinking, folding them between yours. Trying to anchor him, to say you’re there without speaking.

He flinches at first. Then lets you hold him.

Even though it breaks your heart to see him like this—to know you pushed him to this point—there’s no going back.

“We thought it was over after that,” he says, “but it never was. I graduated—barely. Didn’t get the grades for college, and my dad cut me off.”

It dawns on you then.

His parents didn’t know.

Because if they had, there’s no way they’d have cared about grades, not when their son had been fighting for his life.

He hadn’t told them.

You’ve always known their relationship was strained, but this must have torn whatever was left even further apart.

“Took the first job I could find… and that’s how I met Rob.”

You nod. That part you do know.

The stupid sailor uniform. The Scoops Ahoy jokes. The unbearable summer heat. The friend who became family. You know the version he’s told before—the warm, funny pieces, the lighthearted edits.

But you also know where this is headed.

The blueprints. The tunnels.

“The mall,” you say quietly.

“Yeah... The mall.”

He drags a hand through his hair, fingers getting stuck at the ends.

“I was such an idiot,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Thought it was over. That we’d won. That we could move on.”

But the past claws its way back too fast. Even now, years later, just thinking about Starcourt makes his stomach turn.

“Dustin came back from camp, excited about picking something up on the radio waves. Said it was gonna be big, so I went along with it. Rob did, too. We thought it’d be—like the movies, y’know? Some big scavenger hunt we could brag about. Something exciting for once.”

He starts to tear up at the memory. The meltdown of that summer is etched into him like his scars.

“Turns out the government weren’t the only ones interested. The mall was a cover-up—you got that part right. Some Russian organisation had picked up where they left off… only bigger.”

His breathing grows laboured, and you see him fighting the panic in his eyes.

“It was bad, so fucking bad, angel. I—god, I even got another kid involved. Couldn’t have been older than nine.”

He buries his face in his hands, shame radiating off him. He teaches kids that age now—thinks about how small they are, how trusting.

“We got underneath it,” he says quietly. “Me and Dustin. The others had no idea. We found this elevator that went down—way down. Like, military base deep.”

He swallows. You can hear it.

“They got out, thank God. But me and Rob… we got caught.”

He doesn’t look at you as he whispers the next statement. He doesn’t want to see your reaction. 

“I don’t remember how long they tried to get information out of me.”

Your stomach twists at his insinuation. 

Torture.

Not a fight. Not a scuffle.

Torture.

And he was just nineteen.

Barely out of high school, still half-boy, thrown into something no one should ever see.

What the hell did they do to him?

“I came to,” he continues, voice a little distant now. “And Rob was there. She was… not fine. But she was breathing. We both were.”

He runs a hand over his face, dragging his palm down.

“She told me about high school. How I was this total dick. Said she sat behind me, and I didn’t even know her name.”

Now, it’s the name written on his emergency contact. 

“I didn’t even remember her. I was that guy.”

Your fingers brush his arm. He doesn’t flinch, he’s somewhere far off.

“We made it out,” he says. “We were so high we could barely walk—God knows what they injected us with. I don’t remember much, just pain. And the lights. And… Rob’s voice. Sometimes that’s what pulled me back.”

His lips press together. 

“The kids had to rescue us,” he says quietly. “They saved me. When I should’ve been the one saving them.”

His whole body tenses, a tremor running through him as the image surges. Sterile halls. Screaming in a language he didn’t understand. Blood. Cold restraints. The sting of a needle.

And fear.

Not just for himself—for Robin. For Dustin. For all of them.

Still fresh, years later.

“It came back this time, stronger than before. The thing was two stories high. We made it out with the help of El—you don’t know her, but she was one of the kids. The experiments they did on her… she could do things. With her mind.”

“We got out, and the mall came down too. A cover-up for the cover-up, the perfect story.”

He shakes his head, a wry twist to his lips. Then his expression crumples.

“But the worst was the summer after…”

He doesn’t want to talk about this part. You can see it in the way he stiffens, in the tremor of his jaw. This is where his scars come from. You’ve felt them under your fingertips, wondered at their shapes.

“Kids started dying again. In ways that were… too familiar. We knew what it was. Knew it was back.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and a tear slips free. His shoulders tremble, and you tighten your grip on his hands.

“Eddie was who they blamed for it—town freak, Satan worshipper, all that bullshit.” He releases a shaky breath. “He was Dustin’s best friend. Looked out for him when I couldn’t. Made high school easier for him.”

He grits his teeth.

“We all knew we had to fight it again—El wasn’t there. We’d done it before, so… maybe we could again. But it was bad. Worse than before.”

He’s reliving the terror in real time—the helplessness that gnaws at him still.

“It was so painful, angel. We got dragged under at the lake. I went first, because—I don’t know, I could? I thought if it was me instead of them, then maybe they’d be all right. Maybe I’d make up for it somehow.”

He’s openly crying now. Tears slip down his cheeks in steady streams. All you can do is watch, your own throat closing with grief you don’t fully understand but ache to share. You stroke the back of his hand, feeling how futile the gesture must seem.

“It didn’t stop.”

 Those three words fall like stones.

“There were bats—I think. I don’t even know what they were. Just… wrong. They kept coming. Tearing into me.”

Too fast to fight. 

Too many to count.

“They latched onto me like—like they knew where to bite.”

Ribs. Side. Neck. 

“I—I can still feel them sometimes. Even now. Like they’re still under my skin.”

He grips his side reflexively, as if the wounds still throb beneath his skin.

“I thought I wasn’t gonna make it.”

A twisted kind of admission. One that suggests a terrible resignation.

“And in a way…” His voice tightens. “It felt right.”

Maybe that’s what he deserved.

Maybe that was easier than surviving again.

“It made sense,” he breathes. “I mean—I was the one who stuck around. Maybe that was the end I was supposed to get.”

Then the sob rips out of him—harsh and sudden, like it’s been living just beneath the surface.

“But they got to me,” he forces out. “In time. They pulled 'em off me, and I was still breathing.”

Barely.

He swipes an unsteady hand across his face, blinking fast against the tears.

“We thought that was it," he says in a voice so hollow it almost doesn’t sound like him. "But it wasn’t—it was just the beginning.”

He can barely meet your eyes now. Won’t let himself see the fear and pity etched in your expression.

“There was someone else—another one of those kids from the lab. Stronger—smarter. He was behind all of it.”

His knuckles go white.

“He had this… world. A whole world that moved for him. Vines crawling through the ground. They were watching us. Telling him where we were.”

No plan worked.

“We tried to fight. Tried to run. But—but we didn’t stand a chance. It grabbed us. Around our chests, our—”

He stops, breath catching.

“It got me again. This time around the neck—tight—so fucking tight I couldn’t breathe.”

Again.

He mimics the motion briefly, a reflexive wince at the memory.

“I tried to yell—to tell them to go. But it was too late.”

He stares at the floor now, voice hollow.

“They got Max.”

She screamed. And then she didn’t. And he couldn’t do a damn thing.

The sob that follows is deep and shaking, your hand is still in his.

“Eddie was gone by the time we got back. Played the goddamn hero.”

Another tear rolls down, and he doesn’t even try to wipe it away.

“I told him not to. I fucking told them.”

His voice cracks—shattered glass.

“I was supposed to protect them.”

That was the whole point.

“I was supposed to be the one who could handle it..”

That was why he stayed behind.

He finally looks at you, eyes raw and bloodshot.

“I couldn’t save them,” he whispers.  

Always one second too late. 

“It caused the earthquake. Him. All of it was because of him. We never found a body. Never knew if it was over. So they left. Every single one of them, as soon as they could.”

Gone. 

He swipes at his face with the back of his hand, useless against the tears.

“And I—I stayed. I don’t know why. I fucking stayed.”

He breaks then, openly and fully. His chest spasms with heavy sobs. Watching him fall apart like this is agony, but you can’t not watch. You can’t tear your eyes away from this man who’s spent years fighting alone.

“I can’t move past it,” he gasps. “No matter how hard I try.”

Why did he?

When none of them are?

His voice is totally wrecked. You reach for him again, hands unsteady, tears streaking your own cheeks. You're afraid that holding him might pull him deeper into it—this bottomless grief—but you hold on anyway.

Because someone has to.

“That’s—that’s the basics of it all—fuck—that’s all I can do,” he manages between sobs. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry. I just—that’s—”

He grits his teeth, trying to hold back the pain, but it tears out anyway—raw and guttural, a sound like a wounded animal.

It shreds through the room. Shreds through you.

You break, too. A soft sob escapes your throat as your hand tightens around his.

“That’s all I can give you right now,” he whispers.

And God, does he hope it’s enough.

He’s inconsolable. Stomach dropping. Eyes fixed on a patch of sunlight filtering through the bookshop window, like it might offer him a way out.

But there isn’t one.

There never was.

You sit there in silence, your chest hollowed out by everything he’s given you.

This poor man—battered, scarred, not just physically but soul-deep—who’s lived through horrors you’re only just beginning to grasp.

He’s still here.

He stayed. He survived.

Even when it would’ve been easier not to. You can’t imagine it. You can’t take it away.

But now, finally, you see him.

Every broken, ugly part.

You see all of him.

The only sound in the room is your sobs. His sobs. The line between where you end and he begins blurs, because the grief is so palpable it seems to swallow you both.

He’s curled in on himself, shoulders hunched and trembling, and you realise just how small a person can look when the weight of the world has nearly broken them. The world has been unfair to him—so unfair. 

And now, it’s your turn to figure out what to do.

Because this isn’t a wound you can bandage with a few kind words. This isn’t the kind of trauma that has neat stages you can work through, step by painstaking step. And it sure as hell isn’t the sort of mess any textbook could solve.

A part of you sees the outlines of truth now. The pills in his bathroom. The flinches when someone claps a hand on his shoulder too hard. The nightmares and the shadows under his eyes. Suddenly, so many pieces click into place.

This explains everything.

Then why doesn’t it feel better?

You’re scared to speak, but you know he needs something. Everyone else is gone—scattered in the aftermath of what’s happened to him. 

“Can—” Your voice breaks. You pause, inhaling shakily to steady yourself. “Can I… hold you?”

He lets out a low, ragged sound—somewhere between a groan and a sob—like he’s been waiting for you to ask, yet it pierces him all the same. There’s a vulnerability in the question that knocks the wind from both of you.

“God—yes.”

Please.

No sooner does he say it than you’re scrambling onto his lap. He clings to you with a force that almost hurts, but you don’t tell him to loosen his grip. You guide his head to your chest and hold him like you can piece him back together. 

Like a parent would.

Like his parents didn’t.

You press your fingers into his hair, sliding them through the strands slowly, trying to calm the raging storm inside him. And still, he cries. Deep, shuddering sobs that jolt through his entire body. You can feel each one vibrating in your bones. Each one feels like a testament to how much he’s been carrying alone.

But you don’t know what to do.

All you can do is cradle him, let him unravel against you. Let him press his face to his borrowed jumper as his breath catches again and again. You whisper soothing things you won’t even fully recall later, meaningless words in the language of warmth and touch.

Your thoughts drift to Robin. 

You wonder if she’s seen him like this—held him the way you’re holding him now. If she’s had to stitch him together each time the memories tore him apart. 

The respect you already had for her grows fiercer, more profound. You owe her everything for keeping him safe long enough for you to stumble in and set off this emotional landmine.

Because that’s what happened, isn’t it? 

You wanted answers, you wanted to help. 

But in chasing those answers you pried open something he wasn’t ready to face—something you weren’t ready to face. 

And even though you understand him more than ever now, it feels like a hollow victory. The cost is too high.

He rests against you, breath hitching. You want to tell him it’s okay now—that he’s safe. That this is the last chapter in some terrible book he can close forever and leave to collect dust. 

But you can’t. 

Because it isn’t over. 

There was never any real closure, never a neat solution, and probably never any permission to share what happened in the first place.

The world kept spinning, and he’s stuck carrying secrets nobody else dared to shoulder, in a town that refused to see the truth. That’s the cruelest twist of all—he’s been trapped in silent torment, never allowed to speak. 

Never allowed to heal.

And so, you hold him tighter, your arms a makeshift sanctuary in the face of everything that’s broken him. If you can offer him just one moment of peace, you will. 

You will do whatever it takes, no matter how small, no matter how fleeting.

His sobs begin to slow, each breath growing more subdued as exhaustion pulls him under. You can feel the change in the tautness of his body, how the strength in his grip fades as if some internal dam finally burst and took everything with it. 

Even so, you don’t stop combing your fingers through his hair, not for a second. There’s a desperate hope in your touch—that maybe, somehow, it soothes him. 

It’s the only thing you can think to do.

He doesn’t speak first, he’s already said so much. Let out so many words that weighed on his heart like anchors. When his weeping quiets to unsteady sniffles, you're the one who breaks the silence.

“Are you alright?”

Your voice quivers, the question tasting flat on your tongue. It’s a meaningless thing to say in a moment like this. 

Of course he’s not alright. 

No one would be, after that. 

But he feels a hint of gratitude that you asked anyway. Because you care enough to ask. That alone is worth everything to him.

He gives a slight nod against your chest, face pressed to your shirt as though letting go would mean losing whatever fragile tether he’s holding onto. His lashes are damp, sticking together every time he blinks. 

He wants to say no, but words fail him. Nodding feels safer.

He feels a lot calmer than he expected, lighter, somehow. Free in a way he hasn’t been for longer than he cares to admit. It shocks him. 

Somewhere deep down, a small part of him had convinced itself you would leave. 

Everyone does. But you’re still here. 

You’re not so easily frightened away.

He finally manages to lift his head, and the movement is tentative. A wince tightens his features when a dull ache throbs behind his eyes—headaches are the inevitable fallout of tears this heavy. But that’s a small price to pay. The real weight has been lifted from his chest, at least for now.

You look at him, eyes wet with sympathy. He hates it, hates seeing pity aimed at him; he’s never been good at being vulnerable like this. But at the same time, he can’t resent you for it. You’re only reacting to what you see.

Loosening his grip on your waist, his hands drift to rest on your hips, then your sides, drawing gentle circles through the fabric there. It’s instinctive, a way to ground himself in the moment. He ducks his head, letting out a shaky exhale that carries something like relief.

“I’m guessing we aren’t going to the coffee shop anymore,” he says, forcing a weak attempt at humour. It’s brittle and halfhearted, but it’s all he can manage right now.

Your laugh breaks through his gloom, watery and tender. 

“I have coffee upstairs,” you say, eyes glistening as you try to steer the conversation toward something resembling normalcy. “But I don’t think we need any more caffeine today.”

He nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat, because that’s fair. His nerves are already shot, adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

“I’m sorry,” you begin, voice wavering. “I never would've dug if I’d known…”

He looks up, surprise flickering across his still-blotchy face. 

“I wouldn’t have told you if you hadn’t,” he murmurs, and there’s a note of truth there that resonates in the quiet of the bookshop. 

There was no easy way for this to come out, perhaps it was inevitable.

“Are you angry?” you ask, softly, like you’re afraid of his answer.

“No,” he says, more firmly this time. “I said I wasn’t.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve been lying.”

“I wasn’t.” His gaze flicks to yours, and he almost manages a faint smile. 

He’s done with lying—for now, at least, with you.

He looks at the light streaming through the window behind you, how it outlines your form in a gentle glow. 

Like a halo. 

An angel. 

The corner of his mouth lifts just a little, and he closes his eyes when your fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck again.

“What do you want to do now?” you whisper.

If that isn’t the question of the year…

What does he want to do? 

Does he have to do anything? 

His mind swirls with the aftermath of what he’s just revealed, the emptiness that comes after a storm. 

Maybe he just wants to exist with you, quietly, for as long as the world will let him.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” he asks, voice nearly a plea.

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, and you shake your head in affectionate exasperation. 

“You don’t have to ask,” you tell him gently. “You know that.”

He nods, because he does. But still—he wants to be sure. He’s never liked assuming you’d just say yes, even when it’s obvious.

“Do—do we have to talk about this anymore?” he asks carefully, the question trembling on the edge of his breath. “I don’t know if I have it in me.”

“Do you want to?” you counter, eyes searching his.

“No.” It spills out of him faster than he intends, but it’s honest. 

He’s relived enough horrors for one day.

“Then we won’t,” you say simply, tracing the line of his jaw with a touch so light it makes him shiver. “Thank you for telling me,” you add, voice dipping, “even if I didn’t give you much of a choice…”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you see the conflict in his eyes. 

“It’s alright,” he manages. His breath hitches in his chest, but no more tears fall. “It’s better this way.”

He never thought he’d believe those words, but somehow he does now. Having you here, knowing you know—it’s one less burden on his shoulders.

“Okay.” You sigh, a rush of air that sounds like relief. “I’ll make dinner tonight—my apology.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, shaking his head.

You grin, a wry little smile through the tears. 

“I can make pancakes again?”

A grin tugs at his lips in response, the memory stirs something bright in his chest. He tilts his head, pretending to mull it over. 

“You drive a hard bargain,” he replies, matching your playfulness. And then there’s that giggle again—boyish, warm.

“I know,” you whisper, leaning down and pressing your lips to his. 

The kiss is gentle, a lingering brush that sends a surge of heat and safety through him. He curls his fingers around your back, returning the affection with soft desperation, reluctant to let you pull away.

But eventually, you do. You slip off his lap and stand, offering him your hand, and he takes it. Your fingers thread together as you lead him across the bookshop floor, steps echoing softly, then up the stairs to your living space. A small ripple of relief settles into his heart. 

Tonight, he’ll let you fuss over him—the way you do when you’re loving someone through their worst moments. 

Not the overbearing, pitying kind that he’s used to, but your gentle brand of affection, full of small touches and sweet words. 

He’ll try to help with dinner, even if you bat him away, rolling your eyes at his attempts. And he’ll let himself smile, because you smile back.

He imagines sitting across from you at the table, nudging your foot under it just to make you laugh. 

He can already see you washing his hair in the shower, your fingers massaging his scalp. Maybe he’ll do the same for you, a soft sort of trade-off that seems impossibly intimate. 

You’ll see his scars and he’ll let you touch them without shrinking back, even though it stings to think how they got there.

He’ll try not to feel guilty when he falls asleep on your chest for a change, instead of the other way around. He’ll let your warmth lull him into a gentle slumber. Sure, he’ll have to wake up earlier than you tomorrow for work, but he knows you’ll be the first one up to keep him company if he just asks.

And maybe you’ll drive him, so he won’t have a car, so he’ll have to call you when he’s done. A part of him wants that.

He knows he can ignore the old stresses for a little while—until the next weekend, at least. 

He can’t miss therapy. 

That would be a dead giveaway.

He’s dreading how he’ll need to dodge and weave around certain truths there. He hopes he’s good enough at lying, but at least he won’t have to lie to you anymore.

And that’s the part that makes him feel lighter than he has in ages.

No more secrets. 

No more walls. 

No more hiding this battered, bruised history from the girl his stupid heart beats for. 

Because, for once, he’s not running from the truth.

And for once, he’s not running from you.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen @yourgirlfriennd @purpleyeswithgoldensparkles @keerysfolklore @carlyferrell 

[daylighted]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤSHIELD ! READER.

meet indy . . . properly, because for the entirety of her life, she's been a pretty prop to the only supe capable of handling her, and nothing else. frederick vought was a cruel man, but he was intelligent beyond measure, and with soldier boy out of commission, it was the perfect time for the iconic shield of soldier boy's to be recycled & reused . . . until an even more outlandish idea came into the doctor's mind. a little compound v and a lot of determination ended up with a shield robbed of its durability & an indestructible girl — just in time to put soldier boy back in his place.

WOMAN OF STEEL !! the name indy comes from the word indestructible, the one factor that ben asked for in a shield constructed for him. man could tear and bleed, even if it did not debilitate him. this was a trait also was translated in the scientific creation of indy; the girl created from the shield was impossible to break, or to mar.

WORDS LIKE BULLETS !! indy has been under the legend's careful & watchful eye since the death of frederick vought, not trusted to be let loose as one of vought international's esteemed superheroes, or amongst the civilians themselves. it is not confirmed, but theorized by the legend himself, that indy's "unrivaled cruelty" and "lack of compassion" are not her fault, but instead soldier boy's, for fostering an aggressive environment that effected more than just the people surrounding him, including his titanium shield.

BATTERED & BEATEN !! it is no secret that the shield, in soldier boy's possession and care, endured abuse like nothing else. deflecting bullets, and superhuman fists, and abilities that transcended anything human beings should be capable of. a lot of indy's brash aggression stems from the defense mechanism triggered in life-or-death situations; capable of handling the hurt but not immune to the human instinct to flinch away from hurt after everything she'd been through.

LEGEND IN THE MAKING !! how indy was created is something that isn't known. the main scientist handling her fruition has long been dead, and the scientists who assisted in it are, if not sworn to secrecy, too old to recall the experiments and testing that went on in the original vought laboratories. though, there are some clear indicators in how it effected indy, in the way she flinches at the mention of doctors and testing.

A LIFE WITHOUT LOVE !! there's no surprise in the fact that indy and ben would clash. indy went through hell in soldier boy's care, and then some more in the creation of her human identity. it was thought and expected that the two would get along considering that, back in the day, ben went nowhere without her on his arm, but the trauma rooted itself deep into both of them, and knowing nothing else, the two end up in arms more often than not.

THE GIRL IS A GUN !! it is already a lot for the boys to handle on their own: one of the world's first supes, and the human personified version of that supe's shield, now under their supervision and care while they work to dismantle vought. it is only amplified and made worse by utter dismay evoked between indy and ben whenever they are in the same room together. the only thing that they can do is hope that vought gets caught in the destruction the two make together, because there is no telling if their relationship will sour or sweeten with time.

—ㅤㅤㅤBROKEN PIECES !! ㅤ ๋࣭ ㅤ ⭑ ㅤ ⋆ ㅤ ⭒ ㅤ ˚ ㅤ ｡ ㅤ ⋆

. . . or, the chronological timeline of shield!reader. find the full shield, including shards, in all of its glory here ㅤ — ㅤdiscuss shield!reader nation here !! taglist for indy coming soon.

shield!reader interactive version coming soon, only found on c.ai.

01. BITTER REUNIONS 02. ULTIMATE REVENGE 03. LIVE & LET DIE

—ㅤㅤㅤSHARDS OF TITANIUM !! ㅤ ๋࣭ ㅤ ⭑ ㅤ ⋆ ㅤ ⭒ ㅤ ˚ ㅤ ｡ ㅤ ⋆

. . . or, the pinnacles of thoughts and headcanons about shield!reader. join the discussion in the link above !!

ㅤㅤㅤ⛨ TBD.

notes. baby!reader's impact has gone global. everyone say thank you baby for all of the incredible things inspired by her & thank u dahlia for making this post bc it actually about killed me trying to find funsie words for all of these things ok. anyways biggest shoutout to @theosaurous for planting this idea in my mind i hope u love the flower it will grow into.

again layout inspired by my pookie twin @deansbeer <3 !!! bc as hard as it is every time it EATS every time.

tags. @titsout4jackles @honeyryewhiskey @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @stereotypicalbarbie @whyyouegg @eepwtf @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @jensenacklesballsack @abox-of-rocks @sunsbaby @bluemerakis @jollyhunter @misatxox @angelblqde @bombarda-babe @unfortunate-brat @funkycoloured @chevroletdean @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @voidsuites @bitchykittenconnoisseur @beausling @soldiersgirl @dulcescorderitas @hyacinnths @blushpinkdoll @mccartneyqp @svbnra + all other soldier boy lovers if u want added / taken off pls lmk !

[smuthospital]

⭐️Degrees of lewdly: Eden⭐️

Premise: You're a spooky place youtube explorer, and you get lost in a big scary forest! Eden voorhees lol. Reader is fem. Enjoy!

Art by Minagami

Re-upload because tumblr took it down last time.

Content Warning: Non-con, kidnapping, tummy bulge, blood, Eden is Jason, Voorhees

Miners DNI

You've never really gone hiking before and it's proven itself to be a lot more difficult than you originally thought it would be. You like to explore places you've never been, spooky places. more for the thrill. you started filming it and posting your videos on youtube. You usually take some friends along, but all of your friends decided to be little babies this time since the place you're exploring is extra creepy this time. It's a large forest 20 miles away from your city. You borrowed your mom's car to get here. you always tell them you're at a friend's house because they'd kill you if they ever found out you're putting yourself in possibly harmful situations. This forest is known for creepy sightings, disappearances, ghosts, and lots of other things your viewers would love to watch. You've been to abandoned hospitals, cemeteries, tunnels, all that good stuff. You don't think you'll actually see anything, but you brought a can of pepper spray just in case.

The wind howls, making the trees dance above you. The shapes that were once branches in the day have turned into long gangly fingers that desperately reach for you and the bushes now house entities with red eyes and fangs that you imagine want to tear you to pieces! "Wow, guys. This might just be the scariest one yet, haha. There's probably some sort of scp in here with me haha!" You try to keep yourself company by talking to your soon-to-be viewers when you post this, but it's really just to keep you calm.

"I'm a bit lost. The trail kinda disappeared somewhere around here, I think. there's just so much long grass and it's more of a footpath than an actual trail." you complain as you try to spot any familiar landmarks. It's almost impossible. It might be easier in the day for sure, but the night masks everything. You step over decayed logs and large roots, feeling worry set in. What if you're really lost!? Your thoughts come to an abrupt stop when you hear a strange sound not too far from where you're standing. Your blood freezes as you feel a cold sweat coming on. Maybe...maybe it's a person? And maybe they can help you?..or..a monster!? No, (Y/n), this is no time to be silly! That could be a person willing to help you before you get yourself completely lost!

Little did you know you were already a mile deep, walking in the wrong direction.

“I heard a sound. It could be someone who could help me get back on track.” You whisper. You turn off your video camera's flash light and carefully make your way to where you heard the sound, being careful not to step on anything that could alert whatever it is of your presence. You don’t want to startle it, just in case it's an animal willing to protect its territory from invaders like yourself. The sound came from below you. There's a rocky slope leading down to a river. You get down on your knees and peer between the long grass. You can't make out much in the dim moonlight... until you spot a giant of a man dragging a sack through the shallow water. His size alone sends shivers down your spine. Even from where you're crouching, you could tell he would dwarf you the way a cat would to a mouse. You examine him a bit more.The sack is stained in a dark colour that is seeping through the fabric and into the water. You don't dare move a muscle or even breathe. You can't believe your eyes. This can't be real. Are you in a horror movie?

You make sure he disappears behind the tree line with the mysterious sack before letting out a breath. You didn't want to accidentally alert him of your presence in any shape or form. He was probably just a hunter. Yeah, he could have helped you, but he also could have added you to the wet sack and you were not risking that.

You stand up and turn around, ready to get as far away from here as possible, only to bump your nose into a tree. The collision causes you to drop your camera. That's strange. You don't remember walking around a tree to look over the cliff. You rub your nose in annoyance. Wait a minute... This tree didn't have rough bark like the rest of them...Your brain blanks out. You've been in denial this entire time, your brain working extra hard to rationalize what's happening. Before you is a large torso. You can't even see their shoulders from how close you're standing, just a wide, firm chest. You crane your neck up and it takes you a good three seconds before your brain registers that you're looking at the man from before..and he's wearing a mask!

He looks down at you with a focused gaze. You let out a short scream and try to run away, but being within arm's reach of the giant makes it too easy for him to simply reach out and grab the back of your top. He lifts you off your feet with one arm and brings you to his eye level. He cocks his head to the side, observing you slowly. He looks down at the camera you dropped and places his large boot on it, pressing down and crushing it. You start to hyperventilate. He's gonna chop you up and wear your skin, he's gonna keep you in a dark hole and shout "It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again!" You thrash in his iron grip, pushing at his large hand and sobbing untellable pleas for mercy, but your begging falls on deaf ears. "I-I'm sorry. I-I'll leave, I promise! Please let me go! I-I didn't mean to bother you, I'm sorry!" You cry. Your little struggle seems to have made your shirt ride up a bit, showcasing your supple flesh to his thirsty eyes. His eyes laser focus on your bare skin.

To your confusion, his hand reaches to caress your skin, feeling the smooth texture before slowly moving up. You wiggle more, scared of where this is going. His hand soon finds your breast and cups it before giving it a squeeze. He shudders. His breathing becomes heavier as he continues to mess with your body, his thumb rolling over your nipple. All you can do is whimper and wiggle in his hold. his hand begins sliding down and you scream. You suddenly remember you brought a can of pepper spray, whipping it out of your back pocket and pointing it at his face. Then as you were about to press down and unleash the fire juice, it was gone. In his hand that was previously molesting you lies the remains of your poor pepper spray, crushed and bubbling pathetically. He was so fast you hadn't even realized he snatched it. You just stare at him in horror. To your surprise, he's not even mad, too preoccupied with the need to explore your privates. You hold his wrist and look into his eyes. He looks back into yours as if telling you to stop. You hesitantly let go, and he nods as if to tell you that you've made the right decision. His hand cups your pussy through your jeans, pressing in a bit at the entrance. He seems eager.

He lifts you higher and uncomfortably sets you on his shoulder, his hand on your ass to keep you in place. You don't even bother struggling. You'll wait for an opportunity. If this man wanted you dead, you'd be dead. You don't want to provoke him. From your spot on his shoulder, You notice that he's got a hunting rifle strapped to his back along with a machete. He has an assortment of things attached to his hips among them being a hunting knife and bullet pocket. You shiver. One more off-putting thing that's just about forcing bile up your throat is that he's also covered in a dark wet liquid. You haven't noticed till now, but you haven't been breathing so his smell has now come to your attention. He smells strongly of iron. To that, you're not very surprised.

He starts marching down the hill you were previously watching him from. You have no idea how you saw him disappear through the treeline and he still managed to sneak up on you. He picks up the large stained sack where he left it in favor of locating his little spying mouse. It smells awful, the meaty smell assaulting your senses every second. It's been 15 minutes and an opportunity to escape has not shown itself. This is it. This is how you die. Your body will never be found. Maybe in a few years in a shallow grave by some hiker if you're lucky. This inhuman mass of muscle is going to cut you up and eat you. Maybe even skip cutting you up. He could probably eat you whole as pre-workout. He lifts his leg to step over a large log, his grip on your ass slightly loosening just enough for you to catch him off guard and slip off his shoulder. You grunt as you fall into the dirt and leaves behind him. You scramble up before the giant can scoop you up. You run in a random direction. You just needed to get away from him, getting out of the forest was a problem for later. You didn't even think about how fast he'd be. How could someone be so big and fast!? He took off after you and suddenly, he was on your ass. You've never felt such a primal fear as he chased you like a hungry animal.

A large hand grabs your shoulder and rips you backwards. You fall on your back and stare up at the man now on his knees in front of you, his body completely casting a shadow before yours. He gets down on his hands, caging you too the ground, his body inches above yours. You stare into the holes of his mask and into his rabid eyes. He leans in by your neck. You stop breathing once again, you think your heart stopped. You feel something large and hard pressing roughly into your crotch. You hear him take a deep breath and smell you..."Smells nice." His voice is deep and rough, but it sounds like he rarely uses it. You scream and begin to cry again, not being able to take it anymore. You fight him with all your might. He grabs your wrists with one hand. You hear him chuckle a bit before his hand comes up to cup your check. He suddenly squeezes it and twists your face around to get a better look at your features. He grinds his hips against yours, teasing you of what's to come. He roughly releases your face, before standing to his full height and dragging you up with him. He tosses you back over his shoulder, this time with an almost bone-crushing grip. “Name.” His tone is commanding. When you fail to answer right away, his fingers press into the area on your crotch. Threatening to rip right through. “(Y/n)! My name is (Y/n)!” He hums in response.

Hot tears run down your cheeks as he walks back over to where he left his murder mystery sack. He navigates through the forest as he knows it like the back of his hand until he comes upon a clearing where his home stands. A lonely wooden cabin. He drops the gooey meat bag on the ground. You cringe at the wet sound it makes on impact. You peer over at the sack to see a human hand flop out. Before you could react, he slams his hand over your mouth painfully. "Shut up." He waits for you to nod before removing his hand. He opens his front door and steps inside. It smells musty, like old wood and man smell. Not bad, but not amazing either. He walks up his stairs and sets you on a very large bed. You take a deep breath in, your stomach sore from being jabbed by his shoulder for the entirety of the long walk.

He doesn't let you get comfortable though. His hands are on you in an instant, grabbing your clothes and ripping them to shreds like tissue paper, you're naked before you could even hold any of your clothes together. Hungry eyes leer over you through his mask. You feel his hot breath fan you through the bottom of his mask. "S-stop it, please! Don't hurt me!" You beg. As if to mock your plea, his rough hand grips your plush thigh a little too close to your cunt and squeezes it tightly before shoving it against your chest, making room for himself between them.

He releases you for a moment, only to unzip his uncomfortably tight pants. You shut your eyes and look away, only to feel the soul-crushing weight of his cock slam against your lower stomach. You writhe underneath him, small sobs and hiccups coming from your mouth every few seconds. He pauses for a moment but ultimately decides to continue. You peer up between your wet palms and see him rubbing the tree trunk between his thighs while looking down at your pathetic form.

"W-wait! I-I'm not rea-" He grabs your thighs and forces you closer to him and lines his cock up with your entrance, he slides it up and down your folds, causing you to shudder. He doesn't care if you're ready or not. You shut your eyes as he presses forth. You scream in pain. It won't go in. You're too tight, he's too big and you're dry. The tip can't even get through. You whimper in pain. It burns. You need moisture. He lifts his mask a bit and you get a peek of his jaw. It's noticeably sharp and covered in stubble. You feel his saliva plap against your poor dry cunt before he puts his mask back into place. He tries to enter you again. You yelp. He gets a bit through before he can't anymore. He sighs. He was trying to be gentle. He didn't want to break you so quickly...

He grips your thighs tightly. You feel his nails dig in. You barely have time to register the pain before you feel like you're being ripped in two. He's forcing his way in. You immediately let out a scream and begin spazzing. He just continues until he reaches his base, more than snug against your insides. Drool leaks past the corner of your lip as you stare off into space. He breathes heavily and stares at the bulge he created in your lower stomach. He brushes his hand over it and watches as you whimper and twitch. He pulls his hips back and watches it disappear before ramming himself in again and seeing it jab through your insides. He chuckles.

You lay there, unable to do anything but feel what he's doing to you. You lift your arm and place it on his lower stomach, hoping to stop him that way. You feel his rock-hard abs through his shirt and push. "You're...adorable...fuck.. you're tight." He groans before he slams himself deep inside and you clench around him. He hisses and struggles to pull out halfway, your insides trying to pull him back in. He slams in again and presses himself as deeply as he can, firmly hugging your cervix with his cock. Your eyes cross as he thrusts in and out, keeping a proper pace. Moans spill from your lips along with jumbled-up words he can't make out, all of which sound like music to his ears.

He leans over you, forcing himself snugly against you again, his mask right next to your cheek. He groans as he feels you twitch around him. "Feel..so good... was worried you'd rip... you're only bleeding a little." You can hear the smug grin in his tone.

It feels so good. You're so ashamed, feeling good when you're being raped by a maniac. You clench your tear-filled eyes as he pounds into your aching cunt. The knot in your lower stomach bursts as you cum. He moans as you tighten around him. He stills for a second, just enjoying how you feel before he pounds into you like a feral beast. You're surprised your pelvis is holding up. He grips your waist tight and grunts as he empties his balls deep inside you. You can almost feel yourself getting pregnant. You feel too full. Your stomach bloats with cum. You feel hot and fuzzy. Your pussy is so very sore and your legs are numb. He pants above you. "I've been thinking of getting myself a little wife like you." He says as he slowly pulls his still throbbing cock out with a wet 'pop'. "You're a pretty little thing and you take my cock well. Be grateful I'm letting you live as my cock sleeve." He stands up, towering over your crumpled body once again. "My name is Eden. Your duties from now on are cooking, cleaning, mending my clothes and taking my seed. Do not make me repeat these orders. Object and I won't hesitate to remind you of your place. I was gentle this time." His giant cock is still dripping your juices. You can't stop looking at it. Ge takes notice and climbs over you before grabbing your head and forcing you close to his groin. "I see you love cock. Lick it clean then like a good wife. go on."

You look up at him and hesitate a bit too long. You see anger flash in his eyes and you quickly envelop his tip in your mouth. He groans as you lick your mixed juices off, going as deep as you can without choking. He moans and grabs the back of your head. He stares down at you with such intensity that you can feel him burning holes into you. You suddenly feel your throat being invaded and your nose pressing into his pubic hair, nose pressing into his crotch. He moves you back and forth, face fucking you. You struggle to breathe properly through your nose. You let out muffled whimpers and cries, sending vibrations through his cock. He grunts in pleasure before you feel a load of hot thick liquid being shot into your mouth and down your throat. You're so tired. He slowly pulls his cock back and laughs at your exhausted state. Your head flops back onto the bed, your jaw and lips so incredibly sore and raw feeling. "Good girl." He says before your sight fades to black. You explored a bit too much.

[aerynwrites]

Mistaken Identity

Halsin x fem!Reader

A/N: based on this request. this was such a cute idea! I hope you all enjoy! :3

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: none - just pure fluff

The forest is peaceful today, not that it isn't usually peaceful in your little part of the woods. But today feels…different somehow. 

It’s just like any other day you’ve had since you settled down in your cottage in the middle of nowhere, desperate to get away from the cities and towns and the bustle of people. You tended your garden earlier in the morning to avoid the worst of the day's heat, and now you’re checking your hunting traps, this trip already proving more fruitful than the ones in recent days. 

You’re working on checking your fourth and last trap, a large rabbit caught in your snare when you hear the faint shuffling of leaves, followed by the snapping of twigs. You stand upright, rabbit in your hand as you turn in a circle, eyes trying to find the source of the sound. 

You’re not an expert on the natural world just yet, but whatever is approaching sounds larger than you're ready to deal with. You quickly tuck the small animal into your pack, muttering a quick prayer for its soul before moving to go back the way you came. You’re just coming out of the small clearing when you come face to face with the largest cave bear you’ve ever seen. 

It’s massive. It’s head nearly level with your own as you both freeze in your tracks. Fear courses through you, making your heart pound as blood rushes in your ears. Any and all advice on what to do when encountering a bear has left your mind frustratingly blank, only allowing you to watch the creature in wide eyed terror as you opt to stay completely still. 

It doesn’t attack you immediately which you take as a good sign, but it does raise its head slightly, nose twitching as it sniffs and huffs at the air before lowering it’s head and taking a few steps towards you. You want to take a step back as it moves closer, but you find yourself rooted to the spot as the bear approaches you, nose sniffing curiously at the bag slung over your shoulder. 

Your hunting bag. 

“Oh…” you let out a shaky sigh, as you pull the bag off and set it on the ground slowly, revealing the contents of it to the bear. If this is what it’s after, maybe you can slip away as it eats your kills. 

“It’s rabbit…a few good juicy ones,” you say, finding yourself calming ever so slightly as you speak to the bear. 

He continues to sniff at the bag before letting out a disinterested huff, nosing it back towards you. 

Is he…letting you have it back?

Cautiously you reach down to pick up the bag once again, slinging it over your shoulder when the bear makes no sudden moves. 

“Thank you…” you trail off, feeling silly for thanking a bear who can’t understand you. 

Before you can question the odd situation you find yourself in, it gets even more odd. The bear approaches you again, but this time he presses his nose into the crook of your neck, his wet nose cold against your skin and causing you to shriek as you scramble away - both from surprise and fear. 

He doesn’t chase after you like you thought he would, instead the bear lets out a small huff and tilts his head to the side, as if considering you. You decide to take that moment to make your retreat, before he can consider you long enough to make you his lunch.

You back away from the creature slowly, planning to just keep going until you're out of sight. But before you can get very far the creature lets out another chuff and turns away from you to head deeper into the forest. You stop as you watch him disappear into the foliage, and can’t help the curiosity that courses through you. 

What an odd bear.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

If you’d thought that would be the only encounter with the unusually docile bear, you were wrong. It seemed like almost any time you left the immediate area around your small cottage you would stumble upon the bear. 

At first you were still hesitant. Still very aware that this is a wild animal very capable of killing you. But as days turned into week, and weeks turned into months…the large bear became a pleasant constant in your life. Pretty much your only friend out in this isolated part of the woods. 

You’re thick as thieves, the two of you. He’d always be near when you were preparing your kills, happily eating whatever you discarded. But you noticed he had a certain fondness for the fruits in your garden and the honey from your hives rather than the meat you prepared, so you’d started to grow a little extra just for him. 

You’ve started to notice he’s present in your days more often than not, lumbering beside you wherever you go and staying near if you stop. He also loves to be pet - something you find quite endearing. The day he practically rolled over when you scratched behind his ears was the day you hoped he’d never go far. 

And he’s a very good listener. Even if he’s not much of a conversationalist - you can’t seem to shake the odd feeling that he understands you. You don’t ever feel like you have much to say, but your occasional trips to nearby villages offer some conversation and it’s like your bear companion would huff or growl or chortle at all the right moments. He rumbles in agreement if you ask him questions or growls if he seems upset…

In fact…the longer you spend around the unusual creature the more… human he starts to seem. 

You shake your head at the thought as you weed your garden. You know it’s not possible, but the entire thing is just so out of the ordinary you suppose your mind can’t help but try to find explanations for it. 

You tug at a particularly tough weed, pulling hard enough that when it comes free from the ground you fall back onto your hands. 

“The weeds are particularly nasty this time of year.”

A surprised shout falls from your lips as you whip around to the source of the voice, stumbling quickly to your feet at the same moment. 

You’re not used to visitors this far from the nearby towns, and you're certainly not used to large handsome eleven men looking at you from the other side of your fenced in garden. 

The man holds his hands up placatingly, lips tilted up ever so slightly in a small smile. 

“I’m sorry, I did not mean to frighten you.” 

You can’t stop the scoff you let you, hand clutching at the fabric over your chest. 

“Well, you certainly have an odd way of showing it,” you chastise lightly, still wary of the stranger. 

He bows his head in apology, one hand coming up to rest over his heart. “My apologies again. I tried knocking on your door but no one answered…”

“So you came to snoop around in my backyard?” You ask, brows raised as your arms cross over your chest. 

The man lets out a small laugh, and you try to ignore the fluttering feeling it produces in your belly. 

“It would seem that way, yes,” he says, voice light. “But in truth I only wanted to introduce myself. My name is Halsin, I’m an archdruid in the grove just down the road from the abandoned village.” 

An image flashes in your mind, of a wooden door partially hidden by foliage. You passed it when you would travel to a town several hours away. You’d once tried to investigate the area only to be warned off by a few druids at the top of the wall. 

You’d made a point to stay away since then. 

You shift on your feet slightly, a sudden anxiety flaring up in your chest at the presence of someone like an archdruid seeking you out. Are you on their land somehow? Have they come to run you off after you’ve just started to build a life for yourself here?

Halsin must notice your shift in demeanor, as he holds his hands out towards you in a calm manner. 

“I did not come to disturb you,” he promises. “Only to open the gates of the grove to you. It has been many years since people other than ourselves have made this land home.” 

You finally take a few tentative steps forward. Hands falling to your sides. “I didn’t get a very warm welcome when I stumbled upon your… grove, the first time.” 

Halsin’s lips fall slightly at that. “Yes, some of the others are more wary of outsiders,” he admits. “But nature connects all living creatures. I only came to make the offer in an effort to ease your time here. The grove is much closer than the nearest town, and we most likely have what you need if you’d ever like to trade.” 

You’re stunned slightly by his offer. It takes you almost an entire day to get to the closet trading town. The grove he speaks of is much closer, less than an hour's walk from your home. You'd be a fool to turn down the offer. So, with a small nod of your head you accept. 

“That would be…wonderful,” you admit, noticing the smile returning to the Druid's lips. “Thank you.” 

“The pleasure is mine,” Halsin says, his eyes turning to the sky. “I must be going. If you wish to enter the grove just tell them I paid you a visit and offered you sanctuary, they will let you pass.” 

You nod once again, and Halsin turns wishing you farewell, your name falling sweetly from his lips. 

It’s only when he’s out of sight do you realize you never gave him your name.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The next few weeks pass in a surprisingly blissful and giddy blur. 

You took Halsin up on his offer to visit the grove, and true to his word you were let in without much fuss, the arch druid himself waiting when you entered. He introduced you to one of the druids who was the main trading hub in the grove as well as the healer Nettie in case you ever needed anything in that regard. 

You had expected the tour to stop there as he left you to your devices, but he continued to show you the grove, his home and his favorite things about it. 

You visited often after that, always under the guise of visiting to trade or buy but secretly using the trips as an excuse to see Halsin. The man has grown on you, and more often than not, you find your thoughts drifting to him as butterflies erupt in your chest. 

With each encounter you think you find him returning your small flirtations. A teasing comment here, a hand on your back there. 

On your most recent trip to the grove, Halsin had shown you a secret little alcove tucked away from the more busy parts of the small colony. It overlooked the river and you could tell Halsin spent much time here by the small bedroll tucked neatly against a large rock and the small pouches of provisions. 

You’d both snacked on dried meat and fresh fruit as he told you stories from his youth, laughter ringing out in the small clearing at the more mischievous adventures he’d had. 

You’d just popped an apple slice drizzled in honey into your mouth when Halsin turned to look at you, eyes dipping down to your lips. 

You’d paused, chewing the bite quickly before swallowing. “What? Have I got something on my face?” You ask, brows furrowed. 

Halsin didn’t respond at first, and it was in that deafening silence that you realized just how close you two were sitting. At this angle, with Halsin looking down at you, your noses are mere inches from another and you can feel his breath ghosting gently over your cheek.

He slowly reached a hand up, resting it against your cheek as his thumb wiped gently at the corner of your mouth. Your lips parted slightly at the action, and Halsin leaned just that much closer, his lips just barely brushing yours when a distant call of his name snapped you both back to reality. 

You let out a frustrated sigh as you flop back onto the furry heap behind you, ignoring the annoyed huff your companion lets out. “He was going to kiss me!” You say, exasperated. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. If we hadn’t been interrupted…”

You sigh as you sit up and turn to look at the bear who has become one of your closest companions. He’s been more absent as of late, and at first you had thought it was because you’ve been at the grove more often and you just haven’t been around to see him. Something that made you feel bad at first. 

But even on the days you weren’t at the grove, your companion was nowhere to be found, even despite the bowls of fruit and honey you’d leave for him. 

Today is the first day you’d seen him in days, and it was just in time for him to listen to you rant about the elf you’ve fallen head over heels for. Though, he doesn’t seem to mind. You move so you’re able to wrap your arms around the big bear's neck, your face resting just behind his head as you lay against him. 

“I…I like him a lot,” you admit. 

You know the bear can’t understand you. You know it’s foolish to talk to an animal. But you can’t help but talk to someone about how you feel. You can’t exactly talk to Halsin about this considering he’s the subject of your thoughts. 

The bear seems to still beneath you as you continue, as if listening intently to your words. 

“He’s so kind,” you continue. “He allowed me into his home and shared so much with me despite not knowing who I was. And he’s funny too,” you let out a small laugh at that, heat rushing to your face. “And handsome…”

You sigh and shake your head. “I feel like some people might find him intimidating or rugged in a bad way if they just saw him and never talked to him but…I think he’s beautiful. His smile is so captivating, and anytime I look at him I want to reach up and trace his scars before finally, finally kissing him…”

You huff, pulling away from your furry friend only to find bright hazel eyes already on you. “Listen to me,” you chastise. “Talking to a bear about my silly crush.” You smile and reach up to ruffle the bear's ears gently. “At least you’re a good listener.”

You move to stand, the bear doing the same, his nose nuzzling at your hand as if begging you to stay. 

“I know, I know,” you say softly. “I haven’t been around as much. But I have to get ready. I…I invited Halsin over for dinner tonight,” you tell him, smiling when he gives a small groan of what you assume to be encouragement. “I promise tomorrow I will have the biggest bowl of fruit and honey you could ever eat. As a sorry gift.”

The bear huffs at this before sitting down and plopping back to the forest floor, resting his head on his paws. You smile and ruffle the fur on his head one last time before heading home. 

You have a druid to impress.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The knock to your door comes just as you’re about to finish off the meal you’ve prepared. You roasted some fish you caught in the nearby river and paired with vegetables from your garden, and even a loaf of fresh bread you managed to scrounge up. 

You silently tamp down the anxiety building in your chest as you rush to the door, wiping your hands on your apron before opening it to greet the tall druid on the other side. 

Halsin smiles down at you from the threshold, eyes twinkling as he gazes at you. “Hard at work, I see.”

You furrow your brows at his greeting, and Halsin takes the moment of confusion to reach up and wipe a thumb gently across your cheek. It’s then that you register the flour on your cheeks, heat rushing to your face as you reach up to try and wipe away any excess when he drops his hand. 

“Oh that,” you laugh. “It’s probably from the bread. I just finished getting everything ready if you want to come in,” you say, stepping aside and gesturing for him to enter. 

He smiles warmly at you, accepting your invitation before closing the door behind him. He then reveals a wine bottle he’s had in his hand, offering it out to you. 

“A gift for a most gracious host,” he says in a way of explanation. “Though I must admit it is nothing as elaborate as you’d find in the cities…It’s still better than nothing.”

Your lips tilt upward at the kind gesture, and you reach out to take the bottle. “I’m sure it’s lovely, oh-” your eyes widen as you take in the pale color of the wine inside. “And it’s a white wine…That’s perfect for the meal, white always pairs wonderfully with fish.”

You let out a soft laugh as you turn the bottle in your hands before looking up at Halsin once more. “It’s like you read my mind.”

A flash of… something flickers in his eyes at your words, his lips twitching downwards ever so slightly. “Something of that nature, I suppose.”

You quickly shrug off your momentary observation, moving instead to take off your apron and wash your hands before serving dinner. You also take this moment to run a damp rag over your face when Halsin isn’t looking, clearing away any more unwanted blemishes. 

Once you’re through, Halsin helps you carry the various plates and bowls to the table, eyes widening slightly when they land on the flaky fish steaming on one of the large plates. 

You set a plate in front of him as he takes his seat, speaking before you can stop yourself. “I chose fish because I wasn’t sure if you ate… meat,” you scrunch your nose. “Although now that feels silly considering fish is a type of meat-”

Halsin cuts off your worried rambling by reaching out to place his hand over your own where it rests on the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s wonderful,” he assures you, withdrawing his hand with an amused sparkle in his eye. “And I can assure you that meat is a part of our diet,” he teases. “Though I could see why one may think it would not be. Death is a part of life in nature, creatures passing in order to provide for another.”

You nod, relief washing over your anxiety. “Yes, of course. That makes more sense I suppose,” you say before gesturing to the food steaming before you. “Well, help yourself. We don’t want it to get cold.” 

Halsin smiles and obliges your invitation, but instead of serving himself he moves to serve you first. 

“Oh!” You say, instantly reaching out to stop him. “You don’t have to do that, you’re the guest you should eat first-“ 

“I insist,” Halsin interrupts, already moving to place a piece of fish onto your plate. “You took the time to cook and invite me into your home. The least I can do is serve you before myself.” 

After a moment of hesitation you acquiesce, smiling as you sit back in your chair while he finishes dishing out your meal to you and then himself. 

Once the food is plated, the night moves much quicker than you would have liked, conversation flowing easier than you ever anticipated. Talks of what’s been happening in the grove to what you’ve recently planted in your garden to everything in between.

Halsin tells you of his childhood and the adventures he’s been on and you tell him of your life growing up in the city to what led you here to your own little slice of wilderness. It’s only when your plates are empty, bellies are full and the mess cleaned up does Halsin suggest a walk.

You eagerly agree, following his lead out of your small home and into the forest now blanketed in faint orange light due to the setting sun. Halsin seems to have a specific place in mind, taking your hand in his own as he leads you through the woods. 

You can’t stop the smile as he laces his fingers with yours.

“So, do you have a specific place in mind?” you ask.

Halsin smiles. “I do, it’s a place of great importance to me, and one of my favorite places of solace in the forest.”

Your brows wing up in surprise as you look up at him. “What makes this place so important?” 

“I…” he trails off for a moment, “I met someone very special to me there.”

You nod, your curiosity piqued even more at this information. Who could he have met there? And why was he sharing it with you?

You don’t have time to voice your questions though, as Halsin’s steps start to slow just as you enter an all too familiar clearing off the bank of the river. It’s the very same clearing where you met your bear friend, and where you often come to sit with the large creature. You were here just this morning. 

Halsin must sense your familiarity with the space, because he gives your hand a small squeeze. “You know this place?”

You nod, lips tilting upwards fondly. “Yeah I…” you feel heat rush to your cheeks. “You’re going to think I'm crazy but…I’ve actually befriended a bear that I think lives in the woods. This is where we end up a lot of the time.”

“A bear, you say?” he asks, voice lacking the surprise you expected to hear. 

You turn to face Halsin, that feeling of familiarity that you had when you first met him tugging at your mind. “Halsin…why did you bring me here?”

The druid lets out a small sigh. “I will be honest that I had a plan in mind when I brought you here,” he begins, turning to face you as he takes both of your hands in his own.

“My life has been a long one, and I have taken many lovers. My heart does not stir lightly, especially as the years pass me by…” slowly, he reaches up to cup your cheek. “But it does now. I feel more for you than I have in centuries. But there is something I must tell you.” 

Your heart is pounding in your chest, blood rushing in your ears as Halsin speaks. He’s confessing to you, telling you the one thing you;ve yearned to hear for weeks now. Yet, you can’t help the anxiety that roils in your belly. What could he possibly have to tell you? 

“I…I feel the same way,” you tell him, swallowing thickly. “You can tell me anything.”

Halsin smiles, but you can’t help but notice the slightly guilty look on his face as he does so. “I only hope you feel the same after I reveal what I must. I’ve come to care for you, deeply - but even I know no relationship can be built on lies.”

Halsin pulls away from you then, and your anxiety skyrockets. But before you can question him, a burst of light blinds you, leaves and grass exploding in the space where Halsin was and leaving behind a -

Bear?

It takes your eyes a moment to adjust, but when they do, your heart leaps into your throat. Halsin just turned into a bear - something you knew was possible among druids but…

He didn’t just turn into a bear. He turned into your bear. The bear you’ve spent months feeding and befriending. The bear you’ve spent nights talking to about anything and everything. 

Including Halsin. 

You’ve been talking to Halsin about Halsin. About your feeling for him, about that day he almost kissed you before getting interrupted. 

“Oh my gods… ” You gasp, one hand coming up to cover your mouth. “You - You’re the bear. The bear I've been - that means…” you let out an embarrassed groan, covering your eyes as you hope for the earth to open up and swallow you whole. 

“You heard me this morning! ”

You hear another burst of magic, and then two warm calloused hands are wrapping around your wrists, pulling your hands from your burning face as you look up at Halsin in his human form once more. 

“It was not my intention to deceive you,” he says softly, eyes full of regret. “When I first stumbled upon you that day all those months ago it was my intention to avoid this area of the forest after that, but…” he sighs. “Something about you called to me. Your kindness, your lack of fear around the bear of whom so many are afraid. It is…rare for me to be able to be my full self around others. Most people want the man and tremble at the bear, but it is just as a part of me as this is.”

He sighs again, eyes falling away from yours as he takes a step back from you, dropping your hands. “I…understand if this turns you away. It was a deception, despite my intentions never being malicious.”

You watch him silently for a moment, letting the information sink in. despite what most people may feel, you find yourself lacking any of the anger you expected. Instead all that comes out of you is a laugh, a laugh that turns into a long string of bubbling laughter. 

Halsin seems surprised by your reaction, and when you finally manage to compose yourself you step forward and take his hands in yours again, lips split into a smile. 

“So, that means you heard what I said this morning? About the day you almost kissed me?” you ask, voice soft.

At the reminder of your earlier conversation, Halsin smiles again, cheeks tinged with a barely there blush. “I do.”

“Will you kiss me now?” you ask boldly.

Halsin chuckles, eyes sparkling with delight. “It would be my pleasure.”

Then his lips are on yours. 

It’s just as you imagined it, his lips soft and gentle against your own despite his size. His hands move to rest against your hips, squeezing as he moves to deepen the kiss. You feel his tongue run along the seam of your lips, and you eagerly let him in, unable to stop a whimper as he enters your mouth. 

He tastes like the tart wine you had with dinner and something you can only identify as him. It's heady and soft all at the same time, and you find yourself craving more of it, more of him. 

Your arms slide up to wrap around his neck, pulling his body closer to yours just as he pulls away from your lips. His chest heaves, his breaths puffing against your cheek as he looks down at you. 

“You truly are beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning down to brush a kiss against your cheek. “Inside and out. Silvanus has blessed me, this day.”

You smile. “And hopefully for more days to come.”

Pressing a quick kiss to your lips, Halsin wraps his arms around your waist. “I would have you for as many days as you’d allow. Man or bear.”

You giggle at that. “Why not both?”

A deep laugh escapes the man before you and he spins you happily in the air before taking you both gently to the forest floor, the grass blessedly cool through your clothes as he comes to hover over you. 

“You shall have me however you desire, my heart,” he says, before leaning down to kiss you once more.

You happily reciprocate, hands reaching up to thread through his hair. And as you lay amongst the grass beneath the setting sun…you couldn’t be happier you’d met a bear.

[carmenberzattosgf]

s3 carmen i need to take you out to the alley to give you a freak nasty blowjob to make you calm down-💫

let’s talk about blowing Carmy to give him stress relief. Word count: 1613

I’m thinking about working at the bear as a server. You and Carmy have always had tension. Longing glances that went on a little bit too long. Lingering touches of his hand on your waist when he needs to get around you.

This night, Carmy is on fire during service. There’s practically steam coming out of his ears. He’s barking orders without a care, expecting to be listened to. Usually, he directs most of his anger towards the kitchen staff, but you land in his crosshairs.

“Why the fuck is it taking you so long inbetween plates? Are you taking the scenic view back to the kitchen or some shit? Stop wasting time and hurry the fuck up.”

“Chef. Chill,” you respond. As soon as the words leave your mouth, you realize how bad of an idea it was to say that.

“The only thing you should be saying is ‘Yes, chef’. Do you want to try that again?” You turn to face Sydney instead of Carmen, trying to keep your cool.

“Chef Syd. Can you hold down the fort for a second? I need to talk to Carmy really quick.”

Carmy interjects before Sydney can even reply. “The fuck? I’m doing my job here. Now, can I get—“

“Chef. It’s fine. Go cool off a bit,” Sydney replies, stepping up to the expo. Carmy sighs, running a hand in his hair, before storming off through the back door. You follow suit, catching the door before it slams.

Carmy leans against the back of the building. His fingers are in his hair, tugging at his roots in an attempt to dull his anger. Under his breath, he mutters a slew of curses and god knows what else. Somehow, you find the courage to stand in front of him, toe to toe.

“Carmen, you need to calm down. You can’t lash out on people like a toddler when you don’t get exactly your way.”

“I- I can’t fucking turn it off.” His voice is laced with venom. He looks directly into your eyes. That furious look still present in his features. “I need people to- to fucking listen to me, and f-fucking go faster.”

You can’t deny the tension brewing between you and Carmy in the dim alleyway. His breath fans against your cheek. It would take just a small lean in for your lips to press against his. That’s not what you do, though.

Instead, your hand moves, as if on its own accord, to just barely palm his groin. His eyes widen as he takes in a gasp of air. Pure shock falls on his features. “You need to let your stress out. Do you want a way to do that, Carm?” you ask.

“I w-what— what?” he stammers. His cheeks flush in an instant. You chuckle as you feel him hardening through his pants. You lean into him, but your lips miss his own, choosing to target the corner of his mouth.

Your mouth trails gently, chaste kisses from the corner of his mouth, down his jaw, and to his neck. You don’t spend time sucking on the skin. If a bruise appeared on his neck after this, everyone would know. Instead, you trail your tongue on his pulse point. His body shivers against you. “C’mon, Carmy. Do I need to spell it out for you?” You punctuate your sentence by applying pressure with your palm to his length. You can’t see his face, but you can hear the groan he tries to keep under his breath.

You drop to your knees in front of him, thankful for the thick fabric of your pants. You gaze up at his face with the most innocent look you can muster given the situation. Carmy can’t even comprehend the sight of you on your knees for him. The fear of someone seeing is the last thing on Carmen’s mind. “Are—fuck—are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Take my cock out.” Carmy’s voice commands just like he’s giving you orders in the kitchen.

“Yes, Chef,” you whisper. He tenses from your choice of words. Your fingers dip into the waist band of his slacks before pulling them down to his knees. His underwear falls down with them, leaving him bare and hard in front of you.

He’s huge, way bigger than you would have expected. The tip is already leaking precum. You can’t take your eyes off of his lower half. He hides a lot of muscle under his chef whites. The V-lines of his hips are deep and defined, guiding you right to his cock. Your eyes catch glimpse of a happy trail that extends under the fabric of his shirt.

“Like what you see?” His voice is low and gravely.

You don’t look up at him, not yet. Your hands slide underneath his shirt to tug up the fabric, letting you see the rest of his stomach. The happy trail runs up to his navel. Your finger tips trace the lines of his abs. You can’t resist the urge to press kisses to his stomach. Here, you don’t have to working about marks showing, so you suck and bite at his skin. Carmy’s hand briefly cups the back of your head, threading into your hair before letting go.

“You’re so pretty, Carm,” you admit with brutal honesty. It’s true. He’s built like a Greek god. For the first time, you’ve rendered Carmy speechless with just your words. The second time you render him speechless happens when your lips wrap around the tip of his cock. You moan as the salty taste hits your tongue. Your cheeks hollow inwards to suck lightly.

“F-fuck. Fuck—fuck.” You snap your eyes up to look at him. There’s sweat forming at his brow. His hands clench at his sides in a white knuckle grip. With his gaze on you, you lick a broad stripe from the base of his cock to the tip, making a show out of it. His dick twitches on your tongue.

You can’t stand not having Carmy’s hands on you, so you take one of his hands and place it on your cheek. Not waiting a second, you take his cock all the way into your mouth. Your nose reaches the trail of hair you noticed earlier.

“Holy shit—look at you,” Carmy murmurs. His tough hand cups your cheek, lazily rubbing his thumb on your skin. Without realizing it, Carmy’s hips sink a just a little bit deeper into your throat. It reaches the point of too much, making you gag. You don’t lift off of him, though. Tears well up in your eyes as you keep his dick deep inside your mouth.

“Is it too much? You’re gagging for it,” he spits out. He’s trying to keep his composure, but his voice is full of need. “Shit—babe. Can I— can I fuck your mouth? We’ve already—fuck— already been out here too long,” Carmy practically begs.

You lift off of his cock looking utterly debauched. Spit runs down your chin, and your lips are swollen red. “If it’ll help you calm down, you can do whatever you want with me, Carm. Use me.”

“Yeah? You want that? What a good girl for me.” Carmy grasps his length in his hand, guiding himself to your lips. Your mouth falls open letting his cock sink all the way into your throat. The grasp of his hands is different from before. This time, both of his hands are on your face, palm resting on your cheeks. The rest of his hand wraps around your head, holding you firmly.

Carmy is really efficient. His cock pounds into your throat with zero hesitation. It’s near animalistic the way he’s holding your head and using you. “S’good so fuckin’ good. Takin’ my cock so good, baby,” he mumbles, too lost in pleasure to care about the words leaving his lips. “Gonna—gonna cum down your throat. You’d like that wouldn’t you? To be my little cum slut?” A deep moan reverberates through your mouth at his words. He’s lost all filter.

It’s only a few more thrusts before Carmen spills into your mouth with a strained groan. Just as you’re able to swallow, Carmy pulls to up to your feet. His lips smash against yours. The kiss is fierce and all consuming. His tongue dips into your mouth, battling with your own. Carmy groans into your mouth when he tastes himself on your tongue.

Strings of spit unite your lips when he pulls back. There’s a new look in his eyes that you can’t quite describe. “A-are you—“ you have to clear your throat, still sore from his cock. “Are you feeling calmer now? D-did that help?” Your voice is completely shot and raspy.

“Fuck, baby. You’ve got my heart beating out of my chest. Thank you for uh— for doing that. I was being an asshole,” he admits.

“You just needed someone to relieve some stress. I’m happy I could help you.”

“You’re coming home with me after service. Gotta take care of you since you took care of me.” Carmy leans in to give you a soft kiss. “And… you might wanna head straight to the bathroom to clean up a bit. Don’t need anyone else to see you like this. You’re too fucking pretty.”

Carmy is like a new man when he walks back into that kitchen. He’s more toned down, and careful about the yelling. Sydney thinks you must have been a therapist in a past life, because whatever you did managed to chill Carmy out.

It’s a week tops until someone in the kitchen finds out you two are fucking.