#literally fucked you into a new shape and then molded you into the mattress

[linpunny]

Admiration Summary: Yuuji has always been fascinated by your cunt. He always took his time and admired the way it looked

CW: oral (F!recieiving) Black!reader, daddy kink, unprotected sex, creampie

Pairing: Yuuji x (black)fem!reader ft. Sukuna

Yuuji has seen pussy before, but it was something about his girlfriend’s pussy that always fascinated him.

He loved playing and toying with it. Pumping his fingers in and out slowly, then pulling them out to watch the trail of slick that clung to his digits. How he would rub over your puffy clit and watch how it swells with blood and pulse like it has its own heartbeat. But what fascinated him the most was how yours was the smooth mocha color and not pink.

“It's always so soft.” He murmured, leaning down to place a tender kiss on her lips.

You squirmed around on the bed. Yuuji always did this. He always took his time to admire your cunt like it was his first time seeing it. You tossed your head back into the pillow when he kissed your pussy with those soft yet firm lips of his before he used his thumbs to spread you open even further.

He murmured about how wet you were and your response was automatic, “All for you, Yuuji.” You moaned when he took his tongue and licked up your drenched hole.

“So sweet.” Yuuji said as he ran his wet muscle up and down your slit. He rut his hips down into the mattress as he ate his girlfriend out. He loved how you tasted on his tongue. Your cunt always tasted like honey and he was addicted to your flavor.

Yuuji sucked your clit into his mouth and circled his tongue over it. Pushing a long, thick finger inside, your moans were becoming like a melody to his ears.

Another whine left your throat. While you loved being filled with his thick fingers, you wanted something else. You wanted to feel his cock thrusting into you, stretching your walls out from the girth. Your fingers curled into his pink hair as he hummed, sending the vibrations straight to your clit. “Baby…” you whined out, fingers tugging at his locks impatiently. “Please. I need it.”

He pulled away slightly, his face wet with your juices, a string of your fluids clinging to his chin. His lips quirked into a smirk at the neediness of your voice and his slid his finger along your slit, listening to the lewd sound your wet pussy made and admiring the contrast between his skin and yours.

He loved watching his fingers disappear within your dripping hole. “Aww, but sweetheart, I wanna enjoy your pussy some more. It's always so cute to look at and taste.” His actions deceived his words as he slid up your body, his heavy cock nudging at your sopping entrance.

Your nails dug into his back as he slowly pushed inside, the stretch burned so good. Yuuji loved going so slow as he liked to gaze down at your joined bodies as his thick cock eased into your clenching hole. “Y-Yuu-” His name broke off into a mantra as you moaned in his ear.

You gasped as he bottomed out within you. You happened to glance down and saw how your skins contrasted against each other and for the first time you understood his obsession. The clash of dark and light was so beautiful. You watched as his dick pull out until the bulbous pink head was left inside, slick with your juices.

“It’s so soft, warm and wet inside, babe.” He groaned as he leaned down to take your lips in a sloppy kiss. Yuuji grunted as he watched your pretty face twist up from the pleasure as he gave a slow stroke, feeling your walls quiver around him as you came.

He treaded his fingers through your hair, gently combing out any tangles. “You’re so beautiful when you’re coming undone on my cock.” He hissed slightly when your nails clawed at his back again. “Careful, doll. You’ll bring him out.”

You knew who he was talking about.

The cursed spirit that resided within your Yuuji’s soul. But the slow methodical strokes he was giving you felt too good. You could not help but to dig your nails into his back with each thrust inside.

“F-fuuck…Yuu-Yuuji…feels too good.” Your eyes snapped open when his slow thrusts suddenly sped up, nearly ramming into you and locked eyes with the crimson eyes of Ryoumen Sukuna. “Ryou…men…” you moaned out.

Sukuna pounded you into the mattress, watching the way his length slid in and out of your pretty pussy. He, also, admired the way your skin clashed against his. It was sexy. “I only have a minute until that brat comes back. I will make good on that.”

He grabbed your legs and pushed them against your chest in a mating press so that he could watch how your mocha walls clung to his dick as he pulled out. “Fucking beautiful.”

Screams fell from your lips as my lower back began to burn from the position Sukuna had you in. He was always rougher with you, but he never harmed you. Yuuji and he came to an agreement that if you scratched Yuuji’s back too hard, Sukuna could come out and fuck you for the full minute his extension would allow him. “D-daddy…please m’gonna cum.”

He groaned at the feeling of your walls quivering around him, the telltale signs of your approaching orgasm. His sped up his pace, hands wrapped around your ankles as a smirk spread over his lips. You've never called the brat ‘Daddy,’ that name was reserved only for him. “Say it.” He demanded. “Say who owns this pretty pussy, slut.”

“You. It belongs to you, Daddy!” you practically shouted as you felt your walls quiver around him. Your body spasmed as you came undone by Sukuna’s cock. You sighed when the hard grip on your ankles loosened and gentle lips pressed against your calf.

“Yuuji..” you cooed out, your body sore and tired from Sukuna’s brutal thrusts. You reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down until his forehead was pressed against yours. You tilted your head up and gave him soft lazy kisses.

He returned the sweet kisses as he breathed in your scent. “He wasn’t too rough with you.” He gave a gentle thrust, his cock still very hard. “Because I haven’t cum yet.” Yuuji chuckles at the small whine you give, but he knew that you wanted his cum deep inside your aching body.

"Yuu..." you sighed as you wrap your legs around his waist, bucking your hips. "Fuck me, baby. Want you t'cum."

It didn't take much for Yuuji to follow your plea, thrusting into without abandon, heavy balls clapping against the curve of your ass. He head rolls back as he loses himself in the tight feeling of your cunt clenching down on is length, trying to milk him for all that he was worth. "Fuck, princess. m'gunna cum. That what you want? Say that's what you want, cutie. Please?" Yuuji quickly grabs your wrists and pin them above your head so that you couldn't scratch his back again.

Another whine vibrates i your chest as your back arches off the mattress. "Please? Yuu, I need it. Need to be filled with your hot cum. Need for it to drip out of me please?"

Your words were like a trigger as Yuuji's balls twitch once before he seed spurts out and paints your insides white with thick ropes of cum. "Fuuuck, I love you. I love you so much, cutie." He moans out as he rocks his hips gently, planting sweet kisses to your lips.

©️2022-23 nymphoheretic - I do not give permission to copy, edit, alter, or distribute my work. Do not adverse on tiktok. Do not repost on any other platform.

Network: @enchantedforest-network

[here2bbtstrash]

self control (explicit)

genre: my first foray into angst !!!! with a side of smut~

pairing: hoseok x reader (imagined)

summary: you'll never know the way hoseok really feels about you.

word count: 1k

contains: explicit sexual content ~ member POV, unrequited love, masturbation, imagined: [infidelity, cunnilingus, sex, choking, & dumbification if you squint], hobi is rly hard on himself :'( also a small allusion at the end to rituals around cleanliness or obsessive-compulsive tendencies

A/N: please don't ask me what inspired this because i haven't a clue my friends 💀 just deep in my cancer season/yearning feels over here I GUESS. but i let myself write a little differently to fit The Vibe and i think i like how it turned out~

i like don't even want to post this considering i just dropped so much on you (and i said i was on a break but shhhh the muse came for me), buuuuuut doing it anyway ack!!! ENJOY!!

this is also on AO3!

~*~

Hoseok makes himself sick when he’s like this.

His hyungs warned him that this would hurt. He didn’t realize they’d meant it so literally. It physically hurts, a thumbprint-shaped bruise blossoming inside his chest, molded that way because he keeps fucking pressing on it, putting an ache in himself for no good reason, thinking of you, like this, like now.

He sees himself down on his knees in front of you, where he belongs, sinning through the act of worship. Begging some god he doesn’t believe in to forgive him, because he sure as hell isn’t forgiving himself, not when he isn’t even sorry.

So fucking insane, to be on the verge of tears and somehow stupidly horny at the same time. Make that make sense.

A hotel room on a high floor, a king-sized bed, egyptian cotton. Only the best for you, fuck a pricetag. The irony of infidelity framed in double-pane windows, city lights blinking impartially as he unzips your dress, says a prayer into your mouth, don’t have to tell anybody, just us, just tonight.

The way you want it, too. You bloom for him, pretty and pliant. At least that’s his hope.

He turns listlessly, his bed– his real bed in his new, too-big house, where every room throws an echo because he doesn’t have enough furniture to fucking fill it– suddenly hot, legs a frustrated tangle in the blankets, dick stirring to attention between them. He doesn’t want to be here (he doesn’t want to be anywhere, really, blipping out of existence for the night would be ideal), so he closes his eyes, lets himself sink back into it.

Just a little longer, then he’ll be good.

Your hair fans out on the pillow beneath you, makeup a mess but you’re smiling anyway, breathless and raw and so real inside this fantasy. Reaching for him, fuck-me eyes, come on, insatiable, give it to me, need you nownownow.

He fucks you down into the plush hotel mattress, and he can’t stop thinking that your body is art, a relief sculpture of curves against soft white bedding, a carved out and fucked out beauty. His, tonight. It’s enough. More than.

The sheets are damp at the place where your bodies meet, arousal and sweat and saliva from nearly an hour spent between your legs (he loves the way they shake when you’re close) because he’s learned that once he gets you started, you don’t stop coming.

He strokes deep because he loves the way you whimper with each pass, the way you squeeze tight enough to tear a growl from the back of his throat, he’s fucking feral with it now. Braces himself on one hand while the other holds your throat but applies no pressure; he knows better than that, can’t have you going home marked up.

Hoseok is good for you, leaves no trace behind that won’t wash off in the shower. He has excellent self control.

Excellent enough that he should’ve ripped himself out of this dream already. He’s never let things go this far before, in his mind. He’s all determination when he wants to be, synapses hard as steel, can shove down desire and self-hatred and something too desperate to quite be love until it goes still again and he can put the smile back on.

But tonight feels different. It’s like he wants the pain, would elect to be gutted and splayed down the middle if only for proof that his heart remains there in his chest, beating quiet consistency.

Yes, like before, even now.

Just the same, even now.

Always, probably.

He’s hard, has been hard. Sticky sweet kisses of precum press over the inside of his briefs, then into the hollow of his stomach when he flips his length up, as if that might help.

He doesn’t want to touch himself. It’s another line he’s yet to cross, the last thing he has to cling to when he needs to believe that he isn’t depraved, disgusting, for harboring all of this inside himself, carrying this pathetic torch for far too long.

But the thought of rutting into you, the little gasps you make, eyelashes fluttering and pussy quivering as he works yet another one out of you… Shit. It’s too much. When you tip up to find his lips with yours, whining nonsensically into his mouth– fucked too dumb to make any sense, he thinks he might not ever let you leave this room.

And that snaps his last thread of restraint.

Hoseok only needs to thrust up into his fist three times before his climax hits, painting over his stomach, chest, hand, sheets, fuck. He bites down so hard on his other palm that he threatens to break skin, all to muffle the animal sound of shame and need, a force of habit– he lives alone now, the walls of his empty house don’t give a fuck.

He comes like a virgin, he thinks to himself, critiquing a performance the second he steps off the stage as is his way. The thought that finally sent him over the edge was PG-13 at best: his tongue in the heat of your mouth.

He really does think he could get over all this if you kissed him, just once.

Embarrassing.

Guilt is a bitter chaser to pleasure, downed before bliss even shows up, if there was any. He’s a mess: emotionally, literally– cum all over himself, the bedsheets too. Creepy, dirty, wrong.

His chest constricts in the way that’s become so familiar it’s almost soothing, makes no fucking sense yet somehow it does. A self-invented problem he knows how to solve, a specific set of steps begging completion in perfect order.

Scalding-hot shower. Exfoliate. Lotion. Cleanser, toner, serum; wait for it to sink in. Sheets in the wash. Detergent, fabric softener. Vacuums the floor while he’s at it. New sheets on the bed, hospital corners tucked sharp, pillows fluffed, immaculate. Back to the bathroom, moisturizer that he adds two drops of rose-hip oil to and mixes against the back of his hand, sleeping pack to lock it in.

He swears he’s got new lines along the corners of his mouth, feels stupid that he’s ruining his skin with smiles that aren’t even real.

He can exhale, then, still with a tight grip on the edge of the sink. Once it’s all done, every trace of indiscretion cleaned up and put away, and he’s good again. At least until the next time his self control slips.

[rinhoes]

the arranged union of naoya zenin and y/n was that of chaos and madness. there was y/n—the complete opposite of what a "woman is supposed to be", an unmovable force, outspoken, rude, and simply unruly. but for naoya, she was just another thing to conquer, surely thee naoya zenin could mold such a woman into "a fine lady".

oh, how wrong he was.

the night of their marriage, naoya and y/n went at it like animals. both of their moans could be heard throughout his side of the estate. naoya bit into her dark skin each time she clenched around him, while y/n ran her sharp almond-shaped nails the man's back. "such an unruly woman!" naoya spat while he tightly held on to her hips fucking her into the soft mattress, his heavy and full balls slapping against her clit.

a smirked form against her lips as she gazed at her new lover, boring into his golden eyes, "you love it don't you?"

he did. "s-sh, fuck, shut up." his large hand met her ass with a hard slap.

that night ended with the two of them falling asleep, well passing out, in the bath. bite marks and dark bruises literal y/n dark skin as she snored against his chest, which was littered with hickies and thick red scratches from her nails.

the next morning naoya's maids found them still asleep in the bath room. unsure whether they should bother the two or not and risk his rage—the maid staff thought it'd be better to leave them in the end. knowing more than likely two of them would be fucking again.

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

tuxedo iii, m | myg

pairing(s): yoongi x reader, mentions of previous jungkook x reader

summary: It’s the next morning. Your cat is still a man. Fuck. He still thinks he owns the place, including you. Sigh. Well, you still have to do your job, because, yikes, your cat-man has spent a small fortune on new clothes (spending like he’s got a black card, what’s up with that?). Ah, but... maybe both of you are starting to finally acknowledge that he might be a more man than cat – at least for the time being...?

warnings: rated M (18+) for language, mentions of the coronavirus pandemic; possibly full-on crack; mentions of and a tiny bit of smut (fem reader, spanking, doggy, unintentional??? voyeurism, dry humping / thigh riding); domestic and soft moments with your cat-man; non-idol!AU - cat!Yoongi x human!reader; ft slightly cocky Jeon Jungkook (+drama!!!) and bestfriend!Kim Seokjin; breaking of the fourth wall; are YOU a furry? yeah, I kinda think you are

*deep breath* I reference a certain boat that was stuck in the Suez Canal, Yoongi's livestream where he poked himself in the nose with the coffee straw, his love for tangerines, too many Twitch chat memes, that time his mom called him a boiled dumpling, 'BST' pink pajama Yoongi, DTS, TXT's 'Cat & Dog', etc...

–

part i | part ii

-

You woke up slowly. 

A perfect, peaceful morning. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Neck cradled by your memory foam pillow? Check. Back well supported by your soft mattress? Check. Not sleeping on your sofa and destroying your spine? Check. Hey, you’re moving up in life! Ah, what a normal day already. You opened your eyes a crack; vision blurred from the morning sunlight filtering through your curtains. Bundled in your minty-green duvet? Check. Wearing your extra soft black-and-white striped pajamas? Check. 

Large pale human hand firmly gripping your right titty? Check. 

Wait… 

What?

Your eyes snapped open and flew to your left. 

Min Yoongi's face was centimeters from yours, buried into your pillow, messy bedhead sticking out everywhere. Black choker with the tiny silver bell around his neck. Still had those black velvety pointed cat ears and glowing pale skin, pretty pink lips ever-so-slightly upturned, warm exhale against your ear. 

Your cat still a disturbingly handsome man?

Ah, yup, check. 

His hand was on your right breast, fingers molded to the soft curve. A quick glance and, whew, he was still fully dressed in his black t-shirt and sweatpants from yesterday. Yes, fully, completely dressed. Shit, what if he caught you staring? You quickly flickered your eyes up at the ceiling, hastily wiping the drool away from your mouth. Whoa there. That would be embarrassing if he caught that.

Also, kind of gross. Don’t be gross. Keep it together.

Hahaha…

Well, yup, this was still awkward, the whole hand-on-the-titty thing, hahaha, but not as awkward as it would be if, hahaha, you accidentally, oh, don't know, hahaha, got really, really, really disgustingly drunk and, hahaha, had somehow lost all impulse control and, hahaha, fucked your cat?

Man.

Cat-man. 

Hahaha, that would never happen. You’d make sure of that.

... 

Unless?

No, no, no, stop, he's your cat, your cat, he's literally been a (cat) man for one fucking day, albeit a incredibly hot, deliciously built (cat) man who put your facial massager on your nipple and let you touch his human dick in the shower and he was hard for a hot second, so... no, no, no, stop, you are not a desperate thot, get a fucking grip – well, you kind of are – but not him, for fuck’s sake, you still don't understand what the fuck is going on or if he even remotely likes you and, let's face it, he probably doesn’t because you almost paid a guy to chop off his nuts–

"Are you dying?"

You choked on air and lurched sharply at the sudden deep, raspy voice. The grip on your right breast tightened, preventing you from moving away. You did what any sensible human being would do in this situation and wheezed like you were on the verge of passing out. 

"Urk!"

"Do you have high blood pressure?" Yoongi yawned calmly, turning his face to the side to avoid breathing in your face, thereby pressing his body even closer to you. Your neck and ears heated to five billion degrees. "Your heart's beating abnormally fast. Maybe you should see a doctor."

You definitely needed to see a doctor for something as well as several gallons of holy water and a priest to get an exorcism for that horny demon inside you. 

"Y-Your hand!"

Yoongi grunted. "What about it?"

What about it???

"It's on my tits!" you squeaked.

Yoongi lifted his head, squinting. "It is." Then his head dropped and he closed his eyes again. 

HELLO, Min Yoongi? That's ALL you have to say???

"Is there a problem?"

IS THERE A PROBLEM???????

"I've always slept like this," he mumbled.

That's... true though. Your tuxedo cat, previously named Shooky until you realized he had his own name, did used to always sleep next to you, when he wasn’t trying to murder you by sitting on your chest, that is (he was adamant on letting you know when he needed breakfast). Usually, your cat was splayed out by your left side, his long body extended and pressed against you, his white, sock-like paws encircling your arm. Shooky had basically been a small furry heater that kicked you sometimes in his sleep. 

Keyword: small.

"Y-You w-were a cat!" you sputtered.

"I'm still a cat."

"No, you're a man! With arms!"

"The reach is a little farther. Who cares?"

WHO CARES???????

Before you could very loudly inform Yoongi who exactly cared – that’s you, by the way, yes, you – he wrapped his arms around you and yanked your body to his, turning you into a red-hot chili pepper with the amount of heat your face was now emitting. Then his free hand grabbed your other titty. Without asking! Without even so much as buying you dinner or, hell, giving you a goddamn cracker! You didn't need to be wined and dined, but at least a single fucking snack before using your tits like his own personal stress ball!

Yoongi pressed your back into his chest.

You froze. 

He pressed his crotch into your ass, shivering slightly.

Your soul left your body. 

"Ugh, this human body is terrible," Yoongi muttered. "Always so cold. I need this extra body heat or I'll die."

You'll die? YOU’LL DIE?

You were pretty sure that you were already dead. Rest in peace.

Hang on. 

Something was stuck in a very specific place, quite similar to a far-too-large boat in a narrow canal.

"Um."

Er...

"What?" your cat-man grunted.

"Your..." You gulped. "Dick."

"What about it?"

"You, uh... have morning wood."

"Is that a human euphemism?" he grumbled impatiently, clear annoyance in his tone. "I don't understand your species. Wouldn't it be easier to be straightforward and explain yourself clearly?"

A muscle in your eye twitched, reaching breaking point.

"Your dick is rock-hard and you're shoving it between my ass cheeks!"

"Yeah, so? It's cold too."

Your irritation fizzled out at Yoongi’s self-assured, completely calm response. In fact, he sounded borderline bored and exasperated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. His hard dick was cold, so he put it in the warmest place he could find, your ass, duh. Nothing weird about it, of course. Your mind reeled, unable to compute what the fuck was going on. Thus, your body did what it did best in these moments where you did not want to give a response that would most certainly expose you and your dire need to get dicked.

Not deal with it, of course.

You fainted.

-

"Fuck!"

You shot out of bed at the harsh yell, tangled in the covers, barely registering that Yoongi no longer had a death grip on your tits – in fact, he was no longer in bed at all – and stumbled towards the source of the sound, highly disoriented, your earlier fainting spell turning you into a bumbling mess.

Admittedly, not that different from your usual self.

(Ouch, roasted.)

"What, what, what?" you croaked, running into the doorframe of the bedroom and nearly taking yourself out. 

Might as well, maybe it would have been a blessing in disguise, considering the way your life was going. 

You finally tumbled your way to the kitchen, where your cat-man was hissing at the pan on the stove. 

"I was trying to make eggs," Yoongi spat, pointing accusingly at the frying pan. His ears were flat and his tail was sticking straight up. "And then it attacked me."

If you had three functioning brain cells, you would have remembered Yoongi putting his morning wood between your ass cheeks this morning, but alas, you only had two at the moment – you did run into the doorframe, might have lost one there – so instead you nudged him aside and rolled up your sleeves, taking the pan and shaking it so the eggs wouldn't burn. 

"Was it the oil? Sometimes it pops," you asked as Yoongi continued death glaring at the pan.

"I saw you doing this yesterday. You didn't seem bothered," he mumbled, finishing with a low, angry hiss as if the pan was sentient and mocking him. The oil popped and seared your forearm, but at this point you maybe had five hair follicles total on your arms with how many times hot oil had splattered in you. It used to bother you when you were a kid, but years of cooking had desensitized the feeling, turning it to nothing more than a mere annoyance. Yoongi stayed behind you, intermittently letting out hisses of rage as you cooked.

"I told you, my dad's a chef. You get used to it," you said, tipping the pan and flipping the thin egg pancake with ease. 

"That's bizarre," Yoongi muttered. "No normal animal gets used to pain."

Normality was starting to become a bit of a foreign concept to you.  As for being an animal, well…

You took the pan off the heat and rolled the egg onto a plate with a spare set of chopsticks, turning it into a log shape. A literal egg roll, ready to be sliced into bite-sized pieces. You took a sniff. It seemed to be seasoned already. Had Yoongi simply copied what you did yesterday? His observation skills were insane.

"Then again, you seem to enjoy–"

"Yoongi," you blurted, not wanting to know what he thought you seemed to enjoy, but very sure it was going to be one-hundred-percent embarrassing and only for you. "There's some leftover beef and vegetables in the fridge you can have with the egg and rice."

He raised his eyebrows. "Beef? Why didn't you say so earlier?"

Because I was asleep and maybe half-dead? "Did you brush your teeth?' you asked suddenly. 

Yoongi scowled. "Unfortunately."

"Right, so should I, goodbye now."

You marched away hurriedly, trying not to think about how your cat had surely witnessed you getting spanked while being fucked from behind by none other than, surprise, surprise, his not-so-favorite human being, Jeon Jungkook. Tattoo guy strikes again. The worst part was, you couldn't lock the door on your cat either, because then he would meow incessantly while you were getting deep-dicked and that was even worse. 

"Your cat really likes you, huh?" Jungkook mused as you yanked open the bedroom door to the black-and-white tuxedo furball. 

"Like is a strong word," you muttered at your cat, who yawned and sauntered past you to his cat tree, acting like he owned the damn place. 

"I like you."

"Hah... wait, what?"

Jungkook grinned as your eyes found his. Took a while. You were a little distracted by his nakedness. His tattoos up his right arm. His tan skin. His muscles. His white teeth biting on his lower lip, tiny mole underneath flashing. His long black hair, framing dark chocolate eyes and teasing, cocked eyebrow. 

"I like you," he repeated, voice deep and sexy.

You turned red and made the most coherent noise you could. 

“... Urk?”

“Noona.”

Why did he look so fucking hot and disrespectful at the same time when saying an honorific?

Jungkook came up to you, hand cupping your head and tangling his fingers in your hair. He brought his face close to yours, lips brushing against your swollen ones, taking your breath away.

"Wanna go back to me spanking you while you get off on my dick?"

Respectfully, of course. 

"How much rice do you want?"

You started, poking yourself in the nose with your toothpaste-covered toothbrush and smearing mint up your nostril – almost as bad as poking a coffee straw up your nose during a livestream in front of millions of people, yikes – as Yoongi appeared behind you, breaking you out of the memory. Your cat-man watched you with mild disgust and displeasure as you coughed and dunked your head into the sink, hurriedly rinsing off your burning nose.

"Whatever, I'll just fill it halfway."

And he left you sputtering, pajamas and hair soaking wet in your haste.

Awesome. 

-

“I’m ordering some groceries,” you announced in between bites of rice and egg. You tapped lightly at the phone screen as you spoke. Green onions, tofu, cucumbers… “Do you want anything?”

“Meat.”

You swiped rapidly and added packages of chicken, pork, and beef into your cart. Why the fuck not? You like meat. All kinds of–

“Yes, Yoongi, I’m getting meat. Anything else?”

“What else is there?”

You made a face and handed him your phone. “All sorts of things. Household products too, in case you don’t want to smell like my soap.”

“Your soap is preferable,” he said absentmindedly, scrolling through the online grocery app. You continued eating, shoving things in your mouth and none of it dick. Sad. At least it tasted good. Your cat-man had seasoned the egg well. You jumped as Yoongi spoke again. “I want these.” He turned the phone around.

You squinted at the screen, staring at a picture of orange balls. “Tangerines? Why?”

He turned the phone back to him. “They’re small, round, and look tasty.”

You blinked at him, then shrugged. “Sure, why not? I guess your palette might have changed. Try whatever you want.”

He pursed his lips and pressed a few buttons as you ate. You realized you needed to order more groceries now that your cat was a man eating your human food and no longer a cat eating his rather expensive cat food. Sigh. You had put Shooky’s cat bowls in a cabinet earlier this morning before sitting down to eat. It seemed weird leaving them out on the floor like that. Kind of offensive, maybe, now that your cat was a man and all…

“Okay, I ordered it.”

“Ah, okay, that’s good. They’ll probably come later this week.”

-

After breakfast, you spent nearly half an hour with Yoongi trying to pick out something for him to watch from your various streaming services, only for him to select a historical drama series. Like what? You cat (man) wanted to watch historical drama out of all things? Instead of learning about the modern world, he wanted to watch a depiction of the past?

Whatever, it had seventy-seven episodes, so at least he would be occupied for a while.

You let him be and went to your computer, intending on getting some editing done. Sure, the universe decided your cat was a man now, but you still needed to pay for said cat-man’s existence. You still didn’t know what you were going do to with all that cat food, cat toys, cat tree… ugh, this was all a problem for future you, not present you.

Present you needed to splice five-hundred images of PepeHands together and overlay it over a League of Legends one-shot compilation.

Uh, so, it was this meme of a green frog named Pepe holding up his anthropomorphic hands in despair, therefore coining the term PepeHands for a particular Twitch chat emote… never mind, it just meant you were spending some time video editing for a gaming YouTuber and it required concentration, shitty memes, and well-timed captions. And you were getting paid good money to do this.

Yeah, it’s a weird world.

You sat at your desktop and got to work, doing the rough cuts of the video first. Thankfully, the YouTuber had already sent you the timestamps of the noteworthy moments, therefore making your job a lot easier. You spent several hours compiling the clips before adding your extra flair and effects. You had a library of images and sound bites that you commonly used (including Goofy singing Evanescence's ‘Bring Me to Life’) and was in the middle of grayscaling a video clip and adding the familiar audio of all around me are familiar faces before being scared shitless.

“Woof.”

You swore someone was singing ‘Mad World’ as they were narrating your life right now.

“Gah!”

You jerked in your seat to see Yoongi leaning over behind you, eyebrow raised as you gawked at him.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!” you exclaimed, pulling back an earcup of your headset.

He frowned. “How can I sneak up on you?” He flicked the silver bell on the black choker around his neck, making it jingle cheerfully. “You put stupid thing on me, remember?”

You winced. “Well, I’d take it off, but there’s some kind of voodoo magic on that shit – and hey, don’t change the subject! You have that weird cat thing where you’re silent no matter what.”

Yoongi looked unbothered. “Weird cat thing? Thought you said I was a man?”

“Thought you said you were a cat?” you shot back.

You glared at him and he gave you a blank expression. Then he cocked his head to your desk.

“Your phone is flashing.”

You jerked your head to see your phone screen flicker. You grabbed it off you desk and unlocked it, checking your messages. Five messages from – ah, but of course – your best friend. Kim Seokjin.

LET ME SEE YOUR CAT

LET ME SEE YOUR CAT

LET ME SEE YOUR CAT

LET ME SEE YOUR CAT

LET ME SEE YOUR CAT

You pursed your lips. With the pandemic and all, you hadn’t visited Seokjin in forever, but every week he would text you, asking for a photo of your cat and he would send you a picture of his sugar glider. With every week being the same and nothing interesting of note happening, it was hard to think of conversation topics. Therefore, Seokjin and you came up with this weekly event so your friendship wouldn’t deteriorate. Also, both of you were serious introverts, so he spent most of this pandemic playing MapleStory while you spent most of it on your couch watching Netflix with your cat. It was a miracle you two hadn’t morphed into actual potatoes yet.

You glanced at Yoongi, who was inspecting his nails and picking at them. You frowned and batted at his hand. He frowned back and smacked yours, harder. You glared at him. He gave you a vacant stare, as if he had done nothing.

“Why are you picking at your cuticles?” you muttered, going back to your phone and sending Seokjin an old picture of Shooky. You couldn’t exactly send him a picture of current Shooky. He was… well, currently not a cat. You stared at the picture of the fluffy tuxedo cat curled into a ball, asleep in your lap on the couch.

That moment wasn’t even that long ago.

Somehow, it felt like ages since you had last petted that furry butt.

“Hm, dunno. Occupies my hands, I guess,” Yoongi replied distractedly.

“Well, you shouldn’t. It’s not good for you.” You noticed you had another message from the local delivery service, saying a package had arrived at your doorstep. You stood, placing your phone on the desk and looked at Yoongi, who was staring at his old cat tree, the one by the window. When he was a cat, he used to poke his head between the curtains and look outside, watching the birds. It was his favorite haunt.

Now…

“Why’d you say woof?” you asked abruptly, giving him a quizzical look. “I thought you were a cat.”

Yoongi shrugged, tearing his eyes away from the cat tree to give you an uninterested stare. “Thought it would surprise you more. You’ve heard meow for long enough.”

You furrowed your brow. “Why would you want to surprise me?”

He shrugged again. “I was bored.”

“… You were bored so you decided to sneak up and scare the shit out of me?”

He paused, black tail swishing back and forth, pointed ears perked. Then he nodded.

“Yup.”

Sigh.

-

You lugged in the huge cardboard box, Yoongi standing out of sight of the front door as you huffed and puffed with your weak arms. Okay, it wasn’t even that big, but it was quite heavy and you weren’t exactly John Cena. Your arms were about as strong as a bowl of overcooked ramyeon noodles and that was putting it kindly. You weren’t the working out type. People who worked out diligently were dog people. People who preferred sleeping as their primary workout regimen had cats. What were the kinds of people who had cat-men then? The kind of people who like sleeping, but also needed a…

(You already know the answer.)

Yoongi snapped the door closed the second you managed to pull it on far enough to do so.

“You look like a boiled dumpling,” he commented.

“At least I’m delicious food,” you wheezed, inspecting the box. You recognized the clothing brand. “Is this the stuff your ordered? How did it come so fast?”

“I selected next-day delivery.”

You paled.

“I need clothes as soon as possible, don’t I? Or should I go back to being naked, since you’re a pervert?”

You choked, ears burning. “I’m not a pervert!”

“Mhm.”

You tried not to think about the hit on your wallet as you grabbed your keys from the side table and opened the box, seeing all the plastic packages inside. Monotone, in white or black. Figures. You tipped the box to the side and the clothes spilled out, tumbling all over the floor. It took a firm shake to dump it all on the ground. You got on your hands and knees to spread them out, tossing the cardboard aside carelessly to shift through the items. Hopefully, Yoongi had read the listings and selected the correct sizes. From your brief glance, you noticed the tops were quite oversized. Maybe he liked that fit? He had been quite a fluffy cat.

You spotted the packing slip with all the prices listed. You fished it out and then heard a thunk-thunk-thunk, the sound of cardboard on hardwood. Huh?

You looked up to see Yoongi swatting the box around.

“What… are you doing?”

He shrugged. “Investigating.”

You blinked. “Investigating what?”

“Don’t know. I simply feel the need to investigate, thus I am doing so.”

You stared at Yoongi for several minutes as he continued to… uh, investigate (???) the cardboard box, holding it this way and that, smacking it around, watching the flaps bounce in the air as it rolled. His velvety ears perked upwards, sleek black tail swishing with interest.

His expression was completely neutral.

For the first time since becoming a human, you thought Yoongi was more cat than man.

“Uh… okay…”

You glimpsed down to the paper in your hands, seeing the total cost.

You felt the color drain out of your face.

My… wallet…

F in the chat.

You fainted.

-

You felt someone poking you in the head.

“Are you dead?”

You gasped and jerked up like a drown victim coming up for air, still in mild shock of the sudden financial hit of your cat becoming a man. It was okay. You weren’t poor. You just didn’t expect Yoongi to be a shopping like he owned a fucking black card.

“Did I spend too much?”

You snapped out of your stunned state at his soft tone. Yoongi wasn’t looking at you. He was kneeling on top of the pile of clothes, dark eyes on the paper in your shaking hands. With a start, you realized his words were heavy with guilt, his ears pointing downwards and tail tucked against the ground.

���No,” you said quickly, putting the receipt down. “No, Yoongi. I asked you to buy clothes, remember? And besides, it’s better for you to buy things you like and are interested in, rather than me wasting money on things you’ll never wear.”

He raised his head a little, eyes darting from your face to your hands.

You smiled at him, reaching up to pat his head and stroke the fur on his ears. “Hey, don’t worry. It’s only money. Money will never be more important to me than you, okay?”

For a second, you saw something flicker in Yoongi’s eyes. It was so fast that you barely caught it. Relief? Gratitude? Fondness? Then he ticked his head out of your hand, fair cheeks flushing pink.

“You… you don’t have to do that,” he muttered.

“O… oh.” For some reason, you felt a pang in your chest at his words. “R-right.”

Yoongi made eye contact with you, dark brown orbs guarded. He spoke quietly, without emotion.

“Do you wish this never happened?”

“What?” You furrowed your brows. “What do you mean?”

He gestured to himself, waving a hand up and down carelessly. “This. Human me.”

Human me.

You answered instantly.

“No.”

Yoongi gave you the disbelieving side-eye.

You let out a sheepish puff of air. “I always kind of wished you were human.” You scratched the back of your head aimlessly. “No one listened to me like you did. Even if I was having the shittest day of all time, you always made it better. You were the best cat ever.” You chuckled, smiling up at him. “Sure, your species changed, but you’re still the same, right?”

His eyes shifted, his cheeks still a light pink. “I’m still a cat,” he mumbled awkwardly.

You raised your brows. “Mhm, is that why you were playing with the box?”

“I wasn’t playing with the box,” Yoongi huffed, sounding insulted.

“Then I’ll break it down and recycle it.”

“No,” he snapped firmly. “It’s useful. We’re keeping it.”

“We don’t need a box, Yoongi.”

He tutted. “Hmph, humans. So wasteful. A perfectly good box should be reused.”

“Right.”

You tried to hide your laugh as Yoongi refused to look you in the eye.

-

You left Yoongi to examine his new wardrobe on the floor. You tried to pick them up but he stubbornly remained on the pile of clothes, not letting you move them. When you stood up to leave, you asked him when he was going to move – he replied with, "When it feels right", just cat things, you supposed – and hurried off to export the edited video you were working on earlier. The due date was today and you had to review it for quality.

A certain quality. 

A certain quality of... of... 

Needing the money.

Because your cat (man) had spent fat chunk of it on clothes, only to be more interested in the box they came in and sitting on said clothes rather than the actual items themselves. 

Sigh. 

-

"I ordered the wrong color."

"Oh?" you muttered distractedly, clocking on the export button. You'd been going cross-eyed for the past two or three hours – had it really been that long? shit – and checked your phone to see Gukmul, Seokjin's white sugar glider, peering up at the camera on a white fluffy blanket. You smiled, typing a response to praise his cuteness, completely ignoring the fact that Seokjin had also stuck his handsome face in the photo, smiling with a thumbs-up next to his pet. 

The reply was instant. 

hello, acknowledge my BEAUTIFUL FACE

You deliberately didn't answer right away to piss Seokjin off even more. 

"What's wrong with it?" you asked, looking up. 

Your jaw dropped. 

You dropped your phone. 

Yoongi, your cat-man with excellent reflexes, made absolutely no move to catch it. 

It smacked you in the calf and hit your toes – fucking ow, holy shit – before clattering to the floor. You had a protective phone case on it with a cute tuxedo cat graphic. The screen wouldn't crack with the protector on it. In this moment, however, you didn't give a shit about your smartphone, Kim Seokjin, or even the blinding pain in your foot. Nope. 

You were ogling at Min Yoongi in pink silk pajamas.

-

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program to–

Oi!

No, don't you dare scroll past! You think you're clever or something?! Hm? Advertisements always happen at the most crucial parts, you say? 

This is just an ad? 

Look here, Lemona Vitamin C Powder can provide a lot of benefits, including providing natural energy and boosting your immune system in, say, a worldwide pandemic–

STOP TRYING TO SCROLL PAST!!!

-

Jeon Jungkook stared at his phone. 

At a very specific number. 

He put it down, sighing a little, looking out the window instead. It was a nice day, but he couldn't enjoy it the way it was meant to be enjoyed. Pandemic and all that. He frowned, looking at the urban jungle surrounding him. Had he made a mistake moving here to the big city? Sometimes he wondered. Back then, he had moved to finish school and pursue his ambitions. Back then, his choice had seemed full of opportunities, but now.

What did he have, really?

A tiny apartment with a kind and understanding landlord. The world at his fingertips from his computer. Still a decent amount of savings left. Online courses that he needed to finish to get his film degree. 

Loneliness.

He delved into his memories, smiling at the recollection of confused looks, awkward smiles, indignant huffs. So very unlike him to tease so much, but it was too fun and he hadn't felt the usual nervousness and shyness he had around others. There was something comforting about that smile, that apartment, and that fluffy tuxedo cat that loved to interrupt everything. 

He shouldn't have played it off.

He shouldn't have distracted.

Not after he admitted it.

"I like you."

Jungkook said it to the air, to the memory. So vivid that he reached out to touch those lips, but then it all disappeared, just like that. 

Ah.

He looked at the back of his phone, wondering. But now he was too nervous and shy to pick it up again. Why was that? When he was there, being seen by those surprised eyes, he could do and say shameless things. But far away, when he was alone, Jungkook was hesitating, suddenly afraid.

Sigh. 

-

You sneezed. 

Very loudly and jerking your head away from your cat-man in luxurious pink silk, jamming your nose into your elbow.

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. 

You sniffed, rubbing your nose. 

"Someone must be thinking about me..." you muttered. 

Yoongi looked down, plucking the collar of the pajamas. "The cotton shirts are the same size, but for some reason this one fits tighter. Why is that? Is there no regulated sizing in human fashion?"

Dude, be glad you're not a girl, you thought dryly. "Might be the fabric," you coughed distractedly. Distractedly because you were staring at quite possibly the most gorgeous man in the history of men and you stared at a lot of men in your short lifetime, so you had experienced eyeballs.

Wait. 

Man or cat-man?

Well, Yoongi was definitely the most gorgeous cat-man considering you were pretty sure there was only one in current existence.

His pointed ears stood straight up in interest, black hair messy from taking clothes on and off, fair cheeks and nose flushed pink, perhaps from physical exertion. Dark brown eyes sheepish, not quite looking at you. The black leather choker stood out on his neck, silver bell gleaming against his collarbones. The material was a mauve-pink silk, clinging to his lean body, showing off his shoulders and long limbs. The button-up shirt created a rather deep v-neckline, a sliver of pale chest visible. And his legs! His slim legs reminded you of a nimble dancer, ending in fuzzy black slippers. 

There was a weird lump in one of the pant legs, going down his thigh. 

Whoa. 

"W-Why did you pick them?" you tried to ask in the least awkward way possible, attempting – and failing – to not to stare at his delectable thighs. 

Yoongi shrugged. "They looked like the ones you have. I meant to get black, but I suppose I didn't read the listing closely enough. They're comfortable though," he mused before making a face. Your eyes bulged as there was a sudden jerk in his pants, creating a large tent in the crotch. 

Alarms sounded off in your head, arousal shooting up like a rocket. 

Oh. 

Oh??? 

Oh!!!!!!!

"My tail is stuck," Yoongi grunted, lowering the back of the pink silk pants. The sleek black cat tail slid out, swishing in the air, tent in his pants gone. 

Oh…

Right. The tail.

Because he's a cat... man.

Your inner thot was sad. Your dignity smacked you upside the head, highly disappointed in you for falling for that, then calmly shot down your arousal rocket with your shame. Oof.

"Can you show me how to sew so I can fix my own clothes from now on?" Yoongi asked as he readjusted the front of the silk shirt. 

You bent down to pick up your phone, trying to do something with your face and hands to disguise your embarrassment and burning ears. "Yeah, of course." You placed it on your desk and turned back to face him. 

Yoongi was right next to you. 

Literally so close that you could feel his body heat. 

"... Urk!"

You jumped in your seat, banging your knee against your desk and howling in pain, computer chair rolling and making you lose your balance, ass about to slip before Yoongi grabbed your chair and shoved it into the table, making you trip and fall back into the seat, head hitting the headrest a little too hard, seeing stars and rubber duckies for a second. 

Wait, were they rubber duckies? They were white and glittery, almost as if they were made from snow…

Yoongi slapped you in the face.

“Ow!”

You rubbed your cheek, blinking rapidly to clear your vision before glaring at him.

“Checking if you were alive,” was his placid response.

Alright, it wasn’t that hard, but the unexpectedness of it still hurt. You frowned, only for the pain to slowly melt away, quickly being replaced by something else as you realized Yoongi was still half-leaning over you, a knee on your computer gaming chair to prevent it from rolling. The sting in your knee was temporarily forgotten. Yoongi spoke again, his voice low and deep, almost a sensual purr.

“You hit yourself pretty hard.”

He doesn’t know what’s he’s doing. It’s just a coincidence. A kitty-incidence, Seokjin would say.

Your eyes widened as Yoongi closed in, peering at your unfocused gaze. Now you could see down his shirt. Holy shit. Were you so deprived that you were getting mad horny from seeing Yoongi’s fucking clavicle and sternum?

Is that even a question?

Yes.

Yes, you were.

“You look like you did last night.”

“What?” you breathed, still unabashedly looking down his shirt.

“Your pupils are dilated.”

You froze. His cool fingertips were on your neck.

“Heartrate increased.”

You wanted to pull back, say, no, wait, don’t do that, but Yoongi was too close and his exhale was too feathery, brushing against your lips, and you couldn’t move, trapped in your chair, between him wrapped in pink silk and your mind reeling, him still playing fucking doctor while you were trying not to jump his half-covered ass.

“And that smell.”

You finally tore your gaze away, eyes drifting up to his.

You swallowed.

“S… smell?”

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no.

Ohnoohshitwhatifhecansmellmypus–

Yoongi’s eyes narrowed, surveying you closely. He was so close you couldn’t see his lips, only his dark brown orbs. He didn’t say anything. He smelled like your soap, reminding you of his naked body pressed against you in the shower. Your heartbeat was leaping to your throat, threatening to choke you with your own horniness. Honestly, at this point, would you even be surprised?

You chuckled nervously, clinging onto your last shreds of self-preservation, which, admittedly, were rapidly yeeting out of your hands.

“Hahaha… but you’re… a cat… yeah?”

Right?

Seconds passed.

Right???

Minutes passed.

RIGHT???????

Yoongi’s lashes lowered, not quite looking at your eyes. Staring at your lips.

“I’m a man too,” he whispered softly.

Your eyes widened.

Yoongi kissed you.

You were so shocked that you swore your eyes nearly left your head.

It was a soft kiss, his eyes closed, tilting his head slightly to fit better against yours, pressing you back into your chair. Your head hit the headrest and you gasped, your tongue lightly flicking his lips and they parted, his own tongue sliding against yours, gentle licks, your brain malfunctioning, but body remembering, hands coming up to grab his shirt and yank him closer, pressing back against him. He backed up a little at your suddenness, exhaling hard. Your eyes snapped open, suddenly aware of how forceful you were.

Yoongi looked away, pointed black ears flicking back and forth uneasily.

You kissed your cat. Man. Cat-man.

He’s been a man for not even two days and you just tried to make out with him like a demented beast!

“A-ah, Yoongi, no, I’m so sorry, I-I… please, I didn’t mean to…” you stuttered, letting go of him quickly, but also not wanting to let go, but you should, your hands getting confused by your mental signals, repeatedly clasping and unclasping the pink silk, not realizing that he wasn’t even trying to move away.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Yoongi said slowly.

You clutched his shirt, staring at your white knuckles, unable to look at him directly.

“I’m sorry, it’s just… you’re so handsome, but I’m your owner… and I cracked…”

“What you are is a desperate, sexually deprived human.”

You jerked your head up, seeing his unreadable expression. “I-It’s been over a year–”

All of a sudden, Yoongi lowered his knee and grabbed you by the ass, scooting you down on the rolling chair. You yelped at the swift movement, gasping as your crotch collided with his thigh, wincing as you heard the squelch of your panties jamming into your soaked core.

Yikes.

Welp, you can’t hide that shit now.

“You like things like this, don’t you?” Yoongi murmured.

Your cheeks heated. “T…Things like w-what…?”

Oh, you knew what. You knew very well what, but you also couldn’t form coherent sentences.

His fingers sank into your ass and he pressed you into his thigh, rolling it into your heat. The whines tore out of your throat involuntarily, grabbing his arm and staring up at him with shaking eyes, seeing his curious gaze looking down at you.

“B-But, Yoongi… I’m your o-owner,” you panted, resolve slipping with every second, your hips already rocking into his thigh, the slippery thin fabric doing nothing to hide his lean muscle, your own thighs clamping around his leg. “I’m supposed to t-take care of y-you…”

And last more than two days, fucking shit, get it together!

But you couldn’t get it together, especially not as Yoongi’s voice dropped to a lower octave, one side of his lips curving upwards.

“It’s a little different now, isn’t it?” he drawled softly, lashes lowering, eyebrows raising, his black hair darkening his gaze. “Since I am now capable to take care of you too.”

You whimpered, losing it.

Just started freely humping his leg, self-preservation completely gone. Did he even know what he was capable of, really? Did he have any idea what he could do? Surely not.

Surely, he had no idea how good he could make you feel.

Yoongi bit the side of his lip, frowning. “How will can I make it feel better? I’m only cop…” He trailed off, furry ears anxiously flicking.

You tugged on his arm, getting his attention. “Angle your leg a little more downwards… Y-Yeah, like that…” He did as you instructed, his thigh now pressing down on your clit and your rocking hips moving faster, clinging to his arm and setting your jaw, moaning at the added pleasure. “A-ah… yeah, fuck… yes, I c-can… like this…”

“You can what?” Yoongi breathed, watching your face closely, firmly holding the armrests of the chair so it wouldn’t slide.  

Your head tipped back a little, bucking harder into his thigh, so wet your juices were soaking through your leggings and drenching the pink silk, turning it darker, the strong scent of your sweet arousal clearly evident. Your eyes drifted to Yoongi’s dark orbs covered by black hair, vision hazy, noticing the slight inquisitive upturn of his upper lip. There was no point in hiding it anymore.

“Can cum, Yoongi, fuck, I’m going to cum…” you moaned, inhaling his scent, his presence, saying his name and looking up at him, the stimulation and touch of another enough to get you there, eyelids fluttering as your orgasm swept down, taking you away and filling you with serene satisfaction, crashing waves soaring through you, washing away the sand of your dry spell, a different kind of euphoria than when you were on your own, pulling Yoongi close, kissing him deeply, breathing hard.

“Y… Yoongi…”

“Was it nice?” he murmured. “Was I what you needed?”

“Yeah…” You kissed his soft lips again, semi-breathless. “I–” The wave of guilt came now, your words dropping, brows furrowing, a sharp pang in your chest. Rising, rising. Panic. Yoongi lowered his head, black hair and soft pointed ear rubbing against your eyebrow, nuzzling your cheek. Once. Twice. Again, headbutting you lightly, smoothing the worry away from your forehead, a small laugh bubbling from your throat.

“What are you doing?” you chuckled, patting his arm, smoothing out the wrinkles you had made while furiously humping him. Your eye caught the dark mark now on one of his thighs. Welp. You lasted less than ten minutes.

Pink pajama Yoongi was dangerous.

“You liked this,” he mumbled. “When you were upset.”

You chuckled, instinctively reaching up and caressing his velvety ear. “You were a little smaller then.”

“Only a little.”

He slowed until he came to a full stop, dark eye staring into yours, cheek to cheek.

“I have to look after you, my clumsy human.”

-

part iv

--

masterpost

[miss-kittys-magical-library]

Can I have a Nathan x Violet angsty drabble with #50 from list one? Thank you, love you!!!

Fandom: Nathan x Violet

Warnings: Violence, gore, swearing, some sexual innuendo

A/N: THIS WAS SO DELIGHTFUL!! And I LOVED writing this. Even though I cheated a bit 😉 Prompt 50: "Holy shit, you're bleeding!"

Nathan curled up in the fetal position on Violet’s spare bed. She was so wasted that the only blanket she managed to hand off was My Little Pony. Either she was hiding a kid, or it belonged to a niece, cousin, or very surprise half-sister. Nathan knew all about them. Now he struggled to cover his upper half and lower half at the same time.

I mean, he was grateful he had a bed to sleep on. Hard metal and a dirty piss smelling cot in a jail cell wasn’t right for any human. Still it was December in the desert. Why had no one told him how bloody fucking cold it’d be? He couldn't sleep in a suit, and Violet was in no state to get to the casino now.

Nathan felt lost without his phone now that he had freedom. Not that he expected there to be any messages. Some new guy answered when he called back in September. He wasn't allowed to call his parents (bridges burned). And after two weeks he gave up hope Marnie would show with the baby. Why should he expect anyone to give a shit? He took the piss outta Simon constantly, poked fun at Alisha’s rotten power, and gave Marnie a one ticket to fuck off, Nathan land. Seriously, mate, you just handed over $10k.

Well first you conjured it in her twat, you dumb cunt.” Nathan raised his hands up in front of his face, “You're only doing good from now on! You cheated Spider-man with Curtis. Take that advice yourself, mate.”

It wasn't his hands that caused chaos during his testimony. It was Violet. She got under Nathan’s skin at first. There were ladies who told him to scrape off, but he eventually wore them down. Eager Irish puppy who never tired of the chase. But this bitch.. Woman.. Woman, she was a woman. Not his usual maybe 18 or 19. She was thirty. That's a mortgage paying, health care, 9-5 working adult.

Nathan’s cheeks burned from the embarrassment of HER taking the piss in front of all those people. He THOUGHT she liked him, but that ice queen indifference to him drove him barking. Do a little magic? She tells him Copperfield is better. Makes himself as presentable and sexy as ever? She calls him a bloody stick bug. He made that cunt’s tongue literally fall out when he slapped Violet’s ass. Even Nathan refrained from those shenanigans tonight. Violet’s reaction?

“You want another pint?” OF COURSE HE DID, AND NOW HE WANTED HER.

Nathan failed his arms and legs and beat them about the mattress frantically like a temperamental child. He kicked the nursery school cover off and rolled out of the bed to continue his rampage of blanket searching. He stumbled into the dark hall and immediately slammed his knee into the door frame.

“Bloody cock fuck,” he uttered.

The pain in his was jarring, but Nathan turned back to his room. He heard Violet rummage around in her room and then caught her stumbling drunkenly past him. She had not adjusted to the dark yet. He stepped out of the room as she swung back around and misjudged just how close the two of them were as he opened his mouth:

“Hey Vi do you have any-” the words didn't get to come fully from his lips.

Violet’s body, one Nathan anger wanked to before the trial (he's still a hot blooded 22 year old!) collided with his own. Soft breasts beneath an off the shoulder tee shirt molded perfectly into his chest. Then his brain registered a searing pain that consumed him from deep inside out towards his limbs and brain. Violet had stabbed him clean through the heart.

Nathan’s mind clouded as Violet started to panic. He was acutely aware of every single beat that strained around the knife. His skin grew warm and a coppery scent filled his nostrils. Blood. It was blood from around the knife.

Not again, he thought. The Virtue disaster. It took twenty minutes for him to die properly. The world upside down. He blacked out before. The shape-shifting wench and a sewage pipe or water pipe that cut through him and stuck out a few feet. He had stood on tip-toes to alleviate some pressure that bore down on his lungs and organs. That time his death came after almost an hour.

Violet’s voice registered in octaves only a dog could hear. Or Jeremy, a fleeting thought. She'd call 9-1-1. She can't call them, he'll be back soon. He always came back.

“NO!!” he felt himself shout.

Violet was startled and screamed she had stabbed him. Hadn't meant to. She could fix it. Him. This situation. “Holy shit you're bleeding! So much.. but the.. “ the rest of the sentence unfinished.

Nathan straightened his spine and held onto Violet's arms. “It'll happen soon, darling.” Maybe that's what he said. “I'll be right new after.” He couldn't remember.

He brushed Violet’s bangs out of her face and a tear from her cheek. He relaxed as a calm washed over him. If he could, Nathan would just become Death and avoid this part all together.

“Sweetheart, I've been stabbed in the heart by women before but never,” he gestured to the handle pointed out towards Violet.

She kept screaming at him, but Nathan’s ears only heard his blood as it pumped slowly out of his body. Down to his stomach and legs. All over her nice wood floor.

“I'm.. immortal,” the words were labored. Christ it fucking hurt. That didn't stop Nathan from trying to get a grip on the hilt. “C’mon, Vi, give us a hand will ya.” Her mouth was agape. “I'll die quicker.”

Now that iron taste was in his mouth. Blood came down from his lips unexpectedly. He was bleeding internally too. Still she listened and pulled the weapon out of his chest slow and steady. Nathan’s legs finally gave out and he slid down the wall. Violet caught him up in her arms, something no one had done before.

It was gobsmacking how long this particular demise was taking. Nathan’s eyes lost focus and sight not long after he hit the floor. He started to shiver as his life spread all over Violet's hallway and her hands. And legs. How warm her hand was as it compressed the wound in his chest.

Violet hummed a song that Nathan swore he knew, but his brain finally started to shut down too. She sang only to drown out the wet gurgling noises that hung in the still air. It was nice to have a lovely face so close by as he faded.

Nathan had one last fleeting thought as he died. Violet's fingers were tangled up in his hair as a comfort. The next time she had her hands on it, he hoped his head would be between her legs.

Tags: @robertsheehanownsmyass @bisexualnathanyoung @immortalled @super-unpredictable98 @joz-stankovich @elliethesuperfruitlover @magic-multicolored-miracle

[morgana-ren]

Im. I love you? Your answer to that ask is beautiful, also I forgot about the other meaning for weed for a moment and got confused like, 'is morgana-ren a stoner? Beefy weed muscles???' and now i cant help but imagine stoned Shiggy. Specifically him forcefully shotgunning his captive because hes bored and if hes getting stoned she might as well too. Laughing at her when she gets spacey. This is a fun train of thought lol, thanks for inspiring it

I am a ridiculous and incoherent person. My first instinct is to literally reply with complete gibberish to most things. Shaming me has absolutely Z E R O effect because I have no shame. I’m a ridonkulous person. Last time I got high, I just laid in bed singing “Secret tunnel, secret tunnel” for like 3 hours.

To be fair, I would also do that completely buttfuck sober.

Gods I wish I had a gif of Shig smonkin some donk wods, but since I don’t, you’ll have to settle for me writing it.

PSA after the fact: I AM SO SORRY IT GOT A LIL CREEPY BUT TO BE FAIR, IT’S ME AND IF YOU SENDIN ME SHIT YOU KNOW YOU HAVE TO BE REAL FECKIN’ SPECIFIC OR ELSE I’M GUNNA MAKE IT CREEPY also weed hits me way different than it does most folks so it’s really hard for me to be able to accurately describe how it might be to anyone else. SO imagine this is supervillain quirky weed he has special made to calm his...uh,.. never ending rage. also it’s ridiculously longer than I planned. cause I get carried away. anyway love you!

His room is dank and smells like mold and must.

Tight metal bindings cut into your wrists, leaving you raw with crusted blood despite the fact you stopped fighting days ago. Your tailbone feels bruised from constantly shifting on his worn down carpet, your legs prickling and aching from inactivity.

He’s kept you bound here for a while, handcuffs looped through the foot of his bed. You’re not entirely sure how long, since his ratty blackout curtains make it hard to see daylight. He’s got them taped down, blocking out all but the tiniest slivers of light. Like most of his life, his room exists in total darkness.

Time has little meaning here.

He doesn’t leave you alone often, only really exiting the room to bring you food which you refuse to eat. Most of it has been kicked into the corner, the soft buzz of fruit flies accumulating more and more by the day. It frustrates him, but he’s keen on reminding you that he’s patient. You’ll relent eventually.

Truth be told, your willpower is starting to give. Your body is stiff and sore, head perpetually aching from crying. His moods are like whiplash, one second crooning to you how special you are to him, the next backhanding you and calling you a stubborn bitch. You don’t know what he wants from you. If the fates were merciful, he’d get it over with and just kill you.

Ending your life doesn’t seem like it’s high on his list of priorities.

He’s facing away from you now, tinkering with something on his desk by the light of his various computer monitors. You can’t make out what it is, only that he’s been at it for the past ten minutes. Grateful as you are for his lack of attention, it always makes you nervous when he gets preoccupied. It usually means he’s working on some new and exciting way to break you.

You take comfort in the momentary peace, some temporary reprieve from the invasive leer of those horrid crimson eyes scanning over you in the darkness. Whatever he’s doing, there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Only steel yourself against what he gives you when he’s finished.

He reaches into his desk, pulling out a plastic bag of something you can’t make out. All you know is when you hear the ziplock open, a strange scent floods the room. It smells vaguely familiar, but between your fucked up headspace and even worse situation, you can’t really bring yourself to care.

Leaning against the little metal bed leg you’re imprisoned against, you realize just how heavy your eyes are as you rest the back of your head on his threadbare mattress. Fighting off oncoming waves of pulsing anxiety takes most of your energy reserve, and bouts of sleep tend to come few and far between when you’re sleeping in the den of a predator.You’re so tired, so worn down, and you don’t know what else he could do to you that he hasn’t already done or planning to do. It would be a lie to say you hadn’t considered saying that to him, but you feel like tempting the universe or him isn’t a great idea right now. Either way, your eyelashes feel like weights dragging you under into the sea of sleep.

You’re almost there when his chair squeaks and you jolt awake, that overwhelming sense of dread coming over you. Your instincts blare and somehow you just know his eyes are on you again, waiting for you to acknowledge him. He wants your attention, and he expects you to give it.

Dragging your exhausted lids open when you know you’ll have to see that terrifying man is a burden you haven’t grown accustomed to having quite yet, but it’s one you bear anyway. Besides, you know that if he thinks you’re ignoring him, he has no problem forcing you to look at him. It’s easier to just give him what he wants. He hurts you less that way.

So you do, and just like you expected, he’s simpering down at you, holding something you can’t make out in his hands. Gulping comes on impulse; he looks far too pleased and that never bodes well for you.

“Do you know what this is?”

He holds it out and it takes you a second to make it out in the dark, but you know that basic shape.

“I-is that a pipe?”

“At least you know that much.” He gives you a cheeky lip quirk, making heat rise in your cheeks. Palming it in one hand, he uses the other to fish in his pocket, one finger carefully pulled outside the kangaroo pouch of his jacket. Following his movements, your brows furrow and curiosity almost wills you to speak. The words stall in your mouth, however, when you see him pull a cheap lighter out between two fingers.

He flicks it a few times with his thumb, sparking the light and sending small cinders dancing across the his lap. After a few tries, it finally holds. The light across his face only makes him seem all the more sinister, exacerbating the shadows that reside in the craggy, marred flesh of his cheeks. The flame dances in his pupils and the orange tinged shine glimmers off the edges of his weirdly perfect, jagged teeth. It’s extremely unsettling.

He lets the flame die, picking his pipe back up and tapping it on the desk once or twice.

“I don’t do this often. I usually prefer to keep a clear head.” He lazily arches back in his chair, inhaling the dank stench of the sticky green plant packed in his pipe before returning his gaze to you. “But in some cases, I find it can help you relax.”

Bringing the pipe to his face, he wraps his chapped lips around the bit and sparks the lighter again. You watch as the flame is sucked toward the bowl, igniting the contents and bringing them to a dull simmer.Thumb twitching on the carb and pinkie pulled away, he inhales, letting his head lull back on the seat of his chair. After a few seconds and a suppressed cough or two, he leans forward and exhales, sending a splay of thick, billowing smoke directly into your face.

You turn your head, watery eyes clinging shut, but it’s not enough to keep the acrid stench from clogging through your sinuses. It constricts your throat, compelling an instinctive cough from deep in your chest. Whatever it is he’s smoking, it’s strong.

His high pitched laugh echoes off the barren walls of his room as you scrunch your nose and try to disperse the smoke pooled in your face. When the air finally clears, he’s leaning toward you, arms resting on his knees with the pipe in one hand and his lighter in the other. The little embers still burn beneath the lip of the bowl, little grey spirals rising up from the still burning plant clusters.

He holds it out to you (as if you could take it with your hands restrained behind your back), hyena-grinning as you scowl up towards him.

“You should try a little. It might make you a little more-” Pausing, he pretends to be in thought. More mockery, you really wish you were desensitized to it by now. “-friendly.”

“I would have been friendly if you hadn’t kidnapped me like some sort of psychopath!”

He rolls his eyes at your outburst, languidly pushing himself off of his dilapidated computer chair and crouching down next to you instead. You know better than to kick at him, he won’t hesitate to break your legs to keep you in line. All you can do is stare at him nervously as he shakes his shaggy pale hair out over his forehead, still sporting that unnerving expression. His scarlet eyes burn arguably brighter than fire from the pipe, and exponentially more threatening.

He moves a little closer into your space, bringing the piece back up to his lips and lighting it up once again. He takes a deep inhale this time, even deeper than the first. Chest puffed and breath held, his lanky arm reaches out back behind him places the still-burning pipe back on the desk, gaze never leaving yours.You figure he’s going to blow it in your face again, either to be annoying or to try and give you some sort of shitty second rate high to make you more malleable.

It’s obnoxious, but not even close to the worst thing he’s done to you.

Yet, his cold, dry fingers grab at your jaw, forcing you to keep your attention on him. A chipped nail from his thumb prods at your lower lip and you realize he wants you to open your mouth. You could tell him to go fuck himself, but that only gives him what he wants, if only for a moment. Instead, you choose to glower at him.

If looks could kill, he would probably keel over, but unfortunately you live in a world where he has the upper hand. He squints at you, something you know would be equally as furious as your own grimace if his features had the freedom to express it. The fingers on your chin clamp down, digging into your soft skin in a bruising grip. The more you defy him, the more he punishes you, and his large hands have more than the power they need to cause you pain.

Eventually you feel your jaw start to crack. You try to hold out, try to stay your ground, but it becomes too much. Between his brutal strength and your already weakened condition, it’s no use fighting him on something he really wants.

You open your mouth, if only to cry in pain, and he immediately crashes his lips against yours.Teeth clack as you try to shake him off, but it’s too late. He’s breathing his air into your lungs, caustic mixture of the taste of the weed and the bitter scent of his breath swirling deep inside you. You try to heave it back at him, but the damage is done. Smoke barely seeps from the tiny cracks he allows between your faces, and your need to breathe is stronger than your ability to fight, so eventually, you relent.

You gulp the air he gives you down, just wanting him to get the fuck away from you. You can feel his lips quirk in a smile as you fight the urge to spit up from the foul scent of his exhale, ripped and bloodied lips scratching against yours. Eventually when he does pull away from you, you go into a hysterical coughing fit and between your bouts, you can hear him cackle.

You finally manage to calm yourself, but whatever it is he’s made you inhale, it’s strong. Stronger than anything you’re used to. Even second hand, your head is already humming, and you can feel your chest tighten against your will.

“You feel it, don’t you?” High pitched giggling and a weirdly gentle brush of a hand across your buzzing, swollen cheek. You go to swat him off, hissing in pain when the metal edge round holding you back cuts into an already existing cut. “Soon you won’t have any fight left in you at all.”

He leaves you alone for a minute, door clicking behind him. You catch your breath in his absence, eyes scanning your surroundings. You look for something, anything he has left within your reach that you can use to escape. It’s what you do during the exceedingly brief moments he’s not around, and so far, it hasn’t yielded any results, but you refuse to give up.

The curtains likely mean that there’s presumably a window behind there. If you can just get free, you might be able to jump out. Problem is you’re stuck with your hands restrained behind you on a metal bed post. It doesn’t matter how much you kick and scream, no one ever comes, so it’s probably safe to say whoever is below or above you doesn’t give a shit. You need to get out of these cuffs.

He smokes, at least occasionally. He’s probably got a bobby pin around here for scraping. If he’s anything like your mates, they probably litter the floor. To be fair, even if you get one, you don’t really know what to do with it. You could try your hand at lockpicking?

Heh. Hand. Get it? Cause all those hands?

Focus.

The biggest problem right now is the handcuffs. Technically, you could get out of them, but you’d have to disjoint your fingers to do it, which takes away from your already pathetic chances at escaping. It hurts to move your wrists, let alone yank on them. Why the fuck did this asshole have handcuffs anyway? Unless he’s doing some kinky shit in his down time. You wouldn’t put it past him, he’s obviously a weird guy. He seems like the type to be into some dirty stuff. You don’t know who with, but there’s probably villain fuckers out there he could find and take advantage of. Gross.

You audibly laugh.That’s funny.That’s really funny. You don’t know why, but the thought makes you giggle uncontrollably. Your mind refuses to stay on track.

Fucking focus!

Somewhere far away, you hear the door open and his heavy footsteps off to the side of you. Too late. You’re still laughing.

“Hey Shigaraki-”

He’s leaning down next to you, fucking with something behind you. Your hands. He’s messing around your hands. He’s cold. Why are his hands always so goddamn cold? Is that why he’s a villain? Cold hands? That would make you a villain too.

Your head feels several sizes too big, and you can’t help but think about how he smells like dust. Everything feels slow. You can feel your heart pumping. You can hear it too.

“-You should like, just let me go.That would be kinda cool. My hands hurt.”

You don’t notice they aren’t even cuffed anymore, or that he’s scooping you up in his arms and gently placing you on his bed.

“Don’t try to fight, now. You need a tolerance to before it’ll feel normal. You’ll only hurt yourself, and that would be such a shame.”

You can tell he’s mocking you again, but you just chortle because the words are processing like a slurry. The back of your head feels so soft. It’s definitely not the awful metal he’s made you crick your neck on the past little while. He’s touching your arms and it tickles. Flashes of his face play in your mind a little slower than they’re probably actually happening. It’s terrifying, but the fear doesn’t register. You wanna touch his face. You bet it feels funny.

You can hear the click of handcuffs again, and you know he’s cuffed you once again (so rude), just somewhere new now. Your fingers grip and you feel metal bars. A bed frame. Again. Uuugh. You kick your feet a little and they bounce off the mattress. Bouncy.

There’s a weight shift near your feet, and before you can really understand what’s happening, he’s on top of you, face hovering less than an inch above yours. Your cheeks are burning as his flaxen hair tickles and curtains you, and no matter how hard you want to, you can’t stop staring at his eyes. They’re so fucking intense you swear they scorch you. Like an abyss, you feel yourself being swallowed inside them as they stare long into you. Hate. Rage. So much embodied negativity you can practically feel it. Panic blooms in your chest but your body is reacting too slow. All you can do is squirm.

“Shh-” He’s caged your head in his arms, and his breath is glossing your cheek, just as sour as before but somehow you know what’s about to happen is much worse than forcefully smoking you out. “This’ll be much better for you if you relax and give in. Who knows? You could even enjoy it.”

He grinds his clothed pelvis into yours, and while somewhere inside your head, sirens are blaring, all your body can process is pressure against your most sensitive area. You whine, and he takes the opportunity to press his lips to yours again. Your mouth is slack and moist, so it’s nice and easy for him to slide his slimy, disgusting tongue down your throat. With your brain short circuiting from both shock and whatever he’s made you consume, your body doesn’t have enough control over its facilities to fight back.

He kisses you long and hard, if you can call whatever he’s doing to you kissing. It’s more like he’s trying to devour you. Sloppy, wet, and possessive, like he’s trying to choke you with his essence. It could have been a minute. It could have been hours. You don’t know.

When he does finally pull away, you can feel your stomach lurch as he laps at the string of spit that connects you to him, but you only blink your eyes wearily despite your extreme bodily reaction. You feel sleepy, or more accurately, your eyelids feel kinda heavy. Really heavy. Something visceral is telling you to stay awake, to keep fighting, but you just can’t. You can hear yourself speak but you don’t even know what you’re saying. You don’t remember.

“You’re cute like this, all spacey and stupid.” He flicks your forehead and your eyes flicker back open, but only briefly. “I guess it hit you kinda hard, huh? Sorry about that. I should have warned you. It must’ve slipped my mind.”

He presses his mouth to yours again, a little softer this time. You’re almost out at this point, everything feels so heavy. So sluggish. You barely feel his long, thin fingers glide slowly up your shirt.

“I think you could come to like it here with me if you stop being stubborn. But that’s okay. I forgive you. Like I told you before. I’m patient. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

[indianamoonshine]

Kylo x Reader | Grinning Like a Devil

Summary: A song!fic based on “Cruel Summer” by Taylor Swift. (I know, I know.) Rating: E Contains: Abstract smut? If that makes sense. Kylo’s flaky but I’m into it.

Fever dream high in the quiet of the night / You know that I caught it

Your quarters were lonely at night.

There was no roommate to keep you company, just the slow whirring of a café machine and the cooling system that growled on occasion.

You toss and turn in bed, the sheets cold and mattress too even. One of your hands runs across the pillows, fantasizing of a body taking its place. You imagined that he’d sleep soundly on his stomach, one arm crooked beneath the pillow where his long, black hair fanned against his face. His absence almost hurt.

Of course, you hadn’t actually had Kylo Ren in your bed before. But he’d ensnared you – no, took you for himself across the room. You’ve found his eyes wandering along your figure while officials discussed strategies with him, hands flexing temptingly in his gloves.

Dreaming about him would do you no good. He hasn’t come to you yet and he never will.

You lift yourself from bed, leaving the sheets in a crumbled mess on the floor, and walk to the window which overlooked the expanse of space.

Bad, bad boy, shiny toy with a price / You know that I bought it

You’re paralyzed with fear when you hear the blast doors open. Had you not locked it correctly? In the bleakness of your room, your eyes strain to find the outline of a figure coming towards you, its steps heavy against the tile.

There’s a flicker of panic then, your body converting to its fight reaction. You grab the nearest item you can find (a mug from the counter) and chuck it towards the intruder. But the mug stills in the air, floating on its side, and then shatters into a thousand pieces when met with the floor.

When he steps into the light, your legs weaken.

Killing me slow / Out the window / I’m always waiting for you to be waiting alone

He doesn’t make any sudden movements for a few moments, assessing your expression before stepping closer. The space between you is warm and throbbing; it is a sensation you’ll never understand.

Something – like invisible tendrils – lull you closer to him in slight steps, your feet almost dragging behind you. While you wanted him, his presence was overwhelming.

Devils roll the dice / Angels roll their eyes / What doesn’t kill me makes me want you more

There were two voices arguing in your head.

One told you to flee from this place – to hide your face from him. The other told you to stay; to feel his lips move across you as though he were worshipping a celestial body. To feel all of his breath, to finally smell him, to trace the puckered scars that decorated his chest like war medals.

He was dangerous.

But fuck it.

He advances towards you, breaking the distance, and, like an animal lunging for its prey (but with a grace unlike any vicious creature), he captures your face between two solid hands.

His lips hover above yours and it’s just close enough to exchange breath with him.

Everything in your body has stopped responding to your brain. You might be clinically dead.

With half-lidded eyes, flushed cheeks, and shaking limbs (yours), he kisses you with fervor. His lips are plump – ripe, like a fruit – and soft against your mouth. He leads, caressing the curve of your spine, and you let him pull you in so that your hips meet.

And it’s new - the shape of your body /it’s blue – the feeling I got

Your back meets the mattress, your clothes already thrown upon the floor in a fit of passion. You’ve never felt so exposed, but calloused hands stroke the curves of your body and you forget your imperfections and trepidations.

Kylo is still dressed in his underclothing. He parts your legs so that he may kneel between them and reaches for the hem of his shirt. When he exposes his chest, you almost gasp. While it was obvious that Kylo was a large man (even under all that armor) the sight of his sculpted body humbled you into silence.

You sit up and reach for him. His skin is hot and his heart thumps wildly against his rib cage. He allows you to skim your hands against the planes of his stomach. You glance up at him through your lashes and his eyes are like starlight, the richness in color incandescent. These eyes are not sad, they are not angry or austere – they are attentive to your every touch, to every flicker of expression upon your face.

His attentiveness of you was intoxicating.

Touch starved, you want to breath when he pulls you in. I am touch starved.

“I hear you…” he purrs in your neck. “And as was I.”

‘It’s cool’ / That’s what I tell him / ‘No rules in a breakable heaven’

Two cycles later, your hands are shaking from holding back from him.

He stands with arms crossed against his chest, looking out into his empire from the bridge of the Finalizer. His helmet is back, but molded together with liquidized kyber crystal.

It burns red and so does he.

In order to reach your destination, you must walk past him. Unfortunately, there was no way around it (literally) because of a downed power generator blocking the path you’ve always taken. You’d think the First Order would have resolved the opportunity of downed generators, but what did you know?

Kylo – ahem, the Supreme Leader - hasn’t contacted you in days. After your midnight rendezvous, he’d barely looked your way when in passing (with the exception of a slight tilting of his chin). Usually, you’d tell yourself to get over it – he was just a man, not a supernatural being.

But, gods. The way he moved with you that night. How his hands gripped your thighs and squeezed the flesh of your ass. How his teeth had marked the inside of your calf, leaving behind a bruise that looked suspiciously like the nebula outside your window. The delicious soreness you endured after he separated from you, and then disappearing into the night like a phantom.

Had you made it up? You lift up the hem of your skirt (a scratchy, black number of the required uniform) and find a yellowing bruise at the top of your thigh; it’s where he had dug his fingers when he came. You trace the ruptured veins beneath that wound (was wound really the word?) and sighed.

Kylo heard this, even if it was under your breath. He turns his head just slightly, and when he sees you standing meekly behind, angles his feet in your direction. He says your last name and the vocoder gargles his natural baritone. Your stomach drops, expecting the voice that had coaxed moans from your lips only nights before.

“Excuse me, Supreme Leader. I was just on my way out.” You turn for the opposite exit, abandoning the plans you’d had – or at the very least - delaying them.

“You’re not excused,” he says, voice low and foreboding. “Come here.”

The urge to roll you eyes is excruciatingly difficult to ignore, but you manage to shuffle your way to him with head held low. You refused to look at him; whether that be because of humiliation or pride, you couldn’t be sure.

Kylo pinches you chin between two leather fingers before forcing your gaze to meet his. You gulp, a slight wave of nausea threatening to materialize upon the floor. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but it feels like minutes.

“What’s troubling you?”

You almost scoff, but your chin between his thumb and forefinger have diffused all rational thinking.

“You haven’t called on me,” you tell him quietly, aware that anyone within ten feet can hear you.

He tugs slightly and you’re forced to move with him, literally at the mercy of his touch. He hums in false concern.

“You’re desperate.” You can hear the smirk behind his mask. “You need to be touched.”

You shift uncomfortably in his grasp, mortified at his deduction.

“You begged for it too,” you say with courage.

Kylo leans in so close that your breath fogs the plate of his mask. “I don’t beg,” he hisses.

He brings a hand to thread his fingers between the locks of your hair, and pulls to reveal the length of your neck. “You need to learn how to obey the rules…” he wanders off, gloved hand trailing softly down your skin. “No sexual display outside of your quarters.”

You grin a little but it’s sardonic. “I don’t follow rules.”

Kylo wraps the entirety of his hand around your neck and begins to cut off your air supply, fingers pressing tensely against the flesh. You can’t decide if you regret your previous words or enjoy them. But just as you start to feel lightheaded, he releases you.

“I’ll call on you tonight��be prepared,” he croons lasciviously. “You may leave now.”

I’m always waiting for you just to cut to the bone / And if I bleed you’ll be the last to know

Four planetary months later, you’ve acclimated yourself to the misgivings of which Kylo had riddled you.

The two of you had bedded one another more than you’d ever imagined was physically possible, but not without recoiling into an argument immediately afterwards. Considering all the physical exertion, you’d expected the tension between the two of you would dwindle, but it hadn’t for whatever reason. Four months of fucking should have calmed his spirit, especially considering the energy he exuded while doing so.

You wondered if he ever got bored with you.

These thoughts were distracting. You couldn’t focus on your job properly. Being a technician was no easy feat and it required an abundance of concentration – something of which you currently had none of.

So when the driver you were tooling with slipped between your greasy fingers and sliced your hand open, you shouldn’t have been surprised. You screamed, dropping the instrument (now bloodied) upon the floor and wailed. The cut had been so deep that the meat of your muscles showed.

Fortunately, a fellow mechanic had heard your cries and came running from the opposite hall. Within two minutes, you were being escorted into the medbay, crimson blood spilling from the wound and onto the tile of the floor.

The process of cleaning and tending to the cut was simple and only took a few minutes. They’d taken a bacta bandage and placed it gently over the wound and you felt the tightening of your skin immediately afterwards.

After the medics have nursed you to the best of their abilities, there’s a clamor at the entrance of the bay. You tilt your chin in order to see from your cot, but the curtain is blocking your view.

“Where is she?”

Your breath hitches in your throat.

“Cot number three, my lord.”

There’s a brief moment of silence. You take it upon yourself to straighten your hair and uniform in haste, your good hand resting gently on your bobbing knee.

The curtain is quickly shoved aside to reveal Kylo, his brooding expression showing the slightest bit of concern, but it flickers away just as quickly as it formed. You want to speak, but he’s glaring down at you like he’s never done before. He seems angry, but at what you weren’t sure.

“Really did a number on myself this time.” You hold up the bandaged hand. “The gauze is pretty itchy but other than that I…”

“What were you thinking?” he asks you.

You blink. “What?”

“You were messing with a saw driver.”

“So?” you snap, glaring at him.

Kylo steps forward and you recoil, back pressing against the pillows until your neck is craned up at him.

“You aren’t authorized to use a saw.” He reaches for a stray hair which dangles between your eyes.

The gesture is intimate, but feels false somehow.

When he brushes the strand away, your mouth turns into a frown. “How do you know I’m not?”

“I checked,” he says, keeping your gaze. His eyes are like stone, but you can’t look away. Somehow, they are beautiful.

Damn him.

“Why?” you ask suddenly.

It’s Kylo’s turn to blink. “What do you mean?”

“Why did you check? Why do you care?”

He chews he inside of his cheek, jaw tensing. Then he takes your hand – the bandaged one – and inspects it thoroughly.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t worse,” he mutters setting the hand upon your lap.

“Why do you care?” you repeat through gritted teeth.

Kylo raises a brow, considering this. Maybe he truthfully doesn’t know. Maybe he can’t answer you.

But then he leans in and brushes his mouth against yours – hot, but sweet breath mingling with your own. His dark eyes – the kind that could melt steel – look directly into yours. You go cross eyed.

“Because what good is your hand if it can’t get me off?”

You should’ve slapped him (with your good hand anyway), but your body deceives you when you feel your cunt flutter. Your cheeks blush.

That’s what my mouth is for, you want to say, but you’re cowardly. It’s a good thing the medics have left the room.

I’m drunk in the back of the car / And I’m crying like a baby coming home from the bar / Said ‘I’m fine’ but it wasn’t true / I don’t wanna keep secrets just to keep you

Merida’s ship was luxurious and smelled like roses.

Bottles of expensive cognac and champagne had been popped, glitter from crushed diamonds had been sprinkled upon the floor, and all for no reason other than to party. No birthdates were being celebrated, no holidays being observed; Merida threw parties for the sole purpose of getting lit.

You should’ve outgrown this stage of your life by now, but you’d give yourself some credit; you hadn’t thrown up in quite some time. Merida knew that you’ve been down lately (understatement of the year) but hadn’t known the reason for it. You couldn’t very well tell her that you were fucking the Supreme Leader of the First Order, now could you?

Merida was a leggy blonde, born with male genitalia but she was a woman in all regards other than anatomy. You’d met her as a child – when she was confused about who she was and why she didn’t like podracing like the “other boys” and instead gravitated towards face paint. She was kind – wild as all get out – but kind. Her face was thin, her eyes blue, and they sparkled in the starlight.

She was the first one to introduce you to the night life. She’d taken you to planets like Canto Bight, Corsucant, and even Tatooine in an effort to get wasted. You’ve seen it all: red parlors, cabarets, neon clubs, and even rusted cantinas. Merida had worked for a madam at one point, but she didn’t like to be smothered, so she managed to escape. Needless to say, it didn’t effect her desire to drink every night she could.

When you were drafted into the First Order, Merida had escaped their grip because her parents were politicians on a planet called Baleine (representatives of some kind, but you can’t remember their exact positions). So when you left to work as a technician, she thrived in groups of (drunk) powerful men and women.

It’d been awhile since you’d seen Merida. Due to the First Order’s no-nonsense policy on recreational leave, you didn’t get much time off. Somehow, you’d managed to convince your supervisor to give you two days – just two days of leave. It was miraculous when he complied, but then again, rumors of you and the Supreme Leader had been spreading like wildfire so you imagined he was afraid to deny you.

Had you confirmed or denied these allegations in any way shape or form? No. You kept to yourself and avoided strangers at all cost. You barely ate in the cafeteria anymore, especially after a nosy mechanic drilled you while you attempted finish your stew.

While the party raged on, you sat in the corner and took sips of your drink. You weren’t sure what it was because Merida had ordered it for you from the bar (she’d rented a tender), but you knew its true purpose was to get you drunk rather than cleanse your pallet. You wondered, while watching Merida gyrate on an older gentlemen (more than likely a rich arms dealer), if it was worth it. If any of it was worth it.

If he was worth it.

You wanted to say it wasn’t. You wanted to believe that he didn’t give two shits about your wellbeing, that you were just a fucktoy he used when he needed gratification (which…was often). Kylo Ren didn’t have feelings other than indifference, rage, or arousal. He felt no conviction, no empathy.

Or did he?

You search through your mental catalogue in a desperate attempt to find something – anything – that might convince you that he was truly human. You were shocked to find that there had been.

It was the little things, wasn’t it? The diminutive movements that seemed so trivial when in the moment; like the faint trembling of his hands when they reached for your body, or the way his eyes gathered you whole and then released you when it became too much. It was the subtle blush when you touched his arm, the way his flesh warmed beneath your fingers as you murmured his name. The way he breathlessly said yours in the middle of the night, voice hoarse from pleasure. It was the sweaty palms that clasped yours and then restrained themselves above your head, fingers weaving betwixt one another until finally, finally, you reached release.

It wasn’t sex. It was making love.

You blink, confounded by your epiphany. Suddenly the drink did nothing.

Drunk with liquor and startled by the bombshell, you begin to cry. No – sob. It’s ugly, but aplenty. The tears that drip down your cheeks are warm and salty against your lips, but you take a massive gulp of your drink anyway, desperate to feel nothing.

Please feel nothing.

Merida turns in the midst of the crowd and searches for you as though she has sensed your misery. When she spots you clenching your glass and weeping pathetically over it, she rushes to kneel in front of you, her heels clattering against the linoleum. Behind her, the party rages on.

“What’s the matter?” She touches your thigh.

You can’t tell her. You shouldn’t. But you don’t know what else to do; who else to turn to. And besides, you could trust Merida with your life. She’s had yet to let you down.

“It’s true,” you blubber. You don’t even wipe your face. “It’s all true.”

Merida’s eyes widen. She shakes her head, grabs your hand, and lifts you to stand. You wobble, the shoes beneath your feet suddenly twelve inches tall even though you’re positive you wore kitten heels.

She takes your face between two perfectly manicured hands. “Baby, what do you want?”

You shake your head erratically. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“What do you want?”

You haven’t seen Merida this serious in quite some time. It’s been awhile since something this heavy has happened in your lives and you’re unsure on how to handle it.

But she does. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She knows exactly what she’s asking.

She knows exactly what you’ll say.

“I want him,” you sob. “I want him.”

Merida hums quietly, eyes soft. She reaches to tug a lock of hair behind your ear, just like Kylo had done a couple of days before.

Stop thinking about that. Stop it.

Merida leans her forehead against yours. “Then get him.”

Two hours later, you’re stumbling through the halls of the Finalizer and gripping the paneled walls with every ounce of strength you could muster up. Merida would’ve helped you back to your room, but she wasn’t allowed on the ship without authorization.

You weren’t allowed to be staggering drunk on base either.

While reality was blurred, you were still able to find his quarters. It was a long walk (and it definitely felt like this because of your inebriation) but you finally toppled against the durasteel of his blast doors. A pair of shadow troopers eyed you warily, their helmets raising up to your face and then down at your feet. You notice then that you were missing your shoes.

“Fuck,” you sputter.

The troopers observe you for a moment and then decide it isn’t worth it. They walk away, leaving you to your own devices.

Kylo had given you a code to unlock the doors, but you can’t remember it now; not with everything so distorted. You recall something about a two or three, but in which order you can’t be sure. So you decide to knock.

Okay, not knock. You slam your hands against the doors like a child, pounding on them with your fists. It barely makes any noise, but you assume he’d hear it because of the Force or whatever. You weren’t sure how it worked, but you’ve noticed that his senses were very keen.

You consider yelling his name for a moment, but then the doors slide open with a hiss. You tumble, arms outstretched to catch yourself, but Kylo has caught you.

He’s in his sleepwear; nothing but a pair of black trousers that look soft and warm. His chest is bare and the sight of his pecs make all the blood in your body pool at your feet.

He says your name, voice stern. “Are you intoxicated?”

You shake your head “no” and then sniff away a tear. “Yes,” you say, voice trembling.

Kylo gawks. It looks as though he’s never seen a drunk person in his life, but you happen to know that’s not true; Han Solo was a notorious drinker.

“Come here,” he mutters, pulling you by the arm and into his refresher.

It’s a large bathroom with a shower half the size of your quarters, but he was an important man and you supposed he needed a shower to reflect that. There’s a counter made of black granite and he lifts you upon it.

“Steady yourself on your hands. Behind you.” When you raise a brow, confused by his simple directions, he sighs and does it for you. “I’ll be right back.”

You shrug like you couldn’t possibly care less if he did or not, but you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t and he knows that. The truth comes out when one is drunk off their ass, and that you surely were.

Kylo comes back with a mug of café. You didn’t realize he had his own machine. You can’t imagine him drinking it.

You start for the mug, but he pulls back. “You’re going to spill it everywhere.”

“I’m not,” you grouse.

He brings the mug to your lips, tilting your chin back just slightly. “If you spill this on yourself, you’ll burn. And I don’t feel like dealing with that right now.”

You take a sip. It’s not too hot, but it’s enough to shock you slightly out of your disorientation. “Ouch,” you grumble.

He doesn’t apologize. He sets the mug beside you but out of arm’s reach so you don’t knock it over.

Kylo places his arms on either side of you to steady himself. “Why are you here?” he demands.

“Because I’m mad at you.” It comes out too mousy to be intimidating. It’s not like you could daunt him anyway.

“You’re mad at me.” It isn’t a question.

“Yes,” you confirm. “I’m mad. At you.”

He leans back, crossing his arms against his chest. “You don’t seem very angry.”

You grumble under your breath, ignoring him. Maybe you shouldn’t have come.

“Take off your clothes,” he says suddenly, expression blasé.

You blink. “What?”

“Take off your clothes.”

“…why?”

“Because you need a shower in order to sober up. I’m not going to have this conversation with you while you’re inebriated.” He presses against the keypad next to the shower. It turns on.

“I don’t want to take a shower,” you say petulantly.

Kylo tests the water with his hand. When he finds it’s suitable, he turns to you. “Fine then,” he says seriously. “Don’t take your clothes off.”

“Wha…?” you begin, but soon you’re lifted into the air and thrown against his back. A slight wave of nausea sours your gut and you protest, fists slamming against him. “Put me down!”

“Okay.”

He sets you in the shower, clothes and all, and then shuts the door. You growl at him from behind the glass, eyes rolling before submitting to the warmth of the spray.

Hours later, you wake in his bed.

Sober.

And I scream for whatever it’s worth / ‘I love you. Ain’t that the worst thing you’ve ever heard?’

Kylo is asleep on the couch, a blanket flung gracelessly over his chest. It barely covers him; the bantha wooled afghan much too small to warm a man of his stature.

You look upon him with a sense of wonderment, noticing the way he wrinkles his nose in his sleep or how he tosses an arm over his face. You want to touch him, especially now that he looks like a perfectly normal man and not a vicious predator.

Maybe he is both. Maybe that’s what’s so gorgeous about him.

You should leave. This feels too intimate for a one-sided relationship. Also, you were horrified by your behavior from the night before (unfortunately, you had not forgotten about it). Kylo probably expected you were an alcoholic now, or at the very least, an irredeemable asshole who charges into people’s rooms at an ungodly hour and practically spits in their face.

It comes as a shock to you when you find you’re not wearing the clothes you arrived in. While you hadn’t failed to recall telling him that you were angry, you’d forgotten about the shower. You look down at your body and find an oversized undershirt (black) that hangs well below your knees, and a pair of knickers.

The knickers are familiar. It dawns on you that they’re yours. And they’re not just knickers, but lingerie. Black. Lacy. High-waisted. Expensive.

“You left them here one night,” Kylo says suddenly.

You whip your head in his direction. He’s stretching, arms long and limber reaching towards the ceiling. It was so casual. So…human.

“Did I?” you ask, voice soft.

“Yes. They’re clean. I had them washed.” He tosses the blanket aside and stands. “And don’t worry – I wasn’t keeping them for pleasure.”

That thought hadn’t occurred to you.

“I wasn’t thinking that. But now that you mention it…” you tease, feeling a little more confident.

Kylo tries not to smirk, but you can see the slight curl of his lips. He takes a few long strides to reach your bedside (well, his) and then looks upon you with scrutiny.

“Why did you come last night?” he asks, voice rich with suspicion.

“I don’t remember,” you lie.

You don’t know why you do on account that he can read you just as well as he can a book. It was a silly thing to fib, but now that the moment had come, you feel more faint-hearted than you care to admit.

You were too sober for this shit.

“You do,” he counters. “You weren’t that drunk.”

The headache throbbing in your temples says otherwise. “Kylo, really. I…”

He emits a sigh, eyes glazing over the space above your head. He seems disgruntled, but what else was new?

Except the look on his face makes you wonder if he’s disappointed.

“Okay, fine.” You toss your hands in your lap. “I came here to talk.”

He scoffs. “Talk? You couldn’t even walk.”

You shrug. “I guess I didn’t care. I was desperate to see you.”

There’s a flicker of satisfaction that lightens up his eyes like a thunderbolt. He tries to hide it, to turn his face away like a disgruntled child.

“Continue,” he says.

The moment has come. You aren’t prepared; you don’t know how to articulate your thoughts or how to react if he rejects you. You sit in the crumbled sheets in sheer silence for quite some time, breath trembling.

“I…” you falter, lip quivering.

No. You will not allow him to see you cry.

“What?” Kylo says pointedly. “Just say it.”

Does he know? Can he see what you’ve been holding onto for months? Is he able to look into your dampening eyes and see the dreams you’ve had of him caressing you into sleep?

Of course he can.

“I can’t,” you gasp.

You’re shocked to find that he looks disappointed. He takes a deep breath through his nostrils, shoulders squaring in attempt to make him feel composed. The lines framing the sides of his mouth exaggerate when he frowns. He chews the inside of his cheek.

“Can I see?” he asks, softer than before.

You nod wordlessly.

He takes a hand and raises it to your face, his fingers fanning softly against your cheek.

“Will it…” you sniff back a tear. “Will it hurt?”

Kylo looks pained by your question. “No. I won’t let it.”

This relieves you. You close your eyes in anticipation, lips parted slightly and with bated breath.

When it happens, your legs numb. You can’t see anything, but you can feel everything. The grip he has on your cheeks tighten just enough to cause you to whimper, and when he hears the stifled noise from you, softens his touch.

There’s a hazed glow of white that vignettes the darkness behind your eyelids. And just when you’re about to collapse from the energy it takes to let him in, he lets go of you.

You settle yourself limply in his arms, breathing ragged.

Kylo steadies you at arm’s length. “You love me,” he murmurs then.

You nod weakly. “I do.”

Kylo takes you further into his arms and your ear presses against his chest. His heartbeat is inconsistent with his pulse – wild, erratic. When your arms wrap around his torso, his breathing falters too.

“Are you sure?” he asks. He sounds terrified.

You nod against him, tightening your grip on him. “I am. I really am.”

There’s a sheer silence. Nothing but the jagged rhythm of his heart to slice through the muteness of the room.

“You don’t have to say it back,” you whisper in his chest.

He hugs you. Tightly. His mouth is pressed against the crown of your head, his fingers pressing into your waist. They don’t leave bruises this time.

“I want to,” he mumbles into your hair. He runs his nose down the length of your neck; goosebumps trickle down your spine. “I want to so badly.”

“In due time,” you say quietly.

He hums against you and then turns your figure so that you’re on your back. It’s a quick change of position – enough to make your head spin.

“Kylo, what are you -?”

He leans over your body, his raven hair brushing against your eyes. You bring your arms to wrap around his neck as he presses slow, teasing kisses down your breasts.

When Kylo playfully takes the skin of your left hip between his teeth, you yelp. It takes everything in you to suppress the giggles but they bubble out of your mouth against your will.

“Kylo! What are you doing?” you repeat in lighter spirits.

“I’m not very good with words,” he admits. His mouth is hot on your hip. He fingers the lacy hem of your panties. “Let me show you how I feel.”

“About me?”

He nods. “Yes.”

You lick your lips.

 He looks up grinning like a devil.

[sunriseoverastorea]

Ebonhawke is silent and still in the wee hours of the morning. Marea can see the entire city from the deck of her ship, spread out below her like a massive dollhouse, sleeping in the shadow of the mountains where the Crooked Kestrel is docked. A single figure here and there, darting through the sulfur-yellow glow of a streetlamp, likely up to no good. She shapes her right hand into a gun and points it at each of them, softly saying ‘pew, pew’ under her breath. She can barely hear herself over the idling hum of gears and steam and shifting wings, keeping her perpetually afloat, a gentle lullaby of mechanical voices. But she couldn’t fall asleep here, even if she wanted to. Nor on the bomb-splintered roof of her apartment, alongside her pets, or in the tall, whispering tree out in the Iron Marches, that has grown over Rajya’s grave.

She sits down less than gracefully on the edge of the deck, still adjusting to her bad knee. Her legs swing over the side, kicking chipperly through the air, and to her left she lays out her work for the night: a new cape, shoddily handsewn and almost completed, and a large plain sketchbook, accompanied by her box of scribing tools. She briefly runs the coarse wool of the cape through her fingers, feeling nothing, but imagining it to be soft and fluid, fuzzy and scratchy, all at once. Then she takes the hefty book and plops it on her lap, opening to the first page. 

“Don’t fuck up, Marea,” she murmurs, hunching deeply, getting her face as close to the page as she can. Her braids slip over her shoulders and hone in on her peripheral vision as she takes a black pen from the box and carefully pricks the end of it on the paper, licking her lips. “You don’t wanna tear pages out of this. It’s a record of your progress. If it’s shitty, it’s shitty forever.”

She begins to sketch along the top margin of the page, a smooth, elegant array of curving vines studded with leaves and blossoms alike, mimicking the flowers of Grothmar Valley. Her trip there seems like a world away, now--everything from before the Dominion came into existence does. In some cases, literally, in her year of barding in foreign taverns where odd variants of humanity with thick, musical accents listened to her tales of Ascalon, a fabled land with fabled cat people and legendary sorrow and beauty. But even since she came back--Raigar gone, then finding him a changed man from the one she left behind. Finding herself changed, a stranger in places she once romped about without a care, an alien in a world where everything is loud and angry, and she was loud and angry, and sometimes she still is, but other times she’s forgotten how she’s supposed to feel, supposed to react. 

Everything is different. She can never go back to a time when Tyria was her whole horizon. The closest she can get is her memories with Rajya, when she was child. Days moved slowly, and the world was a story, a tapestry of love and suffering that she could read before bed. It was easier that way. 

But even back then, she knew it was a sham. That real life was visceral and painful, and would beat her down at every opportunity. And now is no different--she has new friends, a lover, an airship, and a new place that she calls home, at least by name. And in the midst of all this, the concept that she’s built her heart around, like the vines climbing up the trellis on the page of her sketchbook, is crumbling into shards and splinters. 

She leans forward, letting her forehead rest against the cold, rusty metal of the deck’s railing. She grits her teeth, eyes narrowing, metal hand gripping the pen in a fist so tight that the plastic casing cracks nearly in half. And then the pen is flying off the airship, out over soot-darkened rooftops, and shreds of torn sketchbook paper are hurled after it, though they only sail a foot through the air before they begin to drift downward, spinning and lilting on the breeze like feathers. She bangs her head against the railing, again and again, and even in her anger, she doesn’t feel like shouting. She doesn’t want to be loud. 

What’s the point? she thinks, Why should I keep trying? Why did I return? Why do I still care? 

She takes a long, shuddering breath, wiping hard at her eyes with the back of her hand. It’s a poison. A disease. Tyria is in her blood, and it will always call her back. 

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

Over the snow-capped mountains and across the fields and forests of Kryta, Cara returns to Shaemoor. Her tiny room at the top of the farmer’s mill is just as she left it, if covered in a significant layer of dust. Even her favorite cat is snoozing on the bed, though it does nothing more than open one eye in greeting. She’s not staying the night here. It will take a couple hours to meet up with Jack and the others in the swamp, so it’s best that she gather what she needs, and leave. No fanfare, no sentimentality. It shouldn’t be difficult; this is a place where she despised herself, spent years trapped in a pit of despair and self-loathing. There is nothing of worth here, except her gear, which she came for. 

She rounds up her weapons first. With her greatsword and rifle already strung across her pack, she adds a large hammer, an axe, a sword, a small shield, and a spiked mace to the array. Some of them go in the pack, others are tied with straps to hang from the sides of it. She flips through her stack of unopened letters, which she suspects has grown in the last year, nosy farmers delivering her backlog of family correspondence straight to her desk. Then she takes them all and shoves them under the mattress, out of sight, out of mind. Like they never existed. 

Despite a fine peppering of dust, her armor still gleams, silver surface reflecting halos of gold in the candlelight. She stares down at her hard face, reflected in the chestplate, on the emblem of the Vigil so exquisitely molded into the metal, and she feels ill, as if her stomach is forcing its way up her throat. There’s no time to let petty, irrational weakness distract her--she grits her teeth and, piece by piece, removes her armor from the stand, and goes through the familiar motions of putting it on. Even after five years, the preparations that she has rehearsed since she was a child come naturally, easily, her second skin that she had planned to live the rest of her life in. Fight in battle, die in battle. With strength, honor, and justice. 

It’s heavier than she remembers. She untethers her greatsword from her pack, and experimentally swings it through the air, a simple upper-cut slash. Her breath quickens, her stance wavers, she feels stunted and instantly yearns for her arms to move freely. But is it really the smooth range of motion that she craves, or the panting from her chest that she fears? 

She’s lost muscle mass. It happens. She sits on the edge of the bed, untying the binding on her chestplate, and carefully lowering it to the floor. She didn’t want that, anyway. Baring that lie on her chest. She’s isn’t Vigil, and she never will be again. There’s nothing to be done about the rest of her armor, most of it in uniform, but at least it doesn’t scream from the highest hilltop in the same way the chestplate does: I’m a traitor! I’m a failure! I am disgraced, and I deserve my isolation.

Isolated no more, she has Jack. And the rest of the gang, though she’d hardly call them close companions. Still, in the moments when she is away from her lover, left to what few meaningful thoughts she has, she remembers what it’s like to be completely alone. There’s a part of her that believes she should’ve stayed that way, as penance. And another that’s learned not to care. She is no longer a soldier, no longer honorable. And she’s never lived her life half-heartedly. 

She pulls a storage bin out from under the bed, and unveils a thick norn-style shirt, made from a mix of hides and fur, a gift from Kylan many years ago. It will do in place of her chestplate, unrecognizable to any familiar faces she may encounter at the war front, further enforcing the idea that she is not Cara, not even human. Even in her shame, she isn’t ready to be associated with the charr-killing mongrels she’ll soon be fighting alongside. Especially if the sack-hoods come out.

She stands in the doorway, saddled with armor and weapons on her back. She looks at the cat, who at some point circled the bed and settled down with its tail to Cara, face tucked away out of view. 

“Goodbye,” she says in her flat, commanding tone, startling herself a little. The room had been dead silent, her footsteps dampened by the dust. She waits for the cat to reply--and it doesn’t, so she moves on. 

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

Dido sits at her desk in her apartment in the Western Commons, busily scrawling away with a pencil. Trisha, take care of Kennedy; Sara, finish the dress for Elizabeth--she scrolls through the mental list of clients in her head, and when the letters are all written and addressed, she puts them on the table by the door, to be dropped in the mail on her way out. No noble lady will be left unattended, futzing and complaints should be minimal. She opens her little pantry, peeking in the back corners of each shelf in search of perishable food, when a tinny, subtle crackling in her ears grabs her attention. 

Abruptly, she straightens up, and goes to the window, leaning her head out just enough to appear as if she’s enjoying the cool evening air. She gently taps her finger on the tiny comm, tucked safely in her ear. “Yes?” she answers crisply, voice even and smooth and pleasantly indifferent, an automaton of grace and sinuous charm. She falls silent, listening to the reply, and tilts her head out just a bit farther, trying to abate poor reception. 

“I know, I know. Look, it’s not a vacation,” she says, keeping soft and low so that she doesn’t disturb her neighbors. “I--yes, I’m going to be with my sister, I never denied that. But we’re also going to an active war zone, so I’ll be working at the same time… Yes, of course I will keep you updated on everything I see. Every last fallen pine needle--who? Right, I’ll keep an eye out for them.”

The tinny voice in her ear drones on, a cloud passes by overhead, revealing the moon, and she dips back inside her apartment, a little more clarity coming through the device. She half-listens as she boxes up her sewing machine, shoving it under the bed and out of view from snooping eyes, and rolls up and folds her patchwork of fabrics spread across the sewing table. 

“I understand,” she says gently, but firmly. “You know I take this seriously. And that I can multitask. Or I wouldn’t have the right to call myself tailor by day, agent by night. Sometimes the reverse. I like being kept on my toes.” 

Goodbyes are exchanged, and the comm crackles and closes the connection. For a moment, she considers removing it from her ear; just a little peace and quiet, without her mentor butting in on her thoughts all night and all day, would be a sweet relief. But she leaves it in, just in case. Duty calls. 

Tomorrow--in the morning, duty calls. She lies down on her bed, swallowed in her plush comforter. She will have plenty of time to catch up with Cara and Jack when the sun sits high in the sky, warm and bright, and a fascinating, unprecedented adventure awaits them. A charr civil war, Jormag looming on horizon. She’s living through history, and her keen eyes are drinking in every minute of it.