#or your kneecaps will not be safe)

[actual-changeling]

If you ship Joel and Ellie in any kind of romantic and/or sexual way, I am kindly asking you to stay away from my blog and my writing.

I will NOT disclose any kind of personal information outside of the fact that it makes me incredibly uncomfortable at best and triggers me at worst. I do not want to have to think about people misinterpreting the physical touch and affection I write about, this is a father-daughter relationship and nothing else.

My intention is to deal with sensitive and traumatic topics in a respectful way that allows people to find comfort and catharsis, and I want to keep both my blog and my ao3 page a safe space for people.

The fact that I even have to say this honestly makes me nauseatingly upset, but I will not say anything else on the matter. If you are being disrespectful or hurtful, you will be blocked, end of story.

[creative-caramel-coffee]

They say to write what you know but I’m pretty sure they didn’t mean project all your own problems on your characters and make them suffer… hehe whoops.

If you can’t tell … I have some pretty angsty (ok mildly angsty) hurt / comfort fics coming soon. They are all ready to post but I don’t like posting more than two fics per day in case of future writers block (knocking on wood rn).

Stay safe and drink water my friends <3

[epitomees]

"I dare anyone to try even lifting me off the ground, let alone chucking me just because I'm short."

[cowboyrobholding]

AARON START I'VE PRAYED FOR DAYS LIKE THIS

[azurskysmobile]

I love vandalizing the unused pages of old school books. Anyways uhh water rat with a temper is back?

[mielmoto]

"No napoleon complex to be found here, no sir. The gods made me this compact so I have a perfect excuse to bat my eyelashes at great, big, tall muscle-y ladies and ask them to grab something from the top shelf for me."

[dcxdpdabbles]

Danny: Hi! I'm Danny Fenton, your new dorm roommate.

Jason: Jason Todd. Thanks for letting me take the spare bed. I registered late, but one of my scholarships had a requirement of living on campus. I was really worried you say no.

Danny: No worries, I figured something like that was going down if the RA asked me a month after the semester started if I was cool with a roommate. I do have one rule though.

Jason: Anything

Danny: If you want to bring someone to the dorm, I need a heads up. Not just for dates or hookups. Friends or guests too. I'm a chem major, and I don't want anyone messing with my equipment. Of course I'll do the same.

Jason: That's not a problem. And I feel like I have to warn you that I keep odd hours. I'm a bouncer.

Danny: That's fine.

Three weeks later

Danny: I think my hot dorm roomate is in the Mafia.

Dan: Damn which one? I may have shot him last week.

Danny: I wish you leave the Red Hood Gang

Dan: And get my kneecaps taken from Hood for betraying him? Nah, besides, it's not that bad. Sometimes, I just walk around and make sure the kids get home safe from the school buss or that none of working folk are bothered too much. Hood is surprisingly kind about that.

Danny: I still hate that man.

Dan: I know. I'm sorry I got mixed up with that crowd. I'm too deep to get out though.

Danny: It's not fair!

Dan: No, it isn't. But it's a mistake that I made and now have to pay for.

[lazy-ahh]

I THOUGHT OF YOU BETWEEN THE BLOODSHED

pairing jason todd x gender neutral reader

jason todd comes home to you with bruised knuckles and a heart too full to name. the red hood is all sharp edges and violence, but with you? he's just jason—achingly tender, disarmingly soft, hands that break bones cradling your face like you’re something sacred.

"you taste like gunpowder," you murmur against his lips, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer. his breath is warm, a little ragged, like he’d sprinted up the stairs just to get to you.

"that’s ‘cause i was shootin’ people," jason huffs, but there’s no bite to it—just that low, rough voice curling around the words like smoke. his hands are big where they settle on your waist, thumbs pressing into the dip of your hip bones like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

you hum, tilting your head to kiss him again, slow and lazy. his mouth is chapped, the faint metallic tang of blood lingering from where he’d bitten his own lip too hard earlier. but he sighs into it, lets you lick into his mouth like you own it, like he’d let you take anything from him if you just asked.

when you pull back, his eyes are half-lidded, dark with something that makes your stomach flip. the white streak in his hair is mussed from your fingers, and you reach up to smooth it back, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. he leans into the touch like a cat, a quiet rumble in his chest.

"missed you," he mutters, like it’s a secret. like he’s embarrassed by it.

you snort. "you saw me this morning."

"still missed you."

his nose bumps against yours, clumsy with affection, and you can’t help but smile. jason todd, red hood, the crime lord who’d put a bullet through six men’s kneecaps tonight, is nuzzling into your hand like he’s starved for it.

his fingers trail up your sides, over your ribs, like he’s counting them. when he speaks again, his voice is softer. "thought about you. when i was out there."

"yeah?" you tease, but your heart stutters anyway. "what, in between breaking bones?"

"especially then," he admits, and his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, catching on the swell of it. "kept thinkin’ about how you’d laugh if you saw me. how you’d roll your eyes at me for bein’ dramatic."

you do roll your eyes now, but he just grins, that crooked, boyish thing that makes him look younger. makes him look like jason, not the red hood, not the ghost of robin. just yours.

"you’re such a sap," you tell him, but your hands are gentle where they frame his face, where your thumbs trace the scars on his cheeks.

he turns his head, pressing a kiss to your palm. "only for you."

and god, if that doesn’t make your chest ache.

for some reason, tonight felt more... intimate. more warm and safe. soft and right. so right. the two of you sitting on the couch, with you situated on jason's lap as you cuddled and shared soft, tender kisses.

and you can’t help but stare.

because up close, he’s beautiful.

the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks when he blinks, long and dark like ink smudged on paper. the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow, a story he’d shrug off if you asked but you love anyway. his nose, slightly crooked from one too many fights, and the way it brushes against yours when he leans in, clumsy and sweet.

his lips are chapped, but they’re warm, and they part so easily under yours—like he’s been waiting for this, like he’d let you take and take until there’s nothing left.

and his hands. god, his hands. big and rough, knuckles bruised and fingers calloused from years of gripping guns and knives and the edges of his own rage. but right now, they’re gentle. one cradles the back of your head like you’re something precious, the other tracing idle patterns on your hip like he’s memorizing you.

you reach up, thumb brushing over the white streak in his hair, the strands soft between your fingers. he leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second—like he’s savoring it, like he’s starved for it.

and you think, this. this is the jason no one else gets to see. the one who sighs into your touch, who lets you trace the scars on his skin without flinching, who kisses you like he’s trying to say something words could never hold.

"what?" he murmurs, catching you staring.

"nothin’," you whisper, but your fingers don’t stop tracing the curve of his jaw. "just thinkin’ about how pretty you are."

his breath hitches, just a little, and you watch the way his throat bobs when he swallows. "pretty?" he echoes, voice low, disbelieving. like no one’s ever said it to him before. like he doesn’t know what to do with the word.

"yeah," you murmur, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. "so pretty it hurts."

his cheeks flush, just a little, and he ducks his head like he’s trying to hide it. but you catch it—the way his lashes flutter, the way his grip on your waist tightens, just for a second. like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

"shut up," he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. just that quiet, aching vulnerability he only ever shows you.

your hands reach for his face, cupping his cheeks, thumbs brushing over the high curve of his cheekbones. his skin is warm under your palms and you tilt his head up just enough to see the way his lashes flutter, the way his lips part—just slightly—like he’s already waiting.

and god, he’s beautiful like this.

you press the first kiss to the corner of his mouth, soft and teasing, feeling the way his breath stutters against your lips. the second lands on the bridge of his nose, right over that little scar he never talks about. the third finds the dip under his eye, where his skin is unfairly soft, and he lets out a quiet, shaky exhale, his fingers tightening where they grip your waist.

"fuck," he whispers, voice rough, and you can feel the way his pulse jumps under your fingertips.

you don’t stop. you kiss the crease between his brows, the spot just below his ear, the sharp line of his jaw—every touch feather-light, reverent. and jason melts, his shoulders slumping, his head tipping back against the couch like he’s surrendering. like he’s letting you take him apart piece by piece.

when you finally press your lips to his, it’s slow. sweet. his mouth is warm, yielding under yours, and he makes this quiet, desperate noise in the back of his throat when you suck gently on his bottom lip. his hands slide up your back, fingers trembling just a little, like he’s not sure whether to pull you closer or hold himself back.

you pull away just enough to murmur against his lips, "let me worship you, dearest."

his breath catches, and for a second, he just looks at you—eyes dark, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and parted. then he’s surging forward, crashing his mouth against yours like he’s starving for it, like he’s trying to say yes, yes, yes without words.

and you let him. you let him take, let him press you closer, let him kiss you like he’s drowning and you’re the only air left in the world.

he kisses you like a man starved, all rough edges and clumsy hunger, but you slow him down with a hand fisted gently in his hair. "easy," you murmur against his lips, and he whines—actually whines—high in his throat, his hips jerking up against yours like he can’t help it.

you swallow the sound, kissing him deeper, slower, until his frantic movements still and he’s just shaking beneath you, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. his breath comes in ragged bursts against your mouth, his chest heaving, and when you pull back just an inch, his eyes are blown black with want, his lips slick and parted.

"please," he gasps, and it’s wrecked, broken, like he’s begging for something he doesn’t even know how to name.

you shush him with another kiss, this one lingering at the corner of his mouth, then trailing down to his jaw, his throat. he tilts his head back with a groan, baring the column of his neck to you like an offering, his pulse fluttering wild under your tongue. you bite down—just a tease, just enough to make him curse—and he arches off the couch, a strangled "fuck—!" tumbling from his lips.

his hands scramble at your waist, tugging at your clothes, but you catch his wrists, pinning them gently to the cushions above his head. his breath hitches, his thighs tensing beneath you, and when you finally meet his gaze again, he looks ruined.

"let me take care of you," you whisper, and his throat works around a swallow, his lashes fluttering.

he nods, once, sharp and desperate. "yeah. yeah, okay—please."

and so you do.

…1.4k full of soft jason- WHAT CAN I EVEN SAY TO THIS AHHHH I NEED MORE BUT MY BRAIN IS SO AHHHHHHH sorry, guys—i'm hopeless at writing anything steamier than slow kisses and yearning glances and whatever this is. maybe someday, when i've deemed that my skills are worthy enough, there'll be a part two. maybe-

[blackcupidangel]

Things Batmom has said:

“Keep your father out of the kitchen, I’ll be back by morning.”

“We’ll if it isn’t the consequences of your own actions”

“It means you can either drive yourself home or I’ll have Alfred come get you.”

“Look at my handsome boys growing into fine gentlemen.”

“Stay safe, I love you”

“Eyes open, baby birds.”

“Alfred and I made food for the week, it’s in the fridge” *punch* “Your running shoes are on the left side of the closet” *kicks* “Make sure his project is done tonight, it’s due tomorrow.”

“I’m going to let you fix it, because if I fix it I’m going to jail.”

“It’s called,” she raises one fist “fuck around,” then she raises her other fist, “and find out.”

“You don’t even know me, you don’t even know my real name…” she leans in with harden eyes yet calm features, “I’m the fuckin boogie man”

“Do not play with me, I am not the one, two, or the three.”

“Don’t kill him.” //“I’m sorry but who’s the one tied up here?” //“Darling—“// “Because the way I see it, it’ll be in self defense.”

“Just one leg.” “No” “Both legs?” “No!” “You’re right….I’ll go for their kneecap.”

“So…you’ve chosen to disobey me.”

“Alright now…don’t write a check you can’t cash.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say? I couldn’t hear you because of your tone of voice.” She leans in with a hand cupping her ear to encourage a second chance.

“Do I look like booboo the fool?!”

“Brilliant.”

“As mad as I am, I can’t let you shoot him.”// “Just this once?” //“No.” //“I’ll go for the knees. Nothing vital.” //“Hhgh.”

“You really hit the nail on the head with that one Batman.”

“And WHO do you think you’re taking to?”

“Don’t tell your father.”

“Be home by 10, or I start looking windows.”

“I’m so very proud of you!”

“A girl’s gotta be prepared.”

“You know…about the whole guns thing, I’m still not so sure I feel as strongly as you do.”

“Way to go, Bruce.”

“Touch my child, I dare you. Make my day.”

“Ahh…Motherhood.”

—————————————————————————

Heyyyyyyy hotties I’m backkkkkkk. Send me asks and requests as I’m easing my way back into things. It might take me a while to find my flow and writing style so bear with me please. I missed you all so much honestly.

[kashverse]

toji fushiguro was the night.

or at least, that’s what he told himself as he perched atop the city’s skyline, the wind ruffling through his dark cloak (aka, the oversized hoodie you had forced on him before he left). his muscles tensed, sharp eyes locked onto his target below—a group of lowlife criminals exchanging contraband in a dimly lit alley. classic. “honey, be safe,” you had murmured earlier, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “and don’t forget to check your pockets before leaving.”

“tch. i’m always safe.”

fast forward to now—his prey started to flee, scattering like cockroaches the moment he landed with a heavy thud. toji reached into his pocket, prepared to pull out one of his trusty weapons—maybe a throwing knife, maybe a blunt object. instead, he found—

legos.

megumi. his wonderful, devious little gremlin of a son.

toji stared at the colorful bricks in his palm for exactly 0.5 seconds before making the most logical decision available to him—he hurled them with the precision of a trained assassin. the results were devastating.

one man immediately went down, screeching in agony as a lego brick struck him square in the kneecap. another tripped over his own feet, colliding face-first with the pavement. the third? the third received a lego piece straight to the temple. he staggered, let out an unholy noise that sounded somewhere between a dying goose and a broken car alarm, and collapsed. toji exhaled, surveying the scene.

mission accomplished.

he dusted off his hands, ready to head back home, when a sudden realization struck him—if he had legos in his pocket… then what had megumi been playing with at home? his mind raced. he thought back to earlier that evening.

megumi, sitting cross-legged on the floor, assembling what he had proudly declared to be “batman’s new lair.” in one hand? lego batman. in the other?

…something suspiciously grenade-shaped.

“aw, drat.”

time to go home.

[void-my-warranty]

Come Quietly (18+)

Pairing: König/Fem Reader Content Warnings: Intense situation (fear of SA), nonconsensual frisking, hand over mouth gag, blood/wound dressing, forced proximity, brief thoughts of suicide, dubious consent (under duress), stranger sex, vaginal fingering, PIV sex, she/her reader Word Count: 8.7k

This shouldn't be happening.

You curl tighter in on yourself in the darkness, flinching with every muffled rat-tat-tat coming from somewhere outside. 

This isn't some goddamned war zone, this is a normal fucking city, with a functional police force and Apple Watches and Chipotle. Armed militants don't just drop out of the sky and fight each other, that’s not how this works. 

The boom of an explosion outside has you mashing your forehead into your kneecaps, hugging your legs so tight that the tendons in your arms ache. With any luck, no one will notice your little hidey hole. It’s more or less tucked into the rafters, above the lights of this warehouse, and the average person would have to do a lot of looking up and squinting to even know it exists. 

But maybe mercenaries are used to looking up, for like… snipers, or drones or something. Maybe this is the worst place you could have gone, maybe you should have hidden more in plain sight, found a locker in the staff shower area or something.  

There’s a heavy shift of metal-on-metal when the solid, industrial outer door gets wrenched open somewhere below you. You ration your breaths, making sure you’re absolutely motionless as several heavy footsteps wander through the place. Male laughter trickles up to your ears, and you hate it. The innate cruelty of someone enjoying what’s happening right now, terrorizing people in the middle of the night, makes your blood boil. You hope they all trip and fall in this dim, off-hours lighting, and impale themselves on something sharp.

You’re very aware of who you are, what you are, in the face of those quiet laughs and the click and shuffle of guns and gear moving. You’re nobody to them. You’ve got no phone, no shoes, not even a fucking bra, because this all happened so quickly that there wasn’t time to do anything but stumble out of bed and run. 

The pounding of your pulse almost makes it difficult to concentrate on those retreating footsteps. You hope they’re gone for good, leaving you with your sore arm - you scratched it on something sharp while climbing up here - your racing thoughts, and your mouth that’s fucking parched from your scramble to safety. It’s useless to swallow but you do it anyway, as if the motion will somehow manufacture more spit, and keep your throat from going all cracked and itchy. Coughing is not an option. Coughing will get you killed.

The footsteps are definitely gone, but a different noise begins to make itself known to you. It’s a slow, steady, huff, huff. You narrow your focus to that sound, subconsciously scouring your memories for a possible match. It’s not quite fabric shifting, not quite panting. It’s getting closer, though, almost like it’s floating in the air towards y—

A bulky black shadow moves, rising up over the edge of your hiding place, right past where your feet lay. It huffs quietly, halting for a few seconds to catch its breath, before heaving itself up over the edge of your one safe place.

Your ears are ringing with how terrified you are. Even though you’re lying down, blood somehow manages to rush from your face, and all you have the presence of mind to do is silently tuck your feet in as tight as they’ll go, holding your breath and just praying this monster will fall to his death, or somehow not notice you, or—

The shadow’s knee finds purchase on the surface where you’re lying, and his arm is so long that when he reaches out to haul himself the rest of the way up, his hand makes contact with the front of your shin. 

How anyone can move that fast, you have no idea. One moment you’re barely suppressing your whimper of terror, and the next he’s got hold of your ankle, using your body weight to assist him to vault the rest of the way onto the platform, directly on top of you. 

Suddenly you can’t breathe. There’s something scratchy and heavy and sticky covering your mouth and nose, effectively preventing the scream that rises in your throat while this thing crouches on his knees above you. You’re so unprepared for your oxygen to be cut off like this that you freeze in panic, not even registering for a few seconds that this brute’s other hand is on your body. 

Squeezing, feeling, groping, the lumbering shadow doesn’t hesitate to violate you. You choke on that faint smell of blood and gunpowder in his suffocating glove while he runs his hand over you, under your arms, over your breasts, tucking his fingers into the band of your leggings and rushing them across to the other side of your hip. It’s not until he starts squeezing your thighs and running his hand down to your ankles that you actually realize what he’s doing. With a small wave of relief, you register that he’s not trying to cop a feel, he’s frisking you for weapons. 

 The hand over your mouth finally shifts low enough that you can force in some air through your nose. You do so greedily, not even caring that much that he’s palming your ass and lower back in a final inspection for objects. Apparently satisfied at your helplessness, the shadow’s searching hand slows, comes around to splay out across your stomach and keep you in place while he stays there straddling your hips.

Huff, huff. 

He’s thinking. 

This is the most dangerous moment of all, as he catches his breath and decides what to do with you. He’s found a helpless rabbit curled up in his chosen hiding spot, and the only question now is if he sees you as something inconvenient and disposable, or as something for eating. 

He’s covered in gear, you felt that much when he was pressed on top of you for a bit. He’s probably got all kinds of body armor and maybe a bullet proof helmet, but if you could get your hand on a pistol… He probably has one strapped somewhere to his leg, as a backup if his rifle gets jammed. Maybe you could find a way to pull it free, and slide it into an exposed portion of his neck. Or if that’s not an option, you could always shoot yourself. End it that way, before something worse can happen. 

The hand on your stomach vanishes, and there’s a rustling sound of fabric. You feel the flinch in his fingers on your mouth when the rip of velcro disturbs the quiet air. You want his hand gone, but you don’t dare move, not yet. Let him have no information about your capabilities. Save up your physical exertion for when you might need it most. Throwing yourself off this fucking platform wouldn’t be too difficult, if you took him by surprise. Maybe you could even take him down with you. 

The monster’s knee shifts against the wood below him, and then he grabs for your wrist. Your muscles are so locked up in terror that he has to force your arm to extend, has to put a good deal of effort into dragging your hand towards the darkness where his crotch is. Your eyes squeeze closed tightly, sobbing dry air through your nose as your hand makes contact with something warm and wet.

Wait, that’s his thigh. He presses your hand to it, hard, like he’s trying to make you understand. Pressure, he wants you to put pressure on his leg. His wet, bloody leg. 

It’s difficult to do from the position you’re in, but you’re so relieved that this is just a medical task, you do what he’s asking. His giant hand vanishes from the top of yours, and you put as much force on his wound as you can. You swear the oppressive weight of his glove over your mouth even softens a fraction, while he reaches for something else on his belt.

A wad of fabric gets forced into your palm, and again he wordlessly shows you to apply pressure. It feels like it could be blood clotting gauze, so you search for his wound with your fingers, and then use your thumb to fucking pack that sucker in. There’s a soft grunt of pain above you, but he doesn’t do anything to show that your knowledge of the field dressing is unwelcome. 

A thought flashes through your head, that maybe he’ll spare you from something inhuman if you’re extra useful. But your life experience quickly smashes that hope, because you know it might actually be the opposite.

Fawn, it’s got to be a fawn response that has you holding the gauze perfectly in place for this horrible stranger. You can feel him wrapping something around his leg, trying to tie it one handed, which is ridiculous because it’s way too short. You can tell that much when you reach a hand over to assist. His thigh is fucking massive, and there’s no way to properly secure whatever it is you’ve got the end of. 

He’s going to make you lay here for an hour, putting pressure on that damn gauze if you can’t think of something else. He’s going to bleed unnecessarily if you can’t come up with a solution. 

Despising yourself, you do the worst thing you can possibly imagine doing. You move his hand in place for pressure, and then peel off your own leggings to get his injury taken care of. 

The hateful thing stays there on his knees, breathing heavily with one hand on his leg and the other wrapped around the bottom of your face. You work your own goddamn clothing off, stripping yourself down to underwear, and wrap those stretchy leggings twice around his thigh before tying them as tight as you can. You set your teeth and yank the knot roughly into place, and you hope it hurts like a bitch. 

There. You’re officially suicidal, you fucking idiot. And those were your second favorite leggings. 

You drop your arms back to the floor and wait for the consequences of your stupid actions. You’re not relaxed, not by a long shot. There’s adrenaline racing through your veins, and you’re braced to shoulder him off the edge like a linebacker. Maybe if you can get your feet past his hips, you could just kangaroo this motherfucker into thin air. 

That sickening weight on your mouth finally drops away. The soldier hesitates with his fingertips on your cheek, waiting to see if you’ll scream. 

No? Okay, then.

He draws his hand back and fiddles with something near his hip. There’s a faint sound of sliding aluminum, and then he grabs the back of your neck, tilting your head forward. You instinctively fight that push, until you feel something cold and metal press against your mouth. The rim of a canteen. 

Greedily you grab hold of his wrist and take a few swallows of lukewarm water, uncaring that it has that slight chemical taste, like a plastic water bottle that’s been sitting in the sun. You’re so dehydrated that you don’t even comprehend the significance of the peace offering, until he’s dragging it away to ration the rest of the water for himself. 

You could down an entire fishbowl right now, but you suppose two drinks of water isn’t the worst thing he could have given you. It shows that he sees you as human, at least. Your leggings, in exchange for a little water. Fair. 

The soldier’s hand slips under your lower back, and to your absolute horror, he turns you towards himself as he settles down to the floor.

Dammit. Of course you ended up here. There’s not room for both of you side-by-side on this ledge, but he really does need to lie down with that injury. So now you get to play Titanic and get draped across this murderer’s chest on this little platform which probably only exists to access the electrical system. Full body contact. Great.

Theoretically he must know that your legs are bare, but maybe he forgot. Maybe he’s so tunnel-visioned in on the battle and getting shot, that those little details haven’t really clicked into place in his head. Maybe he didn’t notice you weren’t wearing a bra, when he squished your tits earlier. Maybe he’s lost too much blood, and you’ll be able to slip away to safety once he passes out. Maybe that should have been the goal from the start, and you shouldn’t have dressed his wound quite so well. 

A gloved hand unexpectedly makes contact with your forehead, and you immediately flinch away from it. There’s a soft, understanding kind of rumble that vibrates through the man for a second, and then a sound of Velcro, and fabric shifting. 

You’re prepared enough this time that you don’t react when bare, human fingers find your temple. You merely squeeze your eyes shut and wait for it to stop, wanting nothing to do with some horrible soldier’s hand on your face. You don’t dare wrench your head away, but you lock your muscles tight and hope that’s enough for him to change his mind.

Nope. Fingers brush over your skin, smoothing your hair off your forehead. He hesitates, then you feel the purposeful press of a rough palm against your chin, curving his hand around your jaw. 

Thanks to that drink of water, you’re able to work your tongue and prepare a decent glob of spit to launch at him if he even tries to kiss you. But his hand shifts again, running upwards. 

He’s mapping out your face, you think. A little stroke of his thumb over the middle of your cheek, running down the side of your nose. He pushes your hair back again before feeling the pads of his fingers over your eyebrow, and then down the curve of your cheekbone, delicately disturbing your lashes. 

He’s being gentle at least, slowly taking stock of your features in the darkness. To what end, you’re not sure. Maybe he’s so much of a prick that he has to decide if you’re pretty enough to assault. Maybe he’s racist, and he’s trying to figure out from your bone structure if you’re white enough. Maybe he’s some twisted serial killer who gets off on lulling his victims into a false sense of security before he tortures them to death. 

The tip of your nose gets an exploratory press between his fingers, and then his thumb drops down and carefully finds your mouth. You’re completely unprepared for that warm flood of tingles, starting in your lower lip and then washing out across your neck. You make a surprised inhale against the pad of his thumb, almost a gasp, at how sensitive your skin is there. 

As if you startled him, that searching touch instantly disappears. 

His thumb is gone, but for some reason your lips hold onto the lingering ghost of the sensation. It just stays there, nearly vibrating inside your skin, as if he accidentally discovered a vulnerable piece of your nervous system and somehow managed to touch it just right. It gives you that bizarre feeling of something being missing inside you, something being a little bit out of place all of a sudden, even though you’re quite whole and uninjured.

He doesn’t come back to your mouth, but his hand does find your skin again. He shifts it down to your neck, curling around your nape and letting his fingers trace up into your hair. He cups the back of your skull like that for a moment, exploring the feel of your head in his hand, and you subtly shift your fingers to explore any possible weapons on his vest. 

You’re not sure what you’re feeling for. A grenade and a spare magazine would probably feel about the same to you in the blackness like this. You’re about as likely to get yourself accidentally killed as you are to find a handgun, but you do it anyway, brushing your fingers across his gear as if you’re being flirty. You’re too concentrated on survival to let yourself feel sick about it. 

There’s a noise from somewhere below, and the solder goes taut beneath you, quickly muzzling you with his palm. His other hand wraps around the back of your head to keep you completely immobilized while those hateful footsteps walk through the place again. There are sirens going faintly outside, but there’s a worrisome lack of urgency in the movements of the pack of men in the warehouse. They’re far too comfortable being here. 

It’s impossible to tell what they’re saying to each other, so instead you focus on how your head is currently being held in the jaws of a predator. It’s unnervingly close to the position you see over and over on TV, right before someone gets their neck snapped. 

He could do it, you think. Any time he wants, he could wrench your head around and end your life without a single noise. You wonder if he’s thinking that, too, from the way his fingers shift and tighten on the back of your skull. Twist, snap, done. Problem solved for big dumb gorilla man. 

Heart pounding, you do the only thing you can for survival, and reach for the hand that’s over your mouth, finding the back of it with your fingers. It’s bare now, so you can feel the soft bits of hair scattered from his wrist, the width of his knuckles and the engaged tendons connecting them. You trace your fingers lightly down the backs of his, in what you hope is a soothing motion. 

You’re harmless, see? You’re relaxed and unarmed, and also quite pantsless at the moment. You’re just a soft thing who can’t do shit to him, and you don’t want those guys shooting at your hiding spot any more than he does. Killing you would be more trouble than it’s worth, surely.

He waits a while to release you, way past the time when the last of the footsteps are gone. You just keep petting his hand with your fingertips, and eventually, reluctantly, he peels it off your face. Again you congratulate yourself for surviving.

He lets you put your head back down on his shoulder, and his arm moves again to wrap around your waist and keep you in place. You can feel his gloved fingers shifting there, settling into a comfortable position on your bare skin, right where your shirt has ridden halfway up your back. You’re thankful for that glove, because maybe he won’t notice your glaring lack of clothes.

His gloveless hand had settled on your shoulder, but now it brushes across to your neck. You half expect him to slide his fingers into your hair again, but he doesn’t. He lets his thumb drift down the front of your throat, and though the logical part of your brain sees it as the threat it is, the sensitive skin of your neck wakes up. Like your lips, those nerves respond to his touch, feeding you a skittering sort of warmth which you loathe. 

Damn you for letting yourself get this touch starved. You should have fucked that guy from the bar last Saturday. What was his name? J-something. Maybe if you’d been a little more careless with your pussy, your skin wouldn’t be this hungry for a stranger’s rough hand. It’s not arousal lighting up your nerves, but it’s definitely interest. It’s an internal purr of longing, of enjoying this male hand on your vulnerable skin, despite the circumstances. 

He’s so large that the sweeping motion of that thumb encompasses the entire length of your throat, all the way down to the join of your collarbones. The careful way he’s touching you is dangerous, because it makes you feel noticed. It’s strangely humanizing, having his fingers curl gently around the back of your neck, the side of his thumb lingering for a moment on the steady beat of your pulse. 

He sees you as something human, and soft, and interesting. An anomaly in the midst of gunfire and death. It’s almost worshipful, the way he traces his bare fingertips across that little bit of skin behind your ear. It makes you draw some conclusions about the person he is, which are almost definitely untrue, and most likely the effect of Stockholm syndrome. 

In the dark like this, in a moment of madness, you imagine that he’s just some guy. That the gear and the weaponry don’t define him, that he’s got a mother or a sister somewhere, and now he’s hurt and focusing on your soft skin instead of the throbbing pain in his leg. Try as you might, you can’t picture him as a monster anymore. He’s just as human as you are, finding the same hiding spot as if the self preservation instinct in both of your brains destined it to happen. 

You shudder against him when his fingers find their way to your ear. A cascade of pleasure follows that gentle touch, this time with a definite undertone of arousal. Your pussy likes the way he strokes the shell of your ear, runs your earlobe through his fingertips. It’s confusing in the way that it’s not an inherently sexual action. It’s just fingers and an ear, brushing a slow path up and down, but it sends lazy heat through your belly. 

You stay relaxed and let it happen, angling your chin up just a fraction so he doesn’t have to reach as far. It’s just fucking nice, the way his attention is narrowed on you. In your delusional state, you feel strangely safe in it. Those slow traces of his fingertips feel like a little bit of control in an otherwise lawless circumstance. 

Two fingers find your lips again, soft as a feather, and this time you let yourself like it. You accept that tingling flood of sensation, and close your eyes to focus on it. The stranger painstakingly studies the outer edge of your lips, pausing every time you swallow or move at all. And then he finds the inner part, caressing across your soft bottom lip in a way that sends blood rushing between your legs. 

Patient, this guy is so fucking patient. It makes your imagination go to embarrassing places, thinking about how his fingers might feel elsewhere. There’s just something inherently sexy about this slow perusal, and your pussy recognizes it. It knows instinctively how it would feel to receive this kind of unhurried attention. How nice it would be to have those long fingers lazily circling your clit, touching you for his sensory pleasure, just like this. 

This kind of curious touch could get you to do humiliating things, keep you wet and desperate and wipe your brain of anything but the need to please him. You’d chase his approval even to the point of not getting your own satisfaction, if he did anything like this to the rest of your body. 

Belatedly you realize how dangerous it is to follow this train of thought. Why the fuck are you fantasizing right now? Why are you allowing yourself to feel this way, while getting fondled by some dirty soldier in a warehouse? Who cares if he’s patient, he’s probably just extra dumb or something. 

The man subtly tilts his face, and his lungs fill with a quiet inhale against your hair. He likes the way you smell, you can tell by the curl of his fingers against your lower back. His chin nudges forward a little, almost like a kiss, and his hand returns to your ear.

Your belly dips so hard that your abs tighten automatically, and you shudder against him again. It’s like mind control, those neglected erogenous zones he’s finding. It’s turning you needy and willing, partly for the physical stimulation and partly just because you’re attracted to the kind of person who would even know to do this. Someone who would take the time to turn you on in this indirect way, allowing you to retain your dignity, but giving you a taste of how nice and gentle his fingers are. 

The next exhale that leaves you is almost verbal. Your voice faintly pokes through, with your self control crumbling the way it is. It makes him pause, pulling his hand away from you. Surely he doesn’t think he hurt you. The noise you made was all pleasure, the little slut on his chest unable to keep herself quiet for this intimate touching session. 

The man’s shoulder twitches, like an aborted movement that he thought better of. And then his hand comes back to your face, squishing both of your cheeks together while he forces your head up and down in a nodding motion. Then without pausing, he moves it a few times in a back and forth shake. 

The meaning is obvious to you — yes or no, do you want this?

Dammit. 

You know exactly what “this” is. You were kind of hoping you wouldn’t have to ask for it directly, that he’d just decide you were compliant enough to be consenting. But now apparently you’re going to have to beg.

His hand is still on your face, so he feels you move your head in a nod. Yes, you’re a slut. Yes, this stranger can fuck you. You’re on the pill, so yes, you’ll go ahead and have unprotected sex on the dirty floor, because apparently your self worth is low enough for that. 

He wraps his hands around your hips to turn you, rolling you onto your back with your head resting on the upper part of his chest. You keep your knees elevated because with the change of perspective, you can’t remember which of his legs is injured, and you don’t want to put your foot down on it. Right leg before, which means… No, left leg before, so—

Fuck, whatever. You can’t spare the brainpower to figure it out, so you choose the slutty option instead, spreading your legs and letting your feet drop to the floor on either side of his thighs. It’s not like you’re fooling anyone at this point. Your heart is pounding and your pussy feels a little wet, so you might as well just keep your knees open for whatever he decides to do. 

One of his hands collects the bottom hem of your shirt, but he pauses halfway through dragging it up your stomach. He wraps his gloved hand around your face again, waiting.

You close your eyes and nod pathetically, unable to bear the time it takes before he gets his hands on you again. 

It doesn’t take long. Your shirt gets tucked up around your chin, and then that large hand cups your exposed breast, and the slight brush on your nipple makes you nearly moan. 

He doesn’t like that. His gloved hand tightens on your face, reaching from ear to ear to muffle you with his palm. 

There. Now you’re ready to be touched properly. 

Your eyes roll back a little with that first, soft fingering of your nipple, finding it impossibly sensitive and hungry for him. You must have some kind of bondage kink, because hearing your own pitiful breathing huffed against the tactical leather of his glove turns you on. You like that you’re already so aroused, he has to keep you quiet. You like that he’s so willing to put his hands on you, making sure you’re being good while he exploits your responsive body. 

How you could have possibly thought he was dumb earlier, you can’t fathom. The way he’s touching you right now screams experience. It’s methodical and possessive, inhaling the scent of your shampoo again while he brushes his fingertips in a teasing circle over the point of your breast. 

Your pussy gets jealous so quickly, it’s humiliating. You can only be grateful that he’s ignoring those little lifts of your hips, taking his time thumbing your nipples and sampling the feel of your breasts in his hand. Suddenly the gag of his glove is quite necessary, with all the moans and whimpers that want to escape. You’re addicted to the way they sound, coming out in stuttered breaths through your nose. Soft, pathetic begging noises which you’re really not trying too hard to suppress. 

Bad. He cranks your chin up a little to get your attention, then brings his mouth to your ear and breathes a firm, “Shh.”

The way that one word simultaneously shuts you up and makes your clit throb tells you a lot about why you’re in this position in the first place. 

You’ll be good for him now. You’ll try really hard not to make noises, just keep yourself relaxed like this with your knees open, and let him touch your pussy when he’s ready. Shame on you, really, for trying to speed up the process. He knows what’s good for you. If he decides that what you need is to get riled up like this without ever finding out what his fingers feel like on your clit, then maybe that’s all you deserve. 

You close your eyes and turn your cheek into his vest, focusing on being quiet like he asked. Your thighs are still flexing and your pussy is still clenching, but he hasn’t asked you to stop being aroused. He can hardly expect that of you, when he’s being like this. 

Finally his hand wanders down your stomach, finding the edge of your underwear. Apparently convinced of your desperation, he pushes it down without even asking. You bring your legs together, lift your feet into the air so he can drag your panties all the way off, because you need to earn his approval again.

Good girl, his thumb says, stroking down the side of your cheek. What a helpful little thing you are, spreading your knees again so he doesn’t have anything in the way as he brings his fingers down the inside of your thigh to touch you. 

Oh, you’re screwed. The first contact of his finger on your clit tells you everything you need to know about how hard he’s going to make you cum. That teasing brush has your pussy spasming a few times around nothing, even as you keep your legs spread open and your noises carefully locked down.

That’s your job, to be quiet and still while he touches you. Maybe you should be thinking more about survival, or concentrating on what’s happening outside the warehouse, but you don’t. All you care about is the path of that finger gathering up your wetness and softly spreading it around your clit, because you’re a good girl. He’s getting you acclimated to how his fingers feel on your most sensitive part, because he’s decided that you’ve earned it. 

There’s nothing better than this. The stranger presses what you think might be a kiss to your temple, but you don’t feel lips against your skin, you feel fabric. His thumb moves in another caress against your cheek, and he painstakingly strokes your clit for you, making sure it’s wet and soft and torturously delicious. 

Hazy with arousal, you lift your hand to his face behind you, your fingers indeed meeting cloth. There’s something draped over his face, but you can still feel the firm line of his jaw through it. When your fingertips wander over the center where his mouth should be, you swear his chin tips up to press a kiss to them through the material. 

Oh, he’s a sweet one. You smile against his glove, which turns into a shudder when he finds a motion that’s really, really good. A little rumble happens in his chest when you melt back against him, relaxing your knees wide and cuddling your cheek against his vest. 

Your pussy is doing these intermittent pulses, trying to catch up to how quickly you’re getting turned on, and practicing the orgasm he’s going to give you. He’s coaxing it out of you instead of forcing it, keeping his touches on the edge of teasing, and paced just fast enough to have you getting wetter and wetter. 

He’s making your pussy open up and offer itself to his hand, and you’re in the perfect mental state to appreciate the withholding. You accept it as a natural part of this encounter, because it’s not your job to decide what kind of orgasm you get. You just get to take what he’s giving you, and cum in whatever way he thinks is best. 

You’re just settling into that blissful realization when his fingers stop moving. They slide downwards a fraction, tracing the slick outline of your entrance and hesitating there. 

Maybe you should give him a nod, but something compels you to bring your hand down to show him what you want, instead. You settle your fingers over the tops of his, appreciating those warm, hard knuckles, and help press his two middle fingers into your pussy. It’s not difficult. He makes no move to fight your direction, sinking them in deep, and curling them against your g-spot even after you release him. 

Oh, he’s so nice. His fingers are strong and able to get wonderfully far inside you, sliding against all those sensitive nerves with deliberate rolls of his wrist. He’s done teasing you, apparently. His hand tightens on your face, and he fucks you on his fingers, hard and generous. Your thighs automatically twitch while you take it, flexing your head back a little and beginning to pant through your nose. This is what you fucking needed. He knew it, even if you didn’t. 

Those invisible waves of heat begin to drift through your thighs, all the way down to your toes. It’s your body promising something you shouldn’t want right now, but you do. You do want to cum on your stranger’s fingers. You do want him to feel those pulses, and know for sure how much you’ve enjoyed your time with him. You want him to experience the way you can’t help but orgasm when he touches you. 

When it happens, you’re ready. You’re impossibly wet for how dehydrated you are, and every nerve in your body is alert with arousal. You lock your jaw shut and groan into his hand while you cum, your hips flexing up in an unconscious effort to keep that lightning coursing through your veins. 

A few words get muttered against your ear while you tremble through it, a soft, encouraging, "Sehr brav," that your mind registers as praise. Your stranger presses his palm to your clit while he rocks his fingers into you, making white flash through your vision with a fresh wave of pleasure. 

He’s pleased, you can tell. He’s breathing hard, letting you control the last dregs of it with lifts of your hips. He likes what you just did. He likes you.

Almost regretfully, you relax your legs again and let him slide his fingers out of your pussy. You don’t want it to be over. He may have got his fill of you, but you still don’t know shit about him. You want to map out his face, want to feel his hidden anatomy finding completion in your hands. 

Surely he’s going to fuck you. Surely he wants to. 

That gloved hand leaves your face, now damp with your own humid breathing. He helps you turn back onto your belly, and wraps his arm once again around your waist to keep you secure. 

Maybe he lost too much blood, and he can’t get an erection. Maybe he’s afraid of getting you pregnant, or thinks he’s too sweaty and gross for a blowjob. You have to know, so you subtly shift your knee over his crotch. 

Oh, he’s hard. He’s bricked as fuck in his pants, and you’re going to do something about it. 

He flinches slightly when you reach up to cup his masked cheek. Not gonna hurt you, your thumb tells him, stroking softly while your other hand drops to palm his erection. 

He goes stiff beneath you, hardly even breathing for a moment. When he doesn’t seem to understand what you want, you grab his chin and do a quick nod motion and then a shake. 

You smile to yourself when his face does a frantic nod under your hand. That’s a ‘hell yes’ if you ever felt one. He doesn’t even wait for you to figure out his belt, just shoves your hand out of the way and does it himself, pushing his pants down just enough to expose everything.

The clink of metal and rustle of fabric sounds louder than it is, now that most of the explosions outside have stopped. Surely he’ll have someone looking for him, some kind of extraction he needs to get to. You should probably speed this up, just to be sure. 

You have a conveniently bare and drippy pussy, which he assists you to line up to where he needs it, by way of two big hands on your hips. His cock is hot against your inner thigh, and hopefully not quite as big as it feels like he is. 

Nope, he’s definitely a giant. You wince a little when you lower yourself past the first few inches, putting your hands on his chest for support. Oh god, this is dire. This is bigger than anything you’ve ever had, and even though you’re a pretty stubborn person, you’re still pausing halfway down, trying to find the will to continue breaking yourself on it. 

One of his hands finds the top of yours, and all of a sudden you remember who he is. He’s someone gentle and considerate, running his fingertips over the back of your hand in a soothing motion. 

You suck in a steadying breath and drag your pussy back up him, trying not to cherish too much the relief of getting away from his cock. Down again, and you’re only able to get about as far as last time before an overwhelmed whimper leaves your throat. You want to do this, but you can’t. You can’t do this, it’s too much. 

His hand leaves yours, and there’s a recognizable sound of hollow aluminum again. He cups your chin, makes you stop moving to bring his canteen up to your mouth. You sit halfway down that soldier’s cock and obediently keep your head tipped back, swallowing down the last of his water. It’s your treat for being a good girl, you suppose. A little bit of hydration so your pussy can be wet and comfortable while you fuck him. 

The rim of metal disappears, and once you’ve finished swallowing, something else gets pressed to your lips. It’s fabric, and it doesn’t smell too bad, but you’re still confused for a second until he pries your jaw open and shoves it past your teeth. 

You let out a complainy breath around the gag, sacrificing a hand that you have braced on his chest to feel it with your fingers for a second, and then you realize what it is. It’s your own fucking panties that he just utilized to shut you up. 

God, you’re gonna fall in love at this rate. 

At least you know where all your remaining clothes are. One is rucked up above your bare breasts, one wrapped around this guy’s leg, and one muffling your little gasps while you work to take the rest of him into your body. 

It takes some time, but you manage to do it. A tremble runs down your legs while you kneel there with your ass flush to his hips, trying to adjust to the foreign sensation that you have a cock shoved up in your lungs. Okay, maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but it feels like that, and you’re not used to it.

His hands settle on you, one on your hip, and the gloveless one cupping your breast. A little connection, a little reassurance. Everything is fine, you’re not in pain, and you’re doing a good job. Now it’s time to be a good girl and give him his treat.

The soldier’s next breath is almost a groan, when you start to drag your pussy up and down him. You adore the way he drops his hand to your thigh, like he’s having to hold on for dear life. That’s exactly the way you want him right now, and it wakes up the impish part of your brain that wants to make him suffer through the same arousal that you did. 

You can be patient, see? You can bounce nice and slow on his cock, letting him feel every inch of drag, every sticky drop of your hips. Isn’t this nice, sir? Do you like the way this feels? Does it help you not think about your leg quite so much?

If you’re being honest, you like it, too. Now that you’re comfortably stretched, you can appreciate the way he effortlessly presses against all your internal sweet spots. Every movement is good in some way, and even the fingers tightening on your thigh feel like pleasure. They feel delicious and strong, reminding you that he’s allowing this to happen. You’re on top, but he could change that if he wanted. He wants you where you are right now, his little hidey hole girl giving him what you know he needs. 

His hands suddenly clamp onto your hips, keeping you down and unable to move. You almost make a confused sound around your gag, until you hear the footsteps again, the male voices. Fuck off, you miserable bastards. 

Wait. Are they actively looking for him? 

You breathe as quietly as you can through your nose, considering for the first time that this might not be some random foot soldier you’re in the middle of fucking. Oh, shit. You fucked up, didn’t you?

Your man’s hands move, one caressing your stomach, encouraging you to stay quiet and still, and the other one reaches down to your pussy to find your clit. 

Your next breath is stuttered, taking that spike of arousal because there’s no other option for you. You have to stay here motionless, full of cock, and let him play with your clit while you wait out the mercenaries below. And the pathetic thing is, you love it.

It’s fucking hot that this guy enjoys your body this much, that he keeps finding ways to ground you and keep you mentally connected with him. He circles his thumb over your slick clit, and you close your eyes and shudder through it, working your tongue around the dry fabric in your mouth. 

Good girl, he gloved hand says, smoothing up and down your waist. Just like that, stay quiet and let yourself feel good.

Yeah, okay. At least you know he trusts you a little bit, because he’s letting you make the choice to keep the gag in your mouth, even with soldiers so close by. Maybe you’ve earned his trust a little, somehow. The rubs on your clit feel nice, and assurance does, too. 

Those idiots linger so long, you’re afraid you’re going to cum. You actually have to reach down and pull his hand away from your pussy just to make sure you don’t. He keeps your hand in his, intwines your fingers and squeezes comfortingly. Surely he can feel the way your pussy keeps clamping down on him, desperate for what you’ve just denied yourself. It fucking sucks. 

He lets you know when you can move again, once the coast is clear. He puts both hands on your waist and effortlessly lifts you up a few inches, seeming just as desperate as you are to keep going. 

With a thoughtless whimper, you drag his hand back around to show him that you want to cum now. You’re a little afraid that he’ll get offended at the pushiness, but he doesn’t. He rubs your clit for you while you ride him, and it takes no time at all before you’re cumming again. 

Deep, wet spasms wrap around him, and despite your best efforts, you gasp around your panties. The sweetest orgasm you’ve ever had crashes over you, stealing your breath with wave after wave of gooey pleasure. It cascades across your scalp, down your spine. It diffuses through your limbs and has you desperately grinding your hips against him, because you can’t keep up the motion of fucking any longer. 

You’re vaguely aware of that warning flex inside you, and then all of a sudden his fingers tighten on your waist, and he drags you completely off his cock. Shocked, still stuck in the tail end of your pleasure, you don’t really comprehend the reason for his boot shifting against the floor, the muffled, restrained grunt from his throat while he jerks himself off the rest of the way. 

You hover there, catching your breath while the wet sound of his hand begins to slow below your hips. His breathing turns long and heavy, his body slowly relaxing and coming down from the orgasm. 

He pulled out for you, you think. He could have just cum inside you, but he didn’t. 

You like him. Officially, you have a hard crush. 

His gloved hand gives your thigh an affectionate pat, and then he works to pull his pants back into place and close his belt up. 

There are more sirens outside now, and you can hear the low buzz of a few radios as well. No gunshots is a good thing, right? You survived, you both did. 

You don’t even have time to pull your underwear out of your mouth before the metal door opens again, and quick, deliberate footsteps shuffle through. 

That gets your man’s attention. He sits up instantly, shifting you to the corner of the hiding place so he can kneel at the edge and peer over. 

He shouts something down at them that you think might be German, and then there’s a cheerful roar of several male voices answering back. Apparently they’re his people, happy to see him alive. You pull your panties out of your mouth and wonder if you should try to go with him.

Your soldier hesitates for just a second, reaches back to squeeze your arm. He says something to you that sounds like just one word, and you have no fucking clue what it is, but the intention is clear: you need to stay here. 

You hold your damp underwear in your fingers and watch him leave the way he came, gingerly climbing down the scaffolding to meet his party. There’s a strange sense of sadness in your chest, which you try not to think about. He doesn’t owe you anything. It was your own stupid fantasies that imagined he was anything but cordial. It’s your own fault that you’re clinging to the idea of an anonymous hookup, you fucking idiot. 

It takes a long time later, before you feel safe enough to come down from your hiding place. A policeman finds you, and gets you some water. You refuse to go to the hospital, because you aren’t hurt. You’re just sad. 

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

His name is Konig. 

You know this, because there’s only one massive dude in the hospital with a wounded thigh. 

You also know this, because in your initial investigations, you happened to see a recognizable piece of black clothing, folded neatly and resting on his side table.

Yeah. He kept your second favorite pair of leggings like some fucking sex souvenir, and it pisses you off. 

Days after the fact, you’re here for a far more embarrassing reason than a gun wound. That arm you scratched while climbing to safety? Yeah, that got infected. You kept waiting for it to get better on its own, but by the time your boss made you get it checked out, you had to be hospitalized and get a fun little IV. 

For the third time today, you take your two second window of walking by Konig’s bed in order to observe your anonymous hookup in your peripheral vision. 

You wouldn’t exactly call him cute. He’s somewhat plain, somewhat rough around the edges. It’s really those eyes that do it for you. The first time you passed him in the hall, while he was limping by on crutches, you made eye contact. It was just for a split second before his gaze flicked away, but you felt a little breathless by how sharply those blue eyes pierced yours. 

Your only comfort is that he’s even taller than you expected, and your errant stares and shifty eyes aren’t all that uncommon around him. It must be hell to be perceived so continuously like that. To have everyone’s gaze automatically latch onto you, before they remember pleasantries enough to quickly look away. Your hyper awareness of everything he does is easily hidden among the others, so you begin to make a plan. 

You have roughly three hours left before you get discharged. It’s almost dinner time, and he’s been somewhat active, so surely he’ll go to the cafeteria for food at some point. The trick is to be at the right location at the right time, and catch him when he’s gone, without making yourself suspicious with surveillance. 

You wait until a typical dinner time, and then do a casual walk-by. To your delight, your leggings are sitting there completely unguarded. Unfortunately there’s a few hospital staff lingering in the area, and you have to kill five precious minutes waiting for your opportunity.

You take it when it comes. Quickly you push aside the curtain and scoop up your leggings, holding them to your chest as you get out as fast as you can manage, without being suspicious. There, now everything is right in the world again. He got some wartime pussy, and you got all of your clothes back. Fair.

Except when you turn the next corner, a familiar shape with dark hair and crutches becomes visible, heading in your direction from the other end of the hallway. 

Be cool, be cool. He doesn’t know who you are. He hasn’t been looking at you the same way you’ve been studying him, so he’s uninterested and suspects nothing. All you have to do is hide your leggings discreetly behind your back, and casually make your way back to the safety of your room. Easy. 

It’s not until you’re within sight of your door that you let out a relieved breath, glancing down at the prize in your hands. Take that, super soldier. Outsmarted by an idiot girl, how do you like them apples? You’re smiling to yourself as you grab the handle of your door and begin to turn it, pulling it open.

Except a massive hand suddenly plants itself on the door right in front of your face, shoving it closed again and wrenching the handle out of your grasp. 

You squeak in fright, whipping your head around to meet those dark blue eyes being leveled down at you. 

Both of your gazes drop to the object clutched in your fingers, and then he looks back up at your face. Fuck. That wasn’t a sex souvenir, that was bait.

“I knew it was you,” he says with a thick accent.

You scowl up at him. “No, you didn't.”

A warm smile crawls across his face. “You are right, I did not.” He inclines his head towards your bandaged arm. “I did this to you?”

“What?” You lift your arm, staring at it stupidly. “Oh, no. It was a nail or something.”

He nods, looking you over speculatively. He shifts on his crutch, leaning on it to offer out his hand. “I’m Konig.”

You slide your palm into that fucking paw of a hand, and give him a smile while you squeeze it. “I know.” 

Part 2 Drabble

Dividers by @themaskedgifer

[felikatze]

follow up to this post i am wearing holes into the carpet.

this current arc on the TL FASCINATES ME because it just taps so much into what The Process is for Kim Soleum and what he loves about horror. Because yknow in that previous post I talked at length about how he loves to Figure Out And Understand The Monster.

so like. yeah. yeah of course he loves Braun's Late-Night Talk Show.

He gets to choose which guest appears, i.e. he gets to pick his favorite stories. And, as part of the crew, he gets to pick them apart and just hear them talk from a safe distance. Just the goddamn horror monster on a talk show talking about itself to the delight of the audience, and also to the delight of himself. This is The Perfect Fanservice for him.

It's like, yknow, a creator confirming all your theories about their work on a podcast. It's getting a good grade in media analysis.

And i'm also thinking about how he actually befriended Braun by appealing to Braun as a creator.

Because where Kim Soleum loves to read and understand stories, Braun loves to create stories. But Braun was trapped in that cycle of attention. He loved his Quiz Show format, but it was getting stale. The views were dropping, and that was depressing him. So he brings on a big flashy guest he doesn't even really like to keep the audience engaged.

And there's like, meta to that as well. Because the new format was just Horror and Gore up the wazoo, people getting killed left and right. There weren't rules on how to survive, you were just dead from the start. It was cheaper horror.

Cuz the knowledge that everyone dies in the end kneecaps tension just as much as knowing that everyone's gonna survive. Hell, knowing everyone dies has less tension than everyone living, because survival at least means excitement about what they might lose along the way.

So, Braun, as a down in the dumps creator, went with cheap thrills for audience engagement at the cost of his integrity. But Kim Soleum reminded him of why he loves to create shows in the first place. Braun wants thrill and laughter and showmanship. And, Braun wants his shows to be his.

The talk show format is a fascinating evolution of that, because talk shows are also about guests. But unlike the choir before it, a talk show lives and dies by its host. Instead of being superceded by his guest, Braun is collaborating with them.

In that sense, it's incredibly sweet that Braun wants to share this with Kim Soleum. Bringing back my old (2 days old) point about how our dear Roe also likes to write, writing as a form of understanding, as a form of analysis and respect, it's self-evident how Braun might consider him a kindred spirit! Wanting to share the joy of creating something fulfilling, from the heart!

where am I going with this. Right. There's still a lot of absurdity to Braun's existence, of course. What TV channel is this even running on? Who are the higher ups, where are the ratings coming from? But it's abundantly clear that all a lot of the horror monsters are sentient.

They have their own values and their own logic. And this logic is alien to humans, but it can be understood. And Soleum does a great job of that. Like bartering in an otherworldy botique to avoid paying with human lives.

And. paces in a circle. Braun did the inverse? Because, when Braun convinces Kim Soleum to go on the talk show, it is made explicitly clear that it is not coercion, or hypnosis, or brainwashing, or any sort of mental contamination. It's all arguments tailored to Kim Soleum. It's all information Braun only knows from spending so much time with and trying to understand his friend.

(...Jury is still entirely out on how much that Silver Ring is actually good for and there was at least some mind-reading involved. Doesn't change that the argumentation was sound and grounded, though.)

It's pretty wild to me, that this all started with the Smiley Stickers and the Good Friend, but when all that's gone, Braun still adores Soleum. Still calls himself friend.

Like all that just gave him a nudge in trying to Get It. By tagging along all this time, Braun's been getting the front row seat to the intricacies of human office drama, to trouble with roommates, to beefing with your superiors. Mundane drama that is either utterly alien to him or all too relatable.

I love the miscommunication of, Kim Soleum thought that the Good Friend was like, just a sliver of the original. But it was Braun, entirely, choosing to answer that call and stick around. Because he must've also been curious, about that strange human that changed him so.

I just. Love how much this flips the tables. From Kim Soleum as the one trying to understand to the one terrified to be understood so thoroughly, mortified that he's actually shared so much of himself with another person. That someone just fully gets his fears and his desires. And how it's not truly about going home, it's about getting out of here.

This relationship isn't going to end well. But it is deeply compelling.

[angellekookie]

Always Been There | MYG - PART 1

Summary: Ever since the new kid moved into your cousin's old house, your life has been different.

Genre: Childhood Friends to Lovers AU, (half-sided) Academic Rivals to Lovers, it's romance- fluffy romance, maybe cliché (this is a warning)

WC: 5.1 K

Other Tags: Friend! Teahyung (mentioned), Cousin! Seokjin (mentioned)

Warnings: Brief mention of alcohol consumption, Age gap? Yoongi is like 2 years older than reader, Idk if I missed any, but let me know.

Pairings: Min Yoongi x F! Reader

Read also on Ao3!

Dividers by @thecutestgrotto

You never perceived yourself as a competitive child. You were usually quiet and reserved, often opting to be engaged in any book, watch television or play the occasional video game with your older cousin, Seokjin, who lived just down the street. This all changed one summer when your uncle got a new job in Seoul and had to move. Obviously, you missed him, he was your favourite cousin, your best friend. So every day you’d walk to your uncle’s old house hoping he’d come back from his new job and bring Seokjin home with him.

Days melted into weeks and the “For Sale” sign on the gate seemed to get bigger and bigger as if it existed solely to mock you. Or maybe it only appeared ten times the size because you stared at it so often, studying it, willing anything to change.

Summer's end brought you an initially pleasant surprise. This time, when you walked to Jin's house you saw people going back and forth taking boxes from a moving truck. Obviously, you thought that the day couldn’t get any better, your young mind not even considering that it could actually get worse.

Excitement led your feet through the gate and inside the yard where you saw a boy with his back turned to you. He appeared a bit shorter than how you remembered your cousin, but excitement didn’t let you think on that too much. Besides, surely you grew in the last few months, of course Jin wouldn’t look as tall to you any more.

The next five seconds happened both breathtakingly fast and painstakingly slow. The next five seconds changed what you thought was the best day of your life to the single worst day of your entire existence.

One second you were running towards your “cousin,” the next second you were making an unplanned descent, landing at the feet of who you later discovered was the son of your new neighbours.

At eight years old, maybe you still believed that kindness was the default setting of the world and expected the same from the boy looking down at you with his pale, chubby face. But whether it was disgust on his face, disdain—or maybe perhaps you were lucky and he just didn’t care—you didn’t know. What you did know was that you had to leave and you had to leave immediately.

That evening your parents barely managed to console you after you came home crying with a bruised kneecap. You were silent all through dinner and hardly gave any attention to what they were saying about inviting people somewhere and someone close in age. You had enough on your plate already with trying to forget the sheer embarrassment you had endured earlier in what you had once considered a safe space and the brussels sprouts your mother had insisted you eat tonight.

After that day, Min Yoongi became a constant in your life.

As luck would have it, your parents were speaking about your new neighbours that night. About how they meant to introduce themselves to them so they would feel welcomed to the neighbourhood. About the son they had who was around two years older than you, and how you both could be great friends.

You never anticipated that your mother would become best friends with Yoon Misook, which meant that you would come to spend a lot of time with the Mins. Birthday parties, holiday celebrations, family get-togethers… if you can name it, you had to be there and you had to be there with him.

Min Yoongi loved being right. There was always unmistakable joy present on his otherwise expressionless face when he knew he was right. Like when he beat you at chess, or told you that tomato was actually a fruit- it didn’t matter because you still didn’t like eating them anyways. You enjoyed wiping the smug little smirk right off his face. The thing was that you loved being right too, or rather, you greatly enjoyed telling Min Yoongi he was wrong. Enjoyed telling him that the sun was in fact a star, feeling higher than any sugar rush could take you when you let him know that acetic acid wasn’t technically vinegar- just a part of it. This was much to the dismay of both your parents, your friends, teachers, and anyone else who had the pleasure of having you both around at the same time.

Although maybe you should thank him.

During the school year, some time after your first meeting with Yoongi, you were sitting in his living room completing homework. His brows were furrowed in a delicate mix of concentration and confusion. You had stretched over to his side to see what was the matter, to see if you perhaps needed to ask his mother or older brother for help. “Yoongi-oppa, what’s wrong?” He didn’t look at you, for a second you wondered if he even heard you. You were going to nudge him with your pencil until he said your name. “Don’t worry about it. You won't understand it anyways.” His brows furrowed even more as he continued to work on his assignment.

Now you weren't planning to help him by any means. He was older than you and you were sure his fifth-grade math would give your third-grade math a run for its money. But him implying that you couldn't even understand it struck a nerve in your young brain. “Lemme see it, please, please, pleasee. Yoongiii-” he released a heavy sigh and turned his workbook towards you. Of course you were pleased with getting your way.

There were shapes, you definitely recognized the triangle and other shapes. You also knew about perimeter, but as you read further down the page admittedly some of the questions you didn’t quite understand just how they expected to get all those answers from a few shapes. It was your turn to have your brows furrowed in confusion.

Noting the shift in your facial expression, Yoongi took his workbook back. You looked up to find him looking at you with one eyebrow raised and a smug little smile on his face. He was daring you to say something, anything. You knew that, but you had nothing to say. “I told you.” He’d said, and hearing your silence, Yoongi knew that he was in fact right and a chuckle managed to escape him. You only huffed and returned to your seat, barely managing to finish the last question of your own assignment.

That night you swore it would be the last time you’d let Min Yoongi look at you like that. Call it your villain origin. Sheer spite, divine motivation, whatever it was and whatever it took you knew you just had to be better than you were, better than him eventually.

You had spent even more time with your face buried in books than you used to. If you were an academic weapon before, you made it your mission to become an academic armoury now. The next few years saw you move from just being at the top of your class, to being the top of the school- overtime skipping a grade and ending up in the same class as your favourite neighbour.

You still remember how he was laughing with his friends, completely unaware of your presence until the homeroom teacher called you up to the front to introduce you to the class. He was surprised, you’d hardly ever seen him surprised by anything, much less anything you’ve done. He often had little to no emotions on his face and after almost eight years of knowing him, you’d come to know that any emotion outside of his usual scope of nothing was absolutely monumental.

As much as possible, you tried to steer clear of Yoongi while at school except for some instances where a teacher thought it a good idea to have you both working together (that mistake was hardly made a second time). You’d quickly learn that in his first year of high school, Yoongi, who lacked any decent manners and people skills, was somehow popular among the students. You noticed how girls often giggled with their friends when they passed him, or how you would see him laugh more with his own group of friends than he ever did with you back home. This was understandable as the both of you only ever really managed to get on each other’s nerves.

Despite all this, he’d hardly ever let you walk home alone even when you insisted that you could walk home with literally any of your other friends, anybody but him. He says it's because he knows you enjoy his company though you refuse to admit it. “As if,” You would tell him. “Personally, I have better things to do than pretend to enjoy spending time with the likes of you.” You ignore the voice that tries to tell you that it's a good thing he’s here with you and not with one of the girls in his little fan club. You ignore the same voice as it tries to tell you that you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Instead, you swat his hand away when he attempts to flick your forehead. Instead, your laughs echo through Daegu streets as you run from him. There's no point in running. Of course, he'll catch you, just like he always has, and maybe he always will. So even though your lungs burn, and Min Yoongi is annoying, and you're not even close to being the prettiest girl at school, there's a big grin on your face. This moment was yours, yours alone.

Once as you were preparing for your last lesson of the day, Yoongi sat down beside you in the empty classroom. Before you could comment on it, other students came in and started filling up seats one by one. Throughout the class, you noticed that Eunji had taken the seat to his left. That’s no problem, she and her ponytail could sit wherever they wanted. If only she didn’t keep asking him things every five minutes or so. You weren't counting. But you wondered if he could ever learn anything with her practically in his ear the entire time, you wondered if she knew she was distracting the entire class trying to breath down Yoongi’s neck.

You felt sick, maybe. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach and it felt just a bit difficult to breathe. But you also felt like you could burst. You weren’t sure if you liked it. Thankfully, class had finally ended and students began leaving as quickly as they came in. You wouldn’t have to endure... whatever that was any more.

You were just packing up when you heard a deep voice beside you, “If you stared any longer, given your track record, I’d have to believe you had a crush on me or something.” He makes it his mission to ensure you never forget the one time you tripped and fell to his feet when you were children. Due to either mild irritation, embarrassment or something else you could feel the blood rushing up to your face, so you decide to slow your movements in hopes that he wouldn’t see it.

“Please, Yoongi. Do I look like I'd want to waste my intelligence on harbouring romantic affections for you.” You hear him scoff behind you and you turn your head just enough to see him raise his eyebrow, looking at you incredulously.

“’Yoongi?’ We dropped the honorifics now?”

“We’re classmates, I didn’t think it was necessary.” You decided to face him, mirroring his raised eyebrow with your own, challenging him. “Is there a problem, Yoongi? I mean, if it’s so important to you I could always just start calling you ahjuss-”

"Yoongi, is fine." For the second time today there's a hint of surprise on his face, and the ghost of a smile that you weren’t quite sure what to make of it. You wanted to smile too, but suddenly you remembered Eunji beside him in class and the smile never came to be. You didn’t want to tell him that he had all the girls in the school to call him whatever he wanted them to, that perhaps you felt a bit intimidated by the older, more mature girls that he had around whenever you saw him. You didn’t want to tell him that because you’ve been actively avoiding feeling that way for some time. You didn’t want to tell him anything like that for fear of him actually laughing you to scorn, for fear of him hitting you with his infamous blank stare. You’ve had your fair share of first-hand experiences with it.

Instead of all the things you weren’t ready to face, weren’t ready to say, you tell him “I can’t walk home with you today. Me, Taehyung and Ara have uhmm, something. I’ll see you later.” There was nothing. But you left to find your friends before he could have a chance to say anything else to you.

It’s been a year since you graduated high school. Summer brought you back to your hometown for the first time since you moved in with your uncle to be closer to university in Seoul. You weren’t the only students home for break so naturally, you ran into a few of your old classmates. Some of them mentioned a get together on the field behind the school that was coming up. You couldn’t not know about it. You remember barely stepping off the bus with Yoongi when Sooyoung greeted you both and first suggested the idea. That’s how you found yourself on the field with him (and the drinks) waiting for the others to show up.

Soon everybody that could make it sat down on the grass and Sooyoung started pouring out the drinks in cups and passing them around. The first taste is... bitter. You try to drink more, you’ve heard a few people say it's an acquired taste.

The night went on, conversations eventually straying away from the generic “How are you” and “what are you up to now.” to be more meaningful (as meaningful as it gets when alcohol is involved.) Socially, you were there. You contributed to the conversation occasionally- laughing when something was funny, nodding if you agreed with something, sprinkling in a “nah” when you didn’t agree with something else.

Occasionally though, you would stare at the amber liquid in your cup. It was taking everything in you not to gag when you took yet another sip. The cup is put down beside you, you don’t think you’ll be acquiring that taste anytime soon. Said cup gets to sit there for approximately thirty seconds before it finds residence in Yoongi’s hands. He’s drinking your drink. Yet you can’t find it in you to complain because you really, really don’t like it. You decide to leave well enough alone.

It’s not until a new cup is placed before you by the drink thief himself that decide to look at him. He’s not looking at you, of course he’s not. He never looks at you when he’s with his friends. Not that it matters, not that you care. At least it was nice of him to get you a new drink, maybe he’s a semi-decent human being. Your thoughts momentarily pause when instead of an involuntary gag, a pleasant, surprised hum escapes your lips.

His eyes have crinkled at the corners because someone just said something funny. He’s using a single hand behind him as support and is nursing a drink with the other. He looks as carefree as ever. You can’t imagine that he’d take note of something so small, something like that- even if you grew up together. You'll try to brush it aside, though you doubt it's something that you’d be likely to forget about anytime soon. There’s a warmth blooming in your chest, you’ll blame it on the alcohol from earlier.

Christmas was just around the corner. The crisp, chilly air and stressed college students cramming for finals were more than enough to let you know the festive season was upon you. You sat in the new sandwich shop that you believe was strategically nestled between the library and the café. A cup of coffee remained untouched to your left and sandwich in hand, you were currently with your friend, Hyewon, who was not so subtly trying to get you to agree to go on a blind date. She's been trying ever since she found out your last date was almost a year ago, that it never ended well romantically, that you and Hoseok decided to become friends and still are today. "I'm telling you, he's really handsome and smart," said between a mouthful of her sandwich and a sip of her coffee. "My sister said he graduated from Yonsei this year with like, first class honours in economics or something."

"I'm just... still thinking about it."

And the truth is, you were. Ever since the topic came up nearly a month ago after one of your shared classes. After Hyewon got over her shock because "A girl like you should have dates every weekend," she took it upon herself to find you a date.

It's not that you were against dating, and relationships. During your earlier college years you tried a few times. Your first date tried to explain the basics of aerospace engineering to you, the thing you were majoring in. He was a history major, said he couldn't believe a girl could actually study something like that and asked how much your parents paid to get you in the program. You laughed it off and attempted to push it aside, that date ended early. You went on a few more dates after that but it always felt the same, like you were trying too hard to impress your date, like they weren't trying hard enough to get to know you. You decided to just focus on your studies. At the very least, you knew you were good at that.

“Please tell me yes- there’s a drone show next Friday at the Han River. You guys could watch it.” Hyewon looked so excited you promised to let her know by Monday. She squealed and you were sure you would have seen your ancestors if she had hugged you any tighter, told you not to forget to call her as she bounced off to her last final.

You remained in your corner seat. Unsure why you didn’t just leave with your friend. A couple of girls sat at the table behind you. While you were nursing your now cold hot chocolate you were hearing bits and pieces of their conversation. It’s not that you wanted to eavesdrop, but you couldn’t help the way your ears perked up when one of them mentioned ‘medical student from Yonsei’ and ‘date’ in the same sentence.

“I’m telling you he’s pretty quiet, and cute. I don’t even know how they got him to agree.”

“Ugh! I’m so jealous... should I transfer?”

“Shut up and look at the picture Kangchul sent me.”

“People like this really study medicine? If he looks like this, what will you wear on the date?”

“I dunno, it’s next Friday. You should come over and help me get...”

You didn’t stay to hear anymore.

Hours later you lay wide awake in your bedroom. Sleep has been evading you. It’s not like there was only one medical student at Yonsei. There were hundreds of medical students. It didn’t have to be the one you were thinking of. The odds were... low. You paid no mind to the tiny voice that was telling you that “the odds are never zero, though.”

You reached for your phone, surely you could always text the person in question, it’s not like you think he would hide it from you but in the same breath, it’s not like he has any reason to tell you if he were going on a date. Why would he? Your fingers hovered over his chat until the screen finally timed out. This seemed to wake you from your daze, the phone was tossed to the side. Why were you thinking of him anyway? If it were him, if he was going on a date, it definitely wouldn’t affect you. It shouldn’t, you won’t let it.

It was 8:44 am the following day when you texted Hyewon that she could arrange the blind date.

A week and a half later you found yourself standing outside of a restaurant in Hongdae. Your date was to meet you there so you could have a meal then head over to the drone show your friend mentioned. You’ve been waiting for... a while. Yunseo was running late and to make matters worse, when you pulled out your cell phone you found it was dead. It was cold, and you were cold, and maybe you were just stood up for this date. You wanted to cry, you thought it probably wouldn’t be that bad if you just broke down on the streets. Probably no one would notice if you did anyway.

Slowly, white flurries started falling from the sky. Couples started walking even closer together, some laughing at whatever they found funny. They all looked really cute. You really hated the cold, maybe you should have just stayed home. “You know,” came a familiar, deep voice breaking through the frigid atmosphere. “In my experience, standing in the cold like this is a sure fire way to catch a cold.”

You don’t need to turn around to know who that deep voice belongs to. You couldn't help the scoff that escaped you. Of course he would appear at a time like this. Why was he there and why did he have to show up just now when you were on the verge of a mental breakdown, probably. Your thoughts couldn't even spiral too far because now you were genuinely fighting back the tears that really, really wanted more than anything to be free. “Shut up, Yoongi. I don’t—” You couldn't help the way your voice wavered, or the sniffle, all things considered. “I can’t deal with this right now.” You didn’t hear a response from him, so you assumed that he had left. You didn’t expect him to be in front of you, slightly bending his head to meet your eyes with his brows furrowed. You hated when he looked at you like this. Like he could see right through you, like he knows things even you don't. You hate it, so you look away from his curious gaze. You didn't want him to find anything in yours.

It felt like hours before he gave up on his one sided staring competition. He released a sigh while undoing his scarf that was neatly wrapped around his neck. You shook your head, wanted to tell him it wasn't necessary, you didn't need his scarf- that you were fine. The words never even got to leave your mouth before he started putting his scarf on you anyway. “Don’t even right now ___, you’re cold.” It wasn't a question. He said it like he knew, he said it while he took his time to wrap his scarf around your neck, making sure to cover your nose. You think you’ve seen this film before.

《Some years ago》

You have been walking for quite some time now. Quiet footsteps crush dead leaves and twigs a small distance behind you. You’re not afraid, mildly annoyed maybe. But you’ve no need to be afraid because you already know who’s behind you. He’s been trailing after you in silence since you stormed off the campsite earlier in a desperate attempt to cool off. It was too much. The woodsmoke, the cheeriness, the ever persistent Song Eunji and her effortlessly beautiful messy bun hanging off the side of your neighbour, on your family camping trip. It was one thing to have to endure her incessant hovering while at school, but you’d think that at least your weekend far out of town would have been peaceful. Turns out that the universe had other plans for you. Not only did you have to endure Min Yoongi, but you also had to stomach having the president of his fanclub- whose family just also happened to plan a camping trip at this spot- here too. How fantastic.

You hold your thin jacket tighter against your body as you make your way deeper into the forest. Every step you took only seemed to strengthen the already growing irritation inside you. You longed for the warmth of your bed, the comfort of your home. Surely there would be nothing there to upset you this much. “Yoongi, either catch up or leave. You’re smart enough, I’m sure that you’re at least a little aware how strange it is to stalk after a woman at night.”

“Yn, you’re smart enough, I’m sure you’re aware that this is hardly considered stalking.” Still, his footsteps carried that steady pace and you could almost hear the smugness in his voice as he continued. “I’m simply taking a walk, I’d be more than happy to catch up if you’d let me.” You could almost imagine how his face looks right now, a raised eyebrow, his (annoying) little smirk, maybe his head was even tilted to the side. You hoped he could see your eyes rolling from behind you. All of that didn’t matter though, cause either way the chill breeze took the challenge in his tone and brought it straight to your ear.

“Yeah, well you could walk somewhere else.” He certainly had no issue being other places before, you thought. You didn’t see why he was being so difficult. Although, you’ve known Min Yoongi for what feels like your entire life. If he did have a middle name, perhaps it would be something along the lines of annoying, stubborn-

“It’s fine.”

Wind came dancing through the trees and brought not just a disturbance to your quiet surroundings, but also a drop in the already cold temperature you’ve been trying to ignore since you left the warmth of the campfire. Involuntarily, your body shivered. Though it was only trying to warm itself up, you suppose.

“Here, put this on.” He was shrugging off his own jacket. You hadn’t realised you’d stopped. Hadn’t realised that Yoongi found his way beside you. Maybe your middle name is stubborn too, because you were already shaking your head and pushing his hand and his jacket away, wanted to tell him he could keep his jacket, that you would warm up just fine on your own soon enough. It was his turn to roll his eyes. “Would you stop pretending like you’re not literally freezing cold right now,” He just puts the jacket over you anyway. “Just take it.” With no other choice (you were freaking freezing), you begrudgingly put your arms through the sleeve. You watched as he proceeded to fasten the buttons with what you’ll assume resembles care on his face- no sign of displeasure anywhere.

“You do this after school too, why?” Memories all bleed into each other from all the times he’s placed a jacket round your shoulders, or a scarf round your neck. The few times he’d given you gloves to wear. You know he knows what you’re referring to.

“Because,” He’s fixing the jacket collar around your neck. “Your mom would kill me if I let you catch a cold.”

He couldn’t be serious. To think that was the reason... “You don’t need to do it anymore.”

He hummed in response. “Yeah? Stop leaving your jacket and I won't have to give you mine all the time, deal?” His left hand ruffled your hair all while you glared at him. Oftentimes, despite your extensive vocabulary, you find it hard to find words to describe Yoongi and just settle for thinking that he’s so him. Right now, he was being very much him, even more so than usual.

A sudden high pitch screech pulls you out of your brooding and launches you into Yoongi’s arms, a scream escapes you. Surprised, his arms wrap around you while he looks around. “What was that?!” You were whispering, screaming, a unique mix of both things.

“I don’t know.” Your companion sounded as calm as ever, you weren't sure if that was a good or bad thing. But you couldn't focus on that right now.

“Will it kill us?”

“I don’t know.” You felt him shrug. Your annoyance from earlier resurges, but with a new friend along with it, fear.

“Well Yoongi, what do you know exactly, hmm?”

“I know the way back to the campsite.” You looked up at him, seemingly just realising you were quite cozily nestled in his arms. You jumped back, almost tripping on a rock, or tree root, you couldn’t tell as it was dark. But what you could see was the gentle look that remained on his face as he steadied you, you weren't sure how it made you feel. All you did know was that it was too much.

“Well, um…” You decided to turn your head away, clear your throat. Yes, that was a good idea. “Lead the way, I guess.” Yoongi chuckled, and soon you felt a warmth enveloping your hand. Similar to the warmth simultaneously growing in your own chest. This was the first time he’d ever held your hand. You stood shocked, frozen, unable to move. Unable to ask him why.

“Come on, so you don’t fall again. This just like the day I just moved int-”

“Oh my gosh, shut up about that will you!” That seemed to do the trick. Just when you think he’d give that story a rest, he’d find a way to remind you again. How infuriating. Still, you both couldn’t help the laughs escaping your lips as you head back hand in hand to your loved ones who were probably waiting for you at the campsites. Maybe you shouldn't have stormed off, but as the moon started peaking through the clouds lighting up your rugged path, you were glad he came to find you.

《Present day》

When he gently took your hand in his, your mind found itself back to the present where you stood in snowy streets as opposed to the serene forest. Was he really always like this? “C'mon.” He'd turned towards you, his head motioning in a general direction. Your mind wanting to stay lost in thought for a bit more, feet remained planted on the ground for a minute, maybe longer. Yet Min Yoongi remained a perfect picture of patience. Maybe it was his lack of frustration, or the fact that you didn't not trust him. But you let him lead you down the Hongdae streets, you follow with your hand in his.

Masterlist || Next 》

AN: Thanks for reading this far! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Now, I had every intention for this to be a tiny lil one-shot but the story clearly had other ideas in mind. I'm working on part 2 as we speak so hopefully I can share it with you all soon.

That being said, Special thanksies to my mooties @livingformintyoongi and @moochii-daisies for their encouragement and for accommodating my yapping 🥹🩷 and not to mention @oddinary4bts when I felt stuck and was at the brink of putting this fic to the infinite sides.

This, as well other fics that I'll post in the future will be cross-posted to Ao3 because of popular demand (1 person suggested), but yes it was by popular demand 🤭

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[temis-de-leon]

MC injures their knee

Characters: gn!MC and Demon Brothers

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Anon request: I'm very curious as to how the demon brothers would handle an MC / Y/N that accidentally injured their knee and can't move their leg for a while as a result. Like, everything was fine and dandy, the day was going well! But as they were walking from one area to the other, suddenly they turned too quickly, or perhaps they awkwardly shifted their weight in a moment of absentmindedness - and now their kneecap is out of the socket. Content one moment, distressed the next once they realize what happened. They scream so loudly from the pain that you can hear it outside the House of Lamentation, immediately making any noise go quiet. Even once they (very carefully) get it back in place and the pain starts to subside, they're shaking and in tears, completely unable to walk on that side. They're gonna be out of commission for a few days, may or may not have permanent damage in the area, but it slowly gets better over time. It's okay if you don't wanna do this one, btw! This is just based on something that happened to me earlier this week, gotta love Funky Joint Syndrome (hEDS) :')

A/N: I wrote this three different times, and on every occasion, I found myself unable to not write the little intro at the beginning. Even when you already put the context, anon. I hope you enjoy it and you're feeling better after all this time! Sorry for taking so long! <3

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I like to think this would happen one of those days when the House of Lamentation is half empty because the universe likes to be that awful most of the time.

You’re almost thankful that, for once, you can finally run around your home with no demons trailing behind you. Sure, you love the brothers, but their demand for your attention can get suffocating sometimes.

And this specific day, each one of them is doing their own thing in separate places. Lucifer is at the castle, Mammon at the casino, Asmo is at a party, and Beel is running laps around the house. With the rest of the brothers rotting away in their rooms, it is safe to say you have all the house to yourself.

You take advantage of the situation by admiring the architecture, the oil paintings, the details in the staircase windows and the statues. You feel dumb at the beginning, but how could you live in a mansion without even attempting to appreciate its… unique beauty?

Murder house aesthetic, right?

The problem comes when you accidentally trip while stepping on the curled corner of one of the carpets.

The movement awkwardly twists your leg and makes your patella sit on the side instead of the front, where it’s supposed to be. Your joint locks itself, unnaturally bulgy, and sends waves of pain through all your nervous system.

You aren’t sure what noise the brothers heard first, either your fall or your cries, but they are all there with you in mere seconds. And those who are out of the house are on their way the moment they receive the informative message.

Thankfully, Lucifer managed to stop Diavolo and Barbatos from coming with him.

And despite Beel being the closest, the first one to return is Mammon.

Asmo takes a little longer because the tears are blurring his vision.

But back to the incident.

Satan manages to pop your patella back into position with magic while Levi and Belphie comfort you, and in the back of your mind, the commotion makes you feel a tiny bit embarrassed.

It hurts like hell, yes, but you don’t want the whole house to think you’re dying. Last time that happened, you, at least, went with a fight, but this time, you just tripped. And they’re taking it like your leg’s going to be amputated.

On the other hand, though, despite being overbearing, they take incredible care of you.

Since Beel is already used to it thanks to Belphie, he offers to take you anywhere, even if it’s within walking distance. It doesn’t matter if it’s a piggyback ride or a princess carry; whatever makes you feel more comfortable and painless, he will do.

Lucifer lets you skip classes for the necessary recovery period, not even contemplating the idea of seeing you walk up so many stairs and then stay sit and still for hours on end. If you try to act tough for the sake of being a responsible student, he may order the older twin to keep guard outside your bedroom door. He’s making sure you rest.

Satan understands Lucifer’s approach and, surprise surprise, is on board with it; but rather than making sure you stay in the house, he guarantees you don’t feel the need to leave at all. He will offer his notes and tutor you on what you don’t understand, laying down beside you in bed with books and papers scattered around you.

Levi, on the other hand, is set on keeping you entertained, and understanding that it is better if you don’t move for a while, he brings his games and manga to your room. It’s almost too much and proves to be unnecessary because you end up spending the days marathoning The Tale of the Seven Lords yet again and talking about it nonstop afterwards.

Asmo is more of a self-care type of guy and wants you to know that. He understands how you could prefer rotting away in bed while sick or injured, but you should really take care of your body! Each morning, he marches straight to your room after finishing his own routine (because you have to see him at his best) and applies himself every ointment your beautiful face could need to stay the same. If you let him, and he’ll promise he’ll be careful, he’ll even massage some anti-inflammatory cream in the injured area.

Mammon becomes your favourite errand boy, leaving the house in search of every craving you may have, even if it’s stupid. Sure, he’ll complain, but that’s part of his charm. He wouldn’t be putting on his boots if it really bothered him, right? No matter the cost, he’ll pay for it; unless it’s expensive, in which case Lucifer may add an involuntary contribution (wink wink).

And while all of this is taking place, Belphie is peacefully sleeping right next to you, hidden under the blankets and blissfully unaware of all the noise. He offers cuddles, comfort, warmth and good dreams, and if your knee is feeling especially painful, he may even let you hold onto his tail like a plushie.

If there’s a bad part to any of this, it’s that now they won’t let you out of their sight for even a minute.

What did you expect?

You got hurt in the comfort of your own house!

While they were away!!

Clearly, they need to stay closer.

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Taglist: @ilovecandys2010 @ollieoven @kingofspadesdelusion @whimsybloom @mia4gotcookiez

[burningembers91]

War-Torn Love - Baek Kang-Hyuk x Fem!Reader

Please note this storyline will deal with issues of PTSD, and negative body image issues.

Synopsis: Two years ago, Dr Baek Kang-Hyuk saved your life. Separated by war, you've searched for each other since that fateful day. But the war changed you, physically and mentally, and you're no longer sure you're good enough for the man you fell in love with.

A/N: I binged four episodes of The Trauma Code last night am I am OBSESSED!!! Give it a watch on Netflix, it's so, so good.

Some nights, the pain still kept you awake. The searing, burning, tearing agony that ripped its way from your left hip, down across your thigh to the top of your kneecap. The scar was ugly and red, a twisted, knotted mass of tissue that ached when you were too cold, burned when you were too hot, and stretched your skin to almost breaking point every single day. You never wore skirts or dresses anymore, too ashamed and embarrassed for anyone to see the disfigured flesh. You hadn’t had a boyfriend, or even a date in two years. No one would want to be with someone as mangled and broken as you. Some days the stiffness in your leg was so bad that you limped, your figure hunched over like a frail pensioner. You didn’t feel like you anymore. When you looked in the mirror, you saw a woman in the prime of her life, but you felt well past your best.

Even if you did have the courage to date, no one would ever live up to your expectations. You’d had those met and exceeded by the man who had saved your life. You were still walking the earth thanks to one man who had so selflessly put his life on the line to save yours. Two years ago, tired of the mundanity of the everyday and looking to give something back, you decided to volunteer with a small charity, providing assistance to countries ravaged by war. It was your job to help distribute food, clothing and sleeping bags to families escaping conflict. You’d been based in Afghanistan, and that was where you’d met Dr Baek Kang-Hyuk. The man was unstoppable, a force of nature that not even God himself could bring down. He never seemed to stop, never seem to tire. He’d helped countless people, working round the clock to save the lives of men, women, and children.

You’d worked together for six months, a friendship blossoming somewhere between the derelict buildings and war-torn agony. He was quite a reserved man, but during the long, lonely nights, you’d sit and talk while he kept an eye on his patients. You learned he was originally from Seoul, that he’d trained to be a trauma surgeon because he wanted to be just like his dad. He’d spent time in the army and could hit a target point blank with his eyes closed. He was kind, if a little cocky, and he made you feel safe. Somewhere along the line, you felt your friendship change. It was small at first, a little crackle of electricity in the dark night, barely noticeable, but then it slowly burned into something more. Stolen kisses in the corridor of the makeshift hospital, a comforting hug when the world seem a little too heavy. You never took it further than that; you couldn’t afford to be away from the patients for long enough, but you both longed to spend the night together.

You only had a week left of your volunteer work when disaster struck. You’d been heading back to the hospital with a supply of food and water when the car bomb went off only meters from where you stood. You were thrown backwards, your body ravaged by shrapnel and rubble. You don’t remember much about that day; you only remember it was the last time you saw Kang-Hyuk’s face. It had been him who had saved you, him who had stopped the massive arterial bleed, who had given you his own blood in an emergency transfusion on the side of the road. You’d been airlifted to safety shortly after, and that was the last time you saw him.

You had no other information on your saviour, other than his name and the fact he lived in Seoul. He had no social media presence, no Internet presence at all. Once you were out of hospital, you searched desperately for him, phoning all your charity contacts to see if anyone could find him. But you had no luck. You were even desperate enough to travel to Seoul to see if you could find him. For two years you never gave up, setting down roots in the city he called home. You didn’t even know if still lived here, didn’t even know if he was still alive. But you couldn’t give up, not when he’d fought so hard to keep you alive.

You’d taken a job at Hankuk University Hospital in the administration department, slowly building yourself a life, but never really allowing yourself to fully live it. you felt empty without Kang-Hyuk, felt so lost and alone. Those six months you’d spent with him had been the best months of your life, and he’d been ripped away from you so callously.

But fate was a funny thing; and she knew you’d you waited long enough. A new attending trauma surgeon was due to start at the hospital. You weren’t privy to any more information, you administration position making you one of the lowest in the hospital ranks. But as you strolled through the corridors, your left leg dragging ever so slightly behind your right, you saw him. He’d bulked up a little more, his broad chest and shoulders filling out his designer suit. He strode through the hospital with such purpose, his very presence commanding authority. He always had been a cocky bastard, but in the best way possible. He didn’t notice you as he walked, too focused on getting to his destination. But you’d waited so long to see him, and you couldn’t let him slip through your fingers again.

“Baek Kang-Hyuk!” You shouted his name, passersby stopping to stare at you. He turned, a look of annoyance on his chiselled features. But then he saw you, the girl he’d given his own blood to in order to save. The girl he’d spent the last two years trying to find was standing right in front of him. “It’s you,” he choked, closing the gap between you. You didn’t care if people were watching, tears streaming down your face as Kang-Hyuk pulled you into his chest. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered, holding your face between his hands as he took you in. You’d changed since he’d last seen you, the stress and anxiety that had plagued you since that awful day had made their mark on your face, but you were still so beautiful. “I looked for you,” you told him, “I never stopped.” “Neither did I,” he smiled. He wanted to kiss you, wanted to wrap his arms around you and never let go.

“Dr Baek to trauma bay 12,” a voice over the intercom broke through your happy reunion, tearing you apart once again. “Take my number,” he said, thrusting his business card into your hand. “Text me. I can’t lose you again.”

As he hurried down the corridor to the next emergency that awaited him, you looked down at his card. You weren’t the same person you’d been two years ago. You’d change, and not for the better. You were bitter, scared of your own shadow, and ashamed of the body that had been wrecked by the car bomb. You wondered if he’d still want you when he realised your scars hadn’t healed. You wondered if he’d want you when he found out you still woke up at night screaming, your body and sheets soaked in sweat as you relived your fractured memories.

You wrote and rewrote your text to him a dozen times that day, your head and heart battling against one another. Every time you went to press send, the image of your scar-ridden body stopped you. You were damaged goods, and now you’d be working together it was probably best to keep things professional. You didn’t want to risk falling in too deep and getting your heart broken again. I look forward to working with you, Dr Baek. You kept it nice and simple, and wholly professional. Two years you’d been searching for the man you’d fallen in love with. But now that you’d found him again you realised, you’d never stopped to think whether he’d still want you. You were the girl with a broken body and a damaged mind. You’d never seen Kang-Hyuk so much as flinch, but the slightest noise sent you running with your tail between your legs. He was brave, and you were just a scared little mouse.

As much as it broke your heart, you’d keep the man who saved your life at arm’s length and save you both the heartache when you no longer lived up to his expectations.

[buttercuparry]

Often in the news regarding Gaza, there have been reports about children being severely injured and having had their limbs amputated to stop the spread of sepsis or infection. This is nothing new and the occupation forces have been known to deliberately target Palestinians, often with the intention to disable them for life. An Al Jazeera article written in 2017, points out the policy of kneecapping and I can't help but think how many people have been victims of Israeli military even before the genocide began last year. In fact Mohammad Ayesh’s younger brother developed a difficulty with hearing because his eardrums burst due to constant bombing near their apartment back in 2014; and now in this genocide, he is trying to survive through a precarious situation while being disabled.

The situation in Gaza is dire, nowhere is safe and no one knows when they will be a hair's breadth away from mortal danger and so it is of utmost importance that we help provide Mohammad’s brother with the necessary funds to fix his hearing aids. It is absolutely terrible for disabled Gazans who are having to flee over and over again to escape Israeli aggression; Mohammad ( @ayeshjourney )  and his family have recently been displaced after being trapped under artillery fire for HOURS!!

Mohammad needs your help now. He needs the funds to continue to survive through this genocide and to help his brother fix his hearing aides. So please BOOST and DONATE. Remember that it is because of him that so many families have been able to fundraise on tumblr. He faces extreme danger and yet continues to meet different families so that he may vet their fundraisers, for OUR BENEFIT. Remember this please: the whole vetting process, where Mohammad has to travel long distances is for us. So now it is our turn to help him.