#scarless arms

[scarlessarms]

My new dark ambient album dropped today.

[sageivyreads]

cornered dogs

Ghoap/street kitty hybrid!fem!reader

introduction: hello! ok i lied i have no idea when the smut is happening because i can’t figure out how to integrate it into the story yet so this might just become a slow burn if i decide to continue it. also i have no idea how to write scottish accents please spare me!! part one and masterlist

contains/warnings: 4.4k words, brief description of a dog attack, reader is drugged, morally gray ghoap, mention of wounds, slightest of angst and mildest of comforts(ghost is a little mean), kinda unreliable narrator reader, r is forced into a bath but it’s for her own good, r is nicknamed ‘Kitty’ since they don’t know her name, 18+, no smut.

reader description: reader is an adult woman. no mention of race or size. her hair is briefly mentioned as ‘messy’ and fur ‘matted’. no mention of hair color or length. she also has scars. able bodied and doesn’t talk, but she will eventually.

It’s misty and wet when the boys (only Soap, Ghost never went to bed) wake in the morning. Furniture is strewn across porches, newspaper soggy on driveways, windshield wipers are propped up in piles of snow atop the car. The storm last night was not even near the calmest. It seemed to have a goal to ruin everyone’s day.

Ghost and Soap have their separate thoughts of worry about you. Soap, when he saw the harsh wind out the bathroom window when he was brushing his teeth. Ghost, when he stepped out of his apartment building for his morning jog and saw the mess the storm had left. It rains and snows frequently where they live, you should be fine, they try to reason with themselves.

And you were doing fine. You’d found sheets of metal in the trash to place over your temporary home for protection from the rain. Which was a few old cardboard boxes smushed together with ripped blankets and tattered rags. You had a full belly for the first time in months the night before, so you’d be okay without food for a bit.

But it’s not like you had someone telling you the weather, and you were underprepared. The wind is so harsh it causes the metal sheets to entirely crush your little home. You just narrowly throw yourself out when it comes crashing down, your knees scraping against the pavement.

You’re heartbroken. Devastated, as you stare at everything you once had been destroyed. But you can’t even feel it, can you? Not when the frost is biting at your nose, warning you of the need for shelter immediately.

You stand from the gravelly road on shaky legs, hugging your arms tight to your chest. The black hoodie is your thickest layer, and you put it on top while hoping it’d absorb some of the rain. Hail is beating at your face as you start to wander, looking for anything you might be able to use for shelter.

Boxes, piles of garbage, trash bags, anything. You come across a dumpster and you think you could slip in the gap between it and the concrete wall. You’ll still be cold, but it’ll protect you from the wind and rain. It fucking stinks. Hopefully you’ll be able to stand the smell.

You proceed, crouching to shift some trash bags stacked against the wall to hopefully slip between. The sound of a low rumble, different from the thunder, makes you stand once more. You turn, and your heart turns cold at the sight you’re met with.

There’s a snarling dog in front of you, hackles raised and legs bent low to the ground as it takes slow steps toward you. Saliva drips from its mouth and mixes with the rain and oil on the street.

The footsteps of the mutt mix with the tip taps of the rain, but your screams don’t.

Your escape is not swift nor scarless. It’s messy, but even after being attacked, you understand the animal. When cornered, everyone is an enemy. You think yourself more alike a pathetic dog than whatever part of you is hybrid.

There’s a nasty chunk taken out of your upper arm, but it’s not too deep. You’ll live.

This whole situation has left you unbelievably startled. You’re soaking wet and shaking, but not from the cold. Your tears are warm against the skin of your cheeks. You can feel scrapes and smears of warm blood on various spots of your body, but you can’t see any injuries other than the bite on your bicep you were currently pressing on with your opposite hand.

Your teeth dig into the split on your lower lip, nose bridge scrunched up from the pain. You’re tired. So tired. Now that the life-saving adrenaline has worn off, and you’re cold, alone, and wet, you only think of one place to go. The only familiar place you have left, really.

It’s a struggle up the stairs of the fire escape with how severely your legs are shaking. You’re worried it’s too late to be wandering so close to people. The storm had started around three in the morning, and after losing your home, searching for a new one, and being attacked, you’d now guess it was around five.

The men in the apartment woke up early, you knew that. But you couldn’t think too hard right now, not when you were so scared.

Your hands shake and slip on the slick surface of the window ledge. On the fourth try, you finally pry it open. You climb inside as quietly as possible, closing it behind you and sinking straight to the floor.

You leave smears of bloody fingertips on the edges of the window and drywall. Your back is against the wall, head slumped on your knees where you hug them to your chest. You wish your mind allowed you to sleep.

It’s only maybe an hour later when you see a light turn on in the other room. But you don’t- can’t fucking move. You’re paralyzed. Even as footsteps approach, even as the kitchen light turns on.

One of the men, the one you hadn’t had encounters with yet, sleepily steps into the kitchen. He’s tanner than the other one, shorter too. He’s got a funky, overgrown hairstyle. Maybe a mohawk in desperate need of a haircut?

He reminds you of the sun. If it were a rowdy, messy guy who had a guilty pleasure in reality TV.

He makes it to the cabinets, the coffee machine, and the fridge before he notices you. Or, the fingerprints. There’s a mug currently being filled by an automatic machine by the time he catches red on his window. His feet stutter to a stop, a frown starting as his lips before his eyes lower to you.

His expression softens, eyebrows raising in surprise at the sight of you. Bloody, clutching your injured bicep, shaking, and soaking wet. Your eyes are wet and surrounded by puffy, pink skin. Your hair clings to your face, the way your clothes do with your body.

“Hi there, sweet thing.” he coos, stepping a few feet away to pull his coffee out of the beeping machine. “Looks like someone’s had a rough night, huh?” He places the mug on the counter before he slowly sinks to sit against the cabinet across from you.

You stare. He’s got weird hair and an even weirder accent. He’s weird. It takes so much energy to even blink, you can’t believe you’re still conscious. You’re terrified, your heart pounding in your chest and ears, but all you can do is stare.

He slowly nods, “Yeah, figured. You must be cold. Mind if I grab ya a blanket? ‘ah can turn the heat up, too.”

All he gets is a blink in response. He stands, slow and measured even as his knees click. “Sit tight,” he urges. You don’t move. He walks out of your sight for a few moments, coming back with a blue wool blanket.

He approaches until he’s a few feet away, spreading out the blanket like wings and tossing it over you as best he can with the distance. It lands on your knees, not nearly high enough for your liking. Your icy fingers twitch. You slowly grip the end of the fabric to pull up to your collarbones.

His lips twitch into a frown at the sight. He wants to swaddle you, surround you in soft blankets and shiny things like a crow would with its mate. Wants to run you a warm bath, and give you another meal. Hot, this time.

But he can be patient. He doesn’t want to scare you off.

“Do ye want somethin’ to eat? Are you here because you’re hungry?” he asks, crouching to sit on the floor against the opposite counter once more. He sighs as he gets nothing in response besides a twitch of your eyebrow and the movement of your throat swallowing.

“Maybe I could get ya something for that arm? If y’let me see, I can help.” he tries to assure you the best he can, but he doesn’t exactly want to be attacked for trying to help. This is his first interaction with you, and it’s already not going great. He gives you a sad smile, and you notice a muscle twitch near his forehead. The crinkle in his skin leads to a star-shaped scar on his temple. You wonder where it’s from.

Soap’s head turns as he hears a clinking noise from the apartment hallway before the door opens. It’s the man you’ve seen before, dressed in joggers and a dark black hoodie, which you think might’ve been grey before it got soaked from the rain.

He locks the door behind him, slips off his shoes, and steps further into the home. He doesn’t notice you immediately either, but much quicker than Soap did. His steps slow once he reaches the kitchen counter, eyes flickering over Soap on the floor, to the bloody window, to you.

His eyes scan you, flicking up to the fingerprints on the window, and the bloody hand clutching your upper arm. Your wet skin and clothes. The way you tremble, the blanket Soap must’ve placed over you.

Soap stands to join him where he’s staring at you. “I found her like this when I came out for coffee this morning. She hasnae moved or talked.” Soap informs, giving you a concerned glance before refocusing on the other man.

All you do is observe as they talk about you. It feels like the cold has settled into your bones at this point, and you have a permanent brain freeze. You haven’t moved in so long, that you think you might actually turn into a statue if you don’t die from infection.

It’s quiet for a moment.

“She can’t stay like tha’. Gonna get hypothermia if she stays wet for any longer.” He digs into the pocket of his hoodie to drop his keys in some weird, wicker woven bowl before he starts towards you. You stiffen, fingers turning into fists against the blankets.

“Woah, woah, what’re ye doin’?” Soap quickly steps up with him, a hand on his arm and expression concerned.

Ghost’s face is blank as Soap stops him, but you notice a twitch on his lip. “I’m going to help her. What, you think she’s got fleas or somethin’?”

Soap scoffs, “How? ‘Cause she’s just gonna let ya touch her? She’s never even let any o’ us willingly see her, much less talk or touch.”

Ghost gives him a long look you can’t decipher, and huffs before he shrugs his hand off his arm and walks up to you. “What d’you think she came ‘ere for? She wants help and that’s wha’ she’s gonna get.”

He reaches down to grab you by your uninjured bicep and elbow, pulling you up to stand. He’s not the most gentle, but he’s not too rough. You stumble, legs shaky and stiff. You feel like rigor mortis is already settling into your muscles, even if you’re still alive.

“Simon,” Soap hisses, and you learn one of the men’s names. You try to step back toward the window, feet fumbling, but Simon nabs you back with a hand on your nape.

He doesn’t respond to Soap, one hand on your shoulder and another on the back of your neck as he guides you to walk in front of him.

The steps are forced and heavy like you’re some newborn calf who was learning how to walk. He guides you to the bathroom where he opens the door and walks you inside. You think your brain might’ve turned offline briefly, and came back on once you realized you were in danger (you aren’t). You don’t know what’s going on, and don’t remember how exactly you got here. What are you missing?

“You’ll be alright, love. We’ll take good care of you.” Soap tries to soothe, keeping up with the hulking man holding you. You glance at him, expression a little pinched. You’re still by the door and can see the living room through the hallway. You could still run. You’re faster than they are. Why are you trying to leave, again?

“Over ‘ere, Kitty.” the man you now know as Simon, says. He leans over the tub to start the faucet. Your eyes flick back to him but you barely blink. He sighs heavily and stands back to his full height. He takes a step and you take two backward, but he just grabs you by the arm and yanks you towards the bath.

His hand goes to the back of your neck again, forcibly shifting your gaze to look up at him. “Did ya freeze up there in tha’ little head of yours, too?” he huffs, lightly flicking your forehead with his free hand. You scrunch your nose, trying to pull away from him.

“No. You need a bath. You’re filthy and freezing.” he grumbled, pulling you to stand at the edge of the tub.

“Do y’need me to undress you?” he asks, keeping his face level with yours. You don’t know what’s wrong with you. Why you aren’t running when they are practically in your face and telling you they’re going to strip your clothes off.

“Si, fuckin’ ease up a bit, alright? She’s clearly startled. Let’s leave her to get undressed.” Soap butts in, stepping further into the bathroom and crossing his arms across his chest.

“Is tha’ what you want? Do y’need me to leave? I’ll leave if I know you’re going to get in.”

You sniffle, the only noise you’d made during this entire time. Your lower lip wobbles. You refuse to make eye contact. The blood on your arm has mostly dried at this point but your hand is still clutching it. Your other hand is fisting the blanket around your shoulders, feet like stone on the ground. If they both left, you think you probably would’ve looked for the nearest window so you don’t have a response to that.

“Alright,” he huffs, straightening next to you. He grabs your cold hands, pressing them to his shoulders and shaping them into a grip. The blanket falls and you shiver. “I’m going to undress you. You can squeeze if I touch somethin’ you don’t like, or I hurt ya. Understand? Squeeze if you understand me.”

Your gaze flicks up to him momentarily, but you can’t read anything behind his eyes. Your fingers flex to the best of your ability, and you think you’re squeezing, but your hand is too numb for you to be sure.

The blood on your hands transfers to the black fabric of his hoodie, but doesn’t show.

“Good,” he nods, kicking the blanket out of the way from where it gathered at your feet. His fingers slip under the hem of your layers, bringing your- his, ripped hoodie above your head, as well as your thinner layers, gaze only briefly wandering over your body. He seems to focus more on the scars than your chest.

He only shifts your grip briefly to let the articles of clothing fall to the floor before putting them back. He continues with your shirt, pants, and undergarments until you’re bare. Your eyes have fixed themselves on a wet patch on his shoulders, afraid that if you move he might go further than you’d like.

“In the bath now,” he confirms, and Soap reenters the conversation to help when Simon gestures for it. They move you like a doll. Simon moves your grip to the side of the tub, Soap moving one leg at a time into the bath. He guides you to sit, and you shiver violently at the temperature change.

Your teeth start clattering. Or maybe they had always been. Your hands hug your arms, crossed across your chest to give you some kind of modesty. It’s not much.

“Johnny. The door.”

Johnny, you learn, stands from his crouched position to close the bathroom door. Something he’d forgotten to in his rush to help. There’s something wet dripping down your face, and it takes you a moment to differentiate whether it’s tears or water dripping from your hair. You think it’s both.

You can vaguely hear some sort of conversation, but your mind seems to blur it out. When Johnny reenters your sight, he’s only in his boxers. You’d probably be taken aback by the amount of skin discoloration- scars, that were on his body if you didn’t have more important things to focus on. Like why he’s nearly naked and getting into the bath with you.

Whatever train of thought you had started conjuring immediately splutters to a stop. He steps into the bath behind you, and you cringe slightly at the thought of your previous wet clothes sticking to your skin.

One of your hands grips the side of the tub, looking to prepare for an easy escape. Johnny’s arm comes around you to grab your wrist and slip it from the edge, gathering both of them to press against your diaphragm in one of his larger ones.

You start to squirm, feet slipping against the tub in your search for momentum as he pulls you back against him. “Easy, lovely. You’re alright.” he coaxes into your ear, wrapping his free forearm around your collarbones and holding you in a loose chokehold as he leans against the back of the tub and takes you with him.

You don’t necessarily fight it, but by the way, your fingers curl into your palms and your breath hitches and stutters, you know they know you’re uncomfortable. Your throat chokes around a whimper as Simon steps around the tub back into your sight.

“Shhhh,” Johnny hushes, settling his chin in the crook of your shoulder. Simon had abandoned his hoodie, now in a black, athletic, tight-fitting shirt. The long sleeves were pushed up to his biceps, a wet clicking noise drawing your attention to his hands.

He was rubbing a plain bar of soap between his palms, slicking his hands before his attention turned towards you. He sets the bar on the side of the tub, reaching for your left foot first. He lifts it out of the water and holds it steady as his hands rub the filth off of you.

You’re already warming up by the time he finishes one leg and starts on the other, only wincing every once in a while when he brushes a scrape. The problem is, you think the cold was numbing your pain. Your temperature is rising and with it your pain.

Your bicep burns now, and tingles in some weird way. The only time you’re adjusted is for Simon to have a better angle to wash you. Johnny keeps you still, mumbling sweet things to you every once in a while. You think you’ve blocked him out at this point.

You’d winced and squirmed a little when he rinsed your wound with water. You didn’t have much of a choice. Your shoulders relax slightly as he finishes and steps away. He hasn’t touched your hair, tail, or ears yet, which only made you worried more for what’s to come. After a moment he returns with a black plastic bottle you can’t catch a good enough look to read.

You watch, wary as he uncaps the lid and holds your upper with his free hand. His hand tilts, spilling the clear liquid over your wound where it bubbles and turns white. You scream, throwing your head back and feeling Johnny flinch as your skull knocks against his chin.

“Fuckin’- easy, easy. We’re not trying to hurt you, calm down.” Johnny tries to soothe you while your squirming increases tenfold.

Johnny never releases you, only tightens his grip and throws a hairy, muscled leg over your hips when your kicking becomes a problem. You squeeze your eyes shut, fresh tears slipping down your newly clean cheeks as your lips part on a sob. It stings, it fucking stings. Why did they do that? What’s wrong with them?

You think you get lost in the white, tight pressure of your eyelids for a moment because when you come back, there’s white gauze and bandages wrapped around your upper arm. You’ve stopped moving. Your lips are parted to let out panicked pants and the whites of your eyes feel irritated.

“Kitty,” Simon speaks so suddenly that your eyes flick up to meet his. A few strands of hair fall in front of your face and you flinch when he smoothes them back. “Relax. We’re not tryin’ to hurt you. You need to cooperate. You hear me? Don’t bite.”

He uses a rough thumb to wipe the tears from your cheeks before he uses that same hand to pry your jaw open, watching as your eyelashes flutter rapidly. He holds your mouth open and uses his free hand to drip a few drops of water into your mouth from a glass cup you have no idea where or when he got.

You stiffen, confused, watery eyes locked on his. He then puts the cup on the bathroom counter and places two small pills on your tongue. You have ample time to bite him. You don’t, reason unknown to you.

He then closes your mouth and watches you closely as he tells you, “Swallow.” You do and can see the way he stares to see if your throat bobs. “Open,” he urges, and this time you do it on your own. When he finds nothing, he praises you with a quiet “good girl.”

“Pain meds. They’ll help ya feel better,” he adds before you even think to ask. You think your brain has been put on a backtrack or something since you stepped into their house. Maybe it was the cold, maybe it was the pain. But now all you can think about is how they could help you every day. Maybe not. They’re too overbearing. Right.

Simon leans over to reach for a bottle labeled ‘shampoo’, but stops when Johnny speaks up. “Si, maybe let’s leave that for another day. Today has already been a lot.” He pauses, and stares, which he seems to do a lot. He grunts in response, leaning over to unplug the tub.

‘Another day’ completely goes over your head.

Your hair is.. well, it’s a mess. You’ve tried to keep it somewhat short so it doesn’t have so much upkeep, but it’s not like there’s a free barber at every corner. the matted fur on your tail and ears you… don’t even want to talk about it.

“I’m gonna let go now, alright?” Johnny says next to your ear, tone soft enough it doesn’t make you jump this time. You nod hesitantly, the first type of communication you’ve ever given to them. He slowly releases you and Simon reaches his hands out for you to grab. You do, slowly, letting him help you stand and step out of the tub.

Johnny lugs himself out of the tub, grabs a towel, and excuses himself from the room. Simon wraps you up in a fluffy, gray towel, rubbing and patting at your face and shoulders until you’re mostly dry. And you kind of just.. stand there. Johnny comes back a few moments later, clothed and dry now, holding a few articles of clothing in his hands.

“Got some clothes for ya,”

Your gaze turns towards him, and you shiver and cross your arms across your breasts once Simon lets the towel drop. He holds a few things up to your body to see what fits best. He dresses you in boxers, one layers of pants, a short-sleeved shirt, a long-sleeved shirt, and a long-sleeved shirt.

You almost wish they had something warmer. Or a raincoat, maybe? But beggars can’t be choosers, can they? At least the socks they tug onto your feet are warm and fuzzy.

You let them move you around like a puppet on strings. One man slipping your arms into the sleeves, one man pulling boxers up your hips. Once they finish, Simon heads over to your clothes.

You watch as Simon picks them from the floor, Johnny adjusting your new outfit to fit you more comfortably, and shoves them right in the bathroom trash.

Johnny watches the way your expression drops as you look at him and shoots Simon a look. “Sorry, lovely. These clothes are yours now.” He tries to placate, his eyes soft as he looks at you. You frown.

“Right,” Simon grunts, “Hoodie got all ripped up. The rest are beyond saving. You’ll wear this now.”

Johnny places a hand on your shoulder, guiding you out to the connected living room and kitchen. You’re disappointed, but you don’t think you can be mad when they’ve done all this for you. You have nothing from before. Maybe that’s okay.

“Ye ready to leave?” he asks, riffling through a cabinet in the kitchen. It takes a moment before you nod. “Think the storm is dying down. You can stay until it’s over, f’you want.”

You shake your head, subtly, instinctively, stepping towards the window. “That’s alrigh’, won’t make ya.” he smiles, showing you his palms up before he takes a step back.

They don’t say anything. They seem to go back to whatever they were doing before you. Soap grabs his cold coffee off the counter and pops it in the microwave, a few beeps sounding out as it turns on. Simon has carried his hoodie back out from the bathroom and placed it on the coat rack by the door.

It almost seems too natural. Practiced.

Your feet feel cold and heavy when you take another step towards the window. You swear they were warm just a moment ago.

While you blink away some blurriness from your vision, you’re hyper-aware of the excess saliva gathering in your mouth. Fuck, please don’t throw up, you urge.

When your gaze refocuses on the window, the rain looks like a watercolor painting. The muscles behind your eyes ache. Your foot is taking another step before you permit it.

Your newly socked feet cause you to slip slightly, one hand snapping out and you just barely have enough time to grip the cedge of the kitchen counter. Your head pounds.

“Och, easy, Kitty.” Johnny gentles, coming up behind you and placing his now cold hands on your shoulders. You don’t know when you got so hot. Feverish.

“Let’s go sit ya down with Simon, yeah?” he asks, but it’s not really a question as he already starts to guide you towards the couch where Simon is sat. You don’t remember seeing him walk that way.

Johnny sits you on the couch next to him, who lifts an arm to coax your head into his lap. He pets his hand over your head, his fingertips feeling the heat of your skin as he brushes against your cheeks.

He pushes your hair back from your face and you let your eyes fall shut solely because of the intense nausea taking over you. Your lips part to let out slow, harsh breaths.

“I don’t feel so good,” you moan, voice slurring, fingers curling into a fist against the fabric of Simon’s pants. The room feels like it’s spinning.

“I know, love.”

notes: sorry for the abrupt ending! also i don’t mind tagging people so go ahead and ask if u want!

tag: @pagesfalling

[thedevilsoftruth]

♡~" Don't I know you? "~♡

Civil war! Bucky Barnes x f! Reader

Summary: Bucky is still slowly regaining his memories. When he sees you walking into a bar, he swears he's seen your face before, and his awful curiosity for you " accidentally " drags you into his apartment.

Tags/warnings: Smut!!! Literally 4k words for pure and utter smut. A VERY bad idea, one night stand, Dom!Bucky, lots of kissing, Bucky really likes your boob's, cunnilingus, spit/pussy spitting/slapping, choking, Bucky is implied to be a masochist, vaginal fingering, praising, thigh riding ( kinda ) multiple orgasms, piv sex, unprotected, temperature play if you squint, Buckies arms mentioned heavily. Not beta read!

So Bucky won my poll last week, and it took me so long to push this out because I had to rewrite it 4 times. But anyways, big thanks to @evillious-trash for helping me break out of my writers block. I definitely feel like the ending was rushed ( I was working on this specific fic from 7pm to 2am--non stop with no breaks. ) but nonetheless, please enjoy this VERY smutty fic.

Song recommended: Walking In My Shoes by Depeche Mode

Minors DNI! I am not responsible for what you find on the internet.

[ P.S: My marvel request box is back open. Please check my pinned post for more information regarding my request rules. ]

Oh boy, was it a terrible mistake; Bucky deciding to greet you in the bar that night. All he could think about was how guilty he was going to feel about it in the morning. In fact, he was already feeling guilt even in the moment.

As his large hands splayed on your thighs on his kitchen table in his apartment--and as you both engaged in heavy kissing, the question of what In the hell was he doing kept repeating in his head.

He didn't know why he was doing it but he knew it felt right. Even if it wasn't, it was what he wanted; and Bucky Barnes wasn't used to getting what he wanted.

His tongue escaped into your mouth, his hands gripping your thighs tightly. The cold metal of his prosthetic hand sent chills down your body each time It would touch you. Your fingers were curled into the fabric of his long sleeved henley shirt, tugging at them for support.

When he approached you in the bar, he seemed so shy and awkward. The way he would scratch his neck sheepishly, the way he'd keep looking at his hands, the way he spoke so quietly. All of it pointed to him being a shy, innocent introvert.

But this man was everything but shy and innocent.

He kissed you dominantly like he was afraid of losing control of you, he dirty talked you like you were some cheap whore on the streets, and yet--there was something oddly sweet about him in a very bizarre way.

His hand was scarred and had too many callouses to count with the skin on it being cracked and dry; compared to the strange prosthetic hand he has which was smooth and scarless. He never told you his entire left arm was a prosthetic; just his hand. In fact, he didn't say much about himself and even told you at one point that he didn't want to talk about himself or his background. And when you asked him for his name, he just stared at you for several minutes before saying " Bucky " so quietly that you wouldn't be able to pick up on it if it weren't for being able to read his lips.

He told you that you had to leave his apartment once he was done with you, and when you asked why, he responded with " I have business to take care of in the morning. " It was quite strange, especially because he was unemployed.

You were trying so hard to figure out who he really was. You knew you had seen him somewhere, but you couldn't figure out what it was. He was internally doing the same thing with you. Even though it had been almost a year since he left hydra, most of his memories were still gone and the codewords to set him off could still easily trigger him. But when he approached you in that bar, he knew he'd seen you somewhere.

You still remembered the first thing he said to you as he chased after you. It was, " do I know you? "

Not a " hi " " hello", or, " can I buy you a drink? " Just the four words; do I know you?

Bucky pulled back from your lips, panting. He smacked your thigh and cleared his throat.

" Get off the table and turn around. " He commanded breathlessly, stepping back and eyeing you up and down. You hesitated. It was so weird seeing him like that. Once again, this was a man who was afraid of looking you in the eye and averted his gaze each time you'd try to provoke him by opening the top of your dress to reveal more of your cleavage. But even with how weird he acted, you still complied to the order and shakingly got off the table.

The second you were on your feet, he spun you around and pulled you tight against his body. He was incredibly strong, and his grasp on your body was so tight that you felt like you couldn't breathe.

He moved your hair over your shoulder and trailed hot open-mouthed kisses from your jaw all the way down to the crook of your neck. He sucked down at your pulse point, making you whimper. He kept his real arm around your stomach, and his metal hand came up to your neck, tilting your head back against his shoulder. You were starting to become lightheaded.

" Bucky, " you breathed weakly, grabbing his wrist splayed across your stomach. " Can't breathe. " You told him weakly, patting his forearm twice. He slowly eased his grasp on you but kept it tight enough to where you couldn't escape his hold on you. It was like he was a control freak.

His tongue lapped across your neck where he'd been kissing before he parted his lips and gently bit down on your skin, making you squeal.

He let go of your neck, and moved his metal hand down to your cleavage. His lips transported to your earlobe, and he bit and kissed at it as he started playing with your boobs. His hand engulfed one of your tits, taking it in his dominant hold and groping it hard. You moaned softly at his touch and whimpered when he let go to run both hands up your thighs.

His lips found yours from behind your shoulder, and his lips slowly began moving against yours as his hands squeezed your thighs. His arms snaked around your stomach again, and his hips rolled against your backside, making you groan loudly as he did so.

Bucky pulled back from your body and pulled the zipper of your dress all the way down until your back was exposed. He spun you around to face him once more, and then stepped back.

" Take your clothes off. " He told you, crossing his arms across his chest. You stepped out of your dress, leaving you only in your undergarments and your heels. You sat in the table, staring at him as your fingers worked on the hooks of your bra.

He stared back at you with hungry eyes as you rolled your panties down your legs, leaving you completely exposed to him. Bucky was very unpredictable to you. You didn't know if he was going to choke you and spit in your mouth in one instance or kiss you gently and whisper sweet nothings in your ear the other.

You looked at him with a certain gaze that made him hard and absolutely aching for you. There was something so sexy about the way you were sitting on his table, looking so vulnerable but so inviting.

It was like a fucking wet dream, like one of the sick ass fantasies he'd get every once and a while. As he stepped between your legs and stared you up and down, he got a certain nostalgic feeling as he started to remember the many people he used to sleep around with. And you reminded him of one of those people. That was why he was so drawn to you. You were exactly the type he'd run after when he was still in the military. And all he needed with the headspace he was in in the moment was a little reminder of who he used to be.

" Are you going to take me to your bed? " You asked him, running your hand down his chest. He grimaced, looking down at your hand. He scoffed, like the joke was dumb and funny to him.

" I don't use a bed. " He responded. " I don't need one. We can just use the floor or the table. " He finished, running a hand through his thick hair.

It was then and there when you realized that he was by far your strangest hookup. Was he just really drunk and acting weird or was he actually like this?

" Are you sure--"

" Stop talking. " He cut you off, picking you up and off the table without breaking a sweat, carrying you to his couch where he than sat down with you in his lap. He positioned you on one of his thighs and leaned back against the seat, running his hands up and down your sides.

You felt so embarrassed for whatever reason. You were completely exposed to him and he was taking his sweet ass time with you.

Then, he slowly started bouncing you up and down on his thigh, leaning in to attack your neck with harsh kisses like he was doing before.

You moaned softly at the friction between the rough fabric of his leans and your aching core. His hand idly rubbed up and down your back,the other gripping your hip and keeping you in place on his thigh.

Bucky lips parted and he bit at your pulse point before sucking a small little hickey on your skin. You gasped at the contact, and he started bouncing you on his leg faster.

You threw your head back and whined desperately, tugging at his thick biceps through his long sleeved shirt.

" What's the matter, doll? " He asked in a mock-tone voice, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb. " You want my cock, hm? "

He trailed his metal hand down between your thighs and ran his two middle fingers down your soaked slit, electing a loud moan out of you. You curled your fingers into his shirt tighter, rocking your hips against his hand, seeking more friction.

" Stop that. " Bucky growled, grabbing your hip with his other hand to keep you in place. " Or you wont have me at all. " He warned, looking at you sternly.

His fingers started slowly playing with your aching clit, making you whimper and shake in his arms. The coldness of the metal on his fingers made you wince each time they'd touch you. And that was something that got Bucky off; seeing how you reacted to different temperatures.

He circled your entrance with his middle finger. His eyebrows were furrowed, his lips pursed with concentration as he focused on you completely.

He continued to tease you by pretending to stick his finger in only to pull it out and circle around your entrance instead.

" Bucky- " you whined, but he cut you off.

" Lay down. " He told you, patting your thigh, signaling you to get off his lap. Eagerly, you complied, laying down on your back on the couch.

" Spread your legs. " He told you, and you once again, obeyed, opening your legs in front of him. He undid his belt buckle, not taking the belt fully off but just undoing the buckle. All for him to just dip his head between your thighs-- not that you were complaining, but it was just not what you were expecting.

He lifted your legs and threw them over his broad shoulders. He leaned into your sweet cunt and slowly licked a long line from your entrance to your clit. His warm breath and tongue only added to the sensations and made you feel fuzzy. His beard tickled your skin as he began moving against you and he laid his tongue flat against your pussy, shaking his head slowly and making you moan loudly.

You pushed his long curtain bangs back with your hand and curled a fist into his thick brown hair, making him groan in approval as he ate you out. His large hands gripped your thighs tightly, holding them in place and keeping them open for his hungry mouth.

Bucky trailed open-mouthed kisses down your pussy before stopping at your clit. He flicked his tongue up and down your aching bud, making you moan loudly and your fingers curl into his scalp harder. Most men you slept with hated it when you pulled on their hair because it hurt, but Bucky seemed completely unfazed by it; In fact, it seemed like the pain is what spurred him on--if he felt any pain from it all. And mostly, it didn't. Bucky grew very tolerant to pain after all of the experiments and torture hydra put him through.

He flicked his eyes to look up at yours from his spot between your thighs, and your eyes locked for a brief moment before we went back to focusing on your cunt. He pulled back from your pussy and then, without warning, spat directly onto it. He looked up at you and slapped your pussy a few times, making you squeal.

Bucky wiped his hand on his jeans before leaning back in between your thighs. He dragged the tip of his tongue across your folds, spreading his saliva across your cunt. You whined loudly as his lips closed around your clit, sucking at it harshly before he circled his tongue around it.

" So fucking sweet. " He moaned. " You like that shit? " He laughed, looking directly at you and making you feel utterly embarrassed. He laid his tongue flat on your cunt again, shook his head, and then bobbed his head up and down as he sucked on your clit. A mantra of breathless moans escaped your lips as he did so, your thighs shaking violently in his arms.

It felt so good that you wanted to cry. Even Bucky was shocked at how well he was doing, but he figured that most of it came from his past experience and muscle memory. You closed your legs around his face, tugging on his scalp. He let out an annoyed groan and spread your legs back apart.

He pulled back from your pussy and ran the knuckles of his two middle fingers down your slit. He then, finally, dipped his fingers into your warm entrance and slowly started pumping them in and out of you.

He rose from your thighs, sitting on his knees as he continued to finger you gently, giving his jaw a short little break.

" You're so gorgeous. " He told you, tilting his head with a cocky smile as he ran his metal arm down your stomach, giving you goosebumps.

Bucky curled his fingers Inside you, slowly and repeatedly pumping them in and out of you and drawing out long, sweet whines out of your lips. He then dipped his head back between your shaking thighs and his tongue began working with his fingers to completely satisfy you. His eyes flicked up to meet yours.

" You gonna cum soon, pretty girl? Hmm? " He cooed, giving your cunt little kitten licks as he looked up at you. You could just hear the smile on his face as he spoke.

You whimpered in response, your hips bucking toward his face and your back arching off the couch. Your fingers found their way back into his long hair, spurring him on with a harsh tug.

He shoved his long, thick middle fingers as far as they could inside of you, and he curled them once more--directly in your sweet spot, electing a loud moan out of you. Your thighs began to uncontrollably shake around his head, your hips stuttering against his face as he ate you out.

" It's okay, honey. " He purred, rubbing your thighs softly. " You can cum, sweetie. Come on. Right onto my face, gorgeous. " Bucky encouraged against your pussy, his words sickeningly sweet; a complete and utter contrast to his earlier behavior.

The pace of his fingers slowly started to speed up as he became more determined to make you orgasm. He placed open-mouthed kisses onto your soaked folds and he started sucking down on your clit again, the lewd, wet, almost slurping noises that he was making rang through the both of your ears and made him especially ten times harder.

And you just couldn't help it. Your sex began contracting against Buckies thick fingers, tightening around him, trapping him there inside you until you finally came.

Bucky withdrew his fingers from you and he groaned in approval as you came down on him hard. He wiped his hand on his jeans again, eagerly lapping up every last drop of cum coming from you. He closed his eyes tight and moaned as your sweet nectar hit his tongue. He was probably enjoying it more than you. Your entire body was shaking, satisfaction and relief spreading through your body as he helped you come down from your high.

" Fuck, " he moaned, holding your thighs open as his tongue lapped up the rest of your cum.

When he was done, he rose from your legs, panting. His lips, nose, and chin were glistening with your essence, his beard almost completely soaked with it. He chuckled and wiped his face off with his shirt. You laid there, panting, at a complete loss of words.

" You did so good, doll. " Bucky praised, crawling over your body and capturing your lips in a heated kiss. He pecked at your lips multiple times before he slowly started giving you sweet open-mouthed kisses. You could taste yourself on his lips, and that was his goal. He began trailing kisses down your body, starting at the column of your throat, heading towards your collarbone, and stopping at your breasts.

Bucky took one of your breasts into his left hand--the metal one--and he played with it while his mouth paid attention to your other breast. His thumb and index finger tweaked at your nipple. Meanwhile his tongue was circling around your areola before his lips closed around your nipple and began sucking on that gently. The contact made you gasp, your cunt aching for him even more.

He then switched his attention to your other breast, his lips kissing and sucking at your nipple, his hand playing with your other breast. When he was done, he lifted his head and sat down on his knees between your thighs. He was looking down at you with a wicked smile, his blue eyes dark with lust.

" You know, " he started, his hand reaching for his unbuckled belt. His voice was so smooth; sweet like the finest honey there ever was, clear like a bright sunny afternoon. " You've been so good for me, don't you think? " He smiled, tilting his head to the side as he threw his belt down onto the floor. He picked up your leg by the base of your thigh and gently placed a few kisses on it, his eyes never looking away from yours.

" Maybe I should reward you, yeah? " He proposed in a suggestive tone, unzipping his jeans. You gulped hard, looking at his hands and then back at his face. He pulled his pants down slightly and reached within them to pull his cock out; ready for you and dripping with precum.

" Come sit in my lap. " He told you, sitting on his knees and patting his thighs. You weakly sat up, your body still shaking after your intense orgasm. You went to climb in his lap, but he stopped you.

" Other way, sweetie. " He said, turning your body the other way so that your back was facing his chest. He placed his hands on your hips, lowering your body onto his lap. It took him a moment, but he wrapped his hand around his shaft and directed his cock to your entrance.

Bucky then slowly seethed himself inside you, giving you a moment to adjust to his size before he began rocking his hips.

You felt his hand on your back, and he gently pushed your body down and into the couch, keeping his hand there so that you wouldn't move. You whimpered at the contact, your mind wandering to all the things he could do to you in that instance. Just thinking about those things made you even wetter for him.

Bucky slowly dragged his cock across your velvety, warm walls before pulling out just a little bit below his tip, and then shoving himself back in; setting a medium-fast pace for himself. The poor couch squeaked underneath your joined bodies, and you tried to prop yourself up on your elbows, but Bucky pushed you back down.

" Bucky! " You yelped his name as he began to move faster. He bent over your body and kissed your shoulder sweetly, his hand coming to rest on your hip.

" Yeah, doll? " He whispered in your ear, nipping at your earlobe and sending shivers down your spine and an electric sensation through your pussy.

" Go a bit slower? " You panted, looking at him with heavy lidded eyes and an open mouth. He chuckled at the request, and chuckled and the look on your face. He ran his hand down your cheek.

" But we've barley started. " He fake whined, sitting back on his knees. He kept his metal arm on your back, holding you down as he proceed to fuck you into oblivion. You gripped the cushion of the couch with all your might, your faced smushed against the cushion and your hair splayed messily all over your face.

The sight was our heaven for Bucky. Him sitting on his knees with you in his lap, his cock buried deeply inside your wam little cunt, your back faced to him. He pulled out again and slammed back in, this time with more force, and this time setting off with a much harsher and faster that sent his cock deep within you.

Your eyes rolled back in ecstasy, your mouth leaving out a chant of endless moans that only made his cock harder. He reached his other hand around you to slowly circle around your clit, making your body jump and you gasp.

" Oh. " Bucky laughed. " Did that feel good, sweetie? " He purred directly into your ear, rolling his middle finger around your sensitive little bud. You nodded your head, your brain becoming foggy as drool started to leave your mouth. Bucky removed the hand on your back and instead began to use it on your mouth. He dragged his metal thumb across your bottom lip, playing with your saliva and running it over your puffy wet lips.

He sat back up and redoubled his efforts on his thrusts. He began rolling his hips to give you slow, deep and hard thrusts, thrusts that literally made you see stars.

And then, he started hitting your sweet spot once more--and he could tell he was doing so by the loud mewls you were letting out for his ears to drink it. The loudness of your moans only egged him on more.

And then, he started hitting your sweet spot once more--and he could tell he was doing so by the loud mewls you were letting out for his ears to drink it. The loudness of your moans only egged him on more, an she wrapped his hands around your hips hard and started pushing you off and on his cock with his harsh thrusts.

You bit your lip and whined desperately, your nails digging into the couch and your toes curling in immense pleasure.

" Holy fuck.. " you panted. " Bucky ahh... Gonna cum again. " You told him, nearly choking on your own moans. Although you thought you were going to be cumming soon, Bucky had different plans for you. Plans he'd think you wouldn't enjoy that much.

He smirked widely and smacked your ass hard, the skin on skin contact echoing through the empty halls of his apartment along with the yelp you let out when he did so.

He felt your muscles contract around his cock again and, just before you could release, he pulled out of you, panting. You were left feeling empty and unsatisfied.

" What the hell?! " You snapped, looking at him from over your shoulder. " I was almost there. " You whined. He fake pouted.

" Well that's too bad, isn't it? " He purred, flipping you onto your back. You were getting so tired and frustrated at that point, that all you wanted to do was have one last orgasm and be done with it and go home.

How he was able to keep up so long without running out of steam was a wonder to you. You only came once, and you felt like you were going to pass out.

Bucky grabbed your legs and pinned them to your chest, practically folding you in half. Your cheeks turned bright red as he slowly pushed back inside you; embarrassed by the new position though it was very sexy.

He now had a front view of you, a view he thought was even better than the last. Because in the position, he could see your face and the way you reacted to every little thing he did. He could see the way your tits would bounce with each thrust he gave you, and he could even see your pretty little pussy better.

Your face contorted into one of pure pleasure, your eyebrows quirked and your puffy lips quivering. To Bucky, it was the hottest fucking thing ever. With this position he was able to sink his cock even deeper within you, so deep until his entire thing was stuffed inside you.

He was starting to feel a build up in his abdomen, and he was wondering if you were feeling the same.

For a brief moment, he pulled out, all to spit on your cunt one last time, spreading his saliva out around your over-sensitive folds with his fingers. He grabbed hold of the base of your thighs as he slowly sunk himself back into you, looking you in your eyes deeply. He started to get that familiar feeling again, as he sped back up and listened to your sweet moans echo off the walls. The familiar feeling that he had seen you somewhere before.

And you were absolutely oblivious to it. The only thing that was on your mind was how hot he was and how good the sex felt.

You reached out for his thick bicep through his shirt, your fingernails digging into his skin.

" Feeling good? " He asked you, giving your calf a kiss while looking you in your eyes. You nodded, panting, trying to remain eye contact.

" I'm getting so close, Bucky.. " You moaned, your back arching off the couch.

" Me too. " He responded, bending down and bracing his arms beside your face, caging you away from the outside world.

His cock kissed and touched every single inch of your cunt that was hyper-sensitive, and he kept thrusting into you at a steady, fast pace until a milky white ring of your cum started to appear around his cock.

He slowed down, looking down at the liquid spilling out of you. He bit his lip, looking back at you.

" Oh honey, " he breathed, " look at that. "

---

By the time the both of you were finished, it was almost 4 in the morning. You were putting your clothes back on, and Bucky was already starting to feel that awful sense of guilt wash over him.

" I don't know how appropriate this is to say, " you chuckled as you began putting your heels back on. Bucky rose a brow at you. " But you kind of look like that winter solider guy that's everywhere on the news right now. "

Bucky immediately felt the blood drain from his face the moment you said that, and his eyes went wide, and he became speechless. And that was all just for you to laugh loudly, and immediately brush it off as nothing serious.

" I'm just messing with you. Have a good night. " You told him, snorting. And just like that, you were out the door like he had requested at the bar earlier that night.

That night, you were finally able to pinpoint where you knew his face from, but even as the next day rolled on, Bucky still couldn't figure out who you reminded him of.

[silkenwinger]

scarless moons

first part of childhood friends & later neighbours ghost x reader. originally this blurb. next up is ghost's pov. 3.3k words of second hand embarrassment tbh next

You remember the first time you talked with Simon Riley very clearly.

You left the house frazzled, as usual, and took the bus the last possible second. Standing all the journey to school, you watched the familiar landscape out of the window, the chattering around you almost disappearing. You were alone, because, well…

None of your friends lived near you. 

None of your friends came to your school, even.

Yes, your friends…

You were the first one to get off the bus, pace hurried. The last row of desks awaited you, the one trench to protect you against what may have come.

History. You liked the subject, and even the teacher, but some of the individuals in that class… 

“What I really want to see from you guys’ works, is the ability to summarize and highlight the most important events from World War II. And of course, to add personal recollections, family memories if there are any. Your grandparents might have fought for this country, helped sustain its war efforts, or even just tried to live life. I believe history is also that: normalcy against extraordinary events.”

He then told everyone to pair up. You felt a shard of ice hitting your spine, the usual when any kind of group project was announced. Students around you found each other easily, pairing with their friend sitting next to them, or purposely seeking them out on the other side of the class. In five minutes, everyone but you was happily chatting with their chosen mate.

Well, everyone but you and another person.

The teacher called your name gently, smiling. You looked down, ashamed that your weakness was so evident. That adults could judge you for your lacking. But then the teacher spoke.

“Simon Riley over there is alone too. You should work together!”

Simon Riley…

You were no good with names, and you didn't share many classes with him in the first place. But you knew him as that one tall kid. Blond. For your standards, good looking. Not very popular. The cool, actually-don’t-give-a-fuck version of you. Someone who might knife you if you cross him. Hands in pockets and hard mug.

Sending a worried look to Mr House, you were met with a tranquil, encouraging expression, so you just had to stand up with a sigh. Carrying your bag, you walked, stilted steps, towards Riley’s desk, on the other end of the last row of desks. He sat low in his chair, knees against the wood of the desk. His eyes, dark and shiny, were fixated somewhere on the other side of the classroom. His uniform was– it was individualistically arranged, for sure. His tie was missing. He had his arms crossed tightly, like a shield to repel others. 

“Um, hi,” you said, voice meek. Cringing, you resented the part of yourself that couldn’t be yourself in front of boys. “Mr House said we have to work together…”

He looked up then. When your eyes met, you were absolutely certain he was going to yell at you, or stand up and leave, or worse. Your stomach knotted up in fear. While you had no one to gossip with, it wasn’t like you didn’t have ears. People talked, and they loved to talk badly about Simon Riley. On the bus, you heard he was selling drugs. From the other table in the canteen, whispers blew that he beat three people. Yes, all at the same time. While you waited for any kind of reaction coming from him, you swung on your feet, uneasy, and put your hands under your armpit.

“Okay.” He said simply, his voice low and unemotional. He took his knees from the desk and sat up correctly, still looking at you. His arms unlinked a bit, posture more relaxed than before.

“A-Alright. I’ll get my chair…” You clumsily carried the plastic chair from your desk to Simon’s, bumping one of its legs into the thigh of another student. For that, you got a glare from him, even after apologizing immediately. Sighing, you moved to reach Riley’s desk, putting the chair in front of him. All this time, his eyes had never left you. You reached down to pull out the notebook from your bag and opened it to a fresh page, since Riley had nothing on his desk. You’d be happy to write.

“So… Do you have any ideas? Like… a part of World War II you enjoy the most?” You could have hit yourself in the head. Who even has a specific favourite part of wars?

To your surprise, Riley answered your question without even thinking about it for too long.

“Western Desert Campaign, 1941.” He spoke again without much inflection in his words, one of his long, slender hands scratching at his jaw. Him actually having an interest in history surprised you so much you were speechless for a second or two.

“G-Great!! We can write our report on that. And umm, do you have any grandparents who fought in it? Or even another front?”

If you had previously thought you were, all things considered, doing a great job, the look Riley gave you made you rethink all previous life choices. It wasn’t necessarily a bad look, just very, very unimpressed, like you’d just told him the dumbest thing he ever heard before.

“No.” He answered simply, taking his eyes lower, probably at your flushed neck.

“Me neither,” you rushed to add, “but we can add some other soldier’s testimony, even if we are not related to him.”

Mr House spoke again then, interrupting that budding conversation between an ice cold man and a bumbling fool. 

“Alright guys, you have two months to submit the report. You can find all the other information on the sheet I gave you earlier. Remember to play nice and both work on it! I will know if you forced the other to do all the work,” he said, and some laughter was heard in the class. Sneaking a look towards Riley, still dissociating, you hoped that wouldn’t be the case. 

//

Your first study session was that Friday. Mr House said you should find a quiet place to work in, but can also have a conversation in. So, the library was out. So was your house. And you lacked the courage to ask Riley for his, so you proposed a solution: the park.

It was not the most comfortable of places to handle books, or write, but it tended not to be too loud in some areas, and the weather had miraculously been sunny, so the chances of it being damp and cold were low. When you last saw Riley, you told him that, if he didn’t mind, if it truly wasn’t a problem, you could hang out on Friday for a couple of hours and work on the project. He nodded, not even looking at you, and you’d scurried off from his desk before he decided he’d rather eat you whole.

So you were waiting for him on the bench. As you checked your clock and saw that it had already been a quarter of an hour since you’d arranged to meet, you wished you had started working on your own even earlier. Riley was never going to show up. Reputations weren’t built out of air: and when people called you a loser, they had a point. Riley was a tough guy, he couldn’t possibly give a shit out about you and your stupid history report.

Imagine your surprise then when you first heard hurried steps in the grass, a change of air, until he came running, his breathing ragged, and leaned half of his body on the bench. His tie was still gone, his uniform pants a bit mudded at the end.

“Are you alright?” You asked immediately, worried he was running from bad people, or the police, or aliens for all you could know. You scooted over to give him a bigger portion of space.

“Yeah,” he let out, putting his bag on the bench and then dropping to sit on it. He touched his nose then, and you saw that knuckles were red, as if he had been fighting just a moment before, and then fixed his unruly hair. Your mind immediately sent out an alert. 

“Are you sure? You look hurt…” You insisted, not keen on getting punched as well. He huffed out and reiterated his first answer. Looking down at your notes, you brought your knees together, not looking forward to upsetting him.

“Well? What did you write over there?” He spoke again, and one of his big hands was right in front of your face now. You handed over your notes without a squeak. He held them with both hands, going through your writing like an English teacher, not even scanning it through but reading entire phrases. You awaited his verdict like the accused waits for the judge, playing with one pleat of your skirt.

“It’s good.” He said, wasteful with his words as ever.

“Really?” You smiled, happy that you impressed him somehow. “But, umm, if you want to add something else, or change anything, please tell me.” 

He only nodded at that. The two of you kept adding stuff you wanted to focus on, the lost lives, the foundation of SAS, the impact on the local population. It was evident RIley was very interested in the topic. Whatever you had read from the history book or seen in a documentary, he knew about it more and in better detail, and he even knew if there were any conspiracies or uncommon ideas about it. Feeling refreshed over his knowledge and almost nerdy tendencies, you found the courage to ask him a question.

“Riley, do you like war?” Again, you immediately regretted your decision when he leveled you with another of his blank looks, from those onyx eyes.

“Don’t call me that. And I don’t know if I like it,” he spoke, and your mouth hung at having to call him Simon and not Riley. The action felt weirdly intimate, like he was telling you he didn’t mind being your friend. Unthinkable, so far in your life.

“I think I enjoy the thought of having a purpose,” he said, looking at his hand instead of you, one corner of his mouth downturned, “and it’s easier in the military. Like you really are doing something useful, y’know? And nobody can tell you anything about how you’re such a bum, because you’re in the army.”

You weren’t sure going to foreign countries and bombing them was useful, really, but you weren’t about to torch down this one connection.

“I see. But you can be useful to society with many different jobs, like being a doctor, or- or a teacher, but I mean– I get what you’re saying.” You rushed to empathise with him.

You thought he conceded to your point because he went back to the report. 

//

The sun shone a little bit brighter on Fridays. Every time you worked with Simon, you didn’t experience the common anxiety that came with every other group project. Even if he showed up late, he always had his part ready, and he didn’t burden you with extra work. And because you were talking so often, and discovering parts of him gossip would never tell you, you began to worry about him. About how he still didn’t have his tie, and how he got reprimanded by a teacher for it, only looking the other way when he was done. About his bruises and the reasons he was late often in the first place. About how you sometimes mentioned your parents and siblings and he never did.

It hurt you, being unable to connect with the one classmate that didn’t ignore or flat out hate you. Because you were uncertain and a bit afraid of Simon’s response if you asked him something about his life outside school, you decided you’d be the one to open up first. 

“Hey,” you greeted as you sat across Simon at the canteen’s table. It was not a Friday and you had never eaten together. He raised one fine brow but didn’t protest. Your heart was beating a rushed march. He was already almost done with lunch, sleeves up and bony, pale arms showing.

“How are you?”

“Good. You?” He replied, affable as ever.

“Not really,” you laughed, awkwardly. Just that morning, you had to withstand a brutal bullying session from some of your English classmates. They had criticized everything, including appearance, speech, clothes, bearing… Simon stayed silent, either not knowing where you were going with it or waiting for you to elaborate. He was in your English class, too, but you sat far away from each other. You hoped he didn’t see what happened.

“I- um, this morning some people remembered I exist and made my life hell,” you explained, playing with your hair. You already regretted your big idea.

“Ah. Bunch of cunts,” he spat out, his mouth twitching as if he had tasted something sour.

“Y-You saw?”

“I heard something.” He shrugged, and you wanted to get buried alive. “Headless behaviour, for sure.”

“You don’t need to account for anyone’s opinion but yours. They’re all a bunch of wankers anyway.” He then made a nod towards Thomas, one of your biggest bullies. “Think he just fancies you.”

“What? No way!” You immediately responded, affronted in the heart. It was not only the thought of your bully being into you, but more like– 

“I can tell,” he points to his temple, “it’s all here.” Simon leaned back into the chair, his posture relaxed, his shoulders wide in the smaller chair.  

“Wah wah wah, group not like girl I like, me make fun of her.“ After imitating caveman dialogue, he shook his head, “Christ, but what an idiot. Think he should work on his way of picking up birds.” He concluded, taking a big gulp of water from his bottle. Your mouth opened and closed a couple of times before you could elaborate what you’d just seen.

“I don’t like him. Like at all,” you said, and Simon raised his brow again, confused. You felt like it was really, really important that he knew you would never associate with the likes of Thomas and his friends. That wasn’t the kind of guy you liked.

“I sure hope you don’t?”

//

A month and a half flew away. You were well aware you only had two more times to see Simon one on one with an excuse, and the one temptation started knocking at your head. It told you, you should try to see him more, or, start wearing makeup, slag, how else is he even going to consider you?

Well. You weren’t delusional. While you’ve always considered Simon handsome, and he revealed himself to be a good, thoughtful guy, he was never, in a million years, going to fancy you. The idea was laughable. But your heart couldn’t come to terms with the fact that its object of desire was simply being a nice human being, and latched on Simon with violence. It was your mind that had to fight back. He was fighting battles you weren’t even aware of. You couldn’t burden him by revealing your crush on him.

“Hi Simon!” You greeted him at the park, for once arriving second to him. He glanced at you with his deep, brown eyes, and you felt like melting there and then… but his eyes looked even sadder than usual. His tie was back, but it had been bargained for some spark.

“Hey,” he said simply, once again unemotional. You scooted over closer, trying to look at his face better. Alright, maybe it was for your own satisfaction. You just thought he was so interesting, and so cool, and so smart, and so hot, but he was also always troubled, and you couldn’t even begin to imagine what he was going through. He represented a model of strength and belief in one’s self that both drove you to improve on yourself and to desire him.

“Something the matter?” You asked, but he shook his head. You passed the last two meetings trying to discover as much about him as possible. It wasn’t totally one sided, but Simon’s interest in you was more simple, ergonomical. You kept asking which one of the planets in the solar system was his favourite. (Finally, he said Mars.)

“Simon, I think our work is done here. Don’t you think?”

“Wish we had more direct testimonies,” he muttered, but you knew he always researched an impossible kind of detail. You felt pride in what you’d accomplished together, an unlikely pair as the two of you were.

“I, uh,” a sudden urge of courage made your hand materialise on his shoulder, the sudden blink of his eyes the only reaction he gave, “I enjoyed our project.”

He didn’t move until you removed your hand. You felt shame and embarrassment creeping out on you, but finally he spoke again.

“Me too. You’ve got a good head on you.” He said simply, the shadow of a smile on his lips.

The compliment sent you into outer space for hours.

When Mr House announced you got an A+ on the project, you lightly grabbed Simon’s jacket as you got closer, desperately seeking that touch he was so unused to. He didn’t seem to take notice of it. And when he told some people bothering you at lunch to fuck off, you hugged his arm for real, even though he froze up. You then apologised through happy tears in your eyes, and he told you it was okay.

//

You wanted to keep being friends with Simon. Because being anything more than friends was unlikely, you made promises to keep talking with Simon at lunch or when you saw him in the corridor. The next year’s program didn’t have you share any classes together, which made you cry in your pillow a bit when you got home.  

Not all evils came to hurt you. That year you made another friend, Sarah, and then another, Maria. And you began, quite late, to have the same experiences as everybody else. Walking back home together, shopping trips, just going to the cinema with someone that wasn’t your relative. The bullying didn’t stop at first, but then even they got tired, and you spent the last years of highschool in delectable anonymity. Still. Your crush didn’t exactly go away.

The problem was that you started seeing Simon less and less. At first the two of you still ate together in the canteen, a lot of rambling on your part and a lot of listening on his, but then you only saw him once a week, or sometimes in the corridors. When you asked him what he was doing the days you didn’t see him, he just said he wasn’t feeling so well. You didn’t really take him for the frail sort. And sometimes, you saw him smoking by the side, half glazed look, face reddened by the cold.

The year you turned seventeen, he disappeared. 

Some said he and his family transferred. Others, that he went straight to work. And one, that he got– killed. You hated that one. Simon Riley was, in your head, invincible– he couldn’t be killed by human means and he’d live forever.

You were left without explanations. Your first friend– gone like the stars in the morning. You changed cities, grew up, but his memory always lived in the back of your mind. The one standard male figure; the strongest, the most intelligent, and the kindest in his silence. It’s crazy if you really think about it: you never went to his house, met his parents, or got to know his true fears and what was bothering him, but it never took away from the fond memories.

It took you twenty years to see him again.

[cripplecharacters]

I was wondering: I noticed that in art I almost always see limb stumps that are, for the lack of a better word, thick and with a rounded end. But observing amputees around me, what I noticed is that their stumps are more tapered, they also are often uneven instead of perfectly round, and the rest of the limb is often thinner as a result of less muscle mass.

Is this coincidental, or do you think stumps are represented in a way that is assumed to be more aesthetically pleasing to abled folk? How common is the "perfect round muscular stump" thing, if at all??

Hello!

As an artist that seeks out art of disabled characters, it's 100% trying to make the character look "less disabled and more pretty". It's usually not a conscious decision, most people just have pretty=good and disabled=ugly ingrained into them and don't think about it ever. Positive depictions of disabled people will do everything to portray them as conventionally attractive as possible, and there is no disability that is exempt from this.

This applies to everything. Most art showing disabled people will try to keep the disability to the absolute minimum - it's not coincidence that positive disabled characters have to be white, thin, young, if they use a prosthetic it has to be really cool and/or unrealistic, if they use a wheelchair it has to be a manual that has to be really cool and/or unrealistic, and they have to look as abled as possible; an abled model who just happened to be holding a cane is preferable since gait disorders are ugly. Good luck trying to find a drawing of a character using an ostomy bag, with congenital skeletal conditions, with severe spasticity, in one of these big powerchairs, I won't mention facial differences and how non-existent realistic representation of them is. Hell, it can be hard to find art of blind characters who aren't wearing blindfolds and eyepatches (since disabled body part ugly), let alone using an aid like a cane or a brailler (since that's Disability, and not just a quirky character trait).

With stumps, it's the same thing. Most often you don't see them, since they are Clearly Disabled. Usually they're behind a cool prosthetic that's called something else (cyborg bionic automail whatever...) that sounds less disabled. If they aren't, they're probably bandaged, since they are Surely Scary. If they aren't that, they will be perfectly round, scarless (or with that big "starburst" type scar for some reason), symmetrical to other limb, and essentially look like you just erased the rest of a model's leg or arm.

Again, I don't think this is done on purpose, I think artists just don't think enough about how they choose to portray minorities. No one is researching anything, everything is a game of telephone from how someone else draws it, who cares that that person didn't bother to check anything either.

[Disclaimer that we don't have amputee mods]

How common is the "perfect round muscular stump" thing?

Not very common, but someone with a disarticulation (much more rare than through-bone) will have their muscles still attached to something and thus may not have the kind of tissue atrophy like someone with an above the knee amputation will. Even weightlifters with an above/below amputation will have some degree of atrophy (you can look at guys like Max Okun, etc.) so it's not like you can just "exercise it out".

A residual limb can be fairly round, but it mostly depends on where it actually is. A lot of people will have excess skin from skin flaps + tissue atrophy which gives it a different shape, BE amputees can have the actual bone shapes visible on the stump, etc. And of course there is scar tissue (unless it's congenital) which can affect how the limb looks like beyond just the sew line being visible; it can leave the stump with an indent around it, etc.

But all of that is of course Disability and Different, so it gets omitted in art. It'd be cool if this wasn't the case, but what can you do.

mod Sasza

[solrabi]

A drop of blood (in milk) - chapter 1

(GOJO x READER)

PLOT:

You’ve always prevented your blind childhood best friend from fighting your battles for you.

That is until you find out he’s a dragon who refused to participate in a war until he had you safe and sound in his lair.

or: the dragon shifter x witch au

chapter based tags & cw: fem/afab reader, hinted demisexual reader, ableism (not from reader’s end),

fanfic masterlist

–

Mediocrity tends to glimmer in the eyes of an egoist.

It’s just a shame that it took you almost a year to see that in your ex-fiancé.

“Ring, please,” Mahito extends his scarless palm to you. “It’s a family heirloom so I’m afraid you cannot keep it.”

It’s not like you were sweet on the ornament anyway, with its ugly unrefined emerald fixed in the centre and thick oxidized silver band that nearly went up to your joint. It felt more of a bulky knuckle guard than a symbol of engagement. One would’ve thought that someone who’s family breeds horses for the cavalry would be able to propose with a ring that exhibits abiding beauty. 

Petulance bubbles, but you grind your molars before twisting out the ring from your finger. Mahito grabs it before you can place it in his pristine palm.

“I don’t—It’s been a year since we got engaged, and you’re telling me that your family just now decided that we shouldn’t get married?” Self control be damned, the man was about to walk out your store without listening to your entire question and you had to hold on to his tricep and dig your heels into the mildewed boards of the floor to stop him.

Mahito scoffs and yanks his arm out of your hold before resting it on his hip. “You wanna know why? A year ago, you were training to join the royal court’s team of mages, and now you’re some kind of witchy apothecary! People talk! It’s not normal for someone like…you to live among the common folk. You’re—,” he drags a hand down his face before glaring down at your furrowed brows. He had already worn the revolting ring on his pinkie.

“I’m what? Complete your sentence,” you demanded. “What about me helping people is so bad?”

“Everyone is afraid of you, okay? With all your magic and potion-making. We’re all afraid you’ll do something to us if someone crosses you,” he snapped.

It bubbles in you. Curdling under your skin, turning you red with rage. But you couldn’t reinforce his fears. You couldn’t prove him right. It felt as if all the time you spent getting to know him in the past two years was futile. All you wanted was a partner who knew you wholeheartedly as a woman—not a mage’s apprentice.

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from shedding a tear and turn around to get to grinding your herbs in your stone mortar. “Well, if you have nothing more to say then you can leave. I’m very busy,”

“I bet you are,” Mahito scoffs before leaving.

You woefully look at the copper spiral staircase in the corner of the shop that leads up to your study, where books and scrolls of almost all the curses you’ve studied while being a mage’s apprentice are stored.

A hidden side of you has the urge to turn the man into a frog and throw him into a nest of snakes.

Witchy apothecary. 

People were alive and well because of you and it was all that mattered. Your magic, herbs, and runes accelerated the healing process of many wounds.

“I’m a good person,” you affirmed with a whisper. “I will not let my power or anyone tell me otherwise.”

You look around your shop, and a year of hard work and dedication presents itself to you. Your trusted cauldron boils a potion that a woman who broke her arm needs, and your shelves contain recipes for salves that can accelerate healing for different kinds of burns.

No horse breeder’s son was going to decide that you that you were strange. He didn’t get to choose who you were.

You brush your hands one last time as if you were ridding yourself of the past–a man you were too good to marry–and pull out your list of ingredients for the potion boiling. You grab your basket and head to the town market.

Though your town isn’t very big, it’s quite happening with its community. The town market is busy as different sounds, smells, and sights acquaint themselves with you. You follow the familiar path from the stall of flowers to the herbs and weeds shop. Nina, an old woman who doesn’t give discounts to anyone but handsome court mages, sits outside her shop with a fan in her hand and her herbs displayed under a canopy table. The pine wood of the table is old and worn, like the woman herself, but her attitude is still spunky–it all changed when you told her you had left your royal mage training to be an apothecary.

“Ah, there you are. Here to strip me of all my herb stock again?” Nina rasps as she fans herself harder. The sheen of her forehead sweat glimmers under the afternoon sun, but it does nothing to hide her frown when she notices your empty ring finger. “Oh no! Oh my, Dragons, You’re not getting married? What will you do now?”

You sigh as you ignore Nina, instead choosing to assess the branches of dry mugworts in her woven basket. Nina wails harder, drawing attention to the two of you. You can only grind your teeth stop yourself from respectfully drawing a boundary with the hag because she had the best supply of weeds and herbs. “I’ll have a bushel,” you say as you throw a small canvas pouch of coins in her lap. “It was fifty pence for one, right?”

Nina throws the fan down on the ground and stands up. “I had only lowered the price because I knew you were getting married and probably wanted to save up for the wedding. But now that it’s not happening anymore, I will charge you full price–eighty pence!”

“You’re being so unreasonable, gosh,” you said as you immediately pulled away from the herbs and fished through your bag to look for the residual payment. Maybe you could stop producing hair growth potions for a while. With your apartment's rent payment day coming up, you had to cut corners somewhere.

But alas, when your hand fished around in your satchel, you felt nothing but the leather jacket of your recipe book and the stem of a rose you had picked up on your way to Nina’s shop. You smiled sheepishly before longingly staring at the bushel of mugworts. “I don’t have enough to buy a bushel. Can’t I pay full price next time?” You tried to muster up your most affable smile, ignoring the tension growing in your pulled-back shoulders.

And without missing a beat, Nina scoffs. “Absolutely not.”

“Nina, come on, it’s me. You use my medicine for your knees. I even give you discounts.”

“Forcing your magic on people and trying to show them how much better you are will not do you any good.” She disregards the kindness you always force yourself to show her. It’s a frustrating relationship. If you weren’t so busy cooking up medicine and assessing wounds, you’d be out in the forest yourself.

“That makes no sense. I’m not trying–”

A large hand slams down a velvet pouch of coins on the canopied table, making all the woven baskets wobble because of the force. “Thirty pence, directly from the royal castle. That should cover it, Nina,” a familiarly cheery voice says.

You hold back your groan before turning to your best friend. “Satoru, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Right, because you both are just so friendly with each other that she was about to agree to your suggestion,” he quips as he feels around for the basket of mugwort. You sigh as you pick it up. “I’ve got it. Let’s go.”

“It’s heavy. I’ll carry it,” Gojo walks closer to you, reaching out to place his large hands on yours. They’re warm to the touch, sticky sweat filming between both your skins. His hair looks out of place and damp with sweat like he had just run through the town's cobblestoned streets. His messiness irks you, so you place your basket on the ground and move his hair out of his face. So what if he was wearing a blindfold? It was still a sensory nightmare to have one’s hair near their eyes (even if they didn’t work.)

“Where’s your cane?” you ask as you run your fingers to part his hair. You’re glad he can’t see you blush because you have to inch close to his face just to help him at his towering height.

“The kids in the town square stole it from me,” he answered with a sigh. Despite the boiling summer heat, you were covered in gooseflesh at the feeling of his breath hitting your face.

“Again? This is the fifth time it’s happened this month. I can only guide you around town for so long,” you groaned as you pulled away from him. As if already knowing you would bend down to pick up the basket of herbs, Gojo grabs your hand to stop you.

“I’ll carry it.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not your job, Satoru.”

“But I’m much stronger than you.”

“Still, it’s not your job to be my butler.”

“Look at you two fighting like a couple. Such a perfect fit,” Nina interrupts. “Both the dregs of society–an egoistical witch and a cursed blind man. At least Gojo’s job at the castle will convince you to go back.”

If it weren’t for the stock you had just bought–well, you and Gojo–you would’ve lunged at the old woman, uncaring that her back would snap at the slightest force (though it would give you great satisfaction to see her get what she deserves.)

Gojo’s shoulders wobble with quiet laughter until you hit his chest. It feels firmer than before as if he had been exercising, but you don’t bring it up. The only egoistical person here was him, and you did not want to be the victim of his goading. He had already given you several nicknames for your attitude.

“What say? Shall we get married, my love?” he teases with his infamously annoying smirk. His teeth were pearlescent and straight. Fate knew it would be unfair to the world's men if this man could see it took them away from him through a curse. However, his shortcomings never stopped him from doing what he wanted, mostly involving making you want to pull your hair out–it’s been that way since you were both children.

You grab his arms and slowly pull his palms towards you. You notice his breath hitch, and his smile falters a little. Maybe even a little shiver in his spine, but you let go before he can say anything.

With a huff, you drop the basket of mugworts in his hands. “Oof,” he groans as he stabilizes his balance.

“Don’t be ridiculous, my love,” you jeer as you grab his tricep. “Where do you need to go?”

Gojo gulps before answering you. “The bookstore, I need to buy supplies for the clerks.”

It was unlike you not to converse much with Gojo while running errands. Usually you’d be chatting his ear off about yet another condescending thing you’d been told while you were out and about in the town, simply minding your business. But that’s the thing about losing a vital sense organ: when you can’t visually perceive the world, your other senses get stronger. Gojo was well acquainted with even the slightest shifts in your tone. It scared you how much in tune he was with your body language despite not knowing what you looked like. 

Much to your dismay, he finally drops the farce of being unaware of your sour mood as he runs out of all the stupid things he’d heard at the castle during his shift. “What’s got you meaner than usual?” he asks, zeroing in on you. It puts you under an intense spotlight that burns your scalp.

You stop in your tracks, and so does Gojo. The heaviness of his arm weighs you down, and it grounds you to reality. You thought you were set for life–a moderately wealthy husband who chose to get to know you before romantically pursuing you and having a career you enjoyed. It's too bad your momentary happiness made you forget that romantic love is conditional. Even couples who’ve been together for decades have material needs from one another. It’s always been that way. For Mahito, it was your status as a royal mage; for you, it was the security of having someone to rely on.

Though you were always aware you could count on Gojo, your friendship was too precious to be sacrificed for a romantic relationship. You knew the love you shared with him was too deep to be categorized because of its unconditionality. It was the cynosure of all relationships in the universe of your mind. 

“Mahito and I broke up.”

You fill Gojo in about what happened earlier with Mahito, and how you were now officially a single woman. His responses had been short for most of the conversation, only occasional hums and nods. It helped to know that he couldn’t see your woeful expression.

“He never deserved you anyway. I knew it when I first saw him,” Gojo nonchalantly answered when you told him about being called a witchy apothecary. “And he’s not wrong–you are a witch and an apothecary. You’re doing good while he’s breeding animals so our knights can kill them in yet another battle.”

“Everybody’s job means something,” you answer as the bookstore comes into view. Gojo doesn’t reply to you. Arguing with him is futile because he would never relinquish his judgment towards your ex-fiance. 

The afternoon sun was as unforgiving as ever as glared right in your face, making you squint, barely letting you see the entrance to the store. “We’re here,” you answer through a grimace as you try to shield your eyes.

You internally thank your lucky stars when he moves to face you, and his body shields you from some of the harsh rays. “I’ll pay you back in a few days. I’m supposed to deliver a batch of numbing salve to the castle infirmary soon, so I’ll be paid extra well,” you say as you pull the basket away from Gojo, but he does not budge.

“What now, Satoru?” you ask with a sigh. Your cauldron couldn’t wait too long. It had taken you an hour to boil the potion because of its consistency, and you did not want to spend most of the day cooking and cleaning in the shop.

“Or maybe you could save those thirty pence and come to the Town Square Festival with me tonight,” his smile is bright as he leans down; he isn’t eye to eye with you, but it’s enough to leave you flustered at the proximity.

“You know I abhor that,” you groan. The Town Square Festival was a breeding ground for judgment and running into people who knew way too much about your personal life. Living in such a tight-knit community meant being the subject of recurring gossip. You try to pull the basket with more force, but your best friend does not budge. “When did you get so strong? Gosh.”

“I started working out. Wanted to look good for your wedding so you’d know what you were gonna miss out on,” he cheekily replied.

“You’re so annoying. I don’t know how I haven’t gone insane after knowing you for so long.”

“Hey, we’re going off-topic. You, me, Town Square Festival, and cotton candy. You’re buying, of course. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Ugh, fine! Will you be able to get to the castle without your cane?” Gojo chuckled at your immediate shift to concern as he relaxed his grip on the basket.

“One of the part-timers at the bookstore is supposed to help me carry the supplies. I’ll be fine.”

You reply with a hum and bid Gojo farewell as you walk back to your shop. 

At least the dress you’d bought for your honeymoon with Mahito would be useful. You knew it was good enough when you had shown it to him, and it had earned you a slobbery, wet kiss that had you cringing. 

You swore off all physical contact with him after he kept shoving his tongue down your throat.

–

Falling in love is a fool’s game for dragons. Especially when their mates are not immortal beings like them.

For a powerful and almost mythical beast, Gojo Satoru does not know much as he has only been on this Earth for as long as his mortal mate–a blink of time compared to the eons his father lived before ascending to the Divine Realm and becoming the Ruler of Dragons.

Tonight was finally the night where he would confess to you and tell you everything about his true form–a mystical beast, heir to the throne of ruler of dragons, and your lover decided by the looms of fate. 

When he had heard about Mahito breaking up with you, the beast within him vibrated at the thought of finally claiming you. Though Gojo could simply kill him and claim his place in your life, he wanted to earn that position with dignity. So what if faith wanted you to be with him one way or another? There was no honor in forcing himself as your lover.

And also because he wouldn’t have to burn the grey-haired bastard of a horse breeder to crisp. Gojo was still learning how to kill without leaving a trace. With his guardian hiding away after faking his death, it was getting harder to subtly practice the skills he needed to perfect to be a good dragon.

Gojo raises his hand to fix his tousled hair but decides against it because he knows you’ll feel irked to perfect it when you see its current state. He takes a deep breath before knocking on the door he’d seen way too many times.

“If you’re Gojo, then come in; if you’re not, don’t because my door has a rune that’ll burn you alive at forced entry!”

It eased Gojo’s mind to know you hadn’t completely forgotten what your old mage teacher at the castle had taught you. Things hadn’t been the same after you had found out about his death. It itched Gojo to tell you the whole truth about what had really happened, but he knew he couldn’t just yet–not when you knew nothing of his identity.

And it could wait a little longer because his mouth had gone dry at the sight in front of him –your back was turned to the door, and you were holding up the front of your dress with your hands while the laces in the back were all untied, leaving your skin completely exposed. His blindfold-hidden eyes trailed from the nape of your neck to the base of your spine, where the dress covered just above your underskirt.

The outfit was meant for a more romantic setting, a picnic by the lake, or a night of dancing at the local tavern. The skirt's floral pattern was minimal, and the primrose pink shade of the fabric wasn’t too exciting to look at, but your beauty refined the apparel.

Gojo chewed his lip to stop himself from stroking your bare skin and choked out a greeting as normally as possible.

“Hey…do you, um–can you help me with something?” you ask as you turn around. The imprint of the dragon shifter’s teeth on the inside of his mouth deepened. A little more pressure, and he’d puncture the layers of tissue and start bleeding. 

You glowed like a happy woman who had just let go of a great burden. Sure, your mind didn’t know it, but your body clearly did. Your natural scent was more potent, and your eyes had a little more life in them. Maybe it was the mating bond, but he knew his attraction to you was deeper than that. Something that could only be found in the core of the chest, pulsing with life.

“Yeah, of course. But hurry up. The kids at the festival tend to finish up all the cotton candy pretty quickly.”

Your gaze falls to the ground as you shift where you stand. He sees you walk to him cautiously and grab his arm. Your dress slips a little, giving him a peek at the tops of your breasts as you push the fabric tighter to your body. He finds it adorable how you worry about your modesty even in front of a supposed blind man. “I need your help lacing up my dress.”

With your eyes on him, he finds it almost impossible to hide his excitement at the request, so he cloaks it with his usual vexatious humor. “Ohoho, you’re wearing a dress; that’s a first.”

“Do you want your cotton candy or not?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Then shut up and help me,” you demand with a bite as you turn around and guide his hand to the base of your back. He thanks whatever greater power is out there because you cannot see how his eyebrows furrow at the sight of your back.

Gojo notices how you shiver when he slightly tightens the lace, and he decides to tease you. He intentionally misses the other lace, brushing his fingers at the base of your back, and the muscles of your shoulder blades involuntarily flex.

“Gojo, please, be careful. That was…ticklish,” you sigh. Your voice sounds strained, and his mind doesn’t waste time imagining wild fantasies of you saying the same thing in a much different setting.

One where there’s minimal clothing.

“Right, sorry.” Guilt eats him up because he knows that the grotesque and perverse dragon in him is not apologetic about touching his mate.

After sadly lacing up the dress and mentally saying goodbye to your bare skin, Gojo ties the corset–but not before having a final dig.

“Should I go harder?” he murmurs as he leans down to your ear and pulls on the lace. It also gives him a chance to take a whiff of you. The perfume you’ve put on does not do much to hide your scent from his dragon. He smells that his mate is flustered.

You choke on your spit and cough. “Huh?”

“The lace–should I pull harder before I tie the knot?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, just not too tight,” you croak out as you rub up and down your arms. Your natural heady scent dims, and he imagines kissing you on your forehead for being so jittery.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.” And the scent returns.

When you turn around to thank him, your eyes squint. “Where’s your cane?”

Gojo panics, trying to think of a good reason why. He’d thrown it away in a bush upon reaching your apartment so he could have the excuse of having you hold his hand to guide him. He tried to come up with another lie.

“Uh, the kids, they stole it again,” he answered with a sheepish laugh. 

The suspicious look in your eyes goes away, but it returns just as quickly. “Then how’d you get here?”

“The kindness of strangers,” he shrugs. You don’t look convinced, but you don’t pry too deep. He can’t blame you for still being suspicious. It’s not likely for a town that isn’t too kind to an apothecary to be friendly to a blind man. Most of the townsfolk felt sorry for him but also avoided talking to him unless they had to because of his ‘curse.’

“I ought to teach those kids a lesson. Ugh, and look at your hair. It’s such a mess,” you complain as you rush to grab a comb from your dresses.

Gojo was in heaven, and things would only improve once he told you everything.

–

The festival is loud and bustling. Lanterns and decorations hung from poles, and children ran around with goodie bags and small drums. The cacophony of conversations, bagpipe music, and laughter was overstimulating to the point where your head buzzed with exhaustion. Still, you’d much rather hang out with Gojo than take a cut out of your ingredient budget and pay him back.

The man was sporting a childish grin after holding three cones of different colored candy floss. It didn’t surprise you that the people at the castle thought he was eccentric because of his enthusiastic nature towards life. Working as an assistant to the clerks at the castle wasn’t a job every man dreamed about, but it got him decent money to buy whatever he wanted and was more than enough.

It was also evident in how he’d shred his money to bits when buying sweets. He’s been that way since you both were kids.

Gojo notices how you’ve turned quiet and covers your hand on his bicep with his own. “Let’s get away from all this. I’m getting tired.”

“You, Gojo Satoru, are getting tired of the Town Square Festival?”

“Is that so surprising?” he asks with raised brows, which you can only tell when little white strands peek out from under the blindfold.

“Yeah, very much so,” you reply with an eye roll. You hope your tone conveys it even if he can’t see it.

“Okay, we can just stay here then–”

“No! Let’s leave.” You drag him away from the crowd and guide him into an empty street.

The moonlight leaves a bluish-gray hue on the dark cobblestones of the street you’re both strolling on. There’s not much light save for a couple lit-up windows, and even then, there’s barely any sound emitting from those homes. The faint smell of bread lingers in the air as you and Gojo walk past a closed bakery, and he makes a passing comment about wanting to buy cream puffs the next day.

You expect Gojo to go on about how much he loves baked goods until he stops in his tracks and feels around for your shoulders. You feel a little confused, but you slough off the feeling out of curiosity over what Gojo was doing.

He squeezes your shoulders and pulls you closer, almost chest-to-chest. “I have something important to tell you.” His voice drops an octave, and your mind reels over a thousand possibilities.

Was it the court mages? Were they forcing him to convince you to go back? You knew he wouldn’t do that to you. Not after your teacher had passed. Not after you’d seen his shriveled corpse.

Anything but that.

“This has been weighing on my mind for some time now.” His head is facing yours, and even without eye contact, the moment feels just as intimate because he regards how important it is for you to see him like this.The summer humidity is thick, and you feel a bead of sweat roll down into your cleavage.

“I think I–” his brows furrow before he can go on. His grip tightens on your shoulder, and he begins dragging you back to where you two came from. “I think I want to go back to the festival now,” he says with an odd rush.

Confusion muddles your head. As much as you love your friend, you cannot be bothered to reenter the loud atmosphere of the festival, and you space your feet out to stop him from pushing you.

“Um, no, I need a break,” you say as you turn around. “I love you, but I love silence more,” you joke as you pull him back to the path you two were on. And even though Gojo lets you take the lead, he still seems stiff.

“Are you okay?” you ask as you rub up his arm.

“Yeah, it’s just…the energy of this place–it’s weird.”

“Energy? Do you want me to look around?”

“No, that’s fine, we should go,” he says as he tries to stop you, but you ignore him. He’s woken up your inner mage. You walk further down the street when you hear rustling behind a building and a woman giggling.

You walk closer, Gojo’s bicep still in your hand, and you place a finger on his lips to indicate that he needs to be quiet. His body stills, only moving cautiously as you guide him closer to the building.

“It’s beautiful, my love,” the woman behind the building giggles. It’s faint, but you know it’s meant for two people meeting secretly.

“Sounds like a couple. Maybe we should leave them be,” Gojo whispers. You flick his forehead and tap your hand twice on his chest to indicate that you want him to wait. You pull out a tube of kohl from your underskirt’s pouch and quickly draw a rune on his and your temples, respectively.

“We can never be too sure. In a quiet street like this, they could easily be thieves,” you tell him through your mind.

“Yeah, but–”

“Don’t make me wipe that rune off your head. I’m trying to concentrate.”

Gojo’s thoughts quiet down as you try to listen closely, but to no avail; all you hear are slight murmurs. You draw another small rune beneath your right ear, and the voices become clear.”

“You’re welcome, Mei Mei. I’m glad I got rid of that witch my parents wanted me to marry. I was starting to wonder how I would get her off my back. Can you believe that she didn’t wanna have sex till we got married? Conceited whore.”

Mahito. It was Mahito and his girlfriend. 

Of course, fate was all about balance. Where it had given you infinite potential and the great power to wield magic, it had also taken away the prospect of true love from you. You were given a stone heart and a mind of gold.

“What’s going on?” Gojo interrupts your mind.

“Mahito. He has been unfaithful the entire time,” you reply.

Rage only fills you to the brim when you overhear more of their conversation about how they had been fooling around all while he had been going on dates with you. How he had plans to marry you for the prestige but keep her as a consort (hah as if he was a noble lord of some sort.)

You silence Gojo’s words of comfort as you rub away the rune you’d drawn on your temple, and you tap Gojo’s chest twice before stomping toward the brazen couple.

You are only pulled out of the bright, white haze of rage when you feel a pulsing ache on your hand and see Mahito’s nose all bloodied as he cries out curses to your name.

His girlfriend stands beside him with a palm to her mouth and the ugly emerald ring on her finger.

–

tag list: @eva-616 @luv3nti @leafynightmares @n1vi @uhkaey @heyl820 @kittsoraxx @asuritam @ratedrrrr @mentallyunpresent @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @starlight5cat @birbwithhat @ressyshi

@strawberrymilkshakes-posts

[obito-in-disguise]

| Enough for you |

Obito x reader

Obito’s eyes drank in every detail of the guy you were talking to, his well-defined, solid physique, his dazzling smile, and his flawless, scarless skin that seemed to glow in the light.

A familiar pang of envy and self-doubt clenched his chest. Looking down at his own body, he gripped the fabric of his hoodie tighter around himself, as if trying to shield his insecurities from the world.

He knows he should put an end to the ugly feeling that was bubbling up in his chest but he can't help it.

He knew he should push away the ugly feeling bubbling up inside him, but every laugh you shared with the stranger felt like a reminder of everything he believed he lacked.

The sound of your genuine amusement, cut through him. Without warning, unable to face the vulnerability of the moment, he abruptly turned and began speed-walking down the street, leaving you behind amidst the conversation.

A few seconds later, you did a double-take. Obito was no longer in the spot where you’d left him but was now striding briskly away. You quickly bid the stranger goodbye, your heart already pounding, and chased after him.

“Obito! Hey, wait!” you called, your voice echoing in the cool evening air.

He ignores you, unable to face you right now. He grimaces when you eventually catch up to him and place a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey what's wrong-" to your surprise, he gently moves your hand away. He watches as a look of hurt flashes accross your face but he can't help it.

He didn't want to be touched right now, not when he felt like this.

The rest of the walk home is miserable, you trail slowly behind Obito who is just desperate to get back home and bury himself in the sheets.

And that is exactly what he does as soon as he steps foot in the house, he basically flies up the stairs and dives under the covers, curling up into a ball.

God he hated the way he looked, we couldn't he be handsome just like that guy. Why couldn't he be perfect like everybody else.

He knew you told him several times that you thought he was the most handsome man you'd ever seen but he doesn't believe you. He was your partner, of course you'd say anything to placate him.

Too busy wallowing in self-reproach, he doesn't here you come in, gently shutting the door behind you.

You walk over to the suspiciously Obito shaped lump on the bed and poke it, playing dumb.

"Hmm, I wonder where my handsome, absolutely breathtaking Uchiha greek god of a man is..."

He snorts at your elaborate praise, pulling the sheets tighter over his head.

"Not here"

You always had a way of doing that, lifting him out of the deepest pits of despair he puts himself in.

You laugh, gently pulling the sheets down to reveal his sad, tired expression.

"Hey..." you say, brushing your hand over the scarred side of his his cheek.

"Hey..." He replies, freezing up when you touch his scars, his gaze anywhere but you.

"I was looking for you..."

He laughs under his breath, remembering your antics "I heard..."

"You know I'm so attracted to you right?"

He swallows, his bottom lip quivering as he glances at you.

"Obito, you're everything to me. I don't know what you did to me, but I only have eyes for you. Hm?"

You say reaching over to gently shake his shoulder, as if trying to shake your point into him.

He cracks a smile as he watches you shake him with a stern look on your face that he could only describe as cute.

"Ok ok...I'm sorry y/n, I didn't mean to act like that..."

You sigh in relief as the cloud of sadness around him finally lightens up. You shuffle closer to him on the bed to hug him.

"It's ok. I just want you to remember you're all I want Obito, Inside out. I love you"

In that embrace, as his arms tightened around you, Obito allowed himself to feel the truth of your words. Despite the scars, the insecurities, and the nagging self-doubt, he silently thanked the universe for bringing you into his life.

In that quiet moment, with the soft rustle of the sheets and the comfort of your presence, he finally began to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was enough.

"I love you too"

Feel free to check out my other Naruto Shippuden fics and more stories!

[diejager]

what would eldritch reader vs some other eldritch person look like?

[A cheese wheel has been added to your inventory.]

[A cheese wheel has been consumed.]

Opposition Cw: blood, gore, death, cannibalism?, tell me if I missed any.

Despite old-age rivalries and ancient hostilities, to fight a Lord for One’s territory, the bloodshed and animosity shared between many, and the death of a ruling, primordial being, they had forgone the older ways, taken to learn and study humans and monsters alike, especially the sudden emergence of hybrids, a perfect cross between human and monster, one that rivalled the flawlessness of Old Ones. You were one of those that sought change, to live and prosper farther than in their imagination, their faith and their fear. You wanted something substantial, tangible under your clawed, see thing you could taste and touch, more than the pleas and cries.

Most had left their territory, travelling wherever the wind blew, some ventured far and high, drifting from the country they were born to new colonies —the Caribbean or the Thirteen Colonies in the West of the great Monopolies of the 17th centuries. You rarely strayed outside familiar lands, presiding over a small stretch of land in Europe, it was familiar, comfort. It was a decision many agreed with, those you crossed would peer at you, a subtle nod of their head and they’d be gone, vanishing when someone broke your contact; gone along the wind, leaving only a whisper of their existence in monstrous words too high for human and monster ears.

Perhaps that’s why it felt odd to fight another one after centuries of peaceful coexistence, to throw yourself into the fray, broad and towering over the trees, beak snapping at the canidae entity and talons gripping their paws, claws threatening to rip into your feathered body. You felt stretched, rusted with joints creaking and bones groaning, too old and too tired. This Entity was young, a few centuries old, with a wolf-like appearance and a character that fit a mutt more than it would a being of such prestige. They were chaotic, acting recklessly and without thought, you needn’t ask it their age, it was written all over the scarless skin and brutish acts.

Rather than fighting for land, coveting wealth and fine metals that humans loved with greedy hands, you took on the wolf for protection, the ward of your small family, under a dozen with years of bloodshed and violence under their belt. The 141 had a mastery in different skills, utilizing what they did best to push on, to fight and survive to see the next sunrise, but even hybrids had limits, where their great feats and insurmountable reputation were useless against something of old; be it young or primordial, Eldritch beings had little predator, prey to their own kind but rarely from another.

You clashed with the Wolf, standing on muscular, hind legs ruffled with dirtied fur, blood staining the greyish hair; a strong tail swaying carelessly, cutting trees down with a rough swing; a well-defined abdomen painted with a tribal tattoo, gleaming with a gold light, portraying the image of a holy symbole on a blasphemous being; sculpted arms holding back your own feathered ones, hands bleeding from your talons; and a wide mouth, silver teeth bared in a loud growl, the sound near deafening to you. It was strong and well-trained for something born in times of peace, body built to it’s peak and mind sharpened to ignore every distraction, but you were from the old, racking up more experience and wisdom it could only dream of wielding.

You were defending the LZ, standing between the Wolf and it’s mission of killing those it could kill, beings weaker than it. The only thorn in their mission was you, the lone Entity that engaged it. The Wolf hadn’t been told that the TF had an Old One, primeval in every sense. It struggled against you, your more monstrous figure compared to their tamed one, their creation stemming from some wild fantasy of the Middle Ages, when France feared the human eating wolf.

You screeched as loudly as it growled, voice gaining in force, a cacophony of screams and cries slipping from your tongue, the fears and terror of beings that brought you to life. Spreading your second pair of limbs, you slashed at it, digging into the soft skin of it’s abdomen, tearing away fibres of muscle and warm fat. It yowled, struggling to pull away, frantic at your shift of tactic —fearful that you decided to attack than defend your group. It stood on the single probability that you wouldn’t engage, preferring to protect than fight with the risk of endangering your family.

The Wolf would die today. Your grip was unyielding, keeping it in this situation however much it tried to squirm away, hands prisoners of your first pair of wings and chest bleeding from your second. Before long, it would be another body added to your count, cooling and gutted on the forest ground. You swung your tail around them, wrapping once around their slim waist, adding further leverage over it while you dug their intestines out. The strong stench of blood, metallic and tempting, filled the air, bringing fearful tears to the Wolf’s eyes, beady, yellow eyes growing hazy.

You revelled in it’s slow death, your thirst for violence growing with the ages of peace, strung tight like an itch that bothered you incessantly. You hungered, you couldn’t remember the taste of Eldritch meat, the rich ambrosia in the veins or the last whip of their dying breath. Your beak cracked open, white teeth gleaming inside your black mouth until they were dirtied, stained red with the blood of an Entity, you clamped down on it’s neck, breaking the rough skin with enough force to shatter bone, but the Wolf had tough bone. That would only prolong it’s suffering, the pain feeding you as much as the meat and bone would —a delicacy of the ages. You wonder how König and Ghost would think of Eldritch flesh.

You wouldn’t need to eat for another month after this buffet.

Taglist: @warenai @capricorn-anon @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143

[saturnsorbits]

In Another Life

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen, Warnings: Rough Sex, Hate Sex, Forced Orgasm, Orgasm Denial, Mentions of Geto x Reader/Gojo. Word Count: 5.5k.

Summary: After a near miss with Megumi lands him in the infirmary, you find yourself back at the place you said you’d never return to.

A/N: Honestly, Gojo is a bitch to write for me. There's something I was trying to do here, hopefully it worked.

Rain bounces off the concrete. It hammers at your umbrella, collecting in the sagging canopy that is held aloft by bent metal spokes. A fight surrendered. You cling to its handle, sheltering under its non-existent protection as the front of your t-shirt fades to a dull translucence. Each of your steps spits up water that collects into puddles in your shoes, dampening your socks and putting a squelch in your stride as you continue down the road.

You don't care how much the puddles are soaking your legs. You're too angry.

You're angry a lot lately.

Since it happened, there's been a numbness spreading through you. A hollow that you can't fill no matter how much you eat, or drink... Or hurt. Your heart, once a delicate and proud thing, is shattered. Its fiberglass shards an ever present ache that only seems to deepen with each breath you take without him.

Approaching the main entrance of the Gojo estate, you find the gate unlocked. Beyond the path is immaculate. A thick cobbled road twists through the grounds connecting the main building to it's out houses, bordering the neatly styled gardens and surrounding the large pond stocked with expensive koi.

There's a catfish in there too, somewhere, one that's far outgrown its water-mates. It must cost an arm to feed, but you doubt Gojo minds; there's no way he'd get rid of it.

You clench your jaw.

It's from a distance that you finally spot her. Leaning against a wooden pillar on the back porch is the familiar figure of Shoko Ieire. She's backlight by candle light, a shadow of herself as she watches you with tired eyes. There's purpling to her skin, the etch of exhaustion ever present on her features now. A cigarette is balanced between two of her slender fingers, already half smoked to ash. She raises it to her lips as she watches you pass, a vulture on her stoop.

You don't speak to her. You never do. But, before you can vanish from sight, she sighs. 'You're only hurting yourselves... Fighting won't bring him back. No matter how much we all miss him.'

Her words are seeds, burrowing into the soft flesh at the back of your neck. They'll sprout there no doubt and eat you from the inside out, creeping into your sinew until you can think of nothing else... You block out the thought. Instead turning your attention to your chosen method of abuse and the flicker of rage still alight in your chest.

Hurrying now, you don't bother to avoid the squeaking stair that leads to the front door of the outhouse. There's no point. His eyes have followed you since your umbrella broke almost thirty minutes ago, since before you left Jujutsu High with tears still glistening on your cheeks, since before you dismissed Shoko and wrapped a blanket around Yuji's shoulders.

The door opens.

'Who did I piss off to deserve a surprise visit from you?' Gojo Satoru is shirtless and smirking. The plain of his chest is broad with lean corded muscle that is almost entirely scarless: a luxury only he can afford. Standing aside, he raises his eyebrows above his blindfold. He likes it when you're angry. 

Angry is easier than the other thing.

You barge your way past him, catching him hard on the shoulder as you go. 'You're fucking out of order for sending him in there like that.' Tossing your bag, you wheel about on your heel readying a second volley of vitriol. 'He's sixteen and you sent him on a fucking special grade case. It's a miracle he's in the state he is and not dead.'

Gojo closes the door, shrugs. 'He's not dead, consider it a… Learning curve.'

'A fucking -.' You bite your tongue. Draw blood. Taste metal.  'Are you insane?'

Gojo smiles. 'People have called me a lot worse.'

Bile licks at your stomach, promising a brutal climb up your throat. You ball your hands into fists, basking in the bite of your nails against your palm. You'd hit him if you thought it would do any good. Instead, you go for his jugular with the next best thing. 'He'd be so disappointed in you...'

Gojo stills.

The words sink into Gojo's back and slip between his shoulder blades. The muscle there locks, knotting as he refuses to turn and face you. His breath is tucked away in his chest, wedged between his third and forth ribs. When he speaks, his voice is a whisper – a broken sound that creaks through his lips. 'Don't do that. Be angry with me, but don't do that.'

A win. 

The fracture in his armor shines bright, allowing you to dig in further. 'This is what tipped him over the edge, Satoru. This needless fucking sacrifice.' 

The words repeat on you, anger clawing at your stomach again. You can still feel it. The blood seeping through your fingers had been hot and sticky, flowing steady no matter how hard you pressed against his chest. The smell of blood is cloying, lingering even now as the memories attempt to drag you back.

He'd looked so broken. His body a dead weight on Yuji's shoulders as he'd carried him to the infirmary, picking his way across the courtyard through tears. You'd held the boys insides closed as well as you could, hoping that it would be enough.

It had taken hours.

When Shoko had done all she could, she'd sat down beside you; her throat dry, hands steady despite the shake in her voice. 'He's out of the woods, the rest is up to him.'

You blink tears from your eyes and watch as Yuji bends himself into the curl of a question mark just to link his little finger with Megumi's. 'Do you remember when he was little?'

He looks like that now, you think. Young. His face is a picture perfect imitation of the youth he's been cheated out of. His bird-bone chest fragile, stuttering out uneven breaths in a manner that betrays his injuries. In-between his eyebrows a notch of tension subsists, creasing the skin and ruining the childish pout placed delicately on his lips. Yuji reaches out and presses his thumb to the wrinkle, smoothing it out with a gentle stroke.

'He was always serious, even then.' Shoko mumbles. There's the smallest glittering of fondness in her eyes when she thinks back to the small child they'd all first met.

He'd been a shock that's for sure. Barely ten and striding beside The Gojo Satoru like he couldn't care less. His upbringing had already hardened him to the world, but even that wasn't enough to prepare him for what was ahead.

You'd watched him grow from that small, insolent child to a young man with a bleeding heart. The same heart that often lead to... Well, this.

The numbness in your chest stirs. How often have you been sitting here? How often have you watched white sheets be pulled over broken bodies? Your fellow sorcerers fighting for their lives in metal beds? 

It's on days like these when his old rhetoric tastes sweet on your tongue.

Turning, Gojo fixes you with a cold stare.The shine in his eyes has gone flat, leaving nothing, but the glacier behind. He’s challenging you, forcing you to bare witness to the eye of the storm - the Gojo Satoru that everyone is so, so scared of. 'Do you really think I enjoy it?’ 

You lick the inside of your mouth and taste venom. ‘I don’t know. Do you?’ 

His shoulders sag. ‘No.’ 

‘Then, why.’ 

There’s laughter basking on the back of his tongue, it lingers there tasting sweet until he swallows it. Holding his arms out, he crucifies himself - a false God standing before you, out of place in his own living room. ‘I’m Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer - last of his line, inheritor of both my clan's great techniques.’ 

‘You’re boasting.’ 

‘Admonishing, actually.’ 

You snap, tiring of his games. ‘You -.’ 

The tips of his tongue finds his teeth, caresses them. ‘I,’ he spits. ‘Can’t save them all, so what am I supposed to do except prepare them?.’ 

‘Is that what you’re going to hide behind? Really?’ You seethe. It’s the same excuse he’d given back then, back when betrayal was a word you used instead of a name - except now, you know it’s all bullshit, not just the sad words of a terrified boy. 

Gojo chuckles. Sinking his hands into the pockets of his jeans, he bunches the muscle of his shoulders into a shrug. ‘What then? Stop the curses? Jujutsu? Or maybe it’s the people I should -.’ 

‘Careful…’ You growl. ‘You’re starting to sound like him.’

‘So are you.’ He tilts his head, considers you for a breath too long. He shouldn’t have made it personal, but it’s hard not too when he can hear his words in your voice. ‘You’ve been sounding like him for a while.’ 

Letting your eyes drop to the floor, you speak to the ground. A moment of weakness you know will cost you. ‘I know you think you were the only person who loved him, but you aren’t.’ 

‘Oh, I know.’ Gojo snorts. It’s an ugly thing, a break in the lul that cracks you over the head like a whip. He’s decided to make it bitchy, he might as well draw blood - it isn’t as if you’re not looking for your own pound of flesh. Licking over his lips, he lets them curl into a smile. ‘You were always barking at his heels. I was barely able to get his cock down my throat without you walking in.’ 

You choke, ‘You -.’ 

‘No,’ he relents, before doubling down: hard. ‘But if it was going to be either of us we both know it would have been me.’ 

‘Oh, fuck you, Satoru.’ 

‘Will I do? Not much of a substitute for our dear -.’ 

The bow of your heartstring breaks. You’re not sure you could take hearing his name fall from Gojo’s lips, so instead, you shout. Cutting him off, you submit to the anger winding its way up your legs. It sneaks through you, hijacking your veins and making your entire body burn. ‘You’re fucking insufferable, Gojo Satoru the strongest fucking sourcerer, you’re just an immature, arrogant prick underneath it all, aren’t you?’ Your chest is heaving, the barbs Gojo has dug there sting leaving you breathless and bleeding. 

Gojo shrugs again. 

‘You never fucking cared, did you? Not about Megumi… Suguru.’ 

You don’t see him move, but you feel him. His chest presses into yours forcing you back against the wall as he towers above. A rush of wind follows, the harsh huffs of breath panted across your face as he fights a losing battle with his composure.There’s a tension in his cheek, the muscle ticking as it’s stretched over bone. It’s the same in his fist. Porcelain skin pales, striated over both his knuckles and jaw alike. 

Part of you knows you should be scared. Better sorcerer's than you would be. 

But, it’s your fault. 

You committed the sin. 

You should know better than to utter his name. 

Gojo snarls, his lips pulling back to show off clenched teeth. He looks like an animal, his hackles up - body tensed and primed to spring an attack. You’d be forgiven to assume that he was a predator on the hunt and not a taunted beast cornered. ‘I think you should leave.’ 

‘You’d like that wouldn’t you.’ Leaning forward, you jab a finger into the divot of his chest and feel the digit bend.

‘Leave.’ It’s a dare, a vicious mockery as it drips from his tongue. He doesn’t retreat. Instead, he opens himself, rolling his shoulders until you’d have a clear shot and juts up his chin.

The air between you is thick. You can feel his breath, each exhale fans your collarbones - warm and wanting as you both bask in the stalemate. The anger in your stomach simmers, the hatred too, bubbles, acidic and fierce as it eats you from the inside out. You’re not sure why you came here anymore, why you’re not holding vigil in the infirmary or demanding meetings with a set of higher-ups that will discard your words. 

It’s not like anything can shake The Gojo Satoru. 

No. Even he couldn’t do that. 

Gojo’s challenge remains unanswered. It hangs there, demanding an answer while evading both of you. 

Swallowing hesitancy, you steel yourself and dig in your heels. This used to be his job, standing in Gojo’s way - holding onto his heels so he couldn’t fly too far, but that was all before. Breathing deep, you will your voice not to waver. ‘Is that really what you -.’ 

Reaching up, Gojo hooks a finger under the material of his blind fold and tugs. 

Your breath sticks. 

There, basking in the ice pools of Gojo’s eyes are tears. They glitter, lost stars already fallen, destined to never see the sky again. 

It’s an admission, one that is as much yours as it is his. You lean forward, let yourself tip. 

You taste salt when he kisses you. The sting of his teeth takes hold of your lower lip, but he soothes it quickly with the salve of his tongue. Dipping into your mouth, he flicks over your teeth before shoving you bodily against the wall. Your collision isn’t gentle, it’s messy, desperate as you're suddenly forced to fight. 

One of his hands loops around the back of your neck, his long fingers splaying across your nape as he pulls you in to devour you. You lean in, let him have you while your hands explore his chest. Palm first, you press to him letting the contours of his body guide your touch. He shivers as the tips of your fingers crest over his nipples, the rose buds pebbling under your fingers as your thumbs follow in succession. 

He moans into your mouth, the noise going straight to your cunt as he readjusts his stance and slips a knee between your thighs. The angle is delicious, his height providing the perfect slope for you to grind against as you cling onto his shoulders for stability. 

‘Fuck.’ Gojo’s chest heaves as he pulls back. You’re a vision, with the evidence of his desire shining on your lips and the heat he can feel seeping into his thigh. Reaching out, he presses a thumb to your lips and leverages open your mouth to press down your tongue. ‘I’m not going to be gentle.’ He counsels. 

Licking up his thumb, you bite harshly just before the nail. When the digit retreats, you smile. ‘Neither am I.’ 

He nods, planning his next move, but you beat him to the punch. Your hand wraps around his cock and squeezes, cutting off his common sense and rendering him blank. A gasp fills his chest almost suffocating him as you smooth a thumb over his head and toy with his sanity. 

You cock your head, pleased with the higher ground. ‘Y’know, for all the girls you used to bring back - we were also so curious as to why we never heard anything.’ Flicking your wrist, you force Gojo to flatten his hands against the wall beside you to remain upright. He locks his knees, eyes rolling skyward. ‘I was so sure it was because your cock was small.’ 

He grins at that. Bravado gifts him a reprieve, ‘What’s it feel like to be wrong, sweetheart?’ 

‘Oh, I’m fine with that.’ Rubbing your thumb down his shaft, you release him just as his hips begin to grind into your hand. ‘I’m just worried about you not knowing what to do with it…’ 

Gojo hisses through his teeth and removes his leg from between your thighs. It’s petty, he knows, but the whine that rattles your throat is payment enough. Silencing you with a kiss, he licks into your mouth, hungrier now as you scramble for purchase on his shoulders. Your desperation makes him harder, has him leaking more into his underwear. ‘I’m getting sick of that smart mouth.’ 

Catching his eye, you smirk. ‘You’ll never get sick of my mouth.’ 

‘Oh, yeah?’ He raises his eyebrows, ready to add his own witty retort. He can already picture it now. You, on your knees, your eyes fluttering shut, your throat open. He wonders how hot your mouth would be, how soft your tongue would feel as it laved over the thick vein on the underside of his cock. Gritting his teeth, he allows himself a brief moment to regain control. 

‘Yeah.’

Your voice brings out gooseflesh across the back of his neck. He shivers, feels his chest swell with anticipation. He’s going to ruin you, that’s for sure. He might even make you thank him for it afterwards. He’s about to command you to kneel, to put you in your place, but he doesn’t even get the chance. 

You shove him. 

Hooking a toe behind his heel, you chuckle when he hits the floor with an ungraceful thump. He grunts, hands snapping to brace himself just as your knees crunch on the hardwood beside him. 

The force of the landing sends an ache through his bones, vibrating his joints. His temper flares, annoyance itching at his fingers as admonishes himself for his lapse in focus. Still, all is forgotten as your fingers begin to work at his belt. 

Wasting no time, you undo the clasp and yank the leather through the loops. The belt cracks, causing Gojo to flick up his eyebrows once more. ‘Be careful…’ You tease, snapping it again. ‘Or I’ll be using this as a collar.’

‘Promises, promises.’ He reaches out a hand and lets his fingers trail across the plush of your thighs, admiring. Stretching, he curls himself into a lower case ‘C’ to grip the fat of your ass and administer a singular hard slap. 

You catch your lip between your teeth and work quicker, unbuttoning and tugging denim down his thighs. There’s no bothering with unclothing completely. You don’t even bother to strip him of his underwear. Instead you slip them just low enough to expose the wiry mess of his pubic hair and hook the elastic underneath his balls. 

He hisses as his cock is exposed to the air. It bobs there, aching, hard and flushed down to the base. He’s long and leaning, with a pinkened head that gleans with pre-cum. Each droplet drips down his shaft, rolling over the rivers of thick purpling veins until they reach the base and stick into the cloying nest of pubic hair. 

The sight of him makes your cunt clench, anxious to be full. You strip, ignoring the low whistle that slips from Gojo’s lips as you lose your pants and pull aside your underwear. Straddling him, you bat away his hands when he attempts to take hold of your waist and hover above his cock. 

Chuckling, he leans back, tucking his palms under his head. ‘You’re gonna want to prep yourself for that -.’ The pet name never manages to flick off of his tongue. He gasps, the air shocked and frozen in his lungs as a violent tightness overtakes him. The muscles in his legs flex, his toes curling as he struggles to comprehend the sudden pressure zipping down his body. 

Reaching between your thighs, you spread yourself and take him whole. He’s large enough to steal your breath, but you’re careful not to let it show. You settle, feeling the muscle of his hips twitch underneath you.

‘Careful…’ 

‘I’ve taken bigger with less prep… Sweetheart.’ 

Gojo opens his mouth to speak, but all that leaves his throat is a moan. His hands shoot out, body curled as you intercept him in midair and wrap your fingers around his wrists. Rendered useless, he allows you to guide him, allows you to press his hands to your hips, to encourage him to grip, to hold and pinch. A passenger in his own body, he lets the feel of you envelop him, smothering him until biting his lip is all he can do to keep the strings of babbling moans trapped in his mouth, 

You’re annoyed to discover that he sounds as pretty as he looks. His eyes have thawed, limpid pools shining as he looks at you with something you’re not willing to give a name. Slipping your hands over his, you shift his grip down your body and press into him until he takes hold of your ass. Kneading the fat there, you moan, enjoying his heat on your skin as you begin to move. You ride him how you want to. For your pleasure and not his. 

Battling the thing inside of him that screams at him to submit, Gojo wrenches his hands from your grip. Your fingers softened around his wrists with pleasure provide little resistance, as does your body as he takes a hold of your waist and plants his feet on the floor. 

The first thrust takes you off guard. His cock spears you, pressing hard against the roof of your cunt making you see static. The second you’re prepared for. Ignoring the fluttering of your cunt you throw your weight forward and slam a palm down beside his head. 

‘C’mon Princess,’ Gojo coo’s. His pace doesn’t falter. The slap of skin fills the room as his thighs hit your ass over and over again. Your cunt swallows him, arousal dripping down his length making the entire room sound like sin. ‘Hear that… Your cunt loves it. I can feel you dripping down me.’ 

You grit your teeth. Shifting your weight, you force your ass back against him, meeting each of his thrusts. 

‘That’s it, good girl.’ Gojo snarks. ‘See how much better it is when you just fucking -.’ 

The remainder of his sentence is cut off and swallowed, trapped in his throat as you wrap your fingers around it. 

His cock jumps inside of you. 

You squeeze harder. 

A broken moan trickles over his lips. 

‘You’re fucked up.’ You laugh, exasperated. His pace has slowed, but still his hips shift forcing you to take his cock over and over again. Sitting down on him hard, you match his thrusts with a grind - catching your clit on the thicket of pubic hair covering his crotch. Pleasure uses your ribs as a climbing frame, springing off of your organs and making you feel light. 

Gojo grins, teeth shining. ‘Says the woman with her hand around my throat.’ 

‘Oh fuck off.’ 

‘Get me off and I might.’ 

‘You think I’m going to let you cum?’ Without releasing him, you straighten. Your grip forces him to come with you, to sit up and flatten his legs. His thrusting stops. His eyebrows raise. 

With your free hand, you break through the buttons of your shirt and take hold of your tit, squeezing the flesh. Rolling your nipple between the knuckles of two fingers, you work yourself up to hardness and suck air through your teeth. Your petting only makes you wetter, the subtle flicks of your hips keeping your body taught as you creep steadily towards your orgasm. Pushing out your chest, you offer it to Gojo with a command. ‘Suck.’ 

He wets his lips. 

You tighten your grip on his throat. Feel his cock kick again. ‘If you’re waiting for a please, you’ll be waiting a long time…’ 

Gojo lets his tongue lol out of his mouth. Using only the tip, he flicks it against your nipple, but retreats as soon as a moan slips from your lips. ‘What about now?’ 

Biting your cheek, you attempt to still the rolling arousal in your stomach. The first pass of his tongue on your skin burns you alight; your knees weaken, forcing you to lower yourself entirely onto his cock. A moan bubbles in your chest, held back only by the annoyance itching at your fingers. Digging your nails into the vein throbbing at the turn of his jaw, you press until bright crescents appear on his skin. ‘I said…’ You growl. ‘Suck.’ 

Head clouded with lust, Gojo feels his reserve give in. In all honesty, he’s surprised he’s lasted this long - it’s been a while since he’s had someone to play with. This time, when he takes your nipple into his mouth he’s like a man starved. He sucks, tongue flicking and circling. Reaching up he takes you in hand and squeezes, moaning as he continues to make-out with the peak of your tit. 

‘Good boy…’ A gentle pet on his head solidifies your praise. Your fingers itch at his scalp, tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear and then drops. Slinking down your body, you tuck your hand under your cunt and tap a finger to your clit. The movement makes you jolt, jump starts the rocking of your hips as you begin to chase your high - using Gojo as your own personal sex toy. 

It pains him to say he likes it. Each grind of your hips sends a jolt of electricity up through his spine, his cock lost to the heaven that is your cunt. Drool leaks from the sides of his mouth, his tongue lapping at you, anxious to earn more of the panted moans you feed into his ears. 

 So used to taking, this moment of servitude suits him… 

Each inch of your body is tended to, singing in harmony as pleasure rises through your body and threatens to take over. You let it. Drawing quick circles on your clit, you release Gojo’s throat in favour of clinging to his shoulders. Thick lines mark out exactly when your orgasm hits. You dig into the muscle of his back, hips threatening to still as wave after wave rocks through you.It’s blinding, casting static on the inside of your eyelids as your eyes roll back and strain. 

A hand cups your ass and presses into you, forcing you to keep moving. He can feel the sponginess of your cunt, feel you milking him - demanding his seed. Clenching shut his eyes, he focuses on you. Your moans trickle into his ears, feeding him, urging him on as he takes control and prolongs your high. You look ethereal with your head bowed and your eyes clenched shut. The plush of your bottom lip hangs open allowing more of your noise to find him. Moans. Words.. They sink into his skin.

‘Satoru…’ 

It’s a whisper. A broken one, but his ears aren’t deceiving him. 

Your grip around him tightens. 

‘Satoru…’ 

The second he feels your cunt release him, he’s moving. Using all of his strength, he scrunches his knees and forces you forward, but there’s no chance of you finding your balance before you’re tossed again. He maneuvers you like you weigh nothing, broad hands taking your waist and flipping you once more before he’s on you again. 

Stable on your hands and knees, you arch your spine and push backwards. You can feel the stickiness of his cock pressing to you coated in your cum. It nestles between the cleft of your ass, pressing to all of the wrong places. 

Leaning over you, Gojo presses his chest to your back and whispers in your ear. ‘Now, it’s my turn. So be good and stay still, huh, Sweetheart.’ His palm wraps your shoulder, forces you to the ground as his heat leaves you, but before you can complain, or wriggle, the hot press of his cock is slipping back inside of you. 

Gojo is anything, but gentle. He’s relentless, fucking into you like a machine. Each thrust comes with a shock of pleasure that sparks at the base of your spine, one that explodes and seeps into the bones of your hips. He’s too deep, muddling somewhere in your stomach as he grips your hips and yanks you back forcing you to take him whole again and again. 

‘Cum…’ Gojo leans over you, his eyes wide as a hand dips around your waist and pats at your hip. He follows your curves and dips between your thighs, his fingers drawing out rough circles on your clit. There’s a desperation in his voice when he speaks again, his breath fanning your ear as his thrusts grow erratic. ‘Need you to cum, need - fuck. Need to feel it.’ 

Your body kicks, legs shaking as he begins to work you back up again. It’s as if your nerves are frayed, too raw even as your stomach begins to fill once more. 

‘C’mon… Wanna feel you.’ 

A droplet of sweat falls between your shoulder blades, dampening your shirt. Desperation radiates through him, burning your skin where he touches you. Your body obeys easily, even as his ministrations become halting and uneven, but it isn’t until one final word slips from Gojo’s lips that you find your second orgasm crashing into you. 

‘Please.’ It slips out without his say so and falls heavy in the room. 

You want to snark, want to turn and bite, but your knees are too weak. Instead, you press your head to the floor and wait for the air to return to your lungs. There’s a stuttering behind you, a momentary lapse of pace and then, the room is full of Gojo’s moans. 

He cums hard with his hands clamped back on your waist to steady him. The release is nothing like he’s ever felt, his whole body becoming a live wire that winks out, suspending him in his own pleasure until, at last, his limbs become numb. ‘Fuck…’ 

Bucking, you stop him from collapsing on your back and roll just in time for him to lay himself beside you. You lay like that for a while, side by side in puddles of your own spend and sweat until the floor grows cold. Then, he’s gone. 

The chill from the floorboards cools your skin and burrows into your bones. You flip, rolling over onto your back to stare at the ceiling. You’re still angry. Although, the feeling is distant now - lingering somewhere deep, settled and asleep. It’ll rear its head again, there’s no doubt about that, but for now it’s a welcomed reprieve. 

Footsteps warn you of Gojo’s reappearance. He’s almost naked, his jeans discarded while his boxers have been pulled up to their rightful place. There’s a necklace of red around his throat, the indentations of your fingertips obvious on the paleness of his neck as he crouches down beside you and produces a towel. 

‘Admiring your handy work?’ He chuckles, throat raw and begins to wipe you down. The towel is warm, but dry and makes quick work of the cum spilling out of you. 

You swat at him, but there’s no malice behind the movement. Instead, you groan and lift your hips. ‘Did you fucking cum in me?’ 

‘Give up a chance to cum in a cunt like that? Of course I fucking came in you.’ 

‘Bastard.’ 

‘Didn’t seem to mind it before.’ 

You swipe at him again, more determined this time, but he dodges it. Grabbing your wrist, he uses your movement as leverage and heaves you up and onto your feet. He lets you sway there for a moment, watching as the shake in your thighs threatens to give way and then hauls you up and over his shoulder. ‘Put me fucking down!’ Beating at his back, your threats die on your tongue as heaviness overtakes your body. You let him carry you, slipping through two sets of doors before you back meets the comfort of a fresh duvet. 

‘There,’ he chuffs. ‘Now quit screaming.’ Collapsing to the bed himself, he stretches, soothing tired muscles before setting about removing his blind fold. 

You roll, watching. ‘You sleep with it off now?’ 

‘Nah.’ He shakes his head when its done, letting his hair fall to frame his face. ‘Not since -.’ The muscle in his jaw clenches, relaxing only when he’s sure his name has settled itself back inside his heart. 

Walking your hand over the sheets, you wrap a palm around his bicep and urge him down to the bed. He goes willingly, letting you manipulate him until an arm is tucked under your head and a hand is pressed to his chest. ‘I’m not sorry.’ You speak to the air, but don’t mind when Gojo replies. 

‘Neither am I.’ 

Nudging at him, you force him to look down at you, to see the hurricane of emotions wrestling in your eyes. You think of Megumi laying in a hospital bed, his heart mending from an assault it should never have suffered. You think of Suguru, poor, tormented Suguru, and all of the times he could have been saved from himself. You think of them and offer yourself. ‘Next time you’re thinking of sending someone on a case that’ll get them killed,’ you hold his gaze, challenge him to disobey you. ‘Send me.’

[lucid-loves]

First Light ~ Simon "Ghost" Riley Part 5

Pairing: bodyguard!Ghost x princess!reader (fem!reader)

Word Count: 4.2k

CW: angst, violence, blood, strong language, scars, verbal abuse by parents, physical abuse by parents, psychological abuse by parents, opposites attract, forbidden love, slow burn, fluff, attraction and sexual tension, reader POV and ghost POV, minors DNI, smut, virgin reader, first kiss

Let me know if I missed any CWs.

Story Synopsis: After receiving death threats from a mysterious terrorist organization, your royal parents make a decision to reach out to the United States for help. Specifically, they want the US to send a bodyguard to protect their precious princess. When the 141 is called upon to investigate, Ghost is the one assigned to protect you. With your lack of experiences outside of your royal life and his experience with nothing but deadly, worldly affairs, opposites attract.

Chapter Synopsis: You are having a blast doing what you want to do for the first time in your life. However, the longer you live with Ghost, the stronger the tension between you gets. One night, curiosity gets the better of you and Ghost can’t help but satiate it for you. 

Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Part 6 ~ Part 7 ~ Part 8

Ghost watched you watching your movie with a slight smirk under his mask. While you have already seen him without the mask a couple of times already, he still felt more comfortable with the mask. Especially since he was technically still working. While he has been having fun watching you run around the safehouse enjoying new knowledge, he still had to stay on his toes. Your life was still in danger as far as he knew. 

You were wrapped up in a fluffy blanket on the couch, your eyes trained on the screen that flashed movie scenes that were once banned for you. Since day one, you have been desperate to fit as many banned activities as you possibly could before you would go back, whenever that was. Watching movies was part of those activities along with listening to diverse music, exploring the wonders of the world wide web, and trying new foods that weren’t exactly the healthiest. 

In your hands while you watched the movie was a small journal and pen where you took notes. For you, this was more about enjoying the contraband. This was research. You took notes on the cinematography when it came to shows and movies. You took notes on the melodies and harmonies when it came to music. You took notes on ingredients and flavor when it came to new food. 

Anything and everything was a research opportunity in some way. And Ghost admired that about you. You weren’t too naive despite growing up the way you did. You picked up on things rather quickly, especially when you were in a groove. Now that you were free, you didn’t hold back in demonstrating just how smart and competent you were. He figured that if you weren’t a princess, you’d be a scientist of some sort. 

He suppressed a chuckle as you gasped and jumped from a jumpscare on the screen, the horror movie clearly getting to you. Not that you were silly for being scared. The original Psycho was a fantastic piece of cinematography from the horror genre. The lighting work, the script, the acting, and the camera angles all contributed to creating the creepiest horror movie that has stood the test of time. 

You wrote down your experience in your notebook, excited to add to your research. Just before the credits began to roll, Ghost walked over and sat himself next to you on the couch. The couch dipped under his weight, reminding you of how big a man he is. You scooted over, making sure to give him enough space that he took up. 

When the credits began to roll, you stretched your arms above your head to help out your back. Ghost stared at how your graceful arms raised up high, how your back arched slightly. He noticed how flawless your skin looked. It was no surprise that you had scarless skin. At the same time, though, you looked unbelievably soft to touch. 

Ghost had been thinking about that more often within the past week and a half. It was hard not to think about it as you became comfortable within the space. You wore more casual yet cute clothes, you carried yourself more easily, and you have been more active in maintaining the temporary home. Not to mention that you have been wearing that hair clip he bought you just about every day, exposing the nape of your neck. 

He wanted to snake his arms around your waist, pull you close into his lap, and kiss your bare shoulders. The desire passed as you looked at him suddenly. “Would you like to choose the next movie?”

“Me?” He questioned, surprised by your offer. Ghost hasn’t had much time to see a lot of movies. He’s seen the classics and some modern popular films, but his job didn’t exactly allow him time to really indulge in any binge watching of any kind. 

“I was planning on choosing a romance to directly compare the cinematography differences since I expect the contrast to be quite stark. However, if you would like to watch something else, I don’t mind.” You warmly smiled, happy to have Ghost join you in your movie binge. 

You had been trying your best to give him space since he was still taking his job very seriously. You were also trying to keep your crush on him under control by keeping a healthy distance. Though, you still always craved his attention. You wanted to spend time with him. Get to know him. Now was the time to perhaps learn something new about him.

Ghost held his chin in thought for a moment before grabbing the remote off from the coffee table. It didn’t take him long to find the movie he thought would be best for the both of you. Your small smile turned into a large grin as he started Casablanca.

“Is this your favorite movie?” You inquired curiously.

“It’s the best romance movie in my opinion. Not particularly my all time favorite, but it’s up there and a first choice if I’ll be watching a romance. Besides, it would probably serve as a good film to study alongside Psycho since they’re around the same era of film.” He explained, not realizing how easy it was to talk to you about his personal opinions.

You snuggled back into the couch, getting cozy once again for a new movie. The both of you sat in comfortable silence as the film played, feeling a sense of ease in each other’s presence. As the film progressed, you only became more and more entranced in the wonderful story on screen. 

It was hard not to sympathize and empathize with Ilsa. To swoon with her, smile with her, and cry with her. The acting was impeccable. It almost felt real. Especially when Ilsa asked Rick for a kiss for the final time without him knowing. A sharp pain went through your heart as they closed the distance, your notebook and pen falling into your lap. The bittersweet romance made you think of your own inexperience. 

You haven’t thought of it much before. Yes, you did read a few contraband romance books here and there. However, there were more important things to you besides finding a partner you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. It wasn’t until the event with the Duke that you began to think about it a little more each night. You were a grown woman. A capable, smart, curious, and slightly rebellious woman. Yet, you still haven’t had your first kiss. It was starting to make you feel like you were missing out on something in life.

“Hey, you okay?” Ghost called out to you, noticing how pained and distracted you were. He paused the movie for a moment so he could completely focus on you. 

“Ah, pardon me. I was just thinking about something serious.” You apologized, your cheeks flushing a bit. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” He offered, causing your cheeks to turn even more pink. While you have been feeling more comfortable talking to your bodyguard, it was still a little embarrassing to talk about the romantic things on your mind. It was hard to refuse him though. You knew that he was genuinely concerned about you. 

Curiosity was getting the better of you too. You wanted to know what kissing was like. If Ghost had ever kissed someone before. He probably has given his age and ability to actually see the world. The image of him kissing someone made you a little sick to your stomach too. Oh god, what if he has a girlfriend back home? Or a wife?!

You took a deep breath, trying to calm your silly anxieties. If this were to be truly resolved, then you needed to speak up. Hopefully Ghost won’t judge you too much. “I. . . I was thinking about how I haven’t had my first kiss yet. . .”

He quirked a brow under his mask, not expecting that confession to come out of your mouth. He didn’t even occur to him before that you thought about those kinds of things. “Something like that bothers you?”

Your cheeks began to feel like they were on fire. He didn’t say it in a judgemental tone, but it was still very embarrassing to admit. “It doesn’t so much as bother me, but I do feel like I am missing out on something. Most women my age have already had their first kiss. Probably a lover. Some may already have children. I know that I’ve been locked away for most of my life so it isn’t my fault. Still though, I can’t help but wonder about it.”

“I can understand where you are coming from. Most people get curious about things like that eventually.” He reasoned, hoping that his understanding would make you feel better. It was obvious that you were getting uncomfortable talking about something like this with him. Your shoulders were tense, your cheeks were pink, and you stared down into your lap where your thumbs twiddled. 

“May I ask how your first kiss was?” You pried in a cautious tone.

Now it was Ghost’s shoulders that were tensing up. Besides feeling the instinct of keeping his privacy that he so strongly protects, it also didn’t feel entirely appropriate to talk about his experience with you. You were still a princess by nature. Plus he was still working.

It was hard to say no to you though. 

With a deep sigh, he leaned back into the couch. “I was a teenager. There was a neighbor who’s granddaughter came to visit every once in a while. She kissed me one night when we were hanging out. We fooled around until she left to go to college. Haven’t seen her since.”

You bit the inside of your cheek as you listened to his story. A part of you was glad that he left out the more intimate details. Another part of you wanted to know what his true feelings were within those moments. “Were you heartbroken when she left?”

“Not particularly. I already knew what was going to happen by the end of that summer. We didn’t really kiss out of mutual feelings either. It was more so just. . . curiosity.” He elaborated further, somehow finding it easy to tell you about these things than he expected.

“Have you ever fallen in love then?” You asked before you could think. 

This caused Ghost to tense up again, his heart skipping a beat. He didn’t know why, but the first thing that came to his mind when you asked was your name. Not even a yes or no. Just your name that danced at the tip of his tongue. 

He felt his body grow warm as he swallowed your name down, not ready to acknowledge what it probably meant. “I had a girlfriend several years back. Hard to maintain a relationship with my job.”

“I see. My apologies.” You lowered your head, somehow feeling like it was your fault that your bodyguard can’t settle down with someone. Like you were keeping him away from a lover that didn’t exist. 

He noticed how depressed you seemed about his answer. He didn’t mean to make you feel bad. “It’s just part of the job. And I won’t say that I was completely innocent in the breakup.”

You hugged your knees to your chest, unsure how to respond to his confession for a moment. You never really asked about his work before. All you really knew was that he was in the military and was one of the best at his job. Now that you thought about it, though, he probably had to move around a lot. He had to travel all the way to your country after all. 

“Did you want to experience your first kiss?” Ghost asked, switching the attention back onto you. The question made your heart feel like it was tripping over itself with how fast it pounded. At the tip of your own tongue, you wanted to admit that you wanted to experience your first kiss with him.

“Um. . .” You hesitated, feeling the butterflies in your stomach turn into a hurricane. It felt like your brain was malfunctioning. Still, Ghost waited patiently for your answer. Silently. 

He didn’t mind waiting. It just meant that he got to see just how flustered you were. While he did feel partially guilty for being the reason why you were embarrassed, he also secretly enjoyed it. It was too much of a treat to see just how pink your cheeks could get. It made him want to tease you. 

Finally, you raised a hand up to your face to try to cover your blush. You were just getting way ahead of yourself. “It’s not nice to tease a princess, you know?”

He wasn’t expecting you to say something so cute and cool at the same time. 

At that moment, Ghost wanted to pounce. Hover his weight above your body and give you a kiss you would never forget. Nibble on your kissable lips while you shivered underneath him. Or he could pull you into his lap and slide his tongue into your pretty mouth. Slide his hands along your waist as he tasted you. You probably tasted devine. Sweet.

He had to bite his tongue hard in order to get his mind out of the gutter. After that, however, he couldn’t help but chuckle. You were so much more full of surprises than he realized. 

Your eyes widened as he laughed. What could be so funny? Was what you said really that comical? Thankfully, your bodyguard was willing to explain. “Sorry, Princess. I don’t mean to laugh at you. What you said was just cool. I didn’t expect it.”

The attention went back to you, Ghost clearly not willing to let this go just yet. It was a little strange. You have never seen your bodyguard so playful before. Relaxed. It made your insides feel like they were melting. While you couldn’t see it with the mask, you knew he was smiling. At the very least, you could tell he was through his eyes. “Anyway, do you?”

You almost forgot what you were talking about until he brought it up again. It seemed that you weren’t going to escape this. “Well. . . yes. However, I don’t think it’s going to happen anytime soon.”

“What about with me?” Ghost slipped up. He gauged your reaction swiftly, trying to figure out if you heard him or not. If you didn’t he could save face.

You did hear him though. Loud and clear. It wasn’t like there were many distractions that would cause you to miss what he said. The movie was on pause. There was no sound but the conversation at hand. 

This was dangerous territory. Saying no would result in losing your chance to not only experience your first kiss, but also miss a kiss with your crush. If you said yes, then the professional boundary of princess and bodyguard would be broken. That could lead into a whole whirlwind of issues if things were to progress. Or if the kiss was found out.

No, you could keep a secret. You have been keeping secrets for years. There were even some secrets that Ghost didn’t know about yet. You were sure that with his occupation and general character, the lieutenant could keep a secret to his grave. 

Could you excuse the kiss for research purposes? Accepting a kiss would satiate your curiosity on the subject. For now at least. Besides, the safest way to explore this was probably with the man that has been keeping you safe. He wouldn’t do anything you weren’t comfortable with or even sure of. 

This was your chance. You couldn’t miss it. “If you wouldn’t mind, then yes. . .”

It took everything out of Ghost to not pull you in right then and there. He didn’t even think you would say yes. However, he had to be sure. You had to be sure. “You positive? There’s no taking it back once it’s done.”

You seriously considered it again for a second before nodding, not much more confident and sure of yourself on this. “Yes. Only if you are willing.”

Oh, he was willing. He craved it. Slowly, he took off his mask, allowing you to see the face you didn’t even realize you missed. Your heart picked up speed. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion as a surreal feeling took over. Was this really happening? Your first kiss? With your bodyguard?

As much as you wanted to just keep admiring his handsome face, you closed your eyes, waiting for him to make the first move. You felt the cushions on the couch shift as he moved to a more comfortable position. You felt his body heat become more noticeable as he got closer. 

You flinched slightly as his hand cupped your cheek, the feeling of his skin on yours sending fireworks through you. Ghost was feeling the magnetic pull too. Just as he thought, your skin was silky smooth. Your lashes were delicately long and your lips begged to be kissed already. He felt his own heart thud loudly within his chest as he got closer and closer.

He let his lips lightly brush against yours, not wanting to startle you too much. At first contact, your heart soared. Naturally, you leaned forward to really close the distance, feeling your bodyguard’s lips perfectly fitting against yours. 

Soft, sweet, thrilling. You wanted more. You really wanted more. Ghost felt the same way as he got lost in the way your lips felt. So perfect. So flawless. Without thinking, he deepened the kiss, pressing his lips firmer against yours. 

A subtle moan came from your throat, pleasure spreading across your body. Your lips moved in sync with his, despite this kiss being your first. It was amazing how warm you felt, how sparks flew. It was exactly what your romance novels described. It made you want to try the other intimacies you’ve read too. 

As much as Ghost wanted to keep kissing you, he had to pull back. He was getting too lost at the moment. Any more and he could completely lose control. This was meant to give you new knowledge. A favor. He couldn’t enjoy it as much as he was. 

The absence was devastating though. As soon as his lips left yours, you felt a terrible pain in your heart. It broke your heart that this could be your first and last kiss with him. Your bodyguard felt that strain too deep within his soul. 

He cleared his throat before speaking, trying to relieve the romantic tension that still lingered in the air. “Well, was it what you were expecting? Gonna write it down for your notes?”

You scooted back, creating distance between the two of you. It felt like he was an ocean away. “It was pleasant. I see why people like doing it. I may write about this a little later.”

An awkward silence fell as the both of you tried to ignore the magnetic pull. Ghost scolded himself for getting too close. He really shouldn’t have even entertained the idea of kissing you, but he couldn’t help it. His attraction to the beautiful princess next to him was consuming his mind, body, and soul. The kiss only heightened it.

You reached forward towards the remote and put the movie back on, hoping that this would distract the both of you from your intense attraction.

It helped somewhat as the movie audio filled the silence. However, while your eyes were trained on the screen, your mind was as chaotic as a hurricane. You loved kissing Ghost. You craved it now just like how you have been constantly craving his attention. 

This didn’t feel like this was just a crush on your bodyguard anymore.

Bittersweet, romantic music swelled as Ilsa and Rick said their final goodbyes and finally reached closure with each other. Ghost turned towards you once again, watching your reaction to the end. As he waited, he couldn’t help but gaze upon your lips. 

You felt his eyes on you, something that you were getting better at detecting. Turning your head to meet his gaze, you realized that he seemed closer than before. Did he move closer without you realizing it? Or did you?

Credits began to roll, the sweet music still filling the quiet. Before he could stop himself, Ghost had cupped your cheek, his thumb gently rubbing your skin. God, you were gorgeous. A princess from another world. Away from his world. Just looking into your sparkling eyes helped him escape the traumas in his life. 

On his own, he saw blood, guns, death everywhere. With you, he saw life blossoming from the ashes of the world. 

His lips crashed into yours, no longer caring if this was crossing the line. For now, he wanted that temporary escape. That fantasy of being with you. Of you being his.

You closed your eyes as he kissed you greedily, your arms looping around his neck. Your heart threatened to break out of your chest as he kissed you how he wanted. A real kiss. His kiss. You could feel every cell in your body melt under his touch. 

His hands moved down to your waist where he lifted you into his lap. Straddling him gave you an exciting rush of pleasure that traveled all the way down to the tips of your toes. Strong, large hands felt you up, sending shivers down your spine.

He nibbled your lower lip for a moment, making you moan not so subtly this time. Taking advantage of the situation, he slipped his tongue into your mouth. The pace wasn’t as greedy as he tasted you further. He slowed down to not startle you. But god damn did he want to take all of you. He wanted to take all of your firsts. This was shown with just how deeply he kissed you.

Your grip around his neck tightened as your tongue slid against his. Your chest pressing against his didn’t help the now sexual tension growing. His body felt amazing. Strong, defined muscles with the perfect touch of softness. True strength and power that has protected you. 

You could feel your sex tingle with need.

Ghost pulled back to give you a moment to breathe. He also was feeling himself responding to the sexual tension. It took everything in him not to start grinding into you. The side effect of holding back was gripping your hips tightly to hold you close. 

Feeling weak and out of breath, you leaned against him further, your head pressing against his shoulder. As the both of you began to calm down, his grip loosened. His hands now traveled around your back and waist, hugging you to provide more comfort.

Once your breath became steadier, he placed a kiss against the side of your head. He could tell that you were tired now. He did just take a lot of energy from you. “Why don’t you go take a nap in your room. I’ll be getting some work done.”

Your brows furrowed out of his vision. It hurt that he was sending you away so quickly. But, you did need a moment to think. Regain some energy too. With that realization, you then realized that Ghost was just being courteous to you. 

Slowly, you got off of his lap and headed to your room, fighting the urge to turn around. At the same time, Ghost fought the urge to pull you against him again. As soon as he heard the closing click of your door, he gave a loud sigh. He was really in it now.

You laid yourself down onto your bed, the phantom touch of Ghost still lingering. It felt like his arms were still wrapped around you. Like his lips were brushing against yours. You rubbed your thighs together unconsciously as you recalled everything about your sudden makeout with your bodyguard.

It didn’t take long for you to bury your face into the pillow, muffling your moans as you touched your slick pussy to the thought of him.

Before you were a princess, you were a woman after all. 

[sunaluv]

can you write e1610 miles if he found out his gf has a symbiote (like venom)?

miles was out on night patrol when a loud crash in an alleyway caught his attention. swinging to the source of the scream, his brown eyes widened under the mask upon recognising you, his girfriend, frantically running down the street with three bleeding cuts down your arm.

"hey miss," cleared his throat and made his voice deeper. "is everything alright here?"

startled, you yelped before trying to catch your breath. "yeah, everything's okay," you waved him off. "i was trying to feed a cat that comes to my window every night, but i guess he got startled and scratched me up."

he reached for your arm. "well are you alright? let me see."

he noted the sudden tense in your arms, hoping he didn't see the last of the black slime that seemingly had shrouded your cuts, leaving your smooth, now scarless skin on display.

but he did notice, how could he not? your arm was bleeding profusely just a moment ago?

before he could question, you stepped back and tugged your sleeves down, making a beeline for your house before he could get a word in.

that was a week ago.

now, as he lay beside your sleeping figure, he pokes and prods your sleeping form in hopes that whatever that was would show itself again.

"stop poking me."

"i'm not touching you," he replies, finger jabbing you in the side again causing you to jerk.

"miles."

he hummed.

"go to sleep." your voice came stern.

determined to continue his experiments another night, he sighed reluctantly, wrapping an arm around your waist and tried to drift to sleep...

... until something bit his wrist?

"ouch!" he sat up alarmed, "what the hell was that?"

groaning for the umpteenth time this night, you turned around, eyes widening at the symbiotes' face who was now glaring at your wide eyed boyfriend.

miles said your name carefully. "what the hell is this?"

welp. cat's out of the bag. "uhhhh..."

"venom" it replied.

"nice to meet you?" miles held his had out, hoping to make peace with the...venom attatched to you. venom appeared displeased, moving to take his whole hand off this time.

"venom!" you scolded. "you can't go around biting people without asking me first, we've talked about this!"

it had now turned to you, glaring its eyes at its vessel, only backing down after you had sent your own challenging glare.

as if communicating telepathically, miles watched at the symbiote let out one more displeased grunt before disappearing into your flesh, just like that one night.

"are we not gonna talk about this!" he watched you turn your back to him once more, pulling the blanket over you and drifting to sleep.

"we talk tomorrow." your voice held too much normalcy for his liking. "go to sleep, miles."

and so he did, to the best of his ability with that creatures face replaying in his mind whenever his eyes shut.

[littlest-w01f]

Healing Fires

Eris Vanserra x Feyre Archeron

For @erisweekofficial

Eris week 2024 Masterlist

Day 6: Retellings

Summary: Rhysand asked for Eris' help to heal Feyre UtM, and he did.

Cw: Mentions of Rhys' assault, mentions of Eris' assault

Feyre lay on the floor of her cell, eyes barely opened, covered in the mud and excrete from the Wrym's labyrinth, the bone in her elbow poking out, infected, while quite a few were broken, many severe cuts and bruises all over her body, her dirty clothes stuck to her skin.

She was passing in and out of consciousness, had a high fever, and didn't think she would survive, not even a little. She managed to let out a shaky breath when she saw a pair of boots approach, Lucien finally came for her, to save her. She seemed to relax when she tilted her head slightly, seeing the tips of bright red hair.

"Ugh... You stink worse than I imagined, human." The male sneered in a mocking tone, it made her blood chill, Lucien wasn't here, the haunting thought dawned on her, but one of his brothers, the brothers Lucien hadn't been able to say one nice thing about was there.

Feyre croaked as she asked, her voice dry from dehydration, "W-who-?" The question died on her tongue.

The male gave a mocking bow, which made him appear in her eye line, bright red hair, same as Lucien's, perhaps even more vibrant, eyes that looked like they had been carved of amber, a sharp face and posture, and a sneer on his rather scarless pale face, "Eris Vanserra, sweetheart. Lucien's eldest."

Why are you here? Feyre wanted to ask, but words failed to come out of her throat, dying on her tongue.

"Tamlin's pretty human doesn't look so good..." Eris cooed, easily stepping inside her cell, making Feyre hope for the first time that the guards were nearby, "You look like you're in need of help, little human..."

Feyre gasped softly in reply, whether she wanted to tell him to get away or beg for his help, she, herself didn't know.

Eris crouched down to her, tilting her chin with his finger so that she could look at him, cringing at the dirty floor under her, and making her cringe at the crack of bone she heard from her neck. Eris chuckled, reading all her inner turmoil easily, "Don't worry your pretty little head, silly human." Eris smiled and Feyre was sure he mirrored his father on how he had looked gleefully as she was lowered to the labyrinth, excited by the prospect of her death. Feyre couldn't stop the dry scream that tore through her as Eris pulled at the shard of bone in her broken arm, twisted it, popping the bone back into place, not caring to be gentle like Lucien had been with her nose, "The guards aren't coming."

Feyre closed her eyes in pain, she felt like she was floating, and soon she felt heat spread through her, panic set in her as she realised Eris had set her on fire, and her eyes snapped open as she tried to use her slightly better arm to set the flames off.

Eris rolled his eyes, using one of his hands to keep hers off her body, while he used the other to cover her legs in his fire, "Stay still, my sweet, my fire is healing you, it won't be set off by your hand, it will extinguish when you're healed."

Feyre was soon covered in fire, the fire not burning through her clothes, but healing her cuts and broken bones, reducing her fever too. The fire was a pleasant warmth, not as hot as she'd imagined the Autumn fire would feel, and not as comforting either.

It reduced on her throat and neck, and when it did, she left herself able to turn her head and speak, "Why are you... Helping me?" She asked, her voice hesitant.

Eris sat beside her on the ground he had earlier crinkled his nose slightly, eyes on his fire as he sighed, "Why does any male do anything?"

"Please, did Tamlin sent you-" Feyre asked, but was cut off by Eris

"Why did Rhysand asked me of all people to help you?" Eris continued, and Feyre paused, wanting to hear what he said, "Me? The rightful heir of Autumn, helping a pathetic little human," Eris snorted, but then his face turned serious, and the way he looked at Feyre made her tense, "A human that's going to free us."

"You seem to have sudden faith in me." Feyre retorted, their eyes meeting, she didn't look away, but she couldn't help but wonder why Rhysand had been the one to send him.

Eris hummed, "Well, Rhysand had faith in you when he gambled, it earned him large sums of money from everyone around here, including my father," He shrugged, "So consider this my gamble."

Eris moved right to Feyre, stroking her dirty cheek, grinning fox-like when she didn't pull away, "Besides, if I did something Rhysand asked, like this," He flicked the grime that had collected on his fingers and motioned to the fires healing her, "...Then he would owe me."

Feyre sighed at that, of course, he was doing this to get a favour from Rhysand, but he continued, "And I feel as if I owe you one as well..." Eris trailed off.

Feyre managed to move a brow up at him, "Dare I ask, how so?" Her voice was laced with genuine curiosity.

Eris' eyes go soft, just like Lucien's and their mother's had been while looking at her, but still quite amused, taking her by surprise, "With you winning, my father lost a large portion of his money, that he was hoping to invest in some sketchy places that I didn't like, your win in the trial against the Wyrm caused a large kink in his plans, sweetheart." He laughed in a way that Feyre saw his mother's resemblance in him instantly, "That led to his whining that I quite enjoyed, perhaps the first ranting of his that I liked to hear. Oh, the insults he called you, pretty." He laughed heartily.

He watched the fires slowly melt into her, completely healing her, burning away the dirt, grime and stink off her too, "Then he went on about how you would probably die from your state..." He found himself helping her up, not missing how she was still slightly weak, mostly from being denied food after pissing Amarantha off by winning, "And what better way to fuck with him than being the one that heals you?"

Feyre leaned against his chest, gasping at how warm he was, he was far warmer than Lucien and she found herself seeking that warmth feeling it slightly rough, "So you helped me to get a favour from Rhysand and just piss off your father when he sees me alive...?"

Eris moved her hair from her face, smiling softly, "Perhaps, you're not so dumb, little human." For the first time, he said 'human' like it wasn't a derogatory slur he was spewing. "And I was guessing, the reason Rhysand asked me was because he knew I would come around."

"Where is Tamlin...?" Feyre found herself asking, while gaining more questions about Rhysand.

"Perhaps I was wrong," Eris scoffed and rolled his eyes, but it was playful, "You are snuggling into an Autumn male, an heir no less, and you're thinking of another?"

Feyre sat straight, not even realising she had been snuggling into him, but her head pained at the sudden movement, her body didn't have the energy for, not noticing how his tunic was not even buttoned above his abdomen, completely showing his chest, a few scars littered over it, whip lashes, cuts from knives.

Before she could ask him, Eris spoke up, she could see the discomfort on his face, "I don't know shit about what Tamlin's doing. Rhysand approached me, told me Amarantha wanted to "congratulate" him for his win." He scoffed lightly, "I don't understand what he's protect so hard that he's stopped fighting back completely. It's this image he's created for himself when she kept coming back, he's such an asshole that he leaves me stunned, much more of a pain in everyone's ass he was before." His normal demeanour came back to the surface, "And I bet you've heard I am quite the asshole."

Feyre frowned, hearing his words, and the implications they made, she didn't know what to say. With her head dizzy she fell back.

"Oh, there there, clumsy human." Eris laughed softly, catching her in his arms, "Your boyfriends can handle themselves, you worry about you, ok? Can't have you falling all over yourself, can we?"

"Rhysand not my..." Feyre groaned in his chest at even the implication, now realising that the roughness was his scars, "...How did you get these?" She quickly changed the conversation.

"Some in battle," He took her hand to trace a few cuts on him, "The other my father lovingly gave me."

Feyre gasped softly, tracing a particularly harsh whip mark going down diagonally on his chest, "Your father did this?"

"You should see my back." He joked, then shrugged, "There is a reason I find happiness in his sorrows and losses, love."

"What Lucien told me of you... You were cruel... You're not as horrible to me as you were to Lucien, why?" Feyre found herself asking before she could stop herself, mentally hitting herself when she did, and Eris stiffened, his arms tightening around her.

"I... I've made plenty of mistakes that I wish I could fix." Eris frowned, her mentioning Lucie seemed to truly sadden him, "I can't fix the past... I can't bring Jess back... Can't erase my part in it." He tiled Feyre's chin up so she'd look at him, his eyes showing true vulnerability at the mere mention of Lucien, "But maybe I can make things a little better by keeping his human friend alive, the very human he got hurt for over and over again." He cupped her cheeks, and he looked over her face without distante from the first time, "And maybe... I can see the need for helping folks 'lesser' than us now, something Lucien could always see. I want to help you."

Feyre's ears were ringing from his words, eyes wide from the way he looked at her, she searched for a lie but found none, her cheeks were burning, and she didn't know if it was her blush or his power that did so, "Please don't look at me like that... The reason I'm here is to save-"

"Save Tamlin, I know..." Eris sighed, looking away, "I didn't mean for it to come out like that... I just... I am hoping to fix things between myself and my brother, perhaps see the world the way he does, only if a little."

Feyre nodded sitting up without his support, knowing what he wanted from her, "When we get out of here... I'll tell him, I'll tell him you helped me."

Eris pressed his hand to the cold ground, his power flowing through, warming the cell, "Well, until we do, I shall help keep you as comfortable as I can."

Feyre didn't stop the sigh that left her lips at the warmth of the floor, leaning back to rest on the floor completely. Closing her eyes in content at the sudden warmth in the cell, not caring how she looked to him, sprawled on the cell floor.

Eris watched her with a smile forming. He got up from the floor, eyes softening when he saw that Feyre had passed out the second the floor was comfortable enough, "It may have been the full reason before I came here... Now, not so much."

{General Taglist- @nox-ceur @lilah-asteria @paleidiot @dee-writes-smut @adalia-jaycee @anarchiii @alwayshave-faith @velarisnightsky444 @minnieoo}

{Eris Taglist- @fxckmiup @slut4acotar @secret-third-thing @shadowsingers-mate @fieldofdaisiies @st4r-girl-official}

Honarary Feyris tag for Eris week @nocasdatsgay

[theherdofturtles]

Fandom: Hetalia Prompt: Treasured Possession Destroyed Rating: T Word Count: 3,623 Takes place in the distant future in which some unnamed nuclear war in Europe did not go well for England. I'm not sure if this is what the prompt meant by 'treasured possession destroyed.' Something something, tried the sci-fi genre. I feel this is at least partially comedic. I keep mixing the genres. @badthingshappenbingo

It was black when England woke. Black, and faint, pulsing blue. He didn't think, he didn't move. He laid limp, listening to the low hum of machinery as he stared off into the black.

And then the first thing changed: the blue light overhead became real to him.

Dreary through the black, the light pulsed long and slow before fading away. Just as long and slow it pulsed again, and with equal refrain, slowly, faded. Then it pulsed again.

The dark blue light reflected tubes overhead when it glowed. Boxes with small lights began waking up, and he could finally understand the sleek shapes overhead on a conceptual level, black as the air, reflecting the weak blue on their slim and shiny surfaces.

England's first and foremost complex thought was numb. Nothing. He couldn't remember anything. It was a strange realisation that an empty space existed where it shouldn't.

His breathing picked up, sharp, grating on his own ears and he twitched.

His second complex thought was realisation alongside confusion. He was England. Natural thoughts spun. But where was he?

Dizzily he sat up in the dark, staring down at his own pale arms stained blue by the lights overhead.

The light faded, his vision darkened. He waited. A moment passed.

 It pulsed again.

England stared, still confused. His arms… they looked to be markless. He traced the smooth surface in awe, scrutinizing it with wide eyes. When was the last time he'd had markless skin? Were where his scars? When's the last time…

When's…

When's what? When did he get here? A yawning gap existed in his memories. A yawning space in his head, making his whole body feel hollow.

England raked his memory, running through every page he could remember from the cold war to whenever now was.

He was missing… something right… right after the launch.

A chill went down his spine and he clutched the cold metal edge of the surface he'd woken on. A warm buzz tingled across his skin and his breath hitched. An awful ghost of a memory slithered down his chest, dropping like a stone into his gut. He curled his shoulders in on himself and shuddered.

Dust lay heavy, coating the dry skin of his mouth. Fireless heat bubbling under his flesh, bones shattering, vacant eyes glistening in the sand.

He shouldn't be alive. He couldn't be alive.

The light pulsed and he cringed.

His tongue rolled around in his mouth, tasting for blood or ash. Nothing. He could taste it, though. That ash, grey, pale as bloodless skin.

There hadn't been much left this time.

Or… there shouldn't have been much left. But yet, he was still breathing, wasn't he?

He took a deep breath.

The light pulsed.

England should've been decimated… his counter-defense had failed.

So breathing proved his existence physically but not logically.

One third of the island—one third of him should be gone, and poison would soon taint the other parts rendering him truly dead. With only so little to go, it would be easy to finish him off. They would finish him off swiftly if the war was heading the direction he suspected.

The urge to puke seized his throat. He breathed deep and distracted himself by watching the blue light pulse lazily overhead.

Maybe… maybe he was in a bunker…

How had they moved him in time? England thought he'd been close to the edge of the blast radius when he'd felt the hit melt into his heart. 

His fingers subconsciously fluttered across the smooth scarless skin coating his arms. He had another brief relapse of surprise at the lack of marks. England narrowed his eyes and examined closer.

He'd lost his scars.

He didn't think it was possible for nation to be so damaged, so unrecoverable, that their whole body regenerated from scratch. He always assumed he'd simply die when his scars became too heavy and too many.

… Did that mean England was still standing? The government at least, or his people. They must have some land or identity left if he was still… breathing.

Another shudder ran through him and he pulled his arms closer to his body.

He breathed quietly to himself and watched the light pulse again. The blue softly stained his pale skin before fading.

He needed to get up. There wasn't time to lament, no seconds to spare. England was at war.

His featherlight feet dipped to the ground, noting the lack of any cold metallic shock. Normally frigid flat surfaces like marble or metal would send shivers of ice through the pads of his feet, but such sensations were… dull. Mild, as if gone. Ignorable all together.

Maybe re-knitting himself had damaged his nerves…

Possibly why he didn't feel any pain… maybe that was his reason for waking after that last attack.

He stood, his foot wobbled, his knees bent like a newborn deer. His hand shot to the wall to save himself from toppling. It took a frustratingly unsteady moment to balance himself.

New legs. Worse legs than usual. New legs were always a pain.

He stretched his apparently new, freshly regenerated joints out. They weren't as stiff as they probably should have been… usually when re-growing a missing limb, the new limb would hang dead and limp until a month or two of diligent effort to be contrary.

He flexed his fingers, watching the dexterity closely. There was no delay. It was just… unbalanced.

Never look a gift horse in the mouth, though, right?

England nodded to himself. Right. He was alive, and that alone was a hellish miracle. He could handle a few performance abnormalities.

He ambled through the dark, guided only by the glint of the pusling blue which highlighted wires overhead. His hand brushed along the tangled wall. The feeling under his fingertips was dull, less tangible. He knew in his head the objects he touched were there, what the texture and the surface was, but it felt distant and different and he couldn't pinpoint why. Mentally, he blamed his fresh regeneration. Nerves connected to memory, after all. Head regenerations were a pain, and France's very existence proved that head regeneration caused permanent mental damage. He couldn't help but lament and dread the possibility of having lost his muscle memory this time around.

His fingertips brushed across the walls as he made his progress, until he reached a place in the wall that indented.

Just what he was looking for.

His hand slid along the surface, curling on a knob. The door slipped open with a soft click.

Light spilled into the dark, killing the soft pulsing blue light in shocking white. England immediately grimaced at the blinding change and blinked on impulse. But… it didn't sting…

He blinked a few more times before the outside came into focus.

It was a hall.

A plain, boring, light-grey painted hall. Definitely not a bunker.

From his narrow and cautious vantage point, a clear view of a typical homely wall was visible. A white trim separated that wall into two sections: light-grey, and lighter-grey. Top and bottom half, respectively.

England creaked the door further open and poked his head out. A quick glance went both directions.

He found the hall not even worthy of being called hall. It was ridiculously short and ended with two doors down one end and—

His gaze caught, and he stared.

On the other end glass spanned the entire stretch. A window devoured that far space.

Towers. He saw towers outside. Silver and tight packed, aglow with small lights. Twisting cross-beams of metal silhouetted more silvery buildings. He could see the grey hazed sky. But most important, from what his view indicated, he was in a tower himself, very, very far from the ground.

He'd not been above ground in a long time.

A twist of anxiety tangled in his chest. He inched from the imagined safety of the blue room, closed the door softly behind him, and hesitantly headed to the window.

High up was not a good place to be in a war. In a tower was the worst place.

The wider window room went ignored. He made no detour in his path until pressed dizzily against the glass where he stared down from the height, watching what he thought he could see of tiny metro lines making their separate ways through the distant city street-like mazes as if they were ants.

It was dusty. Lights projected thin beams, refracting miniature flashing slivers on the windows and streets below. Dust-dimed lights hung higher on the street corners and reflected similarly with blue yellow glows. It looked like a grim, smoggy city. It was a grim, smoggy city.

England shivered and took a step away from the glass.

Where was he? There wasn't anything distinctly foreign he could see, this architecture of tall glass cities was global. No obvious landmark laid in sight that could help him pinpoint his exact place.

He turned around from the window.

Immediately he knew where he was.

Red white and blue assaulted his eyes, but not the familar, comforting red white and blue if the late Union Jack. This was American red white and blue. It was bright, abnormally dynamic, obnoxious. He was burning his eyes on the American flag hung up on the opposite wall.

Relief and annoyance hit him at once. His nose wrinkled. He was in America.

And his damn paranoia had nearly swallowed his heart over this.

It made a stupid amount of sense and was proportionally unfortunate in comparison to his suspicions, though not as sinister.

Obviously, once again, America was completely untouched by the European war as he could see. Except this time the boy was fully and truly untouched, not merely untouched by choice. And America was very much the same America from before the war, if he could conclude anything based on the obnoxious decorum of the room.

The question was: why the hell was he in America?

England paced down the hall away from the nauseatingly wide window, feet wandering further toward the opposite side of the place, finding himself at an entryway door. He crossed his arms and held a hand to his chin.

America, huh? He supposed he'd just leave.

England was just about to turn the handle and walk out and away when a metal clicking sound came from the very handle he was about to grab.

And he froze.

The shifting, sliding of the metal handle gave way with a swift rattle. He heard a shuffling behind the door.

The handle turned.

Then the door swung, casually clear.

His tension lessened a fraction.

"America…" who else should he have expected?

America didn't look surprised, but he did stare. England would stare too, if someone meant to be at war, on the other side of the ocean, possibly dead showed up at his house.

England raised a brow. The boy looked… good, though. Or, better off than the rest of the world. His skin was a tad bit paler than he recalled, as if coloured with a tinge of grey just like the city below swirling in smog. He noted that his eyes also weren't quite as clear-blue as the sky anymore. But he looked like the same goodie-two shoed boy-scout America.

America dropped his stuff simi-caringly to the floor before rushing him. England recoiled defensively, spitting a half-curse as America's hands went right for his face.

"Unhand me-!"

His hands took his head firmly in their grip and he momentarily thrashed.

America's voice was just as annoying as he remembered.

"One moment! One moment! I gotta check something just give me a moment!" America said, brimming with a strange sudden excitement.

England's eyes clinched shut as America tilted his head up.

"Get off idiot!" England hissed.

The hands released.

"Gees ok ok… I just wanted to see if you were alright."

America, in all his idiotic glory, was grinning ear to ear as if nothing in the world was wrong. A fresh wave of annoyance and indignity hit him and America seemed to him in that moment the worst person on earth to have entered that door.

"Alright?! America, Europe is in a war that just turned nuclear, my island is a fresh radioactive cesspool! if I'm 'alright' today I'll be bloody dead as rotten carrion tomorrow." He shivered. The war hung lazily around his forefront memories, deeply disturbing him.

Phantom burns had trailed up his arms like pins and needles, like wasps crawling and stinging and tingling. It's odd… he wasn't feeling anything yet. He thought all the nations involved would be starving and cold by now.

America's hands lowered.

"… yeah… right." He mumbled, brows slightly furrowing.

"Bugger good job you've done with helping, by the way, all isolated over here on this side of the pond. Speaking of such, what am I doing at your place? How'd you even get me here? Travel is highly restricted."

The boy shook his head a bit.

"… straight to the point, huh?" America ran a hand through his hair, then looked away. His hand stayed, resting, tangled in those tarnished gold strands. "This is so weird," he muttered, "It's been a bit since the war stared. You look… accurate enough."

America's gaze darted back, meeting his, but so clearly not meaning to, yet unable to resist checking for his reaction.

…accurate enough?

"How long have I been out?" It could be weeks to months. Such a gap could mean any game change in the war.

 America hesitated, his demeanour still exhausted, yet careful, "…Over the usual limit. It's been several years."

Limit…?

England spun the idea, processing.

He narrowed his eyes at his informant. Limit— no, no there wasn't ever any gap or slow healing that spanned several years. When such deviations occurred— events that killed for over a year— a new personification took up the mantle. Their bodies weren't designed to stay in limbo for more than twelve months. They would decay.

"… if you think now is time for one of your jokes, you're horribly misguided," England said, scowling, yet holding his caution. He was testing the water carefully, watching for America's reaction with keen attentiveness. The kid held a habit of using jokes to de-escalate situations he deemed uncomfortable or bleak, but England was paranoid over anything he heard in war. And this wasn't America's style— too bleak, too… cruel.

England watched America grimace and slowly shake his head, "…The war… England- not you, but, uh, you you- is still… uh…? I'm not exactly sure how to describe this. You never did a thing like… disappear… yeah, sorta what I mean, and England isn't that well off now— um. You're… dead right now."

A vicious anger sunk its teeth down, sweeping all doubt to a deeper darker place. 

"Clearly I'm not dead yet," he snarled, hissing venom, yet failing with a faint tone of fear which he hated. Fear was weak, it was a drawback.

America's placating hands shot up in defense and the boy took a step back, as if to say 'I did nothing wrong, chill out,' which England also hated, because he suspected he was being lied to.

"…Sure," America said. He spoke carefully. "But you and many of your people are staying here in the US for the time being, it's safer. European radioactivity and stuff. I even have permission to do search and rescue in Europe, you can check."

His people…? Staying in America? Search and rescue? The rest of the world was fine with that? Again England studied America, looking for any hint of a lie.

If radiation or other after effects had spread dangerously across his country, that begged the question of why he wasn't sick yet. He wasn't sick at all. He wasn't anything. How could his people be in danger without him feeling the weight of their suffering crush down?

"I would never abandon my land," England growled, but the seed of doubt and fear was set. He would punch America, tear at him, shake and demand an answer, but he only felt a numb and an odd reluctance to raise his fist on the kid. He was upset. Anger simmered in his heart over that, his teeth gritted, and he still had that fear, that continual, undeterred fear which he so despised. Instinct was his frequent enemy.

He most certainly wasn't dead though.

"Until I see that 'permission', I refuse to believe my people ran away and backed down from their own home. Do you know how many countries have tried to burn me off my rock? I would rather die there than be made to flee," England said, with all his boast and pride.

The kid looked distressed.

England wavered.

"…At least make yourself useful and tell me which city you have me in? Hopefully not one of strategic target…" His preservation still hung forefront, and size and advancements were dangerous places to reside these days, and having looked out the window, both those things appeared to be present. "… this city has changed a bit from your typical standards, America."

 America all too eagerly followed his jump of topics.

"Yeah, of course. Our towers are nearly ten times taller than before, their tips wave on the edge of space!" The boy smirked, "And we've got a super cool long-term battery system, habitable space stations, digital currency, fantastic new game systems—"

"I meant the upkeep, idiot. You're living under a layer of grime and soot."

His list of accomplishments was… slightly unbelievable.

"Oh, that," America laughed, "yeah, my bosses changed some things. Energy is a bit untrusted, so we're on some coal again."

"On coal? What about fusion?"

"It's… a bit hard to access these days. Very competitive for the space. Bosses said this was best."

Bosses?

Before he could raise another question, America leaned forward uncomfortably close and England leaned back on impulse. He furrowed his brows.

The hell? America was back to smiling, all grins and barely contained excitement.

If England didn't know better, he would think America was studying him as if his previous distress was all a joke.

"Do you mind?" England said, barely holding back his concealed disturbance.

"Yeah just give me a second," America didn't remove himself.

"Take a hint, dolt. I want my personal space back."

He received a non-commited hum.

Damn the kid.

England shoved America's face with his palm, giving a 'friendly' high-five to his nose. The disgraced yelp following was much more satisfying than being scrutinized.

"If that is all, I'll be on my way." England curtly and cordially dipped his head. He had a country to protect, a war to win, a king or queen to serve. What state it was in he had to know so he could get to work. America could dally all day and collect dust for all he cared; England would rather be dead than be here with America while his country burned.

"Wait wait wait!" Frantically America whipped around and powerful fingers snatched his arm—

[{Pressure.1200.PSI{"Can&reach:" 3000 "or" 120,000}}]

—and England stumbled, stunned.

What-

"You can't leave yet there's… uh… there are… I've not been fully honest with you and there's no easy way to say this." America tugged his sleeve.

England tested, trying to slightly pull away. The grip tightened.

This— very close to a threat.

"…I'm leaving, Alfred. I'm going back to my country, they need me." He slowly, cautiously, shook his arm for release.

A touch of unease was well hidden under America's now sheepishly smiling exterior. His smile seemed too anxious for England to trust.

"Yeah, of course you are," America said.

America slowly, reluctantly, backed off from him.

"But you have to know that you're not…" he breathed deep, but controlled, keeping his exhale from becoming a sigh. "You're not England. Sorry. I didn't think you'd act so… real. You're- England's- dead. Of a sort. Unable to wake. You're just an advanced copy with a memory chip. I'm sorry. You're just a really advanced copy."

England stared at the moron.

The moron shamefully stared back at him.

England scoffed. What kind of joke was this supposed to be? No. America gave him a too-sincere apologetic frown, England's will to push the topic vanished over how ridiculous it was. Dull frustration and confusion was left in its place. The boy believed in aliens and big foot and in whatever newest tin-foil hat logged online, he was paranoid.

"This is the dumbest thing you've ever believed."

America's expression hardened. He crossed his arms, looked away.

A hint of the red eve of the sunset had long since glistened down over the Cliffs of Dover…

"… Here, let me show you." America spoke coolly.

America reached for his arm and England slightly pulled back from reach. His feet rooted, frozen in place.

America's face changed. It was as if America wasn't America, he was someone else who knew him, something wearing a new face, waiting to be uncovered. He moved hesitant and slow, not wanting England to have his way.

"I don't need you to show me."

"No," America snagged his sleeve. England stiffened.

America's fingers curled over the underside.

"Please let go."

"Here," America tapped a small circular grey port. "Android."

He rolled his wrist over. 

The thing on him was small… difficult to see, smooth, lined directly where an artery should run through his arm.

England scratched at it.

It was metal.

[silkenwinger]

scarless moons

previous. second part of reunited childhood friends now neighbours. ghost POV. 3.3k. more to come. cw for smoking and discussion of violence

He finally managed to fall asleep. 

Being off duty was shite, but still better than other places. He didn’t look forward to it usually, his person more suited to action and killing than living in proper society, but when his knee popped there was no other option than to abandon his teammates for some months. Allegedly. So the base doctor said, and when he opposed, he got fucking threatened by Price to stay home or else he’d forcibly send him. 

The house he lived in now was a high-rise flat with drab walls and humid rooms. The landlord had told him he could do whatever he wanted to the house, his voice thin and shaky, but Ghost had no interest in decorating or finer details. All he needed was a bed, a kitchen, and a tv to watch the footy on, beer on his side. He never had a need for something more, but he supposed his house was a fright to anyone who might have walked in. Not that there was any chance of that occurring. He never had the right touch for women, and if the lads ever reunited, it was at Price’s home.

He was doing nothing for most of the time. The first weeks, his knee was giving him problems still, and he only left the house to get groceries, almost throwing the crutch into the street a couple of times. Then he got better, but he still couldn’t work out, and had to start physio. His doctor was the silent type as well, and their lessons were spent in silence besides the occasional order to move or change exercise.

He used to struggle getting to sleep. Sleeping two, three hours a night, Soap complaining when he was more cranky than usual the morning after, one hour tonite LT? Need some help? But he’d sleep. Now, he was pulling all-nighters like an overexcited teenager, body unsated by the boredom. Melatonin tablets did nothing to his burly body, the small pills going down like candy. 

He tried a different approach. He did everything Gaz recommended: light up a candle (Get one with little to no smell, sir), took a long hot shower, turned off the TV and read a book for the first time in some years, the words flowing slowly at first and then faster, dragging him into the story for a few minutes before he would feel the wet, imaginary drag of blood on his chest. He was used to the feeling, and he’d slept through that too. So, when he finally felt his eyelids drooping, he stood up, turned the candle off, and bundled in bed on his back, as still as the dead. Sleep took over him, for once, nightmare less.

All of the sudden he heard a sound. He didn’t jolt upright, but instead he woke up even groggier than usual, his knee hurting. At the second instance of the sound, he recognised it as the doorbell, and he turned in bed briefly before sitting up. His knee was screaming at him, he hushed it. Dragging his eyes to the nightstand, he was shocked to see it was eleven am. He hadn’t slept up that late and for so long in decades.

He walked to the door, leaning his weight on the good knee. High chances it was a maintenance worker, or his landlord coming to bother him about changing the boiler. Only one way to see it. He put on the surgical black mask he always kept by the door and opened it.

He could see his own surprise reflected in your eyes. At first, he couldn’t place the face of the woman in front of him. It took him about ten seconds, while you’d already introduced yourself, stuttering a bit, explained the reason for you being there, and held out your hand to shake. He looked down. And then he looked up again. Your arm was still stretched out, fingers now slightly trembling, and he didn’t know if it was because of him or your general anxiety. Of course the name wasn’t new to him. He’d known you. So many years before, it could hardly be called his life still. The sight of you in the flesh was so unexpected, he could have sworn it was a dream. Except the reality around him wasn’t bending and turning the way it did while sleeping, but it was, in fact, logical and linear.

“Ehm, so, I didn’t want to bother you at all,” you had drawn your arm away, and it was now rustling something in a paper bag, “I just thought it would be good to introduce myself to my neighbours! And, I’m sorry if it’s corny, but,” you took out a small, green box, offering it to him, “some tea?”

He was still confused and unsettled, but Price had domesticated him enough during the years he knew he couldn’t keep the silence for longer. He took the tea box, your hand almost flying away like it was touching a hot stove when he grabbed it. 

“Thanks.” It was all he could manage to say. He was always bad at talking, and the circumstances mushed up his tongue even more.  

“Oh, it’s no problem at all!” You rushed to say, your eyes looking at everything but him. Briefly, he remembered he was shirtless and in a mask, and he could have almost kicked himself out. Way to fucking go, Riley. A complaint to the building manager is just what you need right now. 

“I-I’ll be going now! I’m just next door!” And off you went, tail in between legs without looking back. You closed the door to your apartment with a slow movement, possibly still spying him from the open glimpse. He stood in the doorway for some seconds, completely still, and then closed his own door. Before doing anything else, he dragged himself to the small desk in his bedroom, dropping the tea box on it. His knees hit against the wood as he sat down on the chair, as usual, and he opened his barely usable laptop. 

It wasn’t weird, what he was doing. If Johnny could still check on his first girlfriend he “totally got over” (big if true), Simon was allowed to check on the life progress of people from his past. Mostly, individuals that had shone in that bleak time. His memory was odd, and he had certain periods he could barely remember existing. But up until enlisting, everything was moulded by fire into his brain. The bad, and there were heaps of it, but also the good. The old lady who gave him biscuits from time to time had died some years prior of natural causes. The movie clerk who generously halved his tickets had moved away to Canada, kids and wife in tow. The one teacher who asked questions, but couldn’t get answers, was still teaching in the same school.

You, who sat with him and really tried your best, living with your own problems yet sparing a thought for him all the same. Little you in your spotless uniform, but with your hair messed up by the wind. Workbooks arranged by colour, little doodles on the margins of the pages, feet hanging in the air when you sat on the park bench’s backrest. You were also supposed to be married and in another city, for years by now. He had several ways to check, social media just the most accessible one, but evidently he had slacked off in the last months or so because he could have never imagined you had moved here. If he had more self awareness, he probably could have explained to himself why seeing you again in the flesh was causing him so much turmoil. Something about trauma. Something about a passive object of observation turning into an active subject of interaction.

He wondered why you had moved away. If– you were alone in the apartment. He hadn’t talked to you since before he went away, and he had no idea of how your personality evolved in the years he hadn’t known you. For all he knew, you could have transformed from a bullied teen into an insufferable woman. He glanced at the tea box again as he closed his laptop. Asian style tea… he hadn’t disliked it when they were in the Philippines, the heat sticking to his skin as he gazed into his sniper scope, but he feared it would be too light for England’s climate. Still, he would give it a try. For old friends and the memories they bring. 

//

He saw you again some days after.

He could hear you leaving in the morning, and returning in the evening too. No one else but you entered your apartment. Lad’s gone and done it, then. For some reason, he was happy you were single and not in a loveless marriage. He didn’t doubt for a second you had the brains to rebuild your life alone. He, instead, spent the days alone in his house, viewing the memes Johnny sent (for every ten stupid posts, one thumbs up emoji) and doing the exercises his physio recommended. He didn’t want to creep on you listening to your activities, but the walls were so thin he didn’t even need to strain his ear. Legs stretched out on the carpet, the sounds of your footsteps heavy and tired at seven pm and the bitten off hiss when you couldn’t figure out which way the key went in. He would go deadly still, waited for you to enter your home, and then moved again.

Every night, Simon went smoking on the balcony. He had even put a chair and a coffee table there, like he would ever invite his friends for drinks. Instead, he would usually drink a glass of bourbon, smoke a couple of fags, and go back inside. He never turned the outdoor light on, the low buzz of the air conditioning machine floors under his lone companion, the odd car once in a while making its way on the street. His routines were already as well established as those of a man double his age. 

That night, one minute into his cigarette, he heard the sliding sound of an exterior door opening. Silently, he lowered his smoke, and he saw you getting out, dressed in house clothes, different from the formal attire you had the day you introduced yourself. Shivering, you rubbed your arms, one pack of cigarettes already in hand. As yet another design flaw, the two apartments’ balconies were far too close for comfort. He could see the goosebumps on the exposed parts of your arms. Before, Simon had never had to worry about intruding into something, as the next apartment was vacant. But now, he had to reckon with you of all people being there. You, who were still clueless to all. You only knew he was your weird neighbour who wore a mask in his own home, and that was probably the safest option for the both of you. Still, he felt the usual disdain for himself crawling over his back like a black beast at concealing himself to you of all people. He entertained the idea of going back inside, but that one crazy part of himself heeded him to stay still. Watch what would happen.

You didn’t see him at first. Couldn’t be blamed, given the darkness. Instead, you tried to light up your cigarette time and time again, your lighter never producing a flame strong enough to burn the tip. Sighing, you resigned yourself and turned to go back inside, and just then you noticed him, sitting in the darkness. Your only sign of surprise was one singular step back, but you recovered, coming to the edge of the balcony to see him better. He felt his body retreat into the darkness by itself. 

“Good evening,” you said, voice high, one hand raising to accompany the greeting. He would have nodded, but then realised you couldn’t see him, so he decided to use his voice. Sparingly.

“Evenin’”. You were squinting now, trying to– look at him in the face? He lowered the fag into the ashtray, drawing away from the light emanating from it. You must have caught the drift of his action, because you pushed away from the railing and looked down for a second. You were hard to dissuade nowadays as ever, though.

“Sorry to bother you,” you spoke again after some seconds, “could I use your lighter for a moment? Mine’s dead.”

If he leaned in too close, you would have seen his face. But if he threw it to you, well. He wouldn’t have forgiven himself. Once again, you saved the interaction by yourself.

“I won’t look if that’s the problem. Hell, we are so close you can basically put it in my hand. I’ll keep my eyes closed!” You gave a thumbs’ up for encouragement. He felt a weird knot in his chest, the hook making its way through flesh again. 

“Alrigh’,” he heard his voice sound rougher than usual, “hold out your hand open over the gap. You can keep it, I have more.”

“Oh, I couldn’t-”

“I insist. For the trouble.”

You were smiling now, mouth closed and eyes as well as you held out your arm. He stood up, leaning on the table for support, and put the lighter in your hand. The tips of his fingers skated on your soft palm as he dragged his hand away. He returned to his seat quickly, but you kept your eyes closed until he gave out a gruff you can open them now.

“Thank you!” You cheerfully replied, now making quick use of his lighter. To his mixed feelings, you didn’t retreat towards your door, choosing instead to smoke close to the railing and his balcony. He could tell you weren’t a full blown smoker. Your drags were far too focused for this to be more than a once-in-a-while occasion. His thoughts wandered on why you were smoking now, if something happened to you at work, if your– your romantic life was bothering you. You leaned over the railing, observing the complex’s arid garden and the streets surrounding it. He killed the small bout of anxiety that rose from seeing you leaning out, one push away from falling. Keep it together. 

Despite the rude act of not showing his face, you couldn’t be dissuaded from talking to him, it seemed. You turned to look in his general direction and gestured towards your face, cigarette between your index and middle finger. 

“You know, I thought maybe you were immunocompromised. But now I see you’re smoking, so…” You let the sentence hang into the air. Ah, your awkwardness had only grown with you. It was endearing. Hearing your words, you rushed to add on, one to always mitigate. “I-I guess it’s none of my business.”

Wanting to take you out of your misery, he decided to speak again, out of character. 

“Just a preference.” He wanted to reassure you that you hadn’t crossed any lines, it was him that was a bit odd, to say the least. You smiled again and nodded, like you understood. You couldn’t, not in a century, not even if he sat you down and dumped it all on you, and that was fine. It was better than fine, it was optimal. He wouldn’t wish it on you even if you turned out to be a serial killer in your spare time. 

Your cigarette was over faster than he expected. You put it out on the railway, but took out a tissue to drape it in. He could have almost smiled at your concern for the environment. Smart on the battlefield, too. You turned, squinting a little again.

“Thank you,” you said, jumping a bit on your feet, “hope you enjoy the tea!” This time, you really went in when he hummed a goodbye.

You left him to simmer by himself and a thousand ways he could have handled that differently.

//

He could live like this. He hadn’t had many neighbours in his life, outside of bunkmates, and you were already his best one. You were quiet, thoughtful. Your mail never overflowed, and if you happened to return back home with a wet umbrella, you were quick to dry the rainwater in the shared corridor. And you could share a cigarette together without asking any pesky questions, such as I never got your name, what is it?, or Why do you always wear the mask? You brought out a chair of your own to sit on the balcony and he began to spend more time outside, even renouncing City games at times. He could feel the curiosity under your looks and words, especially when he showed his masked face, but it seemed like you still prioritized his good graces over personal satisfaction. Instead, he pierced together pieces of your life he didn’t have many details on before. What you did at your job. Your favourite restaurants. Your marital status (divorced, thankfully! with a cheer, and he could have smiled at that). The sound of your laugh, rediscovered after having forgotten it. Jesus, he had it bad. He wanted to blame the loneliness but that wouldn’t be the full truth of it. Your one-sided conversations were so nostalgic of your vents back in highschool, and he always felt one step near revealing something compromising just so that he could force a reaction out of you. Would you gasp, bring your hands to your mouth? Giggle a tired wisp of air? Snap out of it and demand this mysterious man to tell you at least his name? However, he was a trained soldier. No info would be released without previous consideration, and you had no business knowing anything about him in the first place. Much like when you were kids, exposing himself would only hurt you in reply. The prize (recognition, empathy, attention, lo-) wasn’t worth the risk.

“You seem more scary than you really are,” you said one night, nursing a glass of wine like you were some posh upscaled housewife, your foot thumping against the iron bar, and he wanted to dissect that statement. Tear its feathers out, remove its all-seeing eyes. To you, maybe, doll. Tell that to the Russian whose spine I broke on my knee last time they set me free. Naturally, he’d rather jump from the balcony than say that to you, so he settled for a meeker and deadpan “You’re funny.” You laughed at the joke, unoffended, “My judgment is often wrong. Maybe you’re much worse than I can imagine.” Oh, he couldn’t and wouldn’t begin to explain it to you. He picked his words very carefully every time he saw you, thumbing the line between rudeness and genuine interaction. Were he a better man, he’d leave you alone. But he wasn’t, and he wanted to be a part of your days.

He let you stew too. He should have reigned his sadism and curiosity in, and not fantasize whether you were picking up on something, anything that would remind you of him. Of the Simon that no longer existed. If you were keeping him alive, at least in the dunes of your mind.

He should have known it couldn’t continue like this. It was a perfect equilibrium of knowing everything about you and revealing nothing of himself, and no exchange can be unequal, least it’s paid thrice back. When you rang at his door, Special Delivery addressed to Simon Riley in hand, and explained how the mailman had been there just as he’d left the house to go to the physio and you were about to leave, he could see the confusion, fear and pure hope in your eyes, and he knew there would be no further escape. 

[yoursminehourss]

i feel so weird when ppl draw dazais arms bare. like ??????? completely scarless???? theres actually no fucking way

[odetodilfs]

A work of art

A/N: This is honestly the cutest thing I've wrote in a while, happy pride month and enjoy this! Happy pride month btw!!

Pairing: ftm!Din Djarin x gender neutral!reader

CWs: Nothing but mentions of reader having scars (any kind)

Summary: Din doesn't like his chest, his top surgery scars specifically, and in a warm night where getting shirtless is the best option, you decide to comfort your man and reassure him that you love him.

Takes place probably in his little hut in Nevarro.

PLEASE REBLOG AS IT MOTIVATES ME TO KEEP WRITING!

Din’s body.. a piece of art, nothing short of an intervention from the gods. Such a broad back, beautiful muscles on his arms that made you feel safe in them. Some muscle on his neck and a good stomach that was perfect to lay on and kiss. His face as well, beautiful brown hair and eyes, an arched nose that you loved to feel nuzzling your neck, pouty lips that you yearned to kiss every second of the day as well as his mustache. Hands that always wanted to be on you, and you let him, you loved his hands as much as he loved using them to touch you.

But Din didn’t think the same about himself. One main thing held him back: his top surgery scars, he found them so ugly, he thought they ruined his body, that line running across his chest, he just couldn’t look at it for too long, it made him hate his own body. You were kind of aware of this, and this was why he hated warm nights, which was what tonight happened to be. 

“Din, seriously, take off your shirt” you pleaded, the man was becoming a human ocean next to you, “I’m fine” he said, obviously not

“You’re not, please, do it for me..” you pleaded with puppy eyes, his insecurities clashed against your requests. “But I’m so ugly without it, I wouldn’t want you to sleep on-” “Din, I genuinely don’t care about your scar, it’s part of who you are, the beautiful cluster of things you are…” you said, taking off his shirt and revealing his slightly toned body, the white line across his chest, “How can you not hate this?” “I don’t see any issue, we all have our things on our skin, I’m not scarless either, you know?” you chuckled, laying him on your bed and putting your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

He had a deep blush all over his face, did you.. did you seriously not care about his scars? You were laying your head on them, not caring at all, just enjoying him with all the love you had for him. He felt light kisses on his chest, “You’re so beautiful..” you muttered on his chest, “A work of art..” you kept complimenting, kissing along the line on his torso, 

“Ah- y/n-” Din blurted out in shock, you loved him this much? “I’m telling you, I don’t care, you’re beautiful, you’re my soulmate and I’ll take everything that comes with you… you’re not ugly, you’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen..” you lovingly told him, massaging his hair as you leaned in to kiss his lips. 

“Let’s sleep now, okay?” you asked, he just nodded, feeling too happy to speak, you laid your head on his chest, taking in the sight of his biceps, “I love you..” a faint voice came from above you,

“I love you too..” you whispered as you went to sleep on his chest, Din definitely grew more confident after that.