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januaryembrs · 5 months ago

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SWEET AND RIGHT AND MERCIFUL | Spencer Reid x Sunshine!Reader

request: my DARLING @avis-writeshq says: OMGGGG EM CONGRATS ON 3K !!! soooo deserved and i’m so so happy for you!!! please may i request tea for sunshine!reader 🥹🩷 maybe the moment when she realises just how much she likes him (perhaps she was in heavy denial beforehand)? I LOVE YOU SO MUCH THANK YOUUUUU 🩷🩷🩷

description: The Sunshine rookie Spencer had heard so much about is the first one to make him laugh since he got out of prison.

length: 4.1k

warnings: Lucky Strikes episode, talks of humans eating humans, cm gore, blood, violence etc. UnSub gets creepy with reader. sex jokes, spitting water.

author's note: dedicated to @avis-writeshq because she is my GIRL when it comes to Spencer Reid x Sunshine brain rot, and also because she requested a Drabble for them but I couldn't stop writing and here we are with a full ficlet.

It had been three weeks, three painfully long weeks since Spencer Reid had returned to the BAU, nearly ten years since she’d seen him lecturing at Pennsylvania. He looked different, but then Emily had said quite literally on her second day that their endgame was getting him out of prison for a crime he didn’t commit, and it seemed only natural that being a fed in a foreign jail would knock someone around.

She’d been too nervous to speak to him on their first day working together, had stuck to Luke’s side like glue because he was closest in age to her and he didn’t seem to mind the way she could speak a hundred miles per hour. They had only really had any contact when she was chatting with Garcia in the kitchenette at lunch, when she was talking to the tech whizz about the crochet set she’d bought even though she couldn’t seem to wrap her head around the way everything bobbed and weaved and bobbed again, and how the woman on youtube seemed to make the tiny bumblebee seem so achievable while hers looked like a yellow turd.

He’d come up behind the two of them, his footsteps deadly silent despite the fact he had sneakers on, and she wouldn’t have even known he was there had Penelope not lit up with glee at seeing Reid poking around their office again.

“Coffee, honey?” Penelope asked, looking over the girl’s shoulder, and it was only when he murmured a ‘mhm’ that the rookie noticed he’d crept up behind her, leaning over to grab his mug from the cupboard, and she hopped to the side immediately.

“S-sorry, just shove me out the way next time, my mom says I have zero spacial awareness.” She said with a nervous laugh, and he didn’t seem to care as he granted her a small glance, pushing the button on the coffee machine and clunking his mug beneath the tap.

“Have you met our newbie, Spence?” Penelope asked, friendly as ever even though the women caught the way his jaw seemed to feather with clenched muscle, like he was holding himself back from snapping, and his eyes were tired as he looked over at Garcia, barely flicking his gaze to the new face despite her prompt, “This is Y/N, she’s joined us from cold cases,”

“Hi,” The woman chirped with a quick wave, despite the fact he was stood only a foot away from her, “It’s nice to meet you after everyone’s spoken so highly about you, Penny said you like invented the term genius,”

Spencer pursed his lips, trying not to make a backhanded comment about how dumb that sounded because of course he didn’t invent it, of course it was coined in the mid seventeenth century from the latin gignere to mean ‘exceptional natural ability’, and the last time he checked he wasn’t even born then. But he stopped himself, because she was just being nice, and it wasn’t her fault that he hadn’t been sleeping or that he couldn’t eat dinner without waiting to hear a buzzer go off to let him know when it was meal time, and it certainly wasn’t her fault that she was just a few decibels too loud with her cheerful tone and smile that he could hear in every syllable.

So he just gave her an awkward smile, and an acknowledging nod, the whir of effort from the coffee machine slowing down as his drink finished pouring, and he grabbed his mug, not even caring that the ceramic scolded his fingertips because he’d felt so much worse before and gotten through it.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” He said coldly, not returning the sentiment, and he’d turned before he could see the way her smile dropped, her brows creasing in worry as she watched him head back towards his desk.

“Did I say something wrong?” She asked with a small voice, and Penelope wrapped an arm around her shoulder giving her a kind squeeze and a sad smile.

“It’s not you, sweetie, he’s just-” Garcia swallowed, her own pout growing over her red painted lips, “He’s not like the Reid we used to know, he’s struggling,”

And so she nodded, chewing at the inside of her cheek with a frown. It felt silly to have her feelings hurt, except she’d been thinking about the day two agents from the BAU came to give her sociology class a talk on geographical and societal factors compelling crime, how she’d headed straight to her tutor that evening to swap her major to criminology. Because she’d hung on every word Agent Hotchner and Agent Reid had said, which definitely had nothing to do with the fact the younger of the two was so dreamy in his glasses and tweed jacket.

She’d been excited to meet him again after nearly ten years, maybe even thank him for changing the trajectory of her entire life. He was still handsome, and despite the fact she’d grown up since then, had only thought about him as that hot guy who gave a lecture in her class that one time, she still had felt that silly fluttering feeling in her chest the second she saw him talking with Emily in her office the morning he got back.

And he’d look at her like she was a girl scout selling cookies; a passing face, a summer temp, no one worth getting to know.

She pretended like she wasn’t the slightest bit disappointed, he’d been to prison for god sake. The guy had bigger problems than a little nobody girl from another department.

Things weren’t much better the day they got the case.

“You might want to cover your eyes for this bit, my little sugar plum,” Penelope said, looking at the rookie with soft eyes, and Emily smiled at her gently, knowing the girl had a bit of an innocent streak, not completely unlike Penny when she’d started the job.

“Why? I’m sure it’s nothing-” She cut herself off when Penelope clicked onto the next page, and the image of a woman who could only be described as utterly butchered flicked onto the screen in full size, “Oh,”

“Oh, indeed, rookie,” Rossi said with a wince, looking at the mulch of blood and muscle where her legs had been removed, and her fingers severed clean off as if with a carving knife.

Luke looked up at the girl, where she’d gone a little peaky, and he patted her back gently, sliding his bottle of water over to her without a word.

“All the telltale signs are here,” JJ said on a sighed breath, images of the rest of the crime scene flicking up on the screen.

“Pentagram, legs and fingers gone,” Rossi agreed, Luke and Matt looking between the team with a questioning glance, as she downed a sip of the water.

“There’s even one neat aspect right here,” Emily said, the tip of her finger pointing to one of the pictures of the floor outside the bathroom stall where the body was found, “Her earrings and jewellery are laid out equidistant on the floor,”

“Sure as hell looks like him,” Rossi said, and she cleared her throat, looking to the older man on her left.

“Like who?” She asked, her eyes snapping to Spencer who opened his mouth to speak, which seemed to be the only time he ever did bother making conversation; when there was a body on their hands.

“Floyd Feylnn Ferrell,” He said, as if the original case had only been wrapped up last week, but then with his memory she wasn’t exactly surprised, “A psychotic cannibal who’d been killing under the radar for years,”

“He killed ten prostitutes and then moved up to low risk victims,” Prentiss added, the rookie’s eyes wide. It wasn’t anything she’d never heard of, but it never made it easier knowing something even worse was coming after the murders.

“He kept slipping through the cracks and avoiding justice so people referred to him as ‘Lucky’” JJ said, her eyes darting over the crime scene photos that seemed to take her back ten years to when they’d seen almost an identical set of photos, like Hotch was about to call ‘Wheels up in twenty’ any minute now.

Rossi sighed, looking at the younger girl who watched him wide eyed, “Have you eaten today, rookie?”

She shook her head dumbly, “Why?”

“Because the worst of it was he owned a barbeque joint,” Her face dropped even more, if that was even possible, “And he fed one of the victims to the search party,”

Her hand flew to her mouth, blinking at the seasoned agent in terror, because that was something she hadn’t ever thought would enter someone’s mind until she heard it. As simple as it sounded, for someone who had seen cases going back twenty, thirty years, some particularly heinous in nature, there were new lengths she didn’t realise a human could ever go to, let alone would.

Penelope stopped, shutting her laptop lid and glancing at JJ in a plea for help, as the thought of what had happened after the Ferrell case rushed to the front of her mind, when the guy she’d thought wanted to take her out on a date shot her.

“I have a computer…” The blonde trailed off, heading for the door to the office room with a dazed look in her eyes, and the rookie watched her leave, her neck and palms clammy as she thought about what Rossi had just said.

“I think I have a computer too-” She rushed, and she bolted from her seat before she could think of anything else, dashing after the technical analyst because she feared she was going to throw up if she didn’t get a breath of fresh air.

Spencer watched her hair swish as she scurried out the room, and he wondered how long she would last if she couldn’t stomach just a few photos. He had struggled with the gore at first, sure, but he’d never ran. Maybe he was being cruel, but he couldn’t say that a girl like her exactly fit the part of an FBI agent, she seemed… pure, like driven snow, and if anything he’d hate for the bloodied parts of their job to stain a girl so squeaky clean.

Emily nudged his shoulder, nodding towards her retreating figure when he looked up at her questioningly, “You keep an eye on her in this case. She’s still learning,”

And Spencer grit his teeth, because he hated the idea of babysitting when he had a dozen of his own problems, but he nodded indignantly.

He just hoped she didn’t make things too hard for him.

–

The door swung open behind Ferrell, the UnSub’s sister, the midday Florida heat boring down on her back, Spencer bristling at her right as Luke pocketed his badge.

And then there he was. The guy from the photo, his thick, wiry glasses exact matches to the ones he’d been wearing the day he got caught, though she supposed a mental facility didn’t exactly have funds for replacements.

“It’s no problem, Lori, I’ll speak with them,” His voice was a strong southern twang, and almost chillingly calm. His sister looked over her shoulder at him, the woman fretful as she glanced between the four agents, ten years of troubles on her shoulders. She sighed, running a hand over her neck nervously and headed back inside to be with her son, leaving them alone with their suspect on the doorstep, “You’ll have to wait, I’m on my way to church. It’s right around the corner so I’m within the thousand permitted yards from the monitoring station,”

He quickly glanced at where Matt and Luke stood behind her, the former with his arms crossed over his chest as he eyed up the thin, twiggly guy who looked like the type to live in his mother’s basement until he died, not the type to cannibalise and murder.

His eyes darted over to where Reid towered over him, familiarity flicking in his face as he looked at the agent, and he smiled slowly, like something out of a horror, the uncanny valley of a face so normal when she knew he was so sick somewhat terrifying to her. He fed one of the victims to the search party. She heard it rattling around her skull as she saw the whites of his teeth, and she imagined him ripping into her then and there, her hands shaking.

“Hey, I remember you. Where’s your friend, Agent Morgan?” Floyd said, and she felt Spencer tense up beside her, which she guessed meant it was a sore subject as she jumped into the conversation, her lips moving before she could think better of it. She’d always had a habit of talking too much when she was nervous, or to fill gaps, or when she could tell someone was uncomfortable, she’d always been told it was one of her more irksome traits.

“You wouldn’t mind if we took a look around, would you? Just while you’re gone?” She asked politely yet, for once, she regretted ever opening her mouth the second he turned his attention on her.

She felt something cold and dreadful run down her spine as he looked straight at her, his sepia eyes trailing down over her neck, running over her body and down to her hands that fidgeted at her sides.

They waited on baited breath, her stomach flipping with sickness as that manic smile drew even wider, trained solely on her, a thought privy only to himself somewhat amusing to him. She felt herself lean away without even meaning to, incidentally feeling Spencer’s arm bump into hers as she did, and the three men seemed to tense up as they watched Ferrell smell the air, savouring every second of it, his eyes blown wide with something unreadable. Lustful yet starved, like he was on a four day fast standing next to an open roast.

“You’re awful pretty for an agent,” Floyd said, that drawling accent of his turning her stomach, and his eyes trailed down over her calves, and she cursed herself for wearing a midi skirt. But she hated jeans on her thighs, hated the way Florida air clung humidly to her skin when she didn’t let it breathe, but she thought she might just hate the way his mouth filled with saliva more, “Do you like running, agent?”

“Sometimes,” She whispered, shrinking in on herself even more as he took a step out of the home.

And Spencer felt his chest drop at the sound of it. She sounded petrified. But then, he would be too if someone his size looked at him like he was a five-course banquet. And he regretted ever thinking of her as babysitting, as defective, because she was clearly trying her best, and this was where it had gotten her. Right on the UnSub’s menu.

“I bet you do a lot of running, chasing after bad guys, huh?” Floyd pushed, leering towards her with another smell of her perfume, and she could have sworn his smile only widened into something cheshire cat-esque. She nodded with a worried gulp, her breath picking up when his hand began moving up to where a rogue stray hair fell out of her bun, running over her collar bone, her heart beating so wild and heavy beneath it.

And it was enough for Spencer to act, because within the blink of an eye, he’d side stepped in front of the rookie who seemed frozen in her spot, and Floyd’s arm was shoved away where it hit Spencer’s bicep. Ferrell was forced to stop looking over her clammy skin with heavy swallows like he was imagining just how she would cut and marinate, and instead was confronted with a frown that could send any man scarpering, Spencer’s lips pressed into something furious, his shoulders seeming only more broad than they usually did when he purposely blocked Ferrell’s view from her.

“You’d better get going, Floyd,” Spencer said, his voice a deadly sort of calm, and his arm stuck out behind him to keep her where she was as he spoke, “You’re going to be late for church,”

And Floyd listened, despite his smarmy smile as he dared a look at her when he passed by, despite the fact his eyes trailed back down to her jugular like he was ready to sever it there and then to string her up and cure.

Spencer’s hand fished around his pocket, glaring at the back of Floyd’s head as he strolled down the street, tossing the keys to Alvez, “Take her back to the car, don’t let her out of your sight,”

And the two of them listened while he and Matt swept the house, because anyone would be insane not to when Spencer looked so angry he could have put a hole through Ferrell’s head without blinking an eye.

–

“Eating people, who eats people, what on earth is that all about,” She muttered, the four of them in the SUV heading back to the station. She sat at the front with Spencer where he drove because Luke and Matt were gentlemen and had offered her the extra leg room, and Spencer had zero qualms because he was under strict instruction to keep an eye on her.

She did that alot, he realised. Muttered when she was thinking about something. Where he went deadly silent when troubled, too focused on sorting through the mental files that seemed to be so resistant to organise these days, she was his entire opposite, always talking or humming a tune under her breath or playing an invisible set of piano notes on her knee, something to always keep the space filled.

He’d hated it the first few days, the sound like a blaring alarm coming from over by her desk, cutting through his limited attention span, grating on his nerves and making him have to bite his tongue to stop himself from yelling at her to shut the fuck up. But then, it wasn’t exactly personal to her, even the sound of the coffee machine had been enough to pull at his hair in frustration. At twelve years old, it spluttered and whirred and kicked back at every drink it made, every second of it winding Spencer’s patience up like a jack in the box.

But he found himself listening in on her mumbles, glancing over at how her frown screwed up her doe eyes, her lip pulling between her teeth whenever there was a tiny pause in between her words, before she started again. He’d quickly realised it was the easiest cheat in the book to know when something was bothering her, that she was so much of an open book, not at all cold and guarded like him or so many other profilers he knew, that he wouldn’t need to bother deducing her like she was his next UnSub to know what was wrong. She would just tell him as it was, wear everything vulnerable on her face.

“Something the matter?” He pressed, Luke also keeping a close watch on her from the back seat as she shook her head to herself, and her head snapped over to the driver’s side, her expression entirely caught even though she’d not exactly been subtle about her turmoil.

“M-me? “ She pointed to herself, and Spencer nodded, trying not to smile because sometimes she could be clueless, not the dumb kind but something sweet, naive, and he found himself somewhat jealous that she didn’t need to be the smartest person in the room to be worth something, she could just be herself, “Yeah, I guess I just,” She huffed, running her hands over her skirt, “I don’t get why anyone would want to eat someone else, it just-” She shivered, not in a theatrical or fake way but like a ghost had walked over her grave just thinking about Floyd smelling at her.

“Some cultures used to cannibalise other members of their society as funerary practices as early as twenty-four thousand years ago,” Spencer said, and she stopped fidgeting to listen to him, “There’s evidence that the Magdelanians in North Europe used to turn their dead’s skulls into cups they would then drink out of,”

“That I can understand, those guys were probably starving and it’s not like they can just chow down on a damn sabertooth as an easy lunch or something,” She said, and he bit his lip from stopping her to explain that the two of them were about four thousand years apart from one another, “But like, when there’s a burger king or taco bell on every corner, why are you eating women. Who eats women for breakfast lunch and dinner, like raise your hands which one of you would ever eat a woman,”

Luke sniggered, and Matt smirked at the innuendo of it, the double meaning of her words flying entirely over her head.

“I dunno, Alvez, do you like eating women?” Simmons asked, a smug grin in his words as the boys cackled childishly, and Spencer rolled his eyes with amusement.

“Pretty partial to it actually,” Luke chimed in, and she whirled in her seat to look behind her of scepticism, “How about you, Reid?”

“You guys are so weird,” She murmured, and Spencer took a quick glance off the road to see her looking entirely baffled, her feathers ruffled at the fact she was left out of the joke.

“They’re talking about oral sex,” He explained, because he remembered when that had been him for the longest time, and how it had made him feel like the butt of every punchline to not understand why everyone would smile at him knowingly, yet he found himself doing the exact same to her, his lips twitching at their corners.

Spencer watched her scoff, looking back at the two grown children in the back, “I take it back, you guys aren’t weird, your gross. Why can’t you be mature like Spencer?” She huffed, sitting back in her seat and fixing her skirt, “See if you were grownups like Agent Reid and I, you’d know the term isn’t eating a woman, it’s called focalratio,”

Matt pulled a face of confusion, flicking his eyes to her, “Isn’t that to do with a camera lens?”

“Do you mean fellatio?” Spencer asked, trying his hardest not to smirk because he didn’t want to make her feel stupid, except she just waved a hand at him.

“That’s what I said. I see why they call you Doctor Read and not Doctor Listen,” She giggled at her own words, watching the trees go by her passenger window, almost entirely oblivious to the way Spencer’s face cracked into a grin, something easy and charmed in his chest.

And for a moment, he saw exactly what Penelope had been talking about when she wouldn’t stop talking about how likeable she was and how it was harder to hate her than it was to love her.

Luke took a sip of his water, the bottle nearing the end as the Florida sun warmed it up, and he figured he might as well finish it before it became stagnant and undrinkable.

“Actually the term fellatio describes only male genitalia, the female equivalent would be cunnilingus-” Spencer explained, and he knew she was listening because he felt her eyes on the side of his face as he spoke, except he was cut off by the sound of her screaming so loud he nearly slammed on the breaks then and there.

“LUKE!” She yelled, and when Spencer looked, she had water dripping down the back of her hair, soaking her shirt to her skin, her black bra straps suddenly clear as day as they pressed against her dove white top. Alvez looked mortified, and he found himself apologising between coughs, water dribbling down his chin where he’d been so shocked to hear that word coming from Spencer’s mouth that he’d completely forgone swallowing and simply spat the whole thing out right through the gap between the headrest and the seat.

And Spencer laughed; it was quiet and foreign and nothing on the roaring cacophony coming from Matt in the back, as her and Luke descended into a squabble, her proclaiming him as a disgusting alpaca man as she tried to dry herself off with his jacket. But she caught it, the small chuckle coming from her left, and she looked at him, the sodden shirt almost forgotten when she saw him laugh.

She thought then that she wanted to make him laugh like that a million more times. And she knew she had it bad for Spencer Reid all over again.

#em’s inbox ᯓ★#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #matthew gray gubler x reader #sunshine!reader #post prison!spencer reid x reader

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sp4ceboo · 4 days ago

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As Selfish as Love: Merman!Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

genre: merfolk au, fantasy au, merman!bakugou x witch!reader, strangers to lovers, bakugou x f!reader, smut and angst and fluff

summary: in a world infested with purgers of magic, neither a clandestine witch nor a lone merman can remain safe for long.

tw: 18+, smut (afab reader, p in v, bkg has a merman cock, marking + biting, oral f receiving, fingering, crying during sex but not like you think, unprotected sex, creampie), violence, blood, death, vivid gore, grief, reader treated as a tool by evil ppl, random worldbuilding, questionable medical knowledge, kinda plot heavy, other stuff i don't remember

wc: 19.8k

For years, all you’ve known is darkness.

Chained by the wrist to a ring in the wall, swaddled and asphyxiating in the blackness of the brig - it is there where your closest companion has become the dark. It is the absence of light: not only because they do not deem you human enough to spare lamp oil on you, but because the kiss of the sun has been reduced to a foreign concept, a distant, syrupy memory.

Every morning when that door opens, letting light leak in and crawl painfully between the cracks of the roughly hewn floorboards like an intruder, you repeat your name back to yourself, remind yourself who you are - a witch, a survivor, a person at the end of their tether but that all the same does what they can to keep the shadows at bay.

For the darkness is not just the absence of light: it is the absence of hope, and if you let it take you, your very substance will dissolve and you will sink beneath obsidian waves and melt away without a sound. They will have won.

This is something you will not allow.

White knuckled, you hold onto memories of the past the way a drowning man clings to driftwood. They swirl in the currents of your mind, fickle things. Sometimes they are so tangible you can feel the grass beneath your feet and the bracing wind of the highlands on your face even in the still, humid air of the brig, sometimes they eddy away before you can catch a glimpse.

You were barely a woman when they caught you, when they tore you out from where you’d been rooted to the earth, ripping through the stitches that held your life together. You were young, and you were naive and ignorant. This would not have happened if I had been as I am now, you think, but as you are now is shackled in the belly of a ship built for the single purpose of hunting merfolk.

They hunt to purge. Their so-called divine has commanded the eradication of magic, and so that is what each and every child is trained for from birth. The land has been rife with their conquest for centuries, making witches such as your kind unheard of, yet the sea for all its worth has lain mostly untouched until recently.

You are jealous of the merfolk. The magic must come easily to them, because they have not had to suppress it out of fear - it seethes in their blood, potent as an ocean storm, imbued within their essences as salt is in seawater. For this, they are feared, and for this, the hunters are more so hellbent on their extermination.

Over your years spent in the hull’s constant night you’ve learnt that your captors are the most celebrated hunters of their time, held above everything but their leader and their divine. They are revered among their people, and that is why they are allowed to chain a witch in their brig and force her to heal wounds sustained from hunting the undeserving - because they are strong enough and honourable enough to not be corrupted by your magic.

There is nothing honourable about the way they treat you.

Though you are human as they are, you are lower than an animal to them. They have no care for your limits - oftentimes, you are pushed to heal and heal and heal until you are exhausted, and yet you refuse to succumb when the darkness calls, because each time you meet their eyes, without fail, you see, buried deep within, is fear.

They fear what is unknown, what is not under their control, and every time you refuse to break when they beat you just for entertainment, every time they push you almost to death yet you survive, you wrest back an inch of control. You are needed, and that is something you will use one day, when the time is right. For now, you collect those sparks of fear in their eyes and let it feed the fire nestled within your soul that fends off the growing dark.

It is a day like any of the other days. Stirring in your fraying blankets, you wake up to the sound of the crew’s strident voices, and as it is sometimes, you almost forget that they are cruel and stained by their own wrong doings because for now, there is no talk of blood shed, just breakfast. You hate that they can seem so normal with so many innocent lives on their hands.

The day very quickly progresses into the type you have come to dread.

They neglect to bring you your daily portion of bread and water, nor the echinacea you had asked for more of, and it can only mean one thing - a hunt is on. Already, you can feel the unruly lurch of the ship as it skims over the waves, picking up speed. The crew’s voices become louder, crowing and eager, and you despise them so deeply your heart twists and becomes an ugly thing in your chest.

Almost imperceptible, you can hear the rattle and hiss of ropes as they ready their harpoons. This part is the worst, where the darkness closes in so near that you can feel its cold touch brush up your arms and its breath ghosting over your face. Sometimes you hear the anguished cries of the merfolk, sometimes the whoops and victory cries of the crew are loud enough to drown it out. You don’t know which is worse.

After will come the wounded, grinning still and soaked in blood of two kinds - theirs and their victims. You are always numb to it by then, turning a blind eye to the crimson dipped trophies they grip in dirty hands: lopped off fins and strips of scales, sometimes small enough to be a child’s.

How they can butcher beings as beautiful as the merfolk and think it the right thing to do, you do not know.

It makes you sick to your stomach, that somehow you have become their accomplice, stitching their wounds with your magic, saving their lives so they can kill again. You vow that one day, you will strike back, but what good can you do now, trapped in the bowels of a boat that was designed as a vessel for murder?

You have to try. You have to survive, if just to try. You are yet to come up with a method for escaping past what you have already attempted, but if you do not, more lives will be lost, more bloodshed that you had inadvertently aided. Right now, on deck, the patterns for it to happen all over again are falling into place.

You’re sure that this time will be no different.

And so you wait for the injured to come, almost defeated if not for the hard, bright little ball of hate settled in your throat. You wait, and you wait, listening to the strange thumping above that you can’t decipher, and still they don’t bring you their wounded. Neither comes their usual sickening shouts of triumph - you wonder if the merfolk managed to escape. You hope desperately that they did.

Listless, you turn your head as footsteps approach. There are more than normal. You can’t count exactly - five, maybe six, and they all walk with a strange irregular gait as they approach the brig.

I hope the merfolk put up a magnificent fight, you think as the key scrapes in the lock. I hope that taught them; you know it never does. The more damage the merfolk do while they fight for the lives of their mates and children, the more they are damned as unnatural and beastly and deserving of the fates that are doled out to them by men.

With a rusty squeal, the door swings wide, and with it comes the same influx of light that always spills greedily through, stinging your eyes and making them ache - the doing of a tiny, wayward star moulded from precious lamp oil. You blink away the tears that well up at your lash line, testament to your accustomation to the dark, and then blink again.

Back when you took the warmth of the sun on your face for granted, you lived too far inland to ever see one in the flesh. You were still a witch under the disguise of a healer, though. You’d heard tales, seen artists’ renderings and gorey body parts wrenched off as sick memorabilia.

None of those could have ever come close to preparing you for the sight before your eyes.

A merman.

Deep in enemy territory - so deep, in fact, that all those surrounding him, bar you, have murdered more than dozens of his kind each. He is on a galleon rammed bow to stern with killers. And yet, despite it, he has not fallen victim to the purge. Yes, there is a splintered harpoon sunken into his side, yes, he is limp and broken, but even so, shallowly, his chest rises and falls.

He breathes. He breathes, and even that is beautiful. The lamp’s light reflects off his scales; he is mainly jet black, but broad swathes of orange run across the length of his powerful tail like they were drawn with the loving stroke of a painter’s brush. In parts, they darken into a ruby red that glitters and winks as the lamp light dances.

Or maybe that’s just blood.

There’s a lot of it. It soaks into the sheet they strain to carry between them, pools in the dip his weight makes, streaks in smears down his chest and face, coats his hands and is embedded under his sharp nails. You hope that all of it is not his, that he made them regret whatever they must have done to get a merman vulnerable enough and far enough from his pod to capture him.

Deep lacerations cut all along his chest and tail, and one of the spines that extend from his sail-like dorsal fin is bent in a way that must mean it is broken. A smattering of scales reach wide across his shoulders and back and down his arms, some of them twisted and bent out of shape. Your eyes fall to the harpoon buried just below his hip, and you feel the bite of your nails digging into your palms.

“Heal it,” commands the man holding the corner of the sheet closest to you. “We’ve been ordered to bring back a merfolk to be studied. It must be in peak condition.”

You frown as they begin to manoeuvre all three metres of merman into the brig. Studied? They must be looking for a weakness to exploit. After all, merfolk succumb less easily to flesh wounds than humans - the magic of the sea resides in their very bones.

A hand fists the front of your shirt and you’re jerked forward. You can feel the hunter’s foul breath on your cheek, feel the violence roiling just below the surface of his skin, and yet you cannot tear your eyes from the merman until you’re struck across the face. Reeling back, you raise your head to look at him, a hand flying up to cradle your jaw where it has begun to swell.

“Are you deaf? What are you waiting for?” he spits.

Your brain is still stuck on the fact that there is a merman before you, alive on a ship full of specialised mermen killers, but your body has gone through these motions many times before and brings you to kneel by your patient so fast your chain jingles crassly in the relative quiet, your hands already working to gather herbs for a poultice that will slow the bleeding.

Glancing over your shoulder, you see your captors filing out of the door, the last of them grumbling and wiping his hands on his trousers as if being near enough to hit you had sullied him. Realisation dawns abruptly on you.

They’re leaving you alone with the merman.

“Wait,” you call.

Disquiet grows in your stomach. As much as you hate the life forced upon you, serving as a tool for men who would not hesitate to kill you if you ran out of worth, you have gotten used to it, and this merman at your feet has disrupted your delicate equilibrium, tripping you as you balance on a knife’s blade.

You have never had problems with thinking fast in a pinch. You are a healer, you are accustomed to endless wells of blood and snapped bones sticking through skin. Conversely, you are not accustomed to the sight of a half conscious merman taking up the majority of your floor space, a single fingernail on his hand no doubt potent with more magic than is contained in your whole body.

Your tongue is slow, your mind slower, but you force the words out, emboldened because whether he likes it or not, this merman is leverage for you. There is no one else on board that could save him.

“I will need a lamp indefinitely, while I’m in the process of healing.”

You realise how important the health of this merman is to their study because the hunter holding the lamp brings it over with no words of criticism, just the curl of his lip when you draw near enough to take it from him.

Its metal is warm in your hands, and you cup it in your palms - a little sun that clears the clinging shadows from the brig like they’re cobwebs. Carefully, you set it on the floor next to you, just outside the border of the canvas the merman lies upon, sitting back on your heels as the door slams shut.

You stare at the merman for a weighty moment. If it did, there’s no telling what organ the harpoon may have punctured - do his intestines extend all the way down his tail? Or are they in the same place as a human’s, and his tail is just muscles, like legs would be?

Never in your life did you think merfolk anatomy would have any significance to you. Even if you’d thought it did, there wouldn’t be any books for you to study on it. A hysterical, jittery laugh builds in your throat, wringing itself from you when you spot the strange slit - for lack of better words - that sits just below where his skin turns to obsidian scales.

The nervous sound breaks the silence, jolting you into action. Never mind his anatomy, he’s still bleeding out. Somehow, you need to get that harpoon out of him: the hunters don’t clean them off once they’ve used them, and if you’re not vigilant, infection will get him before whatever they’ve got in store will.

Determinedly, you scoot closer to his lower half, stretching out a hand to test the area around the wound. In preparation, you will your healing magic to rise to the surface, and it fizzles at the surface of your palms, warming them.

Your fingertips have barely brushed over his scales when pain slashes across your cheek.

The merman jerks away from you so hard that he cries out, and you wince as you see the wound pull wide, blood oozing out from where it gapes. Gingerly, you touch a hand to your cheek - one of his spines had glanced off your face as he’d moved away, its tip sharp enough to shed blood.

Any human patient would have lost consciousness moments after being hit by the harpoon that’s buried in his tail, and if by a miracle they hadn’t yet, the pain caused by what he just did surely would have knocked them out. Inexplicably, he’s still conscious, blood red eyes glaring at you with blatant distrust.

You hadn’t gotten a chance to look closely at his face before - you’d been too busy ogling his tail. Spikey, sandy hair casts a shadow over his eyes. They glow, carmine and half crazed, no doubt with the same agony that pinches at his face and curls his lip, revealing sharp canines that he bares at you, twin ivory warnings.

A rattling, hissing sound emanates from deep in his chest when you attempt to move closer again, his dorsal fin undulating in an obvious threat display. You can tell it hurts him; the spine you’d noticed before is definitely broken, the parts of the fin around it drooping and limp. He growls when he catches you looking.

You really, really don't know what to do.

Your skin prickles, the hairs on the back of your neck rising. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you were left alone with him. Aside from the obvious hostility, his face is effectively blank; there’s nothing in his gaze except the primal instinct to survive, and the unspeakable, offensive terror of a wounded animal backed into a corner and trapped there.

There’s no getting through to him with words. You remember the night you were ripped from your cottage by the hunters, the way you clawed and screamed until your voice was gone and your nails were torn and bleeding. You know what it’s like to have the adrenaline coursing through your veins so fast it burns, you know what it’s like to feel the anger and fear blend together in your chest until it strips away your humanity and you’re reduced to nothing more than a feral, wild eyed animal.

Slowly, you get to your feet, your chains rattling. He growls, making that hissing sound again, and despite his size, despite the muscles straining in his chest and the magic you can sense in his form, he looks small. You grit your teeth. The shock is beginning to wear off, burnt to ashes by a roaring fury that licks up your throat and fills your lungs.

You wonder if he had a pod. You wonder if they got massacred before his eyes.

Ignoring the trembling of your hands, you scoop up the piece of dried fish that remains from yesterday’s meal. It’s the only food you have, so you turn and offer it to him - when he doesn’t hiss immediately, you slide it over to him on the dented tin plate it had been on.

Tentatively, the merman picks up the fish, his nose very obviously wrinkling. As he examines your peace offering, you notice his hands are webbed up to the lowest knuckle and are a little larger than a human man’s, the fingers longer and the nails considerably sharper.

Relief fills you as he begins to chew at the fish, and you retreat to your pile of blankets, sitting down and half facing away to give him as much privacy as is possible in as small a space as the brig. You begin to make a poultice for him, crushing the herbs between your fingers because you’re not allowed a mortar and pestle and depositing them on one of the dishes you have lying around.

Once you’re done, you turn back to him. The edge in his eyes has softened a touch, and when you scoot over to settle closer to him, he doesn’t make a sound, instead just leaning away a little, watching you warily. Warningly, he hisses when you lift your hand, his red eyes flashing.

“I’m going to have to touch you to put this poultice on,” you tell him. “It will reduce the bleeding and might alleviate the pain.”

He twitches but remains silent. You wonder briefly if he even understands - people don’t talk to merfolk these days. They either run or they kill. For all you know, he might speak some ancient language of the sea that you have no hope in understanding.

You scoop the poultice up in your fingers and lean forward, aiming to ease him in by angling first for a smaller wound situated just over a hip bone on a human would be (you’re not even sure if his equivalent qualifies as a hip seeing as he lacks legs).

“Don’t,” he snarls, his voice guttural and rasping, like he hasn’t uttered a word in years.

Fumbling, you almost drop the dish. You guess that answers one of your many questions - he can speak your language, although you presume one word doesn’t really express fluency. For a moment, you consider telling him that they’ll no doubt beat you for not healing him, but it seems rather insignificant since it’s nothing they haven’t inflicted on you before.

Sighing, you sit back on your heels and look at him, defeated. He regards you with those same crimson eyes as before, but they’ve cooled considerably and hold traces of scathing criticism you find you aren’t the fondest of.

You begin to realise that he’s not going to give you any explanation as to why he doesn’t want you to treat him. He doesn’t trust you, most likely - you haven’t given him any reason to think otherwise of you, rather, you’d gawped openly at him. You’re not surprised he hasn’t taken a liking to you. You wouldn’t either.

So you retreat back to what has now become your corner of the brig, since the other three are taken up by the length of his tail and the doorway. On a whim, you prepare yourself a turmeric tea; it’s anti-inflammatory and you know you’ll be needing it sooner or later.

It takes a day, but one of the hunters barges in, light sneaking in past the outline of his silhouette. You don’t know any of them by name, nor would you want to, but you do know that this particular one is the first mate.

The merman hasn’t let you near him still, and although at points his eyes are closed, you’re worried that if you try to sneak up on him, he’ll move away again and tear open the parts of the wound around the harpoon that have partially closed up. The perimeter of blood soaked canvas beneath him has slowed its expansion but still grows.

It’s amazing that he’s survived this long while still losing blood. You presume merfolk must be rather resilient, unsurprisingly - the sea is no easy place to live in, nor is it made any easier by its recent infestation of merfolk hunters.

“Did you not hear your orders yesterday, you useless bitch?”

Passively, you look up at him as he looms closer. “I did.”

“So you don’t want to cooperate, then,” he snaps. “Do I have to encourage you?”

You don’t get to answer. A fist full of scarred knuckles collides with your nose, and your head snaps back, white exploding across your vision as the hunter shoves you backwards. Your back hits the ground and before you can even think of scrambling away, you’re kicked hard in the ribs.

You don’t try to resist it. You’ve learnt it’s better to take it than to fight and make him hit harder.

Red hot pain shoots through you when the tip of his boot catches your chin, clacking your teeth together. You cry out as your blood fills your mouth, streams from your nose, stains his knuckle bones. Hands up in a pitiful attempt at protecting your face, you curl up on the floor, as small as you can. Your ribs throb, your chain trapped awkwardly beneath your body.

You’re still balled up with your arms over your head long after he slams the door behind him. You ache all over, and your lower lip is trembling treacherously. Tears press at the backs of your eyes so you squeeze them shut: you’re not going to cry.

You need to get up.

You need to down that damned turmeric tea you made, just to feel the ginger burn as it slips down your throat.

When you open your eyes, the merman is staring. You grimace as you heave yourself to sit upright, the metallic taste of blood still coating your tongue and curdling until it’s sour. His face is unreadable, shuttered and devoid of any emotion. He doesn’t speak, although that isn’t exactly atypical.

“Well, now you’re not the only one bleeding all over the floor,” you mutter, unable to keep the resentment from your tone.

You turn your back to him as you set your nose with a grunt, letting your magic flow through your fingers and knit your flesh back together. Running a hand over your ribs, you check if any are broken, but when none are, you don’t heal them up; you’ll need to save your energy. The hunter didn’t bring food for you, and you doubt he’ll be bringing you any more until you treat the merman. That could take anything from an hour to a week.

Falteringly, you glance over your shoulder. He stares off to a place far away, a place you cannot see. A scowl furrows his brow, and you sigh, wondering if he thinks of the sea and the freedom that was torn away from him the way it was for you.

Curling up on your blankets, you pull one over yourself, rolling to face the wall and shutting your eyes. Loud in the darkness, your stomach growls, and you twitch but ignore the urge to look over your shoulder and stare accusingly at the merman - you too would not trust a human if all their kind had brought him was pain.

Your ribs hurt. It is alright, though. You’ve fallen asleep through worse.

When you wake, the first thing you do is crouch down beside the merman to check his wounds. The rattle of your chains makes him open his eyes, and you see that his face has paled, the alertness in his gaze dimmer now the adrenaline has worn off. As is becoming clear, he’s more resistant to injury than humans are, but there’s a worrying amount of blood saturating the canvas sheet beneath him, and you doubt he’ll make it much longer without help.

If he lets you near, what you’re going to have to do is far from ideal. The hunters’ harpoons are barbed and vicious, but you can’t exactly keep it in, and you can’t exactly cut it out without risking more blood loss. You’re just going to have to yank on it and hope it doesn’t destroy anything too vital on its way out.

“I’m going to have to take the harpoon out,” you tell him measuredly, gauging his facial expression.

He simply stares at you, his face blank but for the slight pinch of his brow. Shadows bathe half of his face; there is barely any lamp oil left to burn. The little flame flickers and sputters, letting darkness dance up the close walls of the brig, and if you do not hurry, you may have to treat him in the dark.

Slowly, you lift your hand, letting it hover over the splintered end of the harpoon. Tension bleeds into his body, the set of his jaw tight and his hands fisting as if he’s bracing himself, but he doesn’t growl or flinch away. Expectancy and resignation lurk in his gaze.

You don’t like that he won’t say anything in response even though he’s proven he can talk. You can feel his eyes boring into the back of your head as you gather your materials: the poultice from yesterday, a roll of bandages, a thick strip of worn leather. The latter you give to him, sighing when he turns it over in his hands, quizzical,

“Bite down on it,” you instruct him as you roll up your sleeves. “Either that or it’ll be your tongue.”

He frowns, but does as you say. You glance up at him to check if he’s ready. The hard lines of his body stand out, taut as a bowstring. He looks brittle, as if he might break and crumble into dust the moment you touch him.

Years ago, when you healed children’s scraped knees and the broken bones of men who had fallen from their ladders while fixing leaks in roofs, you had the words to comfort your patients. These you lost to the eternal darkness of the merfolk hunters’ ship, and these you wish to find again but cannot.

Instead, you murmur a quiet warning as you kneel by his tail, wiping your sweaty palms off on your trousers before getting a strong two handed grip on the end of the harpoon. Under your breath, you count down: three, two, one. Pull.

It makes a squelching, sucking noise as it comes out. You cringe but keep on tugging - if you stop now, it’ll be worse for both of you. He cries out, voice ragged and spilling over with agony, his tail arcing off the floor, and you feel the movement in the way the harpoon jerks in your hands with the bunching of his muscles.

All of a sudden, the resistance disappears. His tail fin slaps against the floor as he goes limp, both his and your heavy panting filling the room. You’re left with the splintered harpoon in your hands, a chunk of flesh and a twisted scale still clinging to one of the bloodied, rusted spokes. He spits the strip of leather out and it lands near your knee.

Carefully, you set down the harpoon and begin applying the poultice straight onto the weeping gash in his side, spreading the rest over the bandages which you bind tightly around his tail. Leaking from your fingertips, your magic suffuses across his skin as you work; you can’t heal him accurately without knowing much about his inner workings, but it should help to stave off any infection.

He shelters his face in the crook of his elbow, and though he tucks his other hand tightly to his chest, you can see the way he trembles.

You give him his space by swiftly moving on, busying yourself with his other injuries. You splint the spine in his dorsal fin, ignoring the way his hands shake and gently placing the arm crossed over his torso by his side so you can use your magic to clean and close up the various cuts and slashes littering his scar flecked body.

His scales seem to be damp, even though it’s almost been a full twenty four hours since he was brought in. It must be seawater somehow, you decide, or a sweat-like substance that keeps his tail wet enough when he hasn’t been in water for a while. He doesn’t look the most comfortable: he’s probably not used to having to support his own weight without the buoyancy of the waves.

There are little scars all over him, his skin a map of cicatrices, but the one that catches your attention is raised and jagged, spanning from the middle of his sternum to his navel. You touch your index finger to the centre of it, and he inhales sharply, flinching away.

“Sorry,” you mutter, pulling back, half expecting him not to hear you.

He’s silent for a while, ignoring your apology, but then comes a begrudging: “Thank you.”

Though he won’t see it - he’s still hiding his face from you - you shrug. “You should never have been hurt in the first place.”

He’s quiet again, lying still enough for you to imagine him dead if not for the rise and fall of his broad chest. You slouch, the energy having leaked from your body in order to mend his. The lamp finally gutters and winks out, leaving in its absence a tiny pinprick of light, a vanishing ember at the wick’s tip, buried in ashes.

When you tear your gaze away from your expired little sun, you’re confronted with a pair of blazing eyes. Pinned on you, they glow in the darkness like two pools of blood, but you find their luminosity strangely comforting, like Arcturus and Betelgeuse to a sailor: stars to lead you on your course.

“You are a witch, are you not?”

You jump at the sound of his voice, rough around the syllables but measured, as if he rolled them around on his tongue before he spoke. The scarlet light from his eyes dims a little as they narrow (you’re not sure if that’s meant to convey amusement or distaste) and you become aware that maybe he can see a lot more in the dark than you can.

“I am,” you confirm, still squinting at him - to no avail.

“Why do you not fight them, then?” He demands, his tone darkening. “Surely you cannot like it here.”

You scoff. “Of course I don’t like it here. You think I like the way they beat me?”

He’s silent, and though you still cannot see his face, you sense his scowl.

Sighing, you reign yourself in. This merman comes the closest to being an ally than all the others that have entered the brig, and you cannot squander this. He may not trust you, and you may be ignorant and ill informed of his kind, but you both have a common enemy, and though he may not like the thought, you are similar enough: the raw energy that flows through him is the same that you harness to perform your magic.

“I could fight, but there is nowhere for me to go if I escape the ship - there is just the sea,” you explain. “In the end, they are scared of all those associated with magic, even the witch they keep chained in the dark. The moment they deem that the risk I pose outweighs the use I have to them, they’ll kill me.”

He’s quiet again while he processes what you’ve said. “And what of me, witch? Why have they not killed me yet?”

“They want to study you,” you reply, wincing at how harsh your voice comes out. “I think we’re quite far from their lands - a few months’ travel, maybe - but it’s hard to tell.”

“What - ”

“Enough questions,” you cut him off. “My turn.”

A plethora of questions crowd your mind, but as you think of the merman in front of you, you find that they can wait, because although he must have stories of the sea that you’d only dreamed of hearing, and although magic you could learn endlessly from is threaded through his being, he is primarily, before anything, a soul. He is a soul: a soul with eyes that make the permanent night you are lost within just a little more manageable.

You will have to find out whether the kraken is real or not later; you will ask him about selkie skins afterwards.

Instead, you ask him his name, and tell him your own.

Bakugou, he grunts in response before turning his head to face the wall, clearly ending the conversation. Frowning, you stare at his back - or where you presume his back is, in the darkness - and mull over the name he provided you with; you are certain he has given you the one he gives to strangers. You suppose that is what you are.

Pulling absently at your chain, you sit with your back to the wall, your knees to your chest, and think about the merman, about Bakugou. For a moment, you are seized by the absurd belief that his most grave injury is a bleeding heart, but that cannot be true, for he has not said anything that indicates it. Questions find their way to your tongue, but you let them stick there, stifling them before they deign to interrupt the silence.

Neither of you move from your positions until the door opens, revealing the first mate. Squinting, you rise to your feet, a muscle feathering in your jaw as he purposefully kicks Bakugou in the shoulder, lifting his lamp high so he can see the bandages you’d applied.

“I’ll need a top up on lamp oil if I’m to continue the healing process,” you announce. “And we’ll need food and water. He’ll have - ”

You hesitate, glancing over at Bakugou, but he just lifts a shoulder and makes a face of disgust that you know isn’t conscious. Deliberating for a moment, you wrack your brain for any clues about merfolk diets.

“Fresh fish,” you decide. “And crabs. The bigger the better. Also, he’ll need a tub big enough for him, filled with seawater.”

“Watch the way you address me,” the first mate snaps, taking a step forward.

You shrug. “You wanted him healed, didn’t you?”

Your first two requests come within the next few hours, appeasing the increasing hollowness that had resided in your stomach and sending the shadows inhabiting the brig retreating up the walls and into the corners of the room, but the tub doesn’t come until two days after. It is barely watertight, plugged with tar and made from rough sawn wood.

You haven’t exchanged words with Bakugou since you asked his name and he gave you one, though you find yourself on the receiving end of his red eyes more often than not. He’s silent as the hunters bring the tub in, as they fill it with pails of seawater, as they leave and slam the brig’s door behind them. He’s silent, even as he slips into the tub and into a thin slice of his home.

And then, after a moment, he turns to you, and there’s something painful and cutting and cynical in his eyes.

“You know, the water doesn’t speed up the healing.”

You nod. “I know it doesn’t. You were uncomfortable.”

His eyes blaze. “What do you want?”

You regard him, regard the intensity of the fire in his gaze and the way his chest heaves. His tail fin hangs out of the tub, but even so, water swills over the side and splashes onto the floor like it can sense his agitation. Loudly, the links of your chain clank against each other as you cross your arms.

“I do not want anything, Bakugou.”

He narrows his eyes. “All humans I have known but one are cruel, witch. You wish for me to owe you something.”

“I don’t,” you reply, noticing the strange look that creeps onto his face. “Who is this human you hold in such high esteem?”

A distant look erases the furrow in his brow, and you get the sense he is no longer talking to you when he speaks again: he is lost in some place far away, a place coated in the golden sheen that tints all good memories. His voice turns soft as he brushes his fingers over the scar on his chest.

“His name was Izuku,” he murmurs. “But I called him Deku.”

“Deku?” You echo, your voice crudely loud all of a sudden.

A flash of grief slashes across his features like lightning on the high seas, there and gone so fast you almost don’t catch it. It’s like a switch flips, and suddenly shutters slam down behind his eyes and his expression melts away until his face is blank and cold. Regret sinks heavy in your stomach.

You wince. “I’m sorr - ”

“He’s dead,” Bakugou growls.

He doesn’t speak to you for three days. There is a certain rawness in his blood red eyes that makes you gentler as you change his dressings and reapply your poultices. He looks at you as if he hates that you are healing him instead of leaving him to die, so you avoid his gaze, staring instead at the scars that cover him like warpaint.

You get the sense that he is mourning this human he told you of all over again, and you cannot help but see the weight of it in the tension of his body and wonder if you could alleviate the pain.

On the fourth day, he shuts the vulnerability away somewhere deep inside of him, buried far enough beneath other things that he can pretend it never even existed. Yet you remember it, still vivid and fresh in your mind as you lie curled up on your side, watching the lamp’s flame until your eyes burn. He breaks the silence by clearing his throat, his gaze fixed on you.

“Witch,” Bakugou says softly. “How did they catch you?”

You glance over at him. “I was young and foolish and alone. It’s easy to snatch a girl from her home under those circumstances.”

“You have been here for years, then.”

“I have,” you sigh. “I tried to escape once. That’s why I’m chained down.”

“A weaker soul would not have survived this darkness,” he remarks solemnly. “You are strong, witch.”

You look down at your hands, watching your fingers fidget to and fro in your lap. Your tongue is frozen in your mouth - you had not spoken properly to someone in years before he was captured, and his behaviour confuses you. No words come to mind that express how grateful you are for his acknowledgement.

“Thank you,” you settle with in the end.

He hums but other than that remains silent.

Later you discuss with him the possible logistics of an escape. He explains to you that he cannot channel the magic the way you can, but that he is soaked in the magic of the sea; he is unable to use it for spells because it is innately part of him, enhancing him beyond human capabilities. Together, you come to the conclusion that you must get off the ship before you arrive at the hunters’ lands, or your chances of freedom will have narrowed to almost nothing.

An actual method of subduing or injuring the hunters enough to allow an exit route evades you, though. After all, you are chained to the wall, and there’s no easy way of moving Bakugou - he is, evidently, far too heavy for you to drag around all by yourself.

Uneasy silence falls over the brig. You stare at the lamp again: with it, your ability to see has been restored, along with a piece of your humanity, but now its light seems to illuminate how small a space you are contained in, how strong the chain binding you to the wall is.

As you drift off to sleep that night, you find yourself gripped by the fear that Bakugou will never return to the sea, and instead, they will inflict unspeakable torments upon him.

You will be the one who kept him alive for them. You will be the one who he grows to hate, because you had the chance to let future pain pass him by, but you saved him, and by doing so, you failed to spare him from their torture. And while they cut him open and study his insides, you will be somewhere far away, still risking yourself to heal their most elite, almost as if they are beloved to you.

The thought gnaws at you as the weeks pass. Blood no longer soaks the bandages wrapped around his tail; his dorsal fin is almost healed. He is gaining strength, more rapidly through your magic, and it is clear he has shaken off death many times before if his scars are testament to anything. In particular, the one on his chest draws you: though it is long healed, you can tell it was deep.

He almost died back then, too - the scar tissue around its edges is strange, lumpy and malformed as if he was kneaded back together by a child who saw his flesh as nothing more than clay harvested gleefully from a river bank. Even so, the shape of it is familiar. You know you shouldn’t pry. You remember the way he flinched away when you first touched it, but you ask, anyway.

“Bakugou,” you ask him once you’ve finished changing his bandages. “What did you do to get a merfolk’s blade stuck in your chest?”

He snarls. “All you do is fucking dig, you shitty witch.”

“I - ”

Hissing, he swipes at you half heartedly, and you stumble backwards, dodging his fist and almost tripping on your chain, caught off guard by the agitation in his eyes. Stunned, you gape at him. The fury is vehement on his face, evident in the grit of his teeth and the tremor in his hands as he grips the side of the tub; you can tell he despises how he is trapped in here with you, fending you off with the sting of his words.

You open your mouth. You’re not certain what you’re supposed to say, other than an apology that he will shake off easily, but you hope that words will form on your tongue. He levels his gaze on you, and this time, within it dwells an overwhelming sorrow that stops you short.

“Don’t try,” he whispers. “You cannot change the past.”

Brow furrowed, you stare at him. You take in the pain carved all over him, and this, you realise, not his scars, is his warpaint - he holds it close to him, like a cloak of inwardly turned, savage blades, reminding him to keep his distance. It is present in the bow of his head, the slump of his shoulders, a weight so heavy it threatens to rend his flesh from his bones.

You get to your feet, and in the lamp light, the single tear that rolls down his face is turned to solid gold.

Balefully, he looks at you, yet he holds still as you reach out and smooth it away with your thumb. A rawness resides in his eyes that you wish you could soothe as you catch the next tear that spills over, gently as if he is made of porcelain.

“You need not bear the weight of your world on your shoulders, Bakugou.”

Your words wrench a sob from him. His fingers curl tight around your wrist, tearing your hand away from his face, silently weeping as he grips you so hard you begin to lose feeling in your palm. You watch as the anguish in his eyes evolves into anger, harsh and brittle and bleak.

“Get away from me,” he spits, voice strangled, and yet he does not release you, so you perch on the side of the tub and make a show of not looking at him so he is not alone in his privacy.

It’s then that you realise that whether or not he likes it, you have gotten through to him. In the month that goes by, sometimes he is cold and aloof, keeping to himself, and sometimes he allows you close enough that you can feel his warmth. You find you savour his company when it’s there.

His wound is fully healed, a pink scar bordered by healing scales, and his dorsal fin spine is back in working order. You check up on him still, every other day or so, careful to monitor them in case you have somehow healed him wrong, careful to keep your regular intersections with him, because although you would never admit it to him, he is amusing, and he keeps the darkness at bay.

You are unsure what he thinks of you. Sometimes, he smacks you upside the head with no real force, and you dare to label it as affectionate. He gives you the name which he gives to those that mean more to him than strangers, too - well, you wring it out of him.

(“Bakugou, what’s your name?”

A scoff. “Witch, have you hit your head?”

“We both know you’re not obliged to answer, so if you’re not going to tell me, spare me the insults.”

Pause. “Katsuki. It’s Katsuki.”)

There are times when he has nightmares, too. You surmise that most of them are about Deku, and that the scar branding his chest, the one made by a merfolk forged weapon, is linked somehow to this dead human. Incomprehensibly, he mutters in his sleep, snarling about krakens and storms and sometimes even witches, but it always leads back to Deku.

Sometimes he protests against him, speaking a language you do not fully understand, cursing and thrashing so hard you fear the tub will splinter, while sometimes he proclaims his love, his voice slurred as he slumbers, but each time, without fail, he begs: forgive me, Izuku, forgive me, Deku, I’m sorry.

Katsuki is unaware of what he gives away in his sleep. Often, he settles down quickly after raising his voice, but sometimes you look over to see him stiff and terrified and shake him awake; he then jolts upright, the water sloshing out of the tub as he reaches for you, his stricken eyes searching yours for something you do not know the identity of, but he always finds.

He does not let you go, not ever. At these times, you lean or sit by the tub and let him crush your fingers in his grip.

He never speaks of it in the morning.

You would not hide from him what you have learnt, nor the feelings that grow treacherously in your heart, but you are too cowardly to tell him of either. It is certain that he loved Deku, and that maybe Deku loved him too. What was it like, you often wonder, to have loved Katsuki?

When he holds onto you, still half lost in the dark lands of his nightmares, you think about it. He would have been less guarded, a young merman not yet covered in scars; he would have given Deku his name immediately, for he would not have learnt that he needed to be wary of humans. Still, he would have fought for him until the end with the same ferocity he would fight for his own heart - because Deku was his own heart.

And Deku, you imagine Deku saw people as they really were. You imagine Deku with bright eyes and a brighter smile, with a face that all his emotions could be read off as easily as a book. He must have been good, persistent, if Katsuki had fallen for him. Soft, even, but tough when he needed to be.

They fit each other, no doubt.

You feel guilty, as if your speculations are invasive, rummaging around within Bakugou’s heart where he has not let you set foot. Mercifully, he can pin his red eyes on you as much as he likes, which he often does, but he will not hear your mind.

Now that he is healed, that is how you pass your days, exchanging words with him when either of you wish to, while you wrestle with the unspoken in your head and while god knows what happens behind his eyes. It is normal for silence to fall after a conversation - it is not awkward, but not comfortable either. It is pensive, it is familiar.

And today, it is shattered by screams up on deck.

Katsuki perks up, his keen ears picking up things your dull ones cannot, and he tilts his head, listening intently. You do not have to hear what he does to know what is happening: there is the sound of clashing steel above you, the all too familiar war cries of the hunters. It is not often that the merfolk are prepared for the hunters as they pass by, but neither is it impossible.

The ship lurches, harshly enough that some of the water in Katsuki’s tub overflows. You wager it must be a whole pod, then, maybe two, and you glance over at him, wondering if he knows who they are, wondering if -

“Are they yours?” You blurt.

“Huh?”

“Your pod,” you clarify.

Bitterly, he scoffs. “If the merfolk wanted to rescue me, they wouldn’t have waited months.”

You freeze. The detachment in his voice does nothing to hide the betrayal beneath, and ice begins to crawl up your spine, for he addresses them as the merfolk, not as his kind, his people. Harshly, you swallow as you start to understand that the hunters would never have been able to capture a merman if he wasn’t alone.

“You don’t have a…” You trail off, feeling far too inadequate and stupid to continue.

“My pod renounced me the moment they learnt about Deku and I.”

A picture forms in your mind, of a Katsuki who lost his family because he gave away his heart to a human - of a Katsuki to which the sea was no longer home, but a huge expanse of alone. Horror closes over your head like cold water as your eyes slide down to the scar on his chest.

His pod didn’t stop at just renouncing him.

You had always hoped that beings whose very essence was rooted in magic would be fair and just as the tales said. Your hope had always been that the merfolk would see that humanity was not united in the purging of them, that they would spare you if your path ever crossed theirs. Never did you think they would be so blind as to turn on one of their own for something as reliant on fate as love. You are a fool.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and it comes out almost like a sob.

“We are no better than you are,” he replies.

His voice is so devoid of hope that it cuts you to the quick. You open your mouth so say more, to try and fill that emptiness inside him if you can, but your words are stuck in your throat and before you can force them out the door flies open, banging loudly against the wall and almost extinguishing the lamp’s flame.

Three gravely wounded are deposited in front of you and then the door slams. Silently, you get to work, sealing the deep slashes to their flesh more carelessly than you should be - but with Katsuki watching, you feel sullied, a betrayer who works for the purgers of magic. Their blood coats your tingling palms, and yet not in the way you wish it could be.

You have just finished the last when four more are dragged in, and you’re hit hard across the face and ordered to work faster, which signifies only one thing: more are coming. As blood wells up in your mouth, you hope that the merfolk are victorious, even if it means sinking the ship and letting you drown within.

Hate rises within you again, searing and acrid like smoke clogging your lungs, but this time it is different. You hate them for what they have made you; a tool, a means to an end. The determination you nurse in your heart is unimportant as long as you do what they say, and yet you cannot defy them, and this is what you hate yourself for.

Prickling sensations begin to claw up your arms as you heal. You are lost in it, the blood and the battle and the patients, and you swear you see the same faces twice: hunters who you healed once coming back more injured than last time. Your energy dwindles like a dying flame and you dip into your reserves when you recognise the violent light in the hunters’ eyes.

You cannot ask for a break. They already bay for blood and death; what more is yours but just another magic using bitch’s?

You are being bled dry. You are no longer aware of your surroundings, just the halting of the flow of blood beneath your hands and the wheezing gasp of your breath and the rattle of the chain locked around your wrist.

They have not been attacked like this in a long time. You almost forgot how fast the darkness closes in when you send out your energy through your palms to knit flesh and skin back together again. Spots cloud your vision, and futilely, you swat them away. Muffled, Katsuki’s voice hums in your right ear, but you do not understand the words he utters.

Your hands tremble. You pitch forward, slumping over your newest patient.

A hand fists in your hair. Knuckles press into your jaw, far harder than a lover’s touch and yet it feels like it in the way your head lolls slowly to the side. It takes time, but pain radiates through your skull, vibrating your teeth and sharpening your focus, and then you can hear yelling, yelling for you to wake up, yelling for you to carry on or they’ll kill you -

There are so many of them. So many hunters with frenzied eyes and blades that shine where they are not coated in innocent blood, and they are hurt and they want to return back to the battle and you must abide by their demands. The air is too thin as it whistles in and out of your lungs. You cannot think.

You press your palms to the blood slick abdomen of the next man placed down before you and do as they say. Your mouth is dry, your head pounds, your eyes won’t focus, and yet, you do as they say, you always do what they say.

What a fucking coward you are.

Letting them push you farther than you ever would let yourself go. You’re right on the edge, right over the edge, clinging onto the side of the perilously vertical cliff face even as the mossy stone crumbles beneath your fingers and threatens to make you fall down down down. But still, you heal. Your body performs numbly what your mind cannot take any more.

All of a sudden, there is not an open wound for you to heal or guts to force back inside a torso, there are just crimson soaked planks and a raised voice. Loud. An incensed, raised voice, cursing and roaring. Can’t you see she’s almost gone? They shout, earsplitting enough to make your head pound. She can’t heal you fucking bastards if she’s dead!

Bakugou. No, not that name. It’s… Katsuki. Katsuki making all that racket. You don’t know when it happened, but now your cheek is pressed to the rough planks that make up the floor. There’s blood everywhere. Some more splatters to the ground and you notice that the din isn’t being made by Katsuki any more. Your eyes are hazy as you lift them upwards and see a hunter raise his fist again.

“Kats,” you slur. “Watch… watch out…”

The lamp goes out, which is strange, since the oil got topped up this morning. You pay it no mind, though.

You’re too tired.

You wake surrounded by water. For a moment, you wonder if the merfolk won, and if somehow you managed to get tossed off the boat and into the sea, but then you move your leg and it hits something hard and vertical which must be wood. Peeling your eyes open, you find you’re in… the tub? Katsuki’s tub?

Lifting your head, you’re met with a pair of concerned red eyes. One is almost swollen shut, and blood has crusted down the side of his face from a wound in his temple, yet he smooths his hand soothingly over your upper back, watching attentively as you come to.

“You’ve been out for just under two days,” Katsuki says. “You need to eat, get your strength back up.”

Your memory begins to trickle back, and with it floods a torrent of shame: you always told yourself that you survived out of spite, out of the belief and conviction that one day you would hurt them enough to negate all the healing they made you to do, but it was all a pretence. You were scared and so you took the easier road of complacency, and it has caused the deaths of hundreds of merfolk.

It is without a doubt that if you had healed even just a papercut more, that if Katsuki had not stopped them, the life force within you would have winked out, and you would have died. Death had loomed right over you, brushing boney fingers over your face, and even now, it lingers.

You are burnt out, exhaustion weighing on you as if a whole mountain rests on your back. Worse is the fear, revealed in the blinding light, shackling you, for you are its slave, and you cannot shake its hold off you.

Your face crumples. “I am spineless, for letting them use me so. I am a coward, a - ”

“They give you no choice, witch,” Katsuki remarks. “Do not put it on yourself.”

You shake your head. “You cannot ask that of me. How many lives have been lost because I obeyed when the hunters told me to save them?”

Bowing your head, you sob. Fatigue envelops you, the chain around your wrist unspeakably heavy, and you lean heavily against Katsuki; he holds you like you are precious, handling you with care so that the pieces you have shattered into do not fall apart and scatter onto the floor. He tips up your chin, forcing you to look him in those eyes of his as he wipes away your tears.

“What was that you told me, as I wept like you do now?” He asks. “You need not bear the weight of your world on your shoulders. That was what you said to me.”

Nodding, you feel more tears leak out when you squeeze your eyes closed. He strokes your hair, and you hide your face in his chest and wish you could do forever, for he is warm and he is far gentler than you ever imagined he could be. You are tempted, but he nudges you and chides you, reminding you that you will feel much better once you have eaten.

Wobbly as a newborn fawn, you climb out of the tub, Katsuki steadying you with a hand on your arm. Wrapping one of your blankets around you like a shawl, you retrieve a hunk of bread to gnaw on before planting yourself on the tub’s rim, loath to be any farther away from him than you have to be.

Though hunger worries insistently at your insides, sending tremors through your hands and weakness in your legs, you force yourself to eat slowly; you cannot risk wasting any of the food by throwing up. Katsuki rests his forearms on the sides of the tub, watching you with a keen gaze that you cannot read. You become more aware of the purpling bruising across his face and reach out without thinking.

He catches your hand before you can tap into the slowly replenishing well of magic inside of you, his fingers circling your wrist before he lets them slip down and lace with yours. Something ignites behind his eyes, and you find you are mesmerised - you lean closer to see how the spark dances.

“Katsuki,” you breathe, and then your lips are on his.

He tips his chin up to lean into you, his fingers threading into your hair as he pulls you closer to him, so tender that it makes your chest ache. You could stay like this for eternity, simply doing nothing but tasting the salt of him on your tongue and savouring the sweet, sweet scrape of his canines over your lower lip; he is all that matters, all that is.

Slowly, his hands come round to cup your shoulders, pressing you closer to him, and so you feel the moment his grip falters and he stiffens, feel the way he recoils from you as if you have burnt him, and you can do nothing to prevent it. You’re propelled backwards with the force he jolts away. Though it is only a few steps, you feel the gap between you yawn wide, stretching into an uncrossable chasm.

“No,” he chokes out, shaking his head. “No, not - not like - ”

Abruptly, he falls terribly, terribly silent. Stunned, you touch a hand to your mouth; your legs buckle, and you throw out a hand to steady yourself against the wall before sinking to the floor. It feels as if you are drowning.

Katsuki does not love you - how can he, when he fits with Deku like they were made for each other? You were wrong to hope for anything else, wrong to give in to what you wanted, because you have torn open old wounds that never properly healed. It is no longer significant that he does not love you, for you should have seen that already; what matters is that in your blindness, you have ripped him open.

You’re beginning to realise that it was not the lamp that kept the shadows back, but him. It is only natural that you are drawn to him like a moth to a flame, only natural that you were too weak to resist flying straight into the fire. This time, it is not only the moth who gets hurt.

You are left alone with your thoughts. Time passes, as it always does, but you pay it no mind. However hard you try, you cannot bring yourself to meet his eyes. You are numb, numb to the slow rock of the ship as it cuts through the waves, numb to the sounds of the crew at their battle stations again, numb to it all now that it is undeniable: you love him.

He cannot love you.

Wearily, warily, you raise your head when the door opens, revealing the first mate, soaked in blood. Crossing the room in a few strides, he stands before you, chest heaving, a frantic sort of desperation contorting his face as he tightens his hand around the hilt of his sword and glares at you.

“The captain is near death. We drop anchor home in a fortnight. I will be put in command if he does not survive, and if this happens, I will make certain that you come upon a death slower and far more painful than his.”

You do not answer, nor do you pay any mind to his threats. You can sense Katsuki staring in your direction, the feeling of his red eyes on your skin unmistakable: no doubt, he has heard what you have. We drop anchor home in a fortnight - a fortnight until Katsuki is delivered into hands who seek to study him, to slit him open while he still lives and examine his insides and the way his heart beats, ensnared in the cage of his ribs.

Just like that, you know what to do.

You wait silently until they bring the captain to you. The first mate did not lie when he said the captain is near death. Sweat creates a sheen on his brow, and though his eyes are open, he is barely conscious, for he has been sliced open from gullet to navel by a merfolk blade. Briefly, you touch a fingertip to the lip of the gash, ignoring the pained moan it causes and the disquieted mutters of the other hunters.

If you were superstitious, you would deem the wound too similar to Katsuki’s to be anything but fate, but you do not believe in such things. Instead, you put your trust in the strength of good steel and the sharpness of a tongue. Yes, you know what to do, and you will do it.

The chain fixed around your wrist is not broken, but it does not have to be. You are free to do what you wish, because before you is the captain, and he is leverage. There is no fear left in you, no shame to hold you back as you look up at the first mate; he opens his mouth, about to ask why you do not jump to heal his captain, but he pauses when he takes in your cold smile.

“Free the merman, and then I will heal him.”

A silence falls. They are left with no other choice but to do as you say, and they know it. The first mate’s hands ball into fists, a reminder to you of what will come once Katsuki is let go and you heal their captain, but it does not concern you any more. None of it is of concern to you, only his freedom.

“What the fuck did you just say, witch?” Katsuki spits.

His voice jolts the first mate into action. He heaves you to your feet by the front of your shirt, seething, and punches you squarely in the nose. Something cracks. Your head snaps back, the air knocked from your lungs when he drives his knee into your stomach and lets you crumple to the floor by his feet. Gritting your teeth, you glower up at him.

“Come at me all you like,” you hiss as blood pours down your face. “It will not save your captain.”

He crouches down before you. You do not listen as he shouts at you, because you see it in his eyes. He knows you have them all backed into a corner, he knows you’re aware he will not risk the captain’s life. Over his shoulder, Katsuki urgently mouths something to you: do you know what they will do to you because of this? They will do worse than just kill you!

“Let them,” you reply, and as you gaze at him, you smile again. To the first mate, you say: “Bring me up on deck. I want to see.”

The first mate hurls you away from him, barking orders at the other hunters, but all you hear is the crash of the waves outside and all you taste is the nectar of victory on your tongue. You watch, still smiling, as they grab Katsuki and drag him from the tub. He fights, of course he does, screaming your name and slashing at the hunters, but there is but one of him, and he is unarmed.

Cursing, the first mate unfastens your chain from the ring in the wall, wrapping the length of it around his hand and jerking you forward with it, pulling you to follow him through the ship. There is murder written on his face and in the curl of his lip, and you let it slide it off you like water from a sea bird's feathers.

He throws open the hatch, and for the first time in years, you see the sun. Slowly, you step into the light, and the salty breeze tugs playfully at your clothes and hair, fresh and briney and strong, pulling tears from your eyes. All around you is empty space, just blue sea and blue sky and the wind that dances gloriously between them as far as you can see.

The air is invigorating and crisp in your lungs. Hesitantly, you take a step forward, then another and another, seeing the way the sun plays on the water’s surface, scintillating as it warms your cold skin. It is as resplendent as you remember it.

“Witch!” Katsuki cries, shaking the hunters’ hands off him. “Why? Why would you do this to yourself?”

There are countless ways you could answer him. Instead, you take him in one last time, his spiky ash blonde hair and his crimson eyes and the way his scales glitter under the sunlight. You do this for love: if you can’t give him your heart, you will give him his freedom.

“Go,” is all you say, and though tears stream down your face, you smile.

“I will not forget you, witch,” he replies, voice thick. “I swear it.”

Running to the side of the ship, you cling to the taffrail and lean forwards to watch as he dives overboard. He slices through the water, the amber of his tail bright as he goes, further from you with each passing second, and your breath catches in your throat - he is more beautiful than you imagined he would be in the light.

As he crests a wave, he looks back at you, and you see the shimmer of his scales and the graceful arc of his dorsal fin one last time before he twirls in the surf and dives. With that, he is gone, and you are alone again, yet you do not fear what is to come.

A hand grips your shoulder, nails digging sharply into your skin. “Enjoy your peace, you thankless bitch, because once you heal the captain, all you’re going to know is pain.”

You turn to the first mate and laugh in his face.

He loves you.

Bakugou Katsuki fucking loves you.

He loves your deft hands, careful despite their calluses and nimble despite the chain around your wrist. He loves the smell of you, herby and laced with petrichor. He loves the brightness dancing in your eyes when you laugh. Most of all, he loves your sweet soul: the fierceness woven into it like second nature, the blaze of your heart when you stand up for what you believe in.

He was stupid for pulling away from that kiss. You had fit your lips to his, and suddenly panic rose in his chest, and he jerked backwards as if ignoring his heart would silence it; he was scared to love another human, scared because last time it led to pain. His fear had hurt you, and this is his regret - that he was the one to cause the slow dimming of the light in your eyes.

There are countless other things he regrets. He should have trusted more easily, he should have fought harder as they yanked him out of that silly tub and away from you, and he should never have left you by yourself on that ship with those despicable hunters.

He didn’t tell you he loved you, and now he is scared he will never get the chance.

He has left you in a den of beasts. Deku would never have let this happen if it was Katsuki in danger. Deku would have found a way to get him out. In fact, Deku did, he saved him instead of himself, and now Deku is gone, and he fears his heart is not strong enough to lose another. He does not want to lose another.

That serene little smile on your face as you watched him go - it haunts him, fucking burns itself into his retinas, because you knew. You knew precisely what you were doing, when you bargained with that hunter’s life, and you knew exactly what they were going to do to you for making them let him go.

You must be hurting right now. You must have been beaten within an inch of your life. You, who broke down the walls he rebuilt, brick by brick, after Deku was gone - the same walls that Deku himself tore down too. Katsuki is beginning to think that their foundation has always been flawed, or maybe they crumbled like Jericho simply because you shine brighter than the sun on the waves, and he could not look away if he wanted to.

He has been tailing the ship for little over a day. Keeping out of sight and in the shadows is easy; he has felt the sting of their harpoons enough and he will not risk an injury when getting you away from them is the priority, yet he can’t help but resent the way he must hide. There is no other way, though. Currently, he has no plan, and he must bide his time.

Katsuki was never the most patient, but he has no choice but to be patient since he has no sword and no allies. It is plausible that he could scuttle the ship by himself, but he can’t risk it with you chained inside and possibly unconscious.

But then he sees it - a shape in the distance.

It is an isle, small enough that it could sustain maybe one hamlet of people, and rather plain, with rocks that make up a small cliff on one side and a sandy beach dotted with rock pools on the other, a thicket of trees spanning the distance between. One could call it nondescript, but there is nothing nondescript about it to Katsuki.

He has bled out on that golden beach. He has fought to protect his own life and the life of another in the waters near that isle, and he has failed. He has wept on that shore, wept enough to cleanse the blood soaked sand beneath his newly fixed body that held his newly broken heart.

That isle is where Deku washed up, half dead, a decade ago. It is where he watched from afar as this green eyed, freckled human nursed himself back to health, and where he watched from a little closer as he learnt that humans were more than what they are portrayed as in the tales of his pod.

He understood many things on that isle: what love was - the touch of his lips to a man with unruly green curls and an infectious smile, and what betrayal was - when his pod found out and the waters were tinted red because of it.

Just like that, he knows what to do.

Hidden in the underwater caves below the isle is a monster that slumbers until a soul dares to wake it. The humans call it a kraken, but the merfolk leave it unnamed, for it is too great to be reduced to a simple moniker. He has seen it once before, through the haze that descends over one close to death, and felt as its power stymied the lifeblood that poured hot from a wound spanning from the middle of his sternum to his navel.

Both he and Deku had lain on the beach after his pod ambushed, both bleeding from fatal wounds. He had been too fucking weak to get to the kraken first, and so Deku had been the one to sacrifice himself and give himself to the monster so Katsuki could live, when it should have been the other way round.

This time, though, he is strong enough.

He remembers slipping back into the ocean with his freshly healed wound so the saltwater of his tears mixed with the sea, unable to understand why Deku would leave him. Now, he understands all too well, and he will not fail to protect the one he loves again.

Summoning the kraken means no going back. After waking it, the summoner is transported into the kraken’s form, and they have a limited time within it before the kraken reaps its payment - the summoner’s soul. It will shatter their spirit and ensure they cannot return to their body.

Katsuki dives down deep, breaking away from the ship and swimming ahead of it to find the gaping mouth of the cave that the kraken slumbers within. He is far down enough that the water is murky, frigid as it weighs heavily on him, the sun a weak pinprick of light suspended somewhere above him that does nothing to pierce the gloom.

The entrance is curtained with seaweed, the cold fronds caressing his skin as he slips past them. Nestled in the darkness, it lies there, slumbering: a behemoth shadow, looming as high as the cavern’s ceiling and filling its width like the berth of a warship docked in a seaside hamlet’s harbour.

As he swims towards it, he realises he has already had his last glimpse of you through his own eyes. The last time he will see you, he will be fighting to keep hold of himself before he loses his soul to the kraken, and then it will just be bottomless darkness until it is summoned again. You might not even know it is him inside the monster.

It doesn’t matter - a lot has ceased to matter to Katsuki. He can no longer deny that he loves you, and with that epiphany comes another: you knew what the hunters would do to you when you bargained for his freedom, and yet you did it anyway, with no fear of the consequences. Now, it is his turn to put his life on the line for you, and though he may lose it, you will be free.

He will never feel the sweet touch of lips again, but that’s alright. He hopes that you will find another to make you happy, another who will make your heart soar and help you forget him. They will be to you what you were to him: a light to scare away the shadows, a star in the night sky to guide you, even if at times, just like him, you believe you do not wish to be guided.

Katsuki pictures your face as he draws near to the kraken.

Its flesh is odd beneath his palm - slippery and uncomfortably cold. Pressing his palm to its skin, he wills it awake, and it obeys him alarmingly fast, an eye as big as his head snapping open and rolling around until it fixates on him. An abyss of a pupil sucks him in, beckoning him forward to a place that will be the last he ever visits.

Though he knows his body remains still, he feels himself fall forward, sucked towards the magnetic emptiness within the kraken as if it aches to be occupied. For a moment, he resists, pure instincts making him struggle against it, but he forces himself to let go. Sensation briefly forsakes him.

When his vision is restored, he finds that he is looking at his body, limp and vacant. Already he can feel a difference in the water, the sharp tang of fear drifting toward him on currents that hadn’t been there before as creatures begin to flee, aware that something ancient has been roused from its sleep.

A tempest is brewing.

Katsuki - or a version of him that no longer is really Katsuki, but instead a wrathful monster caller - cannot see the dark clouds amassing above, but he knows they are scudding across the blue skies to taint the high midday sun, and it is his doing. Cruel winds accumulate in the shadows cast by his thunderhead, and he can hear the sharp snap of canvas and the raised voices of a crew readying their ship for a storm.

Unfurling a tentacle, he curls it around his old body, careful not to crush it, and reaches up high enough to deposit it on the beach. He begins to move the kraken out of the cave, dislodging pebbles that would have been boulders as the bulk of its body manoeuvres through the exit.

In a way, he is disconnected from the body that is his now; there is empty space that he is not large enough to occupy, like he has donned a garment made for a merman the size of a mountain. It is strangely silent inside this huge vessel, although he is not alone. Shadow wreathed souls lurk in the corners of his mind, and he knows they are disgusted by him.

He is not surprised. Historically, the kraken have been summoned only in the utmost peril. To the merfolk, the kraken are as sacred and as old as the sea, called upon in the wars of old, when the magic beings of the sky were eradicated. Despite being only scattered shards of themselves, the past summoners look down on him, because he does not summon to seek the solution to mighty matters.

For the second time in a lifetime, the kraken is being summoned for a cause as selfish as love.

There’s an awful symmetry to it, really. He imagines the way they must have abhorred Deku, a dying human who did not use the kraken’s power to destroy, but to knit together the wound of a simple, unnoteworthy merman.

Faces contorted beyond recognition flash before his eyes and hands claw at his sides with nails as vicious as knives. They want blood, they want a whole fleet to rip through and ruin. He tells them that they will have to settle with one ship, and they cry their discontent in his ears, their voices rough and rasping, like rusting metal on stone.

He has not broken the surface of the water yet. His body prowls many leagues down, but still, he spots the shadow cast by the ship, and the moment he does, his vision narrows, blurs, and he sees winking lights on board: the lives of the crew, twinkling and tantalising and begging to be snuffed out.

The kraken jets upwards and breaches, spraying up a wall of water, and though he does not command it, he bellows a war cry, the sound so bloodthirsty and wild it almost sweeps him up and incapacitates him. The shadow souls close in, fragments of vengeful souls garbed in shadow, greedy and eager to see him torn apart, and he shakes them off, wrenching himself from their grasp with all his strength.

A twinge pinches at his side, and he glances down to see a volley of harpoons glance off his hide, leaving shallow gashes in their wake. The crew swarm on the deck, their terror sour as he breathes it in and savours it. They are but ants, small and irritating with their measly weapons and made to be crushed and devoured -

He seizes the mast and uses it to rock the ship from side to side, fighting to keep the visions of blood staining the water red away from him. Too fast, his control is slipping, and he feels the souls swarm around him, filling his field of view with darkness until all he can see is those tiny flames that he must put out. There is something he wanted to do, something he needs to do -

Selfish, the souls hiss in his ears, trying to sink their hateful claws into him again, and he agrees with them.

He loves, and therefore he is selfish.

It is no bad thing.

The storm clouds gather over the ship, roiling and rumbling with thunder. Lightning strikes, a bolt of white fury that splinters the deck and extinguishes one of the little lives on board, producing a delighted cackle from the souls at his back, but he ignores them. He knows what he must do.

“Bring me the witch,” he roars.

His voice comes out warped and foreign, the words of men coming out strange and misshapen on his tongue, but the crew understand enough, scuttling to obey, desperate to believe he may spare them if they give you to him. The grip of the souls tightens, squeezing at his throat - he has spent too long in their presence already, and they nip at the edges of his mind, stealing away parts of him when he isn’t looking.

He realises with a jolt that he does not remember his name any more.

It is fine, though. He will join the souls in their namelessness soon. They are a cacophony in his head, and he can no longer hear anything but them, the burn of their claws threatening to tear him apart and shred him the way they are already torn apart, but he barely cares.

The little gnats bring another up and present it to him. This one shines brighter, suffused with a magic the souls cannot wait to devour, and they encourage him forward - surely he too will enjoy the honeyed taste of this offering? Plucking it off the ship’s deck, he brings it to his eye level, and his shadow companions clamour for him to crush it, but he hesitates.

It looks at him like it knows him. In its weak, tiny voice, it yells something that gets lost in the howl of the winds, but even so, it makes the souls shrink back, receding enough for him to remember that this little thing he holds is important. Important for what, he can’t recall, but it is important all the same.

Kicking its legs, the small being beats its fist on his tentacle, still shouting. He leans closer, wincing as the shadows scratch and tear at his back, trying to draw him away again.

“Katsuki!” You scream.

He jolts. It is you, his little, beloved witch - you are why he is being so selfish, summoning the kraken just to save one life. Peering closer, he notices that you are bruised all over, and suddenly the storm worsens overhead, crackling as bolts of lightning stab down like vindictive knives and the wind tears at the ship full of aghast hunters, tossing it violently among the waves.

Carefully, he places you on the beach, next to a body that used to be his. You scramble towards it, limping, and he turns away, looking back towards the ship and the lights it is infested with that still need to be destroyed. Anger comes easily to him, because these are the ones that have marred you with bruises.

The shadows close in again.

Roaring, he tears at the ship, rending it in two and crushing those that leap overboard, yet the souls are never appeased, never satiated. It feels as if power leaks out the seams of his spirit and if he does not let it go it will destroy him from the inside, but he knows he cannot let go. He needs to hold on, to hold himself together, for something that drifts further and further out of reach -

It is as if he has been tied to the bottom of a sea trench for so long, drowning in darkness, that the surface is just a fanciful thought. He does not remember the sun’s sweet face, nor the sound of your voice as you called out the name he has lost again. They sink their teeth into him, ready to tear him apart.

He struggles. He will not go without a fucking fight, he will not let them have him before he has tried valiantly to swim upwards to the sun, where the shadows will not survive.

But the light is so far from him. It floats away every time he strives to be closer, or maybe there are hands holding him back, ripping him open and tethering him to the blackness. They cling to him, shrieking in his ears, sinking curved claws into him and refusing to let go, ready to reap the kraken’s payment.

He is losing himself.

And then - a hand, gentle, touching his face. Emerald eyes fill his vision, wide and lovely, and suddenly he is able to ignore the souls and their blaring dissonance, the pain in his side fading away into nothing. There is a soul that still remains named here, mixed in with those who have been rent apart by hate.

“Kacchan,” the soul says earnestly. “You must fight it, Kacchan.”

“Deku,” he sobs, leaning into the soul’s warm palms as he wipes his tears away. “I’m sorry.”

Deku smiles, and Katsuki weeps, because he looks so proud of him, as if he is worth an eternity spent trapped within a kraken alongside shattered souls that only wish for chaos and destruction. He weeps, because here are Deku and Kacchan, back together again, but they cannot stay this way forever.

“I understand,” Deku whispers, and his touch heals Kacchan once more. “I understand you love her. You need to fight, you need to return to her and love her like you want to. I died so you could live, Kacchan. Let go.”

He looks down and sees the way he clutches onto Deku so hard he is white knuckled, while Deku cradles his hands in his scarred ones, softly as if Kacchan is fragile. Trembling, he loosens his grip, and he feels the light draw closer, the sun’s rays warming his face. Something tightens in his chest when he finally allows himself to release Deku, but it hurts in the manner of stitches pulling taut inside him and binding him together again.

One last time, he looks over his shoulder, to where Deku watches as he goes, smiling brightly, shining like he is a star plucked from the night sky. His brilliance holds the shadows back, rendering them powerless. He pays them no mind, though - his viridescent eyes are lit up and fixed only on his Kacchan.

Deku says something, but the sound of his voice is drowned out by the crashing of the waves and the winds of a dying down of a storm. Still, Katsuki knows what he said by the shape of his lips: I love you. Smiling, he takes a final look at him, at those unruly green curls and those sweet eyes and bright smile, and then he turns and is bathed in light.

The kraken sinks again beneath the waves, but Katsuki does not sink with it.

You know it’s impossible, but you sense the moment Katsuki is back in his body. You’ve heard the tales of the kraken, and you know he should have been taken from you, but there he is, present in the weak pulse of his heart beneath your palm and the steady rise and fall of his chest. Shallow cuts have appeared all over his body, remnants of the damage of the hunter’s harpoons.

His eyes are open, but barely, and he blinks slowly, fighting to keep them fixed on you, giving you only glimpses of familiar crimson. There is a strange looseness to his awareness that must come with the recency of doing the impossible, but still he grips your hand desperately, struggling to stay awake long enough to force words out.

“I - I lo - ”

Before he can finish, his voice cracks and he coughs. His eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to start again, but you smile, tears blurring your vision as you press a finger to his lips and hush him, and thankfully he relaxes under your touch, curling closer to you and seeking shelter in your embrace. Once he is rested, he will have all the time in the world to tell you whatever he likes.

What matters is that he is here. That in itself is beyond even a miracle.

Almost disbelieving, you cradle him to you, pressing your forehead to his as tears you cannot stop spill down your face and mingle with his blood. You are bone tired after repeatedly healing your own cracked ribs and fractured wrists, but you are whole enough for now - you won’t waste your energy on your own bruises while he still hurts.

So you hold him against your chest, sweeping your fingers delicately over the deeper of his cuts to seal them. The sky has cleared, the storm clouds departing as fast as they arrived, and the sea is dipped in ruby by the bleeding sunset. It lacquers the wet sand with the glow of dying embers as the incoming tide smooths over where the storm had churned it up, erasing the mark left on the island as if this afternoon had never happened.

If it were not for Katsuki in your arms, it would be like the kraken never came.

You glance down at him. He seems at peace, though worn and battered, as if he has reconciled something deep within his heart; he has closed his eyes, simply leaning against you with his face pressed into your side, his warm hands tucked just beneath the hem of your shirt.

You cannot help but smile. Because of him, you are free. No chains bind your wrists, no threats limit you in what you decide to do next. You are not sure where you will end up later, but for now you intend to fall asleep beneath the open sky, beside the one you love infinitely more than any life you might have had and even this new life he has fought and bled to give you.

When you drift out of your dreams - just simple, golden things full of a contentment that lingers past waking - the tide is high, the ocean lapping at the sand at your feet. The moon is almost at its highest point in the sky, depositing a residue of silver on everything around you.

Katsuki stirs in your arms, and when you glance down, you are met with the twin beacons of his eyes, luminous in the dark and full, brimming and spilling over with unspoken things that leave a deep ache in your heart. Trembling, he grips your hands, and you lace your fingers with his, brushing your lips over his knuckles and stroking his face as the tears begin to flow.

He cries like he is mourning. You wonder what he saw while his soul donned the kraken’s skin, how poignant it must have been to wrench these fitful sobs from him. Cupping his face in your palms, you wipe his tears away, and he clings to you to keep you close while he bares his newly healing heart to you; it is wrapped in the past’s scars. He shows you the rawest parts of him, and you soothe them as best you can with your healing hands.

There is no magic to this cure, though. It is just the love that burns within you, consuming you so entirely it makes you shake. You did not know it was possible to love like this, but the proof weeps in your arms, a merman who summoned the kraken and somehow conquered it so he could make it back to you.

“Tell me,” you whisper, tracing the strong lines of his face with your fingertips.

Curling his arms around you, he hides his face in your neck. “Deku stood with me against the dark inside the kraken,” he replies softly. “He held them back so I could come back to you. I - I thought I had lost him forever, when he summoned the kraken to save me.”

Carefully, he brings your hand to touch the scar stretching down his chest, and you outline its edges, comforted by the warmth of his body and the steadiness of his breathing beneath your fingers. You would be happy to stay like that forever, linked to him by your skin on his and the synchronised beat of your hearts.

“He told me to fight so I could return to you,” Katsuki murmurs. “So I could love you.”

Your breath catches, your voice sticking before any words come out. He is blunt and honest as always, but this time, he is without his walls, without his guard up, open and vulnerable for you to lash out at him if you wished to, but he trusts you will not. Still, you hesitate, your throat constricting.

“I… I didn’t know him, or what he was like, but I know I can’t be him to you,” you falter. “I cannot be Deku, Katsuki.”

You do not expect your voice to come out so small, so timid. Neither do you expect the overwhelming tenderness that fills his eyes - no one has ever looked at you like that, as if they really see the whole of you, the blemishes and shadows on your soul and they love those too.

“I don’t ask you to be like him,” he replies. “No one will ever be like him. No one will ever be like you, either. I love you because you are you, not because you are him.”

“Katsuki,” you breathe, unable to swallow down the tears welling in your eyes.

“You know I can’t give you the life you deserve, either,” he continues, voice thick. “If you tie yourself to me, you tie yourself to the sea too, regardless of if you like it or not.”

Searchingly, you look at him, and it feels for a second that as you meet his eyes, you know the whole ocean, down to its unexplorable depths, down to every grain of sand and every critter it shelters and sustains. In that moment, there is a total, utter understanding within you - you would love him whatever the condition.

“I would tie myself to the most pitiful of the things on this earth if it meant I could love you, Katsuki.”

“I too, witch,” he replies, and a fond little smile pulls at his lips. “I would summon that kraken a thousand times if it meant I could win your heart.”

You laugh, out of pure joy more than anything else, and he laughs too, rolling in the sand so he can prop himself up on his elbows. Flopping over, you adjust yourself so you can rest your head against his stomach, lifting your eyes to watch as he tips his face up to the sky, letting the stars reflect in his gaze, as if he holds the galaxies of the universe in each pupil.

Your fingers find his as you stare up at the moon where it hangs highest in the sky now, full and silver as the stars. A new moon: symbolising fresh starts and new beginnings, or maybe even the waxing of a love that was planted in the darkness of the brig of a ship soaked in blood, nourished by nothing but the weak flame of a lamp and swift hands knitting flesh back together.

A familiar prickle trails coyly down the side of your neck, and the sound of sand whispering against itself reaches your ears as Katsuki shifts beneath you, lightly skimming the high tide’s surf with his tail. You are not ready to leave the easy silence you’ve made yet, so you bask in his presence and his warmth a little longer.

The moon has just begun its descent when you turn to face him. He’s just looking at you, looking and looking and looking as if he can’t get enough. You smile, aware of the fresh edge in his gaze that was not there before, the string binding your soul to his pulling delightfully taut.

“You’re as beautiful as the ocean,” he mumbles, fiddling with a lock of your hair. “More beautiful than the ocean. But in a different way, you’re…”

You grin. “Worse?”

“Worse,” he agrees, smirking, but he looks at you as if you breathed life into his seas. “Much worse.”

Time stops for a moment, and you sit up, bringing your face close to his until your breaths mingle - you cannot help but let his crimson eyes consume you, heart and soul. You linger there for a moment, the air crackling between you, both of you waiting as if to see who will give in and pounce first.

Bringing his hand up, Katsuki lets his fingers slide under your jaw, lifting your chin so you are merely a hair’s breadth away. He fills your senses; you can feel the warmth of his body, the roughness of the calluses on his fingers, the feather-like brush of his breath against your cheek, smell his briney sea scent, hear the swish of sand as he shifts infinitesimally closer. A lethal spark gleams in his eyes, tying you in helpless knots.

You lean forward and claim his lips.

It draws a quiet groan from him, and suddenly you are beneath him in the sand and his hands are all over you, grabbing handfuls of you and shucking the damp material of your shirt up and over your head so he can touch your skin. The way he looks at you, with those stirring embers that tug at something low in your stomach, reduces you to a sailor under the influence of a siren’s song - he is irresistible, he is magnificent.

Tangling your fingers in his hair, you pull him ever closer, licking into his mouth as if you might find the god’s nectar hiding beneath his tongue. He nips at your lower lip with those keen canines of his, and you cannot help but buck your hips as the tide swirls around the both of you.

Chuckling, he skims a palm over your thigh, pulling your leg up to hook over his hip. It brings your clothed core right against the length of his hardening cock that has emerged from the slit in his tail; you stifle a moan at the feel of him, grinding agonisingly slowly down on him and sighing as he trails wet kisses and purpling bites down your throat.

Katsuki licks at the spot under your jaw, and this time, at the second graze of his teeth against your skin, your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling at it and squeezing another sweet noise from him. You keep your hands threaded through his ash blonde locks as he licks at the valley between your breasts. Meticulously, he marks your plush flesh with the imprints of his teeth, laying his claim on you.

When he reaches your stomach, he mouths at your skin, nipping playfully just over your hip bone before he raises his eyes to meet yours. They are heavy lidded and sultry, and they stir the fire building in your core as he toys lazily with the waistband of your trousers. His fingers are casual as they curl beneath the fabric.

“Let me taste you, witch,” he implores.

“I cannot argue when you look at me like that,” you reply, breathless. “Nor would I, anyways.”

That is all the consent he needs before he is helping you out of your remaining clothes, almost ripping them in his hurry to have you on his tongue. His hands slip beneath you, gripping your ass and guiding your legs over his shoulders, and there he pauses. Yearning blazes in his crimson eyes, and then he dips his head and puts his mouth on you.

You gasp his name. Your hands scramble for purchase before you bury them in his hair again, yanking to encourage him further, and he responds by sucking harshly on your clit, making your hips jump and buck into his face. He groans into your heat, and the vibrations of it make you see stars.

Slowly, he pulls back, glancing up at you, and the sight of him is enough to make you moan: his eyes are glazed, fervent, worshipful, and your slick drips down his chin, the moonlight making it seem like liquid diamond. Bewitched by him, you choke out his name, and he smirks and slips two fingers inside you. Your legs begin to shake when he pumps them slowly in and out of you, bending them at the knuckle so he can hit that spot inside you.

The friction enraptures you, mounting in the pit of your stomach and winding up tight, and your thighs close around his head, clenching as Katsuki pushes you closer and closer to the edge. Turning his head, he sucks at your skin, marking you there, too.

You balance on a knife blade’s edge.

Abruptly, he slides his fingers out and your pussy clamps down a second too late; already, you open your mouth to lament it when he bends his head and replaces them with his tongue. Your words dissolve into wretched moans; you grind your hips against his face and lightning spears through you when his nose nudges at your clit.

Pleasure rises within you, a gradual, swelling thing that sneaks up on you in the unhurried nature of his movements. You can feel his smile against your cunt. You can feel the light burn as he grips your flesh, anchoring you to him so you could not pull away and part him from the taste of you even if you wished to.

You cry out his name as you come.

Katsuki nestles you close to his chest as you come down from your high, kissing your face as the aftershocks send shivers down your spine. Tenderness resides in his eyes, right beside a longing that makes you melt into him, weak with ardour as you slip your hand between your sea damp bodies to curl your fingers slyly around his cock.

His lips part as you jerk him, and you cross the small distance between you to bite at his lower lip, sucking it into your mouth and swiping your tongue over it as you feel him grow impossibly harder in your palm. Ridges swell down his length, flushed a coruscant orange that blurs down into obsidian at his base.

Tipping your head back, you look him in the eye. “I - I need you inside me, Katsuki.”

The words are clumsy on your tongue. You do not know how to articulate the pressing need to feel him, to not know where you end and he begins, to collide with him right there on the beach of this island that houses a kraken, to get lost in the salt on his skin and the eddy of the sea at your joined hips.

Lowly, he curses, treating you as if you are holy as he spreads your legs and settles between them, gripping the curve of your hip with one hand as he lines himself up. You press your lips against the warm bronze skin of his shoulder, sighing against him, urging him forward, urging him closer, a blissed out sound slipping from you as the ridges of his cock push past your entrance, the stretch nothing short of divine.

At last, he is sheathed fully within you. His hips kiss yours, and he remains there, pulsing hotly within you, the pleasure on his face bordering on pain as your cunt bears down on him, yet still, he will not move. Jaw clenching, he squeezes his eyes shut, and a hoarse groan tears itself from deep in his chest.

Panting, he bows his head, and when he looks up, tears rim his lash line, glittering like individual crystals dipped in the light of the stars. One rolls down his cheek and plops down onto yours, and you raise a hand to caress his face, raking your fingers through his hair to push it back from his forehead; he leans into your touch, turning his head to kiss your palm.

Slipping your hand round to cup the nape of his neck, you bring your mouth to his. Delicately, Katsuki kisses you before pulling back to press his lips feather-light to your eyelids - he lingers there, his breath fluttering warmly against your skin, his thumb drawing circles on your cheekbone.

Again, he kisses you, and it is only then that you taste the salt of your own tears on his tongue.

Your soft, raw sob echoes across the beach, and you dig your nails into his wide shoulders, urging him to move. With a gasp, he begins to rock his hips into you, and it breaks you apart. You keen, pushing back into his fluid, achingly unhurried strokes, scrabbling at his back in an attempt to bring him closer, to let him consume your very being.

Right there on the sand, under the moonlight with the seafoam lapping at your sides, he fucks into you, slow and deep, trembling and crying above you, and tenderly, you kiss him again. The roll of his thumb over your clit sends thrills chasing down your spine. He dips his head, burying his face in your neck, and fiercely, you hold him to you.

“Mine,” Katsuki whispers, and his teeth sink into your skin.

Something snaps inside you, and the fire in your gut blazes. Your cunt clenches hard around him, vice like around his cock, and you feel him twitch when your velvety walls clamp down on him, feel his soft exhale and know that he too knows the burn of the inferno in your core.

“Please, Katsuki,” you whine. “Harder.”

“Fuck,” he growls, his voice rasping in your ear, and suddenly you are empty.

Before you can protest, he flips you over, pressing your back into his chest and you reel, momentarily blinded by the night sky stretching high and wide above you. He is solid beneath you, and he knocks the breath from your lungs when he surges up into you.

You can feel all of him. Ruthlessly, Katsuki pounds up into you, as if he is desperate to taste the sea salt on your skin and inhale your scent and never let you go. Your body jerks with each thrust, your voice cracking as you cry out his name, the new heady angle of his cock inside you leaving you writhing, lost in the bliss he wrings from you.

His tail thrashes in the surf as he fucks up into you. You are limp in his arms, trembling all over as your back arches - he squeezes your breasts in one hand while the other settles between your legs, his skilled fingers working over your clit to kindle a mind shattering type of euphoria within you that renders you boneless and speechless, your jaw slack.

Your head falls back on his shoulder, your eyes falling shut as you moan, your pussy constricting tight around him. A hand circles your throat, squeezing lightly, and you mewl, your cunt unashamedly spasming at the feel of his calloused fingers about your neck.

“Let the moon and stars witness how I pleasure you, my love,” he snarls.

Your eyes roll, your toes curl. Somehow, he fucks up into you faster, harder, and his cock hits places that cause your vision to white out, the relentless friction of his ridges on your walls enough to make you sob and claw at the arm he uses to keep you in place. Distantly, you can hear yourself begging him, pleading for him to go harder, deeper, to not stop, to ruin you.

You scream Katsuki’s name as you come for the second time tonight. Uncontrollably, your thighs shake, and your cunt convulses around his cock; you can feel him slowing his thrusts, letting you ride out your high, but despite the overstimulation building in the tautness inside your stomach, you grind against him.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp. “Want - want you to come inside me.”

Your words elicit a groan from him. “Fucking filthy, aren’t you?”

Helplessly, you whimper in response, your pussy fluttering as he hammers up into you. He swears as he comes, spilling hot inside you, the sweet sound he makes muffled when he bites down on your shoulder. Both of you lie there for a moment, catching your breath, before gently, he manoeuvres the two of you so you lie on your sides, careful to keep himself deep in your heat; he is warm against your back.

Katsuki splays a palm over your stomach, holding you close, and you lace your fingers with his, sighing happily as he begins to pepper kisses over your back. You can feel the upwards curve of his lips as he smiles against your skin.

“Are you alright?” He asks, nuzzling the nape of your neck.

“Better than alright,” you confirm.

You remain silent for a while longer, happy just to lie there cocooned in his arms and the quiet wash of the ocean; you can feel the pulse of his heart against your back, steady and comforting. A hushed, steady noise comes from him, a satisfied noise, almost a purr. His cock is beginning to soften inside you, its ridges coming down - you both groan as he slips out, moving so his length is tucked against the curve of your ass.

“How did you know it was me?” He asks suddenly. “When I summoned the kraken.”

You squeeze his hand. “I saw you in its eyes. You know, I couldn’t have missed it if I tried, especially not when you yelled for the hunters to bring me to you. I heard it all the way from below deck.”

He laughs, and you shuffle closer to him, feeling his arms tighten around you.

“I didn’t even know the kraken was a real thing,” you tell him. “I wasn’t scared, though. I knew I’d be safe when I saw it was you.”

Katsuki scoffs. “You’re horrendously sappy, witch.”

You laugh, pushing your ass back against him. “I think you like it, merman.”

Laughing, you roll to and fro in the sand, with you grinding on him as he grips your hips and tries to wrestle you into submission. Eventually, he manages to incapacitate you by holding you tightly against his chest, dipping his head so he can whisper hotly in your ear.

“Keep that up and I’ll have to fuck you again,” he grits out.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” you challenge.

Giggling, you wriggle out of his grip and plunge further into the shallows, just catching him muttering something about insatiable and damn witch before he dives in and streaks after you, his dorsal fin cutting through the water. A hand closes around your ankle, and you squeal, flailing as you shake him off.

Clumsily, you take off towards the rock pools, wading through the sea water as fast as you can. You know Katsuki will catch you (you’re not exactly opposed to it - you’re running into the sea rather than out of it, after all). Again, he makes another grab at you, and you romp with him in the waves, grinning as you fend him off by splashing water at him, squirming out of his arms again.

In the end, he grabs you around the waist and traps you against one of the tide pools, the rock rough against your back as he smirks down at you. The sight of him above you is enthralling: droplets run down his chest in rivulets, rolling down the grooves his muscles make, and the moon hangs the sky behind him, crowning him with a halo made of silver. Your mouth waters.

Taking your chin in between his thumb and forefinger, he brings his face close to yours. A shiver runs down your spine. His red eyes fill your vision, glowing in the night, hypnotic and burning with craving so devout it borders on veneration.

He smiles. “Caught you.”

Katsuki takes you again, against the rock at your back. Afterwards, you lie there, spent and tangled together in the waning moonlight until you grow hungry again and you straddle him, mesmerised by the sight of him staring up at you, pleasure twisting his features as you ride him. You fuck and make love until the sun begins to rise, and it is only then that the two of you are finally sated.

So there you lie, held in his arms and the sea’s embrace - and inexplicably, you find that you do not regret all the pain you suffered at the hands of the hunters, because if it was not for them, you would never have been in that brig to heal him. Inside you, something blossoms within your soul, young and fresh and beautiful as the new moon, and it spills forth from your lips, a whispered confession pressed to his skin like a kiss.

“I love you, Bakugou Katsuki.”

Cupping your jaw, he brings his forehead to yours and murmurs your name. “I love you too.”

Katsuki glances down at you, where you are curled into the curve of his side like you were made to fit him, and he feels his failing, tired heart bloom once again. You have healed him in ways that run deeper than just his flesh.

He looks in your eyes, and when he does, the sea looks back.

You are his home.

A/N: by the way guys, afterwards they travel somewhere cool and the reader sets up a lil witchy abode by the sea and the villagers come to her for cures and half of them are lowkey a bit terrified of her mermaid husband but it doesn’t matter because she still gives really good remedies and he hasn’t eaten anyone yet and sometimes she and bakugou go out in their boat and attack hunter ships for funsies

also here's a picture i found off pinterest which i kind of imagine his tail being like except it's a bit more rigid and the dorsal fins are more spiney and longer, also there's more black and less red

taglist: @freakingsparkydreamer @d1orhaz3 @msjaeger @mellasimp14 @eyesforbkg @cottagedumpling @silkdolli @teeesthings @raksstuff

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stevie-petey · 5 months ago

Text

episode seven: the bite

“Yeah, we ended up trapped in their secret base underneath Hawkins.” Dustin further explains, to which everyone’s eyes widen at. “It was fun. Spent my birthday in mortal danger.” At the same time the kids all wish you a belated birthday, which you salute them for. “Thanks, guys. I’m just happy I wasn’t gravely injured this time.” “And that Steve finally kissed you.” Dustin unhelpfully adds before Steve is covering his mouth to shut him up. His face reddens, embarrassed and nervous. Jonathan is standing too close to him for comfort right now.

Summary: steve and robin are your nightmare blunt rotation, you manage to escape a russian lair: mario cart style, you learn that therapy sessions are fun in public bathrooms, steve places your brother on the russian fbi most wanted list, el probably just killed a bunch of people (deserved), and reunions with jonathan are always special when one of you is gravely injured

Rating: general, cursing

Warnings: fem!reader, use of y/n, mentions of blood, graphic depictions of blood and gore, cursing

Words: 10.1k

Before you swing in: HI IM ALIVE !!! my laptop isnt ,,,, but im trying to ignore that. sincerely apologize for the wait. my laptop shits down randomly every ten minutes and my new one is backordered so ive been fighting demons to write this. i also had a hard time with the bathroom scene with robin. i wanted to get that scene just right. it took a lot of rewriting, but i think im happy with how it ended up <3 pls enjoy this child of mine. she cost me blood, sweat, and tears lmao

“Boop!” Steve’s finger pokes your nose and he lets out a delirious giggle. “I booped you!”

At first it was adorable, endearing even, when he booped your nose. However, he’s done this five times now in the last minute alone. That, and you’ve been trying to give Dustin directions back to the elevator while dodging Steve’s surprisingly aggressive nose boops. All while the threat of armed Russians running after the cart looms over you. “Turn left here–would you stop it?”

“Wanna boop that pretty little nose,” Steve’s glossy eyes struggle to find yours, his motor skills delayed and concerning. His left eye has all but swollen shut and you’re still not sure if his unusual behavior is due to head trauma or something else. “C’mere, angel.”

He tries to boop you again, and before you can dodge the attack, Robin’s hand grabs his finger and she lets out a pathetic scoff. “You’re hogging the boops, dingus!”

“Nuh uh!”

“Yeah huh!”

Steve’s arm reaches over you and he bats at Robin. They start to hit one another, though their movements are slow and weak. They giggle as they fight, and you’re stuck in the middle of it. You try to push them off of you, but the two teens are too busy pinching each other and cackling to pay you any attention. It’s miserable.

Erica, from the passenger seat of the cart, turns and winces at your predicament. “What is wrong with them?”

“I don’t know!” Dustin keeps his eyes in front of him as he drives, though he’s equally as confused and unnerved. Secretly, he’s glad he’s the one driving. Otherwise he’d be in the middle of a Steve and Robin giggle sandwich like you are.

“Whose hand is that?” You twist around. There’s a foreign body part that’s currently resting on your ass. Steve snickers and Robin puffs out her cheeks and giggles, neither one of them confessing. You’re about to start kicking shins when the cart comes to a screeching halt. The force of it throws you and the two teens back with a painful thud. “Christ!”

“You guys alright back there?”

Somehow you wind up with Steve’s elbow in your ribcage and Robin’s head smacking into yours. Hissing in pain, you throw the two off of you and glare at your brother. You seriously fear the day he gets his license. “I want to die.”

Dustin turns back around in his seat and gulps. Steve’s and Robin’s own groans of pain can be heard from behind him. “They’re fine.”

Sneakers squeak against the tile floor and the doors to the back of the cart fly open. You’re greeted with Erica and Dustin, eyes wide as they take in the scene before them. You’re squished underneath the teens. You try shoving them off of you again, but they’re dead weight on you.

“Wanna kiss again, Y/N? I really liked it,” Steve smacks his lips as his head rests against your stomach. “Wanted to do that for so long.”

Your cheeks burn at his words and your stomach flutters. You haven’t forgotten about the kiss earlier. God, you haven’t. It leaves you breathless every time you remember how it felt to have him so close, to smell him and taste him. A part of you wants to ask how long he’s thought about kissing you, but you know that the back of a cart while fleeing from Russians isn’t the most appropriate setting.

Robin squirms next to you, her head also somehow on your stomach, pinning you down. “Can I get a kiss too?”

“If either one of you kisses me right now, my knives will be the last things you see.” The two teens make despaired noises, which you groan at. Meanwhile, Dustin and Erica continue to stand at the end of the cart, unmoving. You clench your teeth. “A little help here?”

Dustin mumbles a sheepish apology and yanks Steve’s arm while Erica yanks at Robin, freeing you. As soon as you’re able to, you jump out of the cart and start clapping your hands to speed everyone along. “We gotta go!”

“We’re trying, Y/N!” Erica groans, struggling to get Robin up from the ground.

You start to help, though you nearly fall when Dustin throws Steve against you. A complaint lingers on your lips, but when you see that your brother is now at the elevator doors with a keycard in his hand, you swallow it down.

Steve, however, is full of complaints. “This sucks.”

You blow hair out of your face and don’t bother responding to him. Instead, you watch anxiously as your brother swipes the key card he must’ve stolen earlier. When the scanner’s light flashes green and opens the elevator door, you exhale with relief. At least something has gone right today.

After practically throwing Steve and Robin into the elevator with Erica’s help, Dustin hits a button and closes the door. As soon as it shuts, the room starts to move. You brace yourself, now familiar with how fast the damn thing can go.

The elevator ascends at a nauseating speed and there’s a crash behind you. Turning around, you find Robin holding a dolly in place as Steve gets on. He holds his hands out and starts to cheer as his friend snickers. They look like goddamn toddlers at daycare.

“Hey, no!” You feel like a parent, yanking at Steve’s arm to get him down from the dangerous position. The elevator is moving too fast to be messing around on. “This isn’t playtime–”

“He looks like he’s surfing, Y/N!” Robin squeals with excitement, rolling the dolly to the left.

Steve’s body twists and he steadies himself with a laugh. “I’m surfing!”

“Stop fucking surfing!”

You fight with the teens. Steve refuses to get down and Robin keeps rolling the dolly away from you. As you yell at them, Dustin and Erica exchange concerned looks. You overhear the girl mention how they seem drunk, and you’re about to tell her that she might be right, when Robin pulls the dolly from underneath Steve and sends him crashing into the ground.

“Wipeout!”

You’re checking Steve for injuries as soon as he lands. Dustin kneels next to you and feels his forehead and winces. “He’s burning up.”

Not liking the sound of that, you check Steve’s pupils. The room’s lighting is dim, but it’s obvious that his brown eyes are almost entirely taken over by the blacks of his pupils. “Holy shit, they’re scarily dilated.”

“Ow. Thought you liked my eyes,” Steve swats at your hands sadly. He whines, trying to get you to let go of him. “Said you liked brown.”

“I do like brown, but I also like when you don’t act like a three year old.” You soothe him before turning to Dustin. “Any idea what it could mean?”

“Maybe he’s drugged?” Erica suggests.

You frown. “Could explain why he keeps trying to–” Steve reaches up and boops Dustin’s nose. He giggles and your brother looks annoyed. Sighing, you finish what you had been trying to say. “Boop people. Why he keeps trying to boop people.”

“Your turn, angel!”

Dustin intercepts Steve’s finger, which you’re grateful for. He gently smacks the teen’s face to get his attention. “Steve, are you drugged?”

“How many times, dad?” His voice drips with sarcasm and he rolls his eyes. “I don’t do drugs. It’s only marijuana.”

“Since when do you smoke?”

“Y/N, focus.” Dustin dodges another incoming boop and swats Steve’s hand away. “This isn’t funny, okay? We need to know what they did to you.”

“C’mon, honey.” Your fingers run through Steve’s hair. Parts of it have dried blood. Something more than a beating happened to him and Robin, you just don’t know what. If they’re really drugged, you have no way of knowing if they’ll be okay, and a part of you is terrified. “Work with us, please. What did they give you?”

“Are you gonna die on us?” Dustin asks, concerned as well.

“I’ll tell you!” Robin shouts from the corner she’s slouched in, eager to please you. She twirls her hair around her finger and gives you an unsettling smile. “We all die, my strange little child friend. It’s just a matter of how… and when.”

Neither you nor Dustin say anything for a few moments. Both of you blink, trying to process what exactly the teen has just said. Afraid to look away from her in case she tries to possess you or something, you slowly nod. “Okay, thank you for sharing, Robin.”

She flashes you a thumbs up and proudly smiles. “Happy to help!”

“They’re gonna be looking for us up there,” your brother redirects the attention back to the fact that you’re all still very much in danger. He starts to interrogate Steve, trying to come up with a plan. “So I need you to tell me where you parked your car.”

“Oh, can we make a pit stop at the food court?” Steve’s eyes glaze over and you know you’ve lost him again.

Robin leans forward and starts playing with your hair. “I would kill for a hot dog on a stick!”

You snap your fingers at the two of them. They’re impossible to level with, you’re not even sure why you’re still trying. “Guys, we need to focus.”

“No! No hot dog on a stick,” Steve suddenly lifts himself up and glares at Robin. “The guy at the counter said that Y/N she has pretty eyes. He’s an asshole.”

“You mean Dave? When the hell did he say that?”

Steve scoffs at you. “Last week. Ruined my whole day.”

“Fine! We’ll get you and Robin something else to eat.” Dustin says, which Robin cheers at, though he ignores her. “But only if you tell me where your car is parked.”

Suddenly Steve’s hazy eyes fill with remorse. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh? I don’t like uh-oh, can we not uh-oh?” Dustin nudges you with his shoulder to shut you up and let Steve explain. You mumble an apology. “Okay, why the uh-oh?”

“They took the keys.” Steve shoves his hands into his pockets and reveals that there’s nothing in them. “The Russians, they took the keys. Like forever ago.” For some reason this is hilarious to Robin, who starts to laugh hysterically in the corner. He joins her, amused by the whole thing. “That’s a bummer, right?”

You drop your head in your hands as Dustin sighs. With no keys and no way out of the mall, you’re not sure what else you can do. The only other option would be the bus that takes commuters home, but it comes every few hours and you have no idea what time it even is right now.

Which means you’d be left with having to hide a very drugged up Steve and Robin in a giant mall swarming with Russian undercover guards for an unforeseen amount of time.

Not ideal.

“We’re doomed.” You sigh into your hands.

Dustin nods beside you. “Yeah. We’re doomed.”

–

When the five of you finally reach the mall, you guide everyone through the back hallway and fling the doors open. Fresh air hits your face and you take a moment to inhale. It’s only then that you notice that it’s dark outside. The air is warm, crickets chirp faintly from far away. What day is it? How long could you have possibly been down in the lair?

As you have a minor breakdown trying to get your bearings, Steve and Robin walk behind you. Their mouths are wide open as they greet the fresh air with glee. “Oh my God, that tastes so good! Steve, can you taste the air?”

They stick their tongues out and marvel at the world around them. “I taste it!”

You watch them with your arms crossed. If you had any suspicion before that they were drugged, seeing them try to eat the air only confirms it.

“Shit!” Dustin screams out of nowhere and grabs your hand. He tugs at you to start running. You look up and see two Russians men now running straight towards you.

“Come on!” You grab Erica’s hand and shove her in front of you to run alongside your brother. Then you grab Steve and Robin by their shoulders and all but throw them against the mall’s door. “Go!”

“Why are we running?” Steve mopes, tired from all the physical activity he’s been forced to endure these last few minutes.

You don’t bother answering him and instead shove him inside the second Dustin gets the mall’s doors opened. Everyone runs, though you’re not sure if anyone has an actual plan. The guard’s footsteps can be heard behind you, and all you know is that you guys need to hide until you can figure something else out.

“Any chance you guys know any hiding spots?” You shout behind you to the kids, nearly tripping over your feet as you do so.

“No, this mall is one giant public swamp.” Dustin responds, huffing.

Steve stumbles next to you, still obviously drugged up, yet giggling as always. “It feels like we’re running from movie villains!”

Turning a corner, what Steve has said floats through your mind. Running from movie villains… What are the odds the Russians know about American movie theaters? They’re dark and usually crowded with people for night showings. It could be the only safe place to hide.

“Dustin, start heading towards the theater!” Erica and your brother start asking you questions, but you don’t have time to explain. “Just trust me.”

Somehow you all make it to the theater’s doors without being detected. Poking your head through, you make sure there isn’t anyone nearby. When you’re sure it’s safe, you open the door wider and motion for everyone to follow. “Let’s go.”

Dustin guides, dragging Robin behind him while Erica follows. You stay with Steve and start walking once the others have gone ahead.

“Awesome, movie date!” Steve exclaims with a dopey smile. He’s about to say something else when his eyes find something. Completely forgetting that you’re holding his hand, he runs towards a nearby trash can. He pulls out a bag of popcorn that had been on top of the trash pile and quickly starts shoving the food into his mouth.

“If you ever wanna kiss me again, stop eating trash popcorn.” You snatch the bag out of his hands with a disgusted face. “I cannot believe I have to tell you that.”

“But I’m hungry.” Steve pouts, staring down at his now empty hands with despair.

You ignore his pathetic pouting and follow Dustin, who has now flung open the curtains to the theater’s seats. He scopes the area and starts heading right. When he stops at two open seats, he points his finger at Steve and Robin. “You two, sit.”

“But these seats are too close!” Robin complains, and Steve voices his own qualms about the seating arrangements.

However, you have other things to worry about. Shoving the teens into their seats, you wipe away crumbs on the ground with your shoe. “I’ll sit on the floor next to them. No way I’m leaving them alone when they’re high off their asses.”

Dustin looks at you, skeptical. He doesn’t want to leave you alone with them, afraid they’ll somehow get you into trouble. “You sure?”

“Positive. I’ll take care of them.” you squeeze his arm. While you understand his concern, you can’t bring yourself to abandon Steve and Robin again. Not when Steve’s face still bleeds slightly and Robin’s cheek swells with a bruise. They got hurt because of you; the least you can do is stay with them now. “Find other seats, we’ll be fine here. Just… be careful, alright?”

A man behind you shushes you rudely, reminding you where you are. If the kids don’t leave now, they run the risk of drawing more attention. You push your brother back up the aisle of seats, and he seems to understand what you’re doing. “Fine, but whatever you guys do: Don’t. Go. Anywhere.”

“Fine, dad.” Steve glares at the kid, which you sigh at. It’s going to be a long night.

Dustin leaves after you’ve saluted him, and Erica follows. Once they’re gone, you do your best to keep Steve and Robin quiet. As you shush them, you look up and see Dustin standing near the exit. You tilt your head, hoping he sees your questioning, and thankfully he does. He holds his radio up and mimes making a phone call.

He’s calling for help.

You nod at Dustin, indicating that you understand, and he leaves. After you’ve checked to make sure Erica is still in her own seat at the other end of the row, you turn back towards Steve and Robin; they’re enamored with the movie playing. They whisper to themselves, not understanding what’s happening, but at least they’re quiet and out of danger. Slowly, you start to relax.

All you have to do is stay in this movie theater until Dustin can contact the party for help. Should be simple enough. Except you make the fatal mistake of absentmindedly mentioning that you’re thirsty. “God, I need water right now.”

“Water.” Robin exhales as if it’s a prayer. Her entire face twists into longing and she hits Steve’s shoulder. “Water. Now.”

“On it!” He nods earnestly and suddenly the two of them are scrambling out of their seats. You snap your fingers at them, hiss whispered threats, but they don’t listen. They climb over you as if you’re an inconvenient bug on the ground.

Before you can even stand up, they’re already halfway up the aisle of seats. You barely have time to get up before they’ve left the theater itself. “I’m so over them being drugged.” You huff, running after them. There isn’t time to tell Erica where you’re going, too afraid you’ll lose them if you don’t hurry.

Those fuckers better save you some water.

–

Steve makes you hold the button on the water fountain because he “can’t do it himself”.

“Is my help really necessary?” You complain, arms crossed as you watch Steve messily gulp water down. His neck is bent at an awkward angle and for a brief moment you truly question whether or not you find him attractive. Water drips down his chin and his gulps are obscenely loud.

“Yes,” Steve responds in between slurps. The cold water washes over him and he’s never felt closer to God than in this moment. “That’s amazing.”

Robin stands next to you, patiently waiting her turn. “So like, I wasn’t totally focused in there or anything, but I’m pretty sure that mom was trying to bang her son.”

“In the movie?” You hadn’t been paying much attention in the theater. Your view from the ground was shitty and you were too busy making sure the idiots didn’t somehow kill themselves. However, despite your lack of attention, you doubt that’s what the movie’s premise had been about.

“Wait, the hot chick was Alex P. Keaton’s mom?” Your hip knocks against Steve’s, causing him to choke on the water he’d been drinking. Coughing, he clutches at his chest. “I could’ve died, Y/N!”

“Sorry,” you smile sympathetically at him, feigning pity. He lost the privilege of calling other women hot after getting you locked in a Russian elevator for twelve hours. “My hip slipped.”

“Aren’t you two going to question how the guy was able to go back in time?” Robin is still focused on the whole son being in love with his mom plotline.

Steve inhales even more water. “Then why is it called Back to the Future?”

Robin begins explaining the complexities of the movie, but you tune her out. While you appreciate that she’s trying to make conversation, you’re uneasy about being out in the open like this. There’s no one around, but you can never be too careful. It’s only when she shoves Steve away from the water fountain that you focus again.

“Wait, I was supposed to go after him–” Your protesting falls on deaf ears as Robin steals your turn for water. Reluctantly, you step away. She can hold her own damn water fountain button.

You notice that Steve has wandered off a few feet away. He still stumbles as he walks, though his footsteps aren’t as unsteady as they were earlier. He stops in the middle of the walkway and you join him.

“Wow,” he breathes out, looking up. He’s mesmerized by what he’s seeing. Curious, you look up as well, though you only see the skylights above. It’s night, no natural light flows through the panels. Yet Steve stands transfixed next to you. “The stars.”

“The stars?” You’re not sure what he means. You can’t see the stars from where you stand. Then again, you suppose he could be seeing things, given that he’s heavily drugged up.

“The stars are pretty like you, angel.” Steve says, eyes still on the sky, yet his hand somehow finds yours. He intertwines your fingers together and is able to pull you closer, albeit weakly. “You’ve always been so beautiful… scared me when we were younger.”

Your breath catches and you look at him. He’s looking up, seemingly unaware of the effect his words have on you. An overwhelming warmth fills your chest. You want to say something, tell him you love him and that his beauty last July had terrified you.

But you don’t say anything. Steve is still high, he wouldn’t remember what you’ve said, and you want your confessions to sit within his chest the way his sit in yours. Instead, you find yourself admiring him. You study the length of his neck. The mole that rests just below his jaw and the others that litter his pretty face. His nose, the dip of his chin. The hair tucked behind his ears. His eyes.

Steve Harrington is beautiful. Scars and all.

Then he starts to gag and quickly the moment is ruined.

“Oh, God.” You quickly grab his shoulders and frantically look for the nearest bathroom. In your haste, Robin reacts to Steve’s sudden sickness by gagging as well, and you’re very afraid of what’s about to unfold. “Okay, bathroom time! For the love of God, we need to find a bathroom.”

They’re useless as you twist and turn them around as you search for a bathroom. When you see a nearby sign, you drag them behind you and pray that they make it the next fifteen feet. As soon as you barrel through the bathroom door, Steve and Robin run out from behind you and just barely make it to the toilets before spilling their guts.

You stand near the doorway, cringing. It’s not a pretty sight.

They puke, spit out the excess, and flush the toilet to clear it before the next round of vomiting begins. Then they do it all over again. It goes on like this for a while, and all you can do is linger in the doorway and offer halfhearted comfort from across the room. You’ve never really gotten over your slight fear of vomit, if you’re being honest.

Eventually Steve and Robin seem to throw everything up. When they’ve flushed the last of their sickness down, you hesitantly walk towards them and stand in between the stalls. “We feeling any better?”

“The room stopped spinning for me.” Robin says, her feet propped against the stall’s wall. You have no idea how she’s laying down the bathroom’s ground so casually. “Steve, is it still spinning for you?”

He looks up for a moment, testing what will happen. When he feels perfectly fine, he exhales with relief. “Holy shit. No.”

“You probably flushed the drugs out of your system when you puked.” You observe, leaning against the stall’s divider. “What were you guys on?”

“Allegedly a truth serum.” Robin says from the floor. “Ask me something, test if it’s really all gone.” Then, because she’s trying to get you to laugh, she lowers her voice and impersonates one of the Russians. “Interrogate me.”

Though you smile at her, your stomach twists. Not only were they beaten for information, they were also injected with a goddamn truth serum. Treated like lab rats. And you left them behind, all alone; you’ll never forgive yourself for that.

But they’re here with you now, you remind yourself. They came out the other side. So you’ll do whatever you can to make it up to them and show them that you’re here for them. Even if that means asking bizarre questions to make sure they’re no longer being controlled by truth serums. “When was the last time you peed your pants?”

“Today.”

Steve looks at you to make sure you’ve also just heard Robin’s response. “What?”

You shrug. “I can’t really judge. I peed my bed a few years ago. Watched a scary movie with Dustin and had a nightmare. Wasn’t my proudest moment.”

“What?” Steve can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“See!” Robin lifts her head up from the ground to look at you. “I was also scared. When the Russian doctor pulled out a bone saw, it was only a little bit, but holy shit.”

She starts to laugh and you join her, despite the image of the bone saw you saw burning your mind. You had seen it in the room when you were saving them. It had terrified you. Yet Robin laughs about it now, so you allow yourself to as well.

Steve shakes his head at you both. “Yeah, it’s definitely still in her system.”

“And it’s not in yours, Harrington?”

His eyes shine when he looks at you. He’s coming back to himself, you can feel it. The knowing smirk is back. “Clean as a whistle, Henderson.”

Robin clears her throat, now uncomfortable. “Aright, my turn. I want to ask him a question.” When Steve gives her the okay, she takes a deep breath. She looks at you, a resigned look on her face. Something seems to have struck her, something that terrifies her. Her laughter is gone. “Have you… ever been in love?”

Steve doesn’t expect the question. He looks startled by it and tilts his head up at you. Your eyes meet, and you nod, giving him the permission he doesn’t truly need. You talked about it once, last year. The two of you in your room late one night, whispering confessions about love and the pain it brought. It was never a secret.

“Yep. Nancy Wheeler. First semester, senior year.” Steve mimes a gunshot to his heart, trying to lessen the unease. He will never really feel comfortable talking about that time of his life.

“Oh, my God.” Robin rolls her eyes. “She’s such a priss.”

You walk over to her stall and nudge her leg with your shoe. “Hey, she’s my friend, ya know.” Ignoring how dirty the bathroom floor inevitably is, you sit next to Robin. “She’s not a priss.”

“At least, not really.” Steve adds, nostalgia in his voice.

Robin seems to hear it, too. She sits up, eyes not meeting yours. “Are you still in love with Nancy?”

Without meaning to, you hold your breath. You know Steve no longer loves her, but it’s July and somehow he still isn’t yours. There’s still trust between you, but your body tenses and your heart stutters.

And yet Steve doesn’t hesitate. It’s immediate. He doesn’t even have to think about it. He’s known since April, though his body has known since he offered you his hand the day you almost hit his car with your bike. “No.”

“Why not?” Robin doesn’t know why she’s pushing this. You’re next to her, your thigh presses against hers. She knows that Steve is in love with you. He confessed it to her when she was teasing him about it just a few days ago. She devoted an entire whiteboard to tallying all the times he failed to ask you out.

Steve is yours, and you’re his, but Robin can’t help but pick at scabs and expose old wounds.

There’s a few moments of silence. Steve takes his time responding. He can almost feel your hand ghosting over his, even though you’re separated by a stall. “I think it’s because I found someone who’s a little bit better for me.”

You’re quiet. Robin is as well.

“You know, it’s crazy.” Maybe it’s the truth serum still coursing through Steve’s veins or maybe it’s because he’s almost died a million times tonight. All he knows is that he’s tired of running. You deserve to know how he feels about you. “Ever since Dustin got home, he’s been badgering me about asking this girl out. That I need to ‘find my Suzie’. A girl he met at camp who somehow became his girlfriend, who I’m not even sure is actually real.”

He’s rambling. He knows he is, but you and Robin remain silent and patiently wait for him to keep going. Steve inhales, holds the breath for a few seconds, and exhales. All summer he’s been agonizing over this very moment. He’s spent countless sleepless nights terrified that he’d somehow ruin it. In the end, his own cowardice only hurt you; he still remembers the way your body shook in his arms while he held you as you cried last night. Steve remembers the fear on your face when you realized you couldn’t save him. That the Russians were going to take him away from you.

It was then, seeing the terror in your eyes and hearing the desperation in your voice, that Steve Harrington finally realized you would give all of yourself to him; that is what love is.

To love someone is to know that they deserve your love.

And for some reason you love Steve. You see something in him that deserves your love. He’s no longer terrified that his love isn’t enough for you. He realizes now that it’s enough. His love is enough because it is his.

You deserve love, and Steve is more than happy to give all of his to you.

“The point is,” Steve runs a hand through his hair. He can feel you listening, waiting. “This girl, you know, the one that I love, it’s somebody that I didn’t even talk to in school… and I don’t even know why.”

A small laugh cuts through the barrier between you and Steve. The two of you spent years together in school, and not once did he ever talk to you. There was one time, early sophomore year, when he collided with you in the hallway while running to the bathroom to meet Nancy. He had apologized to you, but he continued running and hadn’t looked back.

It was two years ago, but you had only been kids, then.

Hearing your laugh emboldens Steve. He clears his throat, lifts his head. He wishes you were in the stall with him. “I think… I think I was scared. I had always watched her from afar. I mean, here was this girl who would offer help to anyone who needed it. Didn’t matter who they were, she’d help them. I just, I didn’t understand. I couldn’t understand why someone would go out of their way to help others without expecting anything in return.”

“I mean, there I was, worrying about being prom king while this girl was tutoring kids for free in the school library.” Steve scoffs at himself. He will never forgive himself for wasting all those years with you. He could’ve been your friend sooner had he not been such an asshole. “It’s stupid. I mean, Dustin’s right, it’s all just a bunch of bullshit anyways. Because when I think about it, I should’ve been friends with this girl the whole time.”

You rest your head against the wall, buzzed with warmth. “You should’ve,” you find yourself saying softly. Though you know yourself. Steve came into your life when you needed him the most, at the right time, for the right reasons. The timing had never been right before. “But I’m sure the girl is glad you ended up how you did.”

“Me, too.” Warm honey laces Steve’s voice. He can almost feel your body on his. He can see the lines and strings above him, materializing into something more solid with every word he says. “Still should’ve happened sooner, though. I mean, this girl we’re talking about is incredible. She makes me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever met. She’s witty, she always knows what to say and she’s so goddamn smart. I don’t think she knows this, but she has this way with people…”

His voice trails off. It’s what he loves the most about you. The effect you have on everyone you meet. The impact you make within a person’s life simply by smiling at them. “She has a way of making someone into a better person without even realizing it, just by being a part of their life. She… she made me a better person. Taught me to be softer, more vulnerable.”

Steve hadn’t known gentleness until he met you.

To your left, Robin starts to close in on herself with every word he Steve says. She slouches down, drops her head into her knees almost as if in despair.

“She saw this good in me that no one else had before. For some reason, instead of using it against me like others have, she believed that I could be someone different. That I could change… It didn’t matter how long it would take me, she would wait. And I’m so goddamn lucky to be in love with someone as selfless as her.”

Guilt eats away at Robin. She’s harbored a resentment towards Steve all summer, even though she tried to swallow the feeling down. The love between you and Steve had always been obvious from the first day she met you. She watched the two of you dance around each other every day, basking in the sickly sweet young love you shared with one another.

It’s not that Robin resented your relationship with Steve. No, she was happy for you, truly. The bitter taste in her mouth whenever she watched you gently stroke his cheek with your fingertips was remorse intermingling with resentment because she will never be able to do that. She will never be able to love someone so openly. To have someone hold her hand and call her tender names.

You’re a beautiful girl with a boy who could adore you freely. Robin can only ever watch you from the shadows, scared to be caught.

You notice Robin’s shift in demeanor and press your body closer to hers. You’ve never seen her look so small before, so unsure of herself, and it worries you. “Hey, is everything okay?”

She shakes her head, too afraid that if she talks she’ll start to cry. The kindness that you offer her stings. She doesn’t deserve it. Not when she believes you outshine the sun. Before she can make up some excuse, Steve knocks on the stall. “Robin? Y/N? Did someone just OD over there?”

“No,” Robin’s breath is shaky, which worries you even more. “We’re still alive.”

You try to meet her eye, but she won’t look up at you. You’re not sure what’s happened, but she’s closed herself off from you; you feel like an intruder. Placing an arm on her shoulder, you’re about to offer her some more water when Steve’s body slides into the stall.

He settles himself across from you, shy with his movements. Your heart lurches when you see him, too. He confessed his love for you only moments prior, and you want nothing more than to wrap your arms around him and call him yours, but Robin looks pale. She’s scared. You just don’t know why.

“The floor’s disgusting,” she says to Steve, hoping to get the attention off of her.

“Yeah, well, I already got a bunch of blood and puke on my shirt, so…” He looks down, cringes slightly. You remain silent, and Robin’s eyes are still downcast. Seeing this, Steve tries to lighten the mood and asks Robin a teasing question. “So, what do you think?”

“About?”

“This girl,” he turns to you, then. He looks at you with such fondness and knows that both you and Robin know he had been talking about you the entire time. He’s trying to get you to laugh, bring a smile back to your faces.

Robin tries to play along, swallowing down the remaining bitterness. You’re sitting next to her, your hand is still on her arm. “She sounds awesome.”

“She is awesome.” Steve winks at you, hoping it’ll get you to blush the pretty pink he loves so much. When it works, he smiles. “And what about the guy?”

“I think he’s as sweet as honey in July.” You say, giving into Steve’s charm. It’s worked on you ever since the day you crashed into that ditch, even if back then you refused to admit it.

“Yeah? Well, I think he’s on drugs, and that he’s not thinking straight. That he doesn’t realize how lucky he is.” Robin interjects. She doesn’t look at you, her eyes remain on Steve. You raise your eyebrows at what she’s said. You hadn’t expected such a pessimistic response from her.

Off put by her sudden dejection, Steve becomes defensive. He doesn’t understand what Robin is doing. She was the one who kept encouraging Steve to ask you out all summer. “Really? ‘Cause I think he’s thinking a lot more clearly than usual. He knows what luck is.”

“Does he? What if there’s this other girl, one he hasn’t seen yet. I mean, really seen.” Robin swallows. Her fingers twist together nervously. “What if he one day sees her and realizes just how unlucky she is. I don’t think the guy would ever want to be her friend after that.”

“No, that’s not true. No way is that true.” Steve shifts closer to the two of you now, confused as to why Robin is saying all of this. Of course she’s his friend. “I mean, apart from the girl he’s in love with, this other girl is the guy’s only friend.”

“Listen to me, Steve.” Robin still doesn’t look at you, but you listen silently and allow her the space she seems to need. “It’s shocked me to my core, but I like you. I really like you, but I’m not lucky like you are. I think… I think you should use that luck. Go for the girl.”

Steve tilts his head, not quite following. “What does luck have to do with any of it?”

Robin sighs and you sit next to her, quiet. She seems to be trying to figure out what she wants to say, and somehow you think you know what she means by luck. It’s always fascinated you, luck and love. Two sides of the same coin. But it never occurred to you that there could be an undercurrent that cuts through the luck. A double meaning behind it.

“Do you remember what I said about Click’s class? About me being jealous and, like, obsessed?”

“Yeah,”

Robin closes her eyes and sighs. When she opens them, there’s a resolved look in them. “It… It isn’t because I had a crush on you. It’s because she wouldn’t stop staring at you.”

At first, you’re confused. You had missed their conversation about Mrs. Click’s class. They must’ve had it when they were being held captive, but the phrasing of what Robin has just said feels heavier than it should. Her words land on you with a force you hadn’t seen coming.

If Robin had for some reason talked about being obsessed with Steve in a class they once shared, but not because she had a crush on him, but because a girl wouldn’t stop staring at him…

“Mrs. Click?”

Even though you’ve done well remaining silent this entire time, you can’t help but snort at Steve’s response. He’s trying, you know he is. Robin must know this too, because she laughs softly at him as well. “No, Steve.” Her smile dims, however. “That would’ve made things easier for me, though.”

Easier. Luckier.

And then it all clicks.

Robin’s insistence on always pleasing you. The subtle touches. The way her eyes would darken sometimes when you looked at Steve. How, only an hour ago, she had asked you for a kiss when she was still under the influence of the truth serum.

You draw your hand towards hers and slowly thread your fingers together. Robin’s head spins, she finally allows herself to look at you. She finds your eyes staring into hers. They’re kind, understanding. You’re looking right through her in this very moment, and Robin Buckley has never been more afraid.

“How long have you known?” You ask her, voice gentle.

Robin’s voice shakes. “Since Tammy Thompson…” She has to look away from you. She can’t do this with you looking at her. “She was in Mrs. Click’s class with me and Steve. I–I wanted her to look at me, but.. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from him and his stupid hair.”

She pauses, tries to compose herself, and you squeeze her hand three times. Once to tell her that you’re there, another to give her the reassurance to go on, and the final time to communicate that you understand. There isn’t a reason to be scared. Somehow, Robin knows what the gesture means. Breathing in, she looks at Steve and continues.

“And I didn’t understand, because you would get bagel crumbs all over the floor and you asked dumb questions and you were a douchebag. And–and you didn’t even like her and I–” Her voice breaks. “I would go home… and just scream into my pillow.”

Steve looks between the two of you. It’s obvious he’s the only one not aware of the underlying layers. “But Tammy Thompson’s a girl.”

“Steve,” Robin breathes out, pleading. She doesn’t want to say it out loud. She can’t say it out loud. He needs to understand what she’s trying to say. Why she’s been giving him hell all summer. Why she feels guilty when she looks at you.

“Yeah?” But he doesn’t understand.

Robin can’t say anything. She looks at him, can feel the tears in her eyes; she’s begging now. Steve’s eyes find yours, silently begging you as well to explain this to him. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing wrong. He doesn’t want to be doing something that could hurt Robin like this.

Your shoes squeak against the tile floors as you draw your knees into your chest. You’re not sure what else you can do. Robin has laid everything out for Steve. Your hand still holds hers and you try to quell the fear within you that maybe he’s being intentionally naive. Maybe he doesn’t want to believe it.

“Oh.”

It’s one word, one exhale of breath from a mouth that once used to say cruel things. Steve’s face softens, his jaw unclenches and his shoulders relax. He surprises you, showing nothing but empathy. He’s kind, he’s always been kind.

“Holy shit,” Steve doesn’t want to mess this up, but he’s never been good with words.

Robin laughs. “Yeah, holy shit.”

He sighs and leans against the stall wall. It’s quiet between the three of you. No one really knows what to say now. Steve is still processing, Robin’s heartbeat still hasn’t quite settled, and you’re trying to figure out how to tell her that you understand more than she may know. She’s braver than you, trusted you with this secret, and it’s only fair that you offer her a part of yourself as well.

Plus, it’s a wonderful ice breaker.

“You have terrible taste in women, Robin.” You nudge her with your shoulder, teasing. “I mean, I’ve heard Tammy Thompson during choir rehearsal. You can totally do better.”

“She wants to be a singer, she has dreams!” Robin defends the girl, the change in conversation bizarre but welcomed.

Steve, sensing that you’re trying to lessen the tension, gratefully plays along. “So what she has dreams? She can’t even carry a tune. But, more importantly, what do you know about taste in women, Y/N?”

“I see things,” you jut your head out, defiant. “Probably would’ve fallen in love with Nancy Wheeler had I known her instead of Jonathan.”

Their reactions are expected.

“You would’ve loved Nancy?” Steve exclaims at the same time as Robin guffaws, “You loved Byers?”

You laugh. It’s a full, whole body laugh. One you haven’t felt in so long. “Yes,” you wheeze out, the look on their faces killing you. Steve looks unnerved while Robin looks disgusted. “At least Jonathan doesn’t sound like a muppet when he sings.”

“Tammy does not!” Robin is laughing alongside you now. It’s been a long time since she’s laughed this hard, too.

Steve rolls his eyes, his own smile overtaking his face. “She sounds like a muppet giving birth, Robin.”

“That’s what she reminds me of!” You snap your fingers and point at him. “You’re right!”

Robin clutches her stomach as she laughs. She leans into your side as you lean into her. Steve starts doing a terrible impersonation of Tammy’s awful singing, which only gets the two of you to laugh even harder. Steve gets you to sing along. He grabs the hand that isn’t holding Robin’s and swings it around as the two of you sing. Robin joins, laughing more than singing. It’s lovely. Absolutely lovely.

And this is how Dustin finds the three of you.

He slams the bathroom door open, Erica right behind him, and stands in front of you.

“Okay,” he glares at you specifically. “What the hell, Y/N?”

You giggle at his disappointed dad stance. “I told you I’d take care of them.”

Dustin isn’t amused, which only makes your giggles turn to laughter again. The other two teens aren’t far behind you, descending into yet another fit of laughter. Hunched together, the three of you giggle breathlessly as your brother and Erica watch in disbelief.

But you ignore their questioning stares.

With both Steve and Robin holding your hands, laughter warming your belly, you feel like a kid again.

–

The bus becomes your only option.

“I managed to contact the party.” Dustin had informed you after your laughter died down.

Relief washed over you. “Thank God–”

“But then my walkie died.”

“Yeah,” you had sighed and dropped your head down in defeat. “Yeah, of course it did. Why wouldn’t it die when we need it?”

Which leads you to now: peering out the bathroom door with Steve breathing down your neck and Dustin in front of you, checking to make sure it’s safe. A crowd of people flood the once empty hallway. The movie must’ve just finished. Everyone is talking excitedly, having no idea that five teenagers are currently hiding in the bathroom from Russians.

You envy them.

“When I say ‘blend’, we go. Okay?” Dustin asks the group, eyes still on the mass of people exiting the theater.

“Because Steve dripping blood definitely will blend in.” You retort. It’ll be hard not to draw attention to yourselves with the way his face still oozes. It’s a long walk down to the bus station and you’re getting worried now. The mall closes in ten minutes, soon there won’t be any crowds to hide behind.

Dustin doesn’t bother justifying your remark. Instead he studies the flow of traffic before giving his signal. “Blend.”

The five of you swiftly exit the bathroom and align your pace with everyone around you. Dustin guides in front with Erica while you stay back with Steve and Robin. Your eyes move constantly, scanning every face you pass. Thankfully, the people close to you seem innocent enough.

Erica looks around, impressed. “Well, shit. That worked.”

“Of course it worked.” Dustin is smug, which makes you wince. He’s always had a bad habit of jinxing things. You really wish he had gotten more of your mom’s humility and less of your dad’s ego. “Now we just have to get on the bus with the rest of these plebes, and home sweet home, here we come.”

You shove your brother. “Can we not taunt our inevitable bad luck?”

“We’re in the clear now, Y/N. Trust me, in just twenty minutes we’ll be back home, where our dear mother awaits with her frantic arms wide open–”

“Uh, Dustin?” Steve eyes him nervously. Already you dread whatever he’s about to say. You guys only lasted thirty seconds without any bad luck. It’s a new record, honestly.

“What?”

“Yeah, we might not wanna go to your house.”

“Why?”

“Well,” Steve winces with regret. He knows he’s about to piss both Hendersons off. “I might’ve told them your full name.”

Dustin turns to look at him, bewildered. “What is wrong with you?”

“Dude, I was drugged.” Steve argues, which. Yeah. That’s fair.

Not liking that he apparently sold your brother out to Russians, yet understanding that Steve hadn’t been the most clear headed when it happened, you grab his hand. There’s more important matters to deal with, like whether or not he sold you out as well. “Did you tell them my full name?”

“No, I kept you safe.” He says, with an air of obviousness that you smirk at.

“Aw, thanks honey.” You kiss his cheek, not caring that Dustin is fuming in front of you.

“Oh, so you can resist for your girlfriend but not for her brother?” Dustin struggles to keep his voice low. He has never wanted to shove Steve down a flight of stairs more. “You were supposed to tough it out. Like a man!”

You flick the kid’s hat. “Hey, he was very manly defending my honor.”

“I hate you both–”

Robin suddenly freezes, her eyes catching on something. “Guys…”

Everyone stops, alarmed by the tone in her voice, before you see them. There, standing right in front of the exit of the mall, are the two Russian men from the alley. They’re stopping people, checking their faces, looking for you.

“Abort.” Dustin says, before one of the men makes direct eye contact with him. His face pales and you already have one hand on his shoulder, pulling at him to run. “Abort!”

Steve grabs Erica’s hand and motions for you and Dustin to run ahead as Robin guides. She pushes through the crowd of people and towards the escalators. However, when you get there, they’re roped off and blocked by plexiglass.

You kick at the glass, frustrated. The Russians are close now. Robin, quick as ever, steps past you and places herself in the middle of the two escalators. You’re confused at first, but then you realize there’s just enough space for your bodies to fit through. Sitting down, Robin is able to use the gap as a makeshift slide.

“Let’s go,” Steve places Erica to slide down next, then Dustin. When it’s your turn, he nods at you. “Ready?”

“I’m so tired of running from these shitheads.” You say before launching yourself down the escalators.

Robin waits for everyone at the bottom. When you’re all there, she waves for you to follow as you run again. None of you have any idea where to even hide now that the mall has emptied. There’s no one to hide behind, no corner to run into. And the goddamn Russians are fast, never trailing more than fifty feet behind you.

Somehow you end up in the food court. It isn’t much, but there’s at least vendor’s stalls and restaurant counters nearby. Panting, you point towards the nearest counter. “There! Everyone jump over!”

No one argues, doing as they’re told. You make it there first and help Erica over while Steve and Robin help Dustin. Kneeling down, you motion for everyone to sit with a finger to your lips. The men have to be nearby, you can practically feel their presence close. Facing your friends, you grip your knives and strain your ears for any sounds.

It’s tense. Dustin pants, he’s scared and overwhelmed and you wish you could offer him better protection. Steve glances at you, silently asking you what the next move is, and you shake your head helplessly. You’re cornered, there’s no way out of this one.

The sound of boots falling against the mall’s ground approaches. It grows louder and louder at a maddeningly slow pace. Your knuckles are white from how tightly they grip around the hilt of your switchblade. With one flick of your wrist, you know you could at least disarm one of the men long enough to cause a distraction. You’d never kill anyone, but you know from experience that a cut to the shoulder is sufficient enough.

You’re pulled away from your thoughts when a car alarm suddenly goes off. Its loud noise echoes within the empty mall. Everyone jumps at the unexpected sound, shuffling closer together. Deciding it’s worth the risk, you poke your head up to see what the hell is going on.

The guards are standing around a red convertible. It shakes, vibrates almost, and they look at one another in confusion. The car continues to shriek its alarm, and while the men stand in fear, you smile. There’s static in the air.

Looking up you see El, with an arm outstretched, on the second floor. Her face is strained, her fingers clench in mid air. The look on her face is terrifying, and you’ve never been happier to see blood drip down from her nose. She twists her arm and sends the car flying into the men. You duck as it crushes them, rolls over the tables and chairs in the center, before spiraling into the counter next to you. “Shit!”

The alarm stops ringing. Everything falls silent. Slowly, you and everyone else stand up to inspect the damage. A tire rim rolls past, the Russians guards are sprawled on the ground, unmoving. There’s smoke from where the car has landed, and you let out a low whistle. “Nice one, El.”

“El?” Dustin turns around, wondering if he’s heard you right.

“She’s up there,” you point to where she had been standing, but when you see Jonathan now standing next to her with Nancy, your heart stops. “Jonathan.”

You’re the first to start running, and when he sees that it’s you, Jonathan wastes no time running either. He’s down the escalator in seconds. Your whole body buzzes as you run, adrenaline and longing coursing through you. The moment he’s close enough, you practically leap into his arms.

“Bug,” he holds onto you tightly. He buries his face in your hair and you breathe him in. It’s a familiar scent, a familiar warmth. You had been so focused on escaping the Russian base that you hadn’t even considered that he and everyone else in the party could’ve been involved. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” you tighten your arms around him, but when he makes a pained noise, you immediately pull away. It’s then that you notice the swelling in his head. The dried blood. Pressing your fingers softly to his face, you fill with concern. “What happened, are you hurt?”

Jonathan tries to shrug it off. He doesn’t care about what he’s been through. All he wants to focus on is that you’re okay, for once not covered in blood and bruises like he is. Wherever you’ve been these last few days, at least he knows you weren’t in any pain. “I’m fine, I’ll tell you everything later–”

“You flung that thing like a Hot Wheel!” Dustin exclaims to El, now joining you and Jonathan as the others gather around.

You don’t leave Jonathan’s side as everyone starts talking at once. Lucas asks why Erica is involved, to which you wince at. “I tried stopping them.”

“It’s their fault.” Erica points at Steve and Robin, clearing your name in the process, which you appreciate her for.

Steve stands next to you now and puts his hands on his hips. He doesn’t even try to deny that he’s the reason a ten year old girl ended up locked inside an underground Russian facility. “Yeah, true. Totally true. It’s absolutely our fault.”

Robin asks what happened to the car and Dustin and Steve explain El to her. They quickly catch her up to speed about the girl’s power, and you feel bad for the teen. It’s a lot of information to take in at once. Erica joins, having remembered her conversation with Dustin from earlier in the vents when he had explained the Upside Down to her.

Meanwhile, Nancy is focused on Robin. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“That’s Robin. She’s a friend.” You step between them. When Nancy sees that it’s you, she quickly looks away. She fidgets with her fingers, overwhelmed with shame and regret. She hasn’t forgotten the cruelty she showed you a few days ago. You haven’t forgotten either, but you’ve never been one to hold anger towards others. Extending a kind smile, you nod at her. “Hey, Nance.”

Nancy looks up, surprised, but smiles at you as well and it’s enough. Maybe one day you’ll sort through the tension that never seems to leave you and the girl alone. Untangle the lines and threads that haunt both of you. For now, there are other things to worry about.

Steve has started explaining the Russians now, and quickly it becomes clear that you’ve all been dealing with vastly different situations.

“Russians, what Russians?” Jonathan asks you with alarm.

“See those guys laying over there?” Everyone looks at where you’re pointing, the men still knocked out on the ground. “Russians. We enjoyed twenty-four wonderful hours with them.”

“Yeah, we ended up trapped in their secret base underneath Hawkins.” Dustin further explains, to which everyone’s eyes widen at.

“It was fun. Spent my birthday in mortal danger.” At the same time the kids all wish you a belated birthday, which you salute them for. “Thanks, guys. I’m just happy I wasn’t gravely injured this time.”

“And that Steve finally kissed you.” Dustin unhelpfully adds before Steve is covering his mouth to shut him up. His face reddens, embarrassed and nervous. Jonathan is standing too close to him for comfort right now.

Nancy looks uncomfortable with this new information, Mike makes a disgusted sound, Max high fives you, Lucas cheers, Will gasps and looks nervously towards his brother, and Jonathan chokes on his own spit. It’s truly a very wide array of reactions, all of which are expected to certain extents.

That doesn’t stop you from hitting the back of Dustin’s head, though. “Can we focus on the Russians infiltrating Hawkins?” Dustin hits your shoulder in retaliation, but he knows you’re right. He turns to Mike, upset that he hadn’t come sooner. “Didn’t you get our code red?”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t understand half of what you were saying.”

The kids all start to argue and Steve joins in, making a remark about how he’s always bugging Dustin to watch for a low battery. More arguing follows. Lucas and the others demand to hear more about the Russians. As you try your best to explain everything, you notice from the corner of your eye El walking away from the group.

Her shoulders are drawn into her body, her breathing seems to be labored. You nudge Jonathan, pulling his attention away from the kids arguing, and point towards El. “What happened to her tonight?”

Jonathan is about to explain what they’ve been dealing with, but when El collapses onto the ground, you leave his side in a heartbeat to join her. Kneeling beside her, you’re cold with panic. She’s covered in sweat, her face is flushed. “El? Sweetheart, what’s happening?”

Mike and Jonathan are beside you now. Mike is in his own fit of panic, nearly ramming into you in his hurry to get to the girl. He turns her over onto her back, his face twisted with worry and fear. “El! What’s wrong?”

The rest of the group stands around El now, staring down at her. She manages to open her eyes, but you can tell that it pains her to do so. “My leg.” She rasps out, voice thick with tears.

“Her leg, okay.” Jonathan takes action, swiftly unraveling a bandage on her leg. You hadn’t noticed it before. There’s a deep wound underneath the gauze, its blood has soaked through it. Nancy helps Jonathan with the bandage, and when they finally get it off, you almost throw up at the sight.

The flesh is raised, angry and swollen. There’s a giant gash in El’s leg, deep and to the bone. The veins in her legs are dark and begin to constrict when something starts to move inside the wound; something is crawling inside her leg. It’s a nauseating sight.

Mike starts to freak out even more. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. He’s scared for the girl, his eyes fill with panic. Instinctively you pull him into your arms, tightening your hold as he fights against it.

That’s when El begins to scream.

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comfortless · 7 months ago

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syl im begging on my hands and knees pls pls pls expand on that idea of könig being a warrior rumored to eat womens hearts its like giving scheherazade and i NEED IT

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. vague time period/setting. fem(afab) reader. light descriptions of violence and gore, talk of cannibalism, non-con groping & cuddling, forced marriage.

There are endless tasks to be done and everything beneath a vast blue sky to explore, forgoing those things, the men about your village often prefer to gather for a duel. There are no rules for their game, only that you bring a weapon and thrust it toward the opponent in such a way that it brings you glory, pride, some scabbing mend to a crooked scar.

Except not you, never you. They wouldn’t so much as allow for the women to watch unless sparring for the hand of a weeping bride happened to be the gleaming prize waiting at the end of the night.

Your eyes had witnessed such before, a girl with hair the color of autumn straw that rolled down to the end of her back, whisked away by some man from the sea after he dug his blade into an old farmer’s belly. Her father. A sad thing, but you imagined her life must be much better now. Instead of tending to a mule or pricking her fingers on needles for sewing, she’s off collecting sea shells and has the ocean’s breeze eternally perfumed in her hair. Maybe she cradles a baby on her hip now, plump and cooing happily whilst they watch the waves roll and glitter beneath the sun.

A better life for only the cost of a swift death. It was something that you had always envisioned wanting for yourself, away from this village that reeks of blood, the very place where your options were limited to shoveling after the horses or to die a lonely hag.

That was until the behemoth began to show his face. Not quite his face at all, actually. It changed things for you. Instead of a longing for one of these strong men to carry you off into the night, there sat a creeping terror each and every time he crossed the threshold into the village.

He was rumored to be many things: an executioner from a foreign land, either a lost and wicked saint or a demon made flesh, and worst of them all… a cannibal from out in the untamed downs that crest the mountainside.

The women of the village were frightened by him, by the bulk and height that suggested he was not a man at all, but something far more terrifying beneath that black veil. They hid away when he first arrived, claiming he carried an organ in his hands, chewing away at a still-beating heart with blood running down his fingers. The men remained rigid, but their hands shook when they took up their weapons against him.

And there was no way of knowing then that this man was to be yours.

Time and time again, the giant would win, request a warm meal and a bed for the evening, and would be gone away come morning. He wouldn’t return for months, and the gossip would continue to fester until his return. Then, only then, would lips be pursed in silence and another fool would rush to death in an attempt to win some measure of pride. His opponent would be buried in the very field they would fight in, his bones serving for another layer upon the earthen stage once the worms and rats had picked him clean, and the giant would be back. He was always back.

The town is hushed to silence when his horse is led through the well-worn street. There are lingering observers: the broad stable hand that would not even dare to raise a whip or a dagger to this behemoth, the women of the brothel even shy away from him, and the children who whisper their rumors behind open palms.

He does not stop for any of them, only carries forward with that dark cloth concealing his head.

You peek out from your window, nursing tea with honey to calm the chill drifting through the air, feathering over your skin. It’s bitter on your tongue, even with the sweet coursing through it. Bitter, when his blue eyes flick in your direction and you feel every inch of your skin begin to prickle and tense.

He’s worse up close like this. The man doesn’t conceal his torso, never seemed to find a need to— no one ever gets close enough to wound him. Not any more, at least, judging by the pasty scars that mar his chest with the biggest being a healed, pinkish blemish that stretches from below his ribs down to a narrow hip. You find the most unsettling part about him is not those marks of violence, but the fact that you can not read his face.

Time slows to a halt as he just stares, takes you in with your cup of tea and the old dress stolen away from your mother’s own wardrobe. And you return it, warily looking him over from his veiled head down to the toes of his boots. After regarding you in the very same way a bored cat would observe an unaware, little bird, he moves along his path with a quiet huff of breath as his face is turned away from you.

There’s a heavy axe strapped to his back that you only notice then. Something new and shiny, glistening in the rays of golden sunlight above. Sharp and wicked, too cruel a weapon to be used in a bout for dinner and a lumpy mattress stuffed with decaying straw.

You could only hope he brought a cloth to clean it once this ordeal was over. Perhaps he truly does use his veil to do so, gets drunk on the scent of blood and gore clinging to it and pleasures himself to the violence as they claim. The macabre tales of this giant only go darker than that. But the tales he lives up to most of all are the ones about his skill in killing.

When night begins to scrape across the sky in dark, drab purple, fate comes crawling throughout the town as though it is nothing more than a famished ghoul.

Your mother storms toward you where you’re sat, preparing for bed. Her face is a mask of pure anguish when she pulls you into a tight embrace. She bawls into your hair, digs her nails into your back as though she would sooner die than let you go.

The men of the town follow behind her, wrenching her arms away from you and pulling you up by the front of your gown. The thin linen tears with the force of rough hands, rips a thick line down your chest that almost leaves you bared to them. Though the hands are eager, the eyes of these men do not shine with hunger, only with fear.

The shouts and cries from your lips are lost to them, to even your mother who wails in defeat someplace behind you.

“You’re plenty old enough to be a bride,” says one of the men, voice like a coiled snake spitting venom. It doesn’t take one of the well-educated people of the capital here to explain just what is to happen to you now.

The giant, the cannibal, saw something that he liked, and decided that you would be his prize. When you’re led to the field, kicking and flailing against the strong arms that hold you tightly in their grip, the sight is enough to tell you just how much that he enjoyed your silent, curious staring only hours before.

He stands upright, silent and daunting above a body that’s been split by the axe still held in one strong hand. The color of crimson cakes his knuckles, crests over his arm and the expanse of his chest, all from the headless corpse lying disposed at his feet.

The scene is what you expected, you’ve heard the words of your people about this beast of a man’s propensity for violence, but no amount of mental preparation could have truly readied you for seeing so much blood. The blood of a man you knew to be good and true, a hard-working blacksmith from the foothills. What a tragic way to go out: fighting for a pouch of coin when this horrible giant must have clearly lost his mind to rut and rage.

No hand comes to cover your mouth when you shriek, and the tight grips guiding you forward only loosen when your man or murderer stalks forward to take his prize. Through your tears, you still manage to make out the lines beneath his eyes, how they fold upward, and there’s no doubt that he’s smiling beneath that mask. A big, ugly grin at the thought of prying open your ribs and helping himself to a maiden’s heart.

He lifts it over his head in a swift motion, and drops it over your own instead, opposite to the hastily cut eye holes to block out all of the hazy, pale light of the moon and flickering yellow-red torches surrounding. Amidst the panic threatening to send your heart fleeing from your chest, the cold trickle of dread that finds itself curling in your belly, you feel two arms hoist you up and settle you over the back of his wretched steed.

“Gehen wir.”

Then, the darkness turns abyssal.

You only pray your body has truly died of fright when you first wake. There’s no darkness, no scent of blood when your eyelids pry apart to flutter. Water laps over your bare thighs, cold enough to force a shiver up from your feet to the blades of your shoulders. But behind you sits fire, a warmth so comforting you would think you’re rested against a stone bathed in summer sun, if not for the softness.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, rationalize just what’s happening, until a hand clutching a scrap of cloth maneuvers up from your thigh to your tummy, lathers you in a soap that smells only of pine. It halts, cinches around your waist when you begin to tense, when he knows you’re truly awake. A pond to your front and a man of horror at your back.

There’s sunlight streaming down from above, painting the clouds in gold. There are birds happily singing from the surrounding trees, and other, unseen animals scurrying through fallen leaves. Serene, pretty, and almost comforting when the wind turns course and brings with it the scent of late-ripening fruit. If the reality of your situation were not so dire, perhaps you would have enjoyed it, being here with a man who killed instead of presented your family with a dowry or offered you some pleasant wedding to dine and drink your fill of berry wine at.

“Let me go.” Your voice is a feigned warning, the mocking growl of a mere pup. You imagine he must keep his weapons close, only offering himself the courtesy of cleaning you so your meat doesn’t taste of dirt or lavender oil when he sinks his teeth into it.

“Süss frau,” he mumbles behind you, presses his head into your hair and inhales deeply as your body only grows further rigid. There’s a pause, before he corrects himself. “Meine süss frau.”

It would help if you knew what he was saying, calm your nerves some, maybe, but each word spoken only sounds guttural and instills further fear. You twist in his grip, hissing small curses that would have left your mother in a rage, but he only laughs at your squirming. Then, he tightens his grip as the cloth is dropped into the pond’s glassy water.

“Take me back home,” you continue to urge, placing a trembling hand over the limb pressing your body further back against him. “Please.”

Your small attempt at pleading is met only with his head dropping to the nape of your neck, a kiss pressed against the flesh there. It warms for him, sends a heat spiking up to your cheeks in spite of the way you still suspect he wishes only to rip your throat open with teeth more akin to a devil’s fangs.

You turn your head, intent on spitting right in this monster’s face, but find only a man looking back at you.

There’s a shimmer in his eyes that almost seems playful, a grin so prevalent there it must cause the corners of his mouth to ache. No blood in his teeth, and though the silvery-blue of his eyes seems distant, they are not cold. The goliath who stole you away stinking of blood and innards isn’t present now, and that seems even less of a comfort. He’s even handsome in the strangest way, certainly not the look of nobility, but none of his features are cruel. There’s a boyish charm to him, perhaps he would have the look of a charismatic farmhand or an apprentice of sorts if not for the scarring.

“Won’t hurt you… too pretty,” he assures, burying his face against the side of your neck. But the bastard does, digs his teeth right in and suckles at your skin when you claw at his arm in surprise. It’s not enough to draw drops of blood, but it accentuates the point that he seems to see you as something of his, a possession of sorts.

There’s a messy patch of drool over bruising skin when he pulls away to laugh at the wounded expression upon your face. He apologizes in a huff of breath as he guides you up to stand at his side. His hands linger too long for comfort when they rest along your waist. Your sullen glare only seems to further endear him. Too much, judging by the way the pillar between his legs bounces thick and hard and proud, throbs when you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze and angrily hiss to him about how a man should treat his wife. Cannibal or not, the beast needed to learn some manners.

Fear still edges its way up your spine, but it diminishes more and more as the seconds pass.

He’s no gentleman when he splashes away the remnants of soap from your body, hands grazing over every inch of your bare skin he sees available to touch. Your breast first, weighed up in his palm with the nipple pinched between his index and middle. Emboldened by your hushed protests, he dares to slip his other between your legs, and only then do you force his hands away.

He certainly bears no resemblance to a proper husband when he hoists you over one shoulder to carry you further into the woods and into his shack, either.

It’s barren and ugly, an unsightly wooden structure decorated only with a thin mattress, a table too small, and blades of many forms. The axe sits proudly below the window, astonishingly cleaned of the gore from the night prior. The veil rests above it on the sill, damp from a cleaning that never should have been. You stare at his belongings for a time when you’re placed on your feet, silently judging the array in search of anything to justify the gossip, only to come up short of anything.

He doesn’t even touch you past the bathing in the pond. You’re dressed in a tunic that fits like a dress upon your form: far too big, long and dull to be anything you would normally be seen in. But there are no tailors this far out in the wilderness, though there’s an apologetic promise whispered to you once he sees you in his clothes. He’ll buy you a new dress upon your first visit to town as his wife, several if it pleases you.

The man leaves for a spell, brings you rabbit to clean and prepare, then busies himself stoking up a fire for cooking. His speech is a little broken when he tells you of how long he’s waited to have someone like you here with him, how he never suspected a woman so pretty would be his wife. And you don’t eat when the meat is fully cooked and placed in front of you both. You insist that you only wish to return back home, to hug your mother and tell her that you’re still alive.

That, he takes insult to.

His brow is pinched when he forces you to sit in his lap. He brings the meat to your lips and presses into your cheeks with his free hand to force your mouth open. There’s nothing romantic or cute about it, about him, but you do glumly settle in his hold when the realization does dawn on you that, though his strength is extraordinary, he is only a man and the only harm coming to you would be between your legs.

You’re drug over to the mattress after dinner by a tight hold over your wrist. The fight hasn’t left you, not by a smidge, even when the loose tunic is lifted over your head with shouts of your displeasure and you’re pressed onto your back with the giant watching you curiously from above.

He pins you there, but doesn’t force his hands down to your sex again. He only sighs when he rests his weight next to you and curls in to lie his head over your breasts.

You’re body remains stiff and rigid as a bowstring. His nearness only sends that same swell of heat back from the pond, brings with it the scent of fire smoke and sweat emanating from him. His hair is long and soft, soft as the kisses he places on the plushness of your tit, long as the drag of a callused palm from your hip up to cup the other.

He offers you no warning when his teeth circle over your nipple, holds fast to you when your back arches and your fingers weave into his hair to jerk him away. The worst part about him seemed to be having a penchant for leaving a mark, and the smug grin that crosses his face when he meets the fury in your eyes with the lust-drunk look in his own.

“Was? You don’t like?,” he grumbles, tracing over the marks of his teeth with his thumb, pressing against and smearing his saliva until you feel your back begin to arch and your breathing grow heavy.

“It hurts.”

He stares at you in amazement for a moment, whether surprised you haven’t made an attempt to flee or startled by the lack of a strike to his jaw after such a thing, it mattered not. Your terrible, ignorant “husband” only seems satisfied with your response. He draws back to sit on his knees before you, sliding his hands along each curve and dip of your body until they rest at your ankles.

“Ja… hurts. I will make it better, meine süße.”

He’s no less brazen when he makes a dive toward your womanhood, lips parted in preparation to breathe you in. Or… taste you in full, whichever option was suited for men who were more beasts than men at all. Maybe that was his only feat of cannibalism: licking at women until they were wet and pliant for him to take entirely. You pry him away with a gasp and a quick shift onto your side, demanding that he not touch you any further.

Again, he laughs, curls behind you and shifts his hips to slot the girth of his cock between your thighs, buries his face into your neck once again. You can feel the grin that stretches over his lips against your skin. When the dark envelopes you both, the quiet crackle of the fire in its pit still showing signs of life, he seems content to just cuddle you close.

Exhaustion creeps its way through your limbs, steals the fight from your voice and leaves your eyelids heavy. You consider waiting it out, listening to his breathing deepen and slow to creep away, but his grip is firm around your middle, so strangely comforting that you do allow yourself to relax. Running could wait until the morning sun rose.

#könig x reader #konig x reader #this has been in my inbox for months i am SO sorry

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astarioffsimpmain · 1 year ago

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Consternation

Astarion x F!Reader

Warnings: Explicit violence; gore; mentions of abuse

Synopsis: Astarion realizes that Cazador is no longer his worst fear

Author's Note: This is my first ever Astarion fic, and I have to thank the members of the Astarion fandom that I have met thus far. This fic would not exist without your encouragment. <3

It was foreign to him, this fear. This icy chill that rattled his bones struck him deep at the core and unsettled him in a way that had him desperate to both pace ceaselessly and never move again. Oh, he had felt fear. It had been his constant companion since he was taken by Cazador; often his only companion as he writhed in the dark, his eyes open but nothing behind them.

But this…

He watched as Karlach carried you back to the campsite. You were bloodied almost beyond recognition, your heartbeat barely reaching his sensitive ears. It was his fault. You and he had argued last night; it was petty. He had been petty. He used the words that he knew would hurt you, and you, too spent after a grueling day to see through his act, had retreated to your own tent to seek out sleep in painful solitude. But sleep had not come. He'd seen it in your eyes this morning when you emerged from your tent, squinting and glaring up at the sun as though it was your enemy, and not his.

And when you, he, and Karlach had gone out in search of food and firewood, you had been too slow, too fatigued, and too distracted to guard yourself from the attack. Orcs. They were a vicious bunch, springing on the three of you from the thicket near the base of the mountain range where you hunted, and while he and Karlach had suffered several minor injuries before winning out, you took a blow far more damaging. One of the orcs had taken you by surprise and bludgeoned you in the side of the head with its club before gaining the upper hand and stepping down hard on your ribs.

He'd been focused on the orc in front of him until he heard the crunch. The sound was so grotesquely familiar to him that time nearly stopped as he swiveled his head in your direction. No. You lay flat on your back, your body bent in several unnatural directions, as the orc stood over you triumphantly, raising its club to finish the job. Your head lolled to the side and your unharmed eye met his and he shuddered, his breath catching in his throat. You didn't look scared. You didn't even look angry. He knew that expression. He'd seen it on your beautiful face as the moon bathed you in ethereal glow, the night he confessed his feelings to you. The night he surrendered his mask of flippant indifference and let you see him for who… for what he truly is. You had looked at him with such- such love, that night, so much that he thought he wouldn't be able to bear it.

But now? Now he would trade the air in his lungs and every day of freedom he had left to be there with you on that night again. He would rather surrender himself to his master than watch you die because of him, and still look at him with love.

It wasn't even him that had managed to save you in the end. It was Karlach, who had all but rammed the orc off of the top of you before gathering you up in her arms and running back towards camp. He had stood in a useless, pitiful daze, and had your tiefling companion not been there to end the last of the orcs before saving you, he would have been quick to join you at death's door. He remained useless as he followed Karlach back to the camp where Wyll, Shadowheart and Gale rushed off in the directions of their tents to see if they had something that could help you. Lae'zel had let out a bloodthirsty cry upon seeing you, demanding the blood of whoever or whatever had attacked you. Once Karlach told her the story, she posted herself at the edge of the campground, circling to prevent any more surprises.

Everyone was doing something. Everyone but him. All he could do was sit beside you with his cool hands running over your body, trying desperately to cool you down. Your face was marred nearly beyond recognition, and the blood from your internal wounds had begun to pool just below the surface of the skin on your abdomen, creating angry violet spots all over your soft and beautiful body; the body he had held bare against his not too long ago; the heart he promised to love as wholly and genuinely as he was capable, beating far too weakly inside your chest. Guilt twisted further inside of him. If only he was strong, like you believed he was. If only Cazador didn't haunt his every moment. If only he was truly as free as you made him feel. Perhaps if he was better, stronger, more, he wouldn't have said those things to you. He wouldn't have hurt you, and instead of a sleepless night alone, you could have been wrapped up in him.

But he was foolish; weak; less. And he let his pain seep out like a fresh wound onto you, and now you suffered for it. Up until this very moment he had been under the false illusion that being sent back to Cazador was the worst fate he could possibly endure. How many times did he have to be proven wrong by you before he would listen?! Losing you was the fear he never expected. Losing you was far worse than losing himself, and the realization of that only deepened the already gripping dread in his heart.

"Please," he whispered softly, leaning over your unmoving form. "Please, gods, stay alive. Even if you hate me forever, please stay alive. Please." His voice cracked as a tear rolled down his cheek and collided with yours. His body trembled as he prayed to gods he wasn't even sure he believed in, wishing for a miracle he didn't really think could happen. What would he do without you? He always insisted that he was his own person, but… was he? Or had he just traded one master for another; the first a master of his body, and the second a master of his heart?

#astarion #astarion baldurs gate #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x female reader #astarion x f!reader #astarion angst #baldurs gate #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 fanfic #astarion fanfic #astarion fanfiction

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hongjoongspoetry · 3 months ago

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Bones, Blood and Teeth Erode - Teaser

⚠️ Pairing(s): Jeong Yunho x F!Reader

⚠️ Genres/Tropes: non-idol AU, zombie apocalypse AU, horror, romance, hurt/comfort, a lot of action, smut, a lil comedy, golden retriever x black cat

⚠️ Warnings/Tags: female reader, no use of (Y/N), explicit language, use of weapons (guns, knives), blood and gore (quite descriptive), zombies, murder, reader is a badass... more to come

⚠️ Wordcount: Estimated 30-40K

⚠️ A/N: As it's still a WIP, nothing is set in stone and scenes can be changed until the whole work is published. I also don't have a summary ready, but... enjoy! 😀

This is all fiction and not meant to represent the idols involved in any way or form. This work is NSFW and not appropriate for minors as it contains explicit scenes, not just sexual content, but descriptions of both physical and verbal fights, as well as adult language and gore. Minors and ageless blogs, please, refrain from reading or interacting with this work or my blog!!!

AO3 Masterlist Click on me!

Yunho was there in seconds to haul you off the ground, his hand grabbing the back of your shirt, shouting at you to run.

“Are you deaf?! Go!”

It was the harsh push to your shoulder that finally got you moving. Slow and uncertain steps, but moving nonetheless thanks to Yunho barking orders behind you. One would think you had never stepped foot outside the prison walls, let alone gone on numerous resource runs. Everything between Yunho’s push to you reaching the make-up store was a blur. The blood covering your knife and hands — along with the trail of corpses left behind you — being the only proof you had been involved in the massacre.

“I told you to get inside!”

You jumped as Yunho’s hand landed on your forearm, tugging you toward the store. Throwing a glance over your shoulder, you counted over a hundred rotting heads. The shutters would only hold a dozen until it broke and they tore you apart.

Yunho watched the gears turn in your head and got a whiff of what you planned to do. “Don’t.”

The foreign depth in his voice did nothing to change your mind and he noticed it too, thus holding onto you until his fingers turned white and the veins of his hands protruded. You snapped out of the haze as another forceful tug bruised your arm. Determined to see your plan till the end, you used the element of surprise to your advantage and bore your teeth into his wrist, just enough for Yunho to loosen his hold on you and give you the chance to step back. You ripped your bag off your shoulders and slung it at Yunho, who caught it with an ‘oomph’, successfully keeping him down on his rear for a few extra seconds. His raspy call of your name clawed at your heart. Something was eating you from the inside, but you ignored the wails of your soul and kicked the cart with all your might, allowing the shutters to fall with a bang. Your stubbornness wasn’t the sole thing to stand between you two anymore.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

You paid little mind to the burning feeling in your chest and the flame dancing across his features. Leaving him there would hurt, but it would be hell to see him get ripped to shreds knowing he had a chance of surviving. Back at the prison, you only had one person to look out for whilst Yunho was a pillar for many. You couldn’t do that to them. To Hongjoong, Mingi, Wooyoung… Heck, you couldn’t do it to yourself. Angry Yunho was a fleeting image. It would pass, but the Yunho with cheesing eyes and heart shaped lips pulled in a joyous smile would forever be engraved in your memory.

“It’s not going to hold,” you gestured to the stupid shutter. “Get home and make sure the stuff gets to Hongjoong.”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving without you!”

“Tell Nari I love her–”

His fist slammed against the metal cover and for a moment you thought it would crumble beneath his touch. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. You’re going to tell her yourself because we’re going back together!”

There was so much on your mind. What to say, what message to leave the others; apologies and closure or a last round of advice?

“I’ll find you. Outside, I’ll find you. I’m not dyi… “ Your throat tightened at the empty promise. You didn’t know if you said that to reassure him or yourself. “Ten minutes. If I’m not outside in ten minutes, you’ll leave. Yunho, promise me you’ll leave.”

If only you knew what you were doing to his poor soul. Asking him of the impossible. He could promise you anything you wanted, anything in this cursed world and he’d hand it to you on a silver platter. Anything, but that. Leaving you behind was like signing his own death sentence. He’d be nothing, but the shell of a man. An empty, hollow, useless shell with the bitter taste of resentment for both your selfless and selfish sacrifice. Yunho knew agreeing to keep the promise would give you a peace of mind yet, if anything happened to you, he’d be haunted by the memories of you until his very last breath.

Across from him, you waited as if time wasn’t about the most sacred thing you could have. A mix of concern and determination wedged in your beautiful features and Yunho knew he had to speak, although he didn’t want to because the words rolling off his dry tongue would be some kind of agreement to your request.

“Yunho, please.”

The burning fire in his eyes dimmed as a wave of tears washed over them. They looked magical, even when obscured by grief and longing for the one still alive. His bottom lip formed into a pout to keep from trembling just as his hands balled into fists for that same reason. The sand continued seeping out of the imaginary hourglass, no matter how much Yunho tried scooping it back inside, the universal clock wouldn’t stop ticking.

With great effort — his lips parted and the shaky breath released aimed straight at your heart as did the tears brimming his red eyes which were a reflection of your own — he nodded. “I promise… but don’t make me fulfill it.”

In another life, the vow would be exchanged in a happier setting, surrounded by friends and family. Vacant of gloomy clouds and death knocking at your door, and filled with belly laughter and tears of joy instead. A time where the promise of sacrifice was made out of love and not for survival.

“Yunho, I–”

The remaining seven letters died in your throat as cold and wrinkly fingers sunk into your shoulder. Yunho watched you scramble from the touch, his heart pounding for your safety, and felt completely useless. He couldn’t breathe until your blade was driven into the side of the biter’s head and the creature landed with a thud, blood pooling at your feet. The growling worsened and you needed to get a move on if you ever planned on seeing another shift between the sun and moon.

“Come back to me, do you understand?”

Your eyes met for what could be the last time and you drank him in like he was a part of the seven wonders of the world.

His messy charcoal strands falling over his equally dark brows, knitted together with a crease in the middle that you wanted to smooth out. Trailing down to his naturally puffy eyes reflecting a storm of emotions — thundering anger and heavy anguish — threatening to spill over with tears. Your throat tightened. You couldn’t bear seeing the pain you inflicted upon him and hastily followed the slope of his pretty nose, red as a ripe strawberry. A beautiful blush, probably stemming from his anger, kissed his round cheeks and spread to his ears. The need to reach out and touch him, caress him with reassurances that everything would be fine, grew at the sight of his trembling lips.

The angel on your shoulder whispered for you to run. Another whisper — this time from the devil — tingled your ears with the statement to stay a little longer. You wanted to heed the little red fella, but what you wanted wasn’t what you needed, so with a final nod, you tore away from his painful gaze and willed yourself not to turn back around because if you did, you wouldn’t be able to leave.

With fear and adrenaline pumping through your veins and the promise of returning alive, you slipped on the mask of a soldier — putting a pause to the war in your head — and faced the army of the dead.

“Come get me, fucking assholes!”

#yunho x reader #jeong yunho x reader #jeong yunho oneshot #jeong yunho fanfic #jeong yunho angst #jeong yunho #ateez x reader #ateez oneshot #ateez angst #ateez #zombie au #zombie apocalypse #ateez fanfic

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mattslolita · 4 months ago

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teddy bear - m. & c. sturniolo ( 001. )

in which ... after the haunting and fatality of the ghostface killers who made you their final girl, they come back for you.

( ghostface!matt x black!fem!reader x ghostface!chris )

warnings ; death , gore , stalker behavior , possessive behavior , eventual smut , ghostface!matt , stalker!matt , possessive!chris , ghostface!chris , angst , blood & knives , final girl!reader

"𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒐 𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕?"

( ^ this playlist is for the wattpad version of this fic ! if you are interested in reading it, my wattpad is : faerieribs )

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it was as if she was foreign, an alien even — y/n felt aliented to those around her now. it was like as if a switch caused everyone to look at her differently, or rather not at all. she felt like some kind of monster among the normality of everyone.

the only people who y/n did not feel like a stranger to were nicolas and nathan — of course, unfortunately they'd been dragged into what's happened to her even though it was the last thing she expected or wanted to happen.

she was still surprised that marylou even still wanted the girl within vicinity of the remainder of her family — those being nicolas, her husband jimmy, and her oldest son justin who had moved away a while ago. nevertheless, she still treated the girl like the daughter she never had. and y/n felt guilty, because two of her sons were no longer with her due to what she blamed herself for.

but how was y/n supposed to know the horror of what matthew and christopher were capable of?

she inhales deeply as she accidentally squeezes nick's arm too tightly when they arrive at somerville high school — he gives her a reassuring expression, squeezing her hand that was in his.

"i doubt anyone's gonna give you a hard time," nate says to y/n, shrugging his shoulders, "we can always ditch first too, if-"

"nate, you just want an excuse not to go to class," y/n laughs dryly, causing the boy to roll his eyes playfully. sure it wasn't the best laugh she could muster, but nate still liked the sound.

"we're right here with you," nick reminds y/n, as they walk towards the front of the school. "if they stare, i'll stare right the fuck back."

"thank you," y/n says quietly.

there's already students milling around the school, most people just waiting for classes to start. they're scattered about the area, gossiping and talking aimlessly. but y/n could already sense it before it happened — as if on cue, heads turned when the three of them begin to slowly make their way towards the front entrance.

people stare.

y/n wants to hide out under a rock, because she can't take the looks of either pity or disgust she received. she swallowed thickly as she tried to ignore the people icing her out, but y/n could feel her hands become clammy as she walked on. she felt like a zombie walking amongst the living.

"i can't believe she came back," someone whispers, staring the girl down, "and how are they still friends with her?"

nick's head is quick snap towards the girl's direction, and he gives her a cold glare that causes her to zip her lips as the three continue to walk inside of the school grounds. thankfully enough, not many people seemed to be occupying the lockers which bianca was assigned to, so the three of them hurriedly made their way towards it.

"i swear i was seconds away from punching that junior's nose," nate said, shaking his head as he looked at y/n, "this is gonna get old really fuckin' fast."

"i don't think i'll ever get used to it," y/n says bitterly, opening her locker. she took out her books needed for her first four classes, then she shoved her bag into it. "guys i don't think we ever went over our schedules."

"oh fuck, i forgot about that," nick says, reaching for his paper inside of his bag, "here's mine."

nate fishes his own out of his backpack, then the three of them hold theirs up to each other — great. y/n only shares her third period with nate, then her fifth and sixth with nick. she frowns at her elective on her paper : she was a cheerleader. last year, y/n would see matt and chris at practice whilst she and her squad went over new routines or even old ones, and she remembered when they would chat when they took breaks. a gulp rode down her throat as tears almost prick her eyes at the memory, but she forces it to the back of her mind.

the inside lockers start to fill up, and y/n could feel multiple eyes on her as they're passing by her. it's almost time for the bell to rang, but y/n wishes that she could just hide in the bathroom for the rest of her senior year — no need in sitting in seven classes a day filled with people who would inevitably never look at her the same way.

she would never stop blaming herself for what happened on october thirty first of last year.

the bell rang, and y/n knew it was time to face reality unfortunately — nate gives her an apologetic smile as he shoves his schedule back in backpack.

"remember to text me y/n/n, i'll be down," nate reminds her, and she chuckles lightly as he gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, "i'll see you guys later."

nick turns to y/n, his gaze concerned as he looks over her. "you're gonna be okay? you sure you don't want me to switch any of my classes?"

"absolutely not, nick," y/n says sternly, "if you switch anything it'll probably fuck up photography and i'm not risking it."

"bitch i'm like the only person in it," nick reminds her, causing her to grin and let out a small giggle. "but if you say so."

"i promise i'll be fine," y/n tells her best friend with a nod of confirmation, "i don't need to be babysat."

"you know i'm not trying to do that," nick said with raised eyebrows, "i just wanna make sure people don't make you uncomfortable."

"they'll do it regardless," y/n laughs bitterly, "i'll text you if i need you, okay?"

"you better," nick says, giving her a pointed look before pulling her into a quick hug, "love you, see you later."

"love you too," y/n tells him, and he gives her one last smile before he walks in the opposite direction.

she inhales a deep breath as she starts walking in the direction of her first class of the day — nobody's giving her a break. she receives so many looks and she has the urge to just tell everyone to fuck themselves, because they didn't know the half of it. the permanent image burned into her psyche forever, they didn't have even an inkling of a fucking clue.

the universe must've completely had it out for her, because her first class was trigonometry — oddly enough, she usually loved math. it was one of her strongest subjects. but then memories of helping chris with anything math related plagued her mind, and she accidentally remembered a day in specific and it made her want to throw up when she remembered the exact date.

a few students had already sat down in their seats, and as soon as y/n walked in everyone's eyes shot up towards her. she tries to ignore the lingering stare from a junior who has a sneer on his face as she sits in the spot closest to the window, not bothering to look around her.

instead, she looks outside towards the corridor with her hand under her chin, surveying the small huddle of a few students as they sit along the brick wall. it reminds her of her old group, and how they used to spend their free period enjoying each other's company.

a tear almost threatens to escape y/n's eyes until the loud ring of the final bell snaps her back into reality — when she turns around, she sees the three seats on either sides of her are all unoccupied, as if everyone has chose to purposely avoid her. very few people give her a pitiful expression, but it does nothing to help the blossoming feeling of dread that lingers in her chest as she slumps down in her seat.

the teacher, mr. christensen quickly hushes the chatter coming from the students, whilst y/n remains quiet and instead looks towards the man with a dull expression painting her features. "good morning class, i'm mr. christensen. i taught p.e. last year so some of you might remember me. i see a few new faces though, so welcome to trigonometry."

y/n remembers mr. christensen and the welcoming speech he gave last year, so she allows herself to tune out of it as she stares ahead blankly. unfortunately for her, her mind wanders back to the memory of how things were.

before halloween of last year.

she longed for things to go back to how they were before, but she knew that would never be possible. all she could do was blame herself continuously for allowing herself to be fooled into thinking they could be innocent.

the dark, crimson blood that stained their faces as sadistic smiles painted the once innocent expressions...

but were they ever really innocent in the first place?

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

at the end of trig, mr. christensen had pulled y/n to the side to talk to her about the resources the school provides as far as counselors are concerned. of course she didn't want to be rude, so she just smiled meekly and thanked the man, but her honest opinion? no amount of counseling could help y/n help to forget all that's happened to her.

she texted nate to meet her in the hallway at her lockers before they got to their third period, which was spanish II — they both took it together last year, and both were grateful since they pretty much helped each other out.

as y/n walks down the hallway towards her locker, it seems like people are staring at her now more than ever. she inhales deeply as she continues, looking ahead of her to spot her locker. she does, but there's a small crowd gathered around it when she gets even closer.

when they see y/n getting closer as she approaches them, they disperse quickly. when y/n finally reaches her locker, she lets out a small gasp at blood red, capitalized letters that are spray painted in graffiti on her grey locker,

FINAL GIRL.

her eyebrows furrow before she hangs her head in defeat — in hindsight, there was a chance that whoever put this was probably right; it was almost as if she was kept alive to retell the story, to live it down for the rest of her life.

"who the fuck did it?" nate's voice booms angrily as he reaches y/n, looking around at the people as y/n is reluctant to tear her eyes away from her locker. "you alright, y/n/n?"

"i'm fine," y/n answers dryly, her voice barely above a whisper as her throat runs dry. she nods her head, but still cannot tear her eyes away from the letters that stare so boldly at her.

"i'm gonna ask again, who the fuck wrote this?" nate asks people who still continue to watch.

he receives a few 'no's', but not an answer he's satisfied with yet, until a sophomore steps up towards the two shakily, looking back and forth in between y/n and nate. "um, i saw it when i went to the bathroom during second period. i didn't see who wrote it. i'm sorry that they did."

y/n turns to the sophomore girl, giving her a genuine small smile as she nods to her. "thank you for telling me."

"of course," the girl says, this time her voice is softer and more prominent. y/n searches her face for any type of sarcasm, but she finds nothing but a pure sweetness within her.

"somebody did this while everybody was in class, then," nate concludes, turning to face y/n, "should we tell the principal about this? you know he said if anyone bothered you or-"

"actually nate, it's okay," y/n tells him, looking at him as she lets out a sigh. "if we're being honest, people are gonna say shit no matter what. so i don't really care about this."

"are you sure?" nate asks her once more, his expression laced with concern. y/n hated it.

"i swear i am," y/n tells him again, "now can we get to class? you know how ms. murphy gets when anyone's late to her class."

"remember in the first quarter last year when i was late that one time and she made me do two puzzles with spanish adverbs?" nate recalled, and for the first time that day, she lets out a real giggle at the memory.

"we were up till almost eleven that night because you bribed me with money," y/n snorts, as the two begin to walk down the hallway. "you're gonna have to start figuring this shit out on your own, nate."

"yeah yeah kid, i know," nate says, shaking his head.

kid.

the nickname rang in her head, taking her way back to the night everything changed.

( lilly's corner 💌 )

this was supposed to posted AFTER i hit 2k on here, but i already hit 2k on wattpad and i'm impatient so ☺☺☺☺☺ shoutout to my angel @mattluvr u were one of the first to see😝

the way i just basically changed out y/n & the oc's name for the wattpad version...ANYWAY ! hope y'all enjoy this fic ! lots of love to you, muah. 💌

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bakugoushotwife · 5 months ago

Text

𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖑 𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 // 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊: 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖋 𝖈𝖚𝖗𝖘𝖊𝖘

a/n: here is the finale to part one!! thanks to everyone being patient with me to get this part out, i've been going thru it lately but we got her done. i haven't proofread everything but will as it goes live, just kinda wanted to put it up. this shit gets dark so proceed at your own risk. cw: gore, blood, murder, major character death, infanticide, smut, cowgirl, pregnancy journey, serious graphic descriptions, etc. dead dove do not eat. series masterlist jjk masterlist part two

he grips your forearms, pink lips parted in disbelief. his touch is gentle, eyes gleaming with emotions yet unnamed. “again. say it once more.” he whispers, seemingly searching for the physical signs already as his eyes dance around your stomach.

“i’m pregnant, the healer confirmed it–our heir. he or she is coming!” you laugh in astonishment, a gentle warmth blushing across your cheeks. he pulls you against his broad chest within the next second, a myriad of thoughts occurring in his brain all at once. his wife–his queen, was with child. he was no longer the man he was cursed to be. he was loved by you, and would soon become a father to a loving baby of his own creation. a monster he may be, but solitude had lost its grasp on him, and he would never feel guilt for his monstrous ways now. not with a family to protect. a family. ryomen sukuna—head of a family.

you nuzzle your face against his neck, and his heart physically aches with the emotion he stores in it for you. surely this is something much stronger than love. no one could ever feel as strongly as he does. he sighs softly. comfortably, and sets you back on your feet with a soft chuckle that rumbles inside both of your chests.

“what wonderful news—outstanding news, my love…you have made me the happiest man...what a gift..” he says in a voice nearly foreign to you with its overwhelming gentleness. it conflicts with the look in his eyes. it’s hard to describe—the love and adoration he’s always held is there, with something else lying beneath. a certain icy cruelty that you know he’s capable of—a primal protectiveness. yes, gone were the days of leaving you in the throne room or bed chambers by yourself to be waited on by uraume and the rest of the staff. no, no. he would be attached to you like a second soul, as if you weren’t growing one already.

he just couldn’t bear to risk it. especially as the building plans commenced and more strangers would be around his wife than ever before. his nerves were…heightened so to speak. you didn’t want to call it paranoia, as you can understand exactly where his concerns come from. he’s never cared for anyone. not even a fucking little bit, and now he has an entire universe of feelings stored inside of one person—seperate from himself. it’s terrifying. it’s vulnerable in ways he hates to admit, for any one of his enemies that knows of your existence knows exactly how to break him apart. all the sorcerers he’s wronged, all of the families of those he has personally extinguished—they all have a way to enact revenge. they all have a clear path to ripping his heart out of his chest, and it’s a fate worse than death. even the thought of you falling into enemy hands is enough for sukuna to erect gates with enchantments and veils, laying traps of his own mind’s invention all around the palace grounds to ensure your home remains a free territory for you and his baby.

his baby. his son or daughter growing fruitfully within you. only three people know of the baby’s existence—you, him, and uraume. and this is how the list would stay until it is simply unavoidable. he will cater to your every need himself; and no one else should enter within ten feet of you unless they want to lose their heads. he makes this much clear, announcing the decree to his castle staff. of course they’re curious as to why they can no longer serve their queen–but any questions they have die on their tongues with the feral tone of commands from their king.

you think it’s all a bit much, but you wouldn’t say anything against his wishes. this is what helps him rest peacefully at night, what makes him believe you are totally and wholly safe. besides it’s more relaxing this way. the only hustle and bustle is about the additions to your home, no servants nagging you about the certain tinctures and powders you should be taking to support your baby through the pregnancy; nor them cooing about how dominant and healthy king sukuna’s offspring would be. no. it’s just the two of you and the moment. the first few months were rocky—much more negative than positive with your symptoms and struggles. your husband was a rock amidst the nausea-inducing waters. he may not be inspirational or motivational in his words, and he may not know simply from instinct alone how to comfort you; but do not mistake that for neglect. he is ever curious, and attentive. he can tell when you need something…he just needs you to help him along as to what for the first few weeks into this beautiful journey.

he’s quick to provide you a trash receptacle or to rush after you as you run into the bathroom to puke. he’s the one holding a cool rag to the back of your neck and keeping your hair out of the way, the sound of your seemingly endless retching tugging at his heart. he learns that the term “morning sickness” is really a lie—you’re sick at all hours of the day. he nearly feels guilty over your suffering, keeping you hydrated on water and coconut milk for extra nutrients. you aren’t keeping much food down, but he tries to make sure you’re offered plenty of it. going into the second month of your weak exhaustion and pathetic puking, he’s growing more than concerned.

“i’m calling the doctors, my queen is suffering far too much.” he announces, using a rag to dab the sweat off your forehead as the toilet receives yet another round of your stomach’s contents. another hand fashions your hair into some sort of ponytail, and the other two stabilize your hips. you shake your head, leaning back to sit on your haunches as you wipe your mouth.

“it’s perfectly normal. i’ll enter the second trimester soon, hopefully it will stop then.” you say, chipper. he finds it confusing how you can clearly feel so bad but pretend otherwise. your child isn’t even showing in you yet, you only look as if you’ve had a large dinner. and while you’re ridiculously adorable in this slightly swollen state, he’s left mystified by how such a small babe can disrupt everything about your body. your appetite increases and wanes depending on the day, you cry over a fallen bird's nest and then threaten to light him aflame. it’s a lot for him to wrap his head around, as someone who’s never really been well versed in emotions to begin with. but he is patient above all else—and that’s just fine with you. he’s there for every mood swing, he lets you beat on his chest and yell at him–he lets you crawl into his lap and hold yourself close, to giggle and kiss all over his face only to whisper how horny you are.

at least that much is the same. if anything, it’s increased. and while sukuna has never been a delicate man, nor a submissive one—he is a somewhat changed man. his wife–only for his wife. he can tame the desire to absolutely fuck you apart for the sake of your growing child—he doesn’t know what exactly your body can handle at this time, despite what he may crave. but…you know what you can handle, don’t you? he…can allow you to use his body in this way too. it’s the least he can do, really. he knows he’s not the most caring man in the universe. frankly, he’s spent many a time thinking you deserve someone much more loving and doting than he. but you bask in the love that does flow from him, and your body is being used to grow his offspring. so yes, he clears the throne room of contractors and servants and architects making last minute adjustments, adding rooms fit for children to thrive in and his family to gather in; all because his precious wife made an appearance demanding his attention. yes, he lets you position yourself against his lap and rut against him at your own pace, grinding on his thigh while you beg for his hands to toy with your tits.

“please–i need more, my king~” you pout, pawing at his wrists, dragging them up to your chest.he finds you enchantingly adorable, and this neediness is such a good look on you. not being able to throttle you nearly makes his bones ache, but he uses his lower set of hands to guide your hips over his defined thigh–his top set of hands giving into his sweet wife’s desires.

and he always knows exactly how to touch you. he kneads at your breasts, the sore fat of your tits melting into his hands so perfectly you hiss and let your head fall back, rolling across your shoulders at just the simple enjoyment of his fingers tweak at your swollen nipples. he loves how sensitive you’ve become, how your brows pinch together and your cheeks darken the closer you get to soaking your panties. he knows you’ll plunge yourself on his cock over and over again–letting him coat your insides with the seed that’s already taken root in your gorgeous little womb.

“of course. my naughty little queen can’t sleep without her husband’s cock pressing into her?” he coos, the words so taunting but so loving at the same time. you howl with excitement, ripping his pants down after several seconds of effort, your animalistic growls of need so pleasing to his ears and ego. you take as much of his cock inside as you can, thighs tightening at the effort.

“mm–nuh uh, can’t help it–just need you all the time!! ‘s your fault–you did this to me!” you pout, bottom lip swollen from the amount of times your teeth have dug into it. your belly, just barely bloated with the sign of pregnancy, just glistens in the candlelight of his throne room, everything about you was calling out to him—as always. he doesn’t know why the sensation still surprises him every now and again. so he helps you, hands on your waist to help lift you up and down along the shaft of him, watching your face contort and ease with bone-deep pleasure. “oh, yessss~”

your hands scramble to hold something, his wrists, his chest–anything with purchase as your orgasm shakes through your entire body. he only uses your tight walls for a few more lengthy strokes, erupting thick white ropes that paint your insides in the best way–the way that makes your legs tremble and buckle, so spent from your attempts at riding him that you’re leaning into his chest and closing your eyes to sleep. this has been your routine for about three weeks now, not that he minds.

but the second trimester…oh how golden. this was the first time that sukuna really understood the beauty of pregnancy. with all of the nights of puking and bad sleep and weird cravings and mood swings and the list goes on—he was wondering what exactly was the big glow with babymaking aside from your sex drive and the overall concept that you get a baby out of it. but now, as your bump develops and grows everyday, as your energy evens out somewhat and all you want to do is nest and decorate for the baby—he gets it. uraume brings bigger robes so you may dress comfortably, and sukuna passes along your every demand to the builders. the baby’s nursery is being painted by hand, the crib by the finest carpenters that japan has to offer. sukuna wouldn’t be sukuna of course unless he threatened to kill every worker on the project if they spilled the news of what they were working on to a single soul.

the fields outside the palace have become your favorite place to be. you enjoy laying in the sun, plucking the wildflowers that grow on the hillside and weaving them into a flower crown, and watching the animals sprint around in the treeline below. sukuna would watch from the castle some days, letting you bask in nature under his careful oversight. some days he joins you, listening to you prattle about the birds that like the sugar water you lay out. the peace that you bring to his life is something astounding. he never would have imagined himself enjoying listening to someone so bubbly and optimistic. you have always been a light he had never known existed, and he sees you as a literal angel. the way the summer skies cast a glow down on you—glowing up your hair and skin and highlighting that beautifully round bump.

this day, he sits outside with you–watching you lean back, robes unbound to drink in some more sun. he’s proud that he’s able to make it such a safe place for you–your happy place. you can hear him approach, a joyful grin spreading across your face as you look over at him.

“the baby knows you’re here~” you coo, supporting the underside of your rounded bump. the king lays beside you, a smirk on his face at the greeting. “say hello to your spawn.” you add, snickering. and dutifully so, he leans in and places his hand on your stomach. the broad paw spans most of the stretched skin, life and wonder sparkling in his ruby red eyes as he feels it, the repeated soft flutters against his palm make his heart skip a beat. his son or daughter is so active, and very strong. and they seemingly feel him, like you claimed. they like his voice and his touch, his gentle brush of his hand inspiring another tirade of kicks that send you giggling.

it just makes things that much more real for him. his child is on the way, halfway grown already. he can’t wait to meet them, to see if they resemble you or himself more closely, to have a mini-him to take under his wing and entrust his philosophy to. he can’t wait to watch you be a mother either. just what his limited imagination can conjure up warms the coldness in his chest. the idea of you swirling around a sweet nursery with the baby smiling with gums and lips, cheeks rosy from being so loved.

“hello, little baby of mine.” sukuna hums, leaning down to kiss below your navel.

you smile sweetly, eyes crinkled in the corners. “we need to think of names!” you hum, running your fingers through his hair. it soothes you to have him so near, your protector and greatest advocate. he hums at the feeling, resting his chin on your breastplate, right before the swell of your stomach. those eyes melt you every time, especially when they look at you with such fondness.

“their name will come to us when we look upon their face. no need to rush.” he hums softly, rubbing your stomach absentmindedly. he hadn’t even realized he was doing it.

“i suppose so, but i would like to call them something aside from the baby.” you hum, twisting the pale pink strands around your fingers, wondering if your child would get this uniquely colored hair.

“then let’s call them ayame, for now.” he decides, the corners of his lips twitching upwards in a smile. the word has so much significance in love and beauty, and he knows it’s the right one to bestow upon his unborn.

“you’re so sweet, i love it. ayame–for now.” you hum once more–nodding your agreement, resting your hand atop his own. before long, the sun begins to set and the king ushers you inside for dinner—relieved your appetite returned.

everyday after that was just as beautiful. you worked tirelessly daily to craft ayame’s clothes, knitting in neutrals to ensure the pieces would suit either gender of child. your excitement grows with your stomach, and so does sukuna’s protectiveness. you hardly use the bathroom by yourself. your pregnancy is now common knowledge amongst the castle staff–widespread across your kingdom. so naturally, sukuna is even more scrutinous of anyone coming in and out. the construction is nearly complete, but enemies could be lurking anywhere. and no one is more aware of that than your husband.

he’s more than relieved whenever the construction reaches its final days as you’re about to pop. he still hovers, don’t misunderstand, but he can take a breath. any day now, you’d go into labor and the heian era’s new prince or princess would make their grand entrance. the nursery was fully prepared and the doctors and midwives had arrived as the construction workers were leaving, everything was in place.

imagine his surprise when he’s thrown out of sleep in the middle of the night—one of his veils have been breached. moments later, uraume rushes into the room.

“my king–the perimeter guards caught someone…they had weapons. ordered to kill the queen.” they pant, out of breath from hustling here so quickly. and with that one sentence, his every worst fear is confirmed. people are after you—they want to kill you. kill his baby and his wife in one fell swoop.

he sees red.

he looks over at you–sleeping deeply beside him. he can’t disrupt your rest, not when the baby will be coming so soon..so he leans over to kiss your lips softly before following uraume to the throne room to torture the infiltrator that thought they could get away with such a thing.

he doesn’t think he’s ever been this bloodthirsty before, either. love like this makes you do crazy things–feel crazy things. the perpetrator is being held on his knees, head forced forward to look at the floor.

“my servants tell me that we’ve caught a roach. let’s hear it.” he spits, intent on torturing this cretin slowly—send a message to everyone else that tries to come after his family. that if you attack—you will be dismembered and scattered across the continents with the breeze.

“or maybe you just caught the fall guy, and you didn’t stop anything at all.” the man smirks boldly at the king, a shuffle upstairs catching his attention.

you wake up when the last traces of your husband’s warmth has dissipated. you blink awake, feeling around in his spot to confirm his absence. huffing, you roll to your back, seeing his shadow shuffle around the room. “my love? are you having trouble sleeping tonight?” he’s been known to periodically wake up and patrol the place to make sure that nothing’s slipped past his other defenses.

“notcha love—you can’t bring that demon to life, whore.”

and those are the last words you ever hear.

there’s a slash across your gut, deep. you can hear your blood splatter on the ground—similar to what you had always imagined your water breaking to sound like. you don’t even feel the pain, really. just the fear. just the realization—that you’re too late, that all sukuna had done was for nothing. you’re dying. you’re going to die today–here. alone, and scared, the slash that comes next nearly decapitates you, and you can’t use your technique. you never even got out of bed, only your legs had touched the floor. you hadn’t even been able to stand before they slaughtered you.

the baby…the baby is gone just as grotesquely as you are–pulled from the gash in your midsection to fight these grown men on their own. ayame was a girl. and she was suffocated before her eyes ever opened, blood strewn about the room.

the two murderers flee before sukuna makes it to the top floor, able to cascade a rope out of the window and sneak right out, now that all of the security is distracted.

seconds later, he throws the door open. he nearly sprints forward to check on you–your form visible on the bed. but as he gets closer, he slips. his feet slide on something wet, warm—and he knows. he knows he’s lost the only person that ever mattered. his heart pounds faster as the staff rush in with the candles–revealing the gruesome scene.

he sobs. it’s a foreign feeling, crying. he had only felt this once before—when he knew he was going to be a father. that was certainly more pleasant than…this. you’re gone. his light–his eternal sunshine…slaughtered like cattle on his bed. you’re gutted, the scent of iron finally hitting his senses. had he been in shock before? is that why he didn’t immediately notice? your head is barely attached to your neck—eyes wide open with horror, mouth hung open to scream. there’s so much blood. dripping out of your mouth, gushing over your chest and out of your abdomen–soaking your pretty lavender nightgown. he reaches for you, emotions heightened to levels left undocumented. that’s when he sees—his eyes focusing on the lifeless lump that was his baby daughter. he reaches for her too–little ayame. he cradles his girls to his body, absolutely wailing. his body spikes in temperature—cursed technique going haywire. he’s inconsolable. his cursed energy is spiking to heights unknown, body shifting—growing larger–rage flowing like a new source of energy all on it’s own. his soul is shattering, twisting and knotting up in his body–heart aching like never before. it was one mistake—he left for two seconds, to let you sleep and now you are gone forever. his baby is dead—his wife…he’ll never speak to you again. never feel your hands on his skin or the warmth of your kiss. he can’t go on like this—no. he has no desire to live.

the love of his life, his first born child—ripped away from him in an instant. all the peace and happiness and joy you showed him existed has turned into the deepest and darkest personal hell he has ever known. he looks around him—even more blood than ever before. his technique—it killed everyone. he can’t find it in himself to consider it again, too focused on the mangled mess they made of his queen. he will avenge you—he will murder everyone in his path until someone can put him out of this misery. until then–he will take every other soul out of this world. if he can’t be happy–if he doesn’t get to live this life in peace–then no one else will either.

the entire castle is consumed with the raw force of his cursed energy, shattered in an instant. as if he was a natural disaster in and of himself. perhaps maybe know he is…for he is no longer a man. ryomen sukuna never was quite just a man–the king of the heian era. but now, he is the king of something else. of all things bad and evil—of all the things that can help him enact revenge. the king of curses.

tags: @neon-crow @skypperlegacy @gis4greenandgreenisgre4t @alastors-radio @alltimenogoaway-blog @tragedyofabrokensoul @gojosukuna2268 @hannas16 @alwaysfreakingout @thepurpleempath @pelicanpizza @aenishas @satsuk-jjk @catobsessedlady @gucci-basura @eiaaasamantha @asukahiriko @t4naiis @thejujvtsupost @mymelx @maskedpacific @berranurates @enchantingartisanwitch @celena-alanze

#kyleewritessukuna #jjk x reader #sukuna x reader #sukuna #kyleewritesjjk #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #ryomen sukuna #jjk ryomen #dead dove do not eat #cw pregnancy #cw death #cw gore #sukuna series #soul bound

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thera-daydreams · 3 months ago

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SCARLET & SHADOW

ᱬ The Darkling x Scarlet Witch!Reader ᱬ

[aleksander morozova x wanda maximoff!reader]

series masterlist & synopsis • thera's masterlist

chapter one.

▪︎ once upon a dream ▪︎

Aleksander had dreams of you long before he even knew you. Maybe it was the stress of this neverending war. Either way, you weren't real anyway... were you?

warnings: the darkling himself is a warning lol, mentions of experimentation, violence, and wallowing in self-regret, no beta we die like wanda

word count: 3.9k

(author's note: yay! finally, after weeks of debating if i should write this, i did. and i can finally sleep in peace.)

Dreams.

He's been having some immensely strange dreams lately. There was always a... woman whose face he could never see. Aleksander had started seeing her in his dreams about a year ago.

It had all been so blurry at first, but he could recall a woman in what seemed to be like a cage encased in clear glass. Her back was turned to where he was, but her hands were covered in unworldly, crimson... vapor... or whatever it was. It was unlike anything he's ever seen before. The woman had been using the red mist to lift wooden blocks into the air. Vaguely, he also heard whispers of men with foreign accents speaking, as if he were beside them but not.

"The dead will be buried so deep their ghosts won't be able to find them."

"And the survivors?"

"The twins." The voice sounded gleeful. Proud. "Sooner or later they will meet the twins."

"It's not a world of spies anymore. Not even a world of heroes. This is the age of miracles, doctor."

Aleksander did not understand the context of these dreams at all. However, he listened, watching the faceless woman make the wooden blocks hover in the air.

"And there is nothing more horrifying... than a miracle."

Snap!

That was his first dream about her. He woke up with a start after that, not feeling like himself the whole day. As if he were in some sort of daze.

The next dream came again weeks later. The Darkling could never see the woman's face. This time, he heard screaming in his dreams. Crying. Devastation. All he saw that night was a burst of crimson energy which had obliterated metal. Moving metal.

The woman was kneeling at the center of some sort of dilapidated chapel, clutching her heart as she sobbed. Then, he woke up again. This time, he felt a bottomless emptiness within him that lasted until the next evening.

"Strange dreams," Aleksander thinks, but still, thinks nothing of it. Perhaps it was his imagination running wild lately due to the stress of the war. The dreams would come and go. Sometimes, there was nothing. Other times, it was the usual nightmares of his... eventful past. Occasionally, the faceless woman would be there in his dreams.

On the first day snow fell that year, the Shadow Summoner sees her in his dreams again. Sitting in a bedroom, silent and pondering. One moment later, she was sitting in what seemed like a metal cell, straitjacketed, unmoving. The more he had these dreams of her, the more curious Aleksander grew about what the woman looked like. These were supposed to be only dreams, yet, it was always her.

Were these truly just dreams?

Eventually, the dreams become nightmares. Not his typical nightmares, either.

He was starting to hear whispers of what nearly seemed like Old Ravkan, but not. He saw the woman surrounded by mirrors and sharp glass, with more blood, death, and gore. Screams of a hundred souls. Fire burning. The smell of ash. The cracking and snapping of bones.

The last that he saw of her at night was in what seemed like a strange, old tomb atop a mountain.

Aleksander saw a stone statue of a woman—a goddess, maybe—with a pointed crown. Seconds later, he saw that very tomb crushed into a landslide. A blizzard. So much snow.

That night, the Black Heretic woke up cold and freezing despite the fireplace burning strong.

After that, the dreams and nightmares of the unknown woman stopped completely. And he'd nearly forgotten about it all. Tired from reading another list of his newly-deceased soldiers up in Ulensk, the man decided to take a stroll in the gardens of his Little Palace.

ᱬᗢᱬ

"No more magic." That was what you had sworn to yourself after the millennia you had spent searching for and destroying every copy of the Darkhold in the Multiverse. It was an incredibly wearisome task to track them all down, but you despised yourself for falling for the temptations of the Book of the Damned.

What have you done?

Not a day passes when you don't ask yourself the question, plagued by the guilt of your sins to the Multiverse. Ultimately, you accepted the fact that as the Scarlet Witch, you were maybe meant to be alone. Fated for eternal solitude until Death finally decides it is time to end your life again.

"I should have stayed dead in the Snap," you chuckle humorlessly. Maybe you would have been happier. But from experience, being snapped was no afterlife. You did not see them. Your parents, Pietro, Vision, Billy, and Tommy. You could only remember the fresh, hot rage you felt at Vision's murder just for the Snap. There was no peace.

Not for you, maybe.

The last world that had a Darkhold was... quite interesting, to say the least. It was not as advanced as your world, Earth-616, but not too primitive, either. It could be likened to the 19th to the 20th century in your original planet, with all its horses, carriages, wooden ships, and steam trains. Very... Industrial Era, you described when you initially arrived. Good enough to survive for, hopefully, the few remaining years of your life.

What was interesting, however, was the specific land you found yourself in. Ravka.

It was something literally out of Czarist Russia, long before the Soviet Union was formed. It led you to thoughts of your late best friend and mentor, Natasha Romanoff... then the World Wars... then Steve Rogers... SHIELD... which led you to spiral into quite unpleasant memories of experiments with HYDRA and consequently, Ultron and Sokovia. Lagos. Westview. Kamar-Taj. Earth-838 and the Illuminati—

You stopped that sickening train of thought quickly.

Still, you found it half-amusing and half-disappointing that even universes away, war and politics were unavoidable. Ravka appeared to not be on very good terms with its northern and southern neighbors, Fjerda and Shu Han, respectively. (The Shu reminded you of China and Mongolia. You wondered if they had Khans there, too. Fjerda, on the other hand, reminded you of Thor, Valkyrie, and a certain God of Mischief.)

Now, one of the biggest reasons why Ravka was at war with Fjerda and Shu Han? People called Grisha, you quickly learned. Kind of like the Enhanced or the Mutants, in your world and other worlds. It was just that they could mainly be divided into different orders and classifications and were usually found serving the Second Army.

Either way, it did not make much of a difference to you. You had met a living tree and a talking raccoon in the fight against Thanos so... yes, not the strangest thing you'd seen in the universe. You didn't really care, but you did feel some empathy for the Grisha oppressed by the otkazat'sya. Ordinary humans.

You knew all too well what it felt like to be different in a world full of regular people.

Unfortunately, Ravka itself was also at civil war between its East and West because of a border practically made of darkness. The Shadow Fold, supposedly created four hundred years ago by a crazy Shadow Summoner titled the Black Heretic. Many prayed for a mythical Sun Summoner to come save them from their plights.

You internally scoffed. You yourself were a myth, the presaged Harbinger of Chaos. The Scarlet Witch, destined to rule or annihilate the cosmos. Maybe you already ruined it. You just hoped that if the Sun Summoner were real, they would be a true saint and do their "destined" good deed.

And a small part of you hoped that they, too, would either escape or fulfill their prophecy. Maybe live a happy life, unlike you did. No one ever thinks that myths and legends could be living, breathing, feeling people, too.

ᱬᗢᱬ

Cut off from your thoughts by two young boys bumping into you, the basket of apples you were holding tumbles to the ground. You were about to scold them when you saw the state they were in.

One of the boys was holding a toddler. A freaking toddler.

All three of them dressed in rags, covered in soot and dirt. Thin and malnourished, nearly shivering from the autumn cold. Your heart almost broke when you saw the small, blonde girl in their arms try to reach out for the fallen apples on the ground.

"Sorry, lady!" The boys shout, turning on their heels to keep running.

"Wait!" You yell after them. "Do you want an apple?!"

That made the boys stop in their tracks. You pick up the apples and carefully place them back in the woven basket you were carrying. They seemed apprehensive on trusting you, so it was you who decided to make the first move.

"Here. Have the entire basket. You kids need it more than I do."

One of the boys, a pale boy with bright blue eyes and curly black hair past his shoulders, hesitantly reaches out to take the basket you were offering. "Thank you... lady..." he mumbles. The other boy holding the girl—looking nearly the opposite of his friend—reassured the fussy toddler in his arms. This boy was tanner, looking as if his hair were kissed by fire itself; eyes the shade of a vibrant forest.

"What are your names?" you gently asked. They share a look, silently communicating, then nod.

"... Henrik," the blue-eyed boy answers quietly, inspecting the basket of apples, still torn on thinking if this was a trick or a rare act of kindness. He seemed more conservative than his friend, who answered in a louder voice.

"I'm Dmitri, lady!" He was more eager to talk after realizing you were no threat to them. He gestures to the tiny girl in his arms, no older than three. "And this is baby Katyusha."

Your heart nearly broke seeing the sleepy toddler carried around by her... brother? You look around. It was getting dark. "Where are your homes? Your parents? It's late for children like you to be out in the evening."

"It's just us, lady," Henrik answers, as if it were normal to not have an adult accompanying them.

You frowned deeper. "Why were you guys running?"

At my question, the boys grow concerned. "Because..." Dmitri begins, before Henrik shushes him. You shake your head.

"No, it's okay. What is it?" You try to encourage.

"The three of us... we are Grisha..." Dmitri whispers the last word, green eyes filled with guilt and fear. Your eyes widened. Including the toddler they were holding? "The townspeople aren't exactly welcoming to our kind, lady. Except you. Weirdly enough."

Henrik, the quiet one with blue eyes, sighs. "I'm a Tidemaker. I think. Dmitri here can control some fire, so Inferni, if I'm right. Maybe that's why his hair is that red..."

Dmitri snorts. "Whatever."

You almost stammer as you ask, "And Katyusha there?"

"... We think she's a Heartrender. When... she gets angry or hungry or fussy... sometimes, we feel like we can't breathe, whenever she holds us," Henrik explains, gazing at the tiny little girl, who looked ever innocent and adorable.

"Where are your parents?" you ask carefully. You prayed to the gods, the saints, and the fates that these children had grown-ups to look after them. Unlikely, though, based on how they looked.

Dmitri shook his head, "My mom worked at a brothel but died from tuberculosis. I then lived on the streets after that. Henrik was left on somebody's doorstep. And Katyusha... we found her in a garbage can. The three of us used to live together in a hut east of the chapel but... um, the storm last week..." He trailed off.

Three young Grisha orphans.

No family. No shelter. No food. You stared at the three of them, voices inside you urging you to be on your way and avoid getting attached to these orphans. To avoid getting attached to people ever again.

But it was too late. You already saw yourself in them.

It was like you and Pietro, once upon a time, long ago.

Sighing, you hold out your arms. You knew you might regret this in the future.

"Give me the little girl. And you boys, follow me," you instruct. They give you questioning looks.

"Huh?"

"You're all coming home with me. To bathe and eat and sleep without fear of being hunted down," you disclose, waiting for Dmitri to hand over Katyusha. The boy was too thin to be carrying around the toddler. "I live in the forest."

"We don't know you, lady," Henrik protests warily, but grips the basket of apples you'd given even tighter. "What if you trick us? Or hurt us?"

"... My name is Wanda. Wanda Maximoff." You hum, smiling genuinely at them. "Now you know me. And from now on, I promise to protect you. You can eat the apples while we walk."

"..."

"It's not poisoned, don't worry." You took a bite out of one, then tossed it to Dmitri. "See?"

ᱬᗢᱬ

Not long after, you had, in fact, confirmed with your very eyes that the three orphans you'd taken in were Grisha. Undeniably so. Dmitri, the eight-year-old redhead, was an Inferni—true to his appearance and loud personality. Henrik, the introverted seven-year-old with jet black curls and icy blue eyes, was a Tidemaker—as he mentioned before.

You wondered what age their abilities began to manifest.

Lastly, two-year-old Katyusha was indeed a... well, baby Heartrender. You learned that the hard way when you tried to leave her alone for a minute to get her some warm milk in the kitchen. The air was knocked out of your lungs for a few brief seconds as she wailed from separation anxiety, gripping your arm like a lifeline.

It nearly shocked you that at such an age, she could do such feats just by touching you.

A year into sheltering and caring for these children as if they were your own, you came to the decision that it would be best if they were not with you—AKA former multiversal threat and retired but still dangerous witch living as a hermit in the woods of Tsibeya.

Which was near Chernast.

And also the Fjerdan border.

That meant a significantly high possibility of drüskelle sighting or finding the kids, even if you did last use your magic to make sure your little cabin would be safe and sound and completely undetectable to any intruders.

The children deserved a better future than staying with someone like you—a Darkhold-reading creature of evil who nearly stole a teenage girl's multiverse-traveling powers and also possessed her alternate self's body to replace her as a mom to her kids.

Die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. Were you even ever a hero in the first place?

Plus, you had no idea how Grisha powers really worked.

And as much as you wanted to just fly the kids off to their best chance at a good future in Ravka... or maybe use a teleportation spell, you'd strictly sworn off your Chaos Magic for a good while now. You also didn't want to have to manipulate the memories of the three kids—especially little Katyusha—into making them believe in a fake journey or forgetting you entirely.

So, a good old-fashioned trip to the Little Palace it was.

ᱬᗢᱬ

The trip went well. Sort of. After a few days of painstakingly traveling on foot, you'd finally arrived in Os Alta in one piece.

And so did Dmitri, Henrik, and Katyusha. But there was a slight issue.

"I still can't believe you knocked out that drüskelle by yourself, Aunt Wanda!" Dmitri continues to gush excitedly—as he had for days now ever since the encounter with a lone drüskelle who tried to attack all of you. And yes, the boys had taken to referring to you as Aunt Wanda.

Which was better, somehow. You don't think you'd be able to handle being referred to as... well... that word after what happened with Billy and Tommy.

The problem was little Katyusha who practically imprinted on you as her mother. Her first words—quite late at the age of two—were mama. Directed to you. No one knew that you cried that night in your room.

"You did not even see me do anything, Dmitri. Didn't I tell you to close your eyes?" you sighed, adjusting the sleeping Katyusha in your arms.

"I swear I closed them! But one moment, he was coming towards us then the next, thud! When I open my eyes, he's on the ground in front of you? How'd you do it, Aunty?!" he excitedly squeals.

"Just a very well-timed punch," you reply carefully. A well-timed punch that may or may not have been enhanced with your psionic energy. It still irked you that you had to use your... abilities again. Even if it was not your Chaos Magic.

Still, you would never hesitate to protect this trio. Not after the year you'd grown to love them.

This time, it was soft-spoken Henrik who asked, "What about those two Grisha slavers who tried taking us away in the middle of the night?"

Okay. Perhaps the trip didn't go that smoothly. And that did not pair well with young children who were at the age of being extremely curious about everything in the world.

"Bribed them with some money," you lied. More like using your telepathic powers to manipulate their minds into leaving your traveling group alone.

"... You didn't need to give them your gold and silver for us, Aunt Wanda," Henrik murmurs guiltily. Your steps stopped. Frowning as you crouch down to the boys' level, you ensured Katyusha's head was still supported while you spoke.

"Hey. Boys, listen to me." You wait until they make eye contact. "When I first took you in, I promised that I would protect you. And I would do everything in my power to do that, okay?"

"Aunty, I'm not sure I want to go to the Little Palace," Henrik shares regretfully. Behind him, Dmitri goes quiet, too, having second thoughts as well.

Your brows furrowed as you smile sadly. "But you must. You will be with your kin. The Grisha there can teach you to grow and hone your powers. I cannot as I am only otkazat'sya. Your future lies in the Little Palace." You gaze fondly at the sleeping child in your arms. "Your sister's future lies there, too."

Henrik and Dmitri share a look as you urge them to continue walking. Just a couple more minutes and you would arrive at the gates of the Little Palace. When you were near, that's when you stop.

"Remember what we talked about during the trip? What you have to do when you get to the gates?" You remind them.

The boys nod. You slowly unwrap the cloth on your torso which was carrying tiny, two-year-old Katyusha. Henrik takes her. She momentarily fusses in her sleep, making all of you freeze, but her breathing steadies.

"Tell the oprichniki at the gates that we are Grisha seeking refuge in the Little Palace. Orphans from a small town in Tsibeya," Dmitri repeats the script you guys practiced while traveling.

"And say that we went along with a traveling hunting group until we got to Os Alta, before we journeyed to the Little Palace alone," Henrik adds.

You smile at them, embracing them tightly. "Good. Good. Now off you go. Before it gets dark."

"Will you visit us?" Dmitri asks eagerly. You hum in thought.

"Perhaps. I'll try, you two. But it could be years until I see you all again. You might be all grown up the next time we see each other," you answer him honestly. You weren't sure if the Little Palace allowed visitors to the Grisha kids like it was a daycare.

They nod, disappointed, but slowly go. You stand up from where you were crouched, a familiar feeling of these children slipping through your fingers, too. The same way your twin sons did, once.

Then, Henrik paused, turning around. "Aunty?" he calls.

"Yes, Henrik?" You tilt your head curiously.

"Thank you for being our mom!" the usually quiet boy shouts, warming your heart. It has only been a year since you took them off the streets and adopted them, but you were already attached.

Too attached.

Which never ended well for you or the other person, based on experience.

You watch them as they run to the path leading to the gates of the Little Palace. Then, you lurk for a few more minutes to ensure that they really do manage to enter the Little Palace.

When the oprichniki allow them in, a Grisha appearing and escorting Henrik, Dmitri, and little Katyusha, you breathe a sigh of relief. You were about to leave when—

"What do you mean he quit to become a gardener at the Grand Palace?!" a voice yells from a nearby corner.

"The Queen adored his flower arrangements and offered a larger pay!" another countered defensively. "Hell, I'd take up the offer, too!"

You pause, head turning to listen in more on the conversation.

"He's one of the only gardeners at the Little Palace who could do his job right, dammit!"

Looks like an interesting job opening.

It was a bad idea. A terrible idea, even. You should just go back to your cabin in the woods, living the remainder of your life in solitude. The children would be fine in the Little Palace, amongst their other fellow Grisha.

That was what the rational side of you said. But you always did have a tendency to be swept away by your emotions.

Survival rates also weren't that pleasant when Grisha children would be obligated to serve in the Second Army.

Listening to the arguing men, perhaps this is where your green thumb could step in.

You really should have listened to your instincts.

Just three months later, you start to feel a set of curious eyes watching you as you crouched and plucked stubborn, overgrown weeds from the dirt.

Your insides were on overdrive, sending off alarm bells. You worked in the secluded portions of the Little Palace garden, the ones harder to maintain daily, so no one usually came where you were stationed. Pausing, you slowly turn around to see obsidian eyes—so, so dark you couldn't distinguish the pupil from the iris, akin to a bottomless pit of starless night.

And you freeze.

The Black General of Ravka was right behind you.

Snapping out of your stupor, you hastily stand and bow.

"Moi soverenyi," you address him politely, avoiding his eyes. Of all people—of all Grisha to notice you—it was the infamous Shadow Summoner himself.

General Kirigan of the Second Army.

You've only heard stories about him since you arrived in this world. Ruthless. Powerful. A Shadow Summoner. The strongest Grisha currently alive. Descendant of the Black Heretic. And you never even thought you'd be speaking to him face-to-face ever.

Why would you? You weren't even from this world.

"Huh. I was not made aware we had a new gardener," he muses out loud, examining you from head-to-toe, dressed in light garbs similar to the other servants, only modified for greater mobility.

You seemed awfully familiar to him. He just couldn't place his finger on it.

Meanwhile, you tried your best to seem like any other unassuming otkazat'sya servant. It was tempting to just read his thoughts given how he was scrutinizing you but no, you resisted.

"What's your name, girl?" General Kirigan asks. And you inwardly cuss—so much for a low profile—yet your face was perfectly neutral.

"Wanda, sir."

"Surname?" He raises one fine brow.

"... Maximoff, sir."

"Wanda Maximoff." He combines the two names. The dark-haired man stares longer. It took all your willpower not to squirm and be suspicious. Then, he nods and continues on his way.

The moment he was out of sight, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. You were the all-powerful Scarlet Witch. Or, rather, formerly the Scarlet Witch.

So why did this man unnerve you the way he did just now?

next chapter

Hearts, reblogs, comments, interactions, and constructive criticism are very much appreciated! If you wanna be tagged in the upcoming chapters, comment here or on the series masterlist post.

Thanks! ♡

#thera.writes #the darkling #darkling x reader #aleksander morozova #aleksander morozova x reader #scarlet witch #wanda maximoff #shadow and bone #multiverse of madness #wandavision #grishaverse.works

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dejwrld · 1 year ago

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— in which the heir to the biggest mafia/yakuza in japan is in an arranged marriage with a foreigner & it turns into a wicked jealous filled obsession. inspo from happy together by the turtles

( cw ) ⸻ fem reader, her/she pronouns, female pet names, yandere themes, yandere!ushijima, mentions of violence, mentions of blood, mentions of murder, mentions of gore, yakuza/mafia au, choking kink, character death, possessive!ushijima, ooc!ushijima (only said ooc cause he does not act like the way he acts in hq), toxic relationship, ushijima father slaps him in one part, arranged marriage au // minors dni ! repost from old account!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀this fic won the mystery fanfic repost poll.

HOW COULD SOMEONE’S HANDS FEEL SO COLD? That thought lingered in the back of your mind when you felt Ushijima Wakatoshi’s hand placed on the lower part of your back as you waltzed around the venue. You remembered how his touch felt so cold that it sent a shiver down your spine even though minutes ago you complained about how hot you were in the vintage well-tailored white dress. You never expected your life to change suddenly due to your father. It was a bit comical considering that he got you into this marriage and didn’t even bother to show up to walk you down the aisle.

You felt like a sheep among some vicious hungry wolves. You had no friends in Japan. You had no family in Japan. Just Ushijima and his circle. You couldn’t even contact your family unless they contacted you first. You would think that you were the president’s daughter, but you were only one of the richest men in the world's daughter. That came with consequences. Your life was always under a microscope. Eat this. Dress this way. Don’t date this person. Attend this university. You didn’t actually think you’d be scribbling ‘have an assassination threat on your head’ off your Bingo card.

So here you were, bound with Ushijima Wakatoshi for your safety and the future of your family. You should have known that an arranged marriage was going to be put on the table. Someone would question why a foreigner has been hanging around the notorious family that controls more than eight districts in Japan. You planned to lay low, enjoy your time in Japan, maybe go back to school, and then when your father contacted Ushijima’s father, go back home. But the thing is, you knew that there wasn’t any going back home. For all you know, your father could have been dead. The thing is you knew this marriage wasn’t going to be rainbows and sunshine, Ushijima didn’t even smile as you waltzed down the aisle in a room of strangers. You remembered the deadpan look he gave you, but that last dance is what caused your stomach to form the most horrendous knots as he brought you closer. You could feel his breath trickle at your earlobe before he whispered, “The only one for me is you, and you for me. We both have a lot on the line when it comes to this fuckin’ marriage. We’re stuck with each other, so let’s make sure this work.”

Even though he uttered those words in your ear over two months ago, you and Ushijima just couldn’t work. It wasn’t like you weren’t putting in the effort, you did. You even learned how to cook some of his favorite dishes and even then, you still were met with a harsh cold steel door. You remembered vividly when it seemed like a switch was turned on in his head. You sat in the living room like the pretty wife you were. The diamond ring on your wedding finger glistened under the family mansion light, you hated to admit that Ushijima picked out a beautiful ring when there wasn’t much meaning behind it. You were confused about why you and Ushijima were summoned here in the first place. It wasn’t like you two were doing anything romantic anyway, just you watching the maids cater to him due to him partying the previous night. When you heard the harsh footsteps and your eyes watched as men bowed as the Takashi Utsui entered the room. By the looks of his face, he looked pissed and your mind instantly panicked. You toyed with the ends of your dress as you watch Ushijima stand up with urgency to greet his father.

Your eyes bulged outward when you heard and witnessed the harsh slap Takashi placed against Ushijima’s cheek. The room was so silent and you observed everyone in the room. No one bulged at the action as if it happened before. You watched as one of Takashi’s men rushed to his side handing him a folder. He opened it with urgency revealing the photo of Ushijima in a club the previous night. A woman was on his lap kissing his neck. Your eyes instantly lowered in embarrassment. Even though this marriage had no love, you still felt a form of humiliation.

“What did I tell you before you said I do to that woman right there?” Takashi’s finger points at you.

Ushijima's jaw clenched tightly as if he was holding back an explosive bomb.

“Huh? I can’t seem to hear you.” Takashi stepped forward toward his son. His head tilted to the side as he was trying to hear Ushijima’s words.

“That if I embarrass her, I’m dishonoring my family,” Ushijima said.

“And?” Takashi asked.

“And she’s a part of the family now,” Ushijima said.

Your heart was beating so hard at the word. You watched as Takashi's fingers combed through his hair. He let out a sigh to calm himself down before he’s walking over to you extending his hand for you to take. You hesitantly took it as he helped you up, walking by his angry son to walk into the family garden in the backyard. Your hand grasped at his arm as you walked by his side. The sweet scent of the Cherry Blossom tree that was in their backyard. You remembered Ushijima mentioning that his father got the tree grown in the backyard because his mother adored the scent of when the petals free-fell to the ground. However, even though his parents divorced his father still made sure the tree was taken care of.

“I want you to go out,” His father commented as he was walking around the garden. He could feel your grasp upon his arm tighter, “You’ve been trapped up in the house while my reckless son goes out and embarrasses our family,” He commented.

“I don’t know anyone to go out with sir,” You commented. “I would rather be home, especially considering that it would only be a burden. Do I need to remind you, that I have a hit out on me?” You pointed it out.

You watched as his lips formed a straight line, “Of course. I won’t let you go out alone, you’ll be with my assistant and her friends. Plus, I’m sure I’ll have some men in there if you need them,” he reminded.

You would look at him before simply nodding, not bothering to argue with him once again. “Okay.” was the only thing you said before he let go of your hand.

“Please enjoy your time out. I would hate to have to tell your father you hate it here.” He responded. “You deserve to be happy and I’ll be sure to ensure that.”

You forced a smile on your face which seems like you were doing that a lot. The sweet scent of the cherry blossoms lingered up your nostrils before you were speaking once again, “Okay, thank you.” You gave his arm a squeeze and a kind smile before departing to go back into the luxury home.

You were expecting to be met by Ushijima, but he was nowhere to be found. It didn’t particularly shock you, he got embarrassed in front of everyone. You were expecting to be met with your usual driver who hardly spoke to you unless you spoke to him first but instead was met with Tendou and Kai. Your eyebrows raised as you stared at him, “Let me guess, you’re taking me home.” You sighed and you didn’t get an answer, but you did follow them outside the huge mansion.

When you got in the SUV, you would sit in the back instantly indulging in the things on your phone before you heard Kai’s voice. “He actually does care about you, you know?”

You would shake your head, “Has a funny way of showing it.” You answered.

“But, please do not do something tonight that will upset him,” Tendo warned as his fingertips tapped at the steering wheel.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “He gets to go out and act a damn fool, but wants to lose his mind if I do the same,” You kissed your teeth. “I’m going to go out and have so much fun like his father said to do.”

The remaining amount of time in the car was quiet before you were dropped off at the luxury mansion that you resided in. Despite you decorating the huge mansion to your liking, it still didn’t feel like home. You were greeted by one of the maids, and you would only tell her that she could take the day off, especially considering that you believed today was one of her children's birthdays.

“But Mr.—“ The maid's words were cut off by you.

“I will handle him. You guys can have the rest of the day off. Go enjoy your child’s birthday,” You explained as you watched her face light up before she walked away to grab her things.

FOR ONCE YOU WERE ENJOYING YOURSELF. As you were at the bar attempting to flag down one of the bartenders, you could feel a male figure squeeze himself next to you and the countless others at the bar. His tall stature towered over you as you attempted once again to get the bartender’s attention. However, the man interjected whistling and getting the bartender’s attention.

“That’s the trick, to get their attention,” He commented as he gave you a smile that you returned. It was like a bird calling as the bartender flocked to him effortlessly. “This beautiful young woman has been trying to get your attention. I’ve told you guys about not being aware of the customers in front of you.” He warned.

“Sorry sir, it’s a bit hectic back here.” The bartender apologized as his eyes traveled to you. But when he noticed who you were, he looked away with quickness. “What can I get you?”

You would ignore his sudden break of eye contact and begin to list the drinks your section wanted. “Could you get them served to that section also?” You pointed to the section on the left of the club. “Add an extra bottle and just charge it to Ushijima Wakatoshi’s card.”

The gentlemen next to you eyebrows raised as he was trying to mentally put a face to the name that fell off your tongue. You leaned against the bar patiently before speaking, “Thanks for helping me. I appreciate it.” You gave him a kind smile as you watched one of the bottle girls load up the drinks on a tray to deliver to the section you were at.

“It’s no problem. We wouldn’t want to disappoint the wife of Ushijima Wakatoshi.” He responded.

You rolled your eyes hearing that statement, which the man caught instantly. “Is there a problem? Are you—”

Your words cut him off with a quickness. “It’s not a problem. I am his wife after all, but I just hate that here that’s all I’m known for.” You said to the gentlemen.

You understood that it was for the best for a lot of people to know who you were, but being known as the wife of a man who didn’t even take the marriage seriously himself felt even worst. You had so much more power than people expected, but here you were in an unknown world not being able to use that power.

You thanked the stranger once again before attempting to go back to the section, but you felt him tug you back towards him. He lets out a firm sigh before extending his hand toward you. “Let’s start over, I’m Lev Haiba. I own this club.” His hand motioned around the crowds of people in the nightclub.

You couldn’t help but snicker as you shook his head. “Y/N, heir to the biggest oil company in the world.” You answered. “But that has to stay between us.” You gave Lev a playful smirk and he only held his hand up in a defensive mode.

“Your secret is safe with me. I hope Japan is treating you well considering the uh—circumstances.” Lev says.

You could hear the pity in his voice. “I’m assuming you’ve heard the news of my loving husband?” You asked as the two of you were walking towards the section you were in.

“Everyone did. It was this club he was spotted doing said activities. However, it’s Ushijima Wakatoshi, no one is going to ruin his mood.” Lev admitted as he rubbed at the back of his neck nervously. “But I have said too much, I should get back to my job. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

You watched as he disappeared into the crowd, once again feeling like the sheep in a field filled with wolves as you sat down in one of the chairs. You instantly picked up the drink wanting to drink the night away.

WHEN YOU RETURNED HOME, you dropped your YSL heels on the floor as you stumbled into the house. You glanced at your phone and saw that it was four in the morning. You couldn’t believe that you stayed out so late. You definitely were going to have to rain check with the afternoon tea session with Ushijima’s mother. You attempted to tiptoe your way further inside the house not wanting to wake Ushijima (if he was home). You were aware that on some occasions Ushijima men would be at your house. It didn’t shock you that they were here in your living room doing god knows what. However, the weird feeling under the bottom of your feet caused you to instantly sober up. It felt wet, slightly slippery. You glanced down and your eyes grew big at the sight you were seeing. You had stepped in a small splatter of blood that decorated the thin plastic layer that was on the floor. Your heart rate increased instantly as you stumbled back in a horrified panic to be met with Ushijima catching you from falling.

“I—“ Your words were stuck in your throat. Your hands were shaking harshly and your heart felt like it was trying to claw out your chest. Your eyes stared at your husband as the crimson-colored liquid stained the white Versace button-down shirt.

“It’s good to know you’ve made it home safely. Now let’s go get cleaned up. We’re both in need of a shower anyway.” He firmly said.

You felt Ushijima grab hold of your forearm. His blood-covered fingertips stained your brown skin. “But we have guests.” You stuttered out.

“That’s fine, they will be busy cleaning up the mess that you made,” Ushijima confirmed.

Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion as you were being tugged into the shared bedroom. With urgency, Ushijima closed the door behind him. “Strip.” was the only thing he said as his hands went up to unbutton the buttons on his shirt.

You did what you were told, letting the dress you wore fall to the ground. You crossed your arms over your chest preventing Ushijima from seeing you like this. You didn’t even notice that he had already stripped out of his expensive clothing. You could sense him towering over you before you finally croaked out some words, “You said my mess? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Goosebumps decorated your skin when you felt Ushijima’s fingertips tracing alongside your side. His fingertips engraved you with the possible sin he just committed before you arrived home. He stopped right at the soft fabric of the thong you wore, letting out a low hum before pushing them down. You didn’t argue against his action. You weren’t sure if you were too afraid to or if you just wanted to see where this would go. You stepped out of your underwear before watching Ushijima disappear into the bathroom. The sound of the shower could be heard before his voice broke you out of your broken thoughts. Like an obedient dog, you walked into the bathroom with your hands still attempting to cover your bare body. Ushijima was already in the hot steaming shower washing over the blood that was on him. “I’ve already seen you vulnerable before, remember our wedding night?” He asked. “There’s no need to hide your body away from me.” He answered.

“You never responded to what I said. What mess have I created? You’re the one that’s going out every night and acting a fool,” You reminded him.

Ushijima let out a sigh, “Just get in the fuckin’ shower and we can talk.” He says, “Please.”

Hearing him say please was a shock to you, you took a couple of steps forward opening the door of the walk-in shower to join him. In a different world, such an intimate moment would have your stomach flowing with butterflies. But right now, your stomach could only twist in dangerous knots while you let the steaming hot water heat your body. “Did you have fun last night?” Ushijima asked.

Your eyes met with his as you felt the warm cloth filled with soap brush against your body. He was kind enough to clean you himself. Similar to a doll maker creating a doll, you felt that’s what Ushijima was doing. You were his doll as soon as you walked down the aisle clutching onto his father’s arm. “I did. It was nice to not be bottled up in his house. It can get lonely sometimes,” You answered.

“You have the maids, it can’t be that lonely,” He responded.

That was true. During your time living here, you managed to get to know each of the eight maids and two groundskeepers that worked to make sure Ushijima’s home looked nice. But it still felt lonely, cold. It didn’t feel like a home.

“Although, I appreciate their help around the place. It’s not the same.” You answered as your finger went up to motion for the young man to turn so you could wash his back. “You know this. I’m not asking for much, but can we at least pretend we’re enjoying this marriage.”

“I’m actually enjoying this marriage,” Ushijima responded with a chuckle.

“You have such a weird way to show it. Going out every night, being seen with other women—“ You stopped abruptly to let out a weary sigh. Not sure if the sudden feeling of being lightheaded came from the hotness of the shower or the fact that you’re finally voicing your opinions to Ushijima. “It’s humiliating.”

Ushijima didn’t say much about your words. The two of you continued to shower in silence before eventually getting out of it. At this point, you had sobered as you toyed with the ends of the soft white rob Ushijima put you in. You watched as Ushijima waltzed back into the bedroom, “Well, let me show that I will change.”

Your body leaned against the doorframe of the master bedroom bathroom, “Sex really can’t show me anything. Changed behavior though,” You said rolling your eyes at him.

“Come on, when was the last time we actually had sex.”

“You’re deflecting from the original conversation Ushi,” You sighed as you walked towards the dresser to find something to wear.

As you were searching for something to sleep in, you could feel Ushijima’s strong arms wrap around your waist. He tugged you closer to his body and you felt the growing boner poking at the fatness of your butt. “You haven’t called me Ushi since our wedding night.” He commented.

“You’re so annoying.” You sighed, but you didn’t bulge out his touch. “We both were drunk as ever that night. I can’t believe you still remember that.”

“Of course, I remembered it. You moaned it so beautifully while your head was buried into a pillow,” Ushijima reminded you as you felt his lips press against the exposed skin on your neck.

You felt your skin grow hotter with each harsh nibble, lick, and bite on your neck. One of Ushijima’s hands disappeared inside your robe and straight in between your thighs. His index and middle fingers swiped at your wet folder and indulged in how wet you were while you seemed to melt into his touch. “You don’t remember, hmm? How your thighs couldn’t stop shaking once we were done?” He asked as his fingertips that were covered in your wetness would rub at your clit. “How you wet up the sheets so badly?”

You made direct eye contact with Ushijima in the mirror that was connected to the dresser. The once softness that was in his eyes for a split second was gone. You weren’t particularly super religious, but you were sure you were looking into the eyes of the devil. He undid your rob and tugged it off your bare body causing you to gasp suddenly. Your thighs quivered for more as you felt your own wetness stain the inside of your thighs. Ushijima stopped the subtle circular motion on your clit before he’s talking once again. “Tell me you remember that and I’ll help you cum,” His words tickled your earlobe and you nodded instantly.

“I remember. Ushi—“ You desperately coughed up those words. “I remember.”

“Good,” Ushijima said while the grip around your waist grew tighter. “Now be a good wife and go to the bed and get on all fours, darling.”

You did what you were told, being sure to grab a pillow to make yourself feel more comfortable. The anticipation bubbling into your stomach as you could sense Ushijima behind you. When you felt him tug you closer to the bed, you swallowed the large lump forming in your throat. Your cunt so eager to swallow his cock bit by bit even though you were sure he wasn’t going to be so gentle. When you felt the tip of Ushijima’s cock enter you, you chewed at your lower lip getting ready for him to instantly bottom down inside you. The faint memory of your wedding night when he specifically praised you on how well you took his dick swirled around your head.

This time he took his time. Pushing his cock inside you slowly, teasingly, until you were gasping for him to put it all the way in. His large hands grasped at your waist before his hips begin to drive forward to be met with the soft flesh of your butt. Your head buried into the pillow caging in your moans before Ushijima grabbed the pillow and tossed it. “I need my men to hear you while they’re cleaning up your mess.” He said firmly.

His fingers buried into the flesh of your skin while the sound of skin slapping against each other could be heard. Ushijima was in a complete trace as he watched his cock disappear into your addicting cunt. “Go ahead, moan out how good Ushi is making you feel while they clean up your mess.” He said through gritted teeth.

“What mess?” You hiccuped out through moans. Your eyesight grew blurry due to the tears that accumulated through Ushijima’s thrusts.

You let out a yelp when Ushijima grabbed a hold of your head tugging you upward. His chest pressed against your sweat-coated back before he let go of your hand to use that hand to snake around to your neck. “Don’t act foolish Y/N.” He answered.

You could feel Ushijima’s cock twitch inside you as he stopped his thrusts abruptly. His hand wrapped around your neck and you could feel him give it a slight squeeze before his thrusting continued. “You know my doll. When you press your thumb in someone’s windpipe, index finger to their carotid artery, and your middle finger applies pressure to their jugular vein…they’ll lose consciousness.” Ushijima said.

The heat of the moment of your breath grasping away for a couple of seconds due to Ushijima mimicking the same thing he just told her, he let go of you and shoved your face further into the fluffiness of the mattress. “Even when I nearly took your breath away, you only clutched around my cock even tighter.” He said darkly.

His words sent a bone chilling shiver down your spine as you moaned out helplessly. “Ushi!” You moaned out.

His thrusting only continued, ignoring your little whimpers before he leaned over placing wet kisses on the middle of your spine. “You know that only makes a person lose consciousness, but if you continue you can damage the cortex of your brain which leads to your death.” He uttered as he was thrusting.

His chest heaved upwards as he traced his name upon your skin. “It took less than 6 minutes for your little friend Lev to finally fuckin’ die when I wrapped my hands around his throat.” He said through groans. You could feel his thrusting grow sloppy, he was about to cum.

“I had to clean up your mess Y/N,” he said.

You felt yourself orgasm immediately. The dangerous shiver that went though your body made your body go into complete shock. Your gasping out for Ushijima. The thought of him killing a man that talked to you pushed you to the edge. Perhaps you did flutter around his cock even more at the sound of those words coming out his mouth. Ushijima still fucked you through the explosive orgasm until he too was cumming mess, not bothering to pull out either. Filling you up to the brim with his cum just to trap you as his.

He let your body collapse on the bed like a rag doll. You were completely out of breath with his cum leaking out of you and when you met his eyes, they were soft once again.

“We’re starting a clean slate starting now. No more outside interferences when it comes to our marriage. We’re going to be happy together if we like it or not.” He said as he leaned down to place a kiss upon your temple.

“Now get some rest, my doll, we have tea with my mother in about eight hours.”

You really were still a sheep upon the family of wolves.

#ushijima wakatoshi x reader #ushijima wakatoshi smut #hq x reader #hq smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #anime smut #anime x reader #female reader #angelshubnetwork #chosoistkinktober23 #⊹˳⁺ ♡ 𝒻𝒶𝓃𝒻𝒾𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈

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soapybutt17 · 5 months ago

Text

Big Soldier, Little Soldier

Summary: Everything that John has worked for to catch Makarov led to Soap in critical condition in the hospital fighting for his life and his own wife in the brink of losing her sanity after a month long kidnaping at the hands of the enemy. He failed his team but nothing hurts more than to realize that he failed his family with you as the collateral damage of it all. Character: John Price x F!Reader (Lt. Rookie) Word Count: 3,334 Chapter Warnings: Mention of torture and gore. Mention of death and decay. Allusion to sexual assault. Mention of trauma. Major Angst with slight comfort. Mention of injuries both physically and mentally. Minor Character deaths. PTSD. Trauma induce. Ideas:

"Do you want me to hold you closer?"

"Is this okay?"

"Tell me to stop and we stop. I don't care what's happening. All I care about is you."

"Will you sit with me?"

requested by @azkza "anything but i love when it's become angst😙"

Song Inspo: Abbey & I Don't Smoke

Masterlist ||Series Masterlist || 500 Followers Celebration

The damp, cold air of the room presses against your shivering skin, seeping through your clothes and chilling you to the bones. The harsh fluorescent light above flickers intermittently, casting eerie shadows across the cracked concrete walls. Your wrist burn from the coarse rope binding them to the back of the chair, each knot a reminder of your powerlessness. Every breath you take was a struggle, each inhale bringing a fresh wave of pain to your bruised ribs. You try to ignore the coppery taste of blood in your mouth, the result of Makarov’s latest session to get you to admit the truth of your team’s plan.

“Tell me, Lieutenant.” His voice was low and taunting and continued to echo your mind. “What is your husband’s plan?” The sneer in his eyes were unforgettable, each word dripped with cruel intent.

You’ve managed to resist so far, clinging to the scraps of loyalty, training, and the love instilled in you. But as the day’s drags on, your resolve begins to waver. You were uncertain how much more you can truly endure.

The door slams shut behind Makarov as he leaves you alone in the suffocating silence. The dim light buzzes above, a constant, grating noise that grates on your frayed nerves. The solitude of the room is numbing, the silence more terrifying than the threats. It gives you too much time to think, to worry.

Your eyes closed and picture their faces. Your daughter, with her bright eyes and infection laughter, always running around the house with boundless energy and question you and your husband were more than happy to answer. Your son, quieter but no less adventurous even in his infancy, with his thoughtful gaze and the way he always held your hand when he was scared. You wonder if they are safe, if they know what happened to you—if your husband had made it known. You hoped they are far away from the nightmare you are trapped in, shielded from Makarov’s reach.

A tear slips down your cheeks as you think of them, your heart aching with longing and fear. You’ve always been strong for them, the one who faced danger without flinching but with a reassuring smile that kept everyone sane and calm. But now, tied to this chair in a foreign land, you feel the edges of your strength fraying. The darkness is closing in, and you’re not sure how much longer you can hold it at bay.

You wonder if your husband knows. If he was actually coming for you or if his duty refused to let him do so. The thought of him, with his determination and fierce protectiveness, gives you a hint of hope. But the hope is a double-edged sword. What if he’s walking into a trap? What if Makarov’s plan extended to him and your children?

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, the pain grounding you, pulling you back from the brink of despair. You can't afford to give in. Not yet. You have to believe that they’re safe, that they’re waiting for you. You have to believe that you’ll see them again.

“Maybe this would finally make you talk, шлюха.”

You heard the man’s voice again, and the voices of various other men that came along with him, the sound of zippers being pulled down had realized the fate was sealed and you had wished for death to come for you instead of this predicament.

A month, it took John a month to finally locate where you were being held hostage. He wasn’t even sure if you were still alive. After what had happened to Soap, he was uncertain if Makarov would even show you mercy. But he couldn’t lose hope, not when you had your children waiting back home, looking for their mother.

“John, we can do this. You don’t need to come.”

“The fuck I don’t.” John found himself barking at Laswell.

She had no right to dictate where he can and cannot go. He needed to see with his own two eyes where you were. If you were safe or if you were dead. He will not believe a word anyone says unless he would see it with his own two eyes.

“John, we’ve almost lost, MacTavish. We can’t lose you too.” Laswell repeated but it only burned his core.

It was regret, the numbing and brutally stabbing feeling of regret that it was his fault that it had come to this. Soap was fighting for his life trying to save John during the fight with Makarov. His wife, his beautiful and brave wife, was God knows where fighting to stay alive, probably enduring the brutality of the torture that only one Makarov could dish out.

It was his fault, no one else’s.

“I’ve failed Soap and I’ve failed my wife. I cannot fail my children too.” His voice that had been strong for the past few weeks now a shell of the man he once was. “I need to be there to either find her alive or take the body home with me. Either way I need to go see if the reports are true.”

There was no stopping him. Not even Ghost or Gaz could stop him as he settled himself on the helicopter that Nikolai was flying. No one could convince him in this very moment that he was more of a liability than anything else.

The hope was still lingering in his core. You were broken for everything that you possibly could have endure but he hoped you were still there fighting and keeping yourself alive for him and for everyone that was waiting for you back home.

But all the hope slowly drained as they arrived at an abandoned safe house in the heart of Russia. The scent of blood and rot was all too palpable in the area and both Gaz and Ghost had been both on high alert for possible attacks and for John’s own sanity at this point.

“Coast is clear.” Gaz spoke as he moved forward first.

John held onto his gun tighter as the abandoned safe house became more and more disheveled the deeper they walked inside.

His eyes lingered on the things scattered around, paper works, food, clothes, all were in a disarray and apparent of no sign of life for weeks. The putrid smell of blood was still nowhere to be seen in their general vicinity.

In the bleak and silent area, a lone mumble had all three men on alert. All their attention led to them finding where the source of the sound was.

“Got eyes on a door towards a basement.”

Ghost announced and without any rhyme or reason, John had walked first opening the door much to everyone’s protest. But as the creak of the door sounded, the putrid smell intensified. A vile odor of mixed excrements had overwhelmed John, it almost had him doubling over and vomiting but he proceeded further inside.

The voices of Ghost and Gaz were momentarily placed at the back of his head as the mumbling grew louder. He walked towards the bleak hallway in the basement. The fluorescent light flickering on and off as he walked closer and closer to the lone door where the sound grew louder and louder.

“Open the door.” John ordered, all the muscles in his body had stiffened. He had always anticipated this, to finally know if you were here or not, but in this moment. At this state of decay and abandonment, he feared the worse.

He feared your state, the state of his failure and the detriment that came to you and your whole being. It was because of him that you were placed in this situation and it was because of him that he almost lost Soap.

Ghost was strong enough between the three of them to finally open the door, a quick slam of his hammer towards the locks and what he saw had him visibly sobbing.

You.

Or what was left of the women he had once loved. In front of him laid a woman fighting for your life. Blood covered the floor as much as it did the walls. Various bodies of different stages of decay scattered around you. But you, you that had both your hands and legs rope tied and your mouth gagged was moving still, shaking and quietly sobbing.

“My Love.” John couldn’t take it anymore as he approached you. You were alive, but the cost was just something he could not even fathom.

With his blade, he cut both of the ties binding you and tore off the gag muffling your words. His eyes immediately inspected your body, his eyes widening at the evident tore on your pants and blood that also painted it.

“They…didn’t do anything to me, if that’s what you’re worried about.” You whispered, voice cracked and dry. Far from the melody of your voice that everyone was so used to.

“I’m worried about you and your whole being!” He finds himself snapping for having your think so lowly of him.

He pulled you towards his chest now, his eyes continued to inspect your shaking form, the various wounds that lingered your body only had bruises to go along with it.

“I fought them off,” You whispered against his chest, weaker hand holding onto his vest. “I did everything in my power or stop them.” You began to sob again and only now did John get a good sight of your face.

How blood was dried against your mouth, sporting two black eyes, and an evident broken nose.

“I failed you.” John whispered, kissing your matted hair. “I failed you and our children.”

“John…”

“I’m so sorry, My Darling.”

The rescue was a blur. One moment you were in the dark, suffocating cell filled with the men you killed, the ropes cutting into your wrists, and the next you were being carried out by the strong and protective arms, John’s voice a soothing murmur in your ear, promising you it was over. The light was blinding, the noise was overwhelming, but you clung to him, your lifeline in the chaos and you blacked out after the tears have finally escaped after weeks of captivity.

Days have passed since then. Your body was healing, but your mind was another story. You find yourself in the base’s infirmary, staring at the sterile white walls, the antiseptic smell a sharp contrast to the dank, musty scent of your cell. You constantly tell yourself you’re safe, but the shadows in your mind don’t listen.

Your husband was always nearby, his presence a constant comfort and a painful reminder. You watch him from the corner of your eye, how his brow furrowed with worry, his movements careful and deliberate. He tried to hide it, but you can see the guilt in his eyes. He thinks he failed you. You want to tell him he didn’t, but the words get stuck in your throat, replaced with the memories of Makarov’s sneer, his questions, the pain. It was your fault and you failed him—and your children.

You try to push those thoughts away, but they creep back in, insidious and relentless. Sleep is a battleground. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back in that chair, back in that cell. You wake up gasping, heart pounding, the sheets tangled around you like the ropes that bound you.

If it wasn’t your husband, it was Simon that constantly visits you, his silent presence a strange comfort to you. You were now wearing his shoes, being held captive and tortured, he knew above everyone else the pain and suffering you had endured at the hands of Makarov. You appreciated his quiet understanding, even as you can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You’re afraid he’ll see through the cracks, the fear you can’t shake. You were so used to giving everyone comfort and reassurance, it was so hard to be the one given it the other way around.

Then there was Kyle, who was more direct with his approach. His concern was evident in every words, every gesture. He talks to you, encourages you to open up, but you shut him out. You can’t bear the thought of reliving it, of seeing the pity in his eyes. You’re a soldier, a mother to the team, you are supposed to be strong. But you felt anything but.

John is the hardest to face. He’s always there, his eyes searching yours, looking for a sign that you’re okay. But you’re not, and you don’t know how to tell him that. The pain in his eyes cuts deeper than any wound. You want to reach out, to reassure him, but you can’t. You’re too broken.

“Tell me to stop and we stop. I don’t care what’s happening. All I care about is you.”

It was mandated by Laswell that you had to undergo psychological evaluation and therapy for the next few weeks, but it was hard. Having to deal with your own emotions while knowing you were notified that you would be unable to see your children or see Soap in the hospital until they had deemed you mentally cleared to do so.

Your husband somehow knew that it wasn’t what you needed right now. He knew you needed him but he wasn’t ready to give himself just yet. But he was hear, present in all of your appointments—his office has become the faux therapy location so he could have a close eye on you.

“Please.” You spoke, the tears forming your eyes at the fact you couldn’t see the people you truly wanted to hold the most in your state of mind.

“Go.” With a single word from your husband, the therapist assigned to your case left the office leaving you at the mercy of your husband whose eyes you still have a hard time meeting.

In the silent of the office, you took attention to the sound outside. The booming voice of Simon as he continued on with training with the new recruits. The sound of footsteps walking outside. But amongst the silence of the office the rapid beating of your heart.

“Will you sit with me?”

You finally met his eyes as he stood in front of you, pointing at the sofa that he had installed since your arrival back.

You took a moment before nodding, following him onto the leather sofa. You allowed him to sit first, the creaking sound of the leather against your shared weathered bodies as you sat so close together but the distance was all the more evident still after what had happened to you.

“My children will be coming in a few hours.” He announced finally making your turned to look at him full for the first time in what felt like days.

“Will…will they be ready to see me like this?” You wonder, even as you had healed, you still has the bruises and wounds covering your body not a sight you would ever want your children to ever see you in.

“They know that you got hurt.” He explained. “I know it was not what the doctor or anyone higher up wanted but I want to make sure what you want is being taken into consideration first.”

You nodded knowing it would also mean you would be seeing your in-laws too—the parents you have come to have since meeting your husband. You feared what they would think in your state and knowing what goes on during kidnappings especially for someone in your field.

“Nothing matters to me in this moment but you, you need to understand that. You matter to me not just as your husband but as your Captain. Do you understand?”

You nodded wiping the tears on your eyes.

“No matter what you say, I had a hand in what happened to you. If I only made sure you had Gaz with you during the mission you wouldn’t be place in such a predicament right now, My Love.”

No matter what you say and no matter what you do, it was now a curse that fell upon the both of you. The weight of both of your decisions that day that led you to be where you are right now. A shell of your former self and a husband that knew nothing but be consumed by the guilt of what had happened to you.

“But we’ll go through this together alright? Once you’ve seen the kids and healed up your wounds, we’re going through whatever doctor or therapist we can both get ourselves signed up for and we’ll move past this…together.”

You nod.

“I don’t blame you, you know.” You finally speak. “I never blamed any of you besides Makarov and the sooner I get to see his bloody body on my feet, the sooner we can all move on from this.”

In the pain of the events that caused this much trauma, nothing would give you better joy than to finally have the man either behind bars or dead. You could care less if the man died by your hands or that hands of anyone in your team, but you knew if it came, you would be at peace once and for all.

You found yourself now on the lap of your husband, his arms gently wrapped around your waist. It was the first time in days since you’ve been in his arms, the warmth and protection that only he could give you in this time of chaos in your mind.

“Is this okay?” He asked, uncertain in his action.

“Yes please.” You whispered, nuzzling your face onto the crook of his neck. You took a deep breath of his scent, your arms slowly moved up wrapping around his broad shoulders, your head now resting on his shoulders as you looked up at him.

“Do you want me to hold you closer?” He asked, the shiver in his touch on you was felt.

“I just need you in whatever shape or form you’re willing to give me, John.” You whispered pulling yourself closer to him now as you allowed yourself to finally break down and mourn all of the things you had to endure at the hands of Makarov and his men.

All the things they had said about your team, about your husband, and about your children. All the treats that had placed the fear of God into you but you had no other choice but to stay quiet still. The last of the memories of when Makarov had no other choice but to use the lowest of the low and allowed his men to have their ways with you.

You bit anything you could bite, you’ve learned so much in that sheer moment. You learns that it doesn’t take much to bite off a man’s member off and it doesn’t take much before he dies from blood loss because of it. You’ve also learned that adrenaline was a very dangerous drug to be consumed in. How it had made you strong enough to fight most of the men off, killing without second guessing anything but weak enough to allow Makarov to slam a gun to the back of your head leaving you incapacitated enough to be once again bonded on the floor with the blood on your face and every single part of your body wounded and the corpse of all you’ve killed watching you.

You sobbed in the week that you were left in nothing but the pathetic excuse of your cell. The putrid scent of decay and blood lingering and leaving you to suffer a fate worse than death.

You were broken, but it would take more than the reassurance of your husband to finally heal from everything you’ve been through.

You wanted Makarov dead. For what he placed you through and for what he had let everyone you’ve ever cared for endured because of his own plans.

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admiral-mason · 1 month ago

Text

Ultra-Impact Part 3

Idea based on @valeriele3's Live Stream post.

Forgot to mention this in the last posts (I've edited in though), but reader is Gender Neutral (GN)

Warning: Violence and gore. Also Hakita saying things that he likely has never said.

0-2 0-3 << YOU ARE HERE 0-4

PRELUDE /// THIRD WEIGHT OF TWO WORLDS

TWO WORLDS ARE BINDED THROUGH A SINGULAR SCREEN.

A complete and utter destruction of the senses.

This is the best way to describe the current event: V1 blasting the absolute hell out of the 3AM Among Us Potion Knights of Favonius with his arsenal. Peeking from behind a rock at a distance, you watched V1 blast a swordsman Knight in the face with its shotgun before parrying an arrow from another and shooting him with the revolver.

It then proceeded to ground slam into a small group of them before knuckleblasting them, leaving nothing behind but guts and blood puddles on the floor (and you wincing silently). Then, Amber manages to land an arrow on V1; unfortunately, it harmlessly bounces right off and V1 turns its camera-like head right at her and swaps to its Sawn-On shotgun. As you slowly looked away, flesh squelching and bone breaking accompanied the outrider's screeching screams of agony.

In the head of the battle, you attempted to gather your thoughts and deal with the pain in the right arm thanks to Amber's arrow. Is this how it felt to witness Ultrakill in real life? You never expected weapons such as the Knuckleblaster and shotgun to create ear-piercing noise that no Earth weapon matched.

You also noticed how V1 never used any explosive damage; not even projectile boosts, despite its ease of accomplishment. In fact, its current actions force the Knights to focus on it and not you. Perhaps Teyvat sent it here to guard you in this Impostor SAGAU world. Your arrow pain dwindled quicker than normal too; probably another random little power gimmick.

However, your time to dwell on such thoughts ran out when noises best described in the onomatopoeia "BRRRRRRRTTT" followed by the sounds of penetrated flesh resounded in the air. Peeking over your rock, you witnessed V1 blast the last of the Knights including Kaeya with its nailgun.

Looking at the carnage V1 left in its wake, you noticed something bizarre.

Instead of laying limp, the blood and flesh of the dead knights began fading away into glowing red dust.

Much of [streaming platform] buffered and suffered an outage for a good couple of hours, with the cause of the sudden shutdown leaving even the site's administrators and management team fumbling in confusion.

Coincidentally, many users reported that their instances of the game Ultrakill suddenly crashed and refused to boot up afterward despite their computer and Steam page acting normally. Hakita put out an official statement regarding the matter:

"Okay, I will be real. I can't do anything to the game on my end either. I can't edit it, open any files, get assets, hell even all of my videos on my YouTube channel are missing without reason. So for now, all we have access to is this Discord server."

(Some people thought that he did this after a petition to reconstruct V2 exceeded twice its supporters)

A few people watching your stream coincidentally noted that it suddenly ended without explanation before [streaming platform] died.

The combination of these events spurred mass panic on the internet; Videos theorizing that some foreign nation or 'master hacker' committed a cyber attack to steal valuable information ran rampant on Instagram, Facebook, YouTube, you name it. Meanwhile, users on [streaming platform] took to platforms such as Reddit and Discord to share their perspectives on what happened, with a select few even touting that God had shut the sites down as a warning to humanity's current sins.

Thankfully, the anomalous instances reverted and disappeared in a few hours, except for your account on [streaming platform]. Instead of displaying your past streams, it simply displayed a single live stream:

THE FIRE IS LIT.

It bore a thumbnail shot of what appeared to be somewhere in Genshin, looking at a small camp with a tent, a campfire, and a pot boiling over said campfire. The chat slowly started with one or two messages before rapidly exploding with "what is this" or "what happened" responses or something along those lines. Then, two familiar figures showed up on-screen:

It was you and V1, and the latter carried you in a bridal style.

Of all the things you expected to do in life, having V1 bridal-style carrying you wasn't on the list. After it killed all the Knights of Favonius, it took your right arm and inspected the area injured by the arrow before swiftly pulling it out much to your discomfort.

After you gritted your teeth and grimaced in response to the sudden pain, V1 made a small dent in one of its arms allowing its blood to flow onto your wound. Miraculously, the blood let the injured area grow back and your pain rapidly dissipated leaving you both amazed and bewildered.

During this time, you noted how V1 managed to fit its three left arms all placed on its side; a sort of circular device connecting the arms to the torso allowed them to cycle between one another.

V1 then let you go and handed you a revolver; specifically, the regular Sharpshooter revolver. "For me?" You asked the supreme machine, pointing to yourself as you did so. It simply nodded in response and gestured for you to take it. You did and put the electric gun in your right pants pocket, hoping no misfires occur.

Once that happened, V1 suddenly scooped you into its arms before dash-jumping away with you deeper into the forest. Oddly enough, the smell of a soup or stew grew ever stronger the more distance you two covered in the woods. After a couple of minutes, V1 put you down at your destination.

The robot brought you to a campsite with an open campfire and a pot over said fire. It's safe to assume that the pot contained the soup or stew that currently emanates the smell. A crude tent seemingly stolen from an adventurer stood behind the fire.

The last noteworthy object in the area caught your attention: a black-and-white splotched Terminal. Located right next to the tent, the terminal displayed your Twitch chat on the left side and its main screen on the right. Once you stood in front of it, it printed out:

"GREETINGS, GODFATHER. PLEASE TAKE SOME TIME TO INTERACT WITH YOUR FOLLOWERS IN THE OTHER WORLD."

A camera then revealed itself above the screen and you knew what you had to do. Stepping in front of the camera, you waved. "Hello? Chat can you see me??"

And then, the floodgates busted wide open.

Adm!ra1-M4son: Oh my god GUYS OUR BOY'S ALIVE

johnifer: Holy shizzle drizzle crick crack he's fucking alive

valeriele3 donated $5.00: "Oh my god! Are you okay??"

"Yeah- I'm fine. Thanks for the donation by the way even if I have no idea how to use it right now..."

V1 then proceeded to make itself known as well. Moving you a bit to the side, it waved both of its hands seemingly eager to introduce you to your fans. The chat went wild again.

hiraya: omg is that V1??

LiNk29: Nah man bro got isekaid with the gopro...

BeeseChurger: SOMEONE SEND THIS TO HAKITA RIGHT THE FUCK NOW

Yuormethor: On it chief.

Simply put, this strange terminal allowed you to see your Twitch followers again, which was nice. V1 then left its spot in front of the terminal and checked on the pot. Sure enough, when you moved on over to it, there was a soup with radishes and tomatoes as its main ingredients. V1 likely got them from theft, but you didn't care- food is food after all.

The robot used a ladle in the pot to scoop some stew into a wooden bowl, which it then handed to you along with a spoon. Taking in its aroma, smells of radishes, tomatoes, and some mint filled your nose and you slowly took a small sip.

(A/N: Guess the soup.)

The soup's taste bore both a tart and sweet flavor, with a little bit of refreshment with some added mint. As you savor your first meal in Teyvat, your chat watches you do so.

kpfjillion: give me that fucking soup

XxcSHARPxX: Give this man peace for the Impostor SAGAU shit he's gonna come across lmfao

hiraya: he'll be fine! I'm sure of it.

After the fifth sip, you heard mechanical footsteps behind you before they stopped. You turned around and saw a familiar adversary V1 fought, and the two of you stared into each other's gaze.

"Well, nice to meet you in person, godfather."

V2.

Taglist: @valeriele3, @bunniotomia, @feetusdeletussthenyeetus

#sagau #genshin impact #genshin sagau #crossover #genshin x reader #ultrakill #ultrakill v1 #v1 #v1 ultrakill #sagau impostor au #impostor sagau #impostor au #ultrakill v2 #v2 ultrakill #v2 #sagau cult au

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serendipityandbenevolence · 8 months ago

Text

SAGAU Reader (GN) x Tighnari

Hey. So. I know I ghosted this account for like a year, but guess what, I'm inspired today. Hope this is okay, I wrote it while very sleep-deprived

Contains - you kinda being an awful person and discarding people as you please, tighnari becoming slowly more devoted and obsessive over you as it goes on, slight gore, neuvillette replacing tighnari at the end, this is incredibly specific to my experience of having tighnari in game and is based around if he had feelings regarding that

Tighnari was beginning to hate Gandharva Ville.

If he had been told that even one year ago, he would have laughed, unable to believe that the place he called home could cause him such … disdain.

But that was before you.

He had known, of course, about your arrival in Teyvat. Everyone did, it was all they could talk about for months on end. Whispers travelled about the vision holders who were called by the stars, who felt compelled to follow you to the ends of the earth. But that was of no concern to Tighnari. You had never stepped foot into Sumeru, had never even called the holder of a Dendro vision to follow you.

He adored you, as any loyal subject would, but the idea of leaving his home didn’t really appeal to him. Tighnari was content with worshipping from afar.

At least, that’s what he thought.

It was inevitable, thinking back on it, that you would come to Sumeru. There are only so many nations and the scholars at the Akademiya were becoming restless at your apparent lack of interest in visiting their beloved nation.

Tighnari had watched curiously when you first arrived in Gandharva Ville, with 4 devotees at your beck and call. He found, looking back, that he could barely recall who you had favoured at that point in time, who was granted the privilege of protecting you. Perhaps it was that gentleman from Mondstadt, with the flaming red hair and blood-coated blade? Or the Tianquan of Liyue, with her endless supplies of Mora merely a snap of the finger away? It didn’t particularly matter. They were not in your favour now.

He remembered how Collei had wept with joy when you named her as your first devotee from Sumeru. She was discarded quickly enough by you, but the joy that privilege had ignited within her still seemed to linger, even now. When you embraced Collei that day, her tears staining your silken shirt, he had met your eyes for the first time.

Tighnari wasn’t really certain what he would see in your eyes. Benevolence, godliness, serenity?

Greed was not what he expected.

The way you eyed him, gaze flicking to his vision, his ears, his tail. You stared at him, the way a child would stare at a new toy, and you smiled.

Tighnari really shouldn’t have been surprised when you called him to serve you.

The golden stars falling from the sky, the sudden weakness that overcame his body, the portal you had pulled him through. It had seemed unreal, like a nightmare he hoped he would wake from soon.

The weakness had faded as you gave him odd gifts and trinkets, flowers and gemstones, smiling giddily as you told him about how excited you were to have him join your team. With his final gift strapped to his back, an intricate bow that more closely resembled a harp than a weapon, you took him to meet his new companions.

He was grateful to have Nahida alongside him, a small taste of home, even when he travelled behind you on foreign soil. The Mondstadt girl, Fischl, was strange, but he could not deny her usefulness in battle, especially when she called upon that unsettling bird of hers. And Zhongli was … quiet. He did not speak much to Tighnari, or Nahida, or Fischl. Fischl mentioned once that he was one of your very first devotees and he had never left your side since that day.

He had seen many subjects lose favour with you, but like the rock he commanded, he stayed, unchanging.

Tighnari was beginning to wish that he too, could be like rock.

He had followed you across nations, into other dimensions, where the sky stretched for an eternity and the ground fell off into endless darkness. He had slayed countless enemies, stained his hands with blood a thousand times, and never once complained. When he was granted the time to return to Gandharva Ville, he found it … dull. His duties had been given to someone else, so his hours were spent recounting stories of you to engrossed onlookers. He would describe the most insignificant details about you as he stared into the distance and prayed that you would call him back soon.

He had given everything in service for you.

And yet…

You stared up at the entrance to a ‘domain’ as you called them, and hummed to yourself, staring off at nothing.

“We’ll need a Hydro,” you murmured to no one in particular, before turning around.

“Tighnari, why don’t you go rest for a while?”

You flicked your hand and the Iudex of Fontaine stepped through a tear in the fabric of the world, clutching that book you had given him, the one with the blue, watery pages, the one that looked MADE for him. That’s the words you said when you gave it to him.

“Oh, it looks made for you, Neuvi! I’m so glad I got it!”

Tighnari had wanted to rip the fur from his ears, the skin from his flesh, when you smiled at the Iudex, presenting him with the book. Tighnari had clutched his mis-matched bow so hard one of the strings broke with a musical twang. You hadn’t even spared him a second glance.

And now, as you ripped open another seam of reality, revealing Gandharva Ville to him, your smile was not quite as bright as it once was. You ushered him towards the tear, murmuring one last farewell as you did so.

“Go take a break, Tighnari. I’m sure you’re missing home. Don’t worry, Neuvillette will keep me safe!”

In that moment, as you said that, he’d never been quite so sure of anything.

Tighnari was beginning to hate Gandharva Ville.

#genshin impact #genshin sagau #genshin x reader #yandere genshin #genshin headcanons #tighnari x reader #yandere tighnari #sagau x reader

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gaytrash-back-in-a-paperbag · 27 days ago

Text

Just One Reason

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2

Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff x GN!Reader

Summary: Y/N has been working hard as a criminal investigator and always comes home to their lover Nat. When they come home tonight, however, something is different.

Warnings: Cheating, implied sexual interactions, swearing, lots of implications to abuse, murder, blood/gore, PTSD, anxiety attacks, alcohol (stay safe loves <3)

A/N: I’m back, this is not new writing yet, but the next chapter (I think it was chapter 6 lol) is actually in production.

You and Natasha had met in your early years of college, she was studying “foreign policies” and you were enthralled with the criminal justice department. It didn’t take long for the two of you to develop feelings for each other after that fateful night.

You were drunk. No, damn it, you were really drunk. You felt the hands of your friend Kate Bishop keeping you steady. In a poor attempt to shove her way, you grumbled at her in a rough way, dipping your shoulder out of her grasp. You could faintly hear her sigh. She was your designated driver for the night, as everyone knew you were the heavy drinker of the bunch. When a second pair of hands found their way on both your shoulders, practically pulling you to your feet, you looked up, expecting to see Kate’s friend Yelena to be there, but instead were utterly shocked to find a goddess in front of you. Or, at least, you thought it was a goddess. She had long, red hair with fading blonde tips, all pulled into a tight braid. And those damned green eyes that bore holes through your face and you found yourself shrinking back.

“Don’t throw up on me,” was all she grunted to you as she dragged you through the crowded living room of the frat house. Bringing you into the kitchen, she forced some water down your throat and waited for a reaction out of you. You were too dazed from both the alcohol and the beautiful woman in front of you to respond.

You spoke the only words that could come to your head, "Hi.” Hi? Nice going, Y/N, way to really sweep her off her feet, you cursed in your head. Despite the awkwardness, the redhead found herself smiling. She laughed slightly, tilting her head. “Hi,” she responded. “And who might you be, drunkard?”

Oh shit, she was talking to you. You tilted your head in mimicry to her, grinning stupidly. “I’m Y/N, but apparently pretty women call me drunkard.”

Kate, who had followed both of you, visibly cringed. Wow, Y/N. Real smooth, she thought with a smirk. The short Russian let out a loud laugh at your comment, before saying, “Well, drunkard, my name is Natasha, but I think you can call me Nat.”

You could only continue grinning like an idiot. Her laugh sounded nice. “Nat it is then.”

Looking back, you had no idea how she managed to find that attractive. She had basically found you blackout drunk and she still fell in love with you. You were both out of college now and were pursuing your passions, but you lived in an apartment together in downtown Brooklyn. You were currently driving back to sa+id apartment at the moment, just lost in your old thoughts. It wasn’t until you heard the third ring on your phone that you answered, leaning your head to one side while you pinched your phone between your shoulder and cheek.

“Hello? Y/N /L/N speaking.”

“No need to be formal, dumbass,” you heard Kate respond, “We’ve got another code 10-44 by the Brooklyn Zoo. Can you go check it out?”

Kate could hear you groan loudly, an obnoxious groan that Kate knew meant you were pissed now. You had asked to leave early so you could go out with Nat tonight, and you could only hope Nat could forgive your absence. “Fine. But it better be fast,” you grumbled.

Within a matter of seconds, you had hung up with Kate and were calling Nat. She picked up on the fifth ring, which bothered you slightly, but you swallowed it down when she picked up.

“Hello?” Nat asked into the phone, a hint of confusion in her voice. There was a slight rasp in her voice, something uncommon in Nat.

“Hey baby. I just got called back on duty, so date night might be canceled and I’m so sorry, I’ll make it up to yo-”

“It’s okay, Y/N. Take all the time you need.”

Well, that was new. And surprising. And, did you mention, took you aback?

“I- what?”

“I said, take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Why did she sound so... angry? You shuttered as you pulled into a parking spot, stepping out. You paused outside, deciding whether to push it.

“You sure, Hun? You seem a bit under the weather.” You pouted slightly, beginning to anxiously pick at your hands. You weren’t used to her like this.

“Yes. I’m sure,” she insisted. The sternest of her voice was scary, it had caught you very off guard and she could hear your hesitation, causing her to soften. “I’m sorry, I’ve had a really rough day at work. Just... stay safe, okay? I love you.”

That caused you to relax, letting out a sigh of relief. She heard this and immediately felt bad for coming off so aggressively. You muttered a simple “I love you too” in response before hanging up. Something felt off and it had your skin crawling. You gulped down any worry and went to check on this supposed code 10-44. It didn’t take long for you to find it, when a little girl came crashing into you, full on sobbing and babbling incoherently. It startled you to the point where you were completely out of it for a moment. Coming back to your senses, you knelt to the girl.

“Woah, woah, woah kiddo. What’s wrong? Shh, it’s okay now, talk to me. I’m here to help,” you consoled the child the best you could, speaking into your radio to ask for assistance. “Hey, Officer Y/L/N, I need child protective services ASAP.”

The girl mumbled something, drawing your attention back to her. “What was that, sweetie?” You asked gently, not wanting to make the girl nervous.

“He hit her really hard... He hit her so hard.”

Your eyes widened as you put the pieces together.

“Where? Where did he hit her?” You pressed.

“On her head!” The small girl broke down into sobs again, causing you to pull her into a hug.

“Shh, shh, it’s going to be alright now. I’ll take care of you.” It was a promise, you decided, that you would do whatever it took to help the girl. You looked down at her, feeling your heart break. You tried to push out the overwhelming memory that hit your brain and were ringing around, but they overtook your thoughts.

“No!” You had shouted too loud this time and you watched as your mother turned to you. Your father collapsed on the ground, glass imbedded in his head, and your young eyes watched in horror as the dark red liquid began to pool under his head. His eyes were glossed over, and his chest movements were shallow. You knew what was happening, even at the young age you were, and you knew you couldn’t stop it. He was dead in a matter of minutes, and you were hiding under the table in the dining room, holding a landline phone in one hand.

“911, what’s your emergency?” The phone spoke to you, and you could only respond in a hushed voice,

“My daddy’s dead. Mommy killed him.”

You were snapped back into the reality around you when the girl’s sobbing had slowed into sniffles, and she looked up at you. She pulled away from you, still holding your hand. She couldn’t have been older than eight years old and immediately, you felt an underlying guilt. She reminded you of yourself, in such a similar situation. She began to pull at your hand, pointing towards the street. You pieced together what she wanted and followed her quietly. She guided you about three blocks down before stopping before an apartment complex. She continued to pull you through before stopping in front of a door on the fourth floor. You exchanged a glance at her, silently asking if this was where her mother was. She nodded briskly, and you pulled out your gun from its holster. You knocked on the door, announcing your presence.

“NYPD, I’m coming in!”

You opened the door to find almost immediately, right by the front door, the body of a middle-aged woman. The scene was straight out of a crime show, blood splattered across the walls, the smearing of a bloodied hand print on the grip of a counter, and the crumpled, manipulated body of the poor victim. Reaching for your radio, you whispered,

“We need a whole unit. This just turned into a murder investigation.”

Exhausted after questioning and dealing with the struggles of filling all working officers in on details from the scene, you just wanted to get in bed and sleep. Jostling with your keys, you heard movement inside your shared apartment. You frowned slightly, it was 2 in the morning, why would Natasha still be awake? You opened the door to find Nat in a sports bra and shorts, sitting on the couch and supposedly engrossed in a book. At first, everything seemed to look fine, if you had ignored the scent in the air and the blotches on Nat’s chest.

Nat looked up from her book, putting on a half-assed sleepy smile and saying, “So much for a date night, yeah?”

You scowled, moving past her and immediately going into your bedroom, her trailing you rather quickly. “Yeah, so much for that,” you grunted in response.

She tilted her head innocently, though you could tell her head was running through every excuse she could come up with. You only frowned further when she went to open her mouth.

“Save it.”

That took her by surprise. She definitely wasn’t expecting that, as she rubbed the back of her neck anxiously.

“I-”

“No.” You cut her off again, venom dripping from your single word.

“Baby, you have the wron-”

“Get out of the bathroom, Ms. Maximoff,” You stated, emotionless. You had noticed from the minute you got home the shadow of two feet in the bathroom, because you knew that both you and Nat always turn the lights off in the bathroom when you’re done. Nat’s eyes widened in shock at the fact that you had noticed. Moments later, the door to your master bathroom creaked open and the tall brunette stepped out. She looked ashamed, and hell, she should be.

“Hello, Wanda. Long time no talk. No, don’t try to explain how you purposely had sex with my girlfriend, how it was just once and how sorry you are. I don’t want it.” You looked deadpanned at the witch, not an emotion twitching on your face.

You turned your attention to Natasha, in which you fished your apartment keys out of your work pants and grabbed her hand. For a moment, she thought you’d forgive, maybe ask for an explanation, but no. You slammed the keys into her hand.

“Keep them, give them to Wanda. Keep the whole damn apartment while you’re at it, asshole.”

Not even a shake in your voice. Did you even care? Neither Wanda or Natasha could tell. Honestly, you couldn’t either.

“Pack my shit for me, it’s the least you can do. I’m leaving, I’ll be back tomorrow for my stuff. Oh, and Wanda, you can just help too if you want! Man, you’re on a roll with this whole relationship-ending cheating, aren’t you? I thought you were with Vision now, what happened with that?” You found yourself talking and didn’t even care enough to stop it. You made your way to the door, opening it, looking back at the dumbfounded Nat, who had tears in her eyes and was trying desperately to hold them back, and the relationship-ender herself, Wanda Maximoff, who was shaking and looked like she might cry too if she wasn’t already too embarrassed.

“Treat her better than you treated me, сука.” You watched as Nat visibly flinched as you bitterly called her a bitch in her own language. Hell, she had already lied to you about being a “foreign politics” major, when she was THE Black Widow of the Avengers, but now she cheats on you with her own teammate. You left right then and there, leaving behind the girl you loved with all your heart and Wanda, the girl you used to love. You slammed the door behind you, listening as Natasha broke down into hysterical sobs. You wished you didn’t care, you wished you didn’t want to turn around and comfort her, tell her you were sorry. But why would you be sorry? You were loyal. You stormed off, putting Kate’s number in your phone and immediately calling her. She picked up on the first ring.

“Y/N? Why are you calling now? It’s two in the morning...” She stopped questioning things as she heard the tightening of your throat causing little gasps in a futile attempt to breathe properly. You had made it to your car before the panic hit, and you were curled up in the passenger’s seat. Tears slid down your cheeks while empty sobs were all you could manage. “Hey, hey, do you need me or Yelena to pick you up? You need to stay at my place?” You choked out a mumbled yes and within thirty minutes, Yelena was knocking on your window. You opened the door and practically fell into her arms. She said nothing, just rubbed your back soothingly. After a few moments, she had gotten you into a more reasonable state, you were no longer struggling for air, and you could respond to questions.

“You wanna talk about it?” Yelena had asked, you think. It was still hard to hear with all your own thoughts screaming in your head. You had simply shaken your head and sat silently in the seat of her car as the two of you made your way to Kate’s apartment. When you arrived, it didn’t take long for you to find yourself in Kate’s warm embrace. She asked no questions, thank God, and guided you into the guest room, where she had already set out clothes for you. You told her you would quickly shower and then sleep, and then promised you’d be out of her hair as soon as possible. She insisted that her home was yours too and you could stay as long as you wanted. You appreciated the gesture and gave her a long hug at the doorway of your new room.

The shower, however, was a horrible idea. You purposely turned the water to the hottest it could get and let the scalding water burn against your skin. You needed to get some sort of feeling, some sort of grasp on reality. You welcomed the pain, but it also left you to your own thoughts. Why? You asked yourself that question a million times over, but no answers popped up. Had you done something wrong? Was it you? Did you react wrong? You sat like that for a long moment, soaking in both your warping thoughts and the burning water. By four, you were out of the shower and clothed. You knew there’d be no sleep for you tonight, so you found yourself in the kitchen.

Some alcohol, that’s what you needed. Any type would do at this point. Looking through cabinets and opening the fridge at least four times, you were thankful to find a stash of beers in a mini fridge under the sink. You must have had at least 9 bottles of beer in the 12-pack, because when you awoke the next morning, you were hit with one hell of a hangover. Kate and Yelena still asked no questions, which you were so very thankful for. Once the hangover subdued, you asked Kate to drive you back to your old apartment complex to get your stuff and your car, which Kate agreed with as long as they both went because neither one of them really wanted you driving with your hangover.

Making your way back to the apartment complex was the most painful experience yet, however, as when you arrived at your door, no boxes were sitting out. You sighed deeply in frustration, knowing this was Nat’s tactic to get you inside and try to talk. Instead, however, you glanced at your two friends and they knocked on the door. Nat opened the door almost immediately, but shied back when she saw Kate and Yelena. Yelena, for one, was pissed at her, and she didn’t even know what her sister had done to you, but she knew it was definitely something horrible. All three of you entered, giving Nat the silent treatment, with Yelena shooting Nat a glare so intense you thought Nat might have a hole through her head, and luckily, Nat kept her mouth shut. You could see in the corner of your eye the brunette hair of Wanda, but swallowed down any anger you had. You were too hungover to start a fight and you knew yelling would make this hellish headache go from mediocre to a damned migraine. You grabbed a few of the boxes, with help from Yelena and Kate, and reached the door before you heard the quiet mumble that spilled from Nat’s mouth.

You turned back, unable to hear what she had said, and despite your better judgment, you stopped to listen. You could see her anxious antics, the way she rubbed her neck, averted her eyes, running her free hand through hair, she was definitely nervous about something.

“What?” You asked in a hostile tone, knowing better than to let your guard down completely. “What the fuck is so important that you think it can fix what you did?”

This caused her to flinch, and you could tell the witch from the bedroom was trying to enter your mind to send some sort of calming emotions. You scowled deeper, rubbing your temples in frustration.

“Wanda, get the fuck out of my head. It’s already pounding and you’ll only make it worse. Not to mention, I don’t want you in there to begin with. I’m sure I could find some law that I could charge you with, invasion of privacy or something.”

You could feel the brunette pull back her magic and heard the movement of her sulking and drawing her knees to her chest. Nat’s voice brought your attention back to your newest ex-girlfriend.

“Let me explain. Please, Y/N. Detka, plea-”

“I’m not your ‘detka’, don’t call me that.”

She flinched at that again, and you instantly felt bad. Fuck, why do you feel bad still? You let your eyes linger on her a little longer, before diverting them to look towards Yelena and Kate.

“Wanda cheated on you with me.”

Your entire body spun now to face Natasha. Your brain malfunctioned and you could only stare with your mouth agape.

“What?”

“Wanda and I have been dating for 4 years. This wasn’t a new thing,” Nat started, but you cut her off before she could go further.

“Was I just your little side fling then? Something to distract you while Wanda was off on her missions? What the fuck, Natasha.” You could feel the tears developing in your eyes, but you wiped at them viciously with your sleeve.

“No! You weren’t, Y/N. You were the- you are the love of my life. Please, just let me talk, I want to explain, I-.. I love you both.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t get to love both. You chose already, and you chose Wanda, asshole,” Yelena jumped in, practically snarling her words. Kate put a hand on her shoulder, but she was already fuming. “You’re a player, aren’t you? What, are you planning on dumping Wanda for someone else sooner or later and use the same dumb excuse? ‘I love both of you’!” Yelena mocked, throwing her open hand up in outright anger. “If you loved both, you would have been honest with Y/N from the get-go. You’re a lying bitch, Natasha. A lying cheater.”

You watched as Yelena got dangerously close to Nat, and for a moment, you feared the two would get into a physical argument. Luckily, Kate pulled Yelena back before anything could happen. Kate mumbled to the two of you to just go, which you gratefully agreed with. Yelena sent one last look back at her sister that Nat knew was a warning, and the door closed with a slam.

Six Days Later

NYPD Bronx Office, 3:42 am

Kate had called your phone a few times now and you still hadn’t picked up. So, in frustration, she made her way to the office herself, only to find you deeply engrossed in a case file. It wasn’t a recent one, which she found odd. She knew you were drowning yourself in the murder case of that woman, so she was surprised to see a case that wasn’t that one. She set down a beer by your desk, which brought your attention back from whatever world you were in. You took it without thinking, then did a double take when you realized it hadn’t been there before.

You groggily asked in a quiet voice, “Kate..? What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing. It’s almost four in the morning, Y/N, you need to sleep,” She insisted, shaking her head in disappointment. You only rolled your eyes and went back to reading. She peered over your shoulder, attempting to look at the case file you were looking at. She frowned when she spotted your last name on the paper. “What’s this all about?”

You glanced up at her, her standing figure towering over your sitting one. “A case file,” you answered plainly, causing her to groan teasingly.

“You know what I meant,” she said in an annoyed tone, but you knew she was just messing with you. “Whose is it?”

“Mine.” It was another plain response, and at first she thought you were still joking around, but when she looked at you, she realized you weren’t.

“Oh.” was all she could say. Reading over it again, she noticed it was a murder file. Victim was Duke Y/L/N, your adoptive father, and supposedly the assailant was Leslie Y/L/N, who had slammed your father’s head into a glass table in a fit of rage and then left the house after their child, that being you, had fled into hiding.

“It’s too similar, Kate. It’s like I’m living in a loop, and all the bad things that happened before are back again. This girl… she’s going through the same thing, only the parents have switched. And I still can’t even tell if it was actually the father!” You shouted in frustration and ended up slamming your knee on the underside of your desk. It didn’t matter how loud you were, you and Kate were the only ones in the building to begin with.

“What do you mean, ‘if it was actually the father’?”

“There’s no surveillance in the area and she only keeps saying ‘he’ did it. He who? There wasn’t evidence of forced entry, and yet there’s no DNA or fingerprints at the crime scene, as if whoever did it knew what they were doing.” You gripped the sides of your head in anger, trying to calm yourself down. It shouldn’t be irritating you like this, but you can’t help but feel like you’re missing some important piece of evidence that’s right under your nose. Kate could sense your utter frustration and looked at you with worry.

“You can’t drown away all your problems with work and beer, you know? You need to get out,” she paused, checking her watch, “and get some sleep. Come on, I’ll drive you home, you big idiot.”

You protested but she wasn’t having any of it, dragging you out of the station kicking and screaming. You grabbed your beer and downed it angrily in the car ride home, opening the door to find Yelena up and waiting for you. She gave you a hug, grabbed your hat off of your head, put it on, and grinning stupidly as she offered you another beer. “I say, we drink the night away, ey?”

You appreciated that night, Yelena respected your unasked request of no questions. She knew what you were going through, and she had determined that instead of asking question after question, she’d do what she did best, drink. By 5 am, you were blacked out on the couch and could only half-hear the conversation between your two younger friends.

“They’re losing it, Kate. I haven’t seen them like this since senior year. When Wanda… you know,” Yelena tried to speak in a hushed voice, but your coming migraine turned the whisper into a whole damn yell and you squinted in agonizing pain.

Kate rubbed her temples in exhaustion. “I know, Lena, but as long as Wanda and Nat don’t come to our doorstep asking to see Y/N, what are we supposed to do?”

“I could beat them up,” Yelena suggested with a smirk, to which Kate punched her shoulder. “Ow! Okay, okay, geez, I was just kidding. Partially.”

You groaned slightly, interrupting their conversation and you immediately wished you hadn’t. Both of them turned their attention to you, and you hated having all eyes on you. Kate sighed, pulling you to your feet and stating, “You need to sleep. Honestly, you need to sleep for three days, but we can’t just get that. I’ll call in to the station to let them know that you are sick. You need to sort this all out, Y/N. It’s fucking you up.”

You made no response, laying down on the bed. You laid in the darkness for long enough that you didn’t even know what time it was, but you knew everyone was asleep except for you. You stood, trying to be quiet as you walked over to the unpacked boxes filled with your items. You began sorting them, frowning slightly as you counted that you were two hoodies short. They weren’t your favorites to begin with, but it was an oddity to you. Assuming you were just still too drunk to actually count, you pushed the many thoughts that came into your head to the side, opting to look at your phone for the first time in days. 47 unread messages, 19 missed calls, and… holy fuck that was a lot of news notifications. Your eyebrows furrowed and you pouted as you scrolled through them.

Black Widow and Scarlet Witch on Official Hiatus due to Unknown Circumstances

Where is Black Widow?

What Happened to the Scarlet Witch?

The news articles flooded in like a hurricane just hit, and you were just confused. Those two cheated on you for, fuck, probably years by now, and they needed the space? While you were pressed with a murder case, they were off doing God knows what. Probably off of vacation, celebrating their relationship, you decided in your head. Yeah, that’s what they’re doing. Still, you couldn’t shake the awful feeling crawling down your spine. It made you sick, you wanted to puke.

No, you didn’t want to puke, you absolutely needed to. It was time for another hangover and you rushed into the bathroom as quickly as possible, lifting up the lid on the toilet just in time for the heaves of stomach remnants to splash in the water. You threw up a lot that moment, honestly, it had more to do with your oncoming sobs than the alcohol at this point. You were so exhausted and, as much as you hated admitting it, you missed Natasha’s warmth in these moments. The way she made sure you never got vomit on you, the way she would take away beers before you became a blackout drunk. You missed her caring, you missed her concern, you missed her. Tears stung your cheeks, the choked sobs made it harder to breathe again, but you didn’t care. You needed to get out all the emotions that you had been feeling this entire week. Kate was right, you couldn’t keep drowning yourself in work and alcohol anymore, you needed to face it.

“It’s over now, Y/N/N,” you convinced yourself, whispering to the nobody in the mirror. Yeah, that nobody was you, and you knew it. You hated it, looking at yourself in that mirror. You hated yourself at that moment, to be frank. It was like looking at a train wreck, because god damn it, you were one. Sighing deeply, you turned around and made your way to your bed. You curled up into a ball, sobs still silently at your throat, and you closed your eyes. It would take a while, but sleep finally took hold of you.

You awoke the next day to find nobody in the apartment. There was a note from Yelena, stating that she was gone to get more food and would be back by dinner. You sighed, this left you to your own thoughts and you didn’t like that. Changing into one of your hoodies, some old college hoodie that you couldn’t remember where you had gotten it from, and a pair of raggedy, ripped jeans, you pulled on your converse and went out for a walk. You didn’t even know where you were going, but you found yourself on the doorstep of that original crime scene. Gulping down a horrible feeling, you opened the door. Surely, you had missed something, right? Glancing around, you couldn’t see anything at first. You walked around the living room, looking at every detail until you felt your foot hit something on the floor. You frowned, looking at your feet with a confused look. It was then that you noticed a slight rip in the carpet. Leaning down, you pulled up the carpet piece. Under it laid a pair of bloodied boots and a revolver. Your eyes widened and you looked around to see if anyone else was around to see this. When nobody popped out, you pulled out your phone. Swiping away some random notification you received, you texted Kate to check back at the scene, telling her you thought something might have been there that they missed. You knew Kate already had a hunch you’d go back there, so you left quickly, leaving the carpet piece pulled up so the on-duty officers would see it.

You strolled through the city, finding yourself at your favorite café. Smelling the sweetness of freshly baked bread and warm coffee, you made your way inside. Greeted by your friend Peter’s cute little girlfriend, MJ, you ordered your usual black coffee with a bit of sugar and a blueberry muffin. You sat comfortably outside, in a shaded area by a tree, sipping your coffee, you decided to check that notification on your phone that you had received at the crime scene.

One Unread Message from: Unknown Messenger

You raised an eyebrow at this, clicking on the message. It read:

Mx. Y/N. It has come to our attention that your connections with both Wanda Maximoff and Natasha Romanoff were once romantic. By answering this message, you will gain access to their current locations. This was their last wish. Answer now or you may never get another chance.

Your breath hitched and you read the message at least three times over. Your hands were shaking and you could no longer hear your own heartbeat. Hesitantly, you responded.

I would like to know the locations of both of those women. Where are they?

#wandanat #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #kate bishop #yelena belova #wanda x nat x reader #wanda x natasha #wanda x y/n #wanda x reader #natasha x reader #natasha x y/n #angst #cheating

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