#they could have gotten away with it for so much longer

[humanjarvis]

call it what you want

synopsis: when you visit a gathering of childhood friends, they’re wary of you and caleb’s relationship. and while you take it in stride, he takes it to heart. 

tags: fluff, angst, heart to heart, happy ending, calebmc judged by childhood friends for their relationship, mc withstands it but caleb withdraws, barely yandere caleb, he does watch mc when they’re apart though, caleb breaks somebody’s teeth with his evol, calebmc relationship depicted as the jumbled up mess that it is, there’s not really pseudocest though, calebmc are each other’s first kiss, caleb is insecure, mc comforts the hell out of him, references to caleb’s mental illness, allusions to sex. inspired by “call it what you want” by taylor swift  pairing: caleb x fem!reader, reader is mc word count: 8.1k (woah!)

a/n: behold my thesis on the intricate siblingfriendpartnership of calebmc. it’s the best thing i’ve written and i’m so glad. but also this has ended up doubling as my 2k followers special 🎉🎉🎉 that is an unfathomable amount of people subjecting themselves to my writing and i’m seriously so grateful. thank you for motivating me to create! anyway, i truly hope you get something out of this, but even if you don’t, i’m proud of it 💞

“C’mon, pip-squeak. We can't ignore it forever. I’m here now, and I'll be right by your side. All those bad memories…you won’t have to face them alone anymore.”

“I know. And I’m glad. But still, it’s…different now,” you smile weakly, failing to suppress a heavy sigh. 

Caleb was in Linkon for the week, having put his foot down about his well-earned time off. And you, having gotten used to the constant Fleet interruptions, had gone the extra mile to make him unreachable: locking his communicator in your bedside drawer. 

After three days of making new memories—you’d ticked the movies, the zoo, and a concert off your list—his love for nostalgia had finally gotten the better of him. He’d set his sights on reminiscence, and all morning, he’d been pestering you to visit your old neighborhood. Where your childhood home had once stood.

“We can just take a look around. Five minutes, tops. Aren’t you curious about that old playset you used to drag me to? Always made me spot you under the monkey bars in case you fell. I’m sure they miss you,” he teases, hope shining in his ametrine eyes. 

And as you picture it—the iron bars of the jungle gym, now rusted with time; the grayish, well-traveled cobblestone streets; the wild honeysuckle bushes scattered around the block—you know this is a battle you can’t win. 

“Fine,” you huff. “But you’re driving.” 

“As if I’d refuse. And hey,” he softens, grabbing your arm gently. “If it’s too much, let me know. We’ll come back right away.” 

***

Your stomach roils as familiar street signs come into view.  

Green lawns and picket fences. Symbols of safety you could no longer trust. 

Humming along to an old pop hit on the radio—a valiant attempt to distract you—Caleb turns into your neighborhood, and you clench your teeth involuntarily. 

Luckily, you don’t have too much time to worry. Because seconds later, he pulls over a few houses from home and puts the car in park. 

You sit for a moment. Watching. Breathing.  

Thinking of how the last time you came here, he was dead.

“I’ll race ya,” he says suddenly, shutting the engine off and throwing his door open. And with a strained chuckle, you follow suit.

You lose on purpose, slowing your steps the closer you get to Gran’s house. You know he can tell.  

But soon, you run out of room to stall. 

As you stand beside the “FOR SALE” sign, feeling like a stranger, the freshly polished wood and foreign color scheme deepen the pit inside your stomach. 

Caleb whistles lowly. “Sure looks different, doesn’t it?”

But you’re not listening. You’re remembering. 

You remember the smell—the charred scent that stuck with you for so long after the explosion, your nostrils blistered from too much blowing. The way ashes fell endlessly from the sky, and you didn’t know what—or who—they were made of. The last-minute salon visit you’d had to schedule to chop the singed ends of your hair off. 

“C’mon. That playground is just this way,” he offers, coaxing voice saving you from too much rumination. 

“Okay,” you whisper, sliding your hand into his.

It was an age-old lesson, one you’d learned a hundred times: summer heat and monkey bars don’t mix.

As you flinch away with a startled hiss, Caleb casually pulls spare gloves from his pocket—as if he kept them on him for a situation like this—and carefully slips them onto you. For someone whose hands dwarf yours, they fit suspiciously well. 

“Up you go,” he sings, lifting you to reach the handles. And just like all those years before, he walks beside you as you cross, steadying you with his gentle touch. 

When you reach the end, instead of jumping down, you shift your momentum to swing backwards, skater dress twirling with the motion. 

But as your front faces the street again, you realize your mistake a moment too late. 

“Oh my gosh, is that who I think it is?!” 

As a vaguely recognizable voice squeals, you freeze in place, hands squeezing around the iron bars in a death grip. 

“Oh, it totally is! You haven’t come around here in forever—it’s so good to see you!” the voice continues. 

Turning your head—slowly, like the main character in a horror film—your eyes land on an all too familiar figure. Sarah, a girl around your age you used to envy for her toy collection, stands just feet away from you, long leash corralling a massive German Shepherd held tightly in her manicured hand. 

With two light taps on your back—Caleb’s signal for you to come down—you loosen your hold and land almost gracefully on the pea gravel below. 

This was a situation you’d only been in once before. When Gideon had crossed paths with you at the cemetery and learned his dead friend was, well…not. 

In any case, the circumstances then had been rare enough for you to carry on without establishing a protocol. And now, as you stand at the mercy of someone with no reason to keep Caleb’s secret, you’ll be forced to improvise. 

“Hi…Sarah,” you grin awkwardly, fiddling with your hands in front of you. “Thought you’d have moved by now.”

“Nope!” she chirps, not catching your apprehension. “We’re gonna give it one more year. After my husband saves up from his new job, we want to travel a bit before settling down.” 

You nod brusquely. 

“By the way, we haven’t really seen you here since the accident. I’m so sorry about your grandmother and Caleb—I know how close you two were. But—oh! Excuse my manners,” she pivots, looking behind you as if a lightbulb flicked on overhead. “Who’s th—”

Sarah’s tanned face blanches. 

“Hey Sarah. It’s been a while,” he greets casually. 

And the woman in front of you looks between you both as if she’s seconds away from siccing that dog on you. 

“You…caught us at a bad time,” you giggle nervously. “It’s kind of a secret, but…that was a…false report, after the explosion. Caleb actually managed to flee the area with a few burns. The authorities just kept the whole thing under wraps in case it was a targeted attack, or something. So I’ve been keeping an eye on him ever since!” you smile tightly, squeezing his dry palm with your clammy one. 

“Oh…well…what a relief, I guess!” she chuckles uncomfortably. “Well…if you’re not laying too low, Caleb,” she starts, extroverted nature beating out her rationality, “we’re having a get-together with all the neighborhood kids tomorrow! You guys should totally come. We’d hate to miss our favorite duo—you were always so funny, nagging each other like siblings.” 

You bristle at the term, gripping Caleb’s hand so tightly it could bruise. “Um, thanks for the offer, Sarah, but we…” you trail off, looking at him to help you. 

“We’d love to come!” he doesn’t. 

“Uh, we…would?” you question, perplexed by his sudden enthusiasm. 

“Yeah, why not, pips? It’d do you good to reconnect with some of the girls you liked hangin’ around. Plus, I’ll be right there with you,” he smiles brightly. 

Though his reasoning barely quells your anxiety, your heart softens at the gesture.

“Alright, then,” you turn to Sarah. “We’ll be there.”

The old mall down the block is halfway through renovations. 

Neon orange construction cones litter the parking lot, and every door but the main entrance is sealed off with yellow caution tape. 

Navigating through the weekend traffic, you and Caleb wander through the swarming, noisy corridors, leaving store after store empty-handed. 

You don’t know what to wear. 

Meeting so many people after such a long time…there’s an irrational need to impress, to look like you have your life together.

And somehow, every outfit seems off on you. It’s not false advertising—the mannequins are gorgeous as ever. But there’s something about you that ruins every look. 

As you rummaged through different displays, Caleb had done some light hovering—staying near, but letting you do your own thing, overall. 

But as you return another dress to the rack with a frustrated growl, he swoops in to put his scary intuition to good use. 

“This would suit you,” he grins kindly, brandishing a pastel blue sundress. “Wanna try it on?”

You eye the fabric skeptically. It’s not your usual style, but you take it into the dressing room anyway. 

And of course, the first thing Caleb picks out for you is perfect. 

“Told ya,” he laughs when you call him inside, back hugging you in the mirror. “You look beautiful. ‘Course it helps that it was my idea, and all.”

Swatting him gently, you giggle as you try to push him out of the cramped space, grunting with annoyance when he sandbags you. 

“Get out of here!” you protest. “We still have to find your outfit, and the mall closes soon.”

“Okay, okay, I'm going,” he relents cheekily. “Snap a picture for me before you take it off, though, alright?”

***

Once you’d paid—or he’d paid, having levitated your purse in the air while you scowled at him—you’d dragged him over to the men’s section, where you’d found an outfit just his size with a similar color scheme.

He’d preened when you held it out to him, puffing his chest out with pride at the fact you knew his tastes so well. And in his sparkling eyes, you’d spotted a flicker of possessiveness as he looked between your clear garment bag and the clothes in his hands, not so subtly comparing the blues to each other. 

And evidently, with the way he’d refused to even try anything on before heading back to the register, he’d been satisfied. 

As you make your way back to his car, Caleb tugs you in by the waist to claim your lips in a tender kiss. 

“It’s perfect,” he breathes. “It’ll be perfect. And even though we’ll be matchin’…I get the feeling you’ll be the one people can’t look away from.”

Caleb’s hand is on the small of your back as you step through Sarah’s front door, but it leaves you as he encourages you to mingle. “Go catch up,” he urges with his signature grin. 

You know what he’s doing. What this whole thing has been. A way to push you out of your comfort zone, a prolonged apology, and a promise to be less overbearing, all in one.

He needs it just as much as you do. Needs you to know that he’s trying. So as you nod softly and make your way through the throng of laughing faces, you hope he sees you trying, too.

Sarah’s parents had both been lawyers, and if the diplomas lining the far wall of the living room didn’t make that clear enough, the sheer size of their house sure did. 

The layout is vaguely familiar—Caleb had been friends with her older brother, and you’d practically begged him to tag along on playdates so you could see the fancy house down the street. 

As you take it all in—the flat screen TVs (plural) broadcasting different channels, the iridescent streamers lining the bannisters, the variety of appetizers spread out across the first floor—you only grow more envious. 

Turning away with a petty huff, you focus on the people instead. As you study faces new and old, you wonder how many guests here brought their partners. How many know that you brought yours.

Sarah—ever the gracious host, never the gossip—had informed the attendees about Caleb’s situation in hopes that he wouldn’t be bombarded the second he stepped inside. And it was working, somehow, as far as you could tell. Aside from a few wary glances sent his way, people greeted him just like they did before: as the golden boy whose presence was a gift. 

At some point, as you’d hovered aimlessly by the drink table, a girl you remembered fondly had strolled up to you. Marley, her name was. With her lively eyes, kind smile, and eagerness to play dolls with you, she’d been your closest non-Caleb friend in the neighborhood. 

“Who would’ve thought the girl next door would grow up to be a hunter, huh?” she jokes, gently elbowing your ribs. 

“It’s really not that special,” you laugh, halfheartedly dodging her pokes. “Just something necessary, I guess, since the Wanderers came. I thought it’d be cool, high-stakes action movie stuff every day, but I kinda feel like a firefighter saving a cat from a tree sometimes.”

“Oh, please. You’re practically a superhero! Caleb, too, being a whole pilot and all. Time really flies—I still remember when he helped you set up your lemonade stand that one summer,” she giggles. “You were always so in sync.” 

“Still are,” you smile softly, gaze subconsciously finding Caleb from across the room. He's chatting in a group of his old buddies, but as always, it’s like he can sense you looking at him. His eyes find yours in an instant, as if he already knew where you were standing—because of course he did—and he shoots you a boyish wink.

“But, if you don’t mind me asking,” Marley hesitates, her eyes shifting perplexedly between you. “Are you two…together…now? You seem even closer than you were as kids, if that’s even possible,” she mutters sarcastically, talking from the side of her mouth. 

As the question hits you for the first time that night, you plaster a big, fake smile on your face. “We sure are! It was five months last week.” 

“Well, congrats, I guess,” she tries to exclaim, but her confusion stunts her sincerity. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s just…I never expected you guys would date! You always seemed more like…ah…friends,” she cringes, her own fake smile twitching slightly.

Friends.

As the word fights its way out of her mouth, likely beating several less polite alternatives, the weight of her hesitance is not lost on you.

“Friends, huh?” you echo, and your smile is real this time. A show of your teeth, a hint that she’s just entered dangerous waters. “What kind of friends grow up in the same house, Marley? Raised by the same person, and all. Pretty rare if you ask me,” you cock your head in mock contemplation. “C’mon, what do you really mean to say?”

You’d been taught well. 

“Okay, okay!” she huffs, folding like a lawn chair under the pressure. “I always thought you were like siblings. Thought you guys thought you were like siblings. I’m just surprised, is all.”

“There’s nothing to be surprised about,” you nod curtly. “You lived next door, not with us. You don’t know how we felt about each other.”

Your voice is robotic as you meet her with a deadened stare. No matter how much you’d expected it, no matter how much you’d prepared, the judgment catches you off guard. 

The rumors, the gossip—it’s one reason you thought Caleb would decline the invite. To protect you, if nothing else. But with a bitter, inward laugh, you guess that him trying means letting you be in situations you might’ve begged him to shield you from.

“I need some air,” you decide suddenly, interrupting Marley’s frantic apologies to turn toward the door. “It was nice catching up.” 

A cool breeze kisses your exposed skin as you watch the fireflies blink from the patio. And as beautiful as they are, glittering in the night sky, there are other things on your mind at the moment.

If Caleb was ever a brother to you, he was the best brother anyone ever had.

You’d seen the way your friends acted with their brothers. Always kept a watchful eye on their interactions, as if comparing their relationships to yours. Middle school, high school, college.

And over all those years, no brother had ever been as attentive—as doting, as patient, as loving—as Caleb. 

After the explosion, when you were left to deal with your feelings alone—no nagging, oversized puppy to distract you—you’d pondered how you saw him. Deep down, under the structure and order and propriety that was forced upon you too young. Regretted that it was too late to ask him how he saw you. 

And if those quiet nights crying so hard it felt like drowning had taught you anything, it was this: as much as Caleb was brotherly, he had always been more—so much more than what he had to be to you.

He could’ve shut himself in his room for hours, leaving you to fend for yourself. He could’ve ghosted you the minute you no longer went to the same school. Could’ve found a girlfriend, had kids early, and moved his real family far away from you. All these things, you’d seen happen.

But through it all, Caleb had stayed, and he’d done it with his signature smile. Even when you’d worried he’d outgrown you, had outpaced you with his stellar achievements, he’d just pinched your cheek with a fond grin. Who d’ya think I do all that for, silly? he’d laughed. 

By your reunion, when he’d stared down at you so cruelly, you’d known what he was to you. The only man you’d ever loved, in all meanings of the phrase. That’s why it had hurt so much. 

And Caleb had scared you off. Your feelings were fragile, only newly realized. But his…were developed. Intense. More intense than you were ready for, coming from someone who’d been off-limits for 15 years. 

So you’d resisted. Resisted his spiraling admissions, resisted the feelings you knew he had for you, resisted his frantic attempts to steal you from the world. 

It would take time for you to accept a love like his. You’d told him as much five months ago—that you needed to meet in the middle. And he’d promised to try. 

As the days went by, you got used to treating him like a lover. To putting new meanings behind every touch. And every time you kissed him, he carved out more of his own paradise in your mind, escaping the liminal area he’d occupied in unfulfilling restraint. 

It was only in moments like this when prying eyes and hushed whispers wore you down. People who thought that, because they knew you once—for a summer, for a semester, for a school year—they knew who you were and how you felt. But there was something paradoxically mercurial about you and Caleb: the more you stayed the same, the more you changed. And only the two of you were privy to it. 

Even still, some leers and questions got to you, just as they had tonight. Apprehension and a resented sense of shame had filled your gut, as if you’d been “caught” stealing from your own wallet. 

But of all the things Caleb was to you, only one mattered: he was yours. And as a firefly lands on your outstretched palm, twinkling beautifully in the darkness that threatens it, you know no one can take that from you. 

Caleb had had better nights. 

He’d had worse, for sure—agony and loneliness come to mind—but he’d definitely had better. 

He’s spent this one mingling among the names he hadn’t cared to remember, all as an attempt to show you he won’t cage you in. You can have fun, have friends outside of him, as much as the thought makes his stomach churn. 

And what better way to start than with people he already knew? Baby steps.

As he cranes his neck to find you again (which shouldn’t be hard, since he just has to look for the one dressed like him), he vaguely registers an incessant buzz of a voice talking his ear off. Jared, he calls himself. 

“Anyway, I can’t believe you did that to her. That’s fucked up, man,” the voice says, clapping Caleb’s back with an obnoxious chortle. 

And as much as he needs to find you, Caleb really wishes he’d spared some of his attention for the homunculus beside him. 

“What exactly are you implying?” he asks lowly, lifting the hand from his shoulder with a firmness that any sober person would find threatening. 

He’s almost certain you’re not in the room, now, your calming presence lost in the sea of discarded memories. Alarms sound in his head at the realization, only to be drowned out by something more damning.

“It’s just…you grew up together! Had the same grandma. That's like your sister, dude. But you know what, to each their own. The way she looks, I can’t say I would've held myself back any better than you did. Probably worse, man. Matter of fact, you fucked her y—?”

The force of Caleb’s Evol clamps Jared’s mouth shut.

And, if his muffled yelp is any indication, hopefully breaks a few of his teeth, their bloodied chips settling on his tongue.

“This sorry excuse for a conversation is over. Leave. Now. And if I see you talking to her on your way out, I’ll make sure you never get the chance to again.”

Jared nods fearfully, and after one last snarl, Caleb lifts his Evol, albeit begrudgingly. It takes Jared a few seconds to notice his newfound freedom, but the moment he does, he’s scurrying out of the house. Good. 

You’re back in Caleb’s sight, now. But as he takes in your shy smile, the faint melody of your laughter filling his keen ears, he doesn’t feel the comfort he normally would. 

Instead, he feels his dog tag. 

Your precious gift to him. A symbol of how you needed him, of your anticipation that he’d always be in your life. Of his hope that one day, you’d return his feelings. 

He recalls the once comfortable weight, the way his body heat would flow into the cool metal, linking it to him in a warm embrace. 

The chain now burns against his throat.

Jared had been brash.

Crude, crass, and certainly cocky, thinking he was deserving of you. 

So as Caleb watches you chat among a mixed group of guests, swirling his full cup in agitation, he decides he doesn’t care about the delivery. It’s the content that troubles him. 

Because Jared, in his drunken state, had managed to hit a nerve Caleb had tried to sever five months ago. 

Are you sure you want this? he’d asked you shakily. Want it from me? With me?

And in clear confirmation, you’d claimed his first kiss.

But even still, the thoughts lingered at the back of his brain. That he was tainting you, taking advantage of you, stealing your life away. 

He knows Jared isn’t worth the scum beneath his shoe, but those unsavory thoughts made his own worries resurface. 

And as fickle as his mind was, he’d only ever known to trust it. 

So when Caleb sees you beam at another man’s compliment, glowing like you’d been sent from heaven itself, he feels like maybe he’d been right.

For the rest of the night, Caleb dreaded the drive home. Luckily, you’d slept for most of the way back. 

But as he parks outside your building, gently rousing you from your sleep, the feeling returns in full force. 

“Good morning,” you giggle, stretching drowsily. “Sorry I fell asleep on you—I can’t remember the last time I talked that much. Did you have fun?” 

“Something like that,” he says, popping the driver’s door open. “You?”

“I did, I think,” you start, opening your own side and sliding out of his car. “I really did. It was a little rough at first, but it got better. What about you? Anybody try to stab your brains out? Since you’re undead and all.” 

He chuckles dryly. “Not exactly.”

As you trudge toward your apartment, Caleb trails behind you. You’re so dazed, you almost don’t notice it. But you miss the familiar warmth of his left hand.

Your tired fingers quiver as you fail to unlock your door, and with a gentle nudge, Caleb slides the key in for you. 

Mumbling a “thank you,” you step through the doorway, making space for him to follow. When he doesn’t, you turn to face him, frowning lightly in confusion. Gleaming in the moonlight, the metal threshold separates your feet: yours on the inside, his on the outside. 

“I’ve been called back to Skyhaven. It’s nothing too serious, but I’ll have to cut this visit short. Don’t worry about me.”

The words pierce your chest like a dagger, but his cold delivery twists the knife.

“Oh,” you breathe, not knowing what to do or where to look or how to hide your disappointment. “I didn’t know they had any way of contacting you. Your communicator’s still in my nightstand, you know,” you quip lamely. “But I guess four days has to be enough this time. I’m lucky to have gotten that.”

Smiling weakly, you lean in to kiss him. But with his sudden reservation, the moment is more chaste than you’d intended. 

As he starts to turn away, you instinctively grab his hand. “Are you…is everything okay? You’re being weird,” you whisper, eyes searching him in concern. 

“No I’m not,” he retorts, forcing life back into his voice. The weight of his hand ruffling your hair feels wrong, somehow, and his airy tone is a contrast to the darkness in his gaze. “Get some rest, pip-squeak.”

Caleb never thought the jewelry box you’d left at his place would come in handy. 

He had no use for it—the only piece he truly needed to preserve stayed looped around his neck at all times. 

But as he stares at the silver chain hung carefully on a hook, its ruby-crested apple dangling in the evening sunlight, he silently thanks you for your forgetfulness. 

It’s been two days since he returned to Skyhaven, but the events of that night remain fresh wounds in a fragile mind. 

I can’t believe you did that to her.

I can’t believe you did that to her.

To you. Not with.

As if his love was an assault. 

All his life, Caleb had tried to show you only the good sides of him. To tamper down his intensities so you’d eat from his palm. You were a skittish thing, failed one too many times by an inadequate world. So he’d approached you gently, practicing docility until it became second nature. To keep his eager hands from defiling you. 

He’d molded himself into whoever you needed him to be, never admitting what he wanted to be to you. All so you would tolerate him, want to keep him around for his services, if nothing else. Because as much as he claimed to protect you, your safety was his anchor. If you were loved, warm, and unharmed—if he kept you that way—then every consequence was worth it. 

He’d learned to live like a chameleon, his temperament matching your mood. And as much as a forgotten part of him yearned for identity, it was a role he’d settled into playing—until his weakened back had snapped under the pressure. 

When you’d confessed that you felt the same—that you loved him in more ways than the one you should—he’d deluded himself into thinking those years of restraint were over. That he could stop watching over you and start walking with you. That you would fall from propriety hand in hand. 

He’d never thought himself naive. Always launched himself ahead of the curve so that would never be an option for him. Naive was something someone with his responsibility couldn’t afford to be. 

But now, as his lifeline swings back and forth on its new perch, jingling with what could only be mockery, the feeling swallows Caleb whole. 

It would’ve killed him to see you with someone else. He’d had nightmares about it every month, save for the last five, ever since he was a teenager. But even if you chose to live with someone else by your side…at least he would have gotten to see you do it. To watch you be happy, carefree, without you wondering if it was your right to be. Without the guilt of robbing your life from you, tainting your purity with his sin.

He knew you were wary. You’d gotten better about it—at hiding it, at least—but he could still feel the panicked clench of your hand in his when someone looked at you too long. You were trying, for him, just as he tried for you. But if trying meant the unfiltered scrutiny that Jared had spewed could one day reach you, it wasn’t worth it, he decided. 

You deserved more than the headache he’d give you. 

***

The days drag on. 

Caleb’s vacation ends as little more than purgatory, and when he dons his Colonel uniform once more, the Fleet’s affairs feel his presence now more than ever. 

He’s sharper now, meaner. Mistakes that would usually earn a light slap on the wrist now end in termination. Figurative or literal, the recruits aren’t sure. 

He knows he’s spiraling. He hears the whispers: “The Colonel’s finally lost it” met with “As if he ever had it.” But rebuke from any voice but yours doesn’t reach him. 

During flights, he plays his missions a little less safe, making rash decisions sure to end in incident, eventually. He justifies it, in his head, by thinking that maybe an injury would inflict upon him the suffering he deserves. 

He’s been drifting, lately. Through the hallways, through the streets, through space. 

But aimless as he is, Caleb can’t bring himself to desert you completely. Those 15 years of gentle servitude had become so ingrained in him, he thinks a total cutoff would only make him more reckless. So he pacifies you with brief, polite answers, sharing none of his usual charm and emoticons. This flighty, diluted version of himself was all that he could offer. 

But each day, when Caleb stumbles back into the necessary solitude of his house, wheezing with overexertion, he heads straight to the hidden room where you’d discovered his bionic arm. Where, under dark wooden panels, a row of monitors hide. 

Their feeds are clear as they’ve always been. Your cubicle, your route home, your front door, your kitchen. Your bedroom. 

And until he succumbs to exhaustion, Caleb watches you. 

Watches you sift through reports, eyes open but unseeing. 

Watches you stumble on the way home, your foot catching on a stray root that he would’ve spotted in time. 

Watches you crumble, after a while, and curl up on the side of your bed where he always slept. 

Watches until the rhythmic rocks of your crying body lull you to sleep in place of his heartbeat.

As the clock strikes midnight, you complete your count to 23.

It’s been 23 days since you’d received anything more than a one-word response from Caleb. 

At first, you’d given him grace—thought he just wasn’t feeling well. He was always one to withdraw from you when sick, locking himself away for a while before emerging like nothing happened. 

But even then, he was never this curt with you. He always reassured you that he was okay.

Days passed, and the mysterious illness theory flew out the window. As you fired off another concerned text, all but pleading for him to say something, you wondered if he was mad at you—but what could you have done? Not to mention that when he was mad at you, it usually ended with him apologizing, somehow. It’s always Caleb’s fault, huh? he’d cooed at you, rubbing your back tenderly. I’m sorry, baby. 

Something was just…wrong. Terribly, scarily wrong. And whatever it was, you had to figure it out alone.

With a frustrated growl, you snatch your phone up from its place on your nightstand and scroll to your latest messages, hoping he’s decided to take you out of time-out. 

you: hi. i know you’re probably sick of me asking, but can you call when you get a chance? haven’t heard your voice in a while.

>:( : later.

Nothing. He was giving you absolutely nothing.

You want to scream. Want to hunt him down, grab him by the collar, and thrash him around for being so difficult. But as your gaze flits to the photo on your desk—a silly selfie you’d taken on your first official date—your heart constricts from how badly miss him. 

You miss him so desperately that the pain in your chest is worse than when he left for college. At least you’d known he would come back to you, then.  

As hot tears well in your eyes—far from the first time—you remember the words he’d written to you once, never intending for you to read them: “Any man who makes you cry isn't worth your time,” you repeat, snorting softly at the irony.

But unluckily for him, Caleb wasn't any man.

Any man wouldn't braid your hair from childhood to now, never teaching you to do it yourself because he wasn’t willing to give up doing it. Any man wouldn't skip the senior trip he’d saved hundreds for just to nurse you through a stomach bug. Any man wouldn't dedicate half his life to making sure yours was painless. 

So no, Caleb wasn’t any man. He was smart, skilled, and devoted. He was reliable, doting, and selfishly self-sacrificing. He was the reason you’d grown up so well, always wanting to make him proud. And he was yours.

Tugging harshly at the roots of your hair—a habit he’d always tried to break—you pace around your bedroom like a frenzied animal.

You were going to go to him, that much was obvious. To ambush him and make him explain what you’d done for him to discard you like this. To apologize, if he’d hear it. 

But how, if he wouldn’t give you the time of day? The man lived in a giant sky fortress, for God’s sake. And with his neverending suspicions, it wasn’t like he trusted any other members of the Fleet enough to give you their contact informati—

Except, you interrupt yourself, freezing mid-step. He did.

Liam.

Caleb’s faithful adjutant, the one you’d spoken to—or spoken at, while he looked at you unnervingly—just a handful of times.

Sometimes, bad ideas are the only ones available.

Retrieving your phone from where it lies face down on your rumpled blanket, you scroll and scroll to the bottom of your contact list, where Liam’s name stares back at you forebodingly. 

Steeling yourself with a shaky nod, you press call and wait with bated breath. He answers on the second ring. 

“Miss, may I ask why you’re calling? Are you in any trouble?” his deep, dispassionate voice, devoid of any true concern, rings out.

You swallow thickly before trusting your voice enough to sound as anything more than a pitiful squeak. “I-I have Caleb’s communicator,” you maneuver skillfully despite your nerves. “He left it at my apartment. Can you take me to him? So I can give it back.”

“You’d be better off turning it in to one of our administrators. The Colonel is very busy right now and—”

“Take me to him, please,” you repeat stubbornly, raised voice echoing off ivory drywall. 

“Miss, I'm only allowed to speak with you if you’re in immediate danger. I'm under strict orders not to facilitate any interaction with the Colonel.”

He’s going to hang up soon, you panic. And then your only chance is gone. 

A flare of anger heats your skin as you realize you don’t have an appointment to see your own boyfriend. The one who can pester you and break your boundaries with a barely apologetic smile, but shuts you out the second you try to do the same.

Channeling your tears from earlier—they still line your eyes, after all—you sniffle into the speaker. Desperate times… 

“What do you think will happen when I tell him you made me cry? You won’t be under any orders anymore,” you bait him quietly, relying on the fragile hope that Caleb was still as fiercely protective of you as he’d been before. 

The pregnant pause on the other line tells you you’d succeeded. “I…” he clears his throat. “Please arrive at the Skyhaven airport at your earliest convenience. I'll be there to take you to the Colonel.”

When Liam’s aircraft lands on the familiar floating island, you rush out with a muttered “thanks” and jam your thumb onto the sensor.

But as the doors slide open and you stomp inside, the silence you’re met with tells you Caleb isn’t home. 

Sighing heavily, you survey your surroundings: the spotless kitchen, barren like it hadn’t been used in weeks; the dust collecting on his most-used surfaces; the tray on the coffee table, missing its usual array of apples. Had he been eating? Had he been coming here at all?

Your worries carry you through the other rooms, but none hold the answers to your questions. 

And as you step into his bedroom, the place you were most likely to find a clue, you wish you hadn’t. 

Because there, hanging tauntingly on a familiar looking jewelry box, is Caleb’s dog tag. The chain he never went without. 

The ache in your chest becomes a gaping void. 

Blood rushes to your ears and makes them ring so loudly that you can’t hear the despondent noise you make. On unsteady feet, you lurch farther into the room and lower your trembling body onto the mattress. 

As you stare at the mahogany jewelry box, looming mockingly on the dresser, you think the walls spin around you. 

In all the years you’d known Caleb, he had never been one to just give up—so what about you was so condemnable that it finally made him?

He wasn’t here to answer. 

So you take the chain for what it is: resignation. Eviction. 

It feels like you shouldn’t be here anymore. Like you’re an intruder in a sacred space. Like maybe you shouldn’t have even made it in, but he just hadn’t had the time to axe your thumbprint from the system yet. 

You need to leave. That much is clear. But here, stranded in the sky, you don’t exactly have a getaway plan. 

Without the leverage of Caleb’s love, you doubt Liam would take too kindly to being threatened again, just hours after the first time. 

As fruitless minutes tick by, it’s clear that waiting is your only option. But as you curl up in the center of the bed, chest heaving with labored breaths, you no longer anticipate Caleb’s return. 

When your eyes blink open in the dead of night, you know he’s there before you see him.

The air in the room feels different. Heavy and charged, like just before a thunderstorm. 

Anything could happen when you face him. But he’s deprived you of so much lately, that at least something would. 

Shoving the thought to the front of your mind for motivation, you raise your head to find him in the darkness of the room, lit only by a lone streetlight. 

And the sight of him makes your stomach drop.

Caleb, uniform torn and tattered, slumps against the wall closest to the bed, eyes closed and head lowered. 

A smear of blood paints his cheek, and as you zero in on it, you notice the eyebags so dark they look like bruises. Like he hasn’t slept in days. 

But even with his eyes closed, you should know by now that you don’t have the time to ogle him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers hoarsely. 

“Where else would I go?” 

And those violet irises find yours. 

“Do you regret it? That you have nowhere else to go?” he asks softly, bloodshot gaze searching your huddled form. Checking, like he always did. 

No is your immediate answer. But you figure you should ask him first. That way, when you say it, he might actually believe you. “What?”

“Do you regret what I’ve done to you?” he elaborates, voice dropping near the end. 

The explanation doesn’t help. “What have you done to me, Caleb?”

He winces at the phrasing, though he knows it’s not an accusation. 

Cocking his head cynically, he lets a hollow chuckle escape. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to go to that party. Guess that’s what I get for trying.” 

“What are you talking about?” you probe, shifting to the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“What’s wrong with me,” he mimics, “is that I’m trying to stay away from you. For your own sake.” 

“You weren’t there to see it. Hung up in another room, or outside, or something. It was the only time I lost sight of you,” he recalls bitterly. “And this guy started mouthin’ off about how fucked it was for us to be together. Said I was sick for the things I must’ve done to you.” 

A sliver of understanding eases the tension in your muscles. But you need to hear it from him. “And you believed him?” you ask, eyeing him warily. 

“It wasn't him who I had to believe. I already knew. Have known, for a while now, no matter how much I tried to pretend I didn’t. The way I thought my hands deserved to touch you—it’s a sin, isn’t it? One you shouldn’t have to carry. That’s why I left—so you could live a life unburdened by me.” 

At his words, an all too familiar irritation stirs within you. Alongside sadness that he’d thought it best to feel this way alone. 

Pushing forcefully off the bed, you kneel between his knees, gripping his bloodied face between your hands. “Who said you had permission to leave?” you ask lowly, and you hear his voice in yours. 

“I asked you what happened that night,” you continue. “More than once. And I'd have listened if you told me. Would’ve been there to tell you that none of it mattered. But you said it was nothing—another way to protect me, I guess. And then you left me on my doorstep, wondering how I’d hurt you.” 

Caleb’s mouth drops slightly, but you don’t let him interrupt. “When you said you would try, you overlooked one thing. Part of trying is considering how I feel. Like when I saw your necklace—how do you think I felt? I thought…you didn’t want me anymore. That you’d decided I was too big a burden for you,” you breathe, and when your voice breaks at the end, Caleb covers your hands with his.

“If your sin involves me, you don’t get to live through it alone. You pulled away from me without wondering if I wanted to be complicit. If I wanted to share it with you. You don’t get to make me a victim without asking if I feel like one. And I never have.”

He freezes at that, gazing up at you imploringly. When he finds what he’s looking for, he turns his head slightly, lips brushing your wrist in a hesitant kiss. “I know—” he swallows. “I know you feel ashamed sometimes. Of being with me, now, when I was who I was to you. Even if you don’t want to be, when we go out together, I can feel it.”

“You’re right,” you nod simply, and he fails to stifle a choked gasp. “But I don’t let it change anything.”

Now, it’s Caleb’s turn to ask. “What do you mean?”

“Remember Marley?” you start softly, stroking his tousled hair. “Girl I used to play dolls with when you were too busy? She asked about us, too. And I told her the truth: we’re together, and we’re happy, and our story is ours. It’s not just your choice, Caleb. I’m with you because I want the same. I always have.” 

And as much as you know he wants to believe it, to accept it and move on, things were never that simple with him. 

“You don’t understand,” he murmurs shakily, returning your hands to your lap as if they’ve burned him. “I can't…I've only ever wanted to keep you safe. No matter who I had to be to you. And when you let me have you—how I want to, how I’d wanted to…I wasn’t strong enough to turn you away. I’m not strong enough to do what’s best for you,” he whispers with glistening eyes.

Slowly, gently, you reach out to him a second time. To splay a hand on his exposed chest, to get him used to the feeling of your touch again. 

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” you murmur, stroking your thumb against him. “Because I think you’re very strong.” 

“I thought you were strong when you saved me from those bullies in middle school. Still remember the black eyes you gave them. When I saw that…I thought you were a hero. And I wanted to be just like you.” Pausing, you lean down to kiss his collarbone, and though he shudders, you take his pleading gaze as a sign to continue. 

“I thought you were strong when Gran got really sick, and you had to do everything. Cooking, cleaning, taking me to school. And you did it with a smile.” Giving him one of your own, you cradle his flushed face in your hands, stroking his darkening cheeks tenderly. Violet eyes watch you with disbelief—a reflection of six months ago, when you’d entrusted your first kiss to him. 

“And when you kissed me back that first time? When I felt how much you wanted to, how you kept it bottled up inside you for so long—I thought you were so strong,” you whisper, mouth hovering over his. “You’ve always been strong, Caleb. It’s why I love you so much.”

In time with his sharp inhale, you press your lips to his. But as large hands flex against your sides, he doesn’t respond to your touch. 

So you press harder, deeper, as if your kiss will awaken what’s dormant within him: his molten, unabashed need for you. The need that holds purity in its paradox, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

And when you circle your hand around his throat, where his necklace once collared him in your name, Caleb kisses you back. 

It’s an exploratory kiss, but a passionate one. As if your reacquainted lips are making up for lost time. 

You guide him with the steady suction of your lips, and when you tug at his frayed lapel, Caleb takes the lead. 

His tongue surges into your mouth, reclaiming what he’d missed, and you moan at the welcome intrusion. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, backing away slightly. “Sometimes I just wonder…if you’d be better off without me.” 

“I wouldn't,” you soothe, pulling him in for a reassuring peck. “You’re a part of me. I want you wherever I am, whichever version of you will have me.”

“All of them,” he mumbles against you. “And then some.”

And as you slip his hand under your shirt, there’s no reluctance in his tender grasp. Like he belongs there. 

Soft strokes on your bare shoulder wake you as the sun rises. 

“I missed seein’ you like this,” murmurs the voice you’d missed just as much. 

“And whose fault is that?” you chide, cutting your eyes to glare up at him playfully. 

“Mine,” he concedes instantly. “All mine.”

“Mhm. Speaking of,” you begin, stepping out of bed gingerly. “If you’re going to be my Caleb, there’s one more thing you need to do. Close your eyes,” you instruct. 

And Caleb complies—something that’s come easy the past six months. 

The room is silent for a moment, with only the distant sounds of jet planes piercing the air. 

Then, a soft clink. 

And as the mattress dips with your return to him, Caleb lifts his head instinctively. And the cool surface of metal slips around his neck. 

As Caleb spares you a glance from the passenger’s seat, the apple charm on his dog tag glints in the sunlight. 

Row after row of familiar houses comes into view, but you seem calm, this time. Unburdened. 

With some compliments and exaggerated enthusiasm, Sarah had been more than happy to host another party. And you’d been more than patient as you’d encouraged Caleb to attend. 

He’d been cautious, at first, for obvious reasons. But you didn’t dare push. 

So as the date loomed closer, he’d decided to try. 

And when you cross the threshold hand in hand to a sea of curious faces, the tension he expects to compress his pulsing heart never comes.

Instead, something kinder blossoms: pure, weightless pride.

[marmotsomsierost]

"Do you know," she says conversationally, her voice slightly rough from shouting, "what the word for cleric in the language of my birth translates to?" She lowers Ravnda's body to the ground, drawing the soft wool snood from beneath her cuirass. The subtle gradient of deep blue to sunrise-lilac is marred by bloodstains of varying ages, but it's the warmth she's looking for. The hot summer day is already feeling cooler, despite the sun still hanging high in the sky, the lack of wind to stir the air, the weight of humidity lying sticky on skin. She stands, drawing the snood over her head and watching as the hunter in the distance tracks her with his bow. He's the only one not jeering and catcalling with the rest. He has an arrow at the ready, but not drawn; his scouts are scattered in a rough arc behind him. They're also the only ones doing any kind of rough post-battle triage rather than looting the dead and dying alike. There's even a few green-gold roses visible among those receiving medical care, so perhaps there's still something here worth saving. There's a large raven resting unnaturally still on the edge of her vision. She turns to it, glancing briefly at and then away. "You should leave," she tells it, then drops her voice to a whisper as she feels the harmonics start to claw their way up her throat. "Head to the water." She's only partly successful at shoving back the harmony; she watches ruefully as the old half-ogre full-on throws the man she'd been treating over her shoulder, picking another two up by their baldrics and walking at an unhurried but still ground-eating pace away to the northeast. That's not going to be subtle at all.

It's not. The discordant flurry of activity is going to draw the attention of the remaining leaders if she doesn't keep their focus. Pav- well, what is left of Pav, which isn't much- is too far away and in the wrong direction if she wants to distract from the retreating scouts, so she instead reaches for her shoulder, tearing the brooch free and swirling her capelet off. The shot silk flashes bruise-purple and blood-red as it flutters to the ground. Eivind is a bit farther to the west, and she's not sure if they'll let her get that far by continuing to gloat or if they'll tire of it and resume their attack, but she wants both the warm fleece-lined cape he carried and more time for the noncombatants to get away. He's fully dead now, no longer in the half-stasis he's fallen into after taking a killing blow meant for Ravnda and Killick. She could...no. They'd been quite clear after she'd had to explain why their payment for their extremely expensive passage on the courier ship had been abruptly and vehemently refused.

"Well?!" The annoyed shout pulls her from her reverie and for a moment she pauses. it would have been a blink in confusion, but it's too late for that now. Right. She'd asked a question at the start of all this. The end of all this? Time is getting too complicated already.

"No guesses?" She calls back, getting an uncreative series of curses in response. "Ah, it's fine, I have a different question for you first." Her fingers come away bloody after clasping the cloak across her chest. The edge of the cloak must have dragged along the terrible rend in Eivind's flank caused by that disintegrate spell- the magic resistance of a centaur only goes so far when it comes to killing spells. This is what she gets for trying something new. If he'd been suspicious and self-serving, the ray would have hit her instead, and he'd be able to make that fancy cider to cure the headache she would have gotten. Now she has an entirely different, much more frustrating headache to deal with.

"Did you hear her, at the end?" She keeps her gaze focused on her hands, wiping them clean; her feet, picking a circuitous path to where Killick had fallen, crushed beneath the abnormally large manticore they had brought down with their last, desperate surge of magic. She's sacrificed her eyes and ears and sense of touch to keep her voice harmonic-free; it's a struggle to see only what she's supposed to, to hear only what's around her. The enveloping softness of Eivind's cloak helps mute everything down to this world. Killick won't have much of use to her, but she's selfish. She's left her silk and taken Ravnda's snood and Eivind's cloak and the memory of Pav's last Song, and she'll take what Killick has to give as well.

"Were you close enough," she repeats, slightly louder this time, "to hear her last words?" More jeering, more crude jokes and promised threats are all that she gets in response. "Oh, come, you made such a grand deal of it, separating us and whittling us down to gloat, surely you were." Ah, there's Killick's cord bracelet, that will do. Transferring it onto her wrist takes only a moment, though if anyone in sight were alive to witness, the fluid motion going liquid-smooth with boiling colors and darkened light would make it a sight to Witness indeed.

"She said you were finished," he gloats as she finishes securing the bracelet. She hums, shaking her head. It's grown quite cool, the sun still high in the sky but now the shadows are weak, pallid things that waver along the edges, seeping into bone and memory, and the humidity now drawing away, leaving skin and lips feeling cracked and dry. It's almost time. She changes direction for the last time, moving directly towards her enemy.

"No," it hurts to speak clearly in one voice again, but she focuses through it to continue. "She told me you could not be allowed to win. She told me that i had to stop you. To do whatever it takes, no matter the cost." Movement draws her attention away, but it's just the paladin's squire bolting for the trees in a panicked sightless sprint. She Watches her for a long short frozen second before releasing her gaze. She's just a kid.

"My earlier question, though- do you know what Cleric means in the tongues of my people? No?" She steps forward twice, the distance between them stretching like taffy before snapping into place just outside arm's reach. "Cleric." The harmony wants to take her voice, begging to be called forward with little clawed feet, and this time she welcomes it. "One who Sees." She reaches out a hand, her arms by her side drawing the sword she never draws, stretching and wavering between the two as she presses his chin up. She's holding on by the threads of Killick's cord and Eivind's cloak and Pav's last Song and Ravnda's snood, every part of her that isn't touched by them flickering and wavering through the memories and bones of Being, and even though they cannot See, they can feel how the air burns with cold and the weight of the sun lays heavy in the shadows, light in the dark, hungry and curious like a hunting cat.

"it's her gift for you," she saysroarswhisperscroons, holding his head in place, watching his gaze flutter around like a flame-burnt moth, graciously allowing him to give in, to look at her of his own will. He tires quickly. His eyes are a warm, welcoming shade of honey-brown in the instant they look directly at her, and they sing in terror as they bleed into the emptiness at the heart of her. The last part of her, the memory of a life worn comfortable and smooth, might hope that the feel of Killick's cord and Eivind's cloak and Pav's last Song... and not the snood, the memory can finally admit, but the scent lingering on it, the gentle laughter caught inside the warp and weft: that-which-was-she might hope that they tether well enough to limit this devouring emptiness to the area of their last stand.

It's been so long and no time at all and always and never and will be and has been, and it is a bittersweet relief to not have to Be anymore.

to See is enough.

You were the healer—the last light of your party. But now your final ally dies in your arms, and there’s no one left to save. The enemy jeers, calling you useless. You look up, eyes hollow and black. The light is gone. The Void answers. You're no longer a cleric. You're something far worse.

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

WHAT MAKES A WOMAN.

PAIRING — bucky barnes x f!reader

CONTENTS — ficlet; fluff; slight angst; established relationship; body image issues [tw: hysterectomies]; self-indulgent to the max.

SUMMARY — When your relationship with Bucky begins to progress physically, you decide to divulge some very personal information.

WORD COUNT — 1.3k

NOTES — so i struggled with whether or not to repost this due to its unique and potentially triggering subject matter, but what the hell. experiences like mine should be told. and i want you all to know you’re beautiful :3 yes, you! 🫵🏻 i will accept no notes on this <3

✩ masterlist ✩ library blog

Of course, you don’t need to tell him anything.

The relationship is still so new, and it isn't like Bucky would be able to tell—could he? You can probably take this little secret of yours to the grave and it likely wouldn’t affect your relationship whatsoever.

But Bucky isn’t like any of the other men you’ve been with. He’s sweet and kind and so very loving, even if he doesn’t often get the chance to show it. And whether you’re out in the field together or back at home safe and sound, you do trust him completely.

Your rational brain knows he, of all people, would never treat you as something less than. Your irrational side, the part of you that has been disappointed time and time again, paints a different picture.

What if, just like your exes, he finds you repulsive after he learns what’s bothering you? What if he withdraws, tosses you aside like some days old garbage?

You hate it. You hate the part of you that doubts him, that is so full of doubt and fear despite the fact that you’ve fought aliens and mad titans.

But you have a policy of always being honest and upfront with your partners. At the time you had the procedure done, you didn’t think your medical history would be a big deal. These things happened, couldn’t be helped, and it didn’t change your lifestyle or overall health—in fact, your quality of life has improved dramatically since.

Regardless, the very necessary hysterectomy you’d gotten left you without all the parts that, according to some people, made you a woman.

Your ex-boyfriend actually recoiled when you told him, a decision you made just as things were getting serious between you. You thought you’d nip it in the bud in case the topics of marriage or children ever came up, considering you wanted neither of those things and the latter was no longer physically possible for you.

He couldn’t see past the health complications you would’ve had to live with if you hadn’t gotten it done. He accused you of lying to him, insisted you’d somehow betrayed him, and clearly didn’t understand what a hysterectomy actually was no matter how much you tried to explain it to him.

If you’d told him before you’d ever been intimate, he was audacious enough to confess out loud, he never would have touched you in the first place.

You never felt so undesirable and so ugly in your entire life. You ran back to the compound after the breakup and straight into Natasha’s arms, who didn’t ask any prying questions but made promises of revenge, torture, and murder.

You resolved to never date again. You swore off men and decided to throw yourself into your career. You did have a pretty good one, after all. What more did you need?

Well, him.

Bucky won you over the very first day you met, looking every bit as tense and anxious as you felt whenever you walked into a crowded room. You somehow plucked up the courage to walk over and introduce yourself, welcome him to the team.

He turned away from Sam and Steve at the sound of your voice, the scowl melting off his face and turning into something else entirely as he almost dropped his beer. With your quick reflexes, you managed to catch it before it shattered on the floor, handing it back to him with a small smile.

“Sorry, thanks,” he mumbled, eyes locked onto yours as he clumsily took back his drink. “I’m—beautiful, you’re so—Bucky.”

“I’m sorry?” You asked, still grinning.

“I mean—I’m Bucky,” he sighs and squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head as he took your hand and shook it, still flustered. Steve and Sam, however, exchanged a look that said they would never let him live this down.

What followed was a slow but sweet courtship. Bucky was evidently a fan of taking things slow, which you didn’t mind at all. You liked that he was a little old-fashioned, always buying you flowers, holding out his arm for you to take as you walked down the street to the restaurant where he’d made reservations. He calls you “sweetheart”, and he always kisses you like it’s the very last time.

A dream come true, that man is. With your ex, you understood you just so happened to pick a particularly bad apple out of the whole orchard; the asshole was just one guy. Not everyone would feel the way he did, and you know Bucky would never say or do anything to make you feel bad about yourself.

Your own brain, on the other hand? He’s going to think you’re disgusting. He’s going to break your damn heart and you won’t survive.

And to make matters worse, lately, he can’t seem to keep his hands off you. Bucky grows bolder each day, steadily moving past all the sweet smiles and coy glances across briefing rooms. One time, you were even caught feverishly making out in a supply closet by a mortified-looking Pepper Potts. You couldn’t bear to look her in the eye for days.

But because Bucky pays attention, observes much more than he speaks, he can tell you’re holding something back. Even as he’s got you in his room, straddling his lap while the two of you kiss like a pair of hormonal teenagers, his hands relentless and seemingly roaming everywhere all at once, he can tell you’re distracted.

He’s not always an angel, because he plays dirty. He pleads for you to tell him what’s wrong, to spill your heart in soft hushed tones, his lips planting sweet kisses along the curve of your jaw.

You confess embarrassingly quickly for an intelligence agent who’s been trained to withstand literal torture. You turn away from him in shame as you tell him about the surgery; you don’t have a reproductive system, you no longer menstruate, and you’re technically in menopause.

You need hormone replacement therapy, and you cannot ever have children. By some people’s standards, you are incomplete and always will be.

You move to leave, to retreat from his piercing stare, but Bucky winds his arms around you. He hooks a finger under your chin and gently turns you back to face him. His eyes soften at the sight of your watery ones and he kisses you again, chastely, sweetly, this time.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t really care what parts you do or don’t have,” and again with those magical hands of his, he sets out to prove it to you.

They cup the sides of your face with reverence, one cool thumb caressing your kiss swollen lips. They then slowly begin their descend down your neck, ghosting over your chest, and smoothing down your belly, drawing soft lines toward your pelvis.

“Do you care that I can only ever hold you with one good arm?”

Your heart cracks at that thought. “No, I—!”

“You’re so beautiful. You don’t even know, do you?” Bucky then proceeds to ravish every part of your body with his sweet yet sinful mouth, leaving literally no inch of skin unkissed, only pulling back when he’s left his mark. “Thought you were a goddess the first time I saw you.”

“Oh, stop it,” you scoff, your cheeks warm, your arms curling around his shoulders.

“Still have my suspicions, actually,” he grins before grabbing your hips to flip you onto your back, swallowing your startled yelp with another searing kiss. Bucky doesn’t give you time to catch your breath before he’s tugging your clothes off, making you laugh at how eager he is, and tossing them carelessly onto the floor.

You feel exposed and vulnerable underneath him, but when you look up he only looks back at you with adoring eyes.

“I promise, sweetheart, you look all woman from where I’m standing.”

FIN.

© 2025 by thereoncewasagirlnamedjane. do not repost, translate, or copy to third party sites. no part of this work may be fed into any AI software or websites. minors are asked not to interact with my blog; you are responsible for your own media consumption. followers with zero engagement, serial likers, and blank/ageless blogs will be blocked.

[damselneedssaving]

IT STARTED OFF INNOCENT ENOUGH.

Tim was just curious, that's all.

He stumbled upon your insta when doom scrolling one day, recognised you as the cute girl that usually sat towards the front of his lecture hall, and clicked on your profile with little to no thought behind his actions.

Then he began scrolling.

And scrolling.

And scrolling.

And before he even knew it, a few hours had passed, and he had gotten to pictures that dated all the way back to your senior year of high school, which doesn't seem like a lot, but you posted almost 24/7, so he had scrolled through way more than just a couple dozen to get there.

He remembers thinking that you were naive, that it was foolish to post so many pictures onto a public account and not bother blurring out street names or frequented cafés.

What if some creep stumbled upon your insta?—thought you were pretty and decided to start stalking you?

Just the possibility kept Tim awake that night, tossing and turning in bed with his fingers tousled through his hair and his eyes wide enough to plug a valley.

That's why he did what he did next.

It wasn't anything... bad, per say. In fact, it was good. Protective. Something a real hero would do.

So no, he didn't feel guilty for stopping by your favourite café and keeping an eye out. Or for darting his gaze around to every person that would pass by your general vicinity even if they weren't so much as facing you. Or for glaring paticularly hard at that cashier whose eyes lingered on you a second too long as he handed you your drink.

No, he didn't feel guilty at all.

He was just trying to protect you.

And for a while, that really was it. He would go to your favourite café every day and just keep an eye out for any creeps who might've thought they could get away with a little peek.

But then he started to let his gaze linger on you. He started to admire you.

Your pictures never did you any justice (they still don't, to be honest). You were much prettier in person than over a screen, and Tim let himself bask in that fact for a second longer than he was supposed to each day.

But all those seconds added up, and soon, all of his time spent at the café was filled less so with keeping an eye out for other people, and more so with keeping an eye on you.

And then... even that stopped being enough.

You stayed at that café for maybe one or two hours a day, never any longer than that, never long enough to satisfy him.

So he started to follow you out, clung to your trail like a shadow. It wasn't really hard to stay hidden, he was a Robin after all. And you? Well, you were his garden. His beautiful sanctuary full of love and life.

That's why he was so drawn to you. Why he had to follow you all the way home and then some.

It was better that way. He would be able to keep you safe more effectively. He honestly didn't know what he was thinking when he only kept an eye on you for up to two hours a day.

Stupid of him, really.

But what was stupider was his dumb job.

It kept him from truly keeping an eye on you. He couldn't stick by your side 24/7 when he had a city to patrol.

Luckily for him though, your habit of constantly posting online about where you were and what you were doing made it so that he didn't have to.

On patrol, he was constantly checking his phone for any updates. When his dad had him working at the company, he always had a tab propped open in the corner of his screen, your smiling face plastered all over it. And when he had free time, he would go keep an eye on you himself.

For a while, it was enough.

But then a thought occurred to him. A desire. And suddenly, 'enough' didn't just cut it anymore.

He wanted you to see him. Look at him the way he looks at you—like he's the only one in your world.

So he did something. Something he's not very proud of. But something he did nevertheless.

It wasn't anything... terrible. Just a small tip off. A tiny bribe. A little incentive for someone to send you falling straight off a twelve-story building.

Okay, so maybe it was pretty bad. But fuck was it worth it. Especially with how perfectly his arm slotted around your waist, and how desperately you buried your head into his neck, and how, after landing on another rooftop in Gotham with you safe in his arms, you gave him exactly what he desired and so much more.

So yeah... it had all started off innocent enough. But then it just... escalated. And now...

Now Tim doesn't even think he can stop.

[bxllydxnnabxtch]

A Little While

Simon (Ghost) Riley x Reader

❀​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​❀

Summary: After a mission gone terribly wrong, internalizing your mistakes is the only way you seem to cope. Ghost finally decides to intervene when it becomes too serious to ignore.

Read pt. 2 - HERE

Warnings: Swearing, arguing, crying, yelling, mentions of blood, traumatic situations, PTSD.

Ghost stared at you from across the table, watching you push the food around your plate like you’d rather throw yourself out of a Helo than actually put any of it in your mouth. You didn’t look up at him, knowing that the only thing you’d be met with was a disappointed stare and you didn’t think you could take any more guilt than you already had. You could hardly sleep, every time you closed your eyes you were sent back to that terrifying moment, visions of your teammates blood splattered across the ground and the never-ending reminder that you failed.

You were almost certain you were going to lose your job because of it, honorably discharged, sent back home to live out the rest of your days as another trauma-riddled veteran. But none of that ever happened, and you couldn’t tell if it was worse that it didn’t.

“It wasn-“ Ghost began.

“Simon- just don’t” The words came out in a sigh that was so exhaustion riddled that Simon didn’t know how to react, silently observing how your hand came up to hold your head, eyes slipping closed. A rage began to burn inside of him at how much you blamed yourself for the incident, eyes narrowing as you blew out another puff of air.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” You lifted your head from your hand, burning daggers into him. Your jaw clenched; hands balled up by your sides. “I don’t want to talk about it.” You said, frustration straining your voice as you swallowed thickly.

Ghost tilted his head at your attitude, an eerily calm tone making its way into his gruff voice. “The longer you keep beating yourself up about it the more we’re going to talk about it. Soap doesn’t blame you, and neither do I.”

Simon would be lying if he said this conversation didn’t hurt him too. The first thing he saw when he walked in was blood and his heart stopped thinking it was yours. It soon shattered when he saw you leaning over Soap’s barely conscious and badly beaten body, desperately screaming at him to stay awake as you called for an evac in a frenzy. Seeing you deteriorate day after day due to the incident practically broke him, praying to a God he didn’t believe in that you could forgive yourself.

But yet you haven’t, and you were only getting worse.

You stood up abruptly, leaving your plate as you began walking away, but a grip on your shoulder stopped you.

“Don’t fucking touch me Simon.” You yelled, stumbling back as you shoved his hand off of you. He froze when your voice raised, you never yelled at him, and it shattered his soul that this stupid fucking thing you blamed yourself for was the thing to make you break.

“You can’t keep blaming yourself for this.” He said, his voice raising the slightest bit. You scoffed, pushing the hair out of your face. “But I am the one to blame. He should’ve never gotten hurt. I should have been at my stupid fucking post.” You screamed, spiraling, breathing becoming uneven as you felt your face heat up. Fuck don’t cry.

“You were fighting for your life!” He boomed, the empty mess hall going eerily quiet as you stood stunned at his outburst. He didn’t intend to yell at you, but the desire to get through to you, to get you to sleep, eat, fucking live burned more than his concern about you being startled. The tears finally slipped down your cheeks, but you furiously pawed at your face, wiping them away in a panic.

“It was MacTavish that chose to go into that bloody room without any backup. He knew the risks, and he went.” Ghost spoke, his heart shattering all over again at the sight of you crying. He walked up to you, gently pulling your hands away from your face as you stared at him with glassy, tear bordered eyes. His hands came up to cup your cheeks, holding your face with such adoration and care that you could’ve cried harder. He swiped his thumbs across your cheeks gently wiping away the tears that were cascading down your face as he let out a sigh of concern.

“He’s going to be okay.” He said, his tone soft and soothing. “I need you to be too.”

More tears ran down your cheeks at his words, but all he did was wipe them away, shushing you gently.

“Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” You nodded up at him, grabbing onto his hand as he pulled them away, taking it into yours.

With him, maybe you would be okay. At least for a little while.

[ysrjune]

《 MAKE EVERY NIGHT

YOUR VALENTINE 𖹭 》

STEPHEN GLASS X READER FT. LITTLE BROTHERS!SAM & SCOTT

freaked out Stevie 😈🤑 #stayfreaks

It had been a while since you've visited Stephen's parents' house. It had been at least 5 months since there were no family events going on. Being there felt a little weird, especially since his parents weren't even there, and you were going to be baby-sitting his brothers. Well, he was gonna babysit. You were only here to keep him company. Scott and Sam liked you. Maybe a little more than they should, but that doesn't mean that both of them aren't annoyed that you would be there. They didn't need to see Steve cuddled up to you 24/7 while they're not allowed to have their girlfriends over.

"It's cute that your room never changes." You smile at how Stephen's childhood room was still the same even if he no longer lived there. Video-game action figures that were still in their boxes, posters from movies and bands he still loves to this day, old books and other things that were in storage on top of his closet in a box. "Mom doesn't want it to. She says she comes in sometimes when she misses me." Steve grins and begins putting his and your clothes away in the old dresser. "I always knew I was her favorite. Maybe it's cause I was never a brat."

—

What was the one rule that Stephen had for his brothers when their girlfriends were over when he still lived there a year ago? Don't be loud. The boys had turned 16 and had finally gotten permission to bring their girlfriends over, but they only did it when their parents weren't home. Stephen never cared if the girls came over. He just didn't need to hear his stupid brothers going at it in the middle of the night. He also never cared that his brothers were sexually active. Those two were (hopefully) smart enough to be safe.

But tonight, Stephen had broken that rule. It's literally the first night of staying there, and he was already all over you. Large hands groping at your tits through that bra he loves and his lips pressing small kisses to your tummy. He was quiet at first while engaging in foreplay, but once he was actually fucking you, he couldn't shut up. He's always been very vocal and loud while having sex. It's sort of weird to him. He could stay quiet while jerking off, but not when he's having some fun with your pretty body..

The other thing about him is that he acts so dominant while talking sex up. "I'm gonna fuck you so good right on this stupid creaky bed. I remember when we were first talking, I used to touch myself thinking about how it would be like to make you cry my name." He mumbled against your leaking pussy. "I'd get off on just thinking about fingering you." He sucks on your clit once more before sliding two digits in your wet entrance. "Just. Like. That." He's so good with his fingers. Too good. Long and warm.

"Do you fucking hear that?" Scott barges into his twins room. "Yeah, he's such a hypocrite." Sam rolls his eyes, pausing his game. "Wow, learned a new word?" Scott insults his brother and sticks out his tongue. "Shut the fuck u–" He was about to say before hearing a loud moan coming from across the hall. Sam slowly turns his head over there and raises an eyebrow. "How about you tell him to shut up." Scott huffs angrily and leaves downstairs.

Steve keeps his hands on your hips as you ride him. Not guiding, just there for him to grab onto. "Keep fucking me like that, oh my God.." He rolls his eyes back. "I need you so bad. I missed you so much." It had only been two days that you and Stephen hadn't fucked, but he swore he was dying. Seeing you walk around you apartment in only your underwear and then refusing to touch him was torture.

The blond forces his thumb inside your mouth, whimpering at the sight. "Fuck, you look so hot.." You swirl your tongue around his finger, making his cheeks go red. Then he pulled it out and shoved his ring and middle finger inside instead. You know just how pathetic he is? He came just as soon as you sucked on those. "I-im sorry! I just.. I—.. I couldn't help it. You looked so good.." He cries as you roll your hips, still trying to reach your orgasm and working him through his high.

He was being pushed into the headboard and the bed was creaking loudly. "cum for me? give it t'me, I dont.. I don't wanna leave you hanging.." His thumb finds your clit. He kept moaning loudly, and honestly, you felt bad for his brothers. Yes, they terrorized him all the time by doing the same thing but Stephen was honestly too much of a goody-two shoes to actually be doing this. Or atleast he was. "Shut up, your brothers are probably annoyed with you already." You slap his cheek. "Mmph.. s-sor—mmhh!! so-rry.." He whines in between words.

You shove your fingers in his mouth and he goes crazy. Deep throating them and bobbing his head. What a little freak..

His glasses fogged, and he set them aside on his desk. "Are you close? Please tell me you are.. I wanna fuck you in another position. pleasepleaseplease." He begs sweetly with his blue eyes and needy tone. It only took a couple more minutes for you to finish, and once you, he flipped you around and arched your back for you. He pressed down on your middle and then gave your ass a smack. "just staring at you could get me off." He eases into you.

Again, he was a pathetic whining mess. And again! with his fingers in your mouth. He didn't even realize how often he does it. He thinks it's so attractive. "Y-you know.. I was thinking mmh.. that.. that I could maybe do your homework for you so that you can get it done faster.. and you can give me all your attention.." What. An. Attention whore. You hum a 'mm' around his fingers as a yes. Maybe he wouldn't be this way had you never spoiled him with your attention. He deserves it anyway. He's always so nice, and he never really got much attention growing up.

"I'm gonna cum I'm gonna cum oh my God. Don't stop moving on me baby, aah.." Stephen whines, his thrust growing more sloppy but still feeling delicious. "Im—mm.. uh.." He spills himself inside you, feeling extra sensitive due to you cumming around him as soon as he was done.

But he doesn't stay dominant when you suck his cock or when he's in you. "Stroke it while you suck it..aah..aah.. auuhh.." His moans get higher pitched with every one that comes out of his mouth. "Yesyesyesyes," He closes his eyes and rolls his hips into your mouth. "Mmm, mhm.. y—es.. oh my God.."

Breakfast that morning at the table was.. surprisingly not awkward? It was more like.. you know, just a normal conversation. Well, for the boys at least.

"It's not fair that you get to scream at the top of your lungs when you get head, but when it's ME, I get in trouble. I!! get called ANNOYING." Sam complains while chewing his pancake. "Or when the bed makes a bunch of noise and it's only a problem when it's because of me. Like, you're such a hypocrite." Scott rolls his eyes. "Hey, that's my word." Sam cocks an eyebrow at his brother. "You didn't know what it meant last week. Shut up." And then the boys suddenly forgot about why they were complaining the first place. They took their frustration on eachother in the living room, tackling eachother.

"We are so having sex every night and being loud to piss them off." Stephen smirks as soon as you wrap your arms around his neck from behind. "Because you wanna get back at them for those sleepless nights?" You giggle. "Yeah. And for all the picture frames that fell and broke." He scoffs.

@bxbyysstuff @anakinstwinklebunny @lovethestarrs @valloos @anisangeldust @xo-yaaaaaasxo @anakinca @dollfilmz @alexlovesysrjune @sockiess @sythethecarrot @speaknow-sw @loveamira @alealuvshayden @mvst4far

[starrihan]

hi beautiful!! i be thinking about jo so often it’s concerning

right now it’s him being precious and turning all of your plushies to face the wall before he destroys u bc “he doesn’t want their opinion of him to change” 😣

→ Pairing: Jo x fem! Reader

→ Genre: smut, fluff, spit exchange, Jo being filthy on purpose,

→ Warnings: none!

→ Word Count: 1,185

→ Notes: Beautiful 🥹🥹🤧🤧HELLO GORGEOUS HOW ARE YOU??oh my god I think my pussy just did a backflip because the thought of this 😩😩 AND THE FACT THAT I HAVE SO MANY PLUSHIES ON MY BED I CAN JUST IMAGINE HIM TURNING THEM AND SAYING THEIR NAMES TOO HOLD ON LET ME COOK

→ Here's a link to all my other masterlists!

༄ ༄ ༄

NO BECAUSE THIS IS SO JO!!!

He’s been to your house before and has even slept over many times. He’s gotten to know your house like it’s his own, and that includes knowing the names of the all stuffies you keep on your bed. He finds your habit of naming them cute, and even refers to them by their names if he has to. He’s even helped you name some of them before, making his bond with your stuffed animals that much stronger. And you find it so cute that he indulges in this hobby with you without shaming you for it or calling you childish for naming and caring so greatly about your ‘children.’

Usually when you guys have sex, it’s at his house because there’s always people at yours, and you’re worried about getting caught. But his roommates are almost never there when you two are, so it always ends up working out. But one day, you’re alone for the day and decide to call Jo over.

He’s there soon after, waiting at your door with ice cream that he bought from the store. As per usual when you guys hang out, things start off tame with little fleeting touches here and there, but they eventually take a turn into something much steamier.

Here you guys are, making out on the couch, you’re sitting on his lap and slowly grinding into him, hands lost in his hair as his hands squeeze at your waist from underneath your shirt. He’s matching your grinding, rocking his hips back and forth against your clothed clit as you moan into his lips.

“Bedroom…”

You moan out, lips still moving against each other’s as he picks you up. You instantly wrap your legs around his waist, hoisting yourself up. He lays you down a little rough, a small ‘sorry’ slipping past his lips as he continues to move his lips down your neck. His hands move up to unbutton the flannel you were wearing (his btw) smiling down at you.

“You’re so beautiful…”

And even though he says that every time, you still can’t help but blush at his words. You’re quick to fiddle with his shirt, slipping it past his head and quickly pulling his pants down right after. He laughs at your eagerness, touched at thought of knowing you need him that badly. He continues kissing you, working his way down your shorts and into your panties, running a finger down your slit and dipping it in for a second before moving to rub your clit. You nibble at his bottom lip, his small laughs making you needier by the second.

Your back is arched, signaling that you need more, and he happily obliges when he sticks two fingers into your hole, slightly hissing when you bite his lips a little harder than you had intended too.

“Sorry mmm… just feels… s-so good!”

And how can he worry about his own pain when your pleasure is much more important to him? He knows you won’t be able to hold out much longer before you’re begging for him. He pulls away from you, looking to the side to see the 5 plushies in the corner of the bed, watching, staring at what he’s doing to you. He takes the chance to turn them over, one by one, making them face the wall instead.

“What are you doing?”

You ask, curiously.

“I wish I could cover their ears too. What would they think of me if they saw what I’m about to do to you next? Especially little Jojo, his poor eyes don’t deserve to be scarred.”

And you find his actions so endearing you almost cum right then and there. He quickly pecks your forehead, flashing you a bright smile before lining himself up with you, slowly thrusting into you. You're already moaning with just the head, clutching his bicep at the intrusion. Your legs spread wider, waiting to wrap around him when he fully bottoms out.

One hand is squeezing your waist, the other going down to circle his thumb on your clit to ease the pain of the stretch that you feel every time. You try your best to keep your moans down, playing into his joke, not wanting your collective children to hear your lewd moans. But it's like he's pushing you on purpose, despite being the one to turn them around, saying he wishes he could cover their ears too.

He fully sheathes himself inside you without warning, a loud scream of his name ripping from your lungs and out into the small bedroom. You can hear him giggle, slowly pushing in and out as his thumb continues to work on your clit.

"F-fuck... Jojo... too... much..."

You pant between each of his thrusts, unable to comprehend the pleasure coursing through your body right now. Moans are spilling out of your lips just as grunts are pouring out of his, each thrust delivering a new wave of pleasure to you both. Your tongue is lolling out of your mouth, drool dripping down the side of your lips. Jo notices, dipping down to lick up the trail of drool down the side of your face before pushing it back into your mouth.

"Good thing they didn't see that..."

You don't have it in you to respond, too far gone by your approaching orgasm. He picks up the pace, unwrapping your legs from his waist and throwing them over his shoulders to hit what little room you had left inside you before he was actually rearranging your guts. Your moan is almost silent with how high pitched it is, reaching thresholds you didn't think you could achieve.

Normally, Jo is really good about pulling out, but today, he was lost in the way you were moaning so loud, forgetting to pull out and keeping himself buried between your legs.

“I’m sorry Y/N! I forgot to pull out…”

You just shook your head ‘no,’ smiling as you panted, trying your best to catch your breath. You pulled him in for a short, sweet kiss.

“ ‘s okay… I’m on the pill anyways…”

He pulls out slowly, quickly grabbing the tissues on your desk to clean you up with before throwing them in your trash can, laying beside you with his hand draped over your waist. You take some time to sit in silence, look over at your little plushies that are still facing the wall.

“Do you get off knowing that you subjected them to hear all that? You’ve never went that hard before!”

You laugh, hand lightly tapping his chest.

“I don’t know what came over me… it felt too dirty to have them watch…”

“…but not dirty enough for them to hear?”

You laugh as his cheeks flush red, embarrassed by how turned on he got at the thought of shielding your stuffed animals from your actions, like they could actually perceive you both. You lay your head in his chest, snuggling into him softly as you hear his heartbeat settle into a steady rhythm.

“It’s okay. I like it when you go rough~”

༄ ༄ ༄

→ Here's a link to all my other masterlists!

[charliegyrth]

Three Roommates

Watch Them Feed Each Other...

This story is based on a recommendation by @nolantrojan.

***

I was the first to arrive in the dorms, so I chose the solo bed closest to the window. My two dormmates (Kirk and Braxton, according to the sign on the door) would have to share the bunkbed.

I’m an only child, so I’d never had to share space before. I was pretty nervous. For one thing, I was an introvert. Big time. I enjoyed hanging out with my closest friends, but when it came to meeting new people, I was super awkward.

For another thing, I was gay. I’d been out of the closet since junior high (though people had assumed I was gay pretty much since kindergarten). I wasn’t ashamed of it, of course, but I knew that some dormmates might have a problem.

When Kirk and Braxton arrived (together), my heart sank. I took one look at them and knew they were straight. Kirk had a buzz cut and lumbered when he walked. Braxton was a big, burly football-player type.

Both were quite handsome, though. (Especially Braxton. I loved big, manly bellies, and his was both of those things.)

“Yo! Roomie!” Kirk shouted like a total bro. He headed toward me and shoved his fist at me.

At first, I just stared at his knuckles. Then I realized he wanted me to give him a fist bump. I did (lamely).

“Nice to meet you!” Braxton said as he wheeled in both their suitcases.

“Yeah. Hi,” I muttered. I stared at my lap. (Terrible at eye contact.)

“You’re Trace, right? Or is it pronounced Trace-y?” Kirk asked. I couldn’t tell if that was a genuine question or if he was using a woman’s name to make fun of me.

“Trace.”

“Cool.” He turned to Braxton. “I get top bunk, man.”

“Says who?”

“Says me!” he shouted. “I don’t want your fat ass breaking the mattress and squashing me in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah?” Braxton said, charging forward and bumping his gut against Kirk. Clearly, they knew each other, and they seemed like frenemies.

Kirk shoved Braxton backward, forcing the bigger guy to stumble a few steps. Then Braxton grabbed Kirk by the shoulders and used all his weight to shove him onto the bottom bunk.

I looked away as the two of them got into a fight. Less than a minute after meeting them, and I already knew that I’d gotten the two worst roommates. They were just so bro-y. Were they gonna fight like this all the time? Worse, would they treat me like this if I did something to piss them off?

I pulled out my phone, looking for the RA’s email so I could request a transfer while Kirk and Braxton wrestled each other on the bed.

God. I hated my life.

But the wrestling noises died down, and when I looked back up, they were no longer fighting each other. Kirk was on top on Braxton, pinning him down and kissing him on the mouth.

Braxton pushed him back. “Dude! Not in front of the new guy.”

Kirk wiped his mouth. “Oh. Sorry.” Then he turned to me. “Sorry. We just get excited sometimes.”

“You two…” I stammered. “You’re…”

Braxton sat up and wrapped his thick arm around Kirk’s shoulder. “Boyfriends. Yeah. But we don’t wanna make you feel awkward.” He gave Kirk an affectionate yet annoyed glance. “Right, babe?”

Kirk shrugged. “We’ll behave ourselves.” He playfully jiggled Braxton’s belly.

In response, Braxton pushed him off the bed. “You’re the worst.”

“You are!”

Well, this was not what I expected.

Without saying anything, Kirk hurried into the bathroom, leaving me alone with his boyfriend.

“Seriously,” Braxton told me. “You don’t have to worry. We both know dorm etiquette. No fooling around when you’re in the room.”

“Cool,” I mumbled.

Braxton leaned forward, studying me. “You’re not upset, are you? I mean, having gay roommates?”

“No. I’m…”

Before I could say that I was gay too, he cut me off. “Thank frickin’ God.” Then he shouted toward the bathroom door. “Dude, he’s an ally!”

“Thank frickin’ God!” Kirk shouted from inside the bathroom.

An ally? Couldn’t they see that I was gay? I was wearing short-shorts and my suitcases were all Mattel pink.

Kirk strutted back in. He must’ve just washed his hands, because he was drying them on his jeans. “So. Trace. Tell us about yourself.”

I mentioned that I was an English lit major. That I was valedictorian at my high school. That I grew up in small-town Arizona. That I was single.

This was the perfect opportunity to come out to them, and yet I didn’t. I wasn’t sure why. I guess because I never really had to come out before. People just always knew.

Whatever. They’d figure it out eventually.

Then Kirk (the more talkative of the two) told me their story. They were both from Boston. They’d been dating since sophomore year of high school. They loved hockey (watching, not playing).

Overall, they seemed like pretty normal guys. I didn’t have anything in common with them, but I guess that didn’t matter.

There was one strange thing about our conversation, though. As Kirk was talking, he reached into his suitcase (decorated with Boston Bruins insignia) and fished out a packet of Oreos. Then, as he kept talking, he took out the cookies one by one and fed them to Braxton. Braxton ate each one without saying anything. It was the strangest thing, especially because neither of them acknowledged it.

Kind of cute, though. I wish I had a boyfriend who loved me enough to feed me sweets just for the hell of it.

Oh well.

***

I was alone in the dorms reading a novel for my Victorian literature class when the door flew open. Kirk and Braxton stumbled inside, both pawing at each other. Kirk had pulled up Braxton’s shirt halfway, revealing his pale, hairy belly.

They made it to the bottom bunk when they noticed that I was in the room. Kirk immediately let go of his boyfriend. Braxton's shirt dropped back down.

Braxton punched his arm. “Dude, you said he had class now.”

“I would’ve,” I chimed in. “But I changed my schedule yesterday. Didn’t like one of the professors. Sorry. I’ll… do the rest of my reading in the common room.” I stood up and started for the door.

“Naw, man,” Braxton said. “We can’t kick you out. It’s not fair to you.”

The three of us had been living together for two weeks now, and we hadn’t had a single problem. Once I got used to their more brash personalities, I really started to like them. In fact, I think their total confidence was really starting to rub off on me. Sure, there were some nights when I heard them messing around after they thought I was asleep, but that didn’t bother me.

Kirk looked over at his boyfriend, disappointed. “But babe. What about…?” He nodded toward a shopping bag in his hand. (I hadn’t noticed that before.)

“Later,” Braxton reassured him.

My interest was piqued. “What’s in the bag? If you don’t mind me asking.” (See what I mean about their confidence rubbing off on me? A few weeks ago, I would not have asked that question.)

Kirk looked at Braxton for permission. When Braxton nodded, he opened the bag and pulled out three packets of Oreos and a can of whipped cream.

“Just a snack,” Kirk said.

“Then why save it for later?” I asked. “Go ahead.”

They glanced at each other, both silently asking for permission. Braxton shrugged. Kirk grinned. And then they snuggled together on the bottom bunk (where they both usually slept) and Kirk opened the first box of Oreos.

I tried to focus on my book. I really did. But I couldn’t stop glancing over as Kirk slid Oreos into Braxton’s expectant mouth. At first, it felt like an affectionate display, just one guy spoiling his chubby boyfriend. But as they continued, things definitely got more erotic. Braxton started moaning. Kirk slid his hand in gentle circles across Braxton’s belly, sometimes pinching the fat at the bottom.

I stared at my book but my brain couldn’t process the words in front of me. I was genuinely confused by my roommates. Why were they turned on by Oreos?

And more importantly, why was I getting turned on, too? I wasn’t even looking at them, but I was still getting hard.

Eventually, the moaning stopped and I glanced over. They’d finished two packets of Oreos and Kirk was whispering something in his boyfriend’s ear.

Whatever he said made Braxton laugh. “Dude! No!”

“It doesn’t hurt to ask?” Kirk whispered back. Then, ignoring his boyfriend’s hesitance, he turned toward me. “Hey, Trace. Wanna join in?”

My heart pounded. “I… um, don’t like Oreos.”

“See?” Braxton whispered to Kirk.

Kirk held up the spray can. “Do you like whipped cream?”

“I guess.”

With a big smile on his face, Kirk gestured for me to come closer. I started to get out of my desk chair when I realized that my semi hard-on was visible through my pants. I lowered myself back down and scooted the chair toward them.

Too late, though. Kirk noticed the bulge and elbowed his boyfriend. “Told ya.” With my chair about a foot away from their bed, he handed me the whipped cream. “Try it.”

I was still confused, but I was curious, too. I popped off the cap and angled it toward my mouth.

“Woah! What are you doing?” Kirk said.

“I was just…” When I noticed Braxton’s open mouth, I realized my mistake. When he said “try it,” he didn’t want me to eat the cream. He wanted me to join in on feeding Braxton. The realization scared me a little. I was joining in on some sexual kink that I still didn’t understand. I guess I was open to it, though.

I pushed the can toward Braxton, but he stopped me. “Actually, if you’d prefer to have some yourself, we’d be okay with that, too. Right, Kirk?”

Kirk thought for a second, then smiled. “Why not? Could be fun.”

I thought that meant he wanted me to spray some of it into my mouth, but instead, he grabbed the can out of my hands and pressed the nozzle against my lips.

More warmth rushed to my dick. Why was this turning me on so much?!

Kirk held the back of my head and I started to suck. The cream filled my mouth and my cheeks bulged out. At first, I wasn’t ready to swallow. Then I did. He sprayed in more, and I swallowed that, too.

Then he pulled the can away from my face and handed it to Braxton.

Braxton leaned forward on the bed, his belly filling his lap, and he squirted more whipped cream in my mouth. “This is fun!” he told his boyfriend.

“Tell me about it,” Kirk replied as he pulled out the next packet of Oreos.

When Braxton pulled the can away, Kirk slid an Oreo between my lips. Then Braxton sprayed again. They went back and forth for a while, alternating so quickly that I was having trouble keeping up.

I’m not sure how long it lasted. (This whole experience could’ve been minutes or hours. I couldn’t tell.) But before the can was empty, Braxton stopped and said, “My turn again!”

He waited for me to take back the can, which I did. Then Kirk and I worked together to fill him up just like they’d done to me.

Somehow, my confusion at what we were doing only made everything hotter. Pretty soon, the cream was finished. The Oreos were gone. And the three of us just sat there, feeling a sense of achy satisfaction that reminded me of the first few minutes after sex.

“What did we just do?” I had to ask.

“Just a snack,” Kirk said. “We were about to head down to the cafeteria for our real lunch if you wanna join us?”

I looked at my phone. I had class in twenty minutes. I’d never skipped classes before. I opened my mouth to refuse, but instead, the word “okay” came out of my mouth.

Braxton kissed Kirk on the cheek, leaving a streak of whipped cream. “Let’s go. I’m starved.”

***

Kirk strutted into the dorm room with two grocery bags filled with god-knows-what. Probably more donuts because he knew how much I liked them.

“You are such a bad influence,” I said from my desk. “You know I have class soon.”

Braxton waddled into the room behind his boyfriend. “More for me then!”

“Dammit. Fine,” I gave in. “But this is the last time this week. I can’t miss any more lectures.” We knew that I wasn’t going to stick to that. I never did.

Three months into the semester, and I’d been to about half of my total classes. Maybe less. I was still keeping up with the assignments, but my work ethic had gone out the window, all because of our damn feeding sessions. They’d become an addiction. Our dorm room, covered with stains and filled with trash, was crime-scene evidence for how constant and messy those sessions were.

Kirk did all the shopping, and he seemed to be increasing the amount of snacks each time. At first, Braxton and I ate an equal amount. (Kirk never ate anything himself.) After a few weeks, though, I noticed that Braxton’s stomach had grown. I realized that if I kept going at his pace, I’d start gaining, too. I didn’t want that, so I pulled back a little, still stuffing myself but always stopping earlier than my fat roommate.

Outside of the dorms, the three of us started doing a lot of stuff together. We’d go to the movies, attend parties, and hit up the cafeteria (at least once a day). Even though I never joined in on the physical affection they showed each other (aside from giving Braxton occasional belly rubs), I really felt like we had become a throuple. I was always so much happier when at least one of them was around.

Kirk pulled our table to the middle of the room and unloaded today’s goodies. I was right about the donuts. He’d even gotten the ones with strawberry frosting! (I’d told him last week that those were my favorite.) He also had cinnamon rolls and (of course) cans of whipped cream.

I dutifully pulled my chair up to the table.

Braxton sat across from me, his belly pushing into the table. It had definitely grown in the last few weeks. Softened, too. It used to be more spherical, but it was seriously starting to droop.

“Who’s first?” Kirk asked grandly. He always asked that, and of course, he always chose his boyfriend. I didn’t mind.

But today, he turned to me and said, “You ready?”

I was both surprised and flattered. “Me first? Really?”

“You deserve it, bro,” Braxton said. “Kirk and I were talking this morning, and… Well, it’s been a fantasy for both of us to fatten up our straight college roommate. It’s kind of a dream come true.”

I gulped. Two things about that surprised me. The first was that they still thought I was straight. Yeah, I still hadn’t come out to them, but everything about me—from my clothes to my voice to my fashion sense—should’ve tipped them off.

And the other thing, the bigger thing, was that they thought they were fattening me up. No! I was still the same skinny guy. Braxton was getting fatter, not me.

“Guys, I’m not…”

“You’re not straight?” Kirk interrupted. “I knew it.” He turned to Braxton and held out his hand. “Pay up.”

Braxton grumbled as he pulled out his wallet and handed Kirk a five-dollar bill.

“You were betting on me?”

“Dude! It’s all good. We just have terrible gaydar. That’s all.” Kirk slapped his fat boyfriend on the back. “I mean, I thought this homo was straight right up until he went down on me at a debate tournament. Isn’t that right, babe?”

Braxton blushed. “Let’s just start eating.”

“Wait!” I said, even though Kirk had already raised a donut toward me. “I’m not trying to get fat. I just like the eating part.”

“Really?” Braxton said, squeezing the fat roll that had recently formed under his chest. “You’d like it.”

“No. I'm not... interested in that part. That’s why I’m not, you know, eating as much as you.”

Braxton and Kirk exchanged a long look between them. Then they both turned back toward me.

“Have you seen yourself lately?” Kirk asked.

“I…”

“Take off your shirt, man,” he encouraged.

Two months ago, I would’ve said no. I probably would’ve mumbled something and left the room. But I felt so close to my roommates now. Plus, I was confident that they were wrong. I might’ve gained a couple pounds, but I still fit into all my clothes.

I stood up and stripped off my shirt. “See? Still skinny.”

Braxton stared at my bare stomach. “Sorta. I think you’re skinny-fat now.”

Smiling, Kirk walked toward me. Without saying anything, he grabbed me by the waist and squeezed.

I gulped. For the first time, there was something to squeeze.

I looked down and saw his fingers gripping rolls of fat on my sides. Love handles.

Still not speaking, he grabbed the skin under my belly button and squeezed that, too. More fat.

They were right. These feeding sessions had coated me in fat. My overall shape hadn’t changed, but I’d gotten soft.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I mumbled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t realize…”

“Why?” Kirk said. His hands still played with my belly fat.

“Because I don’t wanna get fat. I like the way I look.”

Slowly, he slid his palms up my stomach before stopping at my chest. With his eyes locked on mine, he squeezed into my pecs. Except, they weren’t really pecs now. They were bulges of fat.

I trembled a little. That felt good.

“Why?” he asked again.

“Because I don’t want… I…”

He kissed me.

God.

Braxton must’ve gotten out of the chair, because he was suddenly behind me, his fingers tracing the slight creases just above my love handles. He kissed my neck.

“You can’t stop now,” Braxton whispered into my ear. His belly was pressed into my back. “Now that we know you’re not straight, imagine how much more fun we can have.”

Kirk pulled back. “And imagine how big we can make you.”

I didn’t say anything. I allowed them both to push me back into my chair. Kirk and Braxton joined me at the table.

These two were definitely a bad influence on me, but I couldn’t fight it anymore. I opened my mouth and waited for the first donut.

***

I was at my laptop, listening to my professor drone on about Charles Dickens again. Now that I’d switched to 100% online lessons, my classes were so much easier. I could set my own pace (more or less) and since I was in the comfort of our own apartment, I could graze on snacks as much as I wanted.

I reached into my potato chip bag for another handful, but all I got were crumbles on my fingers. I’d need Kirk to get me another bag.

Before I could ask him, I felt him surprise me from behind, kiss my cheek, and place a fresh bag in my lap. Somehow, he always knew.

“Thanks, babe.”

“Is the lecture almost over?” he asked.

“Forty more minutes.”

“Really? We can’t wait that long. Can’t you…”

“Ugh. Fine.” I made sure that my mic was on mute (it was) and pushed myself out of my chair. The lecture would continue without me. I’m sure I wasn’t missing much. I was going to graduate in a month, so it really didn’t matter if I missed one more lecture.

Kirk grabbed my hand and led me into our living room.

Braxton was waiting on the couch, shirtless as always. He smiled up at us, not at all surprised that Kirk had convinced me to skip out on another lecture.

He looked particularly handsome today. His latest cluster of stretchmarks had finally faded, leaving faint pink trails from his lower belly all the way up to his under-moob roll. Sure, his moobs had gotten a bit mismatched, with one angled more to the side, but with nipples as big as potatoes, how could anyone complain?

One day, I’d catch up to him. Probably not for a while, of course. 400+ was a pretty heft goal, but one day. I had the determination.

He patted the space next to him on the couch. “Ready?”

“Always,” I said as I flopped my fat ass onto the cushion. Kirk pushed the table closer to us. It was covered with platters of lasagna and spaghetti. No utensils, of course. Now that we lived off-campus, we could get as messy as we wanted, and of course Kirk wanted us to get really messy.

He took a second to glance back and forth at his two massive lovers, smiling at what we’d both become. “I love you,” he said, talking to us both. Equally.

Braxton grabbed the front of my shirt to help me strip it off. At his size, he couldn’t really angle his body toward me. I ended up pulling it off myself.

“Trace,” he said, “you’re beautiful.”

“I know.” Yeah, he outweighed me by 130 pounds, and he looked so much more massive than me, but we loved each other too much to compare. He was beautiful, and so was I.

“Alright, dudes!” Kirk said. “Dig in!”

Braxton scooped up a handful of lasagna while I went straight for the spaghetti, allowing tomato sauce to ooze down my chubby arm.

Kirk, still as slim as ever, climbed in next to me and started playing with my belly. That always kept me motivated.

And through the door into the other room, I could see my laptop. My professor’s face was still there, talking about something unimportant. I had better things to think about.

The End And please send me more suggestions!!! They're so much fun!

[the-s1lly-corner]

Whispering Flower (Easter Ending 3) (Bassie x Reader)

Kinda disappointed bassie wasn't last because that'd be a little funny/j/lh

Notes: gn toon reader, potential ooc, bassie is eager and leans into the games general expectations, you both have a serious talk, pre game, jealous bassie, she kind of... is going through it a little- definitely starting to feel the pressure of being a main and thats bleeding into other parts of her life, it gets messy, there is a happy ending here... kinda. you guys do talk it out, cocoa next ending i just cant say when shes going to be posted

Word Count: 2.7k

CWs: i dont think there needs to be one? but theres a slight description of bassie have a small breakdown

You push your hand in deeper… and all eyes are on you…

Your fingers wrap around something, and you pull out…

Something soft- almost delicate. Your fingers retract almost instantly out of fear that whatever it was, you’d crush it in your hold. How it hadn’t already been flattened into a crumbled mass in the bag was a mystery- and quite frankly you were almost a little impressed. After a second or two standing under the expectant gazes of everyone’s eyes you push your hand back forward and carefully wrap your fingers around whatever it was… and almost agonizingly slowly you draw out whatever it was.

Two flowers, dried and preserved. Connected at the stem… you almost felt a twinge of annoyance that someone would put something so delicate into a bag- though you were sure it was far from the worst item choice inside the sack. The chance to scrape your brain for any idea of who could have been the one to put the item in is taken from you as a split second squeal suddenly silences itself. A moment later Bassie, now sheepish, shuffled to your side to mumble something about it being hers. 

Despite the light embarrassment for her obvious display of the eagerness of being chosen- even by coincidence- her eyes still held some glimmer of… well, being picked. Bassie lightly pushed Cocoa- who still had her paw resting comfortingly on your shoulder- to the side. 

Dandy stood quietly and watched the entire near wordless exchange before he recovered enough to clear his throat. 

“Right! Bassie! Bassie and Dewdrop, I’m sure you both know how the game is supposed to go- to the gift shop with you!” Dandy turned to Vee, and fluttered his eyes. The television scoffed, before repeating the importance of getting a move on… she didn’t seem like she was going to wait for much longer to start the time. Bassie looked like she wanted to hold your hand… but settled on holding her own- clasping them together in front of her as you both shuffled out of everyone’s sights. Down the hall, to the right… into the gifthop- and through the open staff door. The smell of flowers from the gift shop was almost nauseating as you shut the door; sealing the scent away from you for the time being. 

Bassie stood not too far away, shuffling her feet together quietly… she didn’t take a space against the wall or on the floor. Instead, she just stood there with nothing to lean her body against. You weren’t sure you blamed her entirely… the storage room looked like it hadn’t gotten a proper cleaning in a long long time… dust caked the floor and the walls didn’t look much better. Tracks carved themselves from the entrance and the second door- you didn’t even notice that there was a third door until you brushed against the cold metal handles of it. Double doors… where they lead… you had no theory. 

One of Bassie’s hands rises to her right handle and readjusts it. 

In the darkness you could tell that her flowers were… different. You swear they were different colors earlier today- there were more pink flowers earlier… they were still there, but light blue ones had joined the pink and purple petals piled into her head. 

You point to your head almost awkwardly. “Did you change your flowers?”

Bassie’s fiddling hand froze mid shift and remained hooked around her handle. Her fingers pinched the woven material gently, before running the skin over the… what were baskets made of, exactly? 

The catlike smile she usually kept on her face shifted slightly, parting barely as her first attempt to respond failed her. “I did-! I did!” She finally managed to get out, her words chirping in a higher note… forced, but there was an undertone of genuine joy in her voice. 

You only nod in response… before realizing it made you come off as disinterested… and in the face of her happiness it made you feel a little bit like a jerk. “It looks nice… something different- fresh, you know?” Your hands swung awkwardly at your sides as you looked around the storage room. So… so much merch of toons- mostly the mains… all of the Easter toons were here, though… as well as some off colored plushies of some non-holiday toons. “Skins” in a weird way… even if some of them… were a little ugly. You decided it was best Looey didn’t know what they did to his likeness… assuming he didn’t come into the room later for his turn. If he got one. 

“I’m really glad you picked me- I know it's only a coincidence, but,” Bassie caught your attention again as she broke through the pause of silence. Her eyes lowered to the floor as her feet shifted around in the dust and disturbed it… the grey matter sticking to her green stocking and staining them a faded color, clumps of it sticking to the faint fuzz. You swear you saw some shedded strands of hair in the mess. The effort it took to keep your face straight and to pry your eyes off of the… not very pleasant sight… it’s not like it was her fault- in hindsight you both probably should have stuck in the gift shop itself. 

“I’m glad?” 

You couldn’t keep the confusion out of your voice as you tried to look anywhere but her stockings. The stacks of plushies looming over you suddenly felt intimidating as they stared down at you with the same intensity of the stare you were under in the lobby- albeit this time it was all lifeless. You never noticed how much Pebble stared until you saw the emphasized bulging eyes of his plush. The back of your would be neck burned under the false stare as you continued to find somewhere to look- but each attempt forced your stare back into motion. The current task preoccupied your mind enough to hide the fact that Bassie had shuffled even closer to you- her hands still clasped in front of her- her own quickened breathing undetected to you until your eyes finally landed on her face- mere inches away. 

“Woah- woah woah woah hey-!” You sputtered as you backed up a foot or two. In an instant Bassie began to backtrack. 

“Sorry- sorry- I just thought-” Her hands flung to her mouth and covered it. “-I just thought that– with the game, you’d…” Her eyes snapped to the floor where your gaze once settled itself on. Your mouth stretched in a slanted line, your mind still reeling from the sudden turn of events.

She wasn’t… wrong. 

The implications of the game were clear, even to you if this was your first time playing… but that didn’t shake the feeling of shock. Now you were shuffling your feet around as you racked your brain for any idea of how to make the situation just a little less awkward. Your mouth felt dry and you were fighting the urge to start coughing as dust clung to the back of your throat- no doubt going into a coughing fit would make things even worse… it certainly didn’t help that you were pretty sure Bassie was absolutely covered in pollen and that was starting to have an effect on you… how cruel it was for God to give you seasonal allergies, and to stick you in a room with a beacon of nature’s means of reproduction. 

“It’s nothing against you- I mean I don’t… you kind of just swooped in, you know? Take a toon out for dinner at least,” You added the joke last minute in an attempt to try to soften the blow of rejection. It's not that you… disliked Bassie… and truth be told if she had asked or given some form of warning you may have leaned into her idea of what to do for the seven minutes. 

“How come you and Cocoa are so… close.. All of a sudden?” She suddenly spoke up. 

The sudden mention of the rabbit caught you completely off guard, more than her advancement a moment ago… and maybe you were wrong but you thought you saw a twinge of jealousy in her eyes as her stare sharpened against the floor. 

A soft huh pushed her to keep going. 

“You never used to let her hang on to you like that- or maybe I’m misremembering?” 

You scrunched your face. What was she… and then you remembered- the paw Cocoa had settled on your shoulder to keep you steady, and the paw that remained as you gathered with everyone else for the game. You didn’t think anyone would notice- and you had tuned out the feel of Cocoa’s hold on you. 

“Oh- that,” You made a weird humming sound. 

It was… weird to bring up Cocoa in specific, you weren’t going to lie. You’ve been close to other toons before in front of Bassie, but… it seemed there was a line that you unknowingly crossed. 

The hostility in the basket’s voice was unmistakable as she dedicated herself to silently stewing in front of you. 

“She was just making sure I didn’t bump into anyone else- you should’ve seen it, hit her and Flyte- she was just worried is all-” 

And she huffed at you.

Your face dropped it’s confused look and morphed into a frown, while Bassie’s turned into a barely contained scowl. 

“Of course she’d jump on the chance to…” She trailed off through clenched teeth as she finally brought her hot gaze up to you… the hostility in them you weren’t sure was aimed at you or the other holiday toon down the hall. Maybe both. She looked at you like you had somehow betrayed her. You did your best to stand your ground under her glare. 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, I think it’s sweet that she-” 

“I could have done that, why didn’t you ask me?” She cut you off. You fall quiet. 

This was nothing like the quiet wallflowery toon you had gotten used to being around. There was a certain resentment in her stance that could be seen from a mile away. 

Passing glares shot to the rabbit and the way she fell silent the moment Cocoa had started to speak suddenly became obvious as you rapidly combed through your memories in a desperate search for something to say to calm the toon down. 

“Do you… not like Cocoa?” 

“Yes!” She blurted out. “No!.. No I-” she backtracked for the second time and took a hissing breath through her clenched teeth. 

“I don’t.” She finally drew out as she stepped away from her spot in the middle of the room and leaned against one of the walls- before letting herself slump down into the dust… you don’t immediately say anything as Bassie pulled her knees to her chest and wilted into herself. 

“Everyone fawns over her- followers her lead… that’s supposed to be my job,” She mumbled under her breath as the fire in her rapidly died into something mushy and sopping wet. There was still a hot storm of emotion swirling in her black eyes as her fingers dug into her knees.

You let her statement hang in the air. 

It was a lot to unpack. How could you even start to unpack it? As far as you were concerned the pair were friends- at least that’s how Cocoa made it seem whenever she talked about Bassie… and you had always assumed Bassie was… being herself… when she clammed up around the rabbit. 

A soft sigh escaped your throat as you followed the main to her sitting spot and settled yourself next to her with plenty of space between the two of you. 

“Have you… talked to her about it?” 

Bassie’s fingers sunk deeper into her legs before they forced themselves away to find themselves lightly tugging on her handles. Some hesitation… and you reach your hand to place over hers to stop the yanking. 

“What is there to talk about-” 

Her hands were so tense under yours as they twitched and scraped at the weaved patterns all over her head. At least your touch made the yanking stop. 

“She should know that it's my job- its what I was made for- I’m the one plastered everywhere not her.” 

You frowned. 

This was. Far above your paygrade- and you weren’t being paid at all. Playing therapist for someone in a dark closet was the last thing you thought you were going to be doing tonight. 

“I’m sure she doesn’t mean to step on your toes?” You pulled your hand away and let your sweaty palm rest on the floor. You’d clean later. 

“I mean… it’s… Cocoa… I’m sure if you told her she would underst-”

“You wouldn’t get it, you’re just a.. You’re not a main toon like me- you’re not put under the same standards like I am.” She cut over you again before taking a deep breath. Once more her hands shifted around; one of her hands finds themselves to one of her flowers- which had been slightly jostled out of its secure spot in her basket and hung limply over the edge. The blue petal is pinched between her fingers… and it barely keeps itself attached to the rest of the flower as she rubbed the petal. 

She did have a point. Even if her tone was sharp and her breathing was rapid and shallow. 

You weren’t a main, and you’d probably never know just how much pressure they’re put under. The best you could say was that you saw how the staff held higher expectations for them and they were more likely to be swamped by visitors- but the true extent? 

“Well-”

The door swings open as Dandy announces time was up. In an instant Bassie started to try to regain herself. The flower toon stood in the doorway awkwardly for a few seconds as he surveyed the mess in front of him. 

Horribly he almost looked faintly pleased that the two of you weren’t having that good of a time. 

“Uhm… time’s up..!” He repeated before shuffling out of the doorway- the light flooding in now that he wasn’t blocking it out. You shout after him about knocking next time- your discomfort shoved to the side to make way for pure annoyance. Bassie wasted no time in standing to her feet- and with a half hearted attempt to get the mess off of her she beelined quickly for the door. 

“Hey-” You shoved yourself off of the floor and tried to rush after her… for someone so… short… you didn’t expect her to be so fast. You were almost tempted to make a grab for her but your hand froze before it could wrap around her wrist. 

She didn’t stop for you. In less than a second she was in the doorway of the gift shop and making her escape. 

“I want to understand- can you at least-” You tried to keep up with her. 

She at least slowed down enough to let you catch up. 

“I don’t want to say right off the bat that I get what’s going on, or that I have answers- but…” You loop around her side. Her face still obviously looked distressed as she fought hard to make her expression neutral.

“Why don’t we go up to my room for now? At least until you’re feeling better-” 

You had a sick feeling Cocoa would come ask what was wrong the second she noticed Bassie’s state… and you had a sicker feeling that it would make things so much worse. 

Bassie’s hands balled at her sides. 

…and she didn’t verbally answer as another wave of emotion rolled over her. Just another crack in whatever dam she had built up inside her- you didn’t make too much of a fuss over the tears pin pricking her eyes. 

“Come on,” 

And… at least as best as you could, you tried to sneak Bassie to one of the large elevators in the main lobby to bring her to your room… you could only hope that no one noticed you- as their backs turned to the two of you, focused on the current game.

[kiyomitakada]

okay so i have actually already read up to (and including) chapter 2 so here are my thoughts so far. i am obviously extremely spoiled on The Main Twist so i will put prologue + chapter 1 thoughts under the cut

prologue: from the way mello writes i am convinced that he wrote this in a manic haze right after he made the decision to kidnap takada. it's why he says "I imagine that by the time anyone lays eyes on these words I will no longer be alive" and also "the best dresser that died like a dog" he is already 90% certain he is not making it out of this.

the one thing that is throwing me off is the line "I once called myself Mello and was addressed by that name, but that was a long time ago" since it makes absolutely no sense in this context because the mafia and matt still call him mello all the time. so i have to assume that the a long time ago part refers to calling himself mello. maybe he shifted internally to mihael keehl and never told anyone else.

chapter 1:

fascinating that raye is described as "the most obvious example of the agents who had a high opinion of her (not that this stopped him from begging her to transfer to a less dangerous department every time something happened)" like okay fine that's kind of sweet. theres the whole benevolent patriarchal sexism in that last bit but i don't think he was violent or anything.

fascinating that L calls raye naomi's "friend"

It seemed obvious that the reason her laptop had been turned on was that L had hacked it, and she was more than a little depressed that she would now have to randomly destroy the new computer she had just purchased a month before. “I don’t mind… I mean, I do, but…”

god L is such an asshole for his FIRST MOVE being to order naomi to destroy her computer EVEN IF SHE DOESN'T ACCEPT i love him he sucks so much

real cute that they're all locked rooms. beyond wants to be written about sooo bad

this naomi is like dead on accurate to silent partner unfinished business i am retroactively extremely impressed. what an interesting personality. fundamental sense of insecurity but also a biting sarcasm that she keeps locked away… SO fun. notably mello is the one who attributes her leave of absence to discrimination but naomi doesn't think so, all of naomi's thoughts are about her Mistake

He would hardly kill a fifth victim when the number of dolls had reached zero.

ha, ha.

L bragging about being able to solve beyond's super difficult crossword puzzle that no one else could solve lmao

i got so jumpscared by beyond being under the bed even though i already knew he was there 10/10

Misora jumped backward instantly, forced down the surge of emotions this sudden turn of events stirred up, and put her fists up. She didn’t have a gun with her—not because she was suspended, but simply because she had never really gotten used to carrying one around. With no gun, she had no trigger to pull. [...] She put one hand inside her jacket, pretending she had a gun. The man raised his head.

this characterization is catnip to me

Natural black hair. A plain shirt, faded jeans. He was a young man, with dark lines under his wide, bulging eyes. Thin, and apparently fairly tall, but his back was curved, leaving his gaze two heads lower than Misora’s so he appeared to be looking up at her.

it is so interesting to compare beyond's description to what Isn't there… notably naomi does not make note of his hairstyle. the dark lines have to be makeup but i don't know how he would fake bulging eyes maybe hyperthyroidism simply runs in wammy's house. i love that the black hair is natural i always assumed it was really shitty dye

[chirpsythismorning]

When the interviewer asked when we should expect s5 to be coming out, that’s when Shawn mentioned that a little bit of an answer to that might be out there soon.

He actually mentions that this answer could be out by the time the video for this interview comes out, and since this interview was filmed mid-May and it’s now mid-June, I’m assuming we could be getting something soon or within the next couple months, potentially about a release date aka possibly a small teaser with 2025 stamped at the end…

[halsins-herbal-underpants]

Oh my God, I hadn't realized but it's... It's every single one. Every single one! I saw flipped art & missing scars here and there and was like 'oof, I hate forgetting stuff too' but I always wondered why they never FIXED anything either, just reposted the same errors...and it bugged me but I gave them the benefit of the doubt. And that shirt pic with the 10 pack, just thought 'huh ok well, weird an accomplished artist would make that mistake but maybe they got carried away'...I'm so mad at myself for forgiving so much & ignoring tells just bc I was happy to have a prolific Halsin artist that did such fun pieces. That's on me.

Normally I wouldn't bother making a post like this but it came to my attention yesterday via a twitter thread that tumblr user fridaypls is using AI elements in their fanart. Now, if they were doing this because they didn't feel entirely confident in their artistic ability, and they were just doing this for fanart they posted online, then I'd shrug my shoulders and go "eh, whatever"

However, I then found out that fridaypls is selling this fanart and even making posts like "buy my Gale print and get Tim Downie to sign it" and I just can't sit idly by whilst someone makes profit off AI 'art' and there are so many other artists (myself included) trying to make a living off our own art.

The tweet thread about the use of AI by fridaypls can be viewed here and here but I'll also copy and paste some of the examples under a cut line in this post.

So far on twitter, fridaypls got wind of the thread going around about them and they deactivated their account rather than take accountability. I'm probably going to be blocked by them for making this post, but I encourage you to reblog this and spread the word and please, PLEASE don't buy artwork from someone using AI generated images. There are so many other hardworking artists out there making amazing fanart and merch that you can give your money to instead.

Examples from twitter:

[reignpage]

In Sheep's Clothing

Synopsis: in which you're alone in a cabin in the woods during a rough snow storm and an enigmatic, sexy wolf hybrid!Toji turns up at your door providing much more than his handyman service Warnings: plot with a side of porn, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie, knotting, degradation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, masturbation, praise kink, rough sex, manhandling, cowgirl, thigh fucking, hair pulling, slight anal play, biting, dom!toji, blowjob, allusion to shower sex, dirty talk, dry humping, pussyjob, fingering, panty sniffing, cum eating, spanking, titty slapping, pussy slapping, biting, dumbification, primal play to the extreme, !!dark themes!! beware cannot emphasise this enough people (dw there's no gore or noncon or anything, it's just the nature of the plot), acts of violence, angst, fem!reader, romance, barely proofread Word Count: 19.9k (it's a lot I know I know sowwy)

Perhaps running away to the mountains and hiding in the woods wasn’t the greatest idea you’ve ever had. But it was the only one you had at the time. Your grandmother’s cabin is a little run-down, though that was expected considering how many years it had been since she passed, still, it has solid bones and you can’t complain.

It’s a two bedroom bungalow — spacious enough for a family, what with its generous kitchen and hearty fireplace, but far too small for you. Dust has settled on all imaginable surface and it took hours to remove the coverings on every sofa, chair, table, and bed, and even longer to wash everything that could be washed by hand, since the washing machine and dryer in the back room have long since given up on themselves. 

Most of your days since whisking yourself away here is spent dusting, washing, wiping, and cooking. You’ve yet to feel the dent you’ve been chipping away at. There’s still a draught coming from the front door, the main heating system isn’t working, and somewhere, in every corner, is an odd creaking that keeps you up at night. 

Sighing, you glance out of the window, curled up underneath a mountain of blankets, and watch the snow fall. It’s always snowing here. It was barely possible to trek up here as a snowstorm was creeping in; the townspeople were less than eager to even hear you out until you flashed an extortionate amount of money. 

A nice, elderly man took pity, though, upon discovering your last name. He knew your granny. Said she was a sweet soul with a real talent for baking. Having ordered one of his sons to drive you up, he gave you his telephone number, insisting that if you ever needed anything, anything at all, they would come at the drop of a hat. 

That warmed your heart a little. The kindness of a stranger is not something you’re familiar with and thought you’d never get to experience, but there he was, smiling, and waving the cash away like it was the silliest thing in the world and it had no real consequence. 

It had been four days since and you won’t lie, you have considered phoning in that favour. You’re way out of your depth here. With a sigh, you pull a blanket, red and knitted by your grandmother, up to your chin and continue to watch the snow fall. Even though you’re at your wits end with all the scrubbing this cabin needs, you couldn’t possibly call it quits now and beg the man to come up just to take you down. How embarrassing would that be?

You hear knocking. 

There’s someone at the door, pounding. Your heart begins to beat fast. You must have mistaken the sound of the wind howling for a knock at the door. After all, you are miles away from the town and the snow is far too thick for anyone to have gotten up here. Would it be wise to get up from the warmth of your sofa to be sure?

The knocking gets louder, more adamant. Okay, so you weren’t, in fact, mistaken. Something about that noise, unyielding and firm, pierces your heart. You can’t imagine being out in this weather. You’re at the door faster than you can even process the speed at which your feet moved. 

When you fling the door open, the freezing wind attacks, stinging your cheeks and nipping at your skin. Arms rushing to hug the blanket you thoughtfully to drag with you tighter around your body, you squint up through the blinding white of the snow at a hulking beast. 

Broad shouldered and glaring, he watches you cower beneath his gaze. He’s dressed in a simple, fitted t-shirt and baggy joggers, and you feel impossibly colder just by looking at him. His face is hidden behind a disheveled beard, rough and scratchy. He’s a very hairy man. 

“H-hello. Can I help you?”

His nose twitches. He jerks his chin to something behind you. “You’re cooking. I’m hungry.”

Without waiting for a reply, he pushes past you. Pressing yourself close to the door frame, you just about avoid the graze of his arm against you. This turn of events has your head spinning. Who does this man think he is? 

The wind howls harder. You slam the door shut. “Excuse me! You can’t just walk in as you please. This is my home. Get out.”

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even register what you say. Instead, he crosses into the kitchen and lifts the lid of the pot of stew you’ve been working on for hours and grunts. When he fixes himself a bowl, you’re left speechless at how he seems to move on autopilot, opening cabinets and drawers for what he needs without so much as a glance. 

Now he’s sitting at the table, scarfing down your stew and you’re bewildered, spluttering. You’re being Punk’d. 

“Who do you think you are? I told you to get out. I’m gonna call the police if you don’t within the next five seconds!”

He snorts. 

“The police?” His voice is gravelly, seemingly from lack of use. “Ain’t nobody getting up ‘ere in this state.”

That’s what every serial killer says, and you should be afraid, should be running for help. But there’s no hint of malice or cruel intent in his words, only amusement, the way one responds to a child’s whims. 

“Well, you should still afford me the decency of leaving my home when asked.”

“Your home? Didn’t know the old lady gave it away.”

You gulp, clutching the thick blanket even tighter. “You knew my grandmother?”

He grunts. 

Well aware you really ought to kick him out, you’re ashamed at the realisation that you can’t bring yourself to. It’s awfully terrible outside and there’s no doubt the elements would claim him if he he’s left out with no shelter. Though, that really shouldn’t be your responsibility and there is still, of course, the glaring concern of his ability to kill you. One sweep of his figure and you know this towering man, tall and muscular, could snap your neck with one hand. 

Or worse.

Not to mention, he’s a hybrid. You can tell by the twitching of his ears and his nose, like he’s hearing and smelling things inscrutable by the human senses. You wonder what he is. He has no triangular ears or fluffy tail like a dog, he doesn’t have eyes like a cat, no scales that you can see, but his teeth, when he scrapes them along the spoon, you know they’re much sharper than you’d like to ever find out. 

If he wanted to kill you, he could have done that before. And at any rate, it’s too late to do anything about it now. He knows you’re alone and there’s nowhere you can run to before the snow freezes your limbs. 

Settling back down onto the sofa, you just watch him eat. He’s grabbed a second helping, enjoying the meat more than the potatoes and carrots in there but that’s expected of a man. It does mean, though, that he’s not a herbivore hybrid. You wonder if he likes the taste of a woman’s flesh. 

“Is it good?” You ponder. 

There’s something oddly peaceful about observing him — the way he only chews once and twice before swallowing and shoving another spoonful, the way his throat contracts, how his huge hands grasps the bowl and spoon like they could be ripped away from him before he’s finished, and even the way his foot taps, impatient and tense. 

He throws you a cursory glance. “It’s good.”

A second helping disappears. So does a third.

“It seems like you haven’t eaten in days. Or showered. Or rested.”

Huffing, he leans back in the chair, full perhaps. He scratches his stomach under his shirt and you look away at the flash of skin. In a drawl, he concedes, “Y’r right on the money.”

You note how he doesn’t offer more. And you know by the way he’s observing you in return that he’s expecting you to ask for more. You don’t. It’s stupid. Suicidal even. But a little company to weather this snow storm might not be so bad. 

“I’ll allow you to stay here until the snow passes but no longer than that. There’s a second bedroom in the back, you can use that. The boiler’s broken or something so the radiators aren’t working, neither is the hot water in the shower. So, unfortunately, this isn’t going to be a stay at a five star hotel but we’ll both get along just fine if we maintain boundaries and do our part.”

He grunts. That seems to be his preferred way of communicating. Fine by you. You never liked talkative people anyways. “I want a hot shower. So do you by the looks of it. I’ll go down and check the boiler out.”

Startled, you laugh. “You know how to fix things?”

The look he gives you is answer enough and with no further words exchanged, he marches down the hall, obviously all too familiar with the layout of the cabin — did he stay here after she died, when the house was empty and unused? 

Or maybe he stayed with your grandmother and that was how she got along just fine on her own after your grandfather died.

After thirty minutes or so, he emerges, some grease smeared on his face, and he presses the back of his hand to the radiator by where you sit. He’s standing very close. And from your position, hugging your knees under all these blankets, he looks so much bigger and stronger. 

“It’s fixed. For now. Shit’s old so might need regular maintenance,” he explains. “Ya wanna shower first or what?”

Considering he fixed the damn thing, he should have the first go, shouldn’t he? Especially as he’s been out in the cold for goodness how long.

“I’ll shower first,” you say. 

He nods. 

Unfurling yourself from your cocoon, you stumble to a stand. He doesn’t move, doesn’t give you space. Your chest brushes against his. Tingling rushes down your spine at the graze of your nipples. You hastily move past him, embarrassed and suddenly nervous. 

“I’ll be quick. Um, feel free to have more stew and I don’t know if you have any clothes or anything, but my grandmother kept some of her husband’s clothes, you’ll find them in your room — the second bedroom, I mean. Just down the hall, by the bathroom.”

He doesn’t reply and you don’t wait for him to . 

In your rush to save face, you just miss the way his lips twitch in one corner. 

You had forgotten how wonderful a hot shower is. The way you’re enveloped by warmth and your tense muscles loosen and relax under the barrage of water. You take much longer than you usually do, intent on thoroughly enjoying the water like it could grow legs and make a run for it. Eventually, you’re bathed and fresh. Much fresher than you’ve been in the last couple days since you didn’t have to hurry through your routine or curse under your breath at the burning chill of the water, mocking your ineptitude and foolish spontaneity. 

When you come out, dressed in a sweater and joggers, you’re pleased to find the house much warmer than before. The fireplace is even lit, the orange and red flames dancing with as much joy as you feel. More cozy and welcoming, the cabin has completely transformed in what feels like a blink of an eye. Before, the clinical white lights overhead flickered on its last legs, completely and utterly useless, now only the fireplace sheds light, covering the living room and kitchen in a snug ember. 

It feels reminiscent of Christmas evenings you never had. 

Your guest doesn’t look surprised when you approach — he probably heard you every step of the way — but he does push off the sofa and give you a look over, nodding as if satisfied to see you out of the blankets you wore like a second skin. 

Just as he brushes past you, you grasp his arm. Nerves light up. You drop it like it burns. “Sorry. I, um, just wanted to say thanks. And uh, I guess we should introduce each other. Sorry I didn’t do it sooner. I’m not really sure why I didn’t. Maybe I was just mentally prepared to not speak to another person for a while or something.” 

Tilting his head at you, he releases a huff of air through his nose and says, “Name’s Toji. You’re y/n; the old lady talked about you.”

“Oh.”

Likely sensing that’s as much as you’re going to say, he disappears into the bathroom with a pile of clothes and a towel in hand that you didn’t even notice — maybe because you were far too distracted by how handsome he looks under the glow of the fire or how his skin felt nice, all hard and soft and heated the way only a man could be. 

Or maybe, just maybe, it was because the first thing you really noticed upon entering the living room was not the way it had been transformed or how normal it looked for such a big man to be taking up space here, but rather how this ‘Toji’ was sitting in the exact same spot you’d been making your little home when he came. 

When you awake the next day, you’re surprised he’s still asleep. It was almost midday and there’s no sign of him having walked through the cabin before you. There’s no way you’ll knock on his door. Truthfully, you were surprised, pleasantly so it must be said, to find yourself alive and untouched. You don’t guilty for thinking the worst and you’re not naive enough to think better of him for not being a serial killer, that’s simply the bare minimum. 

But it does mean he’s a man of his word and you can let down a little of your guard. 

Instead of worrying more about what he’s doing in his room, you busy yourself  with breakfast. Toji had finished the stew when you came out of the shower and you were impressed by his appetite, albeit also concerned for your stock; at this rate, your food will run out much faster than you had planned and there’s no telling when the weather will get well enough to call out the old man for help.  

You bake a sourdough, fry up some eggs and sausages and put the kettle on for some coffee — instant, unlike the ones you’re used to in the big city but it’ll have to do. You’re careful not to make too much noise, although you feel a little embarrassed at how thoughtful you’re being. 

Just as you put the plate down, he emerges, shirtless, hand scratching the trail of hair low on his stomach. His hair is mussed up, sticking at all angles, and the plaid pyjama bottoms he must gotten from your grandfather’s box of old clothes hang low on his hips, distinct v-lines peeking in a terrifyingly sinful way. He has fairly thick hair on his arms and chest, the very definition of unkept and wild. 

You clear your throat. 

“Good morning. Sleep well?”

He throws you a look, full of amusement, before he sits down at the table. He must have smelt the food and known somehow you were meaning to share. How presumptuous of him. “Slept fine.”

You serve him his portion, larger than your own, and pour him coffee to which he doesn’t say no. “Not going to ask me how I slept?”

He snorts. “Don’t hafta. You tossed and turned the whole night.”

“You have really good hearing, don’t you? What kind of hybrid are you?”

He eats much slower than yesterday, mulling the taste over rather than scarfing it down, and he seems pleased enough with your cooking skills. For reasons you don’t want to think too much about, you’re feeling pretty proud of yourself. 

“Wolf,” he replies. 

You’ve never met a wolf before. But they are an infamous breed — they needed constant medication to keep their animal instincts at bay, they stuck by their own kind, were aggressive to outsiders, and are known for being fiercely loyal and protective. Toji doesn’t seem to match the description. He’s alone for one and he moves with grace like a deer and not like a clunky predator. 

“How did you know my grandmother, if I may?” You ponder. In all of the letters she’s written to you, she had never mentioned knowing a hybrid like Toji, or any hybrids for that matter. 

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug and shared, “Helped her around during winters just like these. She was too old to get down by herself and there were always things needing fixing.”

“She gave you warm food in return?”

He grunts. 

“How did you know she died?” Raising a brow at your question, you explain, “You said she ‘was’ too old.”

Barking a sudden laugh, you find the noise tickling your skin and you can’t stop staring at the way his face softens for just the quickest second and ever so lightly. You’re ashamed to admit the noise makes you warmer inside than it should. 

“I come sniffing around soon as snow starts to fall. It’s routine. A habit. I was the one who found her. Notified the townspeople and went on my way.” He takes a sip of the coffee, green eyes never leaving yours. “Haven’t been back in years.”

His voice is gruff and now that you’re sat face-to-face with him, it’s clear as day that he’s not used to the sound of his own voice; he furrows his brows and stumbles upon certain words like they’re foreign, as if he’s struggling to reconcile the reality that those words are coming from him. 

“So what made you come here?”

No answer. 

The rest of breakfast passes by in relative silence, the distant moan of the wind outside providing enough noise to wash away the awkwardness of eating with a stranger. You want to tell him you’d prefer if he didn’t walk around so bare but that seemed too big of an ask since it’s likely he runs hotter as a wolf than you do. Eyes falling to your neck and your chest unashamedly, he doesn’t shy away from eye contact. 

You do though.

Then he stands, taking both your and his plate over to the sink. He begins washing up. That actually takes you by surprise. This Toji fella didn’t strike you as the type to partake in house chores. Rather, he seems like the type to firmly believe the kitchen is a woman’s domain. Interestingly enough, his back is marked up, full of scars, and they ripple with his muscles. You want to ask about them but he’s not a man who offers answers and you’re not the kind of woman who should poke and prod. 

“Right, well.” You stand too. “I was wondering if you know how to fix a washing machine. And a dryer. Neither are working and washing my sheets and panties in the bath is a pain. 

His eyes flick to you as you wipe away at a spot on the counter dirtied by flour. You probably shouldn’t have used the word ‘panties’ in front of a man like him but you thought it would be funny. He doesn’t seem to think so. He gives you a half-nod and you feel satisfied enough from that interaction to pad over to the sofa to read a book. 

Toji begins working around the cabin — he heads over to the laundry room and you hear the clatter of metal and thumping against the floor. Upon emerging and giving you the look that says ‘it’s done’, he also starts looking for something in the basement. He carries up a box of lightbulbs in one arm and a ladder in another. 

When you jolt up, to offer help, he cuts you another look that says ‘don’t you dare’, and you sit back down. He seems to have his own way of doing things and he knows you’ll only get in the way. Maybe he noticed that your nails are long and clean and he can somehow, with his wolfy powers, sense your hands have never touched dirt.

Still working on this and that around the house, you serve him his lunch and you eat separately. If this becomes your routine then that’ll be ideal. He does all the cleaning and fixing and you cook. Sure, it might be setting back the feminist movement just a little but things like that don’t matter up here, where it’s freezing and you have no idea how you managed for days without him.

Much more quickly than you could have ever expected, the day ends and night falls.

“Thanks for the help,” you say, handing him a glass of your grandmother’s moonshine. You remember where she kept it from your childhood and now, soon after dinner, just sat by the fireplace, feels as good a time as any to bust it out. 

You’re both leaning against the sofa, right by the fireplace, choosing to be on the rug rather than on the soft couch. You can’t remember who followed who, but you suppose it doesn’t matter. In just one day he had solved most of the problems you’ve nearly cried over. 

Toji grunts. 

He’s wearing a shirt now, thin and plain. Your grandfather was a much smaller man so this shirt is practically bursting at the seams on his huge bicep but he doesn’t seem to mind. You do, though. It’s rather distracting actually. His skin brushes against yours and neither of you move away. 

The flames are the only light here and you feel its warmth settling on your face, lulling you to comfort. Stronger than any alcohol you’ve ever had, the moonshine burns your throat, lighting you up inside. Your companion appears to be unimpressed with the concoction, downing the cup in one gulp. 

Slightly embarrassed by your inexperience, despite being an adult, you ask, “Where were you staying before? You said you come here for winter so where do you stay for the rest of the year? Same place you’ve been staying at since my grandmother died? Or somewhere different?”

Throwing an arm on the sofa, right behind your head, he admits, “Nowhere. Everywhere. Just moved around a lot.”

“Why didn’t you just stay here? If you talked to her enough to know about me, then surely she must have told you no one ever visits since everyone in the family hates the cold. You would have had the place all to yourself.”

“I never stay in one place for too long.”

You skim the rim of your glass, watching the clear liquid swirl with the glow of the fireplace. “Why not?”

He waits until you can’t bear the silence, until you feel that itch to look up, to meet his gaze. And when you do, there’s some intensity in his eyes that seems to make the alcohol in your stomach burn just a little more. A finger of his twirls a lock of your hair and he murmurs, “Never had a reason to.”

Nodding, you settle for watching the fire. 

And when the bottle of moonshine was depleted, you left to sleep and he stayed, a scalding brand marking your back and you couldn’t bear to look back to know if it was from the fireplace or from him. 

That was how your first day went. 

On the second day, you repeat more or less the same routine: you make breakfast, you eat together, he goes and fixes something else, you make lunch, you eat separately, he fixes some more things, you make dinner, and you share a drink or two, and sleep. 

Occasionally, you’ll run into each other and you still struggle to meet his eyes, having to crane your head so far back to get a good look. Sometimes when you do gather the courage to look up at him, he’s already looking at your chest, green eyes slowly rising up to your face. His brow rises in challenge just as hip lip twitches. He doesn’t care at all. The man had no manners. 

But he washes the dishes after every mealtime and he doesn’t really make a mess, so you can’t complain when he takes his visual fill of your body. There’s no harm in looking, only a priest would ever know that you do the same thing; there’s always a sizeable bulge in his trousers that you can’t keep your eye off, totally only out of curiosity. 

The day starts off with an exchange of ‘g’morning’ and a ‘g’night’.

The third day tells the same story. 

On the fourth day, however, only one thing out of the ordinary happens and it isn’t anything to write home about but you can’t get it out of your mind, as you lay in bed wide awake. The wolf hybrid had needed to get past you to get something from the fridge and on his way, he gripped your hips, lightly and barely a whisper, but his finger had brushed a sliver of skin where your shirt had risen up. 

His touch was startling, petrifying, making the hairs along your body stand on edge, but more than anything, it was completely and utterly exhilarating. 

When your hand wandered down into your panties that night, you tried your best to stifle your moans with your pillow, chasing the high that followed you the entire day. You fell asleep sticky, sweaty and unrepentant.

The fifth day goes by just fine too. Appreciative of the little song and dance you two have choreographed, you find yourself less and less anxious about the snow and the world beyond. There’s just something about this Toji fella — he’s quiet in a way that would be off-putting from anyone else, but you find it comforting. It’s different from the way everything worked in the city, where silences are this obscene monstrosity that must be filled with the clattering of a busybody. 

Here, with him, you can just breathe in the hot cocoa and the smoky ash burning in the fireplace as you sit by him, shoulder to shoulder, on the rug and not on the sofa. He doesn’t ask questions about why you never visited your grandmother, why you haven’t talked about your family or your friends, or why you don’t ask him questions. 

You like to think too that he appreciates you keeping your curiosity at bay. 

Maybe that’s why he lets you rest your head on his shoulder, why he doesn’t nudge you off when your breath begins to even out and your lashes flutters shut, and maybe, just maybe, it’s why he carries you to bed and lays you down so gently you dream of solid arms, green sparkles in the snow, and fluffy clouds that brush your hair back. 

What you weren’t prepared for, however, is the sixth day. It started off just like any other day: breakfast, reading on the sofa whilst he fixes something or the other, and then lunch eaten separately. 

But, the hybrid must have gotten oil spilled on him when he was tinkering with something in the cellar because he went to shower during the day, instead of at night like you both do. This fact wasn’t known to you. It really wasn’t even on your mind. And that’s why disaster struck. 

Walking into the bathroom to grab something — you can’t even remember what it was and why you were so focused on retrieving it, you hadn’t registered the sound of running water and the fact that the room was steamier than usual — you were met with a sight no HR training could ever prepare you for. Because, there, right in front of you, was your roommate, buck naked with water dripping down his chiseled body, catching on the curly hairs on his chest and lower abdomen. He was leaning with one arm on the glass of the shower stall, forehead pressed onto his forearm whilst the other made slow, leisurely strokes somewhere low, somewhere the steam gravitated towards. 

Forward and back, forward and back, forward...and…back. 

All while his eyes, like freshly cut grass, stayed unmoving, watching you watch him. Feet sinking deeper into the tiles, you were stuck where you are, heaving chest matching his as he let out a grunt, wrist jerking faster, splashing so much water everywhere you could almost feel them land on your skin through the glass. 

Your phone pinged from your hand. You didn’t realise you were holding it. That was just about enough to break the trance he had you under. Wordlessly, you turned back and left, the door clicking shut behind you, and you busied yourself with preparing for dinner. 

When he walked out, dressed, you could see from your peripheral, you grunted in acknowledgement after he let you know he was going to get some wood from outside. 

Dinner was eaten separately too. 

Instead of watching the fireplace, side by side, sharing whatever drink you’ve prepared, you’re settled comfortably under your blankets, hand rubbing furiously in your panties and eyes shut tightly, chasing flashing images of something sinful, delicious, the very source of your delirium. 

Your orgasm is shallow. It’s why you’re conscious enough to notice, through the gap between your door and the floor, that the hallway light is still on and just as you exhale your last lust-induced moan, it disappears, leaving your senses focused solely on the sound of feet padding away.

You don’t get any sleep. 

“G’morning,” you chirp. 

The kettle is boiling and you’re serving the last of the eggs and bacon onto pancakes you made from scratch. There are still some meat frozen but the vegetables and fruits are almost gone and there’s no other way about it — you’re going to have to go down to get some more food. What had supposed to last you comfortably, at least two weeks, is now on its last crumbs before the first seven days had reached its end.

His green eyes flick to yours and with a small smirk, beard twitching, he asks, “Sleep well?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you try to ignore the burning of your face and the sudden shake in your hands. Of course he had heard. Of course! Because, lost in the haze of the shallow pleasure, you had forgotten that you’re living with a man that is far from ordinary. 

So is his hearing. 

“Oh, great,” you grit out. “And you?”

A snort of what you can only guess to be amusement is released from him and when he brushes past you, his heat only sets those embers ablaze again. He doesn’t answer. 

Once sat down and eating, it’s your roommate who suggests more food is needed — as he should, considering it’s because of his insane appetite that things have turned out so hopeless so quickly. 

“How could we possibly get more food in this weather? No one can get up here and walking down is not an option. I mean, just looking at all that snow makes me feel like death is creeping in.”

“Don’t gotta leave,” he says with a grunt. “I’ll go.”

Spluttering, you practically shriek, “You? Are you insane? You’ll die.”

His green eyes glint. “Will the pretty little city girl be sad if I do?”

“Will the big, bad wolf listen and stay if I say yes?”

Toji barks out a laugh. Breakfast ends soon after. 

An hour passes and, as you read a book, you think that that’s the last of that. But of course it isn’t. Just as you finish a chapter, the wolf in question comes out of his room in a worn out coat too small for him and a firm look on his face. He can’t possibly be serious. 

Ignoring your protests, he heads over to the door and doesn’t spare you a glance. It’s only when you tell him he needs money that he does pause. Typical macho men, thinking with their muscles and not their heads, you grumble in your mind. He waits for you to grab your purse and shove it in his hand. 

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

Your question is met with an eye roll. 

“Yeah, quit worrying. I’ll be back before you know it.” He sounds so sure. You’re inclined to believe him. Something about how sturdy he looks makes him sound convincing enough; Toji’s built like an oak tree, with deep-reaching roots and a thick trunk that could withstand the harshest storms and mightiest blows. But all trees can be felled, if one tries hard enough. 

He must have smelt the doubt pouring out of every pore because then he’s making a sound of pure exasperation. “Alright, listen. I’m a wolf, yeah? I’ve been through worse.”

Eyes darting from the snow and to his deadpan face, you mutter, “Just because you’ve been through worse doesn’t mean you should go through more. You can just stay and keep warm. With me. I can’t help you if you’re out there.”

There’s a silence, like a sudden gust. And then a sigh. 

In less than a second, you find your jaw being gripped with one large hand and your head is pushed to the side just as his face buries itself in the crook of your neck, the rough hairs of his beard tickling your skin. The growl that escapes him pulls a gasp out of you and then he’s gone. 

With the speed at which the door flies open and closes, you barely feel the sharp sting of the cold. Or maybe you do feel the full brunt of it, but it’s overshadowed by the envigorating rush that came from that big man inhaling your scent before he left. 

You wonder if he liked what he smelt. 

Before, it felt like time was passing at a snail’s pace, but now it’s like time isn’t passing at all — you’re stuck in some sort of pathetic limbo where you spend every meaningless second switching tasks. From brushing the floor to rearranging the books on the shelves in the corner to dusting every surface to lying in bed and so on and so forth. It feels somewhat akin to engraving tallies into the walls with a paperclip.

Alone, truly alone, you can do nothing but focus on the feeling of ice creeping into your bloodstream. The heaters are on and you can very easily set the wood burning in the fireplace if need be since he taught you. But you don’t want to; you’re lazy. That’s the excuse you’d tell Toji if he asks, biting down the real reason and never spitting it out.

The shivers wracking your body is what you deserve for letting that man go to get food on your behalf. The quivering of your lips is due to the fact that you could have — should have— gone with him, should have bundled him up in something thicker and warmer, and yourself maybe, so you two could trek together to the town. At least, if one of you were to be injured, there’s someone there to pick you back up. 

Who will pick him up?

Gnawing on a nail, your eyes dart, for the millionth time, outside the window, fuzzy socks rubbing against each other as you shuffle on the floor. Night is falling and he still isn’t here. You’re beyond worried. 

How long does it take to hike down and up anyways? It took about an hour by car, so surely it wouldn’t take longer than a day at the very most, right?

But spending even just an hour in this snow, wearing just a coat, would be fatal for anyone, wolf hybrid or not, right? And he’s attempting to bring up groceries? 

Oh, God. 

You’ve allowed that man to walk right into his death. No, you’ve sent him off to die. You’re a killer. Or maybe he’s not coming back. Maybe this was just a ploy to leave without an awkward goodbye. He got what he wanted — roof over his head, a bed, food, warm shower and even a stupid girl to tease. Now that he’s exhausted the supplies, maybe he’s off to try his luck at another cabin. 

Is this what it was like with your grandmother? 

Did she make sure to stock up as much as possible for the winter to ensure he’d stay the entire time so she can have someone to look after her?

Is that what you’re going to turn into?

A food bank?

You shouldn’t have come up here. You should have stayed in the loud, stifling city in your miserable office job, with your stuffy pantsuits and your overbearing boss. You should have accepted your family’s manufactured smiles and cold hugs. You should never, ever have dared to want more. There is nothing in your entire life you have done, or could have ever done, to deserve more. 

A knock comes on the door. 

You jerk up. 

The blanket falls from your shoulders. Stumbling to a stand, you wipe your hands down your front, trying to steady them, and without waiting for a second knock, you twist the knob that had just been above your head and you flung it open. 

“Could hear ya sniffling from miles. You good?”

In front of you is a very hairy man, broad shouldered, coat darkening with the dampness that weighs him down and flakes of snow litter his beard like an upside down tree. He’s scary, hulking and tense, like a wound up toy, ready to explode at any given moment. An ear twitches when you sniffle, just as he said. This man could kill you. He’s strong enough to have been carrying two big, heavy bags, one in each hand, up the mountain. And he knows the exact layout of the cabin, knows there are no hiding spots, no locks in the basement, knows where the axe is, and that the stoker is leaning against the fireplace, too far to get to in time from where you’re standing.

You jump onto him. “Oh my god! I thought you died. Or that you left me!”

He grunts with the force of your body meeting his, but he doesn’t stumble. Bearing the burden of the bags of groceries and your entire weight as you wrap yourself around him like a koala bear, he walks in with ease, kicking the door shut. He saunters over to the kitchen where he deposits the bags on the counter and leaves just enough room to sit you down, untangling your awkward limbs from his torso. 

“Ya think too much.”

He pats the wetness, that had transferred from his clothes onto you, down with a tea towel. Your shaky hands reach up, threading your fingers through his beard and his hair, and you brush the snow away. He’s still here. And he’s warm. 

“I was so worried something happened to you, Toji,” you whisper. 

Stilling, his green eyes flick up to yours, searching, and when he finds the tears threatening to fall he sighs, and presses his forehead against yours, letting you feel the firmness of his presence. He smells like burnt cedar, the musk of the earth, and the saltiness of sea air. With a gravelly voice, he reassures you, “I’m here. Got enough food to last us another week, and by then the snow will stop falling. We’ll be fine”

Your ‘thank you’ stays in your throat when he pulls away and falls on a chair by the dinner table with a grunt so deep and loud you’re snapped back into action — he must be starving and exhausted. Toji did his part and now you must do yours. 

Sneaking glances at him, you work as fast as you can, cutting this and boiling that. You know as soon as the onions and garlic hit the pan with the sizzle his nose will start twitching. If it smells delicious to you, you wonder how it must smell to him. Maybe the anticipation of a warm meal was what pulled him home. 

You won’t disappoint. 

Every second or so, your eyes drift to him, mostly to make sure he’s still breathing, but also because you can’t help it. He’s snoozing, you surmise, when his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm and his eyes are closed. You move around as quietly as you can. 

Plated, you set the steaming soup, fried meat and loaf of bread he had brought down on the table. It’s not the most appealing of all appearances but you know the recipes like the back of your hand so you know he’ll love every thing. Or at least, you hope he will. 

Checking all the necessary silverware are on the table, you try to gently coax him awake with a call of his name. He doesn’t answer. You look up with a sigh, ready to jostle him from whatever dream is so beautiful he’s in deep sleep, only to find those frustratingly alluring eyes already on you. 

“Smells delicious,” he says, making no effort to gesture to the food. 

You gulp and with a weak smile, you sit down and allow him to serve you. “So, how was it? Is the situation bad?”

Toji rolls a shoulder back. He answers, “Snow’s definitely too thick for a car, but the town hasn’t been too badly affected. No one can get in or out but they’re all making do.”

“And you? Was it a difficult journey?”

There’s a pause as he swallows the spoonful he’s shovelled in his mouth and then he’s shrugging, remarking, “Ya think so little of me? Told you, I’m a wolf hybrid. Wasn’t easy but was hardly difficult, ma.”

Warmth pools in your stomach. 

“Good.” You sip some water. “But you definitely need to get some rest. That’s a non-negotiable, I’m afraid. No manual labour of any kind tomorrow. I’ll handle everything. So, just let me know what I can do for you. It’s the least I can do, after all.”

He snorts. “Yeah? Y’r gonna take care of me?”

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

His fork and spoon clatter on his frighteningly empty plate and when you meet his gaze once more, you’re knocked back by the sheer challenge in them. There’s a glint, like light off a knife’s edge, and it slices from your heart down your body, leaving you open and electrified. 

“Careful, little girl,” he taunts, jaw snapping with a laugh, “when I take you up on that, y’r gonna be whining for days about how sore you are.”

There’s no way you’re going to argue with him, not when he sounds so certain, like you’re missing out on some inside joke. So you finish up dinner, with him having three servings, and after, with the dishes in need of cleaning up, you practically have to shove him in his room when he insisted he’s fine enough to stay up. 

He rolls his eyes and lets you slam the door shut in his face.

As you tidy up in the kitchen, you’re pleased to find the fridge full. There’s a lot of fruit and vegetables and all the possibilities are getting you giddy. You suppose you were a little afraid Toji, being a man, would only buy junk and red meat, but he hadn’t. In fact, he had gotten things beyond food, he had bought toiletries and sanitary products for you. Sure it was a little presumptive, maybe you didn’t have periods, maybe you’re on birth control, maybe you’ve just had it and won’t have to worry until after the snow calms enough for you to deal with your personal bodily functions. 

But, you find the act endearing, if the smile creeping on your face is anything to go by. 

Eventually, you retire to bed, feeling much lighter. There’s lots of food and he came back. He hadn’t left. He had gone through so much trouble — life-risking trouble — that it must mean something, right? 

You fall asleep very quickly. 

Sometime around two in the morning, however, you’re awoken by some dull noise outside. Blinking through the sleep in your eyes, you pad out of your room and into the living room, where the fireplace is burning and casting dancing shadows over your roommate’s body. 

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he grouses. “Go back to sleep.”

Finding the spark to laugh, you muse, “I think that’s my line, no?”

He looks wide awake sitting in his usual spot, on the floor with an arm on the sofa and a leg bent. Shirtless, the fire makes him look like he’s glowing, and you’re mesmerised. Clearing your throat, you retrieve two bottles of beer he had cheekily gotten, and sit criss-crossed by him. He takes the beer with a grunt of gratitude.

There’s something different in the air; silence isn’t enough tonight. All the things that have so far been left unspoken, locked away, are climbing over, ready to be shared — at least from your side. You may never know what he’s truly thinking.

Brows furrowed, you begin, “Did you ever wonder how I ended up here? Well, there’s not really a special or interesting story — I just got tired and bored of the same old thing. It felt like my life was missing substance, y’know?”

Grunt. 

“I hated the city,” you confess. “It’s awful there. Everyone treats you like their enemy even as you’re just walking down the street. No one ever smiles or even looks at each other.”

Huff.

“It’s a good thing I was a workaholic and lived frugally; I can afford to camp out here until…well, till forever, I guess. It’s also great luck that you came by ‘cause I can’t fix a boiler or anything of the sort, so I would have likely died by now.”

For a second you think he’s dozed off, as he should have been doing after dinner considering the strenuous journey he underwent to get some food, but one glance to the side up has you gulping when you find his eyes on you once more, like they never left, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather look at. What a dangerous thought. 

The eye contact has you, or him, or both of you, drawing closer, gazes flickering down and then up and back down again. With the warm glow of the fire blanketing you in the night, you feel so safe and secure; it’s you and him in this cabin and no one else matters. No one else has a say, can interrupt, can ruin this. 

Whatever this is. 

The arm he has behind you shifts and then you feel fingers skimming a lock of hair, following it down from the temple of your head, curving around the shell of your ear, and into the slope of your neck, brushing your hair back and exposing  skin to the sizzling air. 

You shiver.

“I’ve always been the kind of girl who stayed in one place. I like the security, the familiarity. But recently things have started feeling tough, like I’m stuck in quicksand, as dramatic as it is to say.”

Your voice is weak and low; you never knew you could sound like that. 

When you were brushing the snow out of his beard, you weren’t surprised to find it rough, you often catch him scratching there so you know it’s uncomfortable for him too, and yet, you find a bubbling desire within you to feel it on your skin, the way you had briefly felt it on your neck and in your hands. How would it feel in other places? 

“I just needed to get out, y’know?” You’re leaning impossibly close — close enough to see the question in his eyes. “Do something new, something exciting, something…” 

“Wild?”

Toji’s eyes flashes and at your dazed nod, he dives forward, swallowing your gasp in his rough, unforgiving mouth. He shoves his tongue in, licking and tasting, and that arm that laid at the back of your head curls around it, pulling you close by your neck. You’re left with no choice but to cling to him and try to keep up with his merciless pace. 

He tastes like alcohol with something deeper running, like an undercurrent, a ferocity only a beast could achieve. You feel intoxicated. Carrying you onto his lap, you’re overwhelmed by the feeling of something hard jutting up into your core. A growl pierces your ears when you don’t hesitate to grind down onto that hard length. He’s leaking heat hotter than the fireplace, he’s hard and firm everywhere your hands can reach, and his clutch is frightening, gripping you like you could never escape even if you fought against him. 

You’ve never been wetter. 

“I can smell ya,” he rasps. “Been smelling this sweetness every day. You taste as good as you look or what?”

Coarse and prickly, this beard is rubbing deliciously against your skin, reminding you from all angles that he’s kissing you, that he wants you just as bad as you want him, and he can’t get enough. 

Burying your fingers in his thick hair, you moan when he licks a stripe up your neck, sniffing at your pulse point. “Find out for yourself.”

His laugh is sudden and gravelly and it’s the last thing you think about before you’re being thrown on your back, legs spreading to accommodate his girth as he kneels above you, shirt going up and over before he throws it somewhere. With the fireplace highlighting the sharp contours of his face and his rippled chest, his beastly grin spikes your pulse and then he’s pinning you down with his body. 

“I don’t think you understand the position y’r in, little girl,” he taunts. 

Using his claws, he rips up your top, exposing your tits to the air for just a second before he swallows one in his mouth, flicking a nipple with his tongue, all while he’s rolling his hips into yours creating a delicious friction that has your back arching and your jaw dropping. 

“Been dreaming about these pretty tits.” He pinches the other, grinding his cock especially hard against your clit. The revelation falls on deaf ears when he smacks one. “Fuuuuck, look at the way they bounce.”

You pull at his hair and he lets you drag him back up to your lips, your nipples sore and tickled by the hairs on his chest whilst he rises up your body. “Kiss me.”

And he does, swallowing your moans he continues squeezing and groping your tits, but he leaves your lips swollen quickly after as he begins his descent, peppering a trail of kisses. 

Pressing a nose right up at the apex of your thighs, he takes a looooong inhale, a satisfied growl echoing in the darkness. Your face heats up, legs threatening to close around his head but his big paws holds them open, nails digging with the promise of pain if you dare shut them away from him. 

“You been flaunting a scent that’s got my mouth watering more than any of your baked goods,” he huffs, eyes narrowing at the wet spot leaking through. He thumbs at it, pressing down as if he could force everything you’ve got to give out. “’S not fair, ma. Waited so long for you to give in to me, heh, gonna make you regret that.”

“Toji!” 

He rips up your pyjama bottoms too and hooks his fingers into the gusset of your panties before those are flying away, shredded beyond hope, and cool air grazes your sloppy slit. 

Not a single second is wasted before he digs in, lapping up your pussy with a fearsome snarl. The tip of his long, slobbery tongue circles your pulsing clit, tweaking it when you whine. “Fuck, you taste this good and ya been holding out on me? Selfish little cunt, hmm?”

Hands flying up to grip his hair for purchase, you fall victim to his incessant licking and sucking and slurping as he flattens your thighs open, the scraggly hairs of his beard tickling your sensitive skin which grows clammier and clammier with the heat of his mouth, his body, and the fireplace. 

When he curls two thick fingers in, stretching your walls further than you could with your own, your eyes fly open. “No! Ngh, too much.”

Still sucking at your clit, he shoves those fingers in and out, dragging them on his way to really take in the squishiness of your insides, forcing out those loud squelches. You tug at his scalp and he lifts up just a little to snap his maw, missing your clit by a hair’s breadth. 

“Don’t get in the way of my meal, ‘cause this?” He slaps your pussy, juices splashing and he barks a mean laugh. “This is mine now.”

Your orgasm washes over you when his lips sucks your clit with a tongue flicking the little button at the exact same time those long digits curls up and lays successive presses against that smooth part inside of you. 

Toji’s entire mouth engulfs your pussy, sharp teeth grazing your skin whilst he suckles on your sweet essence, drinking like a man lost in a desert, his personal oasis. “Ah, y’r no good for me, ma. Gonna get me addicted on this sloppy fucking cunt.”

Panting desperately, you writhe on the floor, feverish and crazed. He doesn’t give you a break, doesn’t let you catch your breath, before he shoves his pants down and lets his cock spring out. 

Just the like rest of him, his cock is huge — long, thick, and throbbing with veins running up the length, carving a path up to his leaking cockhead which flushes a sinful dark red, promising a painful stretch. At the base, there’s coarse hair, wild and untamed like any other part of his body, and oh, God, those balls, they hang heavy, too heavy. 

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and chuckles before he orders simply, “Suck.”

As if entranced, you scramble onto all fours, crawling forward so you can nudge his length with your cheek, his slit leaving a wet trail. He smells like a beast of the earth and it has your pussy drooling, a fat droplet sliding down your thigh and you shut your legs tight in a pathetic attempt to quell that ache. After all, you are much too preoccupied with this monstrous thing in front of you. 

You peer up at him and stick your tongue out, licking from the very base, catching a little bit of his ball sac, and tilting back to reach his tip where you skim the underside. A large hand slides into your hair softly before it bundles up your hair in its angry grip pulling your head back into an uncomfortable angle so you can face his savage scowl. 

“I know y’r not deaf. Fuck did I say? Huh?” He pushes your face into his balls, smothering you. “Be a good girl and suck, yeah?”

So you do. 

Suckling on his balls, much like how he did with your tits, you try to take as much of him as you can before you can’t bear it any longer and you wrap your lips around his cock head, savouring the salty drops that coat your tongue. Everything about him is strong, from his grip to his scent and especially his taste. It’s as if he was built to dominate, to fill up every senses until you can think of and feel nothing but him.

You gag, overwhelmed by the intrusion. 

He tuts, thoroughly scolding when he drawls, “If ya can’t take me properly with y’r mouth, then there’s no way you can take me with y’r pussy. Wanna prove me wrong, kid?”

You push past the painful stretch of your jaw, gliding as much as of his length into your throat as you can, thumb being pinched by your fist. Not even halfway down, you go back up again, not letting go of his tip before you slide back down, and you repeat that motion, taking more and more of him as you go. 

When you hollow your cheeks to suck him in deeper, you see him throw his head back, his abs tensing and becoming prominent, you scrape your nails down that trail of hair before it finds his balls, massaging in the way you know not even he could resist. 

“Fuck. Tryna -ha- make me cum so soon? Naughty,” he says. 

In a flash, you’re being pulled off his cock and pushed back onto the rug once more. Your ankles are clasped in one of his hand, extending your legs high up in the air. “W-what are you doing?”

Cracking his neck slowly, the flames of the fireplace still as virile as ever, Toji looks downright sadistic with the way he grins at you.

“Just enjoying my meal to the fullest.” He pushes his cock through your thighs, right on top of your slit, lathering the underside with your overflowing juices. He groans, sharp teeth catching on his bottom lip. “We’re both gonna cum like this and then I’m putting you to bed.”

Slightly distracted by the way his cock is catching on your clit with every slide back and forth, you ask with a frown, “But why can’t you just fuck me now?”

He laughs. He fucking laughs. And then he’s bending your legs back towards your chest as he leans in close, placing your calves on his shoulders so you can see his face far too clearly. Rubbing the bristles on his jaw on your skin, he lays a soft kiss on your ankle before he scrapes the bone with a canine. 

“Because I fuck rough, city girl. Y’r gonna be bruised, sore and all chewed up and you can’t complain if you hopped on my dick willingly, no?” You can’t answer. “Yeah, glad we agree. So don’t open that pretty mouth of y’rs unless it’s to moan my name, and keep y’r legs tight for me; no one wants to fuck something loose and limp.”

“Hurry up and get it over with!”

Doing just that, he thrusts like a madman, using you like a rag doll to chase his pleasure. You’re being jostled on the floor, the rug burning your skin and your hair so close to being singed by the embers of that fire he’s been tending to, setting alight and snuffing like clockwork every day.

His balls slap against your ass, as if pounding you too. 

It’s all so dirty, so obscene, so wet any rational thought you should have been having about letting someone who’s practically a stranger fuck your thighs like you’re nothing but a slippery hole fly out the window. 

The slight sheen of sweat on his chest is making you restless — you can’t focus on one thing, not the way he’s holding your legs tight, hugging them to his torso like you might run away, the way the friction of his cock rubbing against your clit is bringing you closer to orgasm, and not how your wetness is making embarrassing squelches that you know his hybrid ears can hear in even greater clarity than you can.

“Oh! T-toji! I think I’m -ngh- gonna -ha- cum.”

He bites down hard on your calf just as his hips stutter and his scalding spurts splash onto your chest, even reaching your chin and cheeks. A drop falls into your mouth which is stuck in an O-shape as you orgasm at the same time, digging your nails into the carpet and thrashing your head around as the euphoric feeling wash over you from inside and out. 

Panting, you manage to breathe out, “Y-you made me all sticky.”

“Not fucking sorry.” Toji licks the red mark on your leg away and presses a kiss right in the centre of the two half moon crescents made by his teeth marks. Your heart beats faster. When his green eyes rove over your body, you both see and feel the deep rumble of satisfaction bubbling from his chest. He runs two fingers down your chest and your stomach, collecting his cum before he smears it on your lips. “Not fucking sorry at all.”

Your eyes threaten to shut and he grunts, realising he must have exhausted you despite the fact that it was he who pushed themselves through the elements for hours and not you.

“Alright, up and at ‘em. Let’s get ya cleaned up, kid.”

Hauling you onto your feet, the rest of the night goes by in a blur — you’re taken to the bathroom and wiped down by a wet cloth, redressed in new pyjamas, and tucked in all nice and warm in your own bed. He leaves. Even half-asleep, you find that act ever so slightly disheartening. 

It feels like you’ve been used, like the act wasn’t as intimate as you might have thought. It leaves you biting your nail and groaning inwardly. Of course he didn’t think much about it. The man looks older than you, he’s probably fucked the thighs of many girls and you’re no one special, right?

Maybe the best thing to do is to take a page out of his book and just be casual, so at least you won’t humiliate yourself by asking something absolutely ridiculous like ‘what are we?’

God, the thought makes you grimace. 

You make a promise to yourself to swear off Toji until the snow thaws enough to get down and up this cursed mountain. The mental fortitude you’ve erected seems so solid, so reliable and firm, you actually believe you’ll have a more than easy time keeping your hands, and your heart, to yourself.

That is until he returns smelling of soap and he slides right in behind you, tucking an arm under your back and pulling you into place with your head resting on his hairy chest.

“Had to cut my shower short ‘cause you’re gnawing y’r fucking fingernail off. Cut it out, will ya?”

Your bedmate swats at your hand, pulling it away from your anxious mouth and playfully bites your wrist. That hand stays in his grip. Heart ceasing its painful clenching, you make yourself comfortable in his embrace, enjoying the heat enveloping you, hotter than any fire.

Clearing your throat, you mutter, “Thanks for today, Toji. Really. I couldn’t have ever done that without you.”

He huffs a laugh, thoroughly amused.

“Wouldn’t hafta if I wasn’t eating up all y’r food.” His voice booms under your cheek, the vibrations lulling you to sleep. You’ve only just noticed how nice he sounds, it’s a captivating timbre, rough and scratchy like bark but comforting and unyielding in a way you’ve never known anyone to sound. “Ya would’ve been fine without me, anyways. Don’t sell y’rself short.”

“I think it’s you who’s selling yourself short.”

Those are the last words exchanged between you before you two fall asleep.

—————————

“Fuck you up to?” Toji grouses. 

His voice is laced with sleep and he’s rubbing his eyes, all bleary and confused. He has every right to be considering you’re under the covers, mouthing at his dick and stroking the morning wood that woke up before him. The duvet gets pulled up, revealing your less than innocent smile. 

Kissing his slit, which prompts a heavy hand to lay on your head, you ask, “Waking you up?”

An arm folds under his head, getting him into a great angle to see you much more clearly. His brow rises up, challenging, and he teases, “Yeah? Well, I’m up, ma, so what now?”

The radiators have yet to be turned on this morning so the air is chilly in your room, but still you push those covers back, showing him how you’re completely bare in the bottom, wearing only your shirt to bed. His spare hand falls on your plump thigh, squeezing and kneading. 

“Last night,” you begin, raising your hip so you can seat yourself down on his hard length, “you told me you’d only fuck me if I hopped on your dick willingly. So here I am.”

You’re rubbing your already soaked pussy up and down on his cock, coating him with your wetness just as he did last night. You feel every delectable ridge catching your clit and you grind down on him with shameless abandon. How could you ever possibly feel shame when it feels so good and he’s not even inside you yet? When he’s looking at you like that? Like you’re the tastiest prey who’s ever walked into his trap?

He pushes a thumb into your mouth, watching your lips wrap around it like you did the night before and this morning, before he drops his hand to the apex of your thighs, massaging tight circles into that bundle of nerves, forcing breathless moans out of you. “Ya gonna ride me, doll? Gonna show me just how willing you are?”

“Uhuh.” Grinning, you let him pull the shirt up and over your head, nipples pebbling immediately. He flicks one, palming the fatty globe to soothe the dull pain.

Steadying yourself with your hands on his abs, you lean forward and steal a kiss. It’s supposed to be a peck, just a polite, cursory smooch but then he stops groping your tit to use that hand to keep your faced pressed to his. Toji deepens the kiss, shoving his tongue inside and exploring your mouth. He’s stealing air from you and the longer he keeps you submerged, the more you moan. 

In the haze of the heat he’s growling into you, you fail to realise he’s let go of your head and is now slotting his cock into your pussy. 

“W-wait, Toji!”

The stretch is overwhelming; you hadn’t prepped yourself enough but neither of you seem to care. It’s hard to when his cock head is already pushing through that tight ring of muscle and is worming its way deeper inside you. 

He hisses. “So fucking tight! Fuck, gotta relax, ma.”

“I’m -ngh- trying!”

Down and down, your cunt swallows as much of him as it can. You’ve pushed yourself upright, using gravity to aid the descent. Nothing else in the room has his attention. Nothing could ever take his attention. “Oh fuck, would you look at that? Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she? Dirty girl heh.”

You bottom out, lips tickled by the hairs at his base. 

“You’re so big, Toji.”

Both of his arms reach for you, gripping your ass and lifting you up just a little only to let go and let you drop down. You screech. He’s reaching every part of you inside, and when you look down, you’re so certain you can see the outline of him pushing through your stomach. You clench.

“Ah, fuck! Don’t do that,” he scolds you. “Start moving before I get bored.”

The threat makes you frown but you do as he says anyways. Mustering all the strength you have, you start riding him, rising higher and higher each time until you get comfortable with his size. You can’t imagine any amount of prep would ever get you to take him with ease, but the overflowing juices coming from you is certainly helping; it leaves his hairs dewy. 

Years past, or so it feels, as you grind and slide down on his length, and he doesn’t seem the least bit affected. That only fuels you harder. With a vendetta, you get up on your knees, keeping just his tip in, before you slam down. 

You both moan. 

“Fuck!”

His hands dig into your slippery flesh, careful of his sharp claws, but threatening to leave bruises just as he promised. The way he’s poking that sensitive spot inside you has you whimpering with every grind at just the right angle. You can’t imagine ever wanting to stop. Squelches after squelches echo in the room but there’s no shame you can muster, not when he feels so incredible.

The pain is quickly spiralling into pleasure and every part of him is pushing you to the edge— his strength, his length and girth, his low groans and hisses, the hairs that tickle your skin, and those eyes, scouring your features and not missing a single thing. 

Embarrassing sloshes and splats! are reverberating against the walls, just as the creaking of the bed frame, and the slapping of skin reach your ears. You’ve never heard yourself sound so dirty, so reckless, so downright pornographic. All of it is pulling you under even as the ache in your thighs from the overuse of them is making your rhythm irregular and jerky.

“Gorgeous -ha- gorgeous girl,” he says through gritted teeth.

His point is emphasised by a slap against your ass cheek, the sting makes you fall over, back onto his chest which is sticky with both of your sweat mixing and mingling. The hairs on his chest brush against your nipples, still sensitive from his rough sucking and biting last night, and you whimper. 

Growling in your ear, he plants his feet onto the bed, and oh god, he’s grabbing your ass in both hands and you know without even having to look at him that he’s grown tired of your amateurish performance; Toji is taking matters into his own hand. 

“Guess I still gotta do the -hah fuck- work ‘round here. Always such a —ngh— princess. Hold on tight, ma, ’s gonna be a bumpy ride.” His laugh rumbles under your body and an eye roll is all you can manage before you’re being pummelled into from underneath, jostling you in all sorts of directions. 

Plunging his cock at an incredible speed, you feel him in your stomach, in your lungs, God it’s like he’s in your head, filling every fold and crevice with his beastly intensity. “Toji! No! Ngh, s-stop! I can’t, fuck it’s so good! Yes! Oh! Oh! Nooooooooo.”

“No, yes, no? Make up your mind, ma. Use that city girl head for me,” he growls out, punctuating his mean question with a cruel laugh. 

Bundling your hair into a careless fist, he yanks you back from his chest, forcing you to confront him. He’s not flushed, his face isn’t crumpled in desperation, he isn’t even out of breath. In fact, there would be no sign he’s enjoying this —you, being inside you, holding you — except for the bead of sweat trailing down his temple, drawing your attention to the way those jade beads are flickering between your eyes and your swollen lips. 

“Kiss?” You ask, breathlessly. 

Toji furrows his brows, something flashing in his gaze, something that resembles confusion, conflict, or hesitation. It’s so quick you wonder if you imagined it but there’s no time to ponder longer because he continues his incessant assault on your poor pussy, kissing your cervix with every thrust, practically rummaging your insides with the way he’s using you like a toy once again. 

It’s filthy, it’s carnal, animalistic and oh so good.

“Yeah.” He licks his lips, pearly white row of knives for teeth on perfect display. “Give me a big wet kiss, baby. Make it worth my -hngh fuck!- t-time.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to stretch forward, he slams his face to yours, smacking his plump lips, gobbling you up despite your moans of surprise. He shoves his tongue in with as much ferocity as he’s thrusting his cock inside your poor battered pussy. That tongue licks and explores like he can’t get enough, like he wants to memorise every curve and edge.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

A huge hand lays consecutive slaps against your ass again, the flesh rippling and burning. He times it with every thrust, heavy balls smacking your skin too. It’s all too much too soon and you feel an orgasm bubbling from your throat and your cunt. 

“W-what is that? Oh my god!” Something thick is attempting to enter your sloppy pussy, round and threatening. You squeal when it pushes in after a particularly merciless thrust and grind from Toji. The extra stretch brings about a sharp pain. You tear up. 

A hand that’s clutching an ass cheek ventures deeper, trailing a finger to a hole you’ve never touched. Smothered in his chest, the onslaught of stimulation from all angles is killing you. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to breathe, no one to turn to for help from the man making good on his promise to leave you bruised, sore, and all chewed up. 

“’s my knot, babygirl. Fuck, you really don’t know shit about hybrids, huh? Well, y’r gonna be educated soon.”

The dark, sadistic tone of his is making you dizzy. In a panic, you hastily say, “N-no! I can’t. Really, Toji! I r-really can’t. Pleaseeee.”

With your hair still in his grasp, your head’s tilted back once again, but this time to bare your slender neck. In one fell swoop, that bulge gets shoved inside your cunt, plugging you up, and his maw clamps down on your neck, so close to puncturing you with his savage teeth.

“Oh! I’m gonna cuummmm! Toji! T-Toji! Stop!” Your jaw drops, eyes rolling back, and your nails dig into his meaty pecs for purchase. It’s like electricity is wracking your body, sizzling every hair strand, tickling your nipples from inside. Grinding against his pelvis, your oversensitive clit is caught in his hairs, creating a remarkable friction you can’t escape. “Oh, fuuuuuuuuuck!”

Broken chuckles emerge from his sinful mouth, “Go on, ma. Cum on my cock, milk me, just like that, oh shit, such a good girl, fuck!”

His brutal pace splutters as he follows suit, balls clenching whilst your walls attempt to push out the invasion of his cock and his knot. A crazed laugh echoes right by your ear, you don’t know what’s so funny but stuttered moans are the only sounds you can make as you chase your high. 

“Ah, fuck, y’r so fucking tight. Practically -ha- choking me heh.”

You feel hot cum paint your insides, drizzling down your walls with nowhere to go. He’s thoroughly filled you and when you attempt to lift your hips to get up, you realise, he’s not letting you go any time soon. 

“Nice try, ma. Unfortunately for you, y’r stuck with me for about twenty minutes or so till it goes down. Probably should’ve bought condoms heh.”

“You should have given me a warning, Toji,” you mumble, pouting. 

Goosebumps litter your arms; the chill of the morning air is settling reminding you just how bare you really are. Thankfully you don’t have to suffer for too long because he’s shuffling so he can throw the covers over the both of you. With his natural body heat, you’re more than warm and cozy, especially as his burning cock is still inside you. 

He licks a dried trail of tears on your cheek. “Sorry. Thought you knew.”

“Well, I didn’t. This is my first time with a hybrid.”

Grunt. 

A beat or two passes, a comfortable silence humming between you. He’s so big and meaty it feels like you’re going to melt into him. Now that you’re not so distracted by cock and cum, and the morning light is shining through the curtains, you can see his scars much more clearly. He’s littered in them, some like slashes and others just scarred-over holes.

You have so many questions, none of them leave the tip of your tongue. 

“Ask.”

You pause. “Can I?”

Huff. 

“Okay,” you trail off. “Why do you have so many scars?”

Tickling your spine with his callouses fingers, he skims your back absentmindedly. You lay your chin on his chest, watching him look at somewhere in the corner of the room, clearly falling fast in an endless hole of memories. This is a rare opportunity to more about the enigmatic wolf-man who showed up at your doorstep in the middle of a snow-storm, claiming to have known your late grandmother. 

More silence fills the air. His fingers have stopped.

You nuzzle his jaw with your nose, burying it in his beard. It seems to snap him out of his daze. He grunts once more, licking your cheek, not to taste the salt on your skin, but as if to say ‘thanks’. 

“Been on my own for a while. For as long as I can remember, actually. It’s…tough out there. Not everyone is as nice as you and your gran.”

Carefully, you hazard a guess. “Were these from people? Hybrids or normies?”

He gropes your ass like a stress ball. 

“Both.”

“I mean, I’ve heard stories of the kind of abuse and discrimination hybrids face from normies, it’s quite prevalent in the city despite recent equality laws but why would your own kid hurt you? Aren’t you all in the same boat? Isn’t there some kind of…camaraderie? Sorry, is that insulting to assume?”

Spanking your ass, he huffs a laugh. “You’re adorable. No, don’t look at me like that, kid. It’s cute of you to think that’s how it works.”

“It isn’t?”

You don’t take offence to his patronising tone; you had expected to be wrong about aspects of hybrid life. Normal, average humans outnumber hybrids at a ratio of four to one. Some hybrids are lucky enough to be passing, kinda like Toji, but others carry visible signs of their anthropomorphic genes. The latter are rarely treated well despite the fact that they’ve existed just as long as normies have. They used to live in their own continents, building large civilisations far more expansive than humans have achieved at that time. 

But war is a cruel mistress.

For many reasons, humans and hybrids stayed away from each other. It was only relatively recently they’ve begin co-existing, even inter-mixing. The change has been hard for many people. Perhaps not most of society, but enough to make the idea of living as a hybrid make you grimace. 

“Nah,” he says, almost finishing his reply there until he sees your inquisitive eyes and he continues, “there’s lots of different kinds of hybrids. We don’t all like each other. And not all of us running the same race. There’s a lot of competition, suspicion and hatred. ’s always been the case.”

Nodding, you prod further. “And your scars? Did they come from bar brawls or something?”

“Some, yeah. Others from professional fights.”

You perk up. 

“Professional fights?”

In a flash, the cover is falling onto the floor and you’re upright once more. Toji’s pushed the both of you up and off the bed, holding you in his arms with his softening cock slipping out of your pussy. You scramble to gain better grip of him.

“Oh my god! Give a girl a little warning. God, Toji! It’s cold.”

He licks your ear. 

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. With ease, he carries you out of your room and into the bathroom. “Let’s wash up and start the day. ‘m starved.”

Rolling your eyes, you let him have this one chance at evading your question; you’re just pleased to have learnt a little more about him. It feels like he’s letting you in, presenting himself openly just for you. For a wild man like him, whose solitary despite his nature, this is the greatest gift he could give you.

Toji’s a thorough washer — he shampoos your hair better than you ever have and not a single crook or cranny gets overlooked. But as soon as you get clean, the so-called day doesn’t get started anytime soon when he falls to his knees and shoves his face into the apex of your thighs, making a loud sniifffff before he growls and laps up the mixed juices of his and your cum. 

In next three days that pass, you notice the dynamic between you shifts. 

For one, he no longer sleeps in his own room but rather in yours. He follows suit after dinner and removes his shirt, freshly showered and completely bare, and hands it to you wordlessly. You wear his shirt, and only his shirt, to bed. 

Lunch is no longer eaten separately. He joins you wherever you are, whether that’s in your room, all warm and cozy under a mountain of blankets, or on the sofa, also all warm and cozy under a mountain of blankets. You watch movies on your laptop and he never argues with your choices. Sometimes he just eats in silence, right beside you, as you read a book or stare out the window. 

Toji’s much more touchy now. Before, he was sneaking in grazes and quick gropes, now he’s lost all reservation and politeness. When you’re cooking, stirring something as you hum to music, he creeps up behind you, pinning your body to the counter with his hips and he wraps an arm around your torso to weigh a breast in his palm, squeezing and massaging for his own pleasure. 

He’ll tweak a nipple, pushing your hair back to skim his nose against the length of your neck, inhaling deeply and stopping to mouth wet kisses on that bruising around the teeth marks he’s left there.  Most times he’ll let you be after he’s had a fill of your softness, but sometimes he kneels behind you and tears apart your pants with a resounding SSSSSNAP! Before he laps up your pussy from behind, food coming out just a little more cooked than you’d like, though he never seems to mind. 

And it must be worth mentioning that the sex is constant. 

Every night and every morning. It isn’t a stretch to say that you eat, sleep and breathe sex with Toji. Which you honestly can’t complain about. It’s always so rough and so good every time. 

However, his insatiable appetite is making it ever so slightly hard for you after — there’s a perpetual soreness in your joints and in your pussy, you find yourself looking behind you to make sure that when you bend down to pick up whatever it is you’ve dropped he won’t be there playing with your cunt with his fingers and/or mouth. 

His hearing is incredible. 

Sometimes you hide just to time how long it takes for him to find your hiding spot. Longest time was three minutes. The cabin isn’t the biggest in the world but there are plenty of places to hide, like closets, under the bed, behind sofas and doors. 

Still hard at work fixing bits and pieces around the cabin, Toji somehow always knows when you’re up to some mischief. Maybe it’s because your heart starts beating faster or because you let out some giggles, envisioning that glint in his eyes and in his teeth when he grins at your pathetic attempts to escape him. 

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because your panties get soaked with anticipation for his rough, calloused hands throwing you over his shoulder and onto a bed, his or yours he doesn’t care, and fucking you into a drooling mess. Sometimes he even gets so impatient, so riled up, he just takes you wherever you are, your face smothered in a pile of folded clothes or against the wall with your panties dangling from an ankle. 

Everything has been great. So great in a way you’ve never known greatness to manifest. It’s somewhat akin to, what you can only imagine to be, the completely liberating sensation of flapping your wings and cruising high up in the sky or running through a stream, chasing a fish with no end in sight. It’s the kind of greatness men strive for all their lives but never reach because it’s a greatness they were already born into and never realise. 

The routine, the mundane, the ordinariness. 

It’s all so great. 

At night, you trace nonsensical words and shapes into his skin, smiling at the soft snores that vibrate under your head. You’ve always thought living every day the same as the day before and the day before that as a labyrinth you’ve been sentenced to die in, a cage or a prison of your own making. But now, you can’t imagine ever wanting more. 

Of course, it hasn’t been perfect.  

You still find some moments a little too boring but those are usually when he’s busy fixing a wobbly chair or grouting the tiles in the bathroom. And you do crave the feeling of driving through a long, empty road, or eating fast food. Those moments, thankfully, are hastily washed away once you feel his calloused hands tethering you back to him.

One other problem you’re having is his beard. As attractive as it is, it’s scratching up your thighs a little too much. You’ve noticed the rash forming between your legs; he has a penchant for eating you out at the drop of a hat and he’s not gentlemanly about it. At. All. You don’t ever want him to stop and the threatening snarl he makes every time you attempt to push him away from your swollen and overstimulated pussy never fails to halt your movements. 

So there’s only one solution.

“Toji?” He lazily drags his gaze up your bare legs, stopping by the hard nipples poking through shirt, and then he meets your gaze with a brow raised. “Would you ever consider shaving your beard?”

The growl of ‘no’ comes before you could even finish the word ‘shaving’. His jaw clenches and a muscle ticks. 

“But I can shave it for you. Being a woman, it’s kinda part of my existence. I’ll do you up real nice.”

“Hell will sooner freeze over before I let anyone put something sharp against my neck again. Even if they’re you.”

You drop it for now. 

At night, after hours of mind-blowing sex, you lay all sweaty and sleepy on his chest once more with a heavy arm slung over your waist. You twist the hairs on his face, rolling a couple strands between your fingers. They’re quite long and thick. You wonder when the last time he had shaved was. 

“Please?”

“No.”

You sigh. 

The next morning, you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the bathtub and attempting to rub some soothing ointment meant for your face onto the irritated skin of your inner thighs. It’s getting worse and you’re at a loss. Making it hard to walk, you’re cursing every god out there for doing this to you. 

Is his aversion to sharp objects near his head because of some trauma or an animalistic instinct? It’s hard to tell with hybrids, as the internet forums you’ve explored lecture — hybrids are both governed by human complexity and base biological instincts. Studies that have been done on them over the year have put forth some credible results but people are quick to put a disclaimer that animals in captivity rarely behave the way they would in the wild.

You sigh again.

Maybe you’ll have to tell him to stop eating you out. You cringe. That won’t go down well, pun intended, and you don’t want him to. Frowning, you carefully massage in the ointment, hissing at particularly sensitive spots. 

“Fine. You can shave it off,” he grumbles. 

You hadn’t even realised he was standing in the doorway, watching, and scratching his beard like he’s noticing, really noticing, the hairs on his face. One glance at the mirror across the room and he’s furrowing his brows, perhaps baffled at the man staring back at him. 

His tone is hostile, but his acquiescence makes you smile. 

About ten minutes later, you’ve sat him down on the edge of the bathtub, right where you were before, and you’ve assembled everything you need: razors, scissors, a comb, shaving cream, towels, and a tub of aloe vera to soothe any razor burns. Everything but the aloe vera is pretty pink, and you can’t help but giggle a little as you take a step back to admire this big, burly man surrounded by utterly feminine products. 

“Alright, I’ll start by trimming it, okay? I don’t want to come at it straight away and spook you, so let’s take it nice and slow.”

He huffs. “Don’t gotta talk to me like I’m a kid. Do what you gotta do.”

With the scissors and the comb, you cut away at his beard, snipping here and there and trying to get it all even. It’s not an easy job — he growls when you venture too low, past his jawline and closer to his Adam’s apple and when he makes that throaty sound, you’re met with images of him biting into your throat, the way a dog does when you step on its tail.

Terrible as it is to compare a biological human male like Toji to an animal, it’s a fair comparison considering his reliance on his animal instincts. It’s been abundantly clear in the way he uses his senses to gain his bearings, how he never expresses a desire beyond eating, sleeping and fucking. There’s no vanity coursing through his blood, he doesn’t stare at himself in reflections, doesn’t fix up his hair or put on clothes that fit or match, and even how he doesn’t ever say pretty words, only what he means, no more and no less. 

It’s nice. 

So used to the way people sugarcoated their complaints or hid ulterior motives in every sickly sweet words, adjusting to Toji’s matter-of-fact way of speaking had been somewhat difficult. 

But change is necessary. Just as the seasons change, so do animals, even humans. With how they adapt to the change in the wind, the drop in the temperature, the quake in the earth, you know without needing to ask questions or to have more time with him, the hybrid in front of you, part wolf and part man, has never had the luxury of being stagnant. 

It was clear when he showed up at your door with no bag, just the clothes on his back and the muddy, worn down boots on his feet. Even fully fed, lounging on the sofa by the fire with his feet and torso bare, you sense the tension freezing his body; he’s always ready to run. 

He snarls and flinches when he feels the cold blade of your scissors touch his skin. And then his hand grips your thigh, both in warning and to tether himself, perhaps to remind him you’re not a monster thirsting for blood, his blood, but rather just a woman. A woman he’s seen completely bare, a woman who’s crawled on all fours and nuzzled her face against the seam of his jeans when he returns from fixing a tile on the roof, and a woman who’s laid it all out for him, starting from what led you here and ending to where you want to be. 

Uncomfortable and on edge, you already know you’re not going to get very far with the way he’s being. He needs a distraction. 

You kiss him. He growls for a different reason this time. Fingers threading in your hair, he holds you down to him, tasting the sweetness you’re offering. He laps it up. “Toji, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Face burying into your neck, he takes a long inhale there. “I know.”

“I’m gonna get started on the shaving cream, okay?”

His grip on you tightens and you know he’s aware that razors are sharper than scissors, much like how his teeth are sharper than yours. You don’t want to know what events he’s lived through to be so hostile against the act of shaving but he isn’t an animal, not fully, anyways. 

He’s also a man. 

And men conquer. 

Even when they shouldn’t. 

You slide your panties down, dangling it in the air for a second, hesitating but you see the appraisal in his eyes, always so suspicious like he’s thinking of all the ways one could be killed with a scrap of lace. Dropping it on his face, you tell him, “I don’t see why only one of should be vulnerable here.”

Rumbling a pure sense of bliss, his eyes flutter shut and he sniffs at your panties. His hand flies up to your slit just as you’re smearing shaving cream all over his jaw, pulling the panties away from him for a second. 

“Seeing me all tense is getting you soaked?” His lip twitches. 

“Hey, now, let’s not even get started on that seeing as you’re pretty hard for someone suffering some internal battle.”

He gives you a rare grin. 

The rest of the torture goes on in relative peace — you shave him bit by bit, going slowly and keeping your touch gentle especially as you near the softness of his neck and when you go over it with the razor, he takes a deep inhale of your panties, trying to shake off that unnatural acceptance of something so dangerous, so compromising, so utterly unlike him. After every slither of skin you’ve rid of hair, you give him a kiss which he insists on deepening, shoving fingers into your cunt just to feel you clench down on him. 

Soon, he’s completely smooth and it’s only when you step back that you take it all in. He was handsome with the beard and he’s just as handsome now. He also looks more youthful, more boyish, and free. 

Toji comes to a stand, staring at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t say a word, neither do you. A barrage of thoughts pass through his mind, flashing and flickering. His fingers feel his skin, jerking at the complete bareness of it all. You can’t tell if he likes it, if he regrets his choice, and if he even recognises the man under all that wild and untamed hair. He had been running so long as a wolf, perhaps he’s forgotten how to walk as a man. 

That’s what you think, until he makes some gesture with his hand and he says, “Got no reason to push me away now, so spread those legs, ma. Let’s go for a test drive.”

You don’t leave that bathroom until hours later, sore, wet, sticky and thoroughly blissed out.

The next day, just before lunchtime, Toji goes to chop up some more wood for the fireplace whilst the snow has stopped falling just for today. You’re watching him through a window, bundled up in a blanket holding a steaming cup of hot chocolate, and not at all envious of him, what with the chilling weather and his lack of a coat. 

You really have to buy him one. He doesn’t look the least bit cold, which you don’t really understand, but still, something about the picture looks off. It’s not fair you get to be all comfortable, lazing around, and he’s hard at work. 

The phone rings. 

Your head snaps to the coffee table which your phone lies on, vibrating against the wood. A new number. When you answer, you’re surprised to recognise the voice immediately. 

“Hi. Yes, I’m managing quite fine.”

The old man sighs. “How glad am I to hear that. The storm has made it rather hard to get a hold of you and I certainly couldn’t make the journey up.”

“That’s quite alright. I really appreciate the thought, it’s very sweet of you.”

Exchanging pleasantries and talks about the various favours he owed your grandmother, over five minutes pass, and you’re itching to urge Toji back inside, fearing that he could drop dead at any second from the chill.

Eventually, and thankfully, the conversation nears an end with him insisting that as soon as the snow thaws enough you come on down for dinner at his home. He says his sons and their wives all love a good, hearty meal as a family. There are even grandchildren for you to play with should adults not be your speed. “Yes, yes, of course. That sounds great, thank you.”

“Alright, bye, dear. I’ll call back again to check up on you and please remember you can always call on me and my kids for help.”

Humming, you’re about to end the call when his tone changes. 

“Speaking of help,” he begins, clearing his throat. “How have you been managing to get on so well?”

Toji’s still chopping wood, swinging that heavy axe back behind his head and down in one smooth strike, cutting the log in a perfect half. You press your legs together, unable to take your eyes off his bulging biceps. You love when he shows off his strength, it comes so effortlessly to him, unlike the men where you’re from whose muscles are all for show, satisfying their own vanity and quelling their insecurities momentarily before they’re inhaling steroids like air. 

“Oh, you know, this man my grandmother befriended over the years came by and has been helping me out since. He’s quite familiar with the ins and outs of the cabin so I really couldn’t have done any of this without him. I’d like to bring him along to dinn—“

“A man?”

You frown. “Yeah, Toji. Surely you must have met him at some point since he and my grandmother were quite close.”

“I knew it! I knew I saw him here days ago. Oh, goodness. I’m so sorry you ran into him, but please stay away from him.”

What the hell is this man talking about?

“No, it’s Toji, he helped my granny during the winter months. He fixed things up for her and helped her get around. He was like a friend to her in ways me and my siblings should have been. He’s really nice, you’ll like him.”

The man in question is scratching his jaw, still getting used to being so bare, and he’s rolling his head around as if bothered by some crick in his neck. He’s got an impressive pile of logs waiting to be fed to the fireplace and you know he’s going to head back in any second now. For some reason, you feel guilty, like you’re doing something you shouldn’t be, talking to someone you shouldn’t talk to. 

“Y/n, listen to me. Please!” The urgency, the insistence, and desperation in the old man’s voice is palpable, a hand reaching through the screen and choking air right out from your lungs. Your heart begins galloping. “That man is a criminal. He’s wanted, a fugitive! H-he’s a killer.”

Confused and somewhat exasperated, you argue, “No, you’ve got the wrong man. I’m telling you, we’re talking about different people here.”

You can’t shake off the abrupt shift in his voice. From caring old man with a shaky baritone to a firm, military like precision. It’s as if you were talking to a completely different man.

A beat passes and you think he’s hung up, that this odd conversation is over and done with but one glance at the screen tells you differently. He doesn’t say a thing, and all you can hear is the rushing of the wind and grunts and thuds outside. 

Irritated by this entire farce, your thumb moves to press the end-call button but then you hear him on the other line.

“Does he have a scar on the corner of his mouth?”

The blood drains from your face.

“H-how did you know that?”

A noise of death and despair reaches your ears. He’s shouting something to someone else, you can hear their alarm, can feel the anxiety, the dread and terror in their voices, muffled as they are. “Get away from him. Get away from him now! Do whatever you can. You mustn’t let him get his hands on you. H-he’s one of them. One of those abominations. A hybrid, a dangerous kind.”

“What are you talking about? Just tell me what’s happening, please, you’re not making sense right now.”

“He killed your grandmother!”

You drop your mug. It shatters by your feet. The creamy chocolate milk pools into a puddle, soaking your socks. There’s ceramic chipping littering the floor and you can’t move, can’t go anywhere without taking a big leap. 

Slowly, you look up from your phone screen, hearing subdued questions of fear and panic on the other end. Through the window, you meet Toji’s eyes. 

He’s looking right at you.

You hang up. 

It takes three seconds for him to get to the door, pushing it open. He shakes off the snow off his boots, banging them against the doorframe, and the axe he had been holding is set down by the shoe rack, the metal clinking, as he enters. Light from the ceiling bulb reflects directly off the sharpest point, shining in your eyes. Are necks harder to cut through than wood?

“Ya alright?”

Plastering a cheerful smile, you nod. 

He doesn’t look convinced. 

In a blink, he’s in front of you, cradling your face in one cold hand. He tilts your chin back and searches your eyes. He doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for so he sniffs the air and his eyes darken. Slowly, like you’re a deer, he asks, “What are you so afraid of?”

“Oh, nothing. Really. I was just reading the news online and stumbled across articles about the war in that country in the East, y’know, the one with the hospital bombing. It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t read it,” he says. “Show me.”

Your heart beats impossibly faster. You know he can hear it. There’s no way he can’t with his wolfish hearing and with a finger on your pulse. Maybe that’s why his other hand, just as cold, wraps around your wrist and he tugs it towards him. His nails scrape against your skin and his hand eats up your wrist entirely, middle finger folding over his thumb. At any given second, he can snap the bone there and not bat an eye. 

Laughing nervously, you tug your hand back, to no avail. With a forced nonchalant tone, you inform him, “I wanna get all cleaned up. I feel a little icky, and all sweaty and sticky from this morning so I’m just gonna take a nice long bath.”

He lets you shake him off but only after he’s taken the phone out of your death grip. He can’t unlock it, he doesn’t the password. But that was never his intention. He doesn’t even look down on the screen. As fast as you can without looking panicked, you stumble away from his reach and towards the door. 

“Y/n.”

Your smile shakes.

“What did they tell you?”

Your smile falls off altogether. 

“Toji,” you begin, “p-please, let’s not do this.”

His scar twitches and when he makes a step towards you, you step back. There. You almost missed it, almost blinked and lost your footing. But his eyes unmistakably flicker from you and to the side, by the door, at the shoe rack. You don’t need to turn back to know what exactly he’s eyeing. Calmly, he asserts, “You won’t last an hour outside. You won’t even reach the forest’s edge before I get to you. You don’t know your way down. And if it ain’t me, it’ll be the elements that’ll kill ya. Be wise, kid.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

With the scarlet blanket still hanging off you, you dash towards the door, pulling the shoe rack behind you and the sound of clattering and a thud forces your legs pumping. 

You run. 

You run and you don’t look back, you don’t stop, not even for a second, not even when your socks are soaked with snow and not melted chocolate. The trees welcome you as you dash in between trunks, lunging over thick roots and dodging low hanging branches. You don’t know where you’re going, where you can go. 

A sob rises from your throat, clawing its way out. 

He was right. You don’t know your way down and the freeze is creeping in, frosting over your veins and seeping into your bones. The movies show the power of adrenaline all the time, how it’ll wash away any and all feelings that aren’t helpful for survival, but it’s not enough. 

Your muscles are aching, your cheeks are burning and your fingers are beginning to itch and tingle. You weren’t meant for survival. You weren’t meant to put up a fight. 

When he gets to you, he’ll snuff the light right out of your eyes with one swipe of his arm. You’ve seen what he can do with those hands, you’ve felt the way they wrangled you into position, hell you’ve drooled over the bruises he’s left on you. And you never once thought you’d be running from the hands that dragged you over a cliff of pleasure, that carried you around, and touched you so soothingly.

Without needing to hear heavy footfall, you know he’s after you. You have animalistic instincts too. 

A dead woman running is what you are. You were dead as soon as you picked up that phone call. 

No. 

You were dead the moment you opened the door. 

“Fuck!” You scream. Ignoring the ache in your legs and the pain in your ankles, you sprint as fast as you can. Your body’s being pushed to its limits; you’ve never ran like this before. Granted, you’ve never been chased by a murderer either. 

The absurd turn of event make you laugh, deranged and broken, and it echoes around the forest. As far as you can see, there’s only trees and snow, perfectly white, pristine snow. There are no roads, no houses, no people. No one to help. No one that can hear you scream. 

You should have stayed in the city, should have never left, should have never gotten bored. Spontaneity isn’t your thing and you’re learning it the hard way. There’ll never be an opportunity to put into practice the moral of the story that’s being engraved into your DNA right now. No one will even notice you’re gone — you aren’t close with your family, and you don’t have friends, not really anyways.

There will be no mourning, no grieving, there won’t even be a goddamn funeral. 

Heart threatening to tear through your body, you collapse against a tree. You’re panting, chest heaving as you gulp down as much air as possible. The bark scratches your forehead but you can’t muster a shred of care, not when every limb is shaking both from the cold and the effort.

There are an array of shallow cuts all over your arms and face from where low hanging branches have whipped against your skin, attempting to get you in their clutches, to slow you down. The forest isn’t your friend. This isn’t your domain, It’s his.

“Y/n!”

You smother the startled cry with the palm of your hand.

He’s near.

Tears stream down your face, falling onto the snow beneath you. Numb, you briefly worry you’ve lost your feet altogether. One glance down disproves that but you’re still not convinced. You hug the blanket closer around you; it does absolutely nothing to keep the warmth in and the cold out. And yet, you can’t bear to let it go. 

“I can hear you.”

Lips quivering, you bite down hard. Iron lays on your tongue. There’s nowhere to go. He had found you so quickly and he knows the forest better than you. How many times had he made the trip to that cabin? How many times had he sought out your grandmother? Had smiled at her, chopped up wood for her, had collected groceries and medicines? How many times had she let him in every time he knocked, every time he emerged from the shadows and soaked up the warmth of her kindness?

What were her last words? 

No, please, don’t! Spare me?

Or why, Toji, why?

What will be yours?

A flash of movement catches your eye. He’s not panting like you, he’s not even sweating. When he steps forward, brushing his hair back, you don’t fail to notice he didn’t come empty handed. 

His eyes glint, sharper than the axe he carries, and he’s roving over your features, watching you tremble. One sniff and his scar is stretching. 

“Y’r afraid.”

“Yeah, no f-fucking kidding!”

Even as he keeps his voice deceptively soft, much like how it is when he’s lulling you to sleep, you can’t stop staring at the axe. That stupid fucking axe he just had to bring with him. You sob. 

“Just leave me alone, please.”

Scoffing, he steps closer once more. “Not even gonna ask if I did or didn’t?”

You shake your head. 

“Don’t do this. Please, don’t do this.”

He lunges, pinning you to a tree with a forearm to your throat. Radiating heat, your body betrays you and presses closer to him, desperate to envelope yourself in that warmth. You want nothing more than to be back in bed with him, oblivious to the rest of the world. You want to go back to before that phone call and make it so that you never found out, so that you never picked up the damn phone. 

Teeth snapping a hair’s breadth away from your nose, he demands, “Ask.”

“Did you?” You scream at him. “Did you kill my fucking grandmother? After everything she did for you? After she showed you kindness and hospitality and gave you friendship? Did you kill her even after she begged? Did you watch the life fade from her eyes knowing she never got to say goodbye to me? To any of us?”

His glare softens. There’s a tenderness swirling in those green eyes, a fervour and understanding that thaws your heart. He looks like the Toji you know, or rather, knew. He looks like the Toji that had pushed himself to trek in the snow for hours so you can be fed, the Toji that kept you company every day, that fixed things without needing to be asked, the one that made you coffee and knew just how you liked it, the one that traced patterns you had drawn him on your skin when he thought you weren’t awake. 

“Did you kill her?”

Scar grazing your lips as he inhales the shampoo from your hair, you feel his answer just as well as you hear it. 

“Yes.”

A gunshot resounds in the air. It’s sharp and startling, cutting through the crisp silence with a violent roar. The sound lingers in the air, echoing and rattling your bones like it had been fired inside you. 

“Get the fuck away from her, beast!”

You turn to the side. A man you don’t recognise is standing metres away holding a shotgun. His face is contorted in rage, creating deep shadows and wrinkles that make him look infinitely older than he likely is. Smoke wisps away from the barrel of his fun, pointed at the sky. A warning shot. 

Toji pushes you behind him as he growls. 

“Fuck off. She’s mine.”

You trip over your blanket. Through his legs, you see that man lower the gun till it points in your direction. You’re frozen in place. 

“Let her go and turn yourself in. An animal like you needs to be muzzled and put down,” the man spits, venom flooding his words. He looks at you. “Come here. My father sent me. You know him.” 

Stumbling to a stand on shaky knees, you back away from Toji, going around the tree and making your way to the other side. He doesn’t stop you, just watches every move you make as if you’re standing in a field of landmines. His grip on the axe doesn’t loosen and he makes no sign he’s going to give himself up. 

“T-Toji, don’t fight, please just come with us. If you give yourself up, maybe they’ll go easy on you,” you plead. 

He growls, grimacing. He’s contemplating it. That means everything to you. In some sick, pathetic joke, you actually pity him. There’s still a huge part of you that cares, that wants what’s best for him, that loves him. But that part needs to be extinguished because he’s a cold blooded killer and he’ll turn those murderous hands on you. 

Leg jerking, he makes a step towards you. It feels so right, you mirror his movement, like this one act, one sacrifice makes up for everything, like it erases the sins of his past and washes away the blood on his hands. 

“Ahh!” You’re yanked back by your hair. 

“Don’t get near him, you stupid bitch! He’s a fucking mongrel.”

The snarl that ripples from Toji’s throat pierces through haze, rustling the branches up above and forcing a flock of birds up and away. He charges towards you, axe raised up high and you shake yourself from the man’s clutches, jumping out of the way just in time before bodies collide and they both fall. 

Rolling away, you bundle up the blanket you’re shielding yourself with and cry into it. The sound of bodies being beaten, arms bent, stomachs kicked and necks bitten into make you cringe. You cry harder. You don’t dare look at who’s winning, you can’t bring yourself to look. It’s because you don’t want to see the violence, don’t want to see blood, but there’s a voice screaming that it’s because you’ll die if the one who walks away from this isn’t Toji. 

“Don’t fucking touch her!”

“Get the fuck off me! You filthy mutt!”

You’re digging your nails into the bark of a tree, flinching with every blow. You hear fists slamming into flesh, each punch a blunt weapon bruising and breaking, bone-crushing swings whistling through air followed by sharp exhales of pain and vomit-inducing cracks and pops. The struggle is relentless, blow after blow, and you hear the gun clatter as it’s kicked to the side. 

SNAP!

“You should have never come back! You should have died on the side of the street after what you did to that woman”

POP!

“Ahhh! Fuck!”

SMACK! 

“Ya don’t know shit!”

The trees are spectators, moaning and whistling in protest at the unholy sight, at the splatters of blood contaminating their ranks. The branches shake in warning but no one is listening.

Whimpering, you hum a song, trying to block out the repulsive sounds of senseless violence. You should have never been here. You never visited because you couldn’t stand the isolation of a cabin in the mountains, couldn’t stand the unconditional love your grandmother gave you, of which you knew then and you know now, you were never deserving of.

If you had been dutiful and even had a fraction of her selflessness, you would have taken care of her so that she never relied on a man with sharp senses and a dangerous smile.

If you had been a good granddaughter, that man would be roaming the world, unburdened by material possession and human attachments. He wouldn’t be beating a man black and blue, wouldn’t be tearing flesh from bone, wouldn’t be debasing himself for your sake, or his. You don’t know anymore.

You turn to yell at him to stop, for him to run instead. But your words are swallowed by a gunshot. 

A body falls to the floor in a dull thud. Crimson dyes the snow, puddling into a shade so dark you could always persuade yourself it’s not what you think it is. Time slows. You can see every flake of snow pause in the air, you can count them, can collect them in your hands. The wind has disappeared, leaving behind a stillness in the air that’s suffocating, choking you from inside. Even the trees have stopped their moaning.

Your heart stops beating.

Someone stands over the body, holding a smoking gun, and it isn’t who you wanted it to be.

“Toji!” You scramble over, hands shaking harder than ever before. 

He’s clutching his chest. Hot liquid drenches your pants. You didn’t realise fresh blood would be so warm and you wish so badly it wasn’t because it means that the warmth that should be inside him is leaving, being absorbed by the ground, by you.

Green eyes, dulling, meet yours. He smiles. “She asked me to. She was in pain. Couldn’t make it down through the snow. She asked me.”

“N-no, stop it. Save your breath, please.” Through your sobs, you turn to the nameless man, pale under the cuts all over his face as the snow and shuddering from the shock of what he had done. “Call the ambulance! Call somebody! Please!”

“C-car. I-it’s in my car.” Staggering back, he drops the gun and fishes out his keys, muttering frenzied apologies under his breath. He limps his way back, weaving through the trees.  

Despite having less cuts and bruises, he’s in much worser state. His chest heaves and you’re trying to press down on the wound like you’ve seen in the movies but you don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know whether you’re supposed to be smothering the hole with a dirty blanket or if you should be performing CPR. No one had ever trained you for this. This wasn’t covered in any of those HR meetings. “Oh, god, Toji. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. Oh. God. I’m so so sorry.”

Lifting a limp hand, he brushes a tear away only for it to be replaced by a hundred more. He huffs a weak laugh at the blood he smears on your face and he tries to brush that away too.

“I’d always wanted to meet you. She spoke of how beautiful, how kind and generous you are. Her favourite. Didn’t believe her, y’know? I thought, no one could possibly be that nice if they never even visit their gran. But I’d always wanted to know for myself.”

You shake your head. He shouldn’t be speaking. He should be saving his breath, should be focusing on keeping awake until help arrives. “Stop. Please, just stop. Don’t waste your energy on me. I-I don’t deserve it. I should have listened, should have heard you out. Oh, god, Toji.”

He huffs an amused laugh. He sounds so clear, so loud, so alive you could actually convince yourself he doesn’t have a bleeding hole in his chest. But you can’t because you can feel the blood flowing out, it’s caking your legs and your hands. 

“You wanna know what I think, ma?” Pulling you close, you don’t fight his grip. Through your whimpers, you press your ear to his lips, holding him close like you could will your own warmth to him, like you could jostle you both back to consciousness. “I think y’r even more beautiful than she said. My gorgeous gorgeous girl. Mine.”

It’s unclear if he said anything else after that; you could only hear your own pleadings and sobbing as his arms fall limp and his body grows cold. There came rustling from all over the forest like they heard a tree fell, a mighty and sturdy tree. They warned you. There are consequences to dirtying the snow’s purity, to upsetting the balance. That’s a lesson all animals know. But the battle that had gone on here wasn’t committed by preys and predators. Just men. 

And men never learn their lesson until it’s far too late. 

The trees cry with you.

For you.

When the marching of people came some time later, all yelling and barking orders to each other, they found you lying on his chest, just as you had for many nights and had imagined you would every night after, with a red blanket pulled over the both of you. 

There, silent as a lamb, you slept. 

A tear-stricken city girl and her big, bad wolf. 

Neither of which would ever live again. 

[spurbleu]

neighbor!simon x reader. longer read. follow up.

your neighbor is a homebody. sort of.

he’s either never home or always home. you aren’t sure what he does, but whatever it is leaves his flat vacant for months at a time, not so much as a mouse breath breaching the thin popcorn walls that separate your rooms.

and when he is in the complex, you’d never know it. a shut in, the only give away is the muffled news channel that burrows through your moldings, or smithed footfall at ungodly hours.

the first time you caught him moving in while off to work. big bloke- and when you waved to him he stared, before lumbering into his complex. given, he was holding a large cardboard box, so you weren’t expecting him to return the greeting. but a hello would’ve been nice.

it was 4 months until you got a good look at him.

you were awake at a time you shouldn’t have been for a reason you had long forgotten. you do remember thinking you might as well do your laundry.

when you went down to the mat, there he was.

tracker fed shoulders taking up half the space, and on an inhale they took two thirds. clothes looked as though they had been dyed in pen ink and left to dry in hail. mud boots, thick legs, and the silhouette of a cauliflower ear against the fabric of his balaclava.

he glared at you like you weren’t supposed to be there. an anomaly, disturbed his routine. steel face, stone eyes, swear you’d seen the same look in your history books on the shields of greek soldiers.

it all scared you shitless, so you turned on your heel and didn’t go back until the morning. you make it a point to hustle past his door after that.

but you tend to take more than you can handle. swaddling your groceries as you wobble up the stairs, just barely there before your foot catches on the last step. produce among some of the other fragile items scattered across the tiles, and you curse under your breath.

you wouldn’t characterize yourself as a klutz, but it scrambling to collect your groceries feet from your door isn’t helping your case. the paper bags struggle against your grip, and it feels like you’re just biding your time until they all rip apart.

“you need help.”

its said more like an observation than it is a question. you turn slowly, and a goliath stands 6 feet and something over you. he sports a medical mask and a ballcap, which reveals new features- sun bleached skin that peels from the bridge of his nose to between his brows, which are thick and blonde. the left is cut in half by scar tissue and spite. if you squint you see freckles.

the night he scared you, you remembered his eyes as pitch. crow feather. under your bed.

you now see they’re the deepest shade of brown.

“i- no its fine i..” your arms do a dance with the bags, trying to keep them steady.

he grabs them both from you, and suddenly they still. its like handing squealing pigs to a farmer. built for holding them. it makes you feel weird that you like it.

“unlock the door.”

you do as you’re told and find your keys in your back pocket. fumble at the lock before opening the door and standing to the side to let him in. he nods.

sets your groceries down before gently tipping the brim of his cap. he doesn’t say anything before leaving.

and this started the strangest routine.

every week you’d get groceries, he’d be there.

the first time he was on the second flight of stairs. when you questioned how he knew you’d been shopping, he rolled his shoulders and scoffed.

“your huffin n puffin gave you away.”

he was there for four more trips. each time, you had gotten more words out of him. found out he had the driest sense of humor and a plethora of knock-knock jokes that you painfully laughed at.

he even kept up with the occasional flirt.

“yknow, you could start charging for your manual labor.”

“you rich?” he returned.

you laughed. “far from it. but this is a service, and you haven’t started making demands so…”

he stopped and stared at your back before you turned around. “so what?”

“i have to assume you just like me.”

he rolled his eyes, but you caught the way his cheek twitched under his eyes. although it was hidden by the mask, you had made him smile.

“don’t get your hopes up.”

all of it was enough for you to get comfortable. and then he wasn’t there.

the absence was strange enough to make your pace stutter when you reached the second floor, but you recovered and trekked to your room.

not without glancing at his door, though.

he must be back at work. surely he isn’t…well. he couldn’t have moved out without telling you. you aren’t close but maybe you are?

you thought so hard about it for so long that you placed your ear to the wall separating your flats.

after a few moments, you heard nothing. not even a mouse breath.

you felt foolish for being so relieved. and you kept feeling foolish for hoping he’d be there with every errand, and disappointed when he wasn’t.

it was 4 more groceries trips before you saw him again.

waiting at the entrance of the complex, crossed arms and black attire stood out like a sore thumb in the winter blight that bit at your nose with snow and temperatures below freezing. you picked up the pace.

when you got to the cement steps, you sorely regretted your decision to jog. not because it winded you, or it amplified the struggle you had with your bags, but because of the smug smile you could see crinkling the bastards cheeks under his mask.

“you missed me.”

you handed him a bag. “i missed your arms. carry that.”

you could hear the grin from behind you.

“whatever you say, sweet’eart.”

[kkusuka]

more roommate simon!

i love the idea that simon thinks he's super open and available with his emotions and reader thinking he's really cold and disinterested. is he ooc? yeah. do i care? no. if you want cannon ghost, play the game!

simon riley doesn't know when you became so important to him.

the only reason he even put out the ad for a roommate was because his landlord though he'd moved out while he was away and he'd rather have some bird in his place than deal with that again.

you were just so easy; showing up to the coffee shop (where you requested to have your first meeting just in case he was some crazy murderer) face flushed, strands of hair all over the place, and sweater a mess; rushing to explain how you got sprayed by a sprinkler on your walk over then chased by a dog. and just as you repeat sorry for the 30th time simon thinks he's in love. you're officially his roommate 30 minutes later.

but it's so out of character for him. he hasn't been around anything other than hard ass military men since he was a teenager. fuck, he's killed hundreds of men in his line of work, tortured thousands more. (he doesn't like to think that that's why he's so drawn to you. that you're so different from who he has to be, someone he's been for so long, that being around you lets him breathe. that he feels like he can actually sit and enjoy his moments away from the field in your tiny manchester apartment.)

he thinks it actually started with the decorations.

the small trinkets you let around the common spaces when he was away. it starts with your room obviously; fairy lights above your bed that spills light into the hallway when he comes home in the early morning hours, paintings on the wall that eventually flow over into the living room, the small plants in your window sill that you ask him to water one day after you leave for work.

then the dinner table suddenly has checkerboard placemats and a vase of flowers that change with the season. and his run-down couch has decorative pillows and a throw blanket (both words he learned from you when he questions what the fuck is on his couch). then the bathroom in the hallway gets a new soap stand, and a mat is placed at your front door, next to the shoe organizer and coat rack.

so he starts buying things too; the penguin plushie in the supermarket window, the vase that matches the curtains in the living room, and a small skull magnet to rest on the face of your fridge.

and before simon knows it his dreary, cold apartment actually looks lived in. and instead of coming home to a dark hallway and an empty fridge, your flower lamp is on, some random show from the 90s is playing, and there's food on the table.

he gets to know you more than he thought he would; he knows what foods you don't like, the books you're reading and the ones you refuse to read again, and even that dick from work he promises to take care of if he bothers you again (it's evident that you think it's a joke and not something that he would genuinely do but simon doesn't think he's ever been more serious).

but he never lets you know too much about him, you don't need to know about it and the less you find out the better.

then came dinners, actual dinner not just him showing up while you already had food ready. you would ask if he wanted whatever you had made ( 'i'm already making food and i normally don't eat is all anyway, so i might as well share' ). so suddenly he was spending his nights at your table with a homecooked meal and simon doesn't think he could ever let this go.

then he gets sent away again, for way longer this time. he makes sure to update his paperwork, changes his emergency contact, your name swirled onto the spouse line. you were probably as close as he'll ever get to one and if you're there they'll tell you if anything happens to him faster. he doesn't want to think of how nice your first name looks with his last name. and you'll probably never even know, simon's never gotten that injured before and he doesn't plan on it now.

months in the heat of the middle east return him to hard shell of a man he was. coming home caked in dirt, blood speckled on his clothes; he doesn't want you to see him like this, he doesn't want you to know this version of him. and for the first time he regrets letting you come into his life.

you are home when he gets back, 2:30 in the morning and every light is off, he opens your door to make sure. you're asleep, not shocking, cuddled into the giant octopus you won at an arcade. he tries not to move, he just wants to look at you for a little bit.

he wakes up the next morning to breakfast and a new pair of combat boots. he's only home for a week this time, not that he's ever home for longer than a month, and he tries to soak up all of your time. you complain about your car, he's on it. the heater started being testy, that's fine he'll take care of it. he's going grocery shopping with you, he watching that weird hospital show, and he enjoys his time in domestic bliss before getting thrown back into some random country.

somehow that all led him here. laying in a hospital bed with two bullets lodged in his shoulder with you sitting in some shitty chair pulled as close to the bed as you could.

"so uh, i'm mrs. riley now?"

"yeah, ya are. 'av been for a while."

[undercvrfan444]

You had been moping around the house all day, upset that Satoru left so early in the morning without telling you why.

All you remember is him pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead and telling you he’s going out before hearing the front door shut to your shared apartment. You whined in protest as he pulled away from your sleeping body causing him to giggle quietly when slipping out.

A few hours had passed and now you were really curious to see where your boyfriend had gone. You know he couldn’t have went out on a mission because he would have said something beforehand. No. When he left the house this morning he was dressed in a casual pair of pants and a hoodie with some sneakers so obviously it wasn’t anything important.

You had showered and gotten dressed for the day all so you could lounge around and wait for Satoru. It made you feel a little better about Satoru being gone because at least he’d come home to you somewhat presentable.

The sound of keys jingling and a lock switching out of place catches your attention. You sit up hastily on the couch and see your boyfriend’s large frame come into view. A small pout graces your lips when you see his hood on his face.

“Satoru what have I told you about wearing your hood? It makes you-“ The words cease to come from your mouth as soon as you see him take the hood off.

The reason for him leaving so early in the morning was so he could get a haircut. Now listen; Satoru was handsome with grown out hair of course, but something about his neatly trimmed mop and cleaned up undercut just did something to you.

Your boyfriend flashed his pearly whites at you while prancing over to you like a show pony. “How do I look baby?” Bending down, Satoru presses a kiss on your lips and pulls you up by your wrists to stand in front of him.

Silky white curls twirl in your fingers the second you touch them. Your pinky’s grazed the short hair in the back without a second thought. “Toru!” His name came out as an appreciative whine.

Truth be told it was hard for you to express how much you loved his haircut right away. However, the longer the day carried on Satoru can tell you love his new look because of the way your hands are constantly in his hair.

It’s impossible for him to go anywhere on his own in the house. Going to the bathroom? “Hurry up!” Getting thirsty and wanting a drink? Too bad because you’re gonna be right there behind him with your hands in his hair.