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brunchable · 8 months ago

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It's not a Meet-𝑪𝒖𝒕𝒆, it's a Meet-𝗨𝗴𝗹𝘆. 《 Chapter 2: Figaro The Sleuth. 》

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Themes: It's not a meet-cute, it's a meet ugly, Grumpy Meets ✨️Sunshine✨️, Opposites Attract, Sassy Pet Matchmaker, Enemies-to-Lovers (Lite), Destined to meet again, Bucky is a hidden softie. Summary: Smelling another cat's scent on his owner, Figaro took it upon himself to investigate. Fourdays later, Y/N found herself back at Sarah's apartment where she unfortunately have to ask Bucky is she could borrow some hot sauce. A/N: This story will be OUTSIDE of MCU but Bucky's traits will be mixed comics/mcu. I hope I tagged everyone? Credits to me for the Banner lmfao. credits to @ khaer for the divider.

Figaro had a new plan today: track down the intriguing scent he’d picked up on his owner. After his daring escape from the penthouse, he trotted purposefully down the street, trailing the scent until it led him to a familiar building—one he’d noticed you visiting before. He circled around, spotting an open ground-floor window with a fire escape leading up to it. With a practiced leap, he made his way to the windowsill and peered inside.

There, lounging on the other side of the window, was the white cat he’d been tracking. She was pristine, her fur gleaming as she carefully groomed herself, completely unbothered by his presence. Figaro tilted his head, studying her for a moment before he gave a soft, questioning chirp.

Alpine paused mid-groom, her icy blue eyes sliding over to meet his with a hint of disdain. She stared at him for a long moment before slowly stretching, as if to say, And who do you think you are?

Figaro didn’t back down, flicking his tail in a friendly, if smug, greeting. Figaro, he replied, his eyes scanning the cozy room behind her. You must be the reason my human came home smelling like… this place.

Alpine blinked, then raised a delicate paw, resuming her grooming as if he hadn’t even spoken. Oh? she drawled, looking entirely unbothered. And you’ve come all this way to investigate a little scent? How curious.

Figaro’s whiskers twitched with amusement. Let’s just say I have a nose for… mysteries. And last I checked, my human doesn’t usually come home with traces of other cats all over her.

Alpine tilted her head, a slight smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, there was no other woman she slept on except you. Your human happens to have a very cozy chest, she said coolly. Can’t blame a cat for taking advantage. She paused, her icy gaze sharp. In fact, you should be grateful.

Grateful? Figaro echoed, tilting his head. Why exactly?

Alpine gave him a level stare, her tail flicking with amusement. If it weren’t for me, your precious human would’ve had the cops called on her. My human doesn’t take too kindly to… unexpected guests.

Figaro’s eyes widened, and he gave an involuntary twitch. Cops? he muttered, momentarily thrown off his cool facade. He quickly recovered, looking her over with renewed respect—and mild suspicion. Alright, maybe I owe you one.

Alpine returned to grooming her paw, feigning indifference. Yes, she replied with a graceful flick of her tail. You do.

Figaro sat, tail curling neatly around his paws, trying to look nonchalant. You don’t exactly seem like the… charitable type.

Alpine finally met his gaze directly, her icy blue eyes narrowing. Maybe I’m just better at making friends than you are. She gave a dainty sniff, her nose twitching. I noticed you took the fire escape. Not exactly… refined, is it?

Figaro let out a soft huff, unimpressed. Refined? I’m practical, Snowball.

Alpine’s ears flicked at the nickname, but she didn’t rise to it. Instead, she leaned forward, her gaze assessing. You can call it whatever you like, Figaro. But from where I’m sitting, it looks like I’m running things here.

They stayed like that, locked in a silent stare-down, each refusing to break eye contact first. Finally, Figaro let his shoulders relax, flicking his tail in what almost seemed like an invitation.

Alright, Fancy Paws, he said, stepping back a bit on the ledge, but don’t think I’m letting you off easy. I’ll be around, keeping an eye on you.

Alpine gave a dismissive flick of her tail, already turning her back on him. Suit yourself, Figaro. But if you insist on loitering around my window, at least try not to mess up the view.

Figaro held his ground a moment longer, watching Alpine with an air of suspicion and intrigue before turning to leave. Just as he took a step back, the sound of footsteps approached. Alpine’s ears flicked toward the door, but she stayed still, her eyes narrowing at Figaro with a smug, unbothered gaze. Figaro, sensing a disturbance, glanced sideways, only to freeze as the towering figure of Bucky appeared in the doorway, staring directly at them.

Bucky squinted, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe. "Well, well, what do we have here? Alpine, making friends, are we?"

Alpine gave Bucky a dismissive flick of her tail, as if to say, You’re interrupting. She turned her head slightly, clearly unimpressed by his sudden interest in her business.

Figaro, meanwhile, stared up at Bucky with wide eyes, frozen mid-step on the windowsill. Who's this guy? he thought, sizing up the new human with a cautious flick of his tail.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, looking between the two cats, and then down at Figaro. "You lost, buddy? Or are you trying to start some kinda turf war?"

Figaro sat down, trying to look as dignified as possible, though the tip of his tail twitched with irritation. Turf war? he thought indignantly. I don’t fight over territory; I’m above that.

Alpine let out a low, amused mrrr, watching Figaro’s attempt to keep his cool. Bucky noticed and shook his head, chuckling.

“Looks like Alpine’s not too impressed with you, pal,” he muttered, addressing Figaro with a smirk.

Slowly, Bucky crouched down and extended his hand toward Figaro, palm up and open, giving him a chance to sniff. Figaro gave Bucky a wary once-over, then cautiously leaned forward, taking a whiff of the offered hand.

After a moment, he deemed the human acceptable and rubbed his head against Bucky’s fingers, allowing himself to be petted. Bucky grinned, running his fingers along Figaro’s head and scratching just behind his ears.

"Not bad for a visitor, huh?" he murmured, watching as Figaro leaned into the scratch, clearly enjoying the attention.

Once Figaro had gotten his fill, he stepped back, giving Bucky a cool, satisfied look, as if to say, You may continue.

Bucky watched this with mild amusement, shaking his head.

“Alright, tuxedo,” he said, nodding toward Figaro. “Why don’t you head home before Alpine here decides you’re overstaying your welcome?”

Alpine lifted her nose in smug agreement, casting Figaro a sideways glance as if to say, You heard him.

Figaro shot her a pointed look, not backing down. I’ll leave when I’m good and ready, he thought defiantly, but he knew when he was outnumbered. With a haughty flick of his tail, he turned to make his exit, sauntering slowly toward the window as if he had all the time in the world.

Bucky crossed his arms, watching the tuxedo cat make his grand departure.

“Yeah, you walk out of here like you own the place,” he muttered with a smirk, glancing at Alpine. “What is it with you and making new friends?”

Alpine gave him a single blink, cool and unbothered, her gaze following Figaro’s departure as if evaluating his exit strategy.

As Figaro disappeared down the fire escape, Bucky shook his head, half to himself. “This is what I get for leaving the window open. Next thing I know, there’ll be a whole parade of fancy-pants cats lining up for you.”

Alpine sat up, eyes following the retreating Figaro with a glint of satisfaction before she returned to her spot, grooming her paw as though nothing had happened.

Bucky watched her, chuckling softly. “Yeah, that’s right. You’re a real heartbreaker, aren’t you, Alpine?”

Alpine ignored him, flicking her tail just enough to indicate her complete and utter satisfaction with the encounter. She was, after all, a cat with standards.

× × × ×

Three days later, you found yourself sitting in a restaurant so lavish it looked more like a set for a movie than a place to have dinner. Soft candlelight flickered across the polished marble tables, casting a warm glow on the extravagant decor that screamed exclusivity. The maître d' had known Rhys by name, pulling out your chair as if you were royalty. It was the kind of place that made you feel like you needed to hold your breath just to fit in.

Earlier that day, your office had practically turned into a florist’s shop when an oversized bouquet of roses—deep red and fragrant—showed up on your desk. It wasn’t just one bouquet, either; it was a veritable mountain of roses, nestled in some kind of ornate, hand-painted ceramic vase. The card was short and simple: “Dinner tonight? 8 PM.”

Now here you were, seated across from him, watching as he signaled for the sommelier with a single, graceful nod. Rhys didn’t bother looking at you as he ordered a bottle of something with an Italian name, smooth-talking the waiter in a way that made you roll your eyes. He finally turned back to you, offering a soft, knowing smile, like he could sense your doubts and was ready to soothe them.

“Look, I know things got… a little off the other night,” he began, reaching across the table to take your hand. His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles, and he looked at you with that careful sincerity that had always been hard to resist. “I hate it when we’re not on the same page. You mean so much to me, and I wanted tonight to remind you of that. You deserve this, babe.”

You managed a polite smile. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done this before: a grand gesture, an expensive dinner, and words that, despite their warmth, somehow felt rehearsed. Last time, it had been diamond earrings. The time before that, a weekend getaway to Paris that he’d spent glued to his phone, disappearing to “handle some things” every few hours.

The sommelier arrived with the wine, pouring a small taste for Rhys, who swirled it with the grace of a practiced connoisseur. He took a sip, nodded approvingly, and gestured for the waiter to pour the full glasses.

“Perfect,” he said softly, as though he’d picked it himself, and turned his gaze back to you. “So, what do you say we start fresh?”

You tilted your head, studying him, hoping for something genuine in his expression. But there was nothing new. Just that same easy charm, the kind he wore effortlessly.

“Rhys…” you started, trying to find the right words.

He gently squeezed your hand, tilting his head slightly, his expression one of calm understanding.

“Hey, babe, listen. I know I messed up, alright?” His voice was tender, soothing. “But can’t we just put it behind us? I’m right here, with you, doing everything I can to make it up. Doesn’t that mean something?”

A faint smile tugged at his lips as he leaned back, looking at you with an almost expectant patience, as if waiting for you to see reason. You forced a smile, telling yourself that it was fine, that maybe you were overthinking things. Relationships took work, right? And you loved him… didn’t you?

As your dinner arrived, he launched into a story about his latest business meeting, rattling off names of people he expected you to be impressed by, and you nodded along, offering the occasional polite laugh. But the small alarms in your mind wouldn’t stop ringing. Rhys didn’t really ask about your day, or your work—he never had. And if he did, you knew he’d be glancing at his phone before you finished, acting engaged but never quite listening.

“So, how about a weekend away?” he said suddenly, his eyes sparkling with that warm look he reserved for moments like these. “Just you and me, away from all this work stress.”

You looked at him, nodding, even as a part of you screamed that this wasn’t right. But the lure of another apology, another expensive night out, dulled the doubts, and you pushed the thoughts aside.

It was easier that way.

As the waiter cleared the last of the plates, Rhys stood and held out his hand, offering that practiced smile. "Shall we?"

You nodded, slipping your hand into his as he led you out to the valet station, where you waited for the chauffeur to pull up. The evening air was cool, and you were tempted to lean back and close your eyes, but a movement caught your attention. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Bucky walking by, his stride casual and confident, accompanied by a woman with a striking red braid. Your heart skipped a beat as you quickly ducked behind Rhys, hoping to blend into the background.

Rhys, however, turned, confusion in his eyes as he looked down at you. "What are you doing?"

“Stay still!” you hissed, pressing closer to him and peeking over his shoulder.

“Why?” he asked, craning his neck to look at whatever had made you react this way. Before you could stop him, he turned completely, exposing you from behind him.

You let out a panicked whisper. "Rhys, stop moving!"

Thoroughly confused, Rhys spun around again, only to reveal you once more as you scrambled to hide on his other side.

“What are you—? Seriously, just stay put!” you whispered fiercely, holding his arm tightly and ducking behind him again, your cheek pressed against his back.

Rhys, looking even more baffled, twisted once more to try and figure out what on earth had you acting this way. “But why—?”

“Oh my god, just stay still!” you muttered, exasperated, as he finally held himself steady, though his eyes continued darting around, searching for whatever mystery threat you seemed to be hiding from.

As Bucky and Nat walked past, still engrossed in their conversation, you held your breath, ducking even lower and gripping Rhys’s arm like a lifeline. Nat laughed at something Bucky said, and you couldn't help but notice their casual, easy camaraderie as they walked by. You felt your heart pound as you willed yourself to blend into Rhys’ back.

Rhys finally exhaled, rolling his eyes as he watched them move down the street, oblivious to the scene.

“Whoever you’re hiding from is gone,” he remarked, his gaze lingering a bit as he tracked Bucky’s figure down the sidewalk. Then he turned back to you, a bemused smile quirking up the corner of his mouth. "Happy now?”

You straightened, smoothing your dress as if nothing had happened, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

"Yes, actually," you replied coolly, though your heart still raced. You could feel Rhys’s curious gaze on you, but you ignored it, simply hoping you’d managed to avoid a real meet-awkward.

× × × ×

The elevator doors slid open into your penthouse, and before you could fully step inside, Rhys’s lips were on yours, his hands wrapping gently yet firmly around your waist. He kissed you with tenderness, pulling you closer as he nudged you backward. You found yourself responding out of habit, but as his hands started to roam, a flicker of doubt stirred within you.

Your hand pressed gently against his chest, breaking the kiss. “Rhys… I’m not in the mood tonight.”

He paused, his expression softening as he pulled back, a look of quiet and heavy disappointment in his eyes.

"Oh," he murmured, running a hand down your arm as though trying to be considerate. “It’s okay,” he said softly, offering a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just… I miss you sometimes, you know?”

A twinge of guilt pricked at you as he sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I mean," he continued, his voice taking on a gentle tone, “I get that you’re tired. I just thought we’d have some time for each other tonight, that’s all.”

You felt yourself wavering, the familiar tug of guilt making you second-guess yourself. But as his hand reached for yours again, you gently pressed both of your palms to his chest, holding him at a distance.

“It’s been a long day, alright?” you said, almost apologetically. “I’m just… not feeling it.”

Rhys gave a small, understanding nod, though his face betrayed a hint of hurt.

"Yeah, no, I understand," he replied, though there was a faint edge of disappointment in his voice. “You’re probably right. I mean, we just don’t seem to connect like we used to, do we?” He gave a soft, wistful smile, brushing a thumb over your hand. "Maybe it's just me."

Before you could respond, a low growl echoed from across the room. You glanced over to see Figaro, your tuxedo cat, perched on top of the bookshelf, his yellow eyes fixed on Rhys with an intensity that made your heart swell a little. Figaro leapt down gracefully, landing on the floor and taking a protective stance in front of you, tail flicking as he let out another warning growl.

Rhys looked at Figaro and forced a small chuckle, but you caught the faint flash of annoyance in his eyes.

“Well, at least someone’s looking out for you,” he said lightly, though his smile was tight. He took a step back, fixing his shirt with a sigh. "I guess I'll leave you to it, then. Don’t worry about me."

Without waiting for a response, he gave you a small, lingering look before turning and striding out, letting the door click shut behind him. You let out a long breath, glancing down at Figaro, who was still sitting protectively at your feet, a soft meow escaping him as his fierce stance melted, and he looked up at you with wide, inquisitive eyes.

You crouched down to his level, reaching out to scratch behind his ears.

“Thanks for the backup, Fig,” you murmured, smiling as he tilted his head into your hand, clearly relishing the attention. “You’re such a good bodyguard, aren’t you?”

Figaro gave you a quiet chirp in response, almost as if he understood. Then, with an air of determination, he began sniffing at your clothes, his nose twitching as he moved closer, inspecting every inch of fabric. You chuckled, catching on quickly.

“Oh, I get it,” you said, amused. “You’re checking for Alpine’s scent again, aren’t you?”

Figaro paused mid-sniff, blinking up at you as if he’d been caught in the act. Then, with a haughty little flick of his tail, he resumed his mission, sticking his nose right into the sleeve of your blazer.

“It’s been three days, buddy. I haven’t seen Alpine since I… well, you know,” you said, laughing a bit at the memory. Figaro gave a soft meow, clearly still suspicious, and continued his inspection. “Don’t worry, she’s just a friend. I wouldn’t replace you,” you added, scratching under his chin as he leaned into your touch, still purring.

Finally, after a few more sniffs, he seemed satisfied, giving an approving chirp as he headbutted your hand, claiming you for himself. Figaro then climbed into your lap, purring loudly as he nestled himself comfortably, his paws kneading gently as he curled into you, pressing his head against your chest as if to say, You’re mine.

You sighed, leaning back into the couch and smiling down at him. “Alright, alright, it’s just us tonight, then. Think you can keep me company?”

Figaro blinked up at you, eyes half-closed in contentment, letting out a soft purr as if to answer, Always.

As you sat with Figaro purring contentedly in your lap, your phone buzzed with a new message. You picked it up to see a text from Sarah:

Sarah: Hey! How’s the new life as CEO? Keeping everyone in line?

You smiled, typing back a quick response.

You: Barely! But let’s just say I’m becoming best friends with caffeine.

A moment later, your phone buzzed again.

Sarah: Atta girl! Listen, tomorrow night? Chicken and beer, my place?

You grinned, feeling a wave of relief at the idea of a low-key night with your best friend.

You: Sounds perfect. See you then!

Sarah’s reply came almost instantly.

Sarah: Great! And don’t get lost ;)

You chuckled, rolling your eyes at the reminder, scratching Figaro’s ears as he nuzzled into you. “Haha, very funny.”

× × × ×

You clutched an empty hot sauce bottle close to your chest, heart racing from more than just the unfortunate loss at rock-paper-scissors with Sarah. She had grinned wickedly, all too delighted that you’d be the one asking Bucky for a favor. And now, here you were, standing outside his door, staring at the peephole like it was some sort of intimidating abyss.

Why am I so nervous? It’s just hot sauce, for crying out loud. You chewed on your thumbnail, whispering to yourself as you rehearsed what you’d say when he opened the door. “Hey, Bucky, I, uh… ran out of hot sauce. Well, technically Sarah ran out of hot sauce, and now here I am…”

Taking a deep breath, you gathered what little courage you had, then knocked softly.

Almost immediately, you heard his voice through the door. “Hold on a sec.”

Your pulse spiked, and you scrambled to fix yourself up, smoothing your hair, adjusting your shirt, and trying to look as casual as possible—despite the butterflies in your stomach. It’s just hot sauce. Just. Hot. Sauce.

The door swung open, and there he was, looking every bit as annoyed as someone whose night had just been interrupted. Bucky was dressed down in a gray hoodie and sweatpants, with reading glasses perched on his nose, as if he’d been in the middle of something far more important than your quest for condiment rescue. He took one look at the bottle in your hand and sighed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Seriously?” he muttered, voice low and gruff. “Can’t stay away?”

You forced a grin, trying to seem unfazed by his tone, though your heart was doing a wild dance in your chest.

“Couldn’t stay away,” you managed, waggling the empty bottle in the air. “Actually, I’m here on behalf of Sarah, who—shockingly—managed to run out of hot sauce.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed as he looked at you, then down at Alpine, who had already trotted over to you, purring as she wove around your legs. He sighed, the tiniest bit of a smile tugging at his mouth, though his expression stayed mostly unimpressed.

“You two really are a piece of work,” he grumbled, almost to himself and referring to you and Alpine. With a low huff, he turned and disappeared into the kitchen, calling back over his shoulder, “Fine, hold on.”

You watched him go, unable to suppress a laugh as you crouched down to pet Alpine.

“Hey, sweet girl,” you cooed, scratching behind her ears. “At least someone’s happy to see me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky’s voice echoed from the kitchen, the same grumpy tone as before. A moment later, he returned, holding out a nearly full bottle of hot sauce. “Here,” he said, handing it over like he was reluctantly offering his most prized possession.

“Thanks, grumpy,” you teased, flashing him a bright smile. “I promise I’ll bring it back—maybe with some cookies to make up for the trouble.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, though you noticed he didn’t seem in a hurry to close the door.

“I’m not in it for cookies,” he deadpanned, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. But the faintest hint of amusement flickered in his eyes, like he was trying not to smile. “But whatever keeps you from raiding my kitchen in the future.”

“Duly noted,” you replied, giving him a playful wink. “And I’ll remember that next time I need a ‘neighborly favor.’”

As you turned to leave, you couldn’t help but glance back, catching the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips—a small victory in cracking the grumpy facade of the guy with the hoodie, reading glasses, and a talent for perfecting the art of being reluctantly charming.

Just as you took a step into the hallway, you felt a soft brush against your leg. You looked down to see Alpine, trotting along beside you as if she’d decided to join you for the rest of your night. She meowed up at you, purring as she rubbed against your leg, clearly delighted by the idea. Long time no see~ Can I join you?

“Oh no, you’re coming back with me,” Bucky called from the doorway, his voice filled with an exasperated fondness. He stepped out, crouching down and reaching to scoop Alpine up.

But Alpine had other plans. With a playful flick of her tail, she darted down the hallway, paws tapping lightly on the floor as she glanced back at you both, clearly treating this as a game. You let out a laugh, glancing at Bucky, who rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Alright, let’s go,” he muttered, already jogging down the hall after her. You quickly followed, trying to keep up as Alpine zig-zagged down the corridor, occasionally pausing just to watch the two of you stumble over each other in pursuit.

You lunged, reaching out just as Bucky did, your fingers brushing against his hand, warm and rough against your skin. You both froze for a heartbeat, your hands lingering on each other, fingers almost intertwining. His blue eyes flicked to yours, a faint, surprised softness in his expression.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice suddenly low, as he reluctantly pulled his hand away. His cheeks had a faint tinge of color, and he glanced down, avoiding your gaze.

“It’s okay,” you replied softly, feeling your own face heat up as the lingering warmth of his touch pulsed through your hand.

A soft meow drew your attention back to Alpine, who had trotted a few steps farther down the hall and was now looking back, her tail swishing impatiently, as if to say, Come on, don’t stop now.

You shared a glance with Bucky, both of you chuckling before you took off again, nearly colliding as Alpine darted between you, then back down the hall. You tried to cut her off, reaching for her just as Bucky leaned down, and your shoulder brushed his chest, your arm catching briefly against his as you both reached for the cat at the same time.

“Gotcha!” he breathed as he finally managed to scoop Alpine up, holding her securely in his arms. She gave a little huff of protest but settled quickly, casting a satisfied look at the two of you as if she’d planned this entire chase.

Bucky looked down at you, his expression softened as he adjusted Alpine in his arms. “She’s got a mind of her own,” he murmured, giving the cat a gentle scratch behind the ears. “If I let her, she’d probably invite half the building over.”

You chuckled, shrugging as you met his gaze, still feeling the warmth of his hand and the accidental brushes that had left your skin tingling.

“Well, who could say no to her?” You paused, catching Alpine’s approving stare, and added with a grin, “She has good taste.”

With a final smile, you turned to go, the warmth of his touch lingering as you walked back to Sarah’s, already looking forward to the next time fate—and perhaps a certain cat—might bring you and Bucky together again.

× × × ×

Bucky set Alpine down on the floor, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes at her. The lights cast a soft glow, shadows stretching as Alpine blinked up at him innocently before promptly starting to groom herself, as if she hadn’t just led him on a wild chase. Just doing my job here. Somebody has to give you a nudge.

“Oh, play it cool now, huh?” he muttered, watching her with a raised brow. “Got me running all over the place, and now you’re acting like you didn’t just make me look like a fool.”

Alpine paused mid-lick, giving him a blank, unbothered stare, then went right back to her grooming. Honestly, you wouldn’t need me if you’d get a clue. Ever thought of actually talking to her instead of grumbling? She flicked her tail with a touch of sass. Or maybe asking her name?

Bucky sighed, running a hand over his face. “You know, normal cats just sit still, Alpine. They don’t pull stunts like this.”

Alpine stretched out her front paws, yawned theatrically, and trotted over to her favorite spot by the window, where a perfect patch of moonlight poured in. She plopped down with a little huff, giving him a look that practically screamed Mission accomplished. Settling into the moonlight, she gave him a long, slow blink. Face it, you’re helpless without me.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, watching her settle in, already giving up on him. “Oh, so that’s it? You run me all over the hallway, leave me looking like a fool, and now it’s straight to bed?”

Alpine stretched luxuriously, flicking her tail, her eyes half-lidded as if she were already drifting off. Exactly. All done here.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” he muttered, unable to help the reluctant chuckle escaping him. “I’m starting to think you live to drive me nuts.”

Alpine’s only response was to give him a slow, deliberate blink, followed by a little yawn as she curled herself up into a neat ball. Trust me, I have better things to do. But if you need help with her, I’ll keep doing what it takes. She tucked her paws under her chest, purring softly as she settled comfortably into her moonlit spot.

Bucky let out a resigned sigh, shaking his head as he watched her drift contentedly into her nap, completely unbothered. “Nice, just real nice, Alpine.”

Alpine barely twitched an ear, her purrs steady as she nestled deeper, looking more self-satisfied by the second. If you’d stop being so dense, maybe I could finally get some rest. But nooo, someone’s gotta step in to make things happen.

With a chuckle, Bucky finally turned to leave, muttering as he walked away, “Yeah, alright, enjoy your victory. But one day, I’m gonna get the last word.”

She let out a long, dramatic sigh behind him, curling her tail neatly around her paws as she watched him go. Good luck with that.

× × × ×

You returned to Sarah’s place with the hot sauce in hand, still feeling the faint warmth of that brief touch with Bucky lingering on your skin. As soon as you walked in, Sarah’s eyes zeroed in on you, her mouth quirking up with barely-contained curiosity.

“Well?” she asked, leaning over the kitchen counter, an amused gleam in her eyes. “Did the hot sauce handoff go smoothly, or did you manage to embarrass yourself?”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t hide your grin. “Oh, you know, just the usual ‘I tried to borrow hot sauce and his cat made a break for it’ kind of thing.”

Sarah let out a cackle, grabbing a piece of chicken and waving it at you. “Oh, I can just picture it! Poor Bucky, trying to wrangle you and Alpine at the same time. Man’s got patience, that’s for sure.”

You snorted, sitting down across from her. “Honestly, if that cat has a loyalty bone in her body, I sure didn’t see it. She trotted right after me, looking like she was about to pack her bags and move in with me.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Well, maybe she just knows who has the better vibe.” She paused, then leaned in closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “And speaking of vibes… you still think Bucky’s kind of… hot, right?”

You blinked, caught off guard but unable to stop the laugh that bubbled up. “Sarah! I have a boyfriend, and you’re the one who’s supposed to be his neighborly buddy, not me.”

Sarah shrugged, unbothered. “Hey, just saying what we’re all thinking! I mean, that man is like a brooding mystery novel come to life—hoodies, reading glasses, and a cat? It’s like the universe took every mysterious loner trope and gave him an apartment across the hall.”

“It’s true. And he has this way of looking at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re worth his time or if he should just ignore you forever.” You snickered, leaning back in your chair.

Sarah burst out laughing. “Right? It’s like he’s thinking, ‘Should I be annoyed by you, or should I give you a chance?’”

You shook your head, rolling your eyes playfully. “And then there’s Alpine. She’s practically his little accomplice, just trotting around, inspecting people. I swear she judges everyone who walks through that door.”

Sarah nodded solemnly. “It’s like she’s screening potential friends for him. I bet you passed her inspection with flying colors, which probably drives Bucky insane.”

You grinned, reaching for the hot sauce and holding it up victoriously. “Well, in any case, mission accomplished. Hot sauce acquired.”

Sarah took it from you, her eyes twinkling with laughter. “Good job, hot sauce hero. And, you know, if you ever need another excuse to go over there… just let me know.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively, and you swatted her with a laugh.

“Calm down,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “I’ll leave the neighborly mingling to you.”

But as you settled back, that faint memory of Bucky’s hand brushing against yours slipped into your mind again, leaving you with a hint of a smile you couldn’t quite shake.

Sarah took the hot sauce from you with a grin, eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Honestly, though? As much as I get why you’re fangirling over Bucky, I think I’ll stick with you know… Captain America? Steve Rogers?” She wiggled her eyebrows, smirking as if she’d just revealed the world’s biggest secret.

Your jaw dropped as you laughed. “Wait, wait—you have a crush on Captain America? Sarah, since when?”

“Oh, since forever, love,” she replied, completely unfazed. “I mean, come on. Bucky’s hot and all, with the mysterious, brooding vibe—total cat dad energy. But Steve? He’s, like, America’s sweetheart. Have you seen that jawline? And don’t even get me started on those shoulders…”

You rolled your eyes. “Alright, but what does any of this have to do with Bucky?”

Sarah raised an eyebrow, deadpanning, “You’re joking. Please tell me you’re not that clueless.”

“Clueless about what?”

She sighed, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know, girl. Figure it out yourself.”

× × × ×

You stepped out of Sarah’s apartment in a fluffy bathrobe, hair piled in a chaotic bun, and wearing one of those ridiculous panda face masks. Sarah had bossed you into taking out the recycling, claiming you were “faster and had better balance,” even though you were pretty sure she just wanted to keep watching her favorite Korean drama on the couch.

Armed with a wobbly tower of recycling in one arm and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other, you shuffled down the hall, muttering about how unfair this was—considering you were the guest. Just as you reached Bucky’s door, the inevitable happened: an empty can teetered from the top of the stack, then clattered loudly against Bucky’s door before rolling down the hall.

“Oh, for the love of—” you grumbled, watching as a few more items tumbled out of your grip, scattering in all directions like rebellious escapees.

Grumbling under your breath, you set down the rest of the recycling and dropped to your hands and knees, crawling around to collect the runaway trash. One by one, you reached for a stray plastic bottle, an empty cereal box, and a rogue pickle jar lid, grumbling the entire time. Just as you stretched out to grab the can in front of Bucky’s door, the door swung open.

You froze, one hand outstretched, still on all fours as you looked up to find Bucky staring down at you, his face set in that trademark grumpy expression, one eyebrow raised in exasperation. There you were, kneeling on the floor in a panda face mask, coffee mug abandoned on the floor beside you, and a look of pure horror in your wide, panda-eyed gaze.

He looked at you, deadpan. “Uh… good evening?” His voice held a hint of a grumble, as if you were the hundredth person to knock on his door that night.

“Evening,” you squeaked, voice muffled by the mask. Slowly, you grabbed the can you’d been reaching for and straightened, still clutching the recycling like a raccoon caught in headlights.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms with a sigh, like he’d been forced into this position. “Taking the recycling out, huh? Looks… intense. Is the panda look part of the routine?”

You cleared your throat, trying to save what little dignity you had left.

“Sarah’s orders,” you muttered, attempting to sound nonchalant despite the panda face mask covering your face. “She said I’m faster, so… here I am.”

“Right.” He raised an eyebrow, looking skeptical. “Clearly, she picked the right person for the job.” He glanced down at the coffee mug on the floor, lifting his chin with a sarcastic edge. “And the coffee—emergency fuel for… panda-speed?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you replied, trying to sound dignified as you met his grumpy stare with a forced smile. “This is serious business. Not everyone can pull off recycling in full panda regalia.”

He nodded, holding his expression as flat as possible. “Right. Because it takes a real pro to look like a trash panda… while actually handling trash.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, fighting the urge to laugh. “Trash panda? Wow, that’s rich, coming from the guy who looks like he’d growl at Girl Scouts just for ringing his doorbell.”

His mouth twitched, but he stayed in character, leaning against the door. “Hey, at least I don’t terrify the whole building with face masks.”

“Oh, please,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “At least I put effort into my skincare routine. What’s your secret—‘scowl until the wrinkles gets intimidated’?”

“Cute.” He kept his tone flat, though you noticed the corner of his mouth twitch slightly. “I think the panda eyes bring out your sarcasm. Really… fierce.”

“Pandas are fierce,” you shot back, smirking under your mask. “They’re nature’s gentle-but-deadly combo. Kind of like me.”

“Right, gentle and deadly,” he repeated, barely able to hold back a smirk. “Noted. I’ll remember that next time I see you crawling around my doorstep with a coffee mug and a can of pickles.”

“Look, I was handling it,” you protested, still trying to keep a straight face. “Just because you caught me in the middle of a… tactical maneuver doesn’t mean I don’t have it under control.”

“Oh yeah, sure,” he replied, maintaining his unimpressed stare. “I’m sure that’s what it was. You were practically radiating grace.”

You couldn’t hold back a laugh, rolling your eyes as you gathered the rest of the stray recycling. “Alright, laugh it up, Mr. Permanently-Annoyed.”

“Hey, I’d offer to help, but it looks like you’ve got it,” he replied, making no move to lend a hand, arms still folded as he watched you with that unimpressed look.

You stood up, giving him a playful glare. “Yeah, I do. Just don’t go stealing my panda-recycling techniques. They’re patented.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he replied, his tone dry. “I’ll leave that look to the professionals.”

You turned to head down the hall, tossing back, “Good choice. It takes real skill to pull off ‘panda chic.’”

“Goodnight, trash panda,” he called after you with a lazy smirk, watching you attempt to saunter off with some semblance of dignity, though the effect was slightly ruined by your still-panda-masked face.

As you disappeared around the corner, you could hear his quiet, begrudging chuckle echoing down the hallway. You couldn’t help but smile, already thinking up a new comeback for the next time you’d cross paths with Mr. Grumpy Neighbor.

× × × ×

The next morning you stepped out of Sarah’s apartment, adjusting the delicate gold earring in your right ear as you locked the door behind you. Dressed in a sleek, tailored blazer and wide-leg trousers, paired with heels that clicked confidently against the hallway floor, you looked every inch the CEO. The polished look was worlds away from the panda-masked recycling chaos of last night, and you felt ready to conquer the day.

As you turned, you found yourself face-to-face with Bucky, who’d just exited his own apartment. He paused, taking you in from head to toe with a carefully neutral expression, his gaze lingering slightly on the structured blazer and the quiet luxury of your outfit.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, and then, almost in sync, you both broke the silence with a slightly awkward, “Good morning.”

Bucky’s eyes met yours, but his expression remained unreadable, and you couldn’t tell if he was surprised by your transformation. Maybe he was, or maybe he just couldn’t resist an opportunity to tease you.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a bit as he gave you a slow once-over. “Well, look who cleaned up nice. Didn’t recognize you without the whole… ‘trash panda’ ensemble.”

You raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh as you shot him a sidelong glance. “Ah, the ‘trash panda’ look. You must be so disappointed I don’t wear it more often.”

With huff and a shrug, Bucky stepped aside, allowing you to pass, his eyes lingering briefly as you walked down the hallway, his blank expression still firmly in place.

You both stepped toward the elevator, waiting in silence as the numbers slowly descended to your floor. As you stood there, you found your gaze drifting toward Bucky every now and then, stealing quick glances at him out of the corner of your eye. Was it wrong to find another guy attractive? Maybe it was just because you knew next to nothing about him—his name, his apartment, the fact that he had a cat named Alpine who seemed to have adopted you.

Another glance. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a natural ease in the way he stood there, casual yet composed. 183 centimeters? you guessed, then reconsidered, 187? Wait, you were wearing heels, and he was still a good bit taller than you. 190, maybe?

The elevator doors opened, and you both stepped in, standing side by side in silence as the doors closed. Suddenly, your phone buzzed. You pulled it out, and Rhys’s name flashed across the screen. Stifling a sigh, you answered in a hushed tone, trying not to disturb the quiet.

“What is it, Rhys? I’m on my way to a meeting.”

His voice was casual. “Thought I’d just check in. Haven’t heard from you all morning.”

“I’ve been busy,” you replied flatly, your tone holding an edge.

“Busy with what?” he asked, sounding as though he couldn’t imagine what you’d be up to that didn’t involve him.

“Work, Rhys. You know, that thing I do for a living?” you replied, your voice dripping with sarcasm, feeling Bucky glance at you from the side, probably picking up every word despite your attempt at discretion.

Rhys scoffed on the other end. “Alright, no need to bite my head off.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’ll call you back when I’m free. Bye, Rhys.” You ended the call, slipping your phone back into your bag with a sigh.

Beside you, Bucky’s gaze flickered your way, a slight furrow forming between his brows. The last time you’d been stuck together in this elevator, you’d been all sarcasm and snapping at him for noticing your impatience. Now, here you were, practically glowing, looking like the kind of person who actually enjoyed mornings. He seemed to be weighing this change, his expression unreadable as he watched you out of the corner of his eye.

You slipped your phone back into your bag, trying to shake off the lingering frustration from the call. Clearing your throat, you glanced over at him, forcing yourself to sound casual.

“So… what’s got you out so early this morning?”

Bucky turned his head slightly, meeting your gaze with a flicker of surprise, his brows lifting as if he hadn’t expected the question. He shrugged, his mouth tugging into a faint, almost amused line.

“Just some errands,” he replied, his hands still tucked in his pockets.

You nodded, raising an eyebrow as if trying to read more into his response. “Errands. Very mysterious,” you said, a small, teasing smile tugging at your lips.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, a low chuckle slipping past his lips as he watched you.

“Mysterious?” he echoed, that faint smirk softening his usual gruffness. “What’s so mysterious about errands?”

“Oh, I don’t know… just something about the quiet guy, up early, hands in his pockets, looking like he’s got secrets.” You shrugged, casting him a mischievous glance.

He huffed, shaking his head, though his eyes held a flicker of humor as he glanced away.

“Trust me,” he muttered, a trace of a smirk lingering, “it’s nothing exciting.”

You tilted your head, giving him an exaggerated once-over. “No, seriously,” you said, folding your arms with a mock-critical expression. “You don’t exactly give off ‘morning person’ vibes.”

He raised an eyebrow, playing along. “Oh yeah? And what’s that supposed to mean?”

You held back a grin, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Well, you’ve got that whole ‘leave me alone or I’ll bite’ face going on,” you teased. “Figured mornings would be your natural enemy. You know, like sunlight to a vampire.”

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.

“Careful, now,” he said, eyes twinkling with mock offense. “Are you discriminating against morning people with a resting bitch face?”

You snorted, barely holding back laughter. “I don’t know, maybe! But you’ve got a chronic case of it,” you teased. “It’s tragic, really.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, real tragic. Guess I’m just doomed to terrify cheerful people like you.”

“Well, you’re definitely succeeding,” you replied with a grin, giving him a playful nudge as the elevator doors finally opened.

You let out a small sigh, looking up at him with a sweet smile. “Alright, well… I’ll see you later, Bucky,” you said, giving him a little wave as you stepped out, turning to head down the hall.

The moment you turned your back, Bucky’s hand started to lift, returning the wave as if on autopilot. Realization hit a second later, and he froze, staring at his own hand with a look of utter horror. He quickly dropped it, scowling at his own reflex as if his hand had betrayed him.

The elevator doors closed, leaving him alone, still side-eyeing his hand with a mix of disbelief and mild annoyance.

tags: @winchestert101 @lomlbuckybarnes @lveegsoi @itsshellzy @almosttoopizza

@aami98 @hextech-bros @hzdhrtss @winterslove1917 @infqnitysblog

@ayayaeyato @blackbirdwitch22 @mostlymarvelgirl @bohoooitsme @crdgn

@yiiiikesmish @jae0515 @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @nikey-no-likey @aami98

@almosttoopizza @hextech-bros

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featseungmin · 23 days ago

Text

agape || bc

bang chan x female reader

agape - (noun, origin: greek) to love a human being by accepting that person's existence as it is given; unconditional, selfless love

✦ Summary: Sometimes the monsters aren’t what they say. ✦ Genre & Tropes: dnd au, fantasy, angst-ish, fluff-ish, strangers to ??, hurt/comfort ✦ Word Count: 8,059 ✦ Warnings: mob mentality, fighting monsters, murder, blood, bruises and other injuries, old men who are scared of things they don’t understand, cursed!reader, rage mode!chan, burns

✦ Notes: shout out to @lovetaroandtaemin for beta-ing and listening to me complain about this entire au. major thanks to @eerieedits for the absolutely gorgeous banners

part of my city of blood dnd au. check out the rest here.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The pounding on the door startles you. It’s late, and you’re just settling down for rest. But the banging interrupts your routine. For the briefest of moments, you consider just ignoring it. But it sounds urgent, and quite frankly, it’s annoying.

When you peek out the window to see who it is, you’re met with a pair of intense, mismatched eyes, one dark, one light.

You’ve known Chris for a week now, as he’s been in the area helping with odd jobs. Even if you got off to a rocky start, he’s been nice enough, though surely people around town have been talking to him. But now, he looks anxious. There’s a furrow to his brow and a worry in his eyes that have you concerned. His hair is mussed, as if he’s run his hand through it one too many times.

When you open the door, he practically throws himself against it. “Oh thank god.” He grabs your hand, squeezing gently. He doesn’t flinch away, even though you’re sure that your skin is icy. “We have to go.”

His touch is warm. “Chris, it’s midnight.”

There’s a slight tremble in his grip. He must hear something, because his head whips around to the left. His eyes narrow, and his free hand moves to rest casually on the hilt of the scimitar hanging on his hip.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” he says cryptically, as if it answers any of the questions bouncing around in your head.

Quickly, he steps inside, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t take his cloak off, even though you’re sure that it’s warmer in your home than it is outside. You stand there dumbly, watching as he speeds around your living room, closing the curtains, peering out into the night as if some monster is going to leap from the forest at any moment.

“Chris, slow down, what-”

“They’re coming.” He crosses the room in two large strides. His hands grip your shoulders, and again, your mind clocks that he doesn’t recoil from the contact. “I don’t know why. But I managed to beat them here. We have minutes. I… I don’t know why they’re doing this.” Something foreign clouds his eyes. The way he tilts his head and scrunches his face, it looks almost like he’s in pain. “Pack light. We have to get out of here.”

There’s a moment where your mind slows, like you're stuck in a sea of molasses. They’re… coming. They’re coming? He doesn’t know why, but they’re coming. They’re coming and you have to leave.

Oh shit.

Your mind kicks into overdrive. Bag. You grab it from under your bed. It’s old, and well-worn, but it’s supple leather and holds more than it looks like it should. You point to a cabinet in the kitchen, and Chris opens it dutifully while you open your drawers and start stuffing clothes into the bag. He tosses you a waterskin and a tinderbox, and you shove those in, too.

Something in the woods startles a small group of birds, you can hear them chirping indignantly as they take flight. It’s far enough off that you still have time, but close enough that you push yourself to move faster.

Chris helps you roll up your blankets, unbuckling his belt and using it to secure it tightly to your bag. “Food?” he asks softly, taking the bag from you. He holds it by the shoulder straps, watching as you rush over to your cabinets. There’s a heel of bread there, and a bag of chestnuts. You know you have some dried meat in one of the cupboards, but your mind is going too fast and you can’t remember where it’s at. You open a few doors to try to find it, but when your third attempt is unsuccessful, you give up.

“Let’s go.” Chris grabs your hand, grip firm yet gentle, and opens your front door.

You pause. For a brief time, the fog of fear parts, and the rational part of your brain kicks in. “Wait.” Immediately, he halts. When he turns to look at you, his mismatched eyes are clouded in confusion. “Why are you doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you helping me? You barely know me.”

“I know enough,” he says quietly, and you feel a brief pressure on your fingers as he squeezes your hand. “I know that you don’t deserve this. And that I owe you for nearly killing your friend.”

“But I’m-”

He waves you off. “Nah. Doesn’t matter. I want to help.” He ducks his head ever so slightly, his gaze gentle. Again, he squeezes your fingers. “Let me help?”

For the week that you’ve known him, this man has been an enigma. Terrible first impression notwithstanding, he’s been fairly trustworthy. He could have left after he’d almost killed Kham. But he didn’t. He came to apologize. He listened. He seemed to trust you. So you trust him on this.

After all, what do you have to lose?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Even without the two feet of snow on the ground, the village would have been difficult to find. Too small to be on any map, Chris had had to stop for directions at an inn along the Long Road, and even then, he’d almost missed the little hamlet buried in the snow.

It’s a nice little village. A butcher. A baker. Small general store. Tailor. Shepherd. Most of the buildings are situated around a town square, where he imagines traveling merchants setting up in the warmer months. The town elder–a stout, white-moustached man named Gelvin–greets him at the tavern.

“I’d like to thank you again for taking our request, lad,” Gelvin says. His moustache bounces with each consonant.

Despite the fire that roars in the tavern’s hearth, there’s still a chill in the air that settles in Chris’s bones. He keeps his cloak on, but shockingly enough, so does Gelvin.

When the bartender places two tankards of amber ale on the table, Gelvin slaps him on the back wordlessly. The bartender leaves, and the older man lifts the tankard to his lips. When he lowered the glass, there’s foam in his moustache.

“Got a bit of an owlbear problem,” Gelvin tells him. “But you know that already.”

“Define ‘problem’.”

“Lives in the woods. Nearly attacked my granddaughter when she and her friends were playing in the trees.”

Chris hums. Owlbears are aggressive, territorial. He’s never been face to face with one, but he can think of at least five stories where an interaction with an owlbear went south. They’re massive, and they’re insatiable, and yeah, he can see how a little town like this wouldn’t want–or wouldn’t be able–to handle the problem on their own.

“Where does it live?” Chris sips at his ale. It’s light, but it’s bitter, with a nutty flavor that sits on his tongue long after it’s hit his stomach. It’s not bad, but it’s not particularly good, either.

He takes another drink to be polite.

“There’s a path that goes into the woods on the north side o’ town. Goes through the trees as it climbs the hill. There’s a shack, ‘bout a quarter-mile up that’s near enough to its den.” Chris nods along as Gelvin speaks. The elder man talks with his hands, gesturing this way and that. “The owlbear hangs out ‘round there, but I’d steer clear of the shack if I was you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Woman that lives there’s cursed. She’ll curse you, too, if you ain’t careful.”

Chris hums.

Interesting.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Chris does his best to be stealthy. But with two feet of snow on the ground, it’s a little hard to move through the woods, especially without knowing where the path should be. So he crunches through the snow as quietly as possible, avoiding sticks and fallen tree limbs as much as he can, all while his arms are tucked close to his body in an attempt to keep the chainmail of his undershirt quiet.

It doesn’t work, but he does try.

He follows what he thinks is the path–there’s a clear pattern to how the trees stand and how the snow lays on the ground that makes him think that he’s at least going in the correct direction. It takes longer than expected because he’s moving so slowly, but eventually, he comes upon what must be the shack.

Except it isn’t a shack. It’s a house. A little weathered, a little unkempt, but it’s definitely a house. There are curtains in the windows, and a thin wisp of smoke swirling out of the chimney. It looks more than a little cozy, and the briefest question of who lives there considering the owlbear situation crosses his mind.

He doesn’t, however, have the Chrisce to ponder said question, because a screech to his right immediately draws his attention. He turns just in time to catch a claw to the shoulder, the beast’s talons scratching across his armor, leaving deep gashes in the woolen sweater he’s wearing under his cloak. Even though the mail undershirt prevents a bloody wound, he can feel the impact deep in his flesh. It’ll be a bruise tomorrow.

The owlbear is massive, larger than any bear he’s ever seen. From claw to shoulder, it probably comes up to just above Chris’s elbow, but standing on its hind legs, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was almost two of him. The thing must weigh over a thousand pounds, not just from sheer size, but the muscle that he’s sure is under its fur. The face of an owl, with round, avian eyes and a sharp beak, glares at him. The feathers on its head give way to the thick fur of a brown bear at its shoulders; its hackles are up, angry at the intrusion into its territory.

Quickly, Chris draws his weapon, a curved double-bladed scimitar he’s had since his days as an apprentice. The swirled pattern in the steel is less obvious in the low light of the winter twilight around him, but the blade gleams with the movement nonetheless. He lunges at the owlbear, aiming to return the hit with a slash to its own shoulder, but the monster rears back, and his scimitar barely scratches the fur and feathers on its chest.

The owlbear’s claws once again rake at him, and he manages to roll out of the way, though he can feel the ache in his shoulder from the beast’s surprise attack. Before it can attack again, he slashes at its leg. His sword emits a purple-pink glow as it makes contact, the radiant energy and the sharpness of his blade causing the owlbear to screech in pain. Through the fur and feathers that cover its shoulder, he can see blood. But now, the owlbear is really mad.

Well, shit.

The owlbear lunges, beak snapping at him once again, but it overshoots, and he manages to side-step. They go round and round like that for a while, trading glancing blows and near-misses until Chris’s out of breath. He’s battered and bruised–the owlbear manages to get in a bite and another slash when he’s still stuck in the snow after dodging–but he’s gotten just as many hits on the beast. It’s missing some feathers around the gash he’s left in its shoulder, and there’s a second stab wound in its belly from where he’d gotten it before it crushed him with its claws.

Now, he stands opposite the owlbear, slightly out of breath, his muscles aching, and raises his scimitar once again. He slashes, and the beast cries out, a wild, pained sound that actually has Chris feeling bad for the thing.

“What are you doing?”

A voice from behind startles him, so much that he nearly drops his scimitar. As he whips around to see what’s going on, the owlbear, too, looks up. It takes the opportunity to run away, turning tail and running as fast as it can with its injuries into the forest.

“What the hell?” The woman behind him looks furious.

“I-”

“You can’t just come in sword swinging like that. What the hell is your problem?”

“Gelvin said-”

She groans. “Of course Gelvin said.” Angrily, she stomps past him, deliberately hitting into his sore shoulder. He winces. “For future reference, maybe know what you’re dealing with before listening to old men who fear what they don’t understand.”

“I-”

The door of the house slams shut. He’s left out in the snow, a rock slowly forming in his stomach.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The snow is far too loud. You lead Chris through the forest, following the footpath but not directly on it, but even so, you can hear the voices. The light from their torches light up the forest behind you. Based on the intensity, it’s actually your house that’s burning, though whether purposeful or accidental, you aren’t sure.

You aren’t about to stop to ask.

Chris follows behind you, his steps close, a gentle hand on your back when the ground gets a little uneven or you have to climb over a fallen log.

“Don’t listen,” he says at some point, his voice quiet. As if you could possibly ignore the mob of your neighbors attempting to track you down. “We’ve put good distance between them and us.”

As if on cue, a shout on the path in front of you forces you to stop. You freeze. The lights start to appear ahead, and you realize it at the same time as Chris. They’ve pincered you.

“Shit,” he whispers lowly at the same time as you let out a soft-

“Fuck.”

You turn quickly, assessing your surroundings. You know these woods better than anyone in town. You should be able to lead Chris out of here. But the closer the torches get, the louder the shouting becomes, the more panicked you get. One direction leads to town. The other, to a cliffside. And while you know which direction is which, it’s a tough choice. One you don’t have time to make.

Beside you, you hear the whisper of metal on leather, and when you look, Chris has drawn his scimitar. The lights are close enough now. You can see the silhouettes of the torchbearers in the darkness.

“We fight,” Chris says. His voice is quiet, but there’s a gruffness to it that you haven’t heard before. He nods straight ahead. “Push through in that direction. Get to the other side and start running.”

“What if we get separated?”

“I’ll find you.” He shoves his free hand into his pocket, pulling out a small bronze disc. He presses it into your palm. “Keep this with you, and I’ll find you.”

“What-”

“There they are!” The shouting surrounds you now, the flames on all sides.

It’s like a nightmare. Even in the dark, you can see them. Your neighbors, people that had watched you grow, that had known your parents and been around for your entire childhood. They surround you now, and while you’ve long been accustomed to their ignorance, seeing their rage now is new. A pit settles in your stomach as you take in their scowls. So many of them carry makeshift weapons–clubs and pitchforks and axes and sickles.

Chris takes the smallest step backwards, his back almost touching your shoulder. He holds his scimitar between you and the mob, his free hand extending out, as if you shield you from them. “Let us through,” he tells him, tone commanding and voice steady.

“You? Sure.” The voice that answers is Gelvin’s. You had assumed he was behind this, but it stings all the same. “She stays, though.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Gelvin shrugs, as if there’s nothing he can do. To your right, the mob draws nearer. A few of them hold old swords, and you eye them wearily. You close your hand, and the shadows solidify in your grip. The darkness swirls and converges into something solid, a blade just longer than your forearm appearing there.

One of the guys to your right–you’re not sure who, you don’t dare look at his face–gasps and jumps in surprise, his arms flailing, torch slipping out of his hands. It flies through the air, catching your cloak as it falls. You cry out, patting your arm in an attempt to smother the small flames that lap at the cloth. Chris tenses beside you. Somewhere behind you, someone shouts. And all of a sudden, the mob is surging forward.

The next moments are a blur. Clanging metal and shouts fill the air, but they almost sound far-off. You can see Chris’ scimitar glinting in the moonlight as he swings it. But for some reason, none of it’s nearly as scary as it should be. One of the mob gets a little too close for comfort. You recognize him. Of course you do. You extend a hand in his direction, and he freezes, his skin going sallow. One sweep from Chris’ blade, and the man falls.

Another moves to take his place.

Chris bumps into you as he parries a pitchfork, but then he’s gone, stepping into the villager’s personal space. You identify him just as Chris’ elbow connects with his nose. It’s Velar, one of the farmers that live on the eastern side of town in the foothills. He grows the best tomatoes.

Suddenly, there’s a pressure at your back, and you grunt at the feeling. It’s uncomfortable, like something sharp has latched onto your clothes, and when you try to move away, it moves with you. It’s not painful, the sensation is just strange, like nothing you’ve ever felt before. It feels like there’s something inside you, digging into your back like a squirrel burying a walnut.

You must make some type of noise, because Chris whips around. For the briefest of moments, he looks confused, and then his gaze falls on whatever has lodged itself onto your back, and his eyes go wide. Something dark crosses his face. He shouts. And his blade glistens as it slices through the air behind you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Chris stands outside of the house in the woods. The door is weather-worn and clearly old, but it’s solid, well-crafted. It’s clear that this was–is–someone’s beloved home. Once again, there’s spindles of smoke wafting out of the stone chimney.

After the incident with the owlbear, after he’d trudged his way back to the village, he’d told Gelvin what had happened. He’d sat there at the tavern, sipping an ale and nursing his wounds, as the old man had warned him again: steer clear of the shack and the woman who lived there.

He’d provided no other explanation, only that she’s cursed. And Chris has never really been one to listen blindly to authority. The curiosity–and the need to apologize–nagged at him, and now he’s here, though he’s not really sure how smart the decision is. He’s pretty sure the woman wants nothing to do with him.

He knocks anyway.

For a while, there’s only silence. No movement on the other side of the door, no motion in the window, nothing. Chris stands there, strangely nervous, his palms a little sweaty despite the temperature being just above freezing. But just as he raises his hand to once again rap his knuckles against the darkened wood, the door swings open.

The woman–you–stands on the other side of the threshold. You lean against the doorframe, holding the door open just far enough that Chris can see your face. Predictably, you don’t look happy to see him.

“Hi!” He offers, voice brighter and infinitely more positive than he feels.

You stare at him.

“I, uh, I wanted to come back and explain things. And, well, I guess apologize. I didn’t know the owlbear belonged to anyone.”

He knows that he’s rambling a bit, but at this point, he can’t really stop himself. He doesn’t know you, but you make him nervous. Maybe some of it’s what Gelvin said. He’s not really out to get himself cursed. But some of it is just that you seem… normal. Pretty. Annoyed. All of the above.

“He doesn’t belong to me. He’s an owlbear.” The ‘idiot’ is evident in your tone.

“Right. Well, I didn’t know. And I’m still sorry.”

You scoff, unimpressed.

“I was just… Four days ago, I saw a notice in a tavern near Triboar asking for help with a monster problem. I was just trying to help.” Chris sighs and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Gelvin said that it has attacked some kids, and-”

“The kids had it coming.” Your tone is sharp, but really, you just sound exhausted. Chris gets the sense that this is not the first time this has happened. “You’d attack too if kids poked you with a sharp stick while you were trying to sleep.”

“He didn’t tell me that part.”

“Yeah, well, Gelvin likes to deal in half-truths.”

He hums. “I’m really, really sorry that I didn’t have the full story. I should have considered that maybe there was another side to things.”

It’s a little weird to be apologizing. How could he have known that the owlbear attack was justified? But he’d taken Gelvin at face-value, he hadn’t done his due diligence. That’s on him. It’s a fucking owlbear, but it still stings. Being wrong like this, it eats at him, feels like a rock in his chest.

You watch him in silence, brows furrowed as your gaze flits across his face. It’s subtle, but your expression softens the longer you look at him.

“I’m Chris,” he says finally, sticking his hand out.

Your gaze falls to his palm. You’re quiet, and for a moment, he thinks that maybe you won’t take it. But then, slowly, you do.

Your hands are a little rough, not in a bad way, but it’s clear that you’re accustomed to doing things for yourself. But that’s not what confuses him about your handshake. Your skin is cold, almost like it’s sucking the warmth out of his own hand. If he wasn’t standing here, looking at you alive and well and breathing, he’d think you were dead.

He can’t help but look down at your hand, and he’s not sure what expression you see on his face, but he hopes it’s something at least akin to concern. You try to pull away, but before you manage, he tightens his grip just slightly. He’s not sure what’s wrong, but he wants you to know he doesn’t mind.

You do tell him your name, though. And even though you pull your hand away, he considers it a win.

“So, uh…” Chris rubs the back of his neck. “How’d you get to own–er, befriend?” he’s not sure exactly what the word is “an owlbear, anyway?”

You laugh. It’s short, but it warms him all the same. The feeling is short-lived, though, as a frigid wind rushes through the forest, rustling the leaves and leaving him shivering.

An expression that he can’t quite read crosses your face, and you step aside. “Tell you over a cup of tea?”

“Oh! Uh, sure!”

The inside of the house is cozy. Like the outside, it’s timeworn but well-kept. The living room is the central space, with a large, open doorway off to the right that leads into the kitchen and a closed door directly across from him that Chris assumes leads to a bedroom. There’s a lumpy, plush chair in one corner of the room directly beside a window. A bookshelf nearby is absolutely stuffed with books and loose papers. A fire roars in the small stone hearth, casting a warm glow throughout the room.

There’s a table near the kitchen, barely standing on four spindly legs, and that’s where you direct him, to one of the two chairs. He shrugs off his woolen cloak, looking around for a place to put it. Silently, you take it from his hands before draping it over the arm of the chair by the fire, warming it for later.

“Oh. Thanks,” he says quietly. It’s such a small act of kindness, but it touches his heart all the same.

He watches as you patter around, first in the kitchen as you grab the kettle, then as you take it outside and scoop snow into the mouth of it. You come back inside with a gust of freezing wind. Strangely enough, though, your skin doesn’t seem to react to the cold.

Once the kettle is settled onto a grate in the fire, you turn to him. “I don’t think I have sugar. Or milk. Do have some honey, though, if you’d like.”

Chris hums. He’s never had tea before. His parents didn’t like it, and then the smiths he trained under preferred stronger stuff. But he’s always had a bit of a sweet tooth, so he nods eagerly. “Honey sounds nice.”

You bring two tea cups–they’re old, a little chipped, and whatever color they used to be, they’re the color of bone now–and a small jar of honey before settling into the wooden chair across from him at the table.

For a moment, you watch the fire lick at the bottom of the metal kettle. But then you sigh and lean back. “I’ve known Kham–the owlbear–since he was a cub.”

“Oh?”

“He stumbled into the clearing here. I still don’t know what attacked him, but he was in rough shape.” You swirl a wooden stick in the honey, and even though you aren’t looking up, Chris can sense that the memory has made you sad. Your voice is soft when you continue. “I guess whatever it was killed his mama. Tried to kill him too, but he was little, and he managed to get away.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me, eventually.”

A hum of surprise inadvertently escapes Chris’ throat, and he tries to mask it with a cough. He’s heard of people who can talk to animals. He’d met a druid a year or so ago that had an affinity for foxes that could do it, and he’s sure the wizards at the school back home in Waterdeep could probably do it easily. But he hadn’t really expected it from you.

You don’t look up from the honey, but almost instinctively, your fingers curl around the pendant that hangs around your neck. He can’t quite tell what it is, only that it’s silver and delicately engraved.

“My mother gave me this necklace? And, I dunno. It lets–or, well, let, I guess–me talk to him. All animals, really, not just him. But mostly him.” You look up, then, and there’s a sparkle in your eyes. Something tightens in his chest at the sight of it.

“So that’s how you make friends with an owlbear.”

“That and food, yeah.” You sigh. “It wasn’t his fault. He was just big, and they treated him like a monster.”

For a moment, things go quiet. The sound of the fire crackling in the hearth invades the silence. Chris has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Did… I kill him?”

“No.”

He doesn’t like how you say it.

“But he’s…”

“He won’t bother them anymore.”

The silence returns, hangs heavy in the air like a wet cloth. Your gaze is on your hands in your lap, the tip of your index finger tracing your cuticles.

Minutes pass, and the kettle starts to steam. Quietly, you stand to get it. Chris watches you curiously. You are… surprising. He’s not sure how many people he knows that wouldn’t have kicked him out by now. And yet, here you are. Willingly still making him tea after everything.

You reach for the kettle, and it’s like time slows down. Horror solidifies in his stomach like a rock. Your fingers wrap around the metal handle of the kettle and lift it out of the fire. He’s on his feet before he has time to think, and as you turn around, you’re a little startled to see him standing.

“Your hand?” he questions stupidly, balling up the sleeve of his shirt and reaching out to take the kettle from you.

For a moment, you look at him, brow furrowed and face scrunched in confusion. But as the kettle clanks onto the table, you seem to catch sight of your hand. The skin is an angry red, and he can see a slight indent across the inside of your fingers where the handle had sat.

You swear under your breath.

Chris springs into action, rushing outside and grabbing a handful of snow. He’s back in an instant, pressing it into your palm. He carefully cradles your hand in his own, pressing down on the snow so that the cold seeps into the burn. Your hand is already cold, but the snow doesn’t seem to make it any worse.

“What the heck?” It’s not the most elegant, but he can feel his heart pounding in his ribs.

You watch the snow melting through your fingers, the droplets hitting the wooden floor around your feet. “It didn’t hurt.” There’s a softness to your voice that makes his stomach sink even more than watching you burn yourself. It sounds a lot like fear.

He forces himself to take a breath, to soften the hardened edges that had started to form. The snow in your hand continues to melt, the heat from his own palm helping it along. He doesn’t say anything for a long while, listening to the constant drip drip drip of the melt falling between your fingers and the crackling of the fire.

You stand there in front of him and allow him to hold your hand between both of his own. Your focus shifts to the hearth, watching the flames flicker and dance.

When the snow is nearly gone, Chris presses his palm to your own. It’s icy cold, but quickly, it warms. His hands glow, a gentle purple-pink surrounding them, and briefly, whatever causes your skin to drain his own of heat ceases. It’s slight, but there’s some warmth in your hand while he heals you.

The light fades, yet your touch lingers. He happily continues to hold your hand, feeling the warmth from his magic fade from your skin.

“At the risk of sounding insensitive,” he begins softly, lifting his hands ever so slightly so that he can inspect what’s left of the burn. “Can I ask a question?” You hum, and he takes that as a sign to continue. “What… happened?”

You pull your hand from his grip, pulling it close to your chest. “What happened to you?” It’s not said with malice, but there’s a sharpness to your tone. You tap just below your left eye.

Chris nods. He supposes it’s only fair. He rubs at his own eye. It doesn’t pain him like it used to. But even now, he avoids his own reflection. He’s seen the injury enough for ten lifetimes. The scar may be gone, his vision mostly healed, but the damage remains all the same. His right eye, a rich, dark brown. His left, storm-grey.

“I used to do this apprenticeship thing. I was a really angry kid. And I dunno. I was there for seven years, and I had this big argument with the smith I was working with. He got mad. Like, really mad. And I just…”

He shrugs, not sure of how to continue, but not really sure he needs to. Judging by the look on your face, you’re able to put the pieces together just fine.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is soft, and when your eyes meet his own, there’s a softness in them.

He waves you off. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have-”

“I learned a long time ago to stop making excuses for the people who should know better.”

He freezes, eyes locked on yours. He has to remind himself to breathe. There’s something about the conviction with which you say it… With the way things had transpired, how he’d ended things, he’d never considered that maybe…

You seem to sense that something’s wrong, because gently, you guide him back to the wooden chair at your table. You grab a cloth and wrap it around the handle of the kettle. It seems to still be warm, because you pour the water into the two cups and the honey that sits in the bottom starts to dissolve.

“As a child, I was very sick.” Slowly, you settle into the chair across from him, stirring your tea. “My parents were skilled with magic, and they prayed to the Raven Queen often, begging her to heal me,”

“So the Raven Queen…?”

You shake your head. “When their prayers went unanswered, my father decided to turn to more… creative solutions. It was the deep of winter. He had bought a scroll with… instructions? I don’t know–from one of the merchants. He prayed to the Raven Queen as he did it, but I don’t know. I don’t claim to understand the whims of the gods. But when I woke up the next day, I was this.”

Chris hums. His teacup is warm in his hands, and he lifts it to his lips carefully. “This?”

“Cursed to exist somewhere in the shadows between the Prime and the Shadowfell. Somewhere between life and death.”

The pieces click into place. The pallor of your skin. The chill when he touches you. The fact that you didn’t feel the burn of the kettle. Why Gelvin is so scared of you. Why the town is so scared of you.

When he looks at you, he expects you to look upset. At the very least, to seem saddened by your situation. But there’s a fire in your eyes that draws him in. Something that gives him the sense that you’ve long since buried the sadness and the hurt.

Maybe, he thinks, the two of you aren’t so different.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Chris.”

You reach out, placing a hand on his shoulder. His shoulders heave up and down with every breath he takes. The cloak around his shoulders is damp, though whether it’s with blood or sweat, you aren’t quite sure. Crimson blood is spattered across his chest and face. You don’t know if it’s his, or if it’s from any of the ones that attacked him. Probably, it’s a mix of both.

The air is choked with the sickly sweet smell of rust. The clearing around you is littered with bodies. Some of them, you felled yourself. Those ones are pale and frost-bitten, your magic having drained them of lifeforce before ultimately freezing them in place. The others–the majority–wear slashes and blade marks across their torsos. Some are missing arms. At least a few have been slit from neck to navel.

Chris’ scimitar glints in the moonlight, the dried blood creating dark shadows on its surface. His grip on the hilt is firm–his knuckles, through the blood, are white from the effort. You can hear every shaky breath he takes, can feel the force of it through the hand that’s still on his shoulder. The tip of his blade is leveled at the last still-alive body in the clearing.

Anyone else still living had fled. Except for one. Gelvin crouches in the snow, looking as small and as frail as you’ve always known him to be. He’s barely dressed for the snow–boots but no thick coat–and if he’s brought something to fight with, it’s long gone. For the moment, though, you push him from your mind. You’re far more worried about whatever’s happening in Chris’ mind at the moment than you are about the old man.

“Chris,” you say again, more forceful this time.

His head whips in your direction. Wild eyes meet yours. In the dark, his pupils are large in an attempt to catch all the light possible. More than a few cuts and scratches are scattered across his face, and the cuts in his sweater show the chainmail he wears underneath. He’d gotten clumsier as the torches went out, his darkvision not nearly as reliable as yours.

You hold his gaze. There’s a rage in his eyes that smolders, even now. In the week you’ve known him, he’s never looked at you like this. But you don’t back down. Cautiously, your hand slides from his shoulder to cup his cheek. His skin, flushed with the cold and the rage, must be positively feverish, because he feels warm, even to you.

He softens almost immediately. “Breathe.” Your voice is quiet, but in the dead silence of the clearing, it doesn’t need to be very loud.

There’s still something dark in his eyes that you aren’t sure about, but after a moment, he listens, a measured inhale causing his shoulders to rise. All of a sudden, he looks exhausted. The arm that holds his scimitar aloft starts to lower.

A crunch in the snow draws your attention. Chris’ head whips to the right, his arm snapping back up to a threatening angle.

Gelvin stares back, eyes wide. A small part of you delights at the realization that you’ve never seen the old man like this. He’s practically shaking, the bush he’s moved to crouch behind barely covering his body.

“Please, I-” He almost chokes on the words, hands coming up in what you can tell he hopes is some sort of peaceful gesture.

Chris adjusts how he’s standing, the tip of his scimitar inches forward, and whatever plea was on Gelvin’s lips dies in the air.

Seeing him there, surrounded by the lifeless forms of your former neighbors–the people who, directly or indirectly, made your life hell for the last 20 years–there’s something poetic about it. You watch Chris’ grip tighten on the leather grip of his blade. And you want to let him do what he clearly wants. The gods know Gelvin deserves it.

When your father had disappeared, when it became clear that he’d done something deeply bleak in exchange for your health, Gelvin had harassed your mother for weeks for goods your father had promised.

When you were seven years old, you’d moulded the shadows for the first time. It was an accident. You’d had no idea that your father’s ritual had had such consequences. Gelvin had seen it, and it was ultimately his influence that pushed the other kids of the village away from you.

He wouldn’t stop bothering you after your mother’s death. He’d called you a witch. He’d spread rumors about the curse that afflicted you. He’d taught his grandchildren to stay far away, and influenced the rest of the village to do the same.

He’d hired a sweet, noble man to kill an owlbear just to spite you.

By all accounts, Gelvin was a sad, terrible man. He deserved whatever horrible fate befell him. And yet…

There’s something about it that doesn’t sit right. You’d thought that this would feel more satisfying. That finally getting revenge would be sweet. Instead, a hollow feeling settles in your chest. Maybe it’s pity for the old man. Maybe it’s a desire to spare Chris from having even more blood on his hands.

Regardless, you squeeze Chris’ shoulder, feeling the rigidity of the mail under his clothes. “Let him go.” You say it quietly, but you know he hears you because his head tilts toward you. “It’s fine. Just… let him go.”

He turns to you, and for the briefest of moments, dark eyes study you. You’re not quite sure what he’s searching for, but eventually, he nods. He keeps his arm raised, scimitar still at the ready. But when Gelvin starts to scramble away, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even turn to watch the old man go. Instead, his gaze remains on you.

Chris sighs. You can feel him sort of deflate beside you as the arm holding his weapon finally lowers. And then he stiffens, his face slowly contorting into a look of horror. He glances around, and it’s as if he’s seeing–really seeing–the carnage around you for the first time.

“What- I…” He frowns, takes a step away from you. “Shit- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

You grab his arm before he can get too far, partially because you can tell that he’s freaking out and partially because if he takes another step back, he’s going to trip on a dead body.

You try to reassure him, squeezing his hand and tugging him back toward you. You’re not sure how effective it is, though. Your hands are probably freezing against his bare skin. “Let’s go-” Where? You’d almost said home, but based on the smoke that still billows into the air, that doesn’t exist anymore. “Let’s just go.”

“Wait.” He stops you before you can take a step. “You’re…” He trails off, hand slipping around your back. He turns you slightly, his touch gentle yet firm, so that he can see better.

In your peripheral, you can see him crouch ever so slightly so that his face is level with your hip. For a moment, you’re confused. You can feel him touch a spot in your lower back. His fingers are sticky with blood, even though you know he’s wiped his hands on his clothes. You’re confused by the skin to skin contact, and then you remember. Just before he had gone berserk, you’d been hit with something. It must have torn your sweater.

“You don’t feel this at all?” There’s something in Chris’ voice that you don’t like. It’s worry, but soured by something else. It sounds a lot like panic.

“I can feel you poking me.” It’s not a lie. You can feel the gentle pressure as he prods at your back. But it doesn’t hurt. “Why, what’s-”

“They stabbed you. With a… with a pitchfork. I can see bone, and you can’t feel it at all. You’re not even bleeding.”

You stiffen at his words. It’s not the injury–that’ll heal, given enough time. It obviously hasn’t caused any real damage, just some discomfort and some stiffness that you notice now that you’re actually thinking about it. No, it’s how he says them. His tone leaves a sour taste in your mouth, like there’s something intensely wrong. Like you are intensely wrong.

And maybe it’s because it’s so late–early?–or maybe it’s because you’ve just lost your home in so many more ways than one. But it stings more than you thought it would. You’d prepared for this. You’re always ready for the funny looks and incredulous tones and wary expressions. It’s how everyone reacts, eventually. And really, you don’t blame them. Your father’s magic turned you into a bit of a sideshow, someone you’d expect to see more in the circus than at the butcher’s. But in the week you’d known Chris he’d been different. He’d not once flinched away from touching you and finding your skin cold to the touch. He’d reacted with kindness when you’d burnt yourself on the kettle. He’d rolled with everything.

You suppose that everyone has their limits.

The forest around you alights in a gentle, purple-pink glow. After a moment, some of the discomfort in your back goes away. There’s no more feeling like there’s something sticking to you, but it still feels strange. Chris has healed you, but you suppose the aftermath of the injury remains.

You’ve lived in this forest all your life. You know it like the back of your hand. You’ve seen maps of Faerun, ones that stretch from the Sword Coast all the way east to Thar. This forest isn’t so big compared to some of the others that dot the continent. And you’re not all that deep into it. Here, it’s still pretty safe. The trees are still thin, the canopy of leaves doesn’t yet blot out the sky completely. Further in, where the vegetation is thicker and the air darker, things get more dangerous. Monsters live deeper in the forest, more dangerous than Kham the owlbear.

It’s roughly three kilometers southwest to the main road, and you tell Chris as much. He reaches deep into his pocket and comes out empty handed. For a moment, he looks confused, but then some sort of recognition crosses his dark-light eyes.

“My compass,” he says, turning to you. “I gave it to you before the fight.”

You hum and pull the bronze disk out of your pocket. It’s old, its bronze surface worn by time and polishing. There’s something engraved on the back of it, but you can’t make out the thin writing before you hand it over.

Chris orients himself with the compass, turning it until he’s satisfied with the direction. He hums when he finds what he’s looking for, and you half expect him to start walking. You’ve given him the directions, he knows which way to go. He could just leave. Step over the bodies around him and go. But he doesn’t. He waits. Brown and grey eyes meet yours, and for a moment, he looks a bit like the dogs who roam the village, all expectant and excited.

So, with a soft “come on,” you walk.

Despite the crunch of the snow, it’s quiet. It’s still early–still hours to first light–and for the first time, you’re glad for the curse’s effect on your night vision. It takes hours to stumble through the forest, dodging roots and stones and making sure Chris doesn’t trip. And just because this part of the forest is less dangerous, doesn’t mean it’s free from monsters. You take a detour to skirt around a group of orcs, and you have to pause to let a bugbear pass.

By the time your boots finally hit the hardened dirt of the Long Road, the exhaustion has started to set in. But at least you’ve made it to the road.

“There’s an inn not far from here,” Chris says, stifling a yawn. He gestures south down the road. “I’ve got some gold. We could get two beds.”

You aren’t expecting the offer. If you’re honest, you were expecting him to bolt the second you made it out of the woods. But… he doesn’t.

Your face must give your apprehension away, because he tilts his head, confused. There’s an obvious tiredness in his eyes, but he studies you with a softness that almost makes you want to shrink away.

“I get it if you don’t want to,” he tells you. “I get that this is weird.”

“It’s… not.” It sounds like a lie, even to you.

He offers you a halfhearted smile. “Given the last few hours, I don’t blame you. I don’t know that I’d want to spend more time with me, either.”

“Chris…”

“Nah, it’s okay. I killed like… 20 guys. Even if they weren’t your friends, you knew them. That’s…” He trails off, kicking at the snow on the road. And for the first time since you met him, he looks almost small. “I’m sorry things turned out the way they did. It can’t be easy.”

“I’ve lived in Toftrees my entire life,” you admit. “I don’t really know where to go from here.”

“I won’t pretend like I can fix things. But I’m happy to travel with you for as long as you’d like. Until you get where you want to go, anyway.”

There’s something so pure about the sincerity in his voice that makes you want to believe him. It’s strange. He sounds so unconvinced of his own worth, yet so sure that this is what he wants to do. That he wants to spend his time with you.

“How far’s the inn?”

Almost immediately, a grin blossoms across his lips. “Close. Just a few kilometers more.”

So far, trusting him has been a good decision. It’s kept you alive. It’s kept you sane. Maybe, even just for the moment, it’s given you a friend.

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danielgold-16 · 7 months ago

Text

The Forest

Daniel tightened his grip on the strap of his water bottle as he moved through the forest. The dense fog curled around him like a living thing, clinging to his skin and obscuring the uneven ground beneath his feet. His breath came out in steady, disciplined rhythms, a habit ingrained from years of athletic training. The dark trees seemed to press inward, their twisted branches clawing at the blackness of the sky where no moonlight dared shine.

The only color in the darkness was his jersey—a shimmering gold Milan AC shirt with the number "16" emblazoned on the back. It had been a gift from one of his brothers, one he wore often during his evening runs. Daniel didn’t scare easily; his confidence, both physical and mental, had always been his shield. But tonight, something felt… off.

His golden eyes, almost otherworldly in their luminosity, scanned the mist ahead. He pushed his light brown undercut hair back absently, trying to shake off the unease creeping along his spine. The stillness of the forest was unnatural; no chirping insects, no rustling leaves, only the muffled sound of his footsteps against the damp earth.

Suddenly, a faint sound broke the silence—a mechanical whir, distant but unmistakable. He paused, cocking his head, trying to locate the source. The sound grew louder, a low hum that seemed to reverberate through the fog. Daniel’s pulse quickened. His instincts told him to move, but curiosity rooted him in place.

From the haze, a figure emerged.

It was human-shaped, but wrong in every conceivable way. The body was clad entirely in glossy black rubber that reflected the faint ambient light like a mirror. A gasmask obscured the face, the large circular lenses giving the figure a sinister appearance. Tubes protruded from the mask, hissing faintly as if alive.

Daniel’s breath caught. His body tensed, the urge to run surging through his veins. But he hesitated for just a moment too long, and the drone tilted its head toward him as if sensing his presence.

Its movement was deliberate now, purposeful. It began to walk toward him.

Daniel bolted.

He sprinted through the fog, adrenaline surging through his body as he pushed himself to his limit. His feet barely seemed to touch the ground as he weaved between trees, leaping over roots and ducking under low-hanging branches. The hum grew louder, and soon he realized why.

More drones.

They emerged from the fog like phantoms, dozens of them, their glossy forms blending seamlessly with the darkness. Their gasmasks glinted in the faint light as they moved with eerie synchronization. The forest seemed to close in around him, the trees now a labyrinth of twisted shadows.

Daniel’s chest burned, his lungs screaming for air, but he didn’t slow. He was an athlete, conditioned for endurance, and he knew he could outrun them—if only he could find a clear path. But the drones were everywhere, closing in like a noose.

A root snagged his foot, and he went down hard. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and for a moment, stars danced in his vision. He scrambled to his feet, but it was too late. The drones were upon him.

Rubber-clad hands gripped his arms and legs, their strength inhuman. He thrashed and kicked; his golden eyes wide with panic as he fought against their unyielding hold. But it was no use. They moved with mechanical precision, their grips like iron.

"No!" he shouted, his voice echoing into the void. "Let me go!"

The drones didn’t respond. They simply carried him deeper into the forest, their movements synchronized as if controlled by a single mind. The hum grew louder, a chorus of mechanical whispers that seemed to seep into his very bones.

Daniel’s struggles weakened as they brought him to a clearing. In the center was an object he couldn’t quite comprehend—a monolithic structure, black and glossy like the drones, pulsating with a faint, otherworldly light. It seemed alive, a heart beating in the center of this strange, fog-shrouded forest.

One of the drones stepped forward, holding an object in its hands. Daniel’s eyes widened as he recognized it—a black rubber polo shirt, identical to the ones the drones wore. His heart pounded as he realized their intent.

“No,” he said, his voice trembling. “You’re not putting that on me!”

But they were relentless. The drones worked in eerie silence, stripping him of his golden jersey and forcing the rubber garment over his head. The material clung to his skin like a second layer, cold and unyielding. He struggled, but their strength was overwhelming.

Next came the gasmask.

Daniel thrashed as they brought it toward his face, but the drones held him still. The mask was slid over his head, the straps tightened until it was snug against his skin. His breathing became labored as the rubber sealed around him, the sound of his own breath echoing inside the mask.

When they released him, he staggered back, gasping for air through the filters. The world seemed distorted through the lenses of the mask, the fog thicker, the drones more menacing. He raised his hands to rip the mask off, but they didn’t obey. His body felt… wrong, as if it no longer belonged to him.

He tried to speak, but his voice came out as a muffled whisper. The drones stood around him, silent and still, watching. And then, as one, they turned and began to walk.

Daniel hesitated, his mind screaming at him to run, but his legs moved of their own accord. Step by step, he followed them, his body obeying a command he couldn’t hear. The fog swallowed them as they marched deeper into the forest, the hum growing louder with each step.

As they walked, Daniel felt his resistance fading, his thoughts growing dim. The rubber seemed to merge with his skin, the gasmask a part of him now. He didn’t feel fear anymore, or panic, or even curiosity. Only a strange, detached calm.

By the time they reached the edge of the forest, Daniel was no longer himself. He moved in perfect harmony with the drones, his golden eyes now dull behind the mask’s lenses. The number "016" on his back glinted faintly in the darkness, the last remnant of the man he had been.

Together, they disappeared into the night, their footsteps silent, their purpose unknown.

#golden army #male transformation #gay hypnosis #hypnosis #drone #gold

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thegnomelord · 2 years ago

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what if reader worried about speaking around the 141 boys because he worries what if his voice alone is too overwhelming for simple human minds to grasp and the sound of it alone could accidentally melt their brains into mush? Being finally comfortable to say a few words around them but still being hyper-aware of keeping his voice and all aspects of his form under control so nobody gets hurt.

Okay the absolute angst you could come up with this is astounding anon but also I'm in the need of fluff after a depression inducing exam sooo;

Imagine Calling Their Name For The First Time

CW:SFW, Fluff, Gaz, Price, Soap, Ghost x Eldritch reader (separate) slight hurt/comfort with Price, each part is roughly 600-700 words.

Imagine GAZ — As a cat, your presence used to help him sleep calmly on nights when his mind was hell bent on reminding him of his failures. Petting your belly or scratching down your spine while you laid on his chest gave his hands a mindless task he could succeed in, the sensation of your fur on his fingers just enough to keep him lucid and grounded when it felt like his bed wanted to swallow him whole. But now that you've revealed your true nature... things have changed.

He was the first one on the taskforce to trust you again; but make no mistake, it still took him months to stop jumping at shadows in the corners of his eyes. He still touches you, but it's different. Now his touches are contained to a pat on your shoulder or a small scritch under your chin when he thinks no-one's looking.

Even in the body of a cat you'd been silent as the grave, so he knows better than to force you to speak. Hell, he even offers an alternative after he sees how you struggle to express your thoughts through paper and pen: Sign language

It's a joint effort as he doesn't know it either, but you can't be mad at him when he giggles so sweetly every time your uncouth hands sign something ridiculous. It's hard to move your fingers with finesse when you've forced yourself in such a limited body and it translates to your language with it ending up bastardized and warped when compared to the real thing just as you are to reality itself.

On a night when his mind has run him ragged and chased away any hope of sleep, you find him on the roof of the base. He's easy to track when millions of your eyes dot the night sky; though you may be a god, you are so small you escape his notice as a storm of thoughts clouds his bloodshot eyes, not even the blanket you drape over his shoulders gets a reaction.

So like a young fool, you try something else.

Just like your sign language, just like you, the sounds escaping your throat are a distorted mockery of the real thing. What should be clean notes come out filled with whistles and chirps and the whispers of a million dead sacrificed to you over the millennia, each one speaking a fraction of a second out of sync to form a low and warbled "Kyle."

His name comes out like tar and sticks to the fabric of all that is, the air around you vibrating. He deserves far more than this, but it's the most human you can make yourself sound.

His head snaps to look at you, mouth agape and wetness around the corners of his eyes. For a second your nonexistent heart shreds itself into pieces thinking you'd broken him and you're ready to disappear into the blackness you crawled out of in an attempt not to harm him further; his hand stops you, pulls you by the front of your clothes so his sturdy hands can wrap around your body.

"Took your sweet time." He whispers so quietly even you need to strain your ears, burying his head into your shoulder. His rapid heart drums so hard against his ribs like it's trying to leap into your cold chest, and for a moment you can almost believe you have one of your own.

Against your better judgement you open your mouth again, speaking in just as quiet a voice as him, yet it still shakes every bone in his body. "You broken?"

He hugs you tighter. "Nah." Gaz gives a weak chuckle, squeezes his arms to check if you hadn't disappeared; that you're more solid than the dead men in his nightmares. "Keep talking to me, please? Say my name again, yeah?"

How can you refuse?

Imagine PRICE — At first, he doesn't know what to do with you.

Finding out the cat Soap and Gaz had begged his ear off into getting is actually some unspeakable god is one thing. Realizing he'd been letting said god use his tits pecs as stress balls and nap on them is a whole 'nother can of worms. Having to chastise a damn god about what is and isn't appropriate, let alone why trying to burry your head into his pecs in front of recruits isn't, is just down bizarre.

But he still treats you like any other soldier in need of guidance, he gives you structure despite the fact you, by definition, are structureless. He's strange like that, perhaps due to age, perhaps due to his asinine stubbornness, but he's a little more resistant to your existence than most. This lets him sit you down every week on the same day and try coaching simple words like 'yes' and 'no' and 'here' out of your throat, wearing ear muffs more for your sake of mind than protection.

Granted, you're as bullheaded as you are old, so most days he ends up talking with himself. But he considers it a small victory every time he manages to pull a word out of you.

Then your hubris makes a mission go to shit, because while you may be immortal in your human disguise, the three bullets in Price's chest that nearly kill him can attest he isn't.

Humans often speak of a god's wrath and they are right; you make a blackened hole out of the enemy base when you find him bleeding out, steel and stone bent into obtrude ways to ensure it may never be restored. You are lucky he's too exhausted to see parts of you burst out of your human back, tentacles of liquid abyss reaching through solid walls to grab the enemies and pull them down into the waiting jaws of nothingness. Not even a bug can save them from being erased from existence like they're drawings on a paper sheet...

But they hardly speak of a god's sorrow; you stay by his bedside while he sleeps, every inch of every surface of the room dotted by your eyes so you can make sure his chest continues to rise and fall in an even tempo, bearing your teeth at Death until it scampers off.

But it's still not enough with how regret claws at you, so you lean over to cover his body with your own, mindful of his sutures as you bury your head into his chest and let out all the words clogging your throat.

It's the tremble of his bones that finally wakes him, his eyes fluttering open to be met with a sea of maddening eyes across the ceiling staring back at him. But with exhaustion clouding his mind the incomprehensibility of the sight simply washes over and past him like a small wave, not even tickling his brain.

But your voice gains his attention, the soft saccharine croon in your voice, the little crackle of lightning in the bleakness behind each syllable vibrates every rib in his chest as you mutter something into his skin, like you're trying to pass a secret to his heart without him hearing it.

"Now what's that, Mittens?" He calls you the name he used when you were a cat, raising a hand to ruffle your hair. Your body hovers over his, enough to feel you against him but not enough to crush him. "Speak up, c'mon, ain't going to hurt."

You raise your head to look at him, his eyes are too blurred to see the gateways to oblivion yours have become, little drops of starry tears bleeding from the ceiling. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry for getting you hurt." You speak before you can even remember you shouldn't, "I'm sorry John."

He just chuckles as much as the stitches will let him. "Well look a' you." He slurs and kneads the muscles at the nape of your neck, hand trailing down to hook his fingers over the harsh edge where your back is still hollowed out like a rotten tree until he can feel solid nothingness press against his skin. "Only took me nearly dyin' for you to finally talking in full sentences." He draws in a sharp breath and pulls you by your back so you're splayed out on top of him fully. "Go on, purr for me some more."

So long as he forgives you, you'll speak until the whole world's gone deaf.

Imagine GHOST— Ghost is the most vary of you after you reveal what you are, he still is in a way. You can feel his eyes on you whenever you two share a space as if he's just waiting for you to drop the charade and turn monstrous, but at the very least his fingers don't twitch for the trigger of a gun each time you draw close.

He doesn't force you to speak, not when he's not much of a talker himself. A simple grunt or a shift of the eyes is all it takes for you to understand him and vice versa, he even learns a few simple words in sign language, though he doesn't acknowledge it when Soap calls him out for growing soft on you.

Because your control of your human body is amateurish at best, he pulls you into sparring frequently. Of course he won't admit that he likes the power trip he gets when he pins you down, even if he does mock your godhood in his deep baritone that makes something new churn in your stomach. And he pins you down frequently, your superior strength of little use when he knows better techniques.

Somehow, this time you manage to knock him down on his arse with only a little cheating on your part. He stares back at you and you grin down at him to the best of your ability, not quite right but close enough, and with a happy glow in your eyes you let out a short and quiet "I win." without even noticing, the air around you vibrating with the laughter of reality.

You freeze and it feels like the cold oblivion in your veins turns to ice, and Ghost uses that distraction to grip your shoulders and roll you over so he's on top of you. But this time something feels different; you can't read his mind like you do communicating with your kin, but you see the tenseness in his muscles, the stiffness in his shoulders, the dark look in his eyes like he's on a mission.

"I win." He growls, pushing all of his weight down to pin your shoulder on the ground despite you not struggling as he rests his hand on your throat with his fingers on your silent pulse points. "Now, say my name." He orders. "Go on, sing fer me."

You swallow and feel the tightness in your throat from the resistance of his hand. It's funny; he is like a fly to you, yet you're the one who feels small. "Ghost?" You warble out with just enough intonation to phrase it as a question, something echoing in the silence behind your voice like the crackle of flame and the snapping of old bones.

A shiver races down his spine as he feels the you wiggle and shift beneath your human suit, pushing against his hand as if to caress him through the thin separation of skin. It makes something hot burn in his chest, something primal demanding to feel this supposed god trapped beneath him; to taste twisted divinity and maddening oblivion.

"No, not that one." He growls, lifts his mask just up to the bridge of his nose and then leans down so his eyes are level with yours. "Say my name." His order is clear even as he mumbles it against your cold lips.

You breathe in his scent, the edges of your form rippling in and out like fog or a glitching computer in a desperate attempt to hold on to your body. You tilt your head so your lips brush against his, suddenly short of breath despite the fact you don't need to breathe. "Simon." You whisper and you can taste heat on your tongue with each letter, the ground beneath you shuddering.

You feel him smirk. "Much bettah." Then the hand on your throat is tilting your head up further and his lips descend on yours. Distantly you can feel a bit of your oblivion seep from the pores of your skin, dark abyss clutching him tightly as the sweet taste— of heat, of life, of Simon —steals your ability to think.

You suffer a thousand deaths when he pulls away, the air turning heavy like cement. A low warbled whine escapes your throat and Ghost just chuckles. "Say it again."

You do, you do it as many times as he asks, each word rewarded with a kiss that leaves your eternal mind blank like paper.

Imagine SOAP — You think he's gone mad when he's more bummed out about losing a cat than learning you're actually a creature beyond human comprehension that can destroy him with a blink. If anything, it's like he sees no difference between human 'you' and cat 'you'.

He's touchy and tactile, his fingers always lingering on your cold skin like he's trying to pass the warmth of life into you; his hand ruffling your hair after a job well done, his fingers feeling up your bicep when you work out, the little tap tap tap on your side when you and him cross paths in the hall, his possessive grip on your hip whenever some recruit gets too close to you.

And all the while he's yapping for the two of you, talking with you as if you'll answer only to continue speaking about some other topic a second after you remain silent. You let him because the sensation of his touch and the sound of his voice outweighs the annoyance you feel when he tries to pry words from your mouth.

Even after witnessing first hand what you can do, how reality pours through your fingers like wet sand, he's arrogant to think he can withstand what you are. He's worse when he's drunk, booze loosens the chains on his tongue and inhibitions and makes your Icarus to jump into your lap when you're reading.

"Now what's thaet for?" He slurs as he knocks the book out of your hand, "Thought yea was some all knowing dobber." He nearly makes you topple over when he winds his arms around your neck and pulls your head down until your noses touch, the scent of booze washing over your face.

He hopes to get a reaction out of you- even elephants swat away flies when they buzz in their ears long enough -maybe a curse or a harsh 'MacTavish' with how many mannerisms you've picked up from them; the only thing that makes it's way out of your hollow throat is a small hum of surprise, ringing like the inside of a dead planet and scrapping against his ears like an iceberg on the ocean floor.

Soap gives you an indignant huff like you've offended him, shifting in your lap until his knees are on either side of your hips, thick thighs caging you in on the couch as if something without true form can be contained. "What's thaet s'posed tae mean?" He tries to lean in but overshoots, bonking your foreheads together before nuzzling his nose into your hair. Under the veneer of standard issue bodywash and cologne he can smell something exclusively you, like the heat of a dying star and the cold of the void you spawned from.

You furrow your brows, worry gnawing on your stomach. You know alcohol is poisonous to men though you've seen them drink plenty of it, and Johnny is more out of it than usual. "You are drunk." Each letter crackles though the air like firecrackers, his hair standing on end as your words are warped by an accent of a language so ancient the earth is too young to know it.

"Nea I'm not." His brain is so drowned in booze your voice barely gets pop rocks to fizzle in his ears, but he wiggles his hips like a tempter and when you don't catch the hint he grabs your hands and places them on the curve of his arse. "'M nae as think as ye drunk ah am." He whines, pulling back to look at you with wide blown pupils before he grinds his hips down into your lap.

His name flies so fast out of your mouth it nearly sucks the air out of the room, "Johnny." the lights overhead flicker, your traitorous hands gripping his rear tightly. Your voice continues to echo after you've closed your mouth, each letter creating little pockets of nothingness in the space you share for a second before reality can fill them back up.

"That ah am." He grins like a child and bonks your heads together, placing a wet kiss on your cheek seconds before he passes out on top of you. You sigh and recline back into the couch, letting him use your shoulder as a pillow while he snores like a pig.

And, perhaps, you let yourself whisper his name a few more times...

#Gnome's Imagines #Eldritch reader #cod mw2 #x reader #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #x male reader #kyle gaz garrick x male reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #john soap mactavish x male reader #john soap mactavish x reader #john price x male reader #john price x reader #simon ghost riley x male reader #simon ghost riley x reader

746 notes · View notes

tinydefector · 8 months ago

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Can i request a Sunstreaker×Reader(gender nuetral)nsfw one shot?

Attachments- Human Effects

Sunstreaker x human

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: nsfw, touching, naked bodies, interspecies relations.

Fic masterlist

______________

Ambassador hums to themself as they watch Sunstreaker, Bluestreak and Traxies mess around and mingling. It was nice to see the blue mech so care free after the recent events. In truth they believe everyone is excited to be heading back to Cybertron.

"You boys better not damage each other God forbid Optimus or Ironhide and Prowl see you three damaged." They call out with a playful smile. Sunstreaker turns his helm toward the human Ambassador with scoff. "Don't worry, we know better than to damage the merchandise," he replies cockily. While he enjoys sparring with his convoy mates.

Still, he can't help snickering a little as Bluestreak leaps at Traxies, sending them both tumbling across the floor in a tangled pile of limbs. The two mechs wrestling playfully, but Sunstreaker knows from experience just how wily Bluestreak can be in a scrap.

Sunstreaker observes the ruckus with amusement, crossing his arms over his broad chest, Bob chitters and squeals as he watches the two mechs play, looking to his master as if to ask if he can join. “Go play Bug” he hums, Bob runs full speed before clambering onto Bluestreak's back, a shrill cry coming from the Insecticon as he attempts to wrestle Bluestreak off Traxies.

They shake their heads in amusement before turning to watch Sunstreaker as he saunters up to them. "Hello Sunstreaker, what can you do for you?" They tilt their head slightly, eyes flicking up to his optics. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were missing out on all the fun." He gestures casually toward Bluestreak, Traxies and Bob who are still play-wrestling amid peals of laughter, and chirps.

He redirects his focus to the Ambassador, azure optics sweeping over their form in a slow, appreciative once-over. One hand comes up to buff a spot on his broad chest, as if to draw attention to the gleaming sheen of his plating.

"What do you say we find somewhere a little more private, got something I want to talk to you about" he suggests. But his subtle hint isn't lost on them after how forward Ratchet had been.

"Christ Sunstreaker, are you hitting on me now too?" they groan out softly, but no true anger or discomfort is in their voice. Sunstreaker lets out a sly chuckle at the Ambassador's reaction. "That wasn't what I was intending but if you take it that way I'm sure I could make an exception for you," he replies with a wink. "Besides, a mech like me would be a fool not to take advantage of such charming company, while it lasts."

He begins walking with them, making his strides slower so that they could keep up with him. " unless you're already catered for? I have heard rumours of certain other members of our crew. Not that I blame you."

"No I'm not spoken for, just..... it's complicated" they state softly, not really wanting to have more mechs listening in on their conversation. "Let me guess you saw the pin up photos?" They ask, eyes flicking to Sunstreaker again.

He chuckles lightly. "Ah, I see. 'Complicated' seems to be the way of things around here more often than not." He gives the Ambassador a knowing look, he himself had complicated flings with Rodimus, Skids and Mirage.

"Let's just say Ratchet has fine taste, and leave it at that." He hums waiting to see how they would react to those words, he was hoping Ratchet hadn't seen the pin-ups and made a move, he didn't think the Medic would, he was in a relationship with the Ex-con, but he never knew with the CMO.

"Ah so you know..” they mumble softly. It makes Sunstreaker realise that Ratchet had indeed made a move on them.

“ I felt like if I do anything more than I already have I'll have the whole crew at my door. And I'm already trying not to have issues with command on Cybertron and not to mention the Galactica union." They mutter.

"Affairs of the spark can certainly make logistics...complicated," he acknowledges with a wry quirk of his lip plates. "Especially where command protocols and off-world politics are involved. Primus forbade any diplomat to find themselves on the wrong side of bureaucracy!" It's a chuckle, a true one from the rather snarky mech.

“Please don't spread it around, I don't need Magnus up my ass over me having a fling With the crew let alone the CMO” they pleade hoping that he understood enough how bad the situation was for them if it got out of hand,

"Easy, your secret is safe." He shoots them a conspiratorial wink. They laugh loudly. "Sunny no offence but you are one of the least subtle or Discrete mech I have ever met" they giggle while looking away. He grumbles as he looks away feeling ashamed to have been called out. "Guilty as charged" he admits under his breath.

His reigns in the snarky comment he wanted to shoot their way. "I wanted to.. frag how do i say it.” He grumbles again before trying to figure out how to broach the subject, he had never been the one trying to get someone in berth, it was always others trying to get him into their berth.

“I would like to invite you to um… Frag im slag at this. Would you be interested in interfacing with me?" He manages to ask, feeling the heat under his plates making his frame uncomfortable due to the situation.

The Ambassador freezes up, head snapping towards the yellow gold mech with surprise on his face. “ I…” they start only from Sunstreaker to hiss at himself for being stupid. “no I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked”

"I don't have anywhere to be for the next cycle, I was just checking up on Traxies" they blurted out to him. In truth Sunstreaker was a very pretty mech, they just never took him as one to be interested in humans.

Sunstreaker's optics flash brightly as he catches the Ambassador's words. "Well now, a whole cycle to yourself?" he asked, almost speechless, excited and intrigued.

"As it happens, I find myself also unexpectedly free for the foreseeable cycle," he adds casually, leaning down to scoop them up into his servos and arms. "Only conditions are, I can't have others finding out about this, do not talk about it with others" they state.

" I'm not looking for a relationship, f you have issues with that or me being with others, I'm occasionally sleeping with others, please reconsider" they explain. Sunstreaker nods slowly as he considers the Ambassador's terms, mouthparts pressing into a thin line.

"Very well, i won't tell anyone," he promises, voice low and serious. "As for your other arrangements...that is your affair, not mine." Truth be told, he wasn't looking for a relationship either, but he was rather intrigued to see what a human was like in berth.

The trip to Sunsteaker's website is a decent one but now that they are in there they look around admiring the different decorations, paints and detail supplies he had around.

A smug smile crosses his faceplate. "Like what you see?" he purrs, leaning down until his face is mere inches from theirs. "I take great pride in my collection. Only the finest."

They look over the many different paints and rims. The only way they could really describe it was like walking into a hat and shoe collectors house. "Woah fancy paints you have, never seen you in anything but the gold yellow" they hum while walking around. Sunstreaker chuckles slowly as the Ambassador examines his collection of paints and detailing supplies. "They are my pride and joy," he says, optics glittering with undisguised delight. "You'd be surprised how much work goes into maintaining my finish."

He watches them with rapt attention as they wander, taking in the array of exotic pigments and high-grade polishes. A pleased rumble escapes his vocalizer when they compliment his prized finishes. But then, with a playful flick of his wrist, he sends a plush detailing cloth sailing toward the Ambassador. They yelp in surprise, and Sunstreaker can't help but burst into raucous laughter at their reaction.

"What, did you think I'd let you admire my collection without getting your hands dirty?" he teases, stalking closer. "This frame doesn't clean and polish itself, you know." he looms over them, one digit tracing the curve of their jaw.

"I do so enjoy a little...hands-on assistance," he murmurs, voice dropping to a low purr. They just stare at him for a moment. "You... you brought be back here to be your personal polisher didn't you, I can't believe I got swindled like this, and here I thought you were looking for something else" it's a playful huff and teasing.

But the glint in his optics and the sly quirk of his lip plates give away his true amusement. He leans down until their faces are mere inches apart, " no, my dear Ambassador, I had quite a different sort of hands-on activity in mind." His voice drops to a sultry purr.

Bringing them up to his chestplate, he rumbles, "There, that's much better." His field practically crackles with smug satisfaction as he gazes down at them, azure optics burning with unveiled desire. "Now then, let's see what those nimble little fingers of yours can do," he murmurs. One thumb gently strokes along their side in a teasing caress.

"I have a few...sensitive spots that could use your attention."

"Oh do you now?" They chuckle while sitting down on his plating. Discarding their uniform top as they grab the polish and cloth. One hand pressed to his chassis as they give him a playful yet seductive look. Fingers trailing down the ridges and edges before they throw the polish cloth at his face with a laugh.

Sunstreaker lets out an indignant squawk as the polish cloth hits him square in the faceplate. His optics widened in shock, field flaring with offence. "Why, you cheeky little--!" he sputters, swiping the cloth away. But despite his outrage, a frown tugs at the corners of his lip plates.

"Oh, you're going to pay for that one," he growls playfully, optics glinting with mischief. Careful not to jostle the Ambassador, he shifts his weight, feinting as if to make a grab for them. "I'll have you know I don't take kindly to such flagrant disrespect of my finish," he huffs, trying and failing to keep a stern expression.

Sunstreaker may be vain, but he's not above a bit of playful back-and-forth. He settles back, They settle back down on his plating, relaxing into his servos. The cold metal trails up their sides, a slight shiver running down their spine as he drags his digits over their body admiring how different human physiology is to his. He could see why the rest of the crew were so taken by the ambassador.

"Fascinating," he murmurs, digits ghosting reverently over their skin. He can't help but marvel at the sheer softness and pliability of their form, so different from his own rigid, metallic plating. "You know," he purrs, voice dropping to a low, sultry rumble, "the rest of the crew really has excellent taste." One thumb brushes teasingly across their jaw. "I can certainly see the appeal..."

His free servo comes up, fingers lightly caressing their chest in gentle, exploring sweeps. Sunstreaker is utterly captivated, his focus zeroed in solely on them. "Christ Sunny, you just interested in teasing me, with how thirsty you bots are online I was expecting you to be a bit more handsy" they tease.

Sunstreaker chuckles lowly. "Thirsty, you say?" he rumbles, optics glittering with mischief. "In fact," he purrs, leaning in until his breath ghosts across their skin, "I'd say I'm positively famished." His grip tightened.

They let him remove the shirt, digits caressing their skin as he trails further down their body. Sunstreaker savours the soft moans that escape the Ambassador's lips, his own vocalizer rumbling in response. He trails feather-light kisses along their skin, his glossa darting out to taste the subtle nuances of their unique scent and texture.

They hear the hissing and clicking of his plating moving, shooting a look over their shoulder. Their eyes go wide when they see his spike. "Holy shit, Sunstreaker, there is no way that will fit in me at all!" They stutter out.

Sunstreaker sulks, a frown falling across his faceplate. "My mods aren't that bad. don't you worry your pretty little head about that, Ambassador," he sits up ,moving the, to the berth as he stands up and moves over to storage cubes.

"You're welcome to look through the options, if you'd like," watching as he pulls out different mods for them to look at. "Umm do you have anything smaller?" Sunstreaker huffs. "Smaller?" he rumbles, "I'll have you know, Ambassador, that nothing about me is 'small'."

He rummages through the storage cube, plucking out a few choice attachments with a flourish. "But fortunately for you, I do believe I have a few. more modest options in here somewhere."

"Let's see now..." he muses, "where did I put that petite little number?" A groan escapes his vocalizer. "Ah, here we are!" Sunstreaker presents the selected attachment. "I think you'll find this one much more manageable," he quips.

They watch as he brings out the smaller spike, this one looked like it wouldn't impale them, it's a ‘small’ silver attachment with little details etched into the metal along with little balls along the length of it. "That one looks better in size, but umm. How exactly do you.." they trail off. Eyes flicking from the small spike in his servo and the large one between his thighs.

"How do I...?" he prompts, one optic ridge arching upward in a blatant display of smugness. He tsks, shaking his head in mock-pity. "Allow me to demonstrate."

With an exaggerated flourish, he swaps out the sizable spike for the more modest attachment, the change accompanied by a series of slick, metallic clicks and whirs.

"There, you see?" he purrs, flexing his hips to show off the new addition. "Perfectly...proportional."

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#transformers #transformers idw #mtmte #transformers x reader #transformers x human #transformers lost light #valveplug #sunstreaker tf #sunstreaker x reader #sunstreaker #transformers: more than meets the eye

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simp2537 · 8 days ago

Text

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔉𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩 𝔄𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔢

a/n: So I’m back heheheheehe, yeah this took me a hot minute. But it’s back now. Yay!!!! Anyways there some more Bakugo and Kirishima in this. It is a slow burn though so yeah. Enjoys though!!

Word Count: 6,339k

Trigger Warnings: Gore, Blood, Horror, Cursing, Child Abuse, Human experiments, Child abandonment, Angst, Depression, Anxiety, PTSD, Insomnia, etc

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝔗𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔳𝔢

Y/n sat dutifully on the bar stool as Aizawa brought her coffee. The iced drink was quickly grabbed as he moved behind her. His hands moved through her h/c h/t gently as he began to style it. His longer fingers raked softly against her scalp.

The early morning birds chirped softly as the stove cooked eggs for the pair. The pan glowed softly as Y/n kept her hands in her lap. Her eyes remained focused tightly on the pan. Her hands shook softly as she itched to hold her hand out.

“Don’t. Focus, petal.” Aizawa mumbled. Pouting, Y/n sipped on her drink. She hated this training exercise; she thought it was stupid for so early in the morning. The pan continued to move by itself as she stared at it.

She hates this; she just wanted to eat. Aizawa sighed softly as he watched a drop of sweat roll down her forehead. He knew this wasn’t easy for her, but Y/n had so much power to use. They had barely scratched the surface, and everybody knew it.

She was so much stronger than is cared to realize. She was too obvious with her powers; she lacked control in every way. She was like an ocean of different tides. Huffing softly, the spatula flipped the eggs over.

“Shota! N/n!” Their front door opened with a jolt, and Y/n’s face brightened. Hizashi was walking, a white box under his arm. Y/n leaped up, ruining all Aizawa’s progress on her hair. Y/n trucked into Hizashi’s arms with a smile and hid in his chest.

“Uncle Zashi! What do you have?” She asked, peering up at him, the pan long forgotten.

“I brought you some treats from that bakery you like.” With a smile, Y/n took the box and sat back down. Without a question, she took one of the chocolate pastries out. She began to eat it as Aizawa sighed softly, fixing her hair once more.

“Hizashi, I thought I told you not to bring any treats when you decide to invade my house,” Aizawa mumbled as Y/n held up the coffee cake with her powers for him. Hizashi scoffed as he took over cooking the pair’s eggs.

“You keep her all sad without treats.” Hizashi scolded while taking the eggs off the stove. Aizawa stared blankly at the loud blonde’s back.

“You spoiled her and ruined our training exercise.” Y/n giggled once, mouth full of pastry. Aizawa sighed loudly as Hizashi placed the eggs in front of the pair. Reluctantly, the tired man sat down and began to eat.

“Uncle Zashi, will you finish my hair?” With a bright smile, the loud blonde moved over. The relaxed silence filled the air as the small family ate. Aizawa’s tired, dark eyes watched as Hizashi slowly fixed up the loose hair into a simple style that would fit with her hero costume.

Y/n sat there as she ate the mix of eggs and her pastries, smiling happily. The clock chimed softly behind them, her movements pausing. Her body went stiff as Aizawa’s eyes drifted to the old clock that had just one day appeared in their house.

“You’re going to be late! Late, I say! Late! Late! Late!” From under the table, the White Rabbit popped out. His watch in hand as he jumped about. Aizawa sighed softly, grabbing his scarf and Y/n’s shoes.

“Late! Alice! You’ll be late for school!” Y/n giggled softly as she ate the last of her pastries and eggs.

“I know White Rabbit, I’ll be fine.” The White Rabbit smiled softly, his ear twitching softly. She pet his head as she took the shoes and quickly placed them on. Hizashi handed the rabbit a small cake and patted his head.

“I’ll see you later, Mr. Rabbit.” The talking animal nodded with a smile and ducked right back under the table. His rabbit hole appeared, and he was gone, cake in hand.

“I still hate when they do that,” Aizawa mumbled as he grabbed his coffee. Y/n furrowed her perfect brows in confusion.

“Why? He keeps us on time.” Y/n giggled as the keys popped into her hands. Aizawa patted his pockets, then reached for the keys with a smile. Y/n handed them off as Hizashi came up behind them.

“Well, we don’t want N/n to be late, do we.” Hizashi handed the smaller girl her bag. Aizawa rolled his eyes fondly and followed his two crazies out the door.

…………….

Y/n hates reporters; they were always too loud, too pushy. How someone could choose that as their profession willingly was insane. As she pushed another camera and microphone out of her face, she sighed.

She’d been hiding for the most part behind her day. Aizawa had been pushing them away so they could reach the building.

“All Might’s not on campus today. Now get outta here, you’ve disturbed my students enough already.” Aizawa voiced as he hung off another microphone. Y/n huffed, annoyed as she clung onto his scarf.

She followed behind him as they walked inside the gates. She ate a pastry as Aizawa carried her cream and blue bag for her. She skipped through the world happily. She had a belly full of sugar, her hair was done all cute, nothing was going to ruin her mood now.

Her heels clicked against the floor with each step. Aizawa’s eyes drifted over to them, and he clicked his tongue.

“Dad, can I get my nails redone?” Her soft question raised his brow.

“Let me see them.” Without a moment spared, Y/n handed Aizawa her hands. The emails had just begun to grow out. The soft pink ombré with the golden heart charms showed the smallest bit of real nail.

“Sweetheart, you’ve had these for two weeks. They’ve barely grown out.” He told her as he began to walk away. Y/n huffed loudly and stomped past him, a pout on her fairytale-like face.

“But you can see my nails!” She whined, staring down at her nails. Aizawa just shook his head at her softly. Her brow pricked up, and she smiled softly.

“I’ll ask Uncle Zashi, or Auntie Nemuri, to take me, I know they’ll take me.” Aizawa’s face falls as he looks over at her. The sudden smirk that laced her face was an indication enough.

“I’ll book an appointment for this weekend.” He sighed. She jumped up and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you, Dad!” Aizawa rolled his dark eyes at her as they entered the class. She took her bag and sat back at her desk with a dreamy expression.

I’m getting my nails done! Should I get blue or green?

𝒢𝑒𝓉 𝒶 𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝓁𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝐹𝓇𝑒𝓃𝒸𝒽 𝓉𝒾𝓅𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓈𝓂𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝓉𝓉𝑜𝓂 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓃𝒶𝒾𝓁𝓈.

Y/n hummed softly as she looked up at the board. The tiny hearts she’d drawn on the board were still there. Small and not very prominent in the corner of the board.

“Decent work on yesterday’s combat training, you guys. I saw the video feeds and went over each of your team’s results.” Y/n perched up, turning her attention to her dad. He stood at his podium, looking over everyone. She remembered Tokoyami’s eyes on her. So confused, maybe even a little scared.

“Bakugo… you’re talented. So don’t sulk like a child about your loss, okay?” Bakugo was the blonde boy who called her weak. She scowled, her perfect face changing. He was the one the Queen of Hearts would love. With his explosive personality, she’d make him her head executor.

“Yeah, whatever.” His face was annoyed, like a child who hadn’t been given his favorite toy.

“And Midoriya. I see the only way you won the match was by messing up your arm again. Work harder. And don’t give me the excuse that you don’t have control over your quirk.” His face was downcast in disappointment, in himself. It oddly pained her heart.

“That line’s already getting old.” Aizawa scored once more. She wanted to giggle a little, but she used to break her body. Tear it apart even, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again! He always made her do it, too.

Just tearing, cracking, crying, screaming, begging….

Over and over and over an over and over and over again…

𝙴𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑! 𝙴𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕.

She turned her gaze back to the board, and small bits of color were floating around her wrist. Like bits of colorful lighting. Her fingers twitched ever so slightly as she rolled her wrist. For a second, Aizawa’s eyes drifted to her. She pulled at the ribbons in her hair, gently playing with them

“You can’t keep breaking your body while training here. But your qurik will be really useful if you can get a handle on it.” The compliment made Midoriya’s eyes sparkle in happiness.

“So show a little urgency.”

“Right!” Midoriya reminded her of the Mad Hatter in the sense that he got really happy over random things. There right amount of sugar in his tea, cupcakes, singing, and dancing.

“Let’s get down to business. Our first task will decide your future.” Her father’s want to scare these kids was kind of funny.

“Is it another quirk test?”

“You all need to pick a class representative.” She rolled her eyes softly.

“Oh, good. Just normal school stuff!”

“Pick me, guys! I wanna be class rep!” Kirishima yelled in excitement.

“I’ll take it!” Kaminari smiled at his own words.

“I’m totally the right pick.” One after the other, everyone in the class was yelling. She covered her ears gently with her perfectly manicured hands. Although grown a little out. This was a lot of noise for no reason. Class rep? Please, she would rather eat slugs.

Shoot slowly walked over to her desk, handing her his extra pair of earbuds. He gently pulled her hands from her ears. Placing each earbud in, she played some music for herself. It was full of songs from when they were little. A lot of Disney, it always seemed to help.

“Silence, everyone, please! The class representative’s duty is to lead others.” Iida announced loudly. She took out one earbud to listen. His voice was calm, collected, a bit robotic if anything. He was steady, like Aizawa. She liked his voice a lot.

“You must first have the trust of every student in the classroom. Therefore, the most logical way to fill this position is democratically. We will hold an election to choose our leader!” Fair enough.

“It’s pretty obvious you want us to vote for you.”

She watched Aizawa flop down in his yellow sleeping bag. She huffed softly as she went behind his desk, her pink and blue sleeping bag was there too. She could use a nap

………………………………

She didn’t like this anymore. Why did her name have two votes? She didn’t want to be class rep or vice rep. Midyoriya had three votes, but Y/n and Yaoyorozu each had two. How did this happen? She voted for Iida, not herself. She liked his voice; she wouldn’t mind hearing more of it.

“It’s a tie… You should do it, Y/n. You probably have more experience with U.A. meters.” Y/n turned her head to Yaoyorozu. Was she so insecure? Sure, Y/n was raised in U.A., but that did not mean she wanted to be in charge of her class.

“No. You can have it.” She went to turn around and grab a snack from her bag.

“No really, you should do it, I wouldn’t know what to do.” Snapping her head back, Y/n glared.

“No.” The class all seemed to shrink back. Her perfect face was all dark and cold. It was like a switch went off.

“Super creepy.”

Midoriya and Yaoyorozu now stood at the front of the class. Midoryia looked like he was about to faint. It was kinda pathetic. The way he was shaking so hard.

I’m hungry, I kinda want a fruit bowl.

………………………….

She ate quietly next to Shoto, Kirishima was still in the lunch line, and she wasn’t gonna wait to eat. She drank her tea while flipping through the book that floated in the air next to her.

“Y/n?” She looked up at him, into his opposite eyes.

“Yes, Shoto?” She smiled up at him, stealing some soba from his plate. Her fruit bowl was already gone, and she was still hungry. He passed her his tray without missing a beat.

“Why didn’t you want to be class rep?” She shrugged gently, picking over the food on his tray.

“Why would I want to be in charge of a bunch of people I barely know and care about?” Shoto nodded his head in agreement as his teacup floated over to him. She technically wasn’t supposed to use her quirk, but none of the teachers ever really stopped her.

“It would look good on you, though, why give up that chance?”

“Why does it matter?” She asked.

“Why wouldn’t it?” She huffed.

“Why do you care?” She asked, avoiding the question.

“Because even after all these years together, I still don’t always understand how your mind works. I want to be on the same page as you. I’ve been slowly catching up on chapters our whole lives… but I'm still behind.” Y/n froze for a while, not moving at all.

“I’m sorry, Shoto...” It was his turn to be confused.

“Why?”

“I’m not a good person.. I never meant to make you feel left behind. The truth is, you’re the first and only real friend I’ve ever had. Real human friend.” Shoot furrowed his brows, watching her. He hadn’t seen him like this many times. Aizawa wouldn’t bring her around. He always knew Y/n was different.

“I'm a selfish person; I don’t care for others. If it came down to you or them, they’re dead. Because I will always choose you. I'm so selfish because I don’t care about their lives. I’m not the one who will rush to protect them. They deserve some who will try. Try hard to keep them all safe.” Her words were timid, quiet.

“I’m not that person. I'm not the one to sacrifice everything for everyone… especially not when I don’t love them.”

Shoto stared at her, so small. Her eyes were so blank, void of life and understanding. She wasn’t this horrible person she’d constructed in her head. He reached for her hand, gently grasping it. Her gentle, soft, perfect hands.

He stared at her; her eyes were so… lost. She was just lost. Lost in her head. Lost in her heart. Lost in whatever world would always seem to take her.

The alarms blared above them wildly, flashing too. Before they could think, others were pushing and running. Shoto grabbed tightly onto her hand as they were pushed along. She groaned as she felt the others pull at her. Every step was another step further into chaos.

A boy with blonde hair pushed at her, and her hand slipped. Shoto gasped as he felt her slip away.

“Y/N!” She yelped as her body was forced away. It was like the rapids full of lightning eels in the dark swamp. She felt the world encroaching on her as more and more people shaved and grabbed from her to escape. Tears began to well up in her eyes as she felt it. Something was watching her, something dark and hateful. She looked around, staring at those who were pulling her.

Y/n couldn’t breathe; there was too much. Too much noise. Too many emotions all around her. Too much fear.

“Hey! Crazy chick!” Someone was gripping tightly onto her forearm. She jerked away, but he just yelled at her again.

“You wanna get pulled away again, brat!” She knew that gruff voice anywhere. The Queen of Hearts would be the favorite. She stared up at him, into his blood-red eyes

He was holding her…?

His arm was firmly placed around her, like some shield. He held her against the glass as the other pushed at his body. He didn’t move as he gave her space. She just stood against the wall, letting him hold her there.

“Stop it with that rainbow shit!” he growled, like a rabid dog. Not a rabid dog, just an angry one. Her hands were shaking. Her tears were still streaming down her face.

“Enough! Stupid brat, I get you out of there, and you cry! Some future hero you are! Crying, the second things get overwhelming!” He still yelled at her. She blinked up at him softly, through the e/c of her eyes. He scoffed loudly as he looked away.

“You know you’re like a dog.” His head snapped to her. A scowl was deeply rooted on his face.

“What!” She smiled at him so charmingly. It was unsettling how hand-drawn she looked sometimes. He just stared at her. There wasn’t an imperfection on her face. She even looked pretty when crying like a doll.

“You’re like a dog, a guard dog.” She giggled. A few seconds ago, she was crying.

“Excuse me! Shut your mouth!” She just stared up at him. Her hand found its way to his head, patting him softly. He froze, uncertain of what to do. Her finger ran through his locks like it was nothing. Like she wasn’t actively touching him.

“Listen up, everything is okay!” Her hand fell as all the other students stopped moving so much. Iida was above the exit sign, like a crazy person.

“It’s just the media outside. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. Everything’s fine!” Iida yelled to everyone below. She stood against the glass calmly, not another tear in sight. No puffiness to her face. Nothing. Bakugo couldn't even tell she'd cried at all.

“We’re U.A. students. We need to remain calm and prove that we’re the best of the best.” The students around them began to stop, and they gave each other room. Bakugo let go of the glass and pulled away.

“I’m the best of the best, nothing like all these extras.” He mumbled. Then he just walked away, like he had just been her human shield. Y/n moved from the glass as she felt a familiar cold hand on her wrist.

“Y/n! Are you okay!” Shoto’s panicked words brought a smile to her face.

“Yeah, I got to pet a guard dog.”

………………………………..

Sitting back at her desk was a huge bore; she hated it. It was a boring color, no details, no fun patterns. Nothing. It was so bland, so of this world. She wanted food, her lunch after all had been rudely interrupted.

“It’s time, class rep. Let’s begin.” Yaoyorozu began as they both stood in the front of the class. Y/n was so bored with all of this. She didn't want to be here anymore.

“Okay, so we need to figure out who the other class officers will be.” Midoriya nervously shook as he spoke. She rolled her eyes so softly at him while she dug through her bag. She was out of snacks. Shoot and Y/n hadn’t gone snack shopping in a full week. Endeavor hadn’t paid for a snack run in a full week.

I don’t have any snacks on me at all! I’m going to die of hunger!

Y/n turned to Shoto, her eyes saddened. He simply lifted his brow at her. He looked at her empty bag, then at her empty hands.

“But first, there’s something I wanna say. I’ve thought a lot about this, and I think Tenya Iida should be our class rep!” She fully turned her head to the front.

"𝒪𝑜𝒽, 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝑔𝑜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓅?"

"𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔."

She giggled to herself, she liked Iida, she wouldn’t mind him as class rep. He was calm and collected, like a steady stream of water.

“He was able to capture everyone’s attention and get us in line. So I believe that he should be the one leading our class from now on!” Midoryia finished smiling at Iida.

“Yeah, you know what?” Kirishima began, “If Midoriya vouches for him, I’m good. Plus, he was a big help. He totally manned up and took charge, right?”

She looked over at Iida, his face full of surprise. His eyes caught Y/n’s soft smile, and he returned it. Iida was the person whom others could count on.

“Yup! Oh! Did you notice he looked like the dude on the emergency exit signs when he was on the wall earlier?” Kaminari voiced, turning to Kirishima. Iida’s face only grew in happiness. He was that person.

“This is a waste of time. I don’t care who the rep is, just hurry up.” Aizawa sat up in his sleeping bag, annoyed. Y/n furrowed her brow, she wished to were taking a nap. She watched Iida stand up, his posture straight, arms at his side.

“If Midoriya is nominating me for this job, then I humbly accept. I pledge to carry out the duties of class rep to the best of my abilities!” Iida announced, making his way to the podium. She smiled at him. he was perfect for this.

………………………….

“Papa? What do you think of my class so far?” Y/n asked as she slurped up her udon noodles. Aizawa looked up from his papers tiredly. Hizashi smiled at her as he filled his cup with orange juice, the cantanor levitating in the air.

“Yeah, Aizaawa, what do you think of them?” Hizashi egged on. Rolling his eyes, Aizawa shook his head.

“They’re interesting, a few have more of a grasp on their powers than others.” She nodded her head. Midoriya was like glass with his quirk; he could break at any second. While Shoto and Bakugo held their quirks so close to their hearts.

“Where do I stand in that regard?” Both adults turn their gaze to her. Her hands were in her lap, a light tremor in her arms. Y/n sat small; she only ever did that when she was afraid. Small… she hated feeling so small.

“You are the most well-trained out of them all.” Y/n scoffed at her father’s words. She ate for a few seconds, not meeting their gaze. She stared down into the muted colored brother.

“You’re just saying that because I’m your daughter and you’re trying to make me feel better.” Aizawa fully looked at her. He set down his papers and chopsticks.

“He’s not just saying that, cupcake, tell her, Shota.” Hizashi urged. Aizawa looked at Y/n, small and scared.

“Y/n, sweetheart, would you please look at me?” Slowly, she looked up through her cloudy eyes.

“I’m not just saying this to make you feel better, there is no one in your class who is on your level. You’ve been trained your whole life by pros; most of these kids haven’t. Not only are you well trained, but your quirk alone puts you one other level.” She just moved her food around. She was a ticking time bomb, and she knew it.

“Papa? Uncle Zashi? And I… strange?” She looked at her family softly.

“Strange in what way?” Aizawa replied.

“I dunno, just strange.”

“Hell yeah, you are!” Her face froze as she looked at her uncle. She was strange. Nothing like the girls in her class. They weren’t strange. Aizawa went to smack Hizashi on the back of his head.

“You’re strange in a way no one can replicate. You’re unique in the sense that it makes you special. You’re crazy in an incredible way.” She smiled softly, a bit bashful as she looked down.

Aizawa watched her eat in silence after that. Y/n was a normal girl. She was strange. She was a whirlpool of emotions. She was a mass of untapped power. She was something no one could quite define.

He loved her all the same, strange as she was.

…………………………………..

“Today’s training will be a little different. You’ll have three instructors. Me, All Might, and another faculty member will be keeping tabs on you.” Aizawa started. He already told Y/n where they would be going.

“Sir! What kind of training is this?” Sero asked, raising his hand high. Y/n laid her head down softly. This was all so tiring. She didn’t like real school. She preferred homeschool, and she could just lie in her bed. She could just sit around without much issue. “Rescue. You’ll be dealing with natural disasters, shipwrecks, stuff like that.” All at once, everyone began to talk. Waves and waves of noise just invaded her ears. She rolled her shoulders as she grabbed a pack of gummies from her bag.

Thank Shoto for loving to use his father’s money to buy me snacks

She began to shove the gummies in her mouth without a care in the world. The blue ones were her favorites. And the red ones, they looked like rubies.

“Guys, I’m not finished yet.” The class immediately went quiet. “What you wear in this exercise is up to you.”

Y/n allowed herself to look up at her father. Her costume was perfect now. Every little thing was perfect.

“I know you’re excited about costumes, but keep in mind that you haven’t gotten used to them yet, and they might limit your abilities. This special training’s at an off-campus facility, so we’ll be taking a bus to get there.” Aizawa continued. Y/n watched as the costumes pushed out of the walls.

“That’s all. Start getting ready.” As Aizawa left the class, Y/n remained in her seat. She watched as Shoto stood, grabbing her costume for her. As he stood next to her, she held up a blue gummy. Slowly, he lowered his neck, taking the candy off her fingers.

Soft squealing came from the girls behind them. Y/n paid them no mind as she grabbed her bag. She wasn’t sure why they were doing that. She allowed Shoto to walk her to the girls’ locker room without much of. Thought.

Blue gummies would float through the air towards his mouth. Shoto would bite them out of the air.

“Shoto, do you think we could get matcha after school?” Shoto nodded his head at her softly.

“That one cafe that sells those chocolate pastries you like?’ Y/n smiled wildly as he handed her the case with her costume.

“Yes, please! I love their sitting area too!” Her excitement bounced off the walls.

“I have the black card.” She giggled softly as she opened the girls’ locker room door. Shoto closed his eyes, his caterpillar-like eyes. Y/n smiled. She loved his eyes. “See you on the bus, sparkles.” She smiled, entering the locker room. She dropped her stuff in her locker and quickly changed.

“Y/n! You two are so perfect!” Mina squealed as she crashed into her. Y/n furrowed her brows, allowing her skirt to fall.

“What do you mean?” The other girls laughed for a second. Had she said something wrong? Was she being strange again?

“You and Todoroki, you are so unbelievably perfect with one another. It’s like you can read each other’s minds!” Tsu spoke with a small ribbit at the end. Y/n tilted her head as she pulled her boots up. She somewhat understood.

Shoto was just always with her; it was only natural that they picked up on things. He only likes the blue and green gummies. He didn’t like the heat. He preferred cold soba to hot. He liked all his drinks iced. He only drank the tea she gave him; he didn’t like kettles.

“I suppose we are perfect,” Y/n answered fixing up her hair. As the girls all giggled in delight, she had just finished dressing herself.

She moved away from them all, her eyes on the door ahead.

“Y/n, you do understand what we mean, right?” Tsu asked, walking next to her.

“Of course, Shoto and I are perfect friends.” Tsu raised a soft brow but didn’t object. They were perfect. Everything about their friendship was perfect.

………………………………….

This bus ride wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be. She had some cookies on her lap. Earbud in her ears, and Photo’s warm hand on her stomach. It sent warm heat waves through her body, easing every cramp. Her period had snuck up on her just before they left the school.

The bus had pulled out when she yelled for them to stop. Aizawa, of course, allowed her back into the school, even gave her to option to stay. Y/n wanted to go to the rescue facility. So she put a pink pad on and sat back on the bus.

“Well, if any of our classmates have pro quirks, it’s Todoroki, Y/n, and Bakugo.” Y/n gently raised her head. Kirishima was looking over at her. His eyes looked like red carnelian; she liked those gems. Not like Bakugo’s angry blood rubs, but softer carnelian.

“Sure, but Bakugo’s always angry, so he’ll never be that popular,” Tsu commented without a care. A small giggle fell from her lips at the frog girl’s words.

Tsu is funny, I think I’ll take care of that one

“What’d you say? I’ll kick your ass!” Bakugo held the bar, and he stood up. She giggled some more as she took a bite out of the chocolate chip cookie.

“You see?” Tsu was funny and didn’t seem to care for the armory guard dog about to jump at her.

“You know, we basically just met you. So it’s kinda telling that we all know your personality is flaming crap mixed with garbage.” She didn’t like that. That wasn’t nice.

“You’re nothing but a useless piece of garbage! You hear me! You are my greatest failure in this life!”

She didn’t like those words at all. They were too close to… his words.

“You’re gonna regret that day you applied to this school, you loser! I’ll kill you!” Bakugo yelled. She smiled at him. At least his ego was big enough to keep other voices at bay. Not that she thought his emotions were steady. The read she got off his was so unchanging. Like a mountain or something. He was constant. So sure of himself, Y/n liked that a lot.

“Hey, Hey, we’re here. Stop messing around.” Aizawa’s dark eyes cast a look at Y/n. She nodded her head, already knowing what he was thinking. pain relief was in his teacher’s bag, she could sit out at any time, and he didn’t care if she snacked.

Yes sir

“Whatever.” Unloading the bus went smoothly, and Iida’s instructions helped. He directed everyone with such ferocity. Thirteen waited for them at the entrance. Thirteen was always fun to play with when Y/n was little. She taught her about all the constellations and different planets.

“Hello, everyone, I’ve been waiting for you!” Thirteen sounded a bit robotic. Just slightly, though, it was fun. The class all gasped in excitement. Y/n smiled; they seemed to do that a lot.

“I can’t wait to show you what’s inside.”

This is gonna be awesome!”

As they walked in, amazement struck Y/n; she loved U.A., she had been to almost all the facilities at one point or another. This one was one like she had never seen before. They must have remodeled it.

Y/n smiled as she listened to her classmates. To was like being at Hatter’s tea party. Every event was always so much fun to be at.

“Holy crap! It looks like some kind of amusement park!” Kirishima roared happily.

“It does look cool!” Y/n looked up at him with a smile. Kirishima returned it. Shoto stood at her side, quiet and watching every interaction.

“A shipwreck. A landslide. A fire. A windstorm. Et cetera. I created this training facility to prepare you to deal with different types of disasters.”Y/n looked around once more. Some was wrong, the world grew colder, it seemed. "Gₒ!"

"ᴸᴱᴬⱽᴱ!"

Her head hurt as they screamed at her. Something was wrong with this place.

“I call it the Unforeseen Simulation Joint! But, you can call it USJ!” She stared at the fountain at the center of the facility. The air looked wrong. Like it had begun to fold in on itself.

Just like Universal Studios Japan

She watched as he dad went to speak with Thirteen. Maybe he says it, too? Maybe she was just being crazy. Thirteen holding up three fingers was odd. Was it about All Might, after all he wasn’t here yet.

He had done a bunch of hero work before; she should have left him some tea in the teacher’s lounge. She would’ve if her hands had gotten her period. Her stomach’s hurting again.

“The clocks are ticking. We should get started.” Y/n watched her dad lean into the wall. She was just crazy. She hadn’t slept enough… that was all. There wasn’t anything wrong at all.

As if sensing her panic, Shot reached for her hand. He softly squeezed her palms. She blinked softly, still unfocused.

“Excellent. Before we begin, let me just say one thing. Well, maybe two things. Possibly three, four, or five.” Y/n rolled her eyes. Thirteen was a chatterbox.

We get it

“Listen carefully. I'm sure you’re aware that I have a powerful quirk. It’s called Black Hole. I can use it to suck up anything and turn it into dust.” Y/n tore her gaze back to the fountain. Something wasn’t right.

"𝔊𝔢𝔱 𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔫𝔬𝔴!"

"𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚐𝚘 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠!"

“Yeah, you’ve used Black Hole to save people from all kinds of disasters before, haven’t you?’ Midoriya voiced. Y/n took a step away from her class. Thirteen didn’t acknowledge it. Y/n was known for being in a world of her own. Her hand slipped from Shoto’s. He watched her.

Aizawa opens one eye to watch her. Slowly, she crept closer and closer to the edge of the staircase. He sighed softly. He wasn’t sure what was up.

“That’s true, but my quirk could very easily be used to kill.” Y/n froze… Kill? That was what she was supposed to do. Kill… kill…kill. That’s all she did once.

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!

"𝒫𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝑔𝒾𝓇𝓁, 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓅 𝒾𝓉! 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝑔𝑜!"

The world around her was blaring as she stared. The air was wrong, something was wrong with his place, she could feel it, it caused the hair on hr body to stand up. She felt it watching her so many times. And every time it is ignored out of fear. Without a care, she prayed to be wrong. She never was..

“Some of you also have powers that can be dangerous. In our superhuman society, all quirks are certified and stringently regulated, so we often overlook how unsafe they can actually be.” Y/n could barely hear thirteen now. Y/n’s quirk wasn’t properly registered; the school couldn’t do it that way.

The air was evil as she stared. Aiziawa watched and moved off the wall. Her eyes were glazed over.

“Hey. Kiddo, what is it?” He whispered, leaning down to her ear. Y/n didn’t answer.

“Do you not feel good? You can go take a nap if you need to…“ he offered softly.

“Please don’t forget that if you lose focus or make the wrong move, your powers can be deadly. Even if you’re trying to do something virtuous, like rescue someone. Thanks to Aizawa’s fitness tests, you have a solid idea of your quirks potential. And because of All Might’s combat training, you likely experienced how dangerous your powers can be when used against other people.” A shudder went through her body.

“They’re’s something evil in the air.” Y/n whispered back, her voice shaking. Aizawa gently held her shoulder as he stared down at her.

“What? What do you mean?’

“Something evil is here, and it’s not me.” Aizawa looked back at the rest of his students in confusion.

“Carry those lessons over to this class. Today, you’re going to learn how to use your quirks to save people’s lives. You won’t be using your powers to attack enemies or each other, only to help.” Y/n felt Aizawa’s grip tighten on her shoulder.

“Sweetie, what are you talking about?” His voice was slightly raised, not in anger.

“After all, that’s what being a hero is all about. Ensuring the safety of others. That’s all I have to say. Thank you so much for listening.” Y/n hadn’t been listening. Aizawa looked back at his students. His hand was still on her trembling shoulder. She hadn’t been this scared in a long time. The last time she had such a look on her face was when he met her.

“Right. Now that’s over.” Aizawa began, but electricity crackled all around them all at once. Lights dimmed, and the fountains began to malfunction. And there it was.

A black warp slowly began to form where the waterfall was. Like the mark of death itself, he watched as it grew. She took a step back, back into Aizawa. This couldn’t be real.

Aizawa gasped as he watched it explode, a single pale hand leave it. Aizawa stared at it, it looked like the thing around Y/n when he first found her. But black and… cold.

A single face forced it way out, a pale man with pale blue hair. Hands covering his body, some kind of demon he was. No of her breed.

“Stay together and don’t move!” Aizawa yelled as he moved Y/n over to Shoto.

“Thirteen, protect the students!” A gasp of terror fell from Y/n’s body as she watched. One by one, more and more filled out of the warp. One that looked so familiar. Evil, this was.

“Whoa, what is that thing?” Her heart began to pound in her chest. This couldn’t be real.

“Wait, has the training started already? I thought we were rescuing people.” Kirishima asked, taking the smallest step forward. Y/n launched forward, grabbing at him. She pulled him abound her. She grabbed Midoriya, too, while she was at it.

“Stay back!” Aizawa yelled as he put on his googles. Y/n didn’t like that.

“This is real. Those are villains.” She now gasped in fear. Monsters had found her again. Monsters she killed. Buried in her graveyard of the dammed.

Her over grave had long since been dug. Next to them, dammed right next to them all.

#bakugou x kirishima x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #kirishima eijiro x reader #kirishima x reader #bakugou x reader #kiribaku x reader #platonic! aizawa x reader #𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔉𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩 𝔄𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔢 #mha x reader #bnha x reader

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madaqueue · 1 year ago

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eternally, yours

chapter 2 | protection

synopsis: 'forever' is a peculiar concept - how can something persist, unchanged, throughout time? when our bodies halt their aging, do our minds continue to evolve? do our hearts? choso was comfortable with his version of forever, one of solitary loneliness; that is, until he meets you. forced to confront the harsh realities of being human, the fragility of life, his definition of 'forever' changes as he stares down the barrel of eternity.

pairing: vampire!choso kamo x f!reader

themes/content: non-curse modern au. fluff. language, alcohol consumption, brief stalking/catcalling, mentions of blood. 18+, MDNI

word count: 2.8k

a/n: the gang (me) craving domesticity? it's more likely than you think!

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“Wake uppppp!” a giddy scream echoes across your bedroom as you suddenly jolt awake to a tiny body careening towards you. Megumi’s dark hair tickles your face as he leaps onto you, cushioned by thick blankets, their warmth suddenly ripped from you as he tears them down in an attempt to alert you.

“I’m up, I’m up!” you scream through a laugh as you hold him away from you, cautiously avoiding his injured shoulder still held in place with the dark-blue sling from the prior week’s hospital visit.

Megumi giggles above you, his dimpled cheeks gleaming down at you as he tugs at your hand, pulling you from bed. “I wanna go to the park, pleeeeeease?” he begs.

Ruffling his hair, eyes glancing over the scar digging across his forehead, you jokingly groan. “Okay, but just for a few hours, alright buddy? I’ve got plans tonight, remember?”

His toothy grin widens, an adorable high-pitched squeal of excitement leaving his throat as he hurriedly runs from your room to get ready, a chant of “Yay, yay, yay!” echoing down the hallway.

Rubbing sleep from your eyes, you are perpetually stunned by your brother’s energy, his unending optimism. In spite of his injuries, both visible and invisible, he opens his heart every single day.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆

In the heat of the summer sun, you watch Megumi run and play with other kids, a childlike innocence as he leaps across the sand, giggles spilling from the playground. Cicadas chirp in the trees surrounding the bench you currently sit on, hidden under the shade of the overlaying foliage.

Running up to you, breathless, your younger brother manages a choked, “Can I stay a little longer?”

Rummaging through your bag, you toss him the water bottle you packed, his small hands grabbing it and ravenously chugging in insatiable gulps. Shaking your head, you apologetically stand to leave. “You know we can’t, big guy, I’m sorry.”

Despite the water already dribbling down his chin, he smiles, accepting your judgement. “Okay,” he grins. Grabbing your hand, his sweaty fingers intertwining with your own, he walks home next to you, the bounce in his step never wavering.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆

As night settles, the hum of chatter fills your ears as you sway in place along the outskirts of the bar, surrounded by your friends. Condensation from your drink dampens the palm of your hand. Despite the high-energy buzz of their conversation, all you can focus on is Megumi.

Is he okay? Should you have left him at home?

“Hey!” one of your friends calls out. “It’s so good to see you!”

A weak smile graces your lips as you nod, a chorus of cheers joining in. “I can’t believe you came out tonight!” “It’s been forever!” “We missed you!”

Has it really been that long? Thinking back as you sip your drink, how long had it been? months? a year? since you allowed yourself to let go like this, to be with your friends, to just sink into the moment; until tonight, you had been too preoccupied taking care of Megumi.

And you still couldn’t even do that right. The thought nags in the back of your mind, guilt settling in your stomach, before a full shot glass is shoved into your hand by one of your friends. Excited yells erupt as you knock it back instinctively, hands suddenly tugging you onto the dance floor.

The music pulses through your body, hips swinging as you chant the lyrics to whatever songs the DJ decided to play. Foggy lights surround you, bright and alluring, pulling you further into the moment. Your body feels light as you hug your friends, pure and innocent bliss shared through your laughs.

When it finally comes time to leave, you part ways with your group, cheers roaring through them as you walk alone down the street towards your apartment, knowing it was too far to walk to your father’s home and too late to call a taxi.

It’s only a few blocks, you try to reassure yourself as the streetlight above you flickers.

Suddenly, footsteps are heard behind you.

It’s no big deal, people walk this way all the time. They’re probably just heading home, same as me.

When the footsteps pick up speed, your heart begins to race in your chest.

Shit.

“Hey sweetheart, wait up,” an unfamiliar voice calls from behind you, sneering in false sincerity at the nickname.

Shit, shit, shit.

Picking up your pace, you desperately try to maintain any distance with the stranger, your mind scrambling in panic. You can’t outrun him, you couldn’t physically beat him in a fight if it came down to it, what are you supposed to do? Just as tears threaten to spill over your lashes in fear, you see someone ahead of you on the street.

A man stands waiting at the bus stop, eyes downturned towards his phone that softly illuminates his face, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. Something about him sends an immediate wave of comfort over you, just enough to think of a semi-logical plan.

“There you are, babe!” you proclaim loudly, hopefully audible to the threatening stranger behind you. Walking confidently up to the somehow more intrinsically trustworthy man ahead of you, you toss your arms around his neck and grab him in a hug, something about his body familiar to you in a deep, indescribable way. “Please, just go with it,” you whisper into his ear.

Initially his body tenses, but as he feels your desperation through the tight grasp you have on him, he relaxes. “Do you need help?” he whispers into your neck.

“Hey, bitch, I’m talking to you!” calls the stranger behind you threateningly.

Nodding desperately, the scent of his cologne finally enters your senses, a spicy warmth tingling your mind as you search for where you recognize it from.

“Then we better make this believable,” he murmurs into you, his voice shockingly deep.

As he pulls you slightly away from him, your eyes finally scan his face as realization sets in - the black eyes, distinctive tattoo, dark hair pulled up - he was unmistakable, the man who had so caringly treated your brother when you were in the emergency room.

Before you can respond he’s leaning forward, his lips pressing against yours. Your eyes flutter closed instinctively as you push yourself into him, his hands finding their place on your lower back as he pulls you closer. Despite the cold of the night air his lips are warm, a soft tenderness to them as they part, allowing your tongue to enter his mouth as the kiss deepens.

Unbeknownst to you, Choso’s gaze remains fixed on the predator behind you, shooting daggers through him as the man scoffs. “Fuck you, whore,” he yells before turning around and disappearing into the night.

A wave of relief crashes over you as his footsteps retreat; yet, Choso doesn’t pull away, his lips lingering for a moment before you finally separate.

“Thanks,” you breathe out, heart still pounding despite the fear that no longer remains in you.

A smirk graces Choso’s features as he looks down at you, his eyes low. “Any time,” he purrs, the richness of his voice making you shiver.

As a moment of silence passes, you realize you’re just staring at him, suddenly processing the encounter. “S-sorry for kissing you,” you stammer, stepping away from him to create space.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he responds.

“I…I know you,” you think aloud. “You took care of my brother, Megumi, at the hospital?”

Pausing, Choso nods. Not that he needs to hesitate - he hadn’t been able to forget about you from the moment he saw you, finding himself standing outside the room you had been in, his feet holding him in the spot where you wrapped your arms around him that night. He hadn’t been able to focus on anything since then, thoughts constantly returning to you no matter what he tried. “I remember you,” he blurts out, hoping the confession isn’t too forthcoming.

Fortunately, a warm smile covers your face as you look up at him. “Dr. Kamo, right?”

He nods again. “But please, just call me Choso.”

“Okay, Choso,” you smile.

God, he thinks he could die right here just from hearing you say his name. The sweetness of your cadence makes his heart flutter as he pushes down a giddy grin.

“Well, thanks again, but I guess I should get home now,” you start to turn away from him, continuing your walk down the dim sidewalk.

Before you can get far, a hand reaches out and firmly grabs your wrist. You pause in your tracks, shocked by the raw strength of his grasp. “Wait,” he murmurs, releasing his grip as you turn to face him. “You can’t go by yourself - I mean, what if that guy shows up again? At least let me walk you home.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course,” he smiles. “I was just waiting for the bus, I’m really not doing anything more important than this.”

Warmth spreads over your body at his kindness, your head gently shaking as you agree.

A sigh of relief, so quiet you barely catch it, leaves his throat at your response. He can’t let you go, not when it’s so dangerous - who would be there to protect you?

Walking in place next to you, the few remaining blocks to your apartment are silent, but something about Choso’s presence puts you at ease, comfortable in the tranquility night brings. Finally reaching your apartment, Choso clears his throat as you turn the key to your door. “Well, I hope you have a good rest of your night, and I hope Megumi’s doing okay,” he speaks before moving to leave.

“Wait,” the word leaves your throat before you can catch it, now your turn to make the man pause in his steps. “I wouldn’t want you walking back to the bus stop all by yourself - after all, it could be dangerous,” you smirk. “Why don’t you just stay here for tonight?”

Joy bubbles in Choso’s chest, exuberant at your offer, but some part of his psyche, in the very back of his mind, screams don’t do this. He shouldn’t - he’s been forced to go to the blood bank an extra two times already since the night he met you, unable to clear his mind until his body was filled with the blood of others. Would he be able to restrain himself now, with you this close?

Swinging the door open, you prod in his silence. “C’mon, it’s late, and it’s dark, just come in Choso.”

Any remaining resolution crumbles as you say his name, a soft “Okay,” falling from his lips as he steps inside, “but I’m sleeping on the couch.”

“Deal,” you grin, flicking the lights on.

His eyes roam over the space, the gentle scent of vanilla hovering through your home. Something about it feels so warm, so unmistakably you.

Suddenly embarrassed at the state you left things in, only able to notice the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink and dirty clothes strewn across your couch, you instinctively push him further inside. “I’ll, uh, go grab some blankets,” you mutter, stepping around him and making your way to the bedroom, pushing piles of your own mess away as you move.

Kicking off his shoes, Choso’s mind races as he settles into your couch, clouded with you, you, you. His fingers gently trace his lips, remembering the way yours had been on them not long ago. He remembers their softness, the slight cherry taste in your mouth, how warm and perfect you felt in his grasp.

“Here,” you toss him a pillow and some blankets from your room, “let me know if it’s too cold or anything for you tonight, or if-”

“It’s perfect, thank you,” he hums, voice barely above a whisper.

“Goodnight, Choso,” you smile before turning back into your room.

“Goodnight.”

Adjusting to form a makeshift bed in your living room, he tries to push down his recurrent thoughts of you, a futile effort. You felt so small in his hold, having to lean up to reach your lips to his, the way your fingertips grazed the back of his neck. The plush comforter above him wafts more of your sweet smell into the air, further intoxicating.

While he doesn’t need to sleep, he spends the hours of the night caught up in ideas of you, his palm resting over his face to cover the place where you kissed him, a feeling he vows to never forget.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆

In the morning, his dream-like state is suddenly interrupted by the sound of clattering from the kitchen. Soft curses leave your lips as pans tumble through the cupboard, metallic clanking echoing through your apartment as they hit the ground.

Choso stirs from his place on the couch, rubbing his eyes to focus on you.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up,” you explain, a sheepish grin on your face.

The sweet smell of syrup suddenly hits him, eyes glancing over to the stove where a mass of pancakes has accumulated.

Walking across the room to stand next to him, you hand him a white mug, the dark fluid in it a stark contrast to the bright ceramic adorned with small, hand-painted flowers. “I didn’t know if you liked coffee, but I just figured I’d make it for you-” you babble.

“Thank you,” he cuts you off, a soft grin forming across his tired features. Lifting the mug to his lips he takes a sip, the warm liquid pouring down his throat.

You know it’s too hot to drink, yet Choso doesn’t seem to react - maybe he just likes hot coffee? Shrugging off the insecurity, simply grateful he accepted your show of affection, you return to your place in front of the stove.

The man rises, his muscles straining against his clothes as he stretches. Your eyes cover his body before you force yourself to pull your gaze away from his taught chest, biceps rippling under his skin-tight shirt. There was something nearly poetic about him, something ancient sculptors strove to capture mirrored in his form.

Still slightly drowsy from the respite of his dreams, he finds himself walking across the kitchen until he hits the counter, seating himself at one of the barstools.

“I hope you’re hungry,” you laugh softly as you fill a plate with pancakes, setting it in front of him. After a moment you flip a few onto your own, pulling the plate across the table to sit next to him.

Again, a comfortable silence falls upon you as you eat your breakfast. Something about having him here, in your home, his hair undone and body relaxed, feels natural, a routine you could see yourself slipping into.

Yet, next to you, Choso struggles to hold himself together. Why today, of all days, did you have to wear those shorts to bed? Moreover, why that t-shirt, one that so perfectly drapes the contours of your body? The domesticity, the familiarity, makes his heart ache for a comfort he can’t have, one he knows he doesn’t deserve.

But the way you kissed him, the way you formed to his body, felt like it was something you had shared for years. You had seen him, felt him, and still chose to be near him; would you still be with him if you knew it all, knew everything?

“Choso,” your voice pulls him from his mental cloud, “if you don’t like my cooking, you can just say so.”

Eyes widening, he finally focuses his gaze downward, observing the mass of flour and syrup beneath him. His fork had been absentmindedly cutting at the meal you served - one he, of course, didn’t have to eat - turning it to mush before your eyes. Guilt overtakes him, the fear of your hatred consuming him before a giggle echoes through the room.

“I’m just kidding, Cho,” you laugh, playfully punching his shoulder.

The nickname, a pleasantry he had never been afforded, fills his body with an impossible warmth. How had you managed to do this so easily, so effortlessly?

Turning his head, he finally focuses on you. “I’m sorry, i-it’s good,” he stutters.

Another laugh leaves your lips, the sound bright against the darkness of the early morning. “Y’know, if there’s a place with food you like better, you could just ask me on a date there.”

You weren’t sure what had come over you, a novel confidence brewing in you as you continued glancing at the man next to you. Some part of your heart was drawn to him, unable to let him leave, needing his approval of you, his desire.

You open your mouth to counter the offer as his silence settles, fearing you had overstepped an unspoken boundary between you, before his voice hits your ears. “Next week?” he asks, his voice low.

“Deal,” you smile at him.

A childlike grin tugs at his cheeks as he looks at you, disbelief fighting with adoration as his eyes cover your form. “Deal,” he repeats.

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