#Mud aftermath

[viralbeyinspector]

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[khlegacynexus]

If you love something set it free. If it returns to you it’s yours

[yandere-kokeshi]

— His Mate

Pairing || Yandere werewolf! Ghost x gn reader

Summary || Working on a dangerous mission, you and Ghost re-meet after being separated. However, something goes wrong— making Ghost reveal his trust identity and his obsession for you, to come forth.

Warnings || yandere, lycropathy, imprinting(?), and smut: dubcon, gender-neutral genitals, descriptions of the reader having pubic hair, talks about kids, size difference, blood obsession(?), oral (reader receiving), breeding, knotting, and slight somnophilia

It’s a dire situation. 

To the explosions, nearly being hit by a bullet, and now being separated from 141 during the firefight, you’d navigate north to a safe house, rather a cabin dispatched amongst the coms you’d flipped too. 

The language was hardly understandable, but you were able to pick up some words. 

It’s freezing cold, the gush of rain pouring down on you as lightning cracks above your head. Gear soaked through, hair damp and covered in likely blood and mud; if not more. The moisture and ice surrounding you was working to create a deep freeze into your narrow bones, and it’s working– pretty damn well, too. 

Mud splatters your camo-clad shins as you sprint through the forest terrain, heart lurching out of your chest as your soaked fingers fumbled with your gun to the sodden ground.  

The moist and crispy air of midnight caked your face with frozen lids, blood staining your face. Your lungs were burning, legs cramping and stinging from the amount of running you’ve achieved. 

You continue going, thunder rumbling in the clouds above, exhaustion gnaws at your joints as you shoot and cut-throat enemies from behind, their thick blood staining your face, and hands. Creating an emotionless barrier; nothing behind your eyes but annoyance.

If it weren’t for your radio, you’d be pestering Ghost. But due to the stray bullet, that certainly would’ve ripped through your heart if not for the layers of plastic settled over it, you had to count on your distance and not for help.

Just a little more, and you’ll arrive. And from there, you can focus on radioing the team; shooting a private message to Ghost to ensure your safety. He was protective, after all. But, for now, you had too—

Crack. 

Before you could react, chaos erupts — the sounds of trees cracking down as an explosion comes from behind you. The wave of warmth and smell of gunpowder settled into your lungs. A bomb had gone off. 

Panicked voices overlay each other in different languages. The thumps of bodies and flurry of shouts shot you to your very core. Breathing heavily, adrenaline coursing through your veins, you find yourself hiding behind a sturdy tree.

The bark cutting at your palms, a reminder of the unforgiving chaos that surrounds you as you brace for incoming fire. Instantly, you gripped the gun slung behind your shoulder and started reloading it; cursing at yourself for not doing it sooner. 

As it clicked, ready and loaded, someone shouted out a name. 

“Ghost!” someone wails, and your blood runs cold, eyes widening. The whizzing of high-powered bullets persists, dropping mercenaries into the mud beneath them. 

You hear yelled orders, fighters urged to retreat by the incoming deaths, like a poison parade. 

Before you know it, all that’s left is the sound of your ears buzzing, the aftermath of the familiar bomb — the infinite number of trees swaying as more lightning struck ahead of you. Your brain was splattered, focusing on your inner voice instead of the upcoming footsteps. 

“Cobra, come out.”

You hesitate, teeth digging into your bottom lip. But with the thick, British accented voice familiarized to your brain, you eased your head out, clenching your grip on the gun as you checked for any more enemies before your eyes landed on the man itself. His hulking build that you could recognize anywhere. 

You’d be lying if you said you were unperturbed by the sight, fallen enemy combatants surrounded him, his gear covered in blood, as was his skull mask stained with gore. 

It was considered normal — but with the moon outlining his silhouette, the light bouncing off the turbid forest floor behind him, it was intimidating. 

Almost as if it was a warning about what was coming. What was ahead in the future. 

“Price sent me your last coordinates before you went AWOL,” Ghost states, clearing his throat as he bent down. Knees loudly popping as his hand curled around the knife, deepened inside a soldier’s head, and pulled it out with a thick sound. 

The gush of gore, and the slick sound of the knife easily coming out, made you cringe. Your throat tightened, you wanted to gag but stopped yourself as he shot a look at you. 

“Left quite a mess back there,” he added, looking at you with sharpened eyes as he stood back up. His knees popping yet again. His gun shuffled as he wiped the bloody knife onto his pant leg, before putting it back into the original place. 

You forced a smile, shrugging your shoulders playfully, “It’s what I’m best at, no?”

He let out a chuckle, something that wasn’t rare or common to hear. But it was something. Something that left you tingling. 

He stayed quiet and looked at you — almost like he could see, and feel you. Though, he spoke up after noticing your awkward stance.

“Le’s get going, safe house is ahead. From there, I’ll radio Price.”

Staring into the bubbling pan of water settled over the small fire, you relish in warmth that creeps across your chilled body. Still, you’re soaked, the scent of iron and mud assaults your nose, the water that you pick off the fire cautiously heated enough to scrub the blood off your face and hands. 

Though, as you look up at Simon, you quickly notice his demeanor is off; something amiss. Sure, he’s cold. But, he’s colder – brown eyes that are seemingly covered in nothing. Almost like something has taken over him, nothing of him is there; non-exist, and non-recognizable.  

His distant and blocking agency seems somewhat peculiar – lost in thought, intermittently clicking his tongue whilst cleaning his gun. Concerned, you gently approach, offering a caring inquiry: “You okay?” you ask. 

To which, he nods with a grunt. But you didn’t buy it, it was clear something was bothering him. But he’s known for being stubborn and not one to let people in unless necessary. 

Ghost had seated himself in the corner of the large, relatively empty room – looking quite ridiculous. He was attempting to fit himself in the short-legged chair as he was cleaning his weapons, and you had to hold back a laugh. You dipped the dripping rag back into the hot water, dragging it across your skin.

“Y’know…” you started, making him stop before looking up at you. “You can tell me whatever is botherin’ you. I’m not like Johnny.”

“I’m fine.” 

You raised your eyebrow at his reply, making him grunt as a less efficient, threatening way of ‘quit it before I make you’. 

“Are you sure?” You pressed on, “It definitely seems like something is on your mind. And while I may not—”

Ghost said your name in a threatening tone. His brown eyes watching you from beneath the mask. Eyes boring into you, watching you struggle to remove what was left of the grime and gore that failed to wash away. 

You sighed, and puckered out your lips like a duck, “Whatever you say, Mr. Grumpy-pants.” 

Minutes blurred by you, and before you know it, the small fire had set itself out; embers flickering around as that was the only thing keeping you two sane. You groaned, looking behind you the next minute before standing up.

“Going to get more wood,” you say out loud, and Simon had nodded — letting yourself feel a bit more relieved before your hand barely curled at the knob, and it’s when you heard it; the most guttural sound that sounded like a blend of a growl and snarl.

He said your name in a painful whisper. Not your code name– your right name. 

As you turn, you see him on his knees; his large hand grasping his chest. Heart attack? No. Something highly on not happening. But… panic attack?

“Ghost?” you asked, concerned, stepping forward before stopping at his shaking head. He was in pain and it was hurting you.

“Fuck—” he grunted, heaving as his body started to shake violently. “D-on’t come closer.”

Your eyebrows raise automatically, looking at him eerily. “Why can’t I get close to you?”

He grunted, moaning out in pain again, as yet another growl erupted from the bellows of his chest. And before you could say anything else, his holster gun fell from his arm to the floor. The sound of clattering and the smell of aforementioned sensed you to reality. 

“I- we need to get you up, what’s going on—!”

Almost as if the universe tricked you, ripping came next — the man you knew was no longer there. But instead, a hulking black-wolf took his place, boring holes in you and cracking each bone in his skeleton into places. 

Like a Cobra, you stiffened. Ready to attack the friend you once knew. 

“Ghost…?” you confessed, heavy breathing as adrenaline shot through you. By the time you whispered his name, he grew in size. Being too large. Too inhuman. Monstrously. Midnight mass fur grew onto his body, the sounds of bones breaking and reforming, his gear tearing off like nothing as scarred ears, a large snout, and patched fur grew all over him like parasites — paralyzing you like venom. 

You couldn’t fathom his form, taking a few steps back as he whined out in pain; teeth, once human, now becoming a famous creature that you imagined as a myth. 

And these eyes, they were wide and bright as Amber and honey, the color that contrasted greatly through the darkness. They were large and squinted, and the sound of snarling brought you to know you were being threatened.

But yet, you couldn’t do anything. 

His military boots outgrew, rising and shredding apart as the feet he once had, turned into paws with long claws. The curving nails scraped into the wooden floor, snapping of planks and splinters flew around his feet, echoing the noises of his cracking bones and whines of pain. 

It was practically towering over you, all muscle and height, and it made you feel powerless underneath it, trapped under its hardened gaze and intensity of its possible strength.

You let a small gasp out, uneven breaths being snaked out as he licked his chops, rearing back, bending the wooden-planks and the fallen gun underneath his weight. Turning his canine head at your expression. 

“S-imon…?” you whimper, hands shaking as you winced at the bones still cracking. 

His large head came down, eyeing you deeply at one side before walking forward, nudging at your leg. The sound you didn’t want to let out was paralyzed by fear, you didn’t want to let him know you were rather scared, as you watched with no knowledge of what he could do next. 

He left you no room to move, the fear finally choking you of words. And you could only babble out words that would normally leave you embarrassed.

“Who— what… are you?” your gaze turned to him, reminding yourself that your demand was weak. You knew so, but a bigger part of you was buried in denial. He was Ghost. Still is.

His eyes, once cold, a beautiful brown, and stood on deck, now were sharp and bright with yellow, contrasting so strongly against his scarred, ripped fur and inky shades. His head barely grazed the top of the ceiling, his ears flickering as more bones cracked in place. The snapping and crunching was horrifying. 

“Smell– your smell… sweet,” those words fell into your stomach and sank like lead. His whiskered lips and sharp teeth curved around his spotted gums. He growled, smelling– grinning at your feared state, “Mine. You’re mine.” 

Before you could think, your feet kicked his chest backwards — he roared, taking a few steps back from your move. 

Seconds blurred by you, and right as you lunged toward the door beside you, nearly skinning your knees on the floor, you heard a thick snarl from the beast behind you. 

His claws, bigger than your head, were suddenly pinned at your hips and yanked you back, making you face plant onto the floor before he dragged you enough feet away for his satisfaction. Capturing you more into the depth of his hold.

Blood– you tasted it before feeling it, your nose bleeding from the impact, and you groaned; the smell of iron making its way back to you, and he noticed this. 

He turned you right-side up, his claws ripping holes in your clothes. You let a small whimper out, as his large head came to nudge at your shoulder. Almost as if he was trying to calm you, showing he wasn’t a threat.

He whined out, taking your quiet frame and heaving breaths as more fear — apologizing for hurting his beloved. 

And with that, his warm wet and pink tongue suddenly started lapping at your arm, then your neck and finally a rough lick from your jawline up towards your nose. Starting at, licking up the very same blood that’s coming down your face — nearly suffocating you with his rough texture. 

He needed to comfort his mate. His, his, his!

You grimaced at his tongue, the rough black and pink muscle not stopping when you moved side to side, trying to dodge it. Was he now tasting you for taste? 

You pushed at its brawny chest to get some space, but he didn’t listen– his rough tongue continuing his assaults. Behind him, you could see glimpses of a tail swinging strongly behind him; the thick tail slightly wagging at your blood. 

Fuck. What was he going to do? Rut you? Fill you? Mark you? Kill you?

Suddenly, he growled — earning a gasp from you, as you watched his pupils dilate, his tongue coming out to heave; dried blood on his muscle. 

“Don’t mean to scare ya’. Jus’ drivin’ me insane, sweetheart,” he states, licking your jaw one last time before his claws – trying to on being careful – shreds your gear and pants to bits. 

You answered with your frozen stiff body, a long wine erupting from the man above you as your teeth chatted one against each other.

“Let… me go, Simon. Now!” you demanded, but his claw rose from your bruised hip and cocked a sharp nail to your chin, making you look up at him; his golden irises digging holes into your soul. Deepening his animal need for you.

“I jus’ got you, I promise I’ll treat you well.” he purred in your ear, licking yet another strip at your face before making his way down to your sex. 

“Simon–!”

“You’ll be mine, nobody will take you away from me; fill you full of my cum. Mark you, take care of you. Until I’m satisfied.” he said while lifting your lower body up from the ground, grabbing your ankles to set them beside his head, his hot breath shaking you to your core. 

“NO!” you screamed, suddenly snapping back to reality. His ears folded in an angry expression, the sound positively jarring to his sensitive ears. “No– you can’t, no, no! You won’t–!” 

His body was heavy, one paw leaning against your stomach to keep you still. You didn’t even realize you were squirming until he applied more weight, earning you a whine that you didn’t even know you could let out until now. 

“Mine,” he growled, “That’s what you are,” Simon pressed his wide hips forward, making you feel his cock– his long, swelling hot, and erect cock that was awaiting to be stuffed inside you. His knot pulsing, as if it was begging to feel your taut walls clenching around it. 

You shook your head, denying his claims. Denying his appearance. This is a dream, this is a dream. A dream!

But when he tore away your undergarments, flattening his tongue over your fluttering entrance, the sensation caused you to realize —- nothing of this ‘dream’ was fake, but instead of a standing still. 

He stuffs his whole snout into your bush and groans. The feeling is alien, his muzzle warm and wet, and you shudder with it. “You smell divine.”

You attempt to swat him away, but to no avail, he growls at your antics, showing his teeth as a warning.

“Tastes good,” he purrs, his deep and raspy voice shuddering you. He started licking long, broad strokes and making unwanted moans escape your lips — fingers digging into your bruised thighs, and his saliva adding to the sensations. 

You cry out, bucking your hips into his maw as he grunted– licking up all your juices like his last meal. Walls clamp down on his thick tongue, thrusting it in and out of your hole as you’re subjected to the pleasure. 

Though, just as your stomach starts getting warm; your abdomen heating up like a lamp, he pulls away. Making you whine out. 

“M’ make you cum in a few.”

Ghost towers over you — his thick structure showing off his heated, non-sheathed cock. Making you realize what he’s referring to as his swollen tip nudges at your entrance; the pulsing heat making you clench your thighs unintentionally. 

“Won’t fit–! No. Simon—!”

You cried out as he growled in response, his tongue licking your neck to soothe the oncoming pain. It hurts so bad. Yet so good as he fills you so full. 

You prayed he’d be gentle– but you knew better. And in a rough instant, your stomach swelled, and fire consumed you. Air rushed out from your lungs from his thick, girthy cock into your tightening, barely prepped channel, and you quiver in ecstasy at how utterly full you are right now. 

The beast, Simon, grunts and heaves; some of his drool drops on your face as he tries to calm you down with him nudging his head into your face. 

“Oh– fuck,” you whispered, panting as your teeth bit into your bottom lip.

Simon’s thick paw continued to press on your stomach, hitching out breaths as his cock slowly started to piston in and out of you. “You’d look so pretty, filled with my babies. Getting all swollen and full of my cum.”

He smirked– his thick teeth shining in the dim fire, dragging his tongue up your neck.

“Breed– need to breed you,” he gave a harsh thrust, making you feel the thick part of his cock pushing inside. He let you cry out as your legs curled around his lower hips, tightening your hold as he hit that part. 

And without another word, he shoves his cock back out and in, pounding into your soaked hole with animalistic, determination and vigor speed. With Simon being so deep into you, you didn’t even realize you were begging for more, and more. 

“Wa—eugh” you gurgled, smearing your tears against his fur as with each slap of the furry balls on his body, he sank further. His fat cock splits you open and makes a mess of sweat, tears, and drool on the wooden floor of the abandoned shack. 

It’s too much, too much— it’s too good.

Your walls tighten up around him, making him snarl out, bullying his cock into you at a more rapid pace as he pulls away from your neck; grunting in your ear with promises. 

“Fill you with my cum– belly so full. Full of my pups, I promise.” 

As if he didn’t nearly split you in half, he took himself almost out; gripping your hips before turning you on your stomach, making you support yourself on your bruised knees as his claws nicked your skin. 

He spread apart your ass, plunging back inside, and continuing with his animalistic pace; heaving and snarling above you. 

“—plea—god!” your nails scraped at the wood, leaving marks that you didn’t care about. All you cared about was his knot. His, his, his. Everything of his cum. “Fuck–! Knot… Wan’ your knot!” 

You babble nonsense, your body growing tired as his knot was slowly getting bigger– creating delicious friction as it rubbed against your inner walls. But, interrupting your soon-to-be climax was Simon coming down, leaning on your lower back for support as he snarled, aggressively nipping at your shoulder before licking the open wound. 

You were his — his mate, his to claim in every way. 

Without hesitation, he bit on the back of your shoulder. Hard. You cried out, feeling blood trickle down your arm and neck, tears pricking in the corner of your ears. And Simon whined. 

He didn’t mean to do that! He was so out of focus on breeding you, he had hurt you. Comfort. He needs to comfort you.

Simon didn’t stop licking– not until he saw that your tears were long gone, and the smell of fear and shock had gone away. But instead, blinding lust and more was demanded. 

And you could no longer talk, pain lingering, but pleasure buzzing on the edges of your nerves. Numbing every sensation but the beast within you and blanked the world but him, and his inhuman cock stretching you too big. Time didn’t exist. 

Your body grew tense– a white-hot flash washing you whole. Your abdomen was tightening so much it hurt, and then it snapped. And suddenly — everything grew too much. 

You cried out, tears forming out of stimulation, but he wasn’t done. You couldn’t think anymore, and after several moments of his vigorous fucking, he howls– his knot expanding painfully, stretching it to unbeknownst size, and his cock twitches violently as he spills inside, the large load obscene within you. 

The stretching ended with an audible pop, stuffing you completely as he bucked his hips at your squirming. “G—” you stumbled with the start, “G-get out of me!” you tried elbowing him, pleasure growing to a near painful degree before his claws grabbed your bicep gently. 

Then, your stomach felt heavier. It hurts so good, and so hot.

He purred, “Be quiet, honey— m’ filling you real hot.”

He fucks into you for another few, sloppy thrusts before he stops to ‘clean’ you. Nudging you with his wet nose into your neck affectionately, 

You’re a proper mess now. The load of cum feels obscene within you, all warm and sticky. He held you against his taut chest, rumbling in a way that felt like a cat purring; somehow soothing you. 

His thick claw gripped under your chin, forcing you to look at him as he huffed quietly, “I’ll take real good loving care of ya’ and our lil’ pups.” he jostled you somehow deeper to just the right spot, and you whimpered; quite in a state of being fucked raw by a beast who has it’s knot stuck inside you. 

“…are we staying like this?” you asked, looking down, curious and intimidated by the sight below. Mustering some strength, you slid down a tingling hand to support you as Ghost licked your shoulder. 

“For a while, I reckon,” you arched your back as his teeth slithered across your beating pulse. 

Fuck, a single movement by him has you wanting more. But you’re tired. So, so tired. 

You tremble and whimper, feeling his cock still hard — your limbs now coming limp with exhaustion as your eyes roll back into your skull. You’re so tired on Ghost’s monstrously cock that you don't even notice that he lays down with you, cradling your body close to his warm one.

“You’re mine. All mine,” he mutters, feeling your heartbeat succumb to sleep before he starts grinding into your ass. You whined, murmuring something. But he shushes you, making you fall into a blissful sleep as the man, the monster you once knew, keeps rutting into you from behind.

—

Masterlist || Reblogs, comments, and likes are very much appreciated!! Stay well!!

© yandere-kokeshi 2023 — Do not copy, modify, edit, repost, or use my works for ASMR readings, tiktoks, or other content.

[cloudshuffle]

physical touch. yan!penacony

Nobility AU

Prince Aventurine

It's no secret who you're bethrothed to in the palace - the blonde prince who basically has you attached at his hip, arm always linked with yours.

Aventurine showers you in physical touch - a hand on your waist or hip, pulling you closer to him as people pass by, resting on the small of your back as you move around the ballroom as a pair - anything short of simply cuddling you into his side. He can't stand being too far from you for too long.

Not that you mind too much. He smells nice and it feels like you're being sheltered, as long as you're at his side.

Dr Veritas Ratio

The professor is known to have his... reservations about people (put lightly). Yet he doesn't quite seem to have those same feelings about you; his contempt more of a clinical nature, like he's inspecting a particularly troublesome problem.

The first time he touches you is entirely by accident. You take a step back and he mistakenly thinks you've stumbled, his hand catching onto you before you can fall. You leap aside, naturally startled - of all people, Veritas Ratio caring whether you fall flat on your face?

Since then, he takes special joy in making physical contact with you and relishing the aftermath. From wiping food from your face to "accidentally" brushing hands with you during lessons, he enjoys watching your flustered, flushed expression, or the way you jump in surprise.

Sunday

As a butler, Sunday has boundaries he can't overstep, yet he manages to elegantly circumvent them anyway. He makes sure to bring you to places in the garden after a rain where the ground is still soft, then graciously offers a hand so he can help you to your place for teatime or for reading. Or he mentions that your hair could use a little fixing (it doesn't), and pretends to busy himself when he's just running his fingers through it.

Sunday likes how warm you feel, even through his gloves, and the innocent, pure trust you put in him to not shove you into a mud puddle or make your hair a mess. You're none the wiser, and he finds it's part of the fun.

Boothill

Where Sunday enjoys your ignorance, Boothill feigns it - playing the perfect part of the uneducated rogue, he throws a carefree arm around your shoulders, shaking you like a rag doll in his enthusiasm. He physically disallows you from carrying books on your own (read: snatching them from your hands), and especially likes to come up behind you, give you a scare, and then help you reach for the materials you wanted.

The librarian has given you both the stink-eye on many occasions.

He sits a little too close and talks a little too loud, but you enjoy his company. If anything, he effectively wards off any snooping, prying maids or overbearing bodyguards.

[discotenny]

Take me back!

Why is he at your door after he broke up with you just a week ago?

Chifuyu x gn!reader <Christmas showdown aftermath, fluff, 700+ W.C>

Had a strong feminine urge to write sm fuyu fic sorry guys LOLOL. Not beta read, but then again, is it ever? Mentions of the nickname 'angel' if that's important.

———

Your ex boyfriend is at your door, with messy hair and frazzled eyes. His bangs stick to his forehead with sweat and his sweater is stained unflatteringly at the pits. Bleeding cuts and mud splotches splatter across him, and there are bruises on his (beautiful) face. But when are there ever not? 

He’s panting, holding up a hand through breaths and gasps, trying to speak but nothing more than coughs come out.

“Rough night?” You say, amused. Knowing him for as long as you had, his heavily winded state and beaten up form could be due to a myriad of different things. 

“Shut up-“ he wheezes out, managing little else. Chifuyu’s hands fall to his knees as he collapses to the foot of your doorstep.

You bend down to meet him, putting a patting hand on his back. Ex-boyfriend or not, he was still your friend. Chifuyu breathes in gasps and gasps of cold, painful air. "Fighting on Christmas? Tsk tsk Matsuno-"

"Don't call me that-" He says, not looking you in the eyes.  

You sigh under your breath, "Huh?" 

"It's Chifuyu- Why is it suddenly Matsuno- h-huh?!" His voice is still shaky as his throat burns with cold. "Even before- I- w-we-" 

"What's this about, Matsuno?" You push away his bangs from his eyes with a frown. 

“Takemitchy’s gotten back with Hina…” He says with a whisper. 

“Oh? Congratulations to them I guess. But I don’t really see what that has to do-” Chifuyu grabs your face suddenly, squishing your cheeks together and bringing your forehead to his. “Wait- Ow- Matsu-” 

His body heat is so warm compared to the snowy weather outside. His breath fans against your nose as you shakily mumble out confusion and questions. Chifuyu’s eyes close tightly as he holds you close, basking in your touch and presence. His breathing settles to a calm pace, meanwhile you grow all the more flustered at his surprise actions. 

“Take me back, please,” Chifuyu's voice is smooth, quiet, and if all of your attention wasn’t on him right now you wouldn’t have heard what he just said.

“Huh?! Matsu-” 

He kneads your cheeks with his thumbs, “I told you- it’s Chifuyu.”

“Still- you can’t expect me to just accept this so easily! In case you forgot,” you take one of his hands into your own, “You broke up with me.” 

“I know- I know I did…” His voice waves with hesitation, lined with regret and guilt from actions past. “But I was stupid. And seeing Takemitchy admit it too made me realize how dumb I was for wanting to break up just to keep you out of all this shit…”

“That’s the reason you broke up with me?!” Your voice rises in anger, and you hold his hand tighter. “You-” 

“Please, angel?” The nickname that slips past his lips makes you stop your words. “I’m sorry. I love you. I’ll never do that to you again.” 

“You…” Your voice wavers, and you can’t tell if the shakiness comes from overwhelming happiness or underlying hesitation.

"Please?" A hopeful tone laces his words.

Lifting back your head from his, Chifuyu’s eyes widen as he braces for the worst. “You’re so stupid!” Your foreheads collide as he lets out a loud whine. 

“Ow! y/n you see I’m injured- what the hell…” He hisses at the contact yet leans into you more, chin falling onto your shoulder with little fanfare. 

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, alright?” You point a finger at his chest and he lets out a questioning hm at the action. “You’re gonna take me out tomorrow to make up for all of this. No fights, no Takemichi, just us.”  

A grin spreads on Chifuyu's face and he tackles you in a hug. Laughter echoes through the air as the two of you fall backwards into your home. “That was always the plan, angel,” he says as he hovers above you. A hand goes to caress your face, brushing a finger just below your eye. “Does this mean I’m Chifuyu again?” 

You laugh in reply, a wonderful sound that spreads throughout the room. “You always were,” somehow, his smile grows wider and he leans down, placing a kiss on your forehead with a chuckle.

———

Originally wrote this to be a Mishima fic but changed my mind remembering there's a new ep today FDSKFKA. I love my boy he's so heuewhfwnnffnawfw eaifwajijewfawaeewmef

[celenawrites]

pretty when you cry

pairing - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

word count - 2.4k

warnings - Ghost is a bit of a dick but he gets better, Reader is a bit of a crybaby here but it's just cuz she's very in tune with her emotions, Simon is emotionally constipated and cannot handle feelings, some fluff, heavy-ish (?) angst, open ending, etc.

Note - Kinda got tired of writing fluffy stuff all the time and my mental health is fraying atm, so I decided to (hopefully) hurt some folks with this little piece. Enjoy!

AO3 Version

Divider by @/firefly-graphics

You cry easy. 

That's what Ghost thought of you when you first joined Task Force-141. 

While he has always been skeptical of any new additions (often temporary) to the team he has come to love and trust after going through hell and back, Price was convinced that your impeccable record on stealth ops, your physical agility, and your skills as a sniper were much needed. 

Reluctantly, Ghost silently accepts his Captain’s decision.

However, time and time again, your sensitive nature had him worried that you might prove to be a heavy liability to the team. 

When you stub your toe against the leg of the table, you let out a few tears of frustration and pain, cursing everyone and their mothers while you hold your injured foot in the air as you comically jump around the kitchen, even though your lack of spatial awareness was to be blamed here. It is almost always a comical sight, Gaz rubbing your back in comfort while you curse and cry, failing to hide his amusement. Soap is not afraid to laugh at your face for it, while Price has this twinkle in his eye as he asks you to sit and eat something for breakfast. 

Simon ignores the flutter in his stomach when you take a seat next to him on the table, your wet hair letting out wafts of jasmine - all for him to smell and keep to himself. 

You cry when you accidentally let the door close on your pinky, dramatic hiccups leaving you as Soap ties up your little finger with white bandages, stroking your hair as he consoles you, "That's a brave lassie, yeah? You got this". (Soap has always been good with people, Simon notes.) Sometimes, Soap will be ‘kind enough’ to offer you to kiss your injuries better and you’d shove him, your face giving away the embarrassment and the humorous jest you feel around the demolition expert. 

You weep uncontrollably when you watch Marley and Me with Gaz in the rec room. Price and Ghost had been passing by, discussing the aftermath of a mission they had just returned from when they heard loud sobs coming from the usually empty room. They peer in to find both of you huddled close in soft blankets, a bowl of popcorn propped up in your lap and a box of tissues in Gaz’s lap, as you munch on the buttery snack and cry over the adorable dog finally being put to rest. You lean into Gaz for comfort and Ghost wonders if you still smell of mud and caked blood like you did on the field. 

Price decides to break up the party as he enters the room, clearing up his throat to grab the attention of his Sergeants. Your lip wobbles as he lightly scolds you, his brow laden with concern as he looks at you and tells you both to go get some much-needed rest. You pass him by as you leave the room, your hand being a feather’s touch away from his and he almost holds onto you. (He still has no idea why he almost reacted like that to you)

One time, Price had been sent to help Laswell out on a crucial mission and all you had accomplished during those three and a half weeks was mope around and wish your Captain were here. You’d be lying on the sofa in the common room and you’d whine to your companions. “I’m so bored. I miss Captain. I wish he was here”, you’d pout and Soap and Gaz would gang up on you, teasing you as they asked you whether you had some unresolved feelings for dear Price. (The idea of you coveting Price like a lover seemed ridiculous to him, really. You and the Captain? Not a chance)

And then there was that one time when you had to go on a solo mission (the first of you being on your own since you joined the task force, really) and when you had come back to him them, battered and bloodied and disheveled but still safe and sound and Price lets out a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging as if all the weight of the world has disappeared now that you’re back home, back to your team (where you now rightfully belong). You rush to them, running as if you cannot close the distance between them fast enough, and Price hugs you with steady arms as he lets you cry into his shoulder, wetting his uniform as you all but sob in relief, leaning on your Captain for support as your legs turn like jelly, unable to support the weight of your weary body. 

It must’ve been terrifying - being out there on the field, hostility and death surrounding you in all directions and the only person you could possibly rely on is yourself. Keeping yourself safe and sane as you navigate unknown terrain and fight off the monsters who wear the skins of humans and pollute the very Earth they have been raised on. Blood and gore and gunpowder clinging to you like a second skin as you pray to survive another night and make it back home safely. Back to your team. 

Back to your kind captain, and sergeants you have befriended and a cold Lieutenant who sometimes fails to hide the care he carries for you in his brown eyes. 

Price has a look of sympathy and understanding on his face as he drags you to the infirmary, even holding your trembling hand in his warm palm as you flinch at the sight of the large syringe needle and hiss in pain whenever the alcohol-soaked cotton is applied to your cuts. He soothes you with a gentle pat on your back, mindful of your treated injuries as he softly tells you to clean up and maybe get some much needed sleep, asking Gaz to supply you with something to eat before you doze off due to fatigue and the morphine still floating in your system. 

Ghost found it annoying for the most part - sometimes snapping at you to "Shut up and focus" on bad days and while he’s still irked at the sentimentality you possess, something that he and his comrades have willingly allowed to wither and die in their souls, a small part of him - a part of him that still resembles who Simon was, a mimicry of the humanness he hasn’t felt in his dead soul for years, worried about you. Worried sick about you and your emotions and the lack of lid you have on it. Worried if he had been too harsh on you because he doesn’t do emotions, and clearly he is out of his depth when it comes to dealing with people, but especially when it comes to dealing with you. 

He realizes he doesn’t mind you crying all that much. 

You go out for drinks to celebrate your successful solo mission and you spend the time you had lost on the field with your teammates - you play billiards with Gaz against Soap and Ghost and lose sorely, and then you try out a peg of whiskey the Captain has ordered and Price laughs heartily as you sputter and whine as the drink burns your esophagus. You somehow convince Ghost to teach you how to throw darts and he tries to not lean into your warmth as he stands behind you, his gloved hand holding your wrist as he positions you and teaches you how to throw the wooden dart you hold between your smooth fingers, and tells you all he knows about making sure that the little thing hits the dartboard without fail. 

Simon can smell your jasmine shampoo and your citrus perfume on you as he uses his hands to correct your posture. He can feel how soft and pliant you are under him, eager to obey and please him, and all he can think about is what it’d be like - being your confidante, being the voice of reason for you when you’re drowning in emotions, being a sturdy shoulder for you to cry on. 

And he knows for a fact that you’d be all that and more in a heartbeat if he allowed you to. 

You lean onto Simon for support, your head lolling onto his shoulder as he quietly guides you to your bedroom. You hum quietly as he carefully makes you lie down on your bed, removing your shoes for you and when you beg him to help you remove the little makeup you had applied for the night (Price blatantly ignoring the use of contraband because it’s you), he surprisingly complies. Years of applying camo paint on his face give him the needed experience around using micellar water and makeup wipes as he helps you prepare yourself for a night of mindless sleeping, which will be followed by a hangover in the morning plaguing almost all of them. (He swears he’ll force you to drink the ginger tea he’ll make, no matter how much you’d whine about it tasting ‘yucky’. He’d rather not have you hurling over everything like a cat with a persistent hairball stuck in its throat).

“I’m so happy”, you hum to yourself as Simon tilts your head up. 

“Close your eyes, Sergeant”, he orders and you comply, feeling the soaked cotton pad rub against your eyelids as your Lieutenant removes your pink eye shadow. It’s a pretty color on you, Simon thinks but he never says it out loud.  

You stay silent as he finishes up with your work, his calloused fingertips tilting and moving your head to look at any missed spots he might’ve overlooked in the dim bedroom light. 

“All done”, he scruffs, getting up on his feet and he hears you call out to him as he leaves the room.

“What is it?” he asks, wishing to be in his warm bed on this cold night. 

“Thank you, sir”, you say earnestly with your eyes shining with sincerity and an unrecognizable emotion. 

Simon observes you - you lying on your bed in the clothes you wore to the bar, with most of your makeup removed and your eyes struggling to stay open as intoxication and tiredness tempt you to forget the world and sleep.

A moment too late, he asks you, “What are you thanking me for, rookie?”

Only to find you out cold.

He sighs, draping the thin blanket over your shivering body and leaving you alone in your room. 

When you wake up the next day with a hangover headache, your makeup removed and your blanket draped over you tenderly, you make your way to the common kitchen and you ask your moody superior if he remembers anything from the night before - your hazy memory failing to cover the gaps in your memory. 

He gruffly says out, “No” and then hands you a cup of ginger tea, looking at you intensely as he waits for you to whine about the bitter taste of the tea he’s made for you. Knowing it’s a lost fight, you let out an exasperated sigh and thank your Lieutenant for the hangover cure. He looks at you a beat too long before leaving you to your own devices, exiting the room, and going God knows where. 

It takes him time, with all that he is and all that he has been through, to come to a new conclusion for his first impression of you. Steadily with time, Simon realizes that the reason you cry so easily is not because you're weak. 

It’s because you’re brave. 

Brave enough to express yourself and not fear rejection from others. Brave enough to show that you care, to show that you love life and people and everything life has to offer. Brave and kind and valiant in everything you do, Simon is almost jealous of your ability to be so open and free. He wonders what it would be like to let go and just allow himself to feel. 

It’d probably drown him alive. 

It might set him free. 

He’d never get the chance to know though. 

Now again, you sob as you put pressure on his abdomen wound as you talk to him with a wet, unstable voice, “Stay awake for me, Lt. We will all make it”. You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him. (You need that reassurance more than him anyway).

He’s sluggish, the blood loss and pain makes it hard for him to focus on your blurry face and the skull mask on his face doesn’t help him either. He’s immobile, despite trying his level best to raise his hand up so that he can wipe away the stray tears on your cheeks. He parts his lips to tell you to please stop crying, to tell you how he’s not worth the worry, he’s not worthy of your tears - not when he has vehemently admonished you for them all this time. 

But all he can do is let out a low moan of pain, his eyes rolling back in his head. He can hear your voice, can hear the worry and fear and panic as you call out to him, but everything is hard and he can hear you but comprehending your words is near impossible with the ringing in his ears and the whirring of the helicopter that came in to rescue him and his team. He’s aware of his teammates sitting beside him - he can imagine their solemn faces as they cope with the possibility of him succumbing to his wounds before they make it back to safety. But he focuses on you instead - sweet, radiant you who worries about everyone and everything; who wears her heart on her sleeve and still holds onto the hope that he will make it out of this ordeal alive, even though he can feel his life slipping away from him like the sands of time.

Each breath of his is labored, and Simon wishes for nothing more than to wipe away your tears or to maybe hold your soft self against his injured body, cradling you close to his heart as he vows to survive this for you. Only for you. 

Through black spots and dryness, he blinks up to look at you and he has this realization, a moment of pure ‘Eureka!’ as he observes your worsened state of being. 

You have never been prettier than this instant, crying over him and praying to any kind of deity who’d grant him the boon of life. 

Satisfied with his discovery and suddenly extremely tired, he allows himself to close his eyes, letting the fatigue win and the last thing he sees is you crying for him to stay alive and fight. 

The last thing he hears is your sobs as you beg someone, anyone to save your Lieutenant. 

Note -

Title is thanks to the song 'Pretty When You Cry' by Lana Del Rey, although I wasn't actually listening to the song while writing this.

[yanderenightmare]

BAKUGOU KATSUKI MASTERLIST

Ranging from my top Bakugou post to posts with notes above 1k.

Boss ! Bakugo going yandere for his helpful assistant:

WANTS & NEEDS ♡6.6k

Yandere captor ! Bakugou punishes darling for a crime she didn’t commit and then regrets it:

WRONGLY PUNISHED ♡5.8k

FOLLOW-UP ASK ♡2.2k

Darling uses sex as a coping mechanism:

DARLING INITIATING SEX ♡4.8k

Hero ! Bakugou x Villain ! Deku x childhood friend ! darling:

RENUNION ♡3.7k

Cock descriptions:

COCK ♡3.7k

What BNHA ! yandere is the scariest:

SCARY YANDERE ♡3.5k

Bully ! Bakugou creeps on his quirkless study partner:

STUDY-SESSIONS ♡3.3k

Bully ! Bakugo is scary and pushy and delusional:

BAD GUY ♡3k

Fuckfriend ! Bakugou turned yandere:

BORING ♡2.8k

Alpha ! Bakugou figures out why he bullies Omega reader:

LESSON ♡2.8k

HEAT ♡1.3k

Bully ! Bakugo series. He harasses the reader into a relationship:

SEVEN MINUTES IN HELL ♡2.7k

TRUST ME ♡2.1k

Boyfriend ! Bakugou headcanons:

BOYFRIEND ! KATSUKI ♡2.7k

Poly ! KiriBaku bullies cute darling:

BAD INFLUENCE ♡2.6k

Poly ! BakuDekuTodo x darling thirsts:

BAKUDEKUTODO X DARLING ♡2.6k

BAKUDEKUTODO X DARLING ♡1.3k

POLY ♡1.6k

Prince ! Bakugou x maid ! dalring:

PRINCE x MAID ♡2.6k

Imagines of what happens when the darling tries to deny the BNHA ! yanderes intimacy and sex:

BAKUGOU ♡2.4k

Bully ! Bakugo x poor ! darling:

IN CASE OF FIRE: PUSH ALARM ♡1.4k

IN THE TRAILER ♡2.3k

FOLLOW-UP ASK

Barbarian King ! Bakugo arranged marriage with princess ! darling:

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST ♡2.3k

Yandere captor ! Bakugou reacting to pregnant darling:

PREGNANT DARLINGS ♡2.3k

Overworked and touch-starved Prohero ! Bakugou x girlfriend ! darling:

ONE MORE TIME? ♡2.2k

Yandere captor ! Bakugou with a darling who enjoys being his darling:

DARLING ENJOYS BEING A DARLING ♡2k

Bakugou and darling's sexual role-play dynamic:

ROLE-PLAY DYNAMICS ♡1.9k

Yandere captor ! Bakugo x pet ! darling:

PET ! DARLING IN HEAT ♡1.8k

AFTERMATH OF PET ! DARLING IN HEAT ♡1.5k

BRATTY PET-DARLING ♡1.1k

Yandere captor ! Bakugou x darling with early Stockholm syndrome:

EARLY STOCKHOLM SYNDROME ♡1.7k

Yandere captor ! Bakugou wants captive darling to be willing:

WILLINGLY OR NOT ♡1.7k

Poly Proheroes ! BakuDeku blackmails criminal ! darling:

STREET SCUM ♡1.7k

Bully ! Bakugou redemption, being charming with darling and asking her out:

GIRLFRIEND ♡1.6k

Sheriff ! Bakugou harasses backpacking tourist:

HIS TOWN, HIS RULES ♡1.6k

Yandere captor ! Bakugou's need for intimacy:

INTIMATE ACTIVITIES ♡1.6k

Bakugou having a breeding kink for his crush:

BREEDING KINK ♡1.6k

Yandere captor ! Bakugou cleaning darling’s cuts after she tries killing herself:

CUTS & BANDAGES ♡1.6k

Childhood friend Bakugou and you have been stuck in a toxic relationship forever:

NO ONE ELSE ♡1.6k

Pro Hero ! Bakugou regrets not making you his before it was too late:

MISERABLE ♡1.5k

Bakugou's type:

SUBMISSIVE DARLING ♡1.5k

Alpha ! Bakugou mating his terrified Omega ! darling:

Five Steps for Alphas Mating Omegas ♡1.5k 

Prohero ! Bakugou going yandere for childhood friend ! spy ! darling:

EMPTY SHELLS ♡1.5k

Poly wolf-boys ! BakuDeku with a bunny ! darling in heat:

HEATED ♡1.5k

Daddy ! Bakugou punishes his darling for not following her strict schedule:

RULEBREAK ♡1.5k

Yandere captor ! Bakugou x clumsy ! darling:

CLUMSY DARLING ♡1.5k

How yandere captor ! Bakugou punishes his darling:

PUNISHMENTS ♡1.4k

Sadistic yandere Bakugou chases you down after you escape:

BEAR-TRAP ♡1.4k

Poly ! KiriBaku are a toxic duo for poor captive ! darling:

BAD COP/GOOD COP ♡1.4k

Alpha ! Bakugou finally finding his rebel ! Omega ! mate:

MUD ♡1.3k

Prohero ! Bakugou lusting over his equally successful childhood friend:

PROFESSIONAL ♡1.3k

Yandere captor Bakugou with a depressive darling:

MELANCHOLIA ♡1.2k

Incel ! Bakugou kidnaps reader to be his sex-puppet:

TOUCH ♡1.2k

Bakugou smut alphabet:

NSFW ABCs ♡1.2k

Bakugo frustrate with his affection over this clueless moron:

SCARY LOVE ♡1.1k

Bakugou's darling puts on his hero costume:

PLAYING DRESS-UP ♡1.1k

Yandere captor Bakugou's likes cooking with his darling:

HOBBIES ♡1.1k

Yandere captor Bakugou's sleeping habits:

SLEEPING HABITS ♡1.1k

Bully ! Bakugou being heartbroken and desperately in love with you:

HEARTBROKEN ♡1.1k

Yandere captor Bakugou spanking reader:

DADDY'S GIRL ♡1.1k

Yandere captor Bakugou with tiny darling:

PUFF ♡1.1k

How Bakugou became yandere for his darling:

YANDERE BEGINNINGS ♡1.1K

Hermit forest-dweller ! Bakugou takes lost hiker ! darling captive:

HERMIT ♡1k

BNHA genderbender:

FEM ♡1k

Bakugou teaches you how to cum:

STRUGGLE ♡1k

Bully Bakugou kidnaps you during the purge:

THE PURGE ♡1k

Parole officer Bakugou accepts your bride:

OUR LITTLE SECRET ♡1k

Yandere captor Bakugou infantilizes darling:

DADDY'S BABY ♡1k

Captive reader rebels against yandere captor Bakugou:

GONE WRONG ♡1k

The Torodoki family makes use of their quirkless daughter - with friends:

FAMILY FUN ♡1k

What type of hybrid he is:

HYBRID ♡1k

Sad and lonely stalker Bakugou:

DRIVEN MAD ♡1k

Similar posts can be found in the following:

INSERT MASTERLIST

[itsonlydana]

Find a cure for my heart | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x human fem!reader 👑

On the eve of the battle, you and Thranduil spent a night that spurred a flurry of letters while Dale grew as a city and you both grew too, first apart, then closer again. However, you couldn't bring yourself to burden him with the truth that your health was deteriorating with each passing day.

warnings/tags: sickness, angst, mentions of death (reader is actively dying but only realizes after Thranduil helps) hurt/comfort, happy end

words: 5,6k

an: finally finished this fic after working on it since January. If you are interested in being tagged when I post new fics– comment that under this post or send it to me in my inbox!

+ masterlist + rules

🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

Contrary to general belief, the elves did not return to their forests immediately after the battle.

In the stories told, there would be remarks, on how the Elvenking offered his help to the yet-to-be-crowned King Bard once more, bringing aid with however warriors he had left for disposal to search the endless chaos and ruins of Dale for survivors until many sunsets later.

They would speak about the sorrow of losing friends and family and neighbors to a war that had been won at costs no one could comprehend yet, and they would mention how the great Elvenking guided them through the darkest of nights for he had experienced this all before; the grief, the helplessness and the colossal question of What now, who's to say we haven't lost ourselves as well as those we have to bury?

Many had their own experience with the Elvenking, whether it was a hand pulling them off the ground, a loaf of bread delivered to them after days of fighting, or a warm blanket to huddle under to finally lay their body to rest under the watchful eye of Elves that had sworn to protect them.

You had your own story. A different one.

But it wasn't one with the Elvenking, no; the night before the battle, where the air was filled with the sound of blades being sharpened and children crying for their parents, you had met Thranduil, King of the Woodland Elves but most importantly: a set of strong arms that caught you as you stumbled out of Bard's tent.

You needed to run away from the discussions over how to draw the dwarfs out of the mountain.

You'd been a friend to Bard for many long years but standing in that luscious tent, being offered wine as the Wizard, Bard, and the Hobbit pondered over what was about to happen while you weren't sure your mind caught up on what had happened already, there was no room for friendship inside your panic-riddled chest.

Just as you flung open the tent flaps and tried to dash away to get some air, your foot caught on a root, and had it not been for Thranduil's fast reflexes, you surely would've planted your face into the dirt and mud.

Up until now, you had no idea what had transcended between the two of you at the moment where his arms held you up, his softening face looking down at your widened eyes filled with tears and your tongue too tied up and heavy to say anything other than: "Air– please"

Whatever it had been, likely an unspoken wish – by Thranduil or you, or maybe you both; it didn't matter – for someone who would not pass judgment over the urge to disappear from your skin and role and crown for one night, a fallen star flung across the darkened skies at the right time.

It felt as though Thranduil had pulled a sheet over your heads; your world narrowed down to this other soul and how beautiful and divine his body felt on yours as you found a way to survive the night before life as you knew it turned once more and the solid ground beneath your feet shifted and broke.

A few nights, while unforgettable and brooding with feelings neither of you admitted to, did not change that you had to move on somehow.

Although the Elves did not depart for Mirkwood immediately and Thranduil and you were given time in the aftermath to find the other in the cover of the night and under the pretense this was nothing more than mere distraction, a wishing star could only do so much shining before dimming out.

The day you awoke to a sunrise bathing the debris of Dale in a pinkish and warm light, pillars being rebuilt dipped into molten gold, and the cracks glued together, Thranduil's strong arms were wrapped around your middle as if he wanted to hinder you from sneaking away, you knew it was him who would leave you before the day was over.

And so he did.

Sunrise came and went and soon enough all the tents were packed up on horseback and wagons, leaving flattened grass as the only reminder they had been there at all if and there were goodbyes, political between Bard and the Elvenking who parted from the weary man and his children with the promise of support, and between you and Thranduil in the form of a slow nod.

Thranduil sat high on a dark stallion, dressed in silver and long robes that hid fingerprints that spoke of an attempt to cling to transience. His chin lowered, though his eyes were fixed on you.

You knew that nod carried the conversation you had whispered into the morning mist.

And it was all that wasn't said that motivated you to step away first and turn your back on the caravan that took away a King and a Lover.

There was much to do, the looming task of building up Dale needed everyone's full attention, and that included you.

Especially you.

There were houses to plan, accommodations to be made so that no one needed to sleep under the stars.

No one could ever pry the reason why you were keen on getting a roof under everyone out of your hands; a lonely part of you wanted the stars to remember you and Thranduil lying in the grass. And no one else.

The first letter arrived a few weeks after you hadn't had the heart to watch him go and threw yourself into one task after the other, dismissing even the smallest hint of sickness, like the heaviness inside your chest every time you lifted something heavy, or tiredness crashing down onto you in moments to catch your breath, to continue working, that you wouldn't find a moment to admit how much you missed him.

That utterly ridiculous mindset stopped as soon as the messenger Elf rode into the city and hand-delivered you the first of many envelopes with the nearly indecipherable handwriting of Thranduil.

Or the Elvenking.

Because the first letter, despite being addressed to you as well as Bard, who wouldn't have been able to read it in the first place, was a list of things the King would send and a question of what else was needed that he could provide.

"It's fine," you said to Bard through a smile that didn't reach your eyes as you read aloud the letter twice, from the greeting to the last paragraph that was signed 'the Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion, Lord of Mirkwood and friend of Dale'.

In the flickering light of the candle dripping wax onto the table between you, the dark circles under Bard's eyes were all the more prominent than when he was running around the city and there was a bottomless pit in your stomach that wouldn't want to add to the many things he was already worrying about.

"It's totally fine," you said to Bard when he asked if you had skipped over a private note from Thranduil or if there truly wasn't one (there wasn't, you had turned the letter over and over in your hands until the edges became soft and wrinkled) and you both knew that to be a lie.

You answered the letter in the same professional manner because even though you wanted to, you couldn't send a letter to a King helping however he could and expecting nothing in return with a smeared "I wish for your heart and our nights and for your voice to tell me we are alright" written under tears in another sleepless night.

The next few letters follow the same pattern, Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion would inquire if there was anything Dale needed and answer Bard's question on leadership and share his knowledge of what was fundamental for a new King, and you would write for Bard on the other side.

The weeks passed and so did the hope of rekindling that fire you had thought to burn in the both of you.

That Thranduil didn't see the need to reach out was a punch to the gut that left little room for anything else but disappointment of putting your effort into pulling on a rope that wasn't attached to something on the other end.

Why waste the dwindling energy of your exhausted body on someone who would live longer than the memory of you?

Every time a new letter arrived by messenger you would find Bard until one late evening you opened the letter by yourself and saw your name written in that beautiful sharp handwriting, not Bard's added in front or behind; only your given name and not your title.

Your hands shook as you stood in the frame of what was to be your house and the ink glued together the cracks of your heart.

'Forgive me for not writing to you sooner and for how sentimental I must sound. It has been weeks since I last saw you and every time I wander through my familiar halls, I find there is no soul around that could understand me how you did, whom I could tell what plagues my mind. The time we spent together has not left my thoughts. Neither has the promise to not grow apart too much and I apologize for not contributing to that. Now, if you would still have me, I would like nothing more than to hear how you are faring. As for me…'

Nothing had the power to stop you from running off that giddy feeling that spread through your chest as Thranduil, finally Thranduil, wrote about the happenings in Mirkwood; not even the cough that sat deep where suppressed laughter spilled into the grass you fell into– the letter clutched into your hands.

Thranduil and you fell into a routine then, one that was no obstruction for the many tasks at hand but made room for each other to hold on to the promise.

You would send out two letters, one on behalf of Bard whom you taught his signature as well as a few more words every fortnight you sat down together, and one addressed to Thranduil, filled with all the thoughts that ran through your mind that you wanted to tell him.

It was by no means as precious as the talks you had now many weeks ago, not when there were days you had to wait for a response instead of seconds.

You appreciated them all the same, every bit of himself that Thranduil wrote into his messages was countered with a confession of your own.

When he said he wished to know where his son had disappeared to or rather if he followed the direction Thranduil had given to him, you admitted to the nightmares that still plagued your mind, the dreams of fire and a monster that still rested in the lake.

You offered piece after piece, chipped bits of your heart into every letter that you sent away, and after a few weeks had passed, and Dale was taking shape with its houses raking their roofs to the sky and its people planting seeds and flowers, rooting themselves into what now was theirs, there was not much left of your heart that was completely yours and not Thranduil's and the letters of his proved that the same could be said about him.

What you did not mention, not with one drop of ink, was that the nightmares were no longer confined to the few hours of sleep you fell into.

There was a dragon, not just in the cold lake where your old home lay in ashes and was drowned in the ruthless darkness, but by the heavy weight on your chest, it felt like there was one inside you as well.

You were coughing as if there was smoke blocking your lungs, blackening out what little air you heaved for when a coughing fit took over your whole body.

It started small, a cough then, a sleepless night there; both accumulated to an uncountable amount and it got only worse as the season changed and the autumn winds lost their last warm touches and the trees bared their wooden arms.

You waved it off as a common cold, nothing that would hinder you from your tasks to becoming a liability the city didn't need in its time of growth.

Then, the coughing got worse, rougher, sometimes taking your voice for a moment until you found some water although that only helped for a small moment, like trying to extinct a burning building with just the water your bare hands could carry.

The worst part was the blood that stained the cloths, the sweats that not only held you awake at night but weakened you at day as well.

"I'm better!" you promised Bard on a night when he had to sit next to your bed, wringing out the cold cloths that lay on your fevered forehead.

His voice was a low whisper when he dabbed away the sweat, pushing your wet hair back with hands that were far too gentle for what you deserved for rotting in bed and not pulling your weight, "You're not, an' that's clear for everyone but you. Did you tell him?"

"Yes," you lied through your teeth, eyelids dropping close from exhaustion but you knew sleep wouldn't come, "he said it would pass, nothing to worry 'bout."

Three days later you were on your legs again, if not a bit shaky and needing more breaks than ever.

You sat in Bard's kitchen, a warm bowl of soup in front of you that tasted like ash and firewood, and ignored the silent pleading in his eyes to tell him what was going on and why you could barely lift the spoon of a soup that you clearly did not enjoy.

Winter wore your body down like rough sandpaper on soft oak, the cold winds and dark hours an enemy far worse than what you had to encounter on the battlefield. This had no logical explanation, nor was there an enemy you could see.

Your own body betrayed you and you had no idea what you had done to deserve it.

You knew that somewhere was a solution to it all, that was the string of hope leading you through the snow outside and the fire in your blood and bones, singing down what little fight was left on the days when the sun pushed away gray clouds and you felt normal and healthy.

The sole reason why you lied in letters filled with otherwise honesty as pure as heaven's snowflakes was that you did not want to be a bother.

Thranduil wrote how much of his time the dwarfs and their trading demands swallowed; he did not need another burden and you would be damned if he came because you had a small cold you couldn't get rid of.

You had promised Thranduil to visit him in spring when the soil was rich enough for the seed to take and the livestock could roam the meadows. If you weren't better by then you would ask him.

Until then work demanded all of you. Even if that was through a white knuckle grip on the last bits of health in aching bones.

⸺

Spring brought forth daffodils pushing through the cobblestone streets. Tilda, the youngest Bardling and a wonderful distraction on the days when getting out of bed was the hardest bounced excitedly beside you and pointed at the flowers.

"Like stubborn trumpets proclaiming winter is finally over!" she said as you followed her outside. "Spring is finally here!"

You disregarded the pain echoing through your body, the weight of guilt forcing you to spend the day with the girl.

She had been knocking on your door every morning, angelic eyes asking if you wanted to come and play with the lambs that she had taken too and this morning, you couldn't disappoint her.

"Aren't they just so pretty?" Tilda crouched down, gently cupping one of the blossoms in her small hands.

Lowering your gaze from the burning brightness of the sun you got a short glimpse at the yellow dots decorating your doorstep.

Then, suddenly, black spots appeared on the edge of your vision, taking you by surprise though they have been your companion for the better part of the last few days.

"Tilda–"

You tried to hold on to your doorframe, bruised hands frantically searching for a grip on the warm wood but they slipped and caught only the edge.

The last thought that crossed your mind was that you should bring Thranduil some of those flowers before you blinked and crumbled to the ground.

⸺

You woke up to the confusing taste of grass on your heavy tongue and the dizzying realization that you were not spread out on the street but tugged inside your bed.

Above you, moonlight fell through the opened window in the slanted roof above your head and you immediately closed your eyes again.

This had to be a dream.

Though your dreams had not been like this in a long time.

Peaceful. Comfortably warm. Silent except for the croaking of toads, the buzzing of insects outside, and the laughter and clattering of your neighbors probably enjoying the night more than you.

A groan passed your lips as you tried to sit up; a seemingly impossible task with the heaviness of your bones as well as the mountain of blankets that covered you.

"What do you think you are doing?" a voice you knew all too well sneered.

For a second you thought it to be a hallucination, a projection or your dazed mind still lulled in the fog of unconsciousness.

The bones in your neck cracked as your head snapped to the other side. There was no way you did not imagine the tall figure that should be across the woods in his palace; not in your bedroom.

"What are you doing here?"

"Merely strolling through the neighborhood," Thranduil's voice dripped with sarcasm, yet a subtle tension marked his stance beside the bed. "Now, enlighten me. Did you conveniently forget to mention this sickness in your letters?"

Ah, straight to the point.

"It's trivial," you waved it off, attempting to assert yourself by sitting up.

Naturally, consciousness promptly slipped away once more.

This time you were not that surprised by the sharp taste of grass on your lips when you came to your senses once more, pushed back into the pillows that had never felt this stuffed. You were still unable to move your leg more than from one side to the other under the blankets and Thranduil was still there, glaring at you through dark furrowed brows and hardened eyes.

You wanted to say something to break the heavy silence but all that passed your lips was a giggle that was more desperate and closer to insane than amusement.

One brow lifted. "Oh, how glad I am you are entertained by this," said Thranduil. He was as rigid in a frightening calm way but all of that was overshadowed by the cloud of confusion that muddled your thoughts.

"Noo," you drew out the word and continued giggling. This had to be insanity. "You jus' look very out of place here – wait. Turn around? I need to make sure you're really here."

He didn't fit into the cramped space of your house, his fine clothing stood out against the poor backdrop of crooked furniture, used towels hanging over stools, and the small layer of dust that covered the areas you hadn't been able to clean in a while; which was most of the bedroom and you didn't dare think about the state of the kitchen.

Where he deserved a throne out of gold you could only offer the chair next to your bed, the one that was crooked and leaned heavily to one side.

That being said, nothing took away the sheer amount of power he radiated.

It easily filled every nook and cranny or tight corner of your humble house, his voice as well as the image of Thranduil, King of the Elves, towering over your bed in long robes and bathed in the light of the night sky, glittering silver like the moon knew the importance of the Elf in front of you.

Thranduil remained stoically still. "I will definitely not do that," he said. "I am here. Where I should have been a while ago."

The accusation would have hit harder if you weren't drugged up on whatever medicine he had apparently fed you while you were out cold.

You shrugged your shoulders as well as you could with your arms bundled under the blankets. "I saw no reason, it was just a cold. Nothing I couldn't manage."

Well, you hadn't managed to handle it, that was the worst realization of the whole lie.

"Clearly," Thranduil said sarcastically and ground his teeth against each other. His arms were behind his stiff back and the way he tilted his head down to you made you feel like a child being admonished for bad behavior. "Do you know how much despair I felt when Bard's letter arrived this morning?" His voice was even but there was a resonance in it – a deep rumble akin to the ominous approach of distant thunderstorms over the sea. "Nearly indecipherable scrambles where he begged me to come; telling me that you have been asleep for two whole days?"

A crack in the form of a small tremor broke through the mask of the all-mighty Elvenking.

"This morning?" you asked, caught up by the first part and ignorant of everything that followed after, and you huffed while running the calculations through your head. "Thranduil, this can not be, the journey is not manageable in one day."

"Is this truly the point you consider most important?" He closed his eyes as a pained expression passed over his face. "You deem it impossible, yet I assure you, nothing could have hindered my arrival here; the boundaries of possibility, for once, were not a barrier but an aid. It reveals your scant regard for your circumstance if your worry fixates on my journey through the land. Not on the sickness that nearly stole you from this world. Two days –" Thranduil took a deep breath, "two whole days where those around you had no idea if you would ever awake again."

"But –"

"No, you can speak when I am finished," he commanded sharply. "You were reckless. Ignorant of your health as if your life was not precious." Thranduil spat the words out cold yet they burned. He was blind to the way you flinched and lowered your burning eyes to the blankets.

You shrunk deeper into the pillows, a hollow ache inside your chest that had felt empty from the pain ever since you awoke the first time.

"But –" you repeated helplessly. This time, he allowed you to continue and you did so in a whisper: "I didn't want to be an inconvenience."

"An inconvenience?" he sneered back at you, the flickering lights of a few burned-down candles casting shadows over the creases of anger edged into alabaster skin.

He took a step toward the bed and you saw a twitch in his lips that had you blanching.

The fury brooding inside him was not new, you had seen it on the battlefield before. In ice-cold cuts of his sword as he flawlessly executed the most brutal movements while his face resembled a mask of the most dangerous kind of rage – stillness.

Now, there remained little of that stillness.

"You were a greater inconvenience by nearly throwing away your precious mortal life, all because of your unfathomable stubbornness!"

"There was lots to do!" you snapped back. Shortly but surely, you were fed up with his anger and the insults he was throwing at you. "This town was suffering far more than me and don't you dare tell me I'm wrong," you had to bury your teeth into your lower lip to stop it from shaking. "Dale needed me!"

The pale skin was flushed red around his heaving chest and delicate ears. "And I do not?" Thranduil road and his voice boomed through your little bedroom loud enough for the cicadas outside to fall silent.

Immediately, your eyes watered. You felt trapped under his gaze, engulfed in pure heat hotter than any dragon fire.

You searched for a response inside you but found none.

All there was was chaos – the loud beating of your heart against your chest like iron being beaten and shaped though all that was formed was pain sharp like a sword edge; cutting through the layers of protection you had wrapped around your heart.

Thranduil slightly lifted his nose, staring down at you through thick eyebrows and a clenched jawline. "You were dying," he said and his nostrils quivered. "I can not fathom how you through that would not have been a greater inconvenience.

His expressions made up in sound for the lowered voice he'd used to speak about what you previously refused to acknowledge.

Never before had you seen him this out of control of his emotions, not even on the nights he had bedded you where he still had a hold on himself.

The way he stood before you, dressed in fine robes not fit for riding, the hem of them stained by dirt, his boots muddy, and his face full of anguish, it was as if he could have been kneeling at your feet.

You ignored the tears slipping silently down your cheeks. "It wasn't that bad, was it?"

"It was indeed, and far beyond that."

The tears made it impossible for you to continue looking at him and your head dropped down as a sob broke through you. "I didn't know," you panicked, "It didn't happen fast so… so I thought it'd pass but – and then it got worse and worse and I was so afraid to speak to anyone about it." The words tumbled into your lap, where, under the blankets, your hands were balled to fists now that the strength to do so had returned to your body, "I – I couldn't," the night air stung as your breaths turned into gasps, "They – Bard was exhausted and –"

Thranduil's face softened ever so slightly, pushing away the furious frown. "You are too pure for this world," he said quietly and – dealing a fatal blow to your ever-fragile heart – slowly went down on one knee next to the bed until you were eye to eye and his cold long fingers could gently caress your wet cheek.

He stopped, most of his fingers covered in the glistening tears he'd freed you from and his thumb rested on the plushness of your lower lip. "The world would have lost its sunshine had you perished," his robes rustled as he drew closer, silver hair falling onto the blankets like stars flying across the skies, "You must promise me to be more careful or darkness shall be my companion from that day on."

How could you do anything else but break into tears once more?

They flooded your face too fast for Thranduil to catch them with his hand and he did what seemed more reasonable yet utterly out of character: he rose to push away some of the blankets and sat down on the mattress.

While his face showed some revelation of his thoughts at the meek bed of hay that surprised him, he said nothing except for a lowered: "Hush now, shh." while his arms found your shaking body and pulled you into his side.

He cradled you until there were no more tears to cry, until your cheeks hurt and your lashes clung together awfully damp, and then some more, his hands on your back, cooling down the firing heat that spread through you and the other in your hair. With tenderness, he massaged his fingertips into the areas where your head throbbed uncomfortably.

You cried for all the nights where you had suffered, drawing closer to a death you hadn't seen coming.

You cried out of relief that this was finally over, that you could breathe and inhale only the rich scents of Thranduil instead of smoke.

You sobbed uncontrollably long into the night, not caring one bit that by the time the wailing grew quiet and exhaustion rendered you weak enough to fall into his chest even more, Thranduils robes needed to be padded dry.

"Thranduil?" you asked and burrowed your nose into a spot of fabric that wasn't salty. "Can you tell me what was happening to me?"

He didn't start directly. Thranduil waited, his heart stuttering for a second that made you marvel that the muscle was affected by you at all despite the many proofs he had laid to your feet.

Were it not for the pounding headache you fostered and tried to push away by shutting away all the lights and leaving your eyes closed, you would have looked at his face to check for those minuscule expressions he only showed to you.

"At first I could not figure it out," Thranduil admitted at last and his previously stilled hand continuing the circular movements against your scalp, gathering hair between his fingers, "and that frightened me more than anything else. There was not a scratch or a wound, nothing that explained why you were hardly–" he flinched and his other hand held your waist tighter, "hardly breathing. Bard was the one who explained how much you fought against this illness all winter, ever since autumn to be precise. He spoke of the meals you denied, the coughing and shaking, the blood-soaked cloths, and how.. how you rarely slept and if you did, he told me he heard your whimpers and sobs whenever he passed your door."

"He noticed it all?"

"He loves you," Thranduil said, "He loves you just as much as his offspring."

You shut your eyes even closer, turning your head more into his chest as another layer of protection against the feeling of pain that flinched over your face like a stone skipping on water, leaving ripples of agony at the memory of the many times Bard had pleaded you to talk to him. "I never wanted him to hurt at my expense."

"He is aware you thought it to be better this way," Thranduil lovingly stroked your hair – and it was love, soft and beautiful like the elf who abandoned his kingdom to race to save you – "To go against his word to you declares him a strong man and leader, Dale will flourish under his guide and your gentle hand will provide your people all they will ever need."

"So what was it?" you asked the question eating away at you, "This sickness?"

Thranduil's fingers twirled a lock of hair as he hummed lowly, "The beast in the lake is at fault," he said, "and its body infesting the in any case dirty water that you used to still your thirst."

You lifted your head at that, staring up at Thranduil whose gaze was already on you. "The dragon?" you repeated perplexed, "I got sick because of that damned dragon?"

Thranduil nodded, "I sent out the order to have its carcass removed this instant, so no one else has to suffer this fate."

You drew your eyebrows together, the hard crease between them immediately found by Thranduil for him to smooth the frown away with his thumb and a soft click of his tongue.

"So I was the only one?" The conclusion was confirmed by another nod that sent you down another spiral of confusing thoughts and loose threats of a riddle that made no sense to you.

"A mystery," Thranduil said as if he could read your thoughts, "There is no explanation as to why you solely were affected and quite intense at that. I was glad to have brought Asëa aranion with me – although you required more than a handful until your heart finally calmed."

In a moment of contemplating silence, you barely managed to stifle a yawn.

Now that your body seemed to be fine again, all your muscles yearned for the sleep that had evaded you for the longest time.

Thranduil's pleasantly warm body around you lulled you into a state of calmness, his body heat and the memories of his touch you replaced with the feeling of his strong chest in your back, and his hands threading hair through his fingers.

He was curled up in your bed, in your home, not some tent under the stars though you could see them if you looked up and through the window.

As you did so, your eyes didn't travel further than Thranduil and the watchful look on his face.

"You're as beautiful as the day you left," you remarked in a whisper like a slip of your tongue but you meant every word.

While your body ached and wore new scars his hands and mouth hadn't explored yet, he could've been away for a day or less.

You lifted a hand to stroke over his left cheek, over the faint scarred muscles that you knew by whispers hid what he deemed hideous.

Thranduil caught your hand before it reached his cheekbones and his lips pressed a light kiss against the calluses, the signs of hours of work.

"Rest, meleth nîn, you need it."

There was no denying that the elvish words had meant something important, that was clear by the way his tongue had wrapped around the words and breathed them out like a kiss but his lowered lashes and downturned lips hindered you from asking what he had said.

This was not the time to question what was probably just for him.

Later, when you were not falling into the depths of sleep cuddled against Thranduil's chest, when you would step outside your house with his looming presence in your back ready to help you with every foot you set on the grounds, there would be stories awaiting you.

Stories of the Elvenking storming into the city on horseback and all alone, the wind seemingly carrying him faster than possible and the fury and worry on his face lowered all citizens to the grounds as he yelled for their King.

They would speak about the way he nearly broke down Bard's door and how he carried your unconscious body in his arms to your house, demanding for the crowd to make themselves rare before he had them all seized and locked into his halls for obstructing his path; and even though he had no authority, Bard was close on his heels and no one dared to object.

You would hear about the day he sat by your side, caring for you and barking out orders for more water, not the one from the lake but from the springs, and how Bard and his children were the only ones allowed to visit – explaining the yellow flowers that took up every single glass your house had to offer.

Thranduil would tell you the meaning of the words he had said that first night he had spent in your bed, fully awake and watching your sleeping form in his lap until the birds woke you up in the morning; and he would say these words on all the nights that followed.

With him in Dale, or you in Mirkwood – never apart from then on.

[whattheheckmidoriya]

A Million Tomorrows

Description: Change was inevitable. Levi couldn't deny he felt it coming, nor could he deny the dread pooling his stomach at the thought of tomorrow. You seem to have a way of easing those fears off his shoulders.

Word Count: 2.7k

Pairing: Post-war Levi x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: AOT s4 spoilers, survivor's guilt. Let me know if I've missed something!♡

Author's Note: Hi, my loves!! It's been so long since I've had something to share with y'all, and I'd been working on this piece for a while, so I hope you all enjoy it!

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°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Something in the air told him change was coming.

It unsettled him, the idea of not knowing what was to come in this new chapter of his life. How could the tides shift and the seasons change so effortlessly while his tortured mind remained in the past? How could he be expected to turn the page when there was still so much he didn't understand?

Levi Ackerman didn't fear many things in life, but change terrified him. He wasn't ready for it, at least he didn't think so. The world's orbit seemed to speed up just enough to leave him behind, alone and abandoned. He couldn't keep up, couldn't keep a steady enough pace to remain one with the times.

He was falling behind and didn't know how to cope with the fact. Humanity's Strongest had withered away the second war was no more and Levi Ackerman didn't know how to pick up the pieces, didn't know how to move on now that he no longer bore a soldier's purpose over his shoulders.

He was nothing but a hopeless man, aimlessly stumbling through this life, yet something bloomed within him now that his nights were spent by your side. Indeed, he was hopeless— hopelessly in love and devastated by the fact. How terrifying, to get lost in the warmth of your touch and seek refuge under your sweet embrace— to slink away from the world to satisfy his greedy desires of basking in your love.

You'd created something in him, something so beautiful it chilled his blood in fear. How exciting; how terrifying.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, the warm painting of an afternoon sky slowly being consumed by the rolling of darkened clouds. Levi sighed, nursing a cup of tea in one hand while the other absent-mindedly traced patterns over the arm of his chair. His healing leg bounced over the wooden porch floors, almost impatiently.

Sitting idly always made him anxious. Though he always appreciated being able to savor his alone time, he often found himself seeking comfort in your presence. He'd picked up little habits that reassured him everything was okay— that you were okay. Holding your hand would subtly turn into his fingers sliding over your wrist, searching for your steady pulse. Caressing your cheeks allowed him to be close enough to feel your breath fanning over his skin, easing his nerves. He shyly started offering to bathe together, taking the opportunity to look over you, easing his mind with the knowledge that the scars on your skin were slowly fading with the passage of time.

The war hadn't taken you from him, yet he feared you'd vanish if he dared look away.

Music streamed from within the house, a melody you had claimed to be your favorite the moment you heard it on the radio. He had to admit, he liked it too, the familiarity of it enough to distract his racing mind. If he listened closely enough, he could make out the sound of your voice softly following the words to the song. The corners of his lips quirked into a tiny smile.

Love had made him soft.

Levi waited for you to join him on the porch, the tea in his hand now lukewarm. He cringed. He never liked the taste of cold tea.

A puff of air rushed past his lips as the sky opened up its gates, allowing for the land to be cleansed with a fresh wave of rain. He hummed nonchalantly. He never cared much for the rain, always despising how his shoes would sink into thick puddles of mud in the aftermath.

What a bother, he thought as a chilling breeze nipped at his skin and tousled his hair.

The former captain perked up at the sound of footsteps, relief pooling his chest. You'd finally decided to join him. As the door swung open, he turned in his chair to greet you but wouldn't get the chance to as you sped past him, leaping off the steps of the porch and into the rain.

A breathy laugh spilled out of your mouth, something beautiful and free."This is so nice!" You beamed, spreading your arms wide as the rain soaked your clothes. Wonder twinkled brilliantly in your eyes, your grin a wild thing that made your lover's chest ache.

He wondered, had your smile always been this big? No, he doesn't think so. Something was different— it felt new. A quick tug to his heartstrings had his mismatched eyes following you attentively. He could feel it in his bones, dripping down his stomach, pooling around his toes. Today's different.

Levi gaped at you, shaking his head. "Get out of the rain," he urged, wheeling his chair close to the porch railing. "You'll get sick."

He remembered having this conversation with you years before, both of you clad in torn uniforms, brandishing green cloaks, and worn-out boots. The scene was all too familiar, but your laughter was now wild, void of shame. Too many were the times he had to usher you back into the barracks, scolding you for being so careless. He could no longer count how many times he'd had to rush out of his office to drag you away from the ruthless downpour of a storm, nearly having to toss you over his shoulder to get you somewhere dry. You always said there was something about the rain that made you feel brand new. He always said you were crazy. But he couldn't say no to you now, not when something devilish and daring lingered in your gaze.

You merely turned to him, sticking out your tongue in retaliation. He scoffed.

Thunder roared a little closer now, and your smile only widened. You hollered in response, and your arms stretched up to the heavens. Oh, how sweet the taste of freedom, so fierce and lively.

"C'mon," Levi called after you, setting down his cup of tea. "It'll only get colder." He could already feel a chill crawling up his spine. Perhaps he should be seeking some towels to wrap you in— some warm blankets, too.

Instead of heeding his wishes, you ran further into the growing storm, your boots splashing into every puddle your feet stumbled upon. Mud splattered onto your ankles, tainting the dress that fell just past your knees. You jumped and twirled, laughter spilling past your lips with a joy so raw it seeped into your lover's ears like a sacred melody.

"Wait," He shouted as lightning struck, his heart pounding in his chest. Flashes of white and blue cut through the sky, their impact booming through the air. "Don't go too far!"

But you couldn't hear him anymore. You danced with the wildflowers, bending to the wind, each stomp and clap in rhythm with the crack of thunder. The drumming of rain kept the pace of your beating heart, so full of life and renewal. The heavens were the musicians and you, their valiant performer.

And Levi couldn't just sit by. No, because as lightning sparked through the heavens and the wind bit his nose with a chill, his heart only ached for you. Mismatched hues followed your every move, a pang of longing knocking on his chest.

Wherever you were, he was never too far behind.

"Damn it," he cursed. There was no time to go searching for his cane, the forsaken thing collecting dust in the back of his closet. With whatever strength he had within him, he latched onto the wooden railing before him and began pulling himself off his chair, his limbs protesting at the effort.

The former captain stumbled down the steps, his footing unsure, uneven. The aches in his leg scurried away as he stood a bit taller. Renewed confidence filled each stride once his feet landed on soppy mud. A new chill settled in his bones, something foreign and exciting.

"Come back!" He shouted, yet found himself going after you before he could think twice, his limp carrying him as best as it could. He felt like a madman chasing after falling stars. "Damn it, wait up!"

As if the wind had carried his voice to you like a sweet melody, you turned, a new giddy feeling tickling your heart as he slowly stumbled towards you. Something electric coursed through your veins, sweet and addicting. You laughed and cheered, kicking up more mud with every hop of excitement. Pride swelled in your chest at the sight of him, your heart threatening to chase after your lover.

A clap of thunder broke through the steady drumming of rain, almost as if urging Levi to keep going— he needed to reach you. His legs moved clumsily, the gap between you growing smaller. His hair stuck to his face in a sloppy mess, his clothes clinging to his healing body. Tints of pink dusted his scarred cheeks, nearly stinging his skin as the wind whispered sweet nothings into his ear. And though his bones whined and protested, the wages of war clear on his skin, he felt stronger than he had in a while.

"I'm coming!" Your voice rang through the air, almost as loudly as the chorus of booming thunder that followed.

And you ran to him.

A tug in his heart propelled him forward until he couldn't anymore. He tripped over his footing, his knee giving out and letting him meet the ground. And for once, he didn't care about the dirt under his nails or the horrendous state his clothing was in. Levi let himself get pulled to the dirt by the wind, his back to the ground. Facing up at the sky, he reveled in how the rain kissed his skin.

He's never felt more free.

How unusual, the feeling bubbling in his chest, a crazed little thing that pulled his lips into a smile. As a kid, he always dreamed of the sun, of feeling its warmth sink into his bones and fill his belly. He nearly laughed. How strange to find comfort in a raging storm.

You came like a dream. The dress hugging your body spread around your legs like a flower in bloom as you plopped down in the mud. Cold hands cupped the sides of his face tenderly, and he instinctively leaned into your touch. Cradling his head, setting it over your lap, you brushed his hair out of the way. Was he aware of how beautiful he was? A smile graced your lips, amusement clear in your eyes as he gaped at you, like a man drunk on stardust and hope.

The storm felt so far away now, though Levi was sure it had grown exponentially. But he couldn't focus on that. No, he was too enraptured by the sight of you to worry about such a thing. You, who kissed his scars each night, mapping them out like uncharted constellations. You, who thought his eyes were the most lovely combination of jewels. You, who now laughed so freely it made his heart stutter. He couldn't be any more in love.

"I love you," he breathed, unsure if you'd heard him. A trembling hand, gentle and cautious, reached up to you, wiping away the mud sprinkled on your cheek. His words came in a choked breath, scarred lips quivering under the weight of such sweet emotion, "I love you so damn much."

Something sweet bloomed in his chest, foreign yet familiar in a way he couldn't quite understand.

Even under the rain, Levi could see the tears swelling in the corners of your eyes, your smile so bright and warm. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach. How had he managed to find such love? By no means did the odds ever feel to be in his favor, but perhaps the moon and the stars had conspired on his behalf, shifting the tides so that, at the end of it all, it would be you and him.

It didn't make any sense; there was no way for him to understand it. The mystery of this love was too big, but he stopped questioning things long ago. He stopped believing in coincidences. Some things, no matter how impossible they seemed, were meant to be. Like the way your hand perfectly fits in his or how his name resembles the songs of angels when spoken by your lips.

He never thought this life would ever be kind to him. Levi had only known hardship for so long; he'd learned to wear his grief and anger like a second skin. But the way you smiled at him, the way you held him as if he would shatter under your touch— it all made him think that maybe life had some hidden jewels waiting for him to uncover.

"You make this life a whole lot less shitty," His voice came in a hush, raw and flooding with emotion. Stormy eyes fluttered as you caressed his cheeks so tenderly, so gently he felt his chest tighten in an achingly beautiful way. "Thank you."

You smiled, choking on a tearful laugh. Levi seemed lighter. The sharpness of his eyes had softened with time, his infamous scowl slowly replaced by a small smile. His shoulders sagged, no longer tight under a soldier's promise of bloodshed. His knuckles no longer strained around the hilt of a sword but caressed the apples of your cheeks with sweet reverence.

He wore freedom beautifully.

"My sweet love," you mused, your voice like honey to his wounds, balming over the ghosts of battles past. "Thank you for staying."

A breath, sharp and unsteady, rushed past his lips, his chest caving in under the weight of raw emotion. His eyes widened, something new glossing over them. The man cradled in your touch crumbled, his lips quivering as he surrendered himself to the vastness of your love. A broken cry tore through his chest, his breaths uneven as he hiccuped.

He didn't think himself worthy— never believed it should’ve been him who rose with the sun each morning, basking in the warmth of a life others never had a chance to experience. A man forged by the wages of war had no right to savor the sweetness of this life, to have his wounds cleansed by the downpour of the heavens. Sometimes, his mind would drift off, and he'd wonder what this newfound freedom would've been for you had you not been held back by the prospect of nurturing him back to health. Would you have left? If things were different, would you have parted ways? His stomach overflowed with dread at such thoughts. He sometimes wished he'd been pulled into the cold clutches of eternal slumber, to have been whisked away into an abyss he could never escape from. Maybe then you wouldn't be burdened with the cards he'd been dealt with. Yet through his doubt, through his fears, your voice echoed in his heart, offering tender reassurance.

Thank you for staying. His heart ached, overwhelming him with tears he couldn’t seem to restrain. His scarred hand clung to yours tightly, almost as if your touch alone tethered him to this life. What had you done to him? How could you devastate his heart with such sweet love?

Your eyes softened as he cried. Softly, your free hand worked to brush strands of ink away from his face. The man before you was no longer the deadly soldier many feared; he'd retired his blades long ago. The man before you had been in hiding for far too long, holding himself together for longer than should've been asked of him.

Your lover was gentle and kind, and he feared what the future held. He hated not knowing what the sun would bring with its rising and falling— hated feeling uncertain of what his days would look like. But it all seemed a bit clearer now, a bit less fearsome. Something new glimmered in his eyes as his cries boomed louder than the crack of thunder.

Hope.

Change was in the air. He could feel it in his lungs, feel it in the soft breath that carried your words straight to his heart. It crackled all around him, loud, wild, and full of anticipation. It sent shivers down his spine.

Indeed, change was in the air, and, for once, Levi would beg the heavens for a million tomorrows if it meant he could live them all with you.

°•°•°•°•°•

🏷 Levi Ackerman taglist

@leviackermanmyhero245 @violet-19999 @celestair @ms-sin-city @ghostly-haunted @andrastesbeard @ikisstoga @izukus-gf @Bluetima @lemonboi69 @aconstructofamind @imjustasimpxd @notgoodforlife @bubsonnobx @a10vely-yutazen   @Just-sana @Loca-raccoon @Hjnhuh @geese-goose18 @figlia-della-luna

[hairyjocktf]

Spring Break

Noah was pissed. Today was supposed to be the beginning of the best spring break ever. He’d planned a week-long trip with his college friends to New York City. They’d had it all lined up- museums, restaurants, sightseeing, it was perfect. But about a week before, Noah’s mom had called and delivered devastating news. They were having a family reunion that week. In rural Florida. Attendance was not optional. She’d bought his ticket already and there was no way out.

The day had arrived, and he solemnly made his way to the airport and flew to Tallahassee. They were meeting at his relatives’ place in the Florida panhandle, in the middle of nowhere. He’d been once as a kid and vowed never to go back. After a two hour drive from the airport he made it, driving up a dirt driveway to the massive, yet ramshackle, house in the forest. The next hour was a blur of greeting extended family, most of whom he barely remembered since they tended to stay out here in the country. After that settled down his mom came up to him, clearly very excited about something.

“Noah! You’re not gonna believe this, but since it’ll be a few more days before everyone’s here, your cousins Chevy and Logan are gonna take you out on a hunting trip! Just for a couple days,” she was nearly bouncing off the ground.

Noah groaned. That was the last thing he wanted to do. He had nothing in common with his cousins, and certainly did not want to spend time alone with them out in the swampy wilderness. His mom was not hearing any complaints from him though, and she dragged him out back to reacquaint him with his cousins. Chevy and Logan were chatting with each other on the patio, beers in hand, decked out in the camo hunting gear Noah assumed they lived and slept in. They were only a couple years older than Noah, but looked quite a bit older compared to the baby faced city boy.

“Ayyy Noah! What’s up, it’s been a while man,” Chevy walked over and gave him a bear hug, spilling some beer on his back.

“Hey Chevy, nice to see you too. I heard you guys were uh, taking me out camping,” Noah said unenthusiastically.

“Not just camping my guy!” Logan butted in, “We’re talking full on country backroads hunting boy’s trip! We’ll show you what you’re missing by being cooped up in the city.”

Noah’s heart sank; it was worse than he’d thought. They were gonna drag him out there and make him hunt? He didn’t like killing anything and worse, having to deal with the aftermath. He put on a forced grin since his mother was right there.

“Wow, that sounds real great guys, I can’t wait,” he said through gritted teeth. His subliminal messages to them were entirely lost.

“Hell yes bro! Here’s a pack with some of our extra hunting clothing, you won’t want a whole suitcase out there,” Chevy said, handing Noah a backpack. “We’ve got some extra gear that should fit you, it’s already in the truck. We’ll leave in 30 minutes, so get yourself ready.”

30 minutes?? That was immediate, he wouldn’t even have time to plead his case to get out of it. Begrudgingly he went back inside to get his stuff together. The next thing he knew, it was time. The boys were out front in their pickup truck, the back full of tents, camouflage gear, and who knows what else. Logan laid on the horn.

“NOAHHHHHH! It’s time to scram, let's get outta here!” Logan shouted over the blaring horn. 

Noah groaned, this was setting the tone for the whole trip. He looked at himself in the mirror, the camo pants and hoodie just looked wrong on him. He for sure didn’t want his clothes getting covered in mud though, so he sucked it up and headed out front. Chevy grabbed his bag and tossed it in the back before climbing in shotgun, leaving Noah in the cramped back seats. And with that, they were off.

“There’s a real nice game area ‘bout an hour, hour and a half from here,” Logan said. “We’ll get in, set up a nice camp, then relax. Then at sunrise we’ll start you off with somethin easy, maybe a deer or boar,” he turned and looked at Noah, grinning. 

Noah bounced around in the back of the truck as Logan drove through the forest on bumpy dirt roads. Chevy had put on some country music up front, and they were practically yelling to have a conversation over it. They tried talking to Noah about what he’d been up to, but Noah was sulking and gave only short answers. The sun was starting to hang low in the sky when they pulled off, offroading through some clear land towards a spot they’d clearly been to before. They stopped at a neat little clearing near a creek. It was objectively a beautiful little spot, but Noah was not in the mood to appreciate it, already swatting at mosquitoes swarming him. 

“Alright man, you ever pitch a tent?” Chevy asked Noah. 

“Uh, no, I haven’t”

“Well here, I’ll help ya out,” he said earnestly. “We’ve already got a well used spot here, so first we just lay out this footprint, and here let’s have you start with the poles.”

Noah fumbled around with the metal poles before eventually getting them together. He was frustrated, why would he ever need to know this? Chevy took the poles and got the tent up while Logan was still unloading the back of the truck.

“Alright we’re nearly done, just gotta secure it with these stakes,” he handed them to Noah. “Just stick these through the corner, make sure they’re deep in the ground now.”

Noah took the stakes and tried pushing them into the dirt, but they only made it about an inch in. He tried scraping the dirt away with his hands but that didn’t help. Chevy tapped his shoulder, holding a mallet as a suggestion. They’d just gotten here and already Noah was annoyed despite his cousin’s encouraging attitude. His hands were covered in dirt too, he hated being dirty! And he had no escape from all of it. He stormed off to the water’s edge in a huff while the other two finished putting their site together. The sun was really setting by then.

“Ey Noah!” Logan called, “Come have a beer with us man! We’ve got some chili cookin’ too, ya gotta eat somethin,” he laughed. Noah sighed. There was no point in sulking the entire trip like this, even if he wanted to. He walked back over and pulled a beer out of the cooler they’d brought and sat down.

“It seems his highness has decided to grace us with his presence,” Chevy mocked. Noah chuckled. He’d make it through this, even if it took all the beer in that cooler. The boys ate dinner and talked as the sun dipped below the horizon, with Noah actually giving some substantial answers this time. He was exhausted, having flown in and driven all day. He climbed into his tent to hit the sack. If he’d had a mirror in there, he would’ve noticed what looked like some dirt smeared on his face, just on his upper lip and the sides of his face by his ears.

Noah was abruptly awakened by Chevy shaking him. “Hey bro! It’s just starting to get light out, let’s get moving.” Noah groaned, it was his vacation and he was getting woken up at five something in the morning. He crawled out of his tent, banging his head on the pole; was it really that small last night?  The boys were up and moving already, and Chevy handed Noah a granola bar to eat. “It’s a light breakfast I know, but we don’t wanna miss the prime time of the day,” he said softly.

Despite being exhausted, Noah’s annoyance was fading quickly. Maybe this would be a little bit of fun; at the very least it would be something different from normal. He scratched at his chin, his fingers brushing through the smallest bit of stubble that had sprouted overnight. Noah had never been able to grow facial hair, but for some reason this didn’t alarm him, it felt natural even. He put on his hat to hide his messy hair and began to chow down on that granola bar. As he did, that small amount of stubble began pushing out more, giving Noah a shadow across his jaw. It grew thicker, sticking out further until he had a rough, patchy beard. It made Noah look more natural in his hunting gear, aging him up just a hair. His clothes had also grown less baggy on him, attributing to an extra inch or two in height and some mass he’d never been able to pack on before.

Within a few minutes, they were off, trekking through the tall grass into the brush. Logan guided them to a denser pocket where they set up watch and waited for some wildlife to show up. Logan had told them he knew there were deer that tended to feed nearby, so they just had to be quiet and wait. The tension grew as time passed, and before he knew it, a buck had shown up in the clearing. Chevy had prepared him for this, and he took the shot. The deer went down, and Chevy and Logan cheered.

“Hell yes dude! Nice shot, especially for your first time,” Logan patted him on the back.

Chevy gripped him with joy, “It must be in your blood bro, you’re a natural.”

The adrenaline was coursing through Noah’s veins and to his surprise he was actually having a good time. He couldn’t remember why he hadn’t wanted to spend time with his cousins, they were chill, and this was turning out to be better than being cooped up in the house. The three of them carried the animal back, working together to hoist several hundred pounds. The sun was fully up now and it was humid. Sweat ran down Noah’s back, and he could smell the putrid stench coming off Chevy in front of him. He didn’t mind though, after all, that’s what a working man smells like.

The sweat was clinging to Noah’s damp skin, beading on his forehead. As he slogged ahead, carrying this massive weight on his shoulders, his body began to adapt. His twig like arms expanded with new muscle, his thighs exploded with size, and his chest produced an impressive set of pecs before softening with a layer of fat. The sweat and smell really began to soak into his skin, and under his sopping shirt small brown hairs poked up around his nipples. Those soft, small hairs didn’t remain so for long, sprouting from his chest, covering the expanse in a curly rug that was slicked down with sweat. Noah’s stubble was not to be left out, pushing further out of his face. Hairs wriggled out in the gaps between old ones, leaving him with much better coverage on his cheeks. Around his chin it even started to fluff up a little, coarse hairs puffing out.

They finally made it back to their camp, dropping the load and slumping into the chairs they’d left around the fire pit. 

“We’ll have to gut and clean that in a minute, but here champ,” Logan handed Noah a beer. It was cold, and exactly what Noah needed against the oppressive humidity. “Here’s to many more,” he toasted, before chugging his own down. Noah was finally able to take a breather, and thats when he noticed.

He STUNK.

He raised his arms back behind his head, airing them out. The sweat drenched pits aired their stench to the world, but to Noah, he just matched his cousins now. The exposed pits had a few hairs plastered to the skin. As he sipped the beer and relaxed, more wisps of hair shot out from his skin, growing thick and wiry. What started as a few extra hairs quickly blossomed into a thick forest of hairs, tangling together and poking out of the sleeves of his t-shirt. The hairs itched as they grew in, prompting Noah to dig his fingers in there, scratching through the sweaty, smelly hairs. He didn’t question it, as far as he remembered he’d had hairy pits since middle school. The hairs spread out of his pits, connecting to the dense coating on his chest. The rug on his chest had started creeping upwards, reaching with thick tendrils of hair towards his burgeoning beard.

After a short reprieve Noah was back on his feet, jumping at the opportunity to learn from his cousins how to clean their kill. They were eager to teach him, to fold him into their ways. Noah’s distaste for his cousins, the country, hunting, all of it was evaporating. He felt like he had so much in common with them now, how had he never realized? 

The rest of the day Chevy and Logan took Noah on a whole laundry list of activities they’d planned. Fishing, mudding, you name it. All hesitation had disappeared, Noah was in deep now. He kept drinking with the boys, not noticing that his gut was pushing tight against his shirt. In fact, his whole upper body was stretching out. His shoulders pushed out, growing broader. His frame was massive now, bigger than either of his cousins. He stood out on the edge of a pond in the harsh sunlight fishing, his shirt absolutely soaked with sweat that dribbled down his massive back. As it reached his waistband, it began fertilizing the growth of a new patch of hair right above his plump ass. The hairs sprung out of the wet skin, shooting up his spine in minutes. Before long the hairs had spread out across the wide expanse of his lats, pressing against the tight shirt. The fields of hair were thick, dense enough to darken the shade of his skin, and definitely didn’t help with the sweat situation. The hairs continued to spread, climbing over his round shoulders and down his arms, coating him with a wild fur that cemented his place out in the country. He was really starting to look like his cousins now, between his camo gear, hairy body, and beer gut. 

When the three of them returned to camp that night, Noah was exhausted. He grabbed another can from the cooler and cracked it open. Putting up to his mouth, he tilted it a little too far, spilling foamy beer down his face and into his chest hair. He chuckled and half attempted to wipe the foam off. Where it sat in his beard, the hairs began to thicken and sprout. His mustache grew incredibly thick, making itself known above the rest of his scruff. His chest fur also took to the growth, turning into a real carpet that climbed up and out of his shirt collar. Noah let out a massive burp in response.

“Yo Chevy, we really gotta head back tomorrow? Shit rocks out here,��� Noah said with a deeper voice than he’d ever had previously.

“Yea bro, Ma will skin us if we miss the reunion. But don’t worry man, I know you’ll be back out with us in no time,” he flashed a grin at Noah. 

Noah went and dug through their bags, finding a lighter and pack of cigars. Now that the sun was going down, it was cool enough to enjoy being outside. He lit it up and took a hefty puff, his huge, hirsute body taking it in like a champ. Any thoughts about his old spring break, his old life, had been dragged through the mud and stamped out. All he wanted to do now was relax, listen to the sounds of the crickets, and spend time with his bros. 

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

science experiment is my new favorite, dear lord it’s incredible

"We might have a problem, Alfie," Dick sing-songed as he leaned against the wall where Alfred was making sure the outdoor shenanigans that were serving as "training" today didn't get out of hand.

The butler glanced up to where Jason kept watching you, almost hovering near you. But trying to make it look like he wasn't. "So far as I'm concerned, it looks like the opposite of a problem."

"Maybe," Dick mused.

"How much did he see? Last night, I mean?"

"The aftermath," Dick sighed. "Mud, blood, tears, and snot."

"Oh dear," he tutted. "Master Bruce told me that he found Jason tending to the wounds on her hands and feet this morning. And that he seemed... almost like his old self."

Dick nodded to where you'd made your way over to Cass, the newest addition and offered to be on her "team". Cass wasn't a big talker- she could hardly speak at all- but. Thanks to your empathic quirk, neither of you really needed to talk to team up. And it hadn't taken Cass long to figure that out. OR to figure out that you were physically not very durable. Still. The smiles and the fist bump said it all. "Do we have extra hydration packs on hand?" he asked.

"Always," Alfred said. Reasonably, no one expected you to participate. And no one pulled punches when you did. But- watching you laugh with the other girls when Dick jogged over to even it up properly... well. Maybe, you could get a couple nights of decent sleep.

Bruce strode out onto the lawn and dropped into a chair with a grunt. "How's it going?" he asked.

"Swimmingly," Alfred said, pouring cold drinks and making sure that yours had the specific blend of things that had been prescribed to you in your bottle. "Miss Y/N and Miss Cassandra have been working out some things they can utilize in the field and the others have been enjoying creating chaos to facilitate that."

"Hn."

"And Jason has been hovering like a mother hen," Alfred chuckled.

"So much for not having a crush," Bruce hummed. "How is Y/N holding up?"

"Tiring out, I think. But they've been doing what they can to keep her from having to over-exert herself- after all. It's not like we need to know what the upper limits are."

"Fair-" But before he can finish asking for specifics, you waver on your feet halfway through a strategy you'd been working out with Cass. But before you crumple, Jason is right behind you. Picking you up against his chest.

His face burning as he murmured something against your flustered protests. You radiated flustered embarrassment. And he deposited you in a chair carefully. "It probably would have worked," he muttered, "Dick and Steph talk too much."

You nod and accept the proffered water bottle awkwardly and take a drink, "Thanks."

"What were you trying to do?" Bruce asked? He hadn't SEEN Cass, but that didn't mean anything.

"Lead her into the best position for a sneak attack using my location with emotional resonance... since I can make the people feel things we were playing hot and cold. So I was picking up on where she was and kinda leading her to where she needed to be as we were wandering around."

"Hn." Bruce nodded. Considering that. He'd THOUGHT about using that as a strategy before. You did possess the ability to hone in on people you knew well-

"You okay?" Jason asked, breaking into his thoughts.

"Fine," you murmur, rolling your water bottle between your hands and looking down. Taking a few deep breaths to shove all your emotions back under control as the others lope back up from the grass for drinks and snacks. Cass sat on the arm of your chair and thudded her head gently on your shoulder. Smiling a little when you lean your head on hers.

Bruce watches the little exchange with bemusement and nods to himself. It made sense. Cass had few words and you could make yourself understood without it. But0 he did wonder, as he watched Jason watch it all happen, how he felt about it.

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

Keep Moving Forwards: Part 3

Azriel x Reader Fic

Summary: After finally deciding to leave your abusive and manipulative mate for good, you find unexpected companionship with Azriel, the Shadowsinger of the Night Court. As you navigate the aftermath of your traumatic relationship, you struggle to understand where the mating bond went wrong and contemplate your path forward, vowing never to return to the past.

Find other parts here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

To follow this fic, follow tag "Keep Moving Forwards Fic" or comment to be tagged in future parts.

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of extreme emotional manipulation and abuse, detailed descriptions of direct physical abuse, and scenes of men hunting women with implied sexual assault. Please read at your own risk.

Word Count: 3K

Author's Note: This is the second part of what I anticipate will be a multi-part series. Unlike my previous works, this fanfiction delves deeper than just fluff, exploring complex emotional landscapes. As I navigate this new writing journey, I kindly ask for gentle feedback. The topics addressed are profoundly impactful, touching many lives with diverse experiences. Please be gentle with yourselves and others. Healing is a journey, and everyone processes it differently. Be kind to yourself. Take what resonates, and leave what doesn’t.

Please continue reading, being aware of the above content warnings, ensuring you are in a healthy headspace. Give yourself time to process and be gentle with yourself.

You continued to cling to the trunk of the tree long after the two males below had brought their fire to a roaring inferno. They finished off the food you had packed, and you looked down at the two small specks on the ground below. Stupid, you thought. You shouldn’t have stayed in the woods; you should have kept going. Finally, you let your hands move from the trunk to the branch. The ache in your arms from holding yourself up made your joints stiff as you shimmied into a sitting position, your back pressed against the trunk. Your movement made the males below perk up their ears, their heads turning to you in anticipation until they heard you settle and went back to their chattering.

“Where will you go?” Darian asked, throwing the chicken bone he had sucked clean over his shoulder into the woods. The logs in the fire cracked and snapped.

The leader shook his head, his knee pulled to his chest as the other extended in front of him, sitting on your blanket. “I don’t know. They haven’t told me yet.”

“You’ve gotta be excited, though?”

He raised an eyebrow towards his companion, who took one of his knives out of the holster and began swiping it under his fingernails, no longer looking at him. “Why would I be excited?”

Darian brought his thumbnail to his mouth, taking it between his teeth and pulling a loose piece from it before spitting it onto the ground. His eyes narrowed at the piece he couldn’t quite grab as he pulled his hand back to his mouth. “Restationing,” he said finally, spitting another piece onto the ground. “Getting out of this hellhole.”

“It’s not that bad,” the leader responded, his eyes locked on Darian, who finally put the knife back in the holster and flicked his eyes back to the male across the fire.

“Not bad?” He chuckled lightly. “It’s disgusting. There’s piss and shit everywhere. I think they actually ship the boots in covered in mud, and have you ever gone a full night in one of the tents without waking up damp and sore?”

“It’s a training camp, Darian, not exactly glamorous. Besides, they’re all the same, whether you’re in Illyria or not.”

Darian shrugged, leaning back, his forearms propping him up. “At least it’s a change.”

The leader shrugged, letting the leg he had propped up fall to the blanket. He looked up towards where you sat in the tree, peering down. “You’re sure it’s a female?” he asked.

Darian glanced upwards, “It’s either a female or a male with a round ass.” He chuckled to himself. “A really nice ass.”

The leader, still looking up towards you, chuckled. “I think it’s been a while since you’ve been around a female, Darian.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

The leader shook his head, chuckling to himself. “Your hunger is showing.”

Darian turned his palms up, mouth slightly slackening open. “What? I haven’t had a good fuck in a while.”

“What about that washer girl?”

Darian scoffed. “I wouldn’t say that was a good fuck.”

“Still, got your cock wet.”

Darian scoffed, “Warm at best.” He shook his head. “The same pussy gets old. You need something fresh and new.”

“How many times did you fuck her?”

Darian smiled to himself. “How many times did you?”

The leader chuckled under his breath. “A few.”

Darian flashed his catlike, venom-filled smile to the male across from him. “Then I would say a few as well. Most of us fucked her a few times.” His fingers quoted around the word "few." “Not like there’s a ton of options.”

Darian leaned back fully, clasping his hands behind his head as he rested it against them, staring up at the sky. “There’s a perk to restationing. Finally getting some new females to fuck.”

“You could outsource, Darian,” the leader offered. Darian raised an eyebrow and looked up at the other male. “You could start fucking males.”

A disgusted look crossed Darian’s face. “Even if I wanted to, you couldn’t pay me to fuck one of those soldiers. Most of them haven’t bathed in weeks, and they probably have fucked up dicks or some sort of disease from fucking a hole in the ground.”

The leader laughed. “I don’t know, if you’re that desperate, a hole is a hole.”

“Yeah, well,” Darian said, resting his head back, “I prefer to keep my hole and my cock clean.”

“Not sure that washer girl would agree.”

“Fuck off,” Darian chided him.

The leader looked back up to the tree. “I’ll take the first watch,” he finally said.

“Fine by me,” Darian said, readjusting himself on his hand as he brought one arm over his eyes to block out the firelight.

High above, the chill of the night hit you deep in your bones as you envied the fire below. Your teeth chattered, and it felt as though the very bones in your body were vibrating, trying to get the cold out of them. Your fingers clenched the branch, your joints aching so acutely you thought they had frozen in place as your nose ran from the cold. You sniffled, looking towards the moonlight, which seemed to be a pale blue color, and you prayed to the Mother for any help she could offer.

Exhaustion returned to your eyes as you shivered, your eyelids slowly closing. You fought it off, shaking yourself back awake, your body shifting on the tree branch as you momentarily caught your balance and gripped the branch again. As you continued to fight the heaviness of your eyelids, you heard a familiar voice echoing in your head.

“Cold, baby?” it whispered.

You scrunched your eyes, trying to bring the wall of the bond back down. But it was as though the wall had cracks, and that voice trickled its way into your mind.

“Come home,” he urged. “It’s warm. There’s a fire. I made warm roasted cinnamon apples and rabbit.”

You caught yourself licking your lips, almost able to taste the cinnamon and the oily, delicious rabbit. You shook your head, trying to push him out.

“You’ve had your fun, my love. Just show me where you are. I’ll come get you.” For a second, in a moment of weakness, you considered it. How he would arrive before morning, finding these men camped at the base of your tree, waiting for you to falter. How he would beat them, throwing them to the ground, or speak to them, claiming you as his, and with just those few words, they might back down. Then you came to your senses.

“No,” you sent back.

“It’s good to hear your voice, baby. Even if it’s being stupid,” he whispered back, his voice biting on the words.

You managed to slam the bond shut, pushing him out of your mind until it was quiet again.

The sun finally faded fully as the last bits of purples turned into blues. The two males below you continued their foul, idle chatter about this and that. But you decided not to care anymore as you considered your options.

It was clear they were too regimented to fall asleep, and after listening to them for the last hour, you knew that returning to the ground would be met with some form of assault. Reasoning with them seemed foolish. So you sat, perched on the branch, praying silently for a miracle. Every shift you made had their heads swiveling towards you, their ears primed to your movements. There would be no sneaking away. Perhaps it would be better to plummet to the earth.

Across the horizon, you saw faint flashes of light, an armada of clouds slowly grumbling its way through the line of mountains. Great, you thought. Nothing like being stuck in a giant tree in a rainstorm. The two males below seemed to realize the incoming onslaught as well.

“Fuck,” the leader huffed as Darian pulled his arms back from his face, sitting up.

Darian looked to the sky, now lit up by a crack of thunder. He turned to the leader. “What do you want to do?”

The leader paused, weighing the options of staying and hoping you’d descend in the storm or leaving for the reprieve of dry shelter. “Theron’s already told them we’re waiting it out,” he finally said. “So we wait it out.”

The smaller male seemed unhappy with that answer as he gazed up again at the clouds slowly inching across their sightline. “This ass might be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“It’s not just about that,” the leader responded, prodding the fire again.

The two were silent as you watched the gargantuan clouds slide into the meadow and towards you. High as you were in the tree, you could see every thunderous cloud ignited by the lightning and felt the crack of it deep in your bones. And then the rain started, a bone-chilling downpour that ran down your skin, freezing over the joints already hardened by the tree. As night deepened and your hold on the branch became more slippery, you noticed the slow sway of the trees as the wind picked up, howling in your ears and biting at your exposed skin. You clenched your eyes shut as the rain continued its onslaught, the weight of your body shifting as the trees ached under the wind’s push.

You couldn’t even open your eyes to look down at what the two predators below were doing, although you couldn’t imagine that in weather like this, the forest floor was much better off. Another bolt of lightning illuminated the sky, and you began to count: one, two, three, four, CRASH. Four miles away, and still making its way towards you. Your hair whipped into your face as you finally opened your eyes, your fingers clenched tightly around the branch for dear life. When you managed a glance down, the soldiers had pulled your blanket over their heads, no longer looking up, trying to shield themselves from the downpour. More lightning, one, two, three, four, CRACK.

With the incredible tremor of the crack echoing above you, you momentarily lost your grip. Your boot slipped from under you, and your body lurched to the side. “Fuck,” you gasped, reaching out to steady yourself on the trunk. You righted yourself quickly, shooting a glance back down at the males below. They hadn’t looked up. Perhaps the wind or the rain had finally muffled your movements. You caught your breath as another bolt shot across the sky, the thunder tailing it with three counts. The storm was getting closer, the wind and rain growing more intense.

As the trees bowed, you could almost reach out and grab the adjacent tree’s branches. Slowly, a plan that seemed more stupid than daring formed within you. You would have to jump the trees, time it with the wind and the thunder to not draw attention, and then make your escape—all while the downpour continued. You peered down again; the males below were still unmoving, unaware of the idiotic feat you were about to attempt. Another crack, and you counted: one, two. The next thunderous bellow would only be one second after the lightning. You’d spent many nights, pressed under your mate while the world raged around you, counting the seconds between the lightning and thunder as you tried to crawl out of your own skin. You knew the storms now, and you knew how they were timed.

You pulled your legs up beneath you to a crouch, gripping the trunk of the tree as you focused on the outline of the adjacent one next to you, now slowly bowing in your direction. A flash of light. Your legs left the tree. The thunder cracked in your ears. Your body slammed into the neighboring tree, the impact forcing the air from your lungs. You let out a breathless, airy screech, hands grabbing blindly for any branches as your body slid slightly down the trunk. When you finally stopped yourself, you had dropped about three feet, hanging from a branch. You wrapped your legs around the trunk, pulling yourself onto the rather small perch of your new tree. Your heart pounded in your ears. Stupid. That was a gloriously stupid idea. When you finally felt stable, you looked down to see the two males still huddled together. It had worked—they hadn’t seen your leap or heard the slap of your wet clothes as your body slammed from one place to another.

You gulped down the anticipation and excitement, readying yourself for the next bolt of lightning, before throwing yourself into the next tree. Another smack of your body and frenzied scramble for a branch to hold, and you were one tree farther from the males below. But as the thunder and lightning continued to crack, the wind began dying down. By the time you had made your way five trees away, you were no longer reaching out for a tree but using your feet to push against the trunk to launch yourself forward. The rain was letting up, and now, with their fire extinguished, you could barely see the two soldiers. Your time was running out. You paused, listening for movement from below, but heard nothing. It was still quiet, even as the rain began to let up. You took a second to catch your breath, heaving heavy breaths. Your lungs felt raw from the cold, and you suspected your clothes now had many more tears than when you had first started. Each jump had brought you farther down the tree’s length, and you had now dropped a good fifteen feet closer to the earth.

As you prepared for your next leap, you realized that in the darkness you had miscalculated the distance. Your fingers barely scraped the needles of the tree as you began to plummet toward the ground. Your hands, frenzied in the dark, reached for anything but felt nothing but cold rain and wind. You let out a scream as your body slammed into a lower branch, your back arching around it before you flipped over, sliding onto another branch that struck the side of your face. It felt like you were falling forever, your hands still trying to save you, until you finally hit the ground, slamming into the muddy forest floor. Heart in your throat, struggling to breathe, you suddenly heard rustling.

“What the fuck was that?” Darian said.

You tried to steady your wheezing breath, pulling yourself up from the ground to check if anything was broken. A sharp pain emanated from your ribs, and you hissed as you lifted yourself. Cracked, if not broken. An animal noise of pain slipped out from between your lips as you heard, “She’s not up there.”

“Did she fall?” the leader asked.

You wheezed again, grateful for the continued patter of the rain, which was lessening by the second. You had to move. You had to run.

“I don’t see her,” Darian called back. He must have scaled the tree.

You gripped your ribcage as it burned and screamed at you, pulling yourself to your feet and steadying yourself against the tree. You should have broken your neck from that fall, but hitting the branches may have actually saved you.

You started moving, each step sending a lip-curling spike of pain up your back. More than just your ribs were hurt, but you couldn’t pinpoint the pain; in truth, everything hurt.

“She didn’t fucking disappear,” you heard the leader call back.

You made your way forward, a slow gait, thanking the Mother that the rain meant the males couldn’t make a fire. You let out a few broken breaths, stifling a cough as you wandered deeper into the forest, not even bothering to brush the hair from your eyes.

“Start looking, she’s here somewhere,” the leader ordered. With that, your pace quickened. Trying to run, your feet felt as if they were full of lead. You heard crashing from behind you but didn’t dare to turn around, fearing that taking your eyes off the ground for even a second would have you tripping over a vine or root. So you pressed forward, hearing the males behind you arguing as they slowly gained on you. They must have struggled to see in the rain as well, even as the lightning sporadically lit the sky.

Without being able to stop it, your body forced out a cough, leaving an iron taste in your mouth. You coughed again, doubling over slightly as you spat what you were sure was pure red onto the ground.

“I heard her!” Darian called as he began to run behind you.

You coughed again, trying to straighten, taking a few steps forward and nearly falling on your face. When you finally caught your breath, hand still clinging to your side, you began to run. You weren’t sure how, but your feet hit the wet ground with slaps as you struggled to breathe at all. At this point, you might have stopped breathing altogether.

You heard crashing behind you, sure that the two battle-trained males could and would outrun you, catching up at some point. But you pushed forward regardless, trying to hold back the coughs that wracked your body.

“Keep going!” you heard one of them call out. “I can see her!”

This was it. This was the end. They were going to catch you and kill you. It was happening.

“Stop!” you heard Darian call. “Stop!” he yelled again. Before you knew what was happening, you felt the world fall out from under you as you plummeted down into a ravine, the world spinning around you.

You felt your already battered body slam into icy water, the cold feeling as though you had been stabbed by swords. Your mouth opened, filling as your lungs pulled in water. You swung your hands wildly upwards as you realized you were submerged, swimming to the surface, unsure when you finally managed to breathe as the rain continued to pound down on you. A river. A fast-moving river, and you were being dragged down it.

Then, without warning, you felt a sharp pain to your head, and everything went black.

Thank you again for all the support! Special thanks to those who asked to be tagged in the fic going forwards, I can't express how grateful I am that you all took the time to read my writing, and enjoyed it :) @thatacotargirl @mcuamerica , @lilah-asteria , @florabelll , @fightmedraco @marvelbros-oneshots @mariahoedt @quinzzelx

Also, I am out of town this weekend so may not be able to post the next update till Monday but I promise it is coming!

[abellystuffingblog]

Decided to do my largest stuffing to date over the weekend. Bought a ton of Burger King for a stuffing challenge with a friend, then a heap of grocery snacks to have afterwards!

The Burger King consisted of:

- 1 whopper with cheese, 1 double cheeseburger, 2 large fries, 1 large chocolate shake, 1 large soda, 1 large onion rings, and 10 nuggets!

Here are the results after all that!

Following the Burger King I rested for 30mins. Then ate from the grocery package for 30mins, repeating this as many times as possible until I either passed out or ate all the food! 🤤🐷

The grocery store pack consisted of:

- 2L of vanilla icecream, 1L of custard, 4 Choc iced donuts, 4 pack of ham and cheese rolls, a custard and chocolate pull apart loaf, and an entire family sized chocolate mud cake 🤤🐷

I don’t really remember how many of the 30min cycles I ended up getting through before I passed out, but looking at the dent I made in the food, I know it was a lot! 🐷 The aftermath!

You’d also think that after passing out in a hedonistic, gluttonous, food coma, I’d be sick of food and stuffing the next day, well nope 🥴

I woke back up with still all the food I hadn’t eaten around me and dove straight back into stuffing, either until I passed out again or finished it all 🥴🐷 Peek at the final finished results the morning after! 🐷

I’ve never been this stuffed before and I could literally beep my gut stretching with every bit, gulp and breath! It felt incredible and I can’t wait to do larger stuffings like this on a far more regular basis!

Let me know if there’s anything you’d like to see me eat during my next all day/all night stuffing ����🐷

[roodles03]

Huntlow Grom Redraws (Masterpost)

(Inspired by Dana's Official Grom Promo Art)

Here you can find all the Huntlow Grom redraw posts I've ever made!

Note: This is NOT a swap AU. Season 1 Lumity Grom is still cannon. This is a future Grom. I'm just redrawing Willow and Hunter because I think it's cool to see what they'd look like in these scenes.

Main Series:

Overview (Old)

Overview (Redone)

The Mud

The Halls

The Fear

The Confession

The Dance

The Aftermath

Other:

Video

Overview + The Halls

Overview + The Dance

Overview + The Aftermath

Grom Outfit Renders

Planning Doc

[houndsclaw]

moon bend the knife

pairing: ieiri shoko/reader word count: 3181 rating: explicit warnings/tags: smut, established relationship, canon-typical discussions of violence, masturbation, strap-ons, tender sex, some emotional hurt/comfort. notes: for the end of 2023, have some tender shoko! title from perfume genius, some superficial references to the heart sutra and other buddhist recollections. this is diametrically opposed to my other shoko fic (or is it?). mostly unedited, completely not beta-read. There’s no rush here, you remind yourself. You don’t have infinite moments with Shoko— you may not even have tomorrow, the luxury of long life not the path you walk— but you have this time right now. There is more love here than curse. read on ao3

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“So don’t,” Shoko says. She’s standing between your knees, toweling your hair dry for you.

It had been a bad mission. The way that leads to short life makes you yourself short-lived. With curses, survival was dumb luck as much as innate skill. Sometimes, you were standing a foot in the wrong direction. Today, it had been the right direction. You’d gotten out with nothing worse than bruised ribs. Your partner had not been as fortunate.

In the aftermath, Nanami had driven you to Shoko’s apartment. He had helped you get into the passenger seat of his car and fastened the seat belt around you when you couldn’t coordinate the movement. All you can remember from the drive is the rain sheeting down the windows, washing the smears of blood left from your hands. Nanami hadn’t even complained about the puddles of bloody water you had left in his car, or smeared across his nice shirt from your impromptu embrace.

You clear your throat, shake the thoughts out of your head. “Tell me about your day.”

“Corpses, mostly, but none of them were yours.”

Shoko whips the towel off of your head, leaving you blinking with your hair in your face. When you push the damp hair back from your eyes, she’s already turned away from you to inspect her face in the mirror.

You both know the state of the world you live in. The list of Tokyo veterans dwindles with every month that passed. It is human to hold pain close to the chest, and only more expected for jujutsu sorcerers. You see it in the way the lines drew tighter and tighter on Nanami’s face, the false cadence of Satoru’s laughter, Utahime’s dry eyes at every funeral, the deepening purple bags under Shoko’s eyes. Today, it hadn’t been you.

Grief is the most constant companion a sorcerer has. By nature, it makes you all a tricky breed. There’s a reason it’s easier for sorcerers to be solitary, distant, isolated— or, at least, to hold anything else closer than you held others. Satoru feels the emptiness of Suguru so keenly that he holds it even closer than Shoko. You had worked with your partner for a little over a year before today; there will be someone else waiting for you with the next curse. Maybe a student, maybe an auxiliary manager, maybe someone from Kyoto. Nature and jujutsu society abhor a vacuum. The empty space will be filled; it will never be full again. It never is full to start with.

As the sutra went: form is emptiness, emptiness is form.

Let me know when you get inside, Nanami had told you. Shoko had met you at the door, still in her wrinkled scrubs from the morgue. You were certain that if she hadn’t, his car would still be idling below until he received an all-clear. As soon as you had gotten into the apartment, Shoko had stripped you down in the kitchen and examined your wounds herself right then and there. Then, she had whisked you into the shower with her. All of the mud and blood had been scrubbed from your skin, leaving only the bruises as physical evidence of what you had survived.

You put your arms around Shoko, making eye contact with her in the mirror. “None of them were me,” you agree, voice soft.

After a second, Shoko turns in your arms, presses her face into your neck. Her sigh is warm against your jaw. You both smell like the expensive soap she buys, cypress and balsam. It feels good to stand like this, belly to belly, the sensation of her skin against yours a comfort.

It is a careful practice to think to yourself: I must be parted from whatever I hold dear.

Shoko maps her hands down the sides of your ribs, over your soft belly. It would feel clinical if you didn’t know her better. You know she’s tracing up the line of a laceration that would have killed you if she hadn’t gotten to you in time. The scar is old and silver now, thanks to her reverse cursed technique, but every now and then you wake up convinced your guts are spilling into your lap.

You wince as her touch moves towards the edges of your bruised ribs. A frown touches Shoko’s lips. Her eyes are fixed on your injured body, but she looks as though she’s far away. You could pass your hand in front of her eyes and you’re not sure she would blink. You think to yourself again: pain held close and dear.

“What’s the diagnosis, doc? How long do I have to live?”

To your relief, Shoko’s lips twist up into a wry smile even as she rolls her eyes at you. “You’re not very funny.”

You allow yourself a giggle, mostly of relief and dizzy exhaustion. “I’m a little funny.”

She pokes her finger into your bruised ribs. You squeak and jerk back. Point taken. “Jerk,” you tell her.

Her smile softens. This time, when she passes her hand over your ribs, heat fizzes out from her fingers. The edges of the bruising spread and fade: purple-black, green, yellow. She leaves them in that middle stage, an ugly green-yellow like a cat’s eye, but the worst of the tenderness is gone when you shift and twist to see.

This gift is greater than it appears. Shoko’s cursed energy is precious. She’s always on call, always ready for her phone to go off with the next horror story that will need to be triaged. It’s why the higher-ups keep her on campus and not in the field; she’s too valuable to lose in this war. When all else fails, she must remain. All sorcerers relive their grief, but Shoko has to dissect it. It’s easy for the jujutsu world to denounce Ieiri Shoko as cold, yet another special grade as distant as the stars, but you know that she is just another mortal woman.

You catch her wrist, press a kiss into her palm. “Why don’t we go to bed?”

Shoko touches your cheek. “Let me take care of you,” she says.

Some nights, you think you would say no. She works too hard, your Shoko, and it’s your honor to take care of her in a way that she doesn’t let anyone else. Tonight, there’s something in the way she’s looking at you, expressed in the way that she washed your hair and healed your ribs. This desire is something that would be cruel to deny her.

“Okay,” you say, leaning in for another kiss. “I’m at your mercy, then.”

That earns you another eye-roll and a nip to your bottom lip. As lucky as you are to be on Shoko’s leash when she deigns fit, that’s clearly not the mood she’s in tonight. That’s more than okay with you. You crave her touch, her warmth, more than anything. You’ve sat up with that desire many a night, let it scald you. Some of those nights, you think the only thing that burns bright within you is that want, that attachment.

Shoko’s apartment is replete with shadows at this hour. Only the kitchen light is on, banishing the darkness to the margins of the apartment. When you take a breath, you can smell the faint spice of incense. Shoko often burns tiny cones of incense or the fancy candles that Satoru furnishes her with. The scent marks her home like her cigarettes. The thought flashes to you with the smoke, tears stinging your eyes: there would hardly be enough left of your mission partner to cremate.

Shoko squeezes your hand. You blink, remember to let the air leave your lungs. Let it pass through you like the blood spiraling down the shower drain. You let her lead you to her bed.

It’s most likely a doctor’s consideration for her lover’s wounds, but at first, she lets you straddle her lap and bury her in kisses. You kiss down her neck, relishing the way she leans her head to give you more room, the soft sigh when you let your teeth close around her throat. Run your fingers through her damp hair, cup the weight of her breast in your palm, hold the gentle curve of her waist. You let yourself rest your tired head in the crook of her shoulder, breathing in the soapy, salty musk of her skin.

The rain pours down the windows of the apartment. There’s no rush here, you remind yourself. You don’t have infinite moments with Shoko— you may not even have tomorrow, the luxury of long life not the path you walk— but you have this time right now. There is more love here than curse. It’s hard to think of the woman cradled in your arms as anything but yours. You pause, let the desire wash over you, let it strip you bare.

Shoko steers you down against the pillows with a touch to your arm. She lets you situate yourself again her pillows— luxuriously plump, the silky sheets cool against your hot skin— before crawling back over you. She straddles one of your thighs, careful to keep her weight off of you, which is as frustrating as it is practically appreciated. You wouldn’t mind a little soreness if it meant being even closer to her.

Shoko kisses you until you’re breathless and pliant under her. Her tongue tastes like mint toothpaste. All of the tobacco has been scrubbed out of her teeth, her nails, her hair. Clean, stripped of armor and title and distance, starlight made heavy for you to hold.

You skim your hands across her shoulders, tucking her loose hair over her shoulder as her mouth moves to your chest. She sucks a kiss into the sensitive underside of your breast, her other hand coming up to cup the other. Shoko has always had a possessive streak when it comes to you. She grazes her teeth over your nipple and you whimper without meaning to, arching up to encourage her touch. Your ribs protest the movement with a sharp pulse, and then you’re whimpering for a different reason.

Shoko is quick to check: “Did that hurt?”

“I’m fine. But you might need to take care of me a little faster.” You affect a little yawn that turns jaw-cracking without your permission, your ribs twinging again with the great inhale.

Shoko shoots you a blazing look; you have the grace to be a little sheepish in return. There will be another time where she’ll let you push all of her buttons, admit to liking your teasing. Maybe tomorrow, when the violence of the day has worn its teeth on time. Shoko knows what you need; this is for her as much as it is intended for you. She needs to feel you here, hale and whole under her palms. There are many corpses in this time of wars, but you are not one of them.

When you give her shoulder a gentle tug, she comes up easily. You cup her neck with one hand, lean in to kiss the mole under her eye. “I’ll be good,” you promise, sweet and earnest, and press the same promise against her lips. “Take care of me, Shoko.”

Shoko lets you lick her mouth open. Sighs when you move your thigh just so against her bare cunt. You can feel that she’s already wet, which sends arousal zipping up your own spine. “You’re incorrigible,” she murmurs, but she makes it sound so fond you can’t help but smile.

Your breath catches as she takes your fingers into her mouth. Shoko sucks on your fingers as she rubs herself against your thigh, her thigh flexing against you in turn. Pleasure thrums through you like a well-struck chord, the pluck of a shamisen string. If this is what she wants, you are well-enough cared for. Then, to your chagrin, she moves back to sit on her heels. The hot weight of her gaze keeps you pinned in place, sprawled out in her bed. Her naked appreciation almost makes you want to hide, but you know better. You wonder what she sees hidden in the curves and lines of your body.

Shoko swings her legs off the side of the bed with a leisurely stretch, and then leans over you again. “Keep yourself occupied for me,” she says, emphasizing her words with her thumb tracing over your bottom lip. She drags your wet fingers over your cunt to underscore the command. Your touch is pale fire compared to hers, but you still moan as you roll your fingers over your clit. That intense urge for closeness, for touch, has your breath quickening, your cunt pulsing heavy with your own touch and the promise of hers.

You bite your lip as you watch her slip her long legs into the simple leather harness and tighten the straps against her hips. Shoko has always been beautiful, even tucked into her stark, shapeless white coat. She’s backlit from the warm light spilling in from the kitchen, she looks even more like a dream, built like a bough of a willow. Her dark hair hangs over her shoulder, cheek limned in light.

When she looks at you, you spread your legs a little wider for her. You hope she can see you wet and wanting for her. As she approaches, her shadow spills over you. She passes her hand over her cock, wet and shiny with lube. You know part of her choice slips inside of her, so she can feel what you feel mirrored.

“C’mon, Sho,” you urge her. “I want to feel you inside of me.”

You lay on your good side, arms open for her. When she settles next to you, you stretch your leg over her hip, wiggling to get the hard line of her dildo to rub just right against your clit. Shoko grunts at the pressure it puts on her, lips parting. You breathe in. Cypress and balsam soap, the salt and musk of her skin. She pushes inside you and you exhale against her jaw. There’s nothing but her.

You lay like that for a second, together, just breathing. The impatience has fallen out of you, just like that. Nothing but the two of you; nothing but form; nothing but that nothing. Her breath on your mouth tastes like a koan. You have never felt more alive than you do with her hands on you. Shoko shifts her hips, adjusts the strap; you knot your fingers in her hair, wait for her to move. She knows what you like, what you need. It’s a slow, tender rhythm, an undulation of her hips that builds pleasure in you like a wave.

You make no effort to muffle your moans. You clench against her cock inside of you, bumping your hips closer. Shoko kisses your jaw, runs her tongue along the shell of your ear, ducks down to nuzzle your shoulder. Then, she presses her forehead against yours. You’re pressed together, fitting all the way along your bodies. If you as much as twitch, the other feels it.

“Tell me how it feels,” Shoko says. It’s an order, if only a soft one.

“So good,” you tell her, arching into her and not minding the ache. “You’re so good, Shoko, treating me so well.”

Shoko kisses you again, teeth clinking together, unexpectedly desperate. You whimper into her mouth, clit grinding against the leather knots of her harness. It’s building up fast at this angle, cresting over you.

“Shoko, ‘m so close—“

“I know,” Shoko whispers, grinding her hips at that dizzying angle. Pressed this close, you can feel her heart pounding in her chest as if it were your own. “I know, let go for me. I want to see my pretty girl come for me.”

You had lied before: you do want to talk about it. You want to tell Shoko everything. You want to hold her closer than you’ve ever held anyone, keep her all to yourself. You hold the desire deep inside yourself, roll it smooth like a pebble in a river as you shake with her pleasure. Is it too much to tell her you fantasize of running away from it all with her? If you offered your hand, would Shoko take it?

You know it’s a moot point, at most another pipe dream that sorcerers hold in the privacy of their souls next to all of the grief. Attachment is the root of all suffering. I must be parted from whatever I hold dear. In the car, Nanami had told you he thought of retiring to a beach on Kuantan where there would be no such thing as curses. Neither of you can abandon your duties like that. What matters is that you’re here with her. The moment will pass like the rain, but you will share it nonetheless.

You must have been a saint in your last life to end up here with her.

Shoko fucks you through your orgasm, her breath stuttering as she presses her forehead against yours. You keep your thigh stretched up over her hip, whispering incoherent encouragement into her mouth, take what you need, I’m here. When Shoko comes, it is with a sound that is nearly a sob.

You stay curled together, slick with sweat, listening to each other’s breathing slow. Finally, she rolls away from you, tugs the harness and strap down her legs and kicks it to the end of the bed with an uncharacteristic lack of care. She tosses a delicate wrist over her flushed face, her other hand wrapped around yours.

The rain is still pouring outside, stained-blue pattering down the window. It will rain through the night, through the next day. There is a pile of bloodied clothes in the kitchen that will need to be dealt with come morning. At some point, your phone or hers will ring and bring you back to your duties and promises. Emptiness and form. Shoko’s apartment may not be Malaysia, is certainly not free from the ravages of the cursed world, but you can stay here a while.

Golden light pours over Shoko’s shoulders as she leans in to press one last kiss to your lips. Then, she’s twisting away from you to open her bedside drawer. There’s the click of a lighter, and an exhale. Smoke swirls up in the light; sweet, haylike tobacco eclipses the cypress soap. With her shoulders set against the darkness from the window, Shoko looks very far away. You reach over, tracing your fingers down her spine. She shivers. Then, she falls back with a gentle thump against the mattress, cigarette still caught between her lips.

When her eyes meet yours, you think that to her, there is never any distance between you. You don’t need any words. 

“If you set the bed on fire, I’m breaking up with you,” you threaten.

Shoko chuckles, voice raspy. “Yeah, yeah,” she says. “I love you too.”

[halfmoth-halfman]

Preserve Your Love In A Field Of Tulips

Pairing: Kento Nanami x GN!Reader Word Count: 3.9k Warnings: fluff, whump, bruises, blood, injury, shibuya aftermath, nanami survives shibuya A/N: we got the winner of the last fic poll!! it's my first fic in a while so i hope y'all enjoy it, and if you notice typos...no you didn't lmao

You grow up next to a field of wildflowers, in a house that smells of summer and honey.

It’s been in your family for generations, a cozy two-story away from the noise and chaos of the city. As a child, your mother told you stories of it being built by a grandfather of a grandfather trying to find a place for himself in the world. The story changed each time, every retelling more fantastical than the last. Sometimes she claimed he came to this field to escape a great evil that haunted his family home. Other times she claimed that he’d fallen in love with a spirit that lived among the wildflowers and built his home here in hopes of seeing her again.

Your father’s explanation was far more practical, and probably closer to the truth. A simple story of a man wanting to see the world and build a legacy of his own without the overbearing opinions of his family. 

Whatever the truth, the house is yours now. 

Your little paradise, a space lovingly carved out of the world and meant just for you.

You do your best to honor their memory, to care for this gift you’ve been given properly. You tend to your mother’s herb garden, care for the shubunkin and tamasaba in your great uncle’s pond, and leave little pieces of yourself throughout the house to make it your own. 

You don’t mind the routine, finding peace in the feel of the sun warming your skin and the soft glow of fireflies at night. You know this is a gift meant to be shared, something made to pass on to your children and their children after. There’s no rush, you tell yourself. You’re content in your solitude, satisfied with the few close friendships you’ve nurtured over the years. Of course, those friendships were from your time spent abroad with no one close enough to actually meet with in person.

Maybe the isolation can be a bit much, but it’s not like you can’t visit the city at any time. 

“You have your whole life to find love,” your mother once told you while you helped her wash dishes, a knowing smile on her kind face. She’d taken a moment to lean down to you, glancing at your father as she whispered conspiratorially into your ear, “And this place has a way of sending you exactly what you need when you least expect it.” She winked at you then, returning to the dishes while humming a soft tune.

She spoke about your home like that often, as if it were a living, thinking thing. You struggled to believe her even as a child, sharing in your father’s more “practical” line of thought.

You should’ve known that even in death your mother was always right. 

Seven summers after you inherit the house, a week of harsh rains and unnatural winds leaves your land a mess of mud and branches. You spend far too many days trying to salvage your flooded herb garden and saving your fish from their overflowing pond. Only when the land is somewhat cleared does the storm return, disappearing and reappearing in patterns that purposely inconvenience you. 

You’re fed up, sitting hopelessly on the rain-soaked steps of your porch as the storm rages around you when a stranger appears.

Umbrella in hand, wearing a tan suit and strange sunglasses, the man politely ushers you inside “for your own safety”. It’s the only thing he says to you, offering no explanations for why he’s here or how he found this place. Sealed inside your house, no light except for the lightning flashing through your windows, you rush to the living room, climbing atop your couch to peer through your curtains and search for the stranger in your yard. 

It’s not hard to spot the blonde of his hair even through the heavy downpour, but your attention is immediately drawn to the massive creature swatting at him from the clouds. It’s grotesque, a twisted form of sharpened teeth and bloated, purple arms. The man is seemingly unbothered, dodging its swings with ease. The creature roars, echoes of thunder rattling the walls of your house. The skin on its many arms burst open, bolts of lightning shooting from its veins. The light is blinding, its roar pressing painfully into your eardrums until you’re crouched on your living room floor with your eyes shut and hands squeezing against your ears.

You don’t realize it’s over until a warm hand is laid on your shoulder, and you find the man crouched in front of you. He’s soaked, dripping red-tinted rainwater onto your floor, but he looks at you with genuine concern. 

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. 

So many questions swirl around your head: Who are you? What was that thing? Did you kill it? How did you do that? How did you know to come here? 

“Did that thing hurt my fish?” Is what leaves your mouth. The man blinks, surprise briefly flashing across his face. 

“I don’t think so.” 

You sag forward without thinking, your head coming to rest on his shoulder with a relieved sigh. Already you can feel exhaustion creeping in, your eyes sliding closed as you mutter a soft thanks. 

The man clears his throat, shifting awkwardly beneath you.

“The garden will need some work, however.”

He’d introduced himself as Kento Nanami, politely offering to help clear out your garden before he left. You’d declined, exhausted and defeated, but thanked him nonetheless. He helped you to your feet, guiding you around the puddles on your floor as he brought you to the stairs. It took three times to assure him that you could make it to your room by yourself, and he still waited until you were at the top of the steps to take his leave.

It only takes you a day to convince yourself it was nothing more than a vivid dream brought on by stress and too little sleep. It’s easier to believe, far easier than the idea of a handsome stranger showing up in the middle of a storm to fight a massive sky demon in your front yard. If something so crazy had actually happened, surely there would be evidence of it. Yet, there are no stains on your living room floor, no destruction in your herb garden aside from some extra mud, no giant, bloated sky demon corpse lying around.

There’s nothing but your memories of an admittedly wild dream…

Nothing but your memories, and the handsome, blonde man dressed in a tan suit standing at your front door a week later. He ignores the stunned look on your face, holding up a blue gift bag decorated with cartoon goldfish and a talking turtle. You wordlessly take the bag, peering inside in equal parts curiosity and disbelief.

Lights shaped like white lotus flowers, polished rocks, and two yellow duck figurines. 

“A few pieces from your pond were damaged,” he explains. “Fish can get stressed if there are extreme changes to their environment.”

“You…” You blink up at him, trying to come to terms with the fact that the handsome man from your dream is, in fact, real and bringing you decorations to calm your fish. “It's Kento, right?”

“I apologize for the abrupt visit–”

“Where’d you put the body?” 

You’ve stunned him into silence once more, Kento staring at you with his mouth slightly open. He composes himself quickly, straightening with a small cough.

“The body?”

“The sky demon. That was real, right? I didn’t dream that? I don’t think I did ‘cause that would mean I dreamt you up, which…well, I might have – you seem like the type I’d dream of. But you’re standing in front of me right now, and I’m definitely not asleep. Unless I’m hallucinating…” 

You reach out without thinking, snatching your hand back the moment your fingertips meet the solid muscle of his torso. “Nope, you’re real and I’m...making a fool of myself.”

“It’s a lot to process,” he nods. You nod in return, eyes bouncing back between him and the bag in your hands. “I’m sure you need time–”

He takes a step back, and that’s all you need to snap back to reality.

“Yes, well no…” He pauses, waiting patiently as you take a deep breath to gather your words. 

“Thank you for the gift and the–” you gesture up to the clear, blue sky, “–demon…thing. If you’d like, you can come inside for a bit.”

Kento raises his brows, and you think you catch the brief twitch of his mouth. “That’s not necessary–”

“It’s more for me, really. I think I’m still trying to process…everything, and I could use the company.” 

You notice the way he glances down, a short look to the nervous smile on your lips to the shaking of your hands around the handles of the gift bag. If the rambling doesn’t give your nerves away, the rest certainly does, but Kento is polite enough not to mention it. 

“Alright,” he nods, lips pulled into a small smile. 

Over the afternoon, Kento eases you through a simple explanation of the curse – not demon – that had tried to make a home in your skies. The explanation leads into a wider conversation about curses as a whole and his role in dealing with them. He’s vague but patient, answering your questions in a calm manner that soothes your anxiety without going into detail. There’s more silence than there is conversation, but he doesn’t seem to mind. You’re sure he feels sorry for you, watching you try to navigate as your world gets flipped on its head.

Guilt sets in by late afternoon when you realize that his work is far more important than wasting time comforting you. You thank him for staying, letting him leave with more thanks than he’s probably comfortable with. He offers to come back in a few weeks if you need, but you assure him you’re fine. 

He gives you a smile, one you’re coming to understand means he sees right through your lies, before gesturing to the gift bag sitting on your coffee table. 

“I look forward to seeing what you do with the pond, then,” he says. “Since you’re sure you’re alright.”

He’s walking away before you can argue, and you swear you catch the hint of a smirk. 

Kento visits three weeks later, keeping his word as he heads straight to your pond.

You took a trip to the city and bought a few more decorations since his visit, working on getting the pond back to normal as a way to distract your mind. You think you’ve come to terms with the idea of curses, though the feeling of being watched has spiked your paranoia.

“Not bad,” he hums, crouching down to assess the duck figurines you have next to the small waterfall.

“The fish seem to appreciate it,” you shrug, watching your fish happily circle the pond. He gives a contemplative hum, running a finger along the water’s surface to watch one of the tamasaba follow along the ripples. A comfortable silence stretches over the pond, broken a few moments later by the ringing of Kento’s phone. 

He stands, taking a few steps away before answering. You take his place at the pond’s edge, content to watch the fish circle along the gentle waves and listen to Kento’s murmurs into his phone. He hangs up with a deep sigh, rejoining you at the pond. 

“More demon stuff to deal with?” you ask teasingly. 

“Next time I’ll bring something for the garden,” he says, watching the fish circle for a few seconds before looking to you.

“Next time?” 

He nods, and you smile wide, “Next time, then.” 

Kento visits two weeks later, a bag of star-shaped lights that he spends the afternoon stringing along your garden fence. He sticks around until after the sun sets – just to make sure the lights work, he claims – promising to fix the loose step on your porch before he leaves. 

Once your step is fixed, he insists on fixing the missing piece to your porch railing. 

After that, it’s the way your kitchen window squeaks when you slide it open. 

Then, it’s the loose knob on your front door.

Then the uneven chair at your dining table.

The bent bottom shelf of your bookcase. 

The crooked picture in the upstairs hallway.

Fixes turn to small talk turns to long conversations turns to lunch in the herb garden turns to sunsets by the pond. 

“What happens when there’s nothing left to fix?” you ask, watching the last of the sun’s light disappear beyond the horizon. “You have to be running out of stuff by now.” You try not to sound anxious, try not to worry that this may only be a passing fancy for him.

Kento pauses, finger still on the pond’s surface. He thinks for a moment, soft breeze ruffling the fabric of his blue shirt. A shiver skims across your skin, and you pull his jacket tighter around your shoulders. 

“Nothing to fix…” he mutters, pulling his hand from the pond to pick up one of the duck figurines. He glances at you before holding the duck up and letting go. You gasp as it breaks against the stone next to him. Kento’s gaze slides to you, a smirk stretched across his handsome face as he picks up another duck. A playful hum as he pretends to think, letting the second duck drop and break. 

“Looks like you need new ducks.” 

You don’t try to hide your laughter, playfully shoving against his shoulder as he sweeps the figurine pieces into a small pile. 

He stays an extra ten minutes that night, cleaning up the broken ducks and double-checking that nothing got into the pond. When you hand his jacket back, he refuses to take it. Instead, he makes you promise to return it when he comes back with new ducks and departs with a kiss on your cheek that has you too stunned to argue. 

After seven months of fixing, then breaking, then fixing again, you stand across from Kento in your living with nothing left for him. Nothing to break nor to fix. You’re sure that won’t stop him – you can see him already eyeing your bookcase – but you’re tired of your things caught in a constant state of not quite usable.

You have a much better idea. One that’s been stewing in your brain since he first appeared at your door with a bag of pond decorations. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip when his back is turned, pulling at the skin until it gives and you taste iron. The sting makes you hiss, and Kento turns to you with a startled quickness. His eyes immediately fall to the blood on your lips, watching intensely as your tongue darts out to lick it away. 

“Any way you can fix–”

One hand on your jaw, the other on your neck, Kento pulls you forward until his lips are on yours. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, the sting pulling a sharp gasp from your mouth. He swallows it with another kiss, a desperate groan as his hand slides from your jaw into your hair. 

You part from him with a soft push, but he refuses to go far, leaning his forehead against yours. The hand on your neck moves to cup your cheek, thumb gently tracing the cut on your lip. 

“Better?” he rasps, pulling his fixated gaze from your mouth to your eyes. 

“Not sure,” you breathe, leaning in until your lips brush against his. “You might have to do it again.”

Over the next two years, you learn just how difficult life can be loving a Jujutsu sorcerer. 

While each moment spent with Kento is nothing short of bliss, it makes his absence all the more painful. Nights without him are spent worrying over his safety, doing everything in your power to not call the one number he’d given you in case of emergencies. Pain lingers in your chest every time you watch him walk out the door, threatening to squeeze your heart until it pops. 

Despite your feelings, you let him go every time.

And every time he returns to you. 

Most of the time he’s exhausted, and you’re more than happy to take care of him, to get him fed and washed and safe in bed. Sometimes he returns with new bruises or the occasional stitched wound. You fuss over him, and, despite his insistence that you don’t need to, he lets you do it.

The worst is when not all of him makes it back. It’s rare – Kento isn’t one to let his work affect his home life – but it does happen. On those days he sits by the pond, watching the fish go in circles for hours on end while you tend to the garden or pick wildflowers to decorate the house. 

He comes back to himself slowly, always apologizing with overwhelming affection when he’s more himself. There’s no reason for him to be sorry, you’ve told him so countless times. He’s here with you and that’s all you need.

He shares his plans with you late those nights, dreams of the two of you on a beach in Malaysia. You’re lulled to sleep by the whispered fantasies of the ocean breeze, the sun on your skin, and a ring on your finger. 

The first time you meet Takuma Ino, you slap him.

You don’t mean to – you’ve heard so many good things about him from Kento – but he appears on your doorstep, face bruised and spirit broken, and the words come spilling out of his mouth as thick and harsh as his tears. 

Curses. Attack. Shibuya. 

Burning. Kento. 

Not sure if he’ll make it.

You act before you think, leaving yet another mark on his already wounded face. You apologize immediately, but he takes it in stride. A pained smile on his face, Ino helps you pack a bag and brings you to Jujutsu High for the first time. 

Your introduction to Shoko is the stench of cigarettes and being bluntly told there’s little chance of Kento surviving his injuries. You’re too tired to worry, only desperate to see him. She gives you a pitying smile, allowing you and Ino into the infirmary. 

Your strength leaves you the moment you lay eyes on Kento’s bandaged form. Ino keeps you steady, a hand grasping your arm to keep you upright while he slides a chair over for you. You collapse into the chair, eyes fixated on your love.

You’ve seen him injured, but never to this extent. Only his upper half is visible to you, his torso and left arm completely wrapped in bandages. Those bandages extend up the left side of his neck, packed with gauze as it covers the left side of his face. 

You reach over, gently brushing a piece of his hair from his face. His face contorts, a pained groan escaping his lips. You pull your hand back, heart-shattering at his labored breaths. 

You’ve seen him soft, vulnerable, hurt, but never weak. 

He groans again, muscles tensing, hand fisting into the thin sheet over his lower half. You set your hand over his, tenderly running your thumb across his knuckles. Murmurs of praise and love rush past your lips as you try to comfort him. 

Ino sets a hand on your shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. A silent question if you’re alright. You look back at him with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You give his hand a light squeeze, a million thanks on the tip of your tongue. 

He moves your bag next to your chair, eyes glancing to the infirmary door. 

“If you need anything…” he says softly. You nod, watching Ino give Kento one last look of deep anguish before he forces himself away. 

His footsteps fade. The door clicks shut. Kento groans, blood staining the bandages on his face. 

You weep. 

Recovery is long and hard. 

The first weeks back home are spent struggling to adjust, Kento to his slow healing injuries and you to his attitude. He’s never angry or short with you, always appreciative of your efforts, and far more considerate of your feelings than his own, but you can see the exhaustion in his face. You catch the way he deflates when he thinks you aren’t looking, the way he frowns whenever he passes by a mirror, the way he politely avoids your affection.

He may not voice it, but you know he feels defeated. 

You keep yourself in good spirits, telling yourself that your optimism will catch on eventually.

And it does.

Months pass and Kento learns to move more, talk more, smile more. Ino visits on occasion, the two of you playfully bullying Kento into getting the rest he deserves while you make dinner. Shoko once a week, then once every other week, then once a month, keeping an eye on Kento’s recovery. Her visits aren’t long, and she’s still terribly blunt with you, but you go out of your way to ensure she knows how grateful you are to her, and she gives you a rare smile just before she leaves.

Things are good for the most part. Bad nights still happen, as they are bound to after what he’s been through. Nights when Kento’s trapped in his memories until you manage to wake him. Nights when he can’t sleep, sitting out by the pond until long after the sun has risen. Nights when he flinches at even the softest of touches from you. 

You worry. How could you not? But you’re there for him every step of the way, supporting him when he needs you there and giving him space when he doesn’t. 

He kisses you again six months after Shibuya. After a particularly bad nightmare, you coax him back into the waking world only to have him collapse into sobs against your chest. You hold him, soothe him, let him finally have this release. He sobs through apology after apology, to you, to Ino, to people you’ve never heard of. Everything spills out of him, every worry, every impossible dream, every fear, the neverending paranoia that one day you’ll regret wasting so much time on him.

“Never in my life would I regret you, Kento Nanami,” you tell him, hand softly cupping the ruined half of his jaw. “You’re stuck with me forever.”

He kisses you then, desperate and wanting, and you spend the night showing him every way you could love him now and forever. 

A year and a half after Shibuya, you lay in the field of wildflowers near your home with your fingers woven through the mottled and warped ones of your husband. It’s a peaceful afternoon spent gazing at clouds, sharing carefully sliced oranges, and basking in the warmth of the sun.

Kento turns, watching your eyes explore the sky as you smile and point at a cloud that’s shaped like a fish. Golden light on your face, petals stuck to your hair, you’ve never looked more beautiful to him. You catch him staring, laughter spilling out of you as you snuggle up to his side. You kiss his cheek, lifting the hand clasped in yours to point him toward your fish-shaped cloud.

He never sees the cloud, too distracted by the way your rings sparkle in the sunlight. 

It isn’t Malaysia, no. It’s far, far better.