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dakusan · 14 days ago

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S h u t U p a n d S i t S t i l l

Tattoo Artist!Kim Seungmin x Reader | He tattoos like a surgeon and fucks like a sadist. You showed up for ink. He gave you obsession.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. you walked into NO SAINT INK for a rib tattoo—left with trembling thighs, his hoodie around your neck, and a cock you can't stop dreaming about. Seungmin is quiet, sharp-tongued, and mean in the best ways: he bends you over the bench, fucks you until you cry, then wipes you down and feeds you strawberries like you're his favourite masterpiece. It starts with your seventh tattoo. Ends with you moaning his name every night, in his bed, in his hoodie, with his fingers under your panties. This isn’t just art. It’s obsession. And now he’s your boyfriend too—lucky you.

💌a/n: i literally don’t remember who requested tattoo artist seungmin first. either way. you got it. the man who fucks you stupid then wipes you down like he’s cleaning his favourite mug. HE’S HERE. AND HE’S IN LOVE (but would rather die than admit it out loud) 🫶🍓🖤. also? 🔔 THE MINI SERIES ORDER HAS BEEN DECREED 🔔 next up: JEONGIN. after that: ⟡ MINHO ⟡ CHANGBIN ⟡ FELIX and then finally—drumroll, throat clear, studio lights flickering— BANG CHRISTOPHER FUCKING CHAN. the cherry on top. the tattoo daddy. the final boss of soft filth and filthy softness. pray for me. p.s. if you liked it, if you screamed, if your thighs clenched even ONCE—REBLOG IT. LIKE?? yes. COMMENT?? also yes. p.p.s. if i catch you in the notes saying “need him biblically,” “he wiped me down like a canvas,” or “not the strawberries 😭”—just know i love you. violently 💋 p.p.s. see u next Tethered Tuesday with Jeonginnie~

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. You are the CEO of your own coochie.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Charmer — Stray Kids « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:09 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Seoul, South Korea. Tuesday, 3:12 PM.

You push the door open with your hip, bells jingling overhead as warm incense curls toward the ceiling — sandalwood, patchouli, something citrusy beneath it all. It’s always like this at NO SAINT INK. Chill beats humming low, Felix probably somewhere in the back rearranging his piercing tools like he’s Marie Kondo with a needle fetish, and—

“Fuck,” a voice mutters from behind a half-drawn curtain. You grin. Found him.

Kim Seungmin.

The reason you have six tattoos—and the reason you keep coming back for more.

You strut past the front desk like you own the place, setting down your tray of iced americanos and pastries with the confidence of someone deeply annoying. Your seventh session. Four healed pieces, one still peeling, and the newest one inked just last month. And of all the artists here, you keep picking the same one. On purpose.

Seungmin doesn’t look up at first. He’s sketching something at his desk—lined in ruler-straight precision, every pen stroke exact, no wasted ink. Hair slightly tousled. Sleeves rolled. Black gloves already on like he’s been prepping to ruin someone’s day.

He finally lifts his eyes—and groans.

“Why are you here again?”

“Hi to you too, sunshine,” you chirp, sipping your iced coffee with maximum slurp.

“I told Felix to screen your bookings.”

“I bribed him with matcha cake. Also, he says hi.” You swing the drink tray toward him with flair. “Got you your usual. Thought you could use the energy. You looked a little pale last time.”

He stares. “You’re lucky I don’t stab clients.”

“You already do,” you smile sweetly, plopping into the client chair. “It’s called tattooing.”

You met him through Felix, of course—NO SAINT INK’s glittery menace and certified piercing god. You came in on a whim two years ago for a constellation of helix piercings and left with a phone background of Felix’s stupid peace sign and a mouth full of swear words after he showed you Seungmin’s tattoo portfolio. Clean lines. Razor-sharp contrast. Occasional anatomical sketches paired with poetry in tiny, deliberate script.

When you told Felix you wanted something specific for your first tattoo—a geometric wolf across your ribcage—he nodded once and said, “Seungmin’s your guy.”

You’ve hated him ever since.

He’s impossible. Quiet, dry, sarcastic in a way that feels like a dare. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t smile. He just tattoos like he’s building something permanent—measured, focused, untouchable. But when you’re the one under his needle? His fingers linger a little too long on your waist. His voice drops when he tells you to hold still. And you—being the insufferable brat you are—live to poke at the ice until it cracks.

Which is why you’re here today. For tattoo number seven.

From him. Again.

“Let me guess,” he says, sipping the coffee despite himself. “Some half-baked Pinterest inspo you expect me to redesign overnight?”

“I’m hurt,” you pout dramatically. “I actually brought a reference this time. Plus, I figured you missed me.”

“I miss peace and quiet.”

“Then why’d you pick a career where girls beg to get pinned under you?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just says, “Get on the table before I change my mind.”

You smirk. There it is. That little twitch in his jaw. That flick of his tongue against the inside of his cheek when you say something just annoying enough to rattle the cage.

You pull out your sketch. “I want it here,” you say, lifting your shirt to gesture just below your sternum, to the space between your breasts and your ribs. “Delicate linework. Abstract. Your specialty.”

Seungmin stares. Then sighs. “You do realize I’ll have to touch you for placement.”

“Oh no,” you gasp, faux-innocent. “That would be terrible.”

He drops the clipboard with a snap.

“You’re unbearable.”

“You’re obsessed.”

Seungmin mutters something under his breath—probably a curse, probably in two languages—as he snatches your sketch and jerks his head toward the back hallway.

You follow with a smug little skip in your step.

The private rooms at NO SAINT INK are all artist-personalized. Seungmin's? It’s all dark wood, clean steel, framed minimalist pieces, and surgical-grade tidiness.

Cedar diffuses from a sleek black humidifier in the corner. The light is warm-toned and angled perfectly. His iPad sits on a tidy desk, stylus already beside it like it was placed there with a ruler. And on the windowsill—three succulents. Perfectly spaced. You teased him about it once and he deadpan replied, “One for every time you’ve wasted my time.”

He drops your paper sketch on his desk and sits, spinning the iPad toward him with a sigh. “You’ve got five minutes to explain what the hell this is.”

You plop down in the rolling stool beside him, leaning your chin on your hand. “It’s art. Use your imagination.”

He gives you a long, deeply unimpressed look.

“Fine,” you huff. “It’s… inspired by sacred geometry. Like a mandala, but cracked open. Fragmented. I want it to feel like breaking and healing at the same time. Like symmetry trying to reassemble itself.”

Seungmin blinks. Then blinks again.

“…You pulled that out of your ass just now.”

“I did not.”

“Did too.”

“Seungmin.”

He groans and starts sketching.

You watch, quiet now—because this is the part you actually love. The way his fingers move when he draws. Controlled, calculated. Not robotic. Not sterile. There’s warmth there, if you know where to look. And you do.

He sips the coffee you brought like it’s medicine. Then grabs a croissant and bites it with grim resolve, like chewing it too quickly might register as gratitude.

“I still think you bribed Felix with blackmail.”

“He was emotionally weak. I seized the moment.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re drawing me the prettiest trauma-symbol I’ve ever seen, so who really wins here?”

He doesn’t answer. But his pen slows. His strokes get sharper. He’s in his element now. You recognize the shift—the way he leans in closer to the iPad, slightly squints, drags his stylus with deliberate precision.

The design blooms under his hand: a fractured mandala, circular symmetry interrupted by jagged arcs and broken segments. Clean dotwork in the center, a few splashes of abstract floral curls breaking out near the bottom edge. Like order blooming from chaos. Like something whole again.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper, stunned. “That’s perfect.”

“I know.”

“Arrogant.”

“You begged me for it.”

“I said please once and you moaned like I kicked your dog.”

He flicks his eyes to you, slow. “Say please again.”

You blink.

Then smirk. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

But he’s already reaching for the print button.

“Let’s stencil this,” he says coolly, rising from his chair and heading towards the printer to print the design out. “I’d like to be rid of you before sundown.”

“Careful,” you say, trailing him out of the room. “One day you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“Promise?”

“Never.”

While he is busy with the printer, you kick your shoes off and climb onto the bed like it’s yours.

Technically, it’s a client bench. Adjustable, padded, wrapped in fresh black vinyl. But in your mind? It’s a throne. A stage. A perfect little altar for the games you play with Kim Seungmin.

You wiggle into place, tugging your top over your head in one smooth motion. You’re down to your bralette now—delicate black lace with scalloped trim, something clearly chosen on purpose. Not slutty. Not overt. But just enough to see Seungmin’s jaw tighten when he walks back in.

He’s still fiddling with the stencil printer—cutting the sheet, prepping it with solution. Focused. Professional. Cold, as ever.

You lounge, arms folded behind your head, watching him from the bed like you’re sunbathing and he’s just lucky to be in your light.

“You gonna stare the whole time?” he murmurs without looking up.

“Am I bothering you?”

“Always.”

You grin.

Just then—click—the door swings open, and Felix’s voice rings through the room.

“Hey, demon duo—just letting you know I’m locking up soon. Jisung dipped early, and Chan-hyung’s out all day, so it’s just you two in the studio for the rest of the afternoon.” He wiggles his brows. “Try not to kill each other. Or fuck. Or both.”

Seungmin doesn’t look up. “Go away, Felix.”

“Don’t be rude. I brought you into this world.”

“I was here first.”

“Emotionally? Never.” Felix flicks his brows toward you. “Good luck, baby girl. If he’s mean, just call me and I’ll stab his tires.”

You salute him. “Noted. Drive safe.”

With a wink, Felix is gone. The click of the studio door locking behind him feels final. Loud.

Seungmin exhales slowly. Then turns.

You’re still lying there on the bed, head propped, shirt discarded, body sprawled like a damn invitation.

His gaze flickers once. Down. Then away. Then back again, like it physically pains him to give you that much attention.

He lifts the stencil paper, holds it up to the light. “You know this placement is gonna be tricky.”

“Delicate linework on soft skin,” you echo sweetly. “Your specialty.”

He levels you with a look. Flat. Dangerous. Amused.

“…You’re going to be impossible today.”

“I’m always impossible.”

“No,” he says, slipping on gloves with a soft snap, “today it’s worse. Today you want something.”

You blink, feigning wide-eyed innocence. “Me? Never.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, stencil sheet in one hand, alcohol wipe in the other.

“Sit up,” he says, voice low. Commanding. “And lift your arms. I need a clean canvas.”

You obey—grinning like a menace—arms up, ribs exposed, breath catching slightly as the cold wipe grazes under the swell of your breast. He’s careful. Professional. Completely murderous about it.

The tension is a wire, pulled tight between you.

He smooths the stencil paper across your skin, presses down, then peels it back slowly, eyes trained on the imprint left behind.

It’s beautiful.

Nestled between your ribs, spanning just above your solar plexus: the fractured mandala blooms in fine linework, cracked yet radiant. His style. His hand. His art.

And now—it’s on you.

Seungmin looks at it for a beat too long.

Then: “Lie back.”

You do.

He adjusts the overhead lamp. Tilts your chin slightly. Brushes a single finger along your sternum, just below the stencil line.

You shiver.

He smirks.

“Try not to squirm this time,” he says. “You’ll fuck up the symmetry.”

Finally, Seungmin moves again. Gloves snap into place—tight, black latex stretched over knuckles and the fine lines of his fingers. You watch him through lowered lashes as he pours ink into the caps—his shade of black. You’ve learned that by now. Not too warm. Not too blue. Just sharp enough to slice through skin and stay.

The hum of the machine starts soft. Like a warning. Like a purr with teeth.

He looks at you once.

Just once.

And you know he’s not going to go easy.

“You good?” he asks, voice flat.

You nod, smug. “You always ask like you care.”

“I do care,” he mutters, tilting your chin again with a gloved hand. “Would be a shame if my art got fucked up because someone couldn’t keep still.”

Your eyes narrow. “Someone?”

He dips the needle, tests the line on a pad, and leans forward—right into your space. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“You.”

You roll your eyes and shift slightly, arms up, chest rising.

“God, you’re such a dick.”

His smirk could slice bone.

“And you’re still here. What does that say about you?”

You go to reply—but the first sting of the needle hits, and the breath punches from your lungs.

“F-fuck—!”

“Oh?” Seungmin says innocently, hand steady as he traces the mandala’s outer ring. “Is it too much already?”

You grit your teeth, exhale through your nose.

“No. Just... colder than I remembered.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you. Like he knows what you’re really reacting to.

The first lines burn clean and sharp—stretching out beneath your skin, each pass as exact as a scalpel. Seungmin works in slow, confident strokes, one hand guiding your body where he needs it.

His fingers splay across your ribcage for tension. Firm. Possessive. Cruel.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just tattoos. Focused. Controlled.

But then—

“You know,” he murmurs, “most people don’t come back after their first rib piece.”

You hiss, fingers curling into the vinyl under you. “Most people don’t have your charming personality to keep them coming.”

He chuckles. Actually chuckles. Which should be illegal.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” he says.

The needle lifts for a second. He wipes gently with a cloth—soft at first, then firm, dragging over raw skin like he’s making a point.

You arch just slightly into his touch.

“I’m getting off on annoying you,” you counter, breath shaky.

His next line is faster. Harsher. He presses your side firmly, keeping you in place.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, low against your neck. “Then try really hard not to flinch right here.”

You flinch.

He clicks his tongue. “You’re so fucking bad at taking orders.”

“And you’re so—”

The machine stops.

He raises a brow. Wipes again. Slow this time.

“I’m so what?”

You glance down. Past his gloved hand on your ribs. Past the half-finished mandala. Past the slight smear of ink on your sternum.

You swallow.

“…focused.”

He smirks. Dangerous. “Damn right.”

And then he leans in—his next line beginning right where your breath catches worst. Right under your breast. Right on the spot where your heartbeat flutters like it’s begging him to notice.

You think he does.

Because his voice dips—deeper, smugger.

“Still think I missed you?”

You bite your lip.

Lying here. Under his hands. Wrapped in tension and black ink and the sharp, brutal pressure of a boy who tattoos like he’s angry at your skin for hiding itself from him—

You can’t lie.

Not to Seungmin.

“…yeah,” you say quietly.

His eyes flick up when you say it.

Yeah.

One syllable, quiet as breath, but loaded—the way confession always is. He doesn’t reply, not out loud. But the corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smirk. Something more dangerous. Something knowing.

He tilts your body slightly to one side, guiding you into the perfect angle, and you let him. Of course you let him.

“Still breathing okay?” he murmurs, even though he knows damn well what your breathing sounds like right now—shallow, choked, tight.

“Mhm,” you manage.

He presses back down with the needle. His strokes are smoother now, filling in the fractured petals of the mandala. He works just beneath the undercurve of your breast, just along the swell of sensitive skin—close enough to tease, close enough to make you ache.

You twitch. Barely. But enough.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t have to.

Because when he lifts the needle to switch angles, he uses his other hand to press firmly along your waist, holding you in place. His fingers curl just slightly into your side. Possessive. Grounding. A little cruel.

You shudder.

“Still can’t take orders,” he mutters.

You glare. “Still a fucking sadist.”

He hums. “Takes one to keep coming back.”

That earns him a punch to the shoulder—gentle, a flick of your knuckles—but he’s already grinning as he dips the needle again.

Your skin burns.

And still—still—you want him closer.

The ink trails down now, toward the bottom of the design. He’s practically tattooing over your stomach, your diaphragm pulsing with every breath. He’s leaning in lower too—head bent, nose just inches from your sternum. If he angled left, he’d be mouth-to-skin. If you arched just slightly, you’d be brushing right into him.

The tension hums in the air—hot, oppressive, close.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low again. This time it’s not mocking. It’s… loaded.

You nod once. “Are you?”

He glances up.

“Been better,” he mutters. Then, deliberate: “You squirm too much.”

You lift your eyes to his—taunting, daring. “You tattoo too slow.”

That gets you a sharp tap against your side.

“Careful.”

“Make me.”

The machine goes quiet.

You blink.

Seungmin sits back, gaze steady. Gloved fingers still resting against your stomach.

“You always this mouthy when someone’s on top of you?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

Your heart stutters.

You open your mouth—then close it.

He watches you for a second longer—until you shift just slightly under his stare. And only then does he lean back in, restart the machine, and murmur:

“Thought so.”

The final line burns sweeter than the rest.

Your breath hitches again—not from the pain, not really. You’ve gotten used to the sting. You chase it now. Crave it. Especially when it’s from him.

Seungmin finishes with a few last passes, the machine humming low and steady, until finally—he stops.

The silence after feels too quiet.

You blink up at the ceiling. It’s over. And suddenly your whole body is aware of how tense it’s been—your spine bowed slightly, your legs tight, your hands fisted in the sheets beneath you like you’ve been trying not to moan the whole time.

(You kind of have.)

He switches the machine off. The room exhales.

You stay lying down for a beat too long.

Then you hear the snap of his gloves being pulled off. The rustle of the rolling stool as he pushes back. The low clink of metal—his tools being set aside, wiped, lined up again with military precision. He always cleans up like he’s scrubbing evidence.

You sit up slowly, your ribs feel warm, raw—but not in a bad way.

He’s already tossed the gloves into the bin and is reaching for the mirror. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, biting your lip as you peek down.

The mandala gleams—inky black and flawless, nestled beneath the swell of your breasts like it belongs there.

Your breath catches.

“…fuck,” you whisper.

Seungmin glances over.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

You shoot him a look. “Cocky much?”

He shrugs, reaching for his disinfectant spray like it’s nothing. “Not my fault I’m better than everyone else.”

You laugh—quiet, low, still slightly winded. “I should stop feeding your ego.”

“You should stop showing up half-naked and asking me to touch you for two hours.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t even blink.

You’re perched on the edge of the bed now, ribcage still bare. And he’s standing barely a foot away, still wiping his tools, still calm—but his jaw is tight again. His fingers grip the disinfectant bottle like he’s trying to decide whether to clean your table or ruin your day.

The air shifts.

Slowly, you stand—stepping forward. His eyes flick downward. Just once. Then he meets your gaze.

“…Seungmin.”

He raises a brow.

You step closer. Bold. A little breathless. “You never said thank you.”

He tilts his head. “For what?”

“The coffee. The pastries. My continued emotional support and aesthetic contribution to your client portfolio.”

He snorts. “Oh, right. How could I forget.”

“You could show some gratitude,” you say, smile growing. “Like, I dunno…”

A beat.

You lean in.

“…a kiss, maybe?”

He stares at you—flat, unreadable.

Then, finally, finally—his hands stop moving. The rag drops from his fingers. His jaw twitches once.

And he says, voice low: “Lay back down first.”

Your breath stops. “W-What—”

“For the aftercare,” he says—completely serious. But his eyes are glinting, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners. “Unless you want it to get infected.”

You huff, but you obey—because of course you do.

You lie back down, ribs lifting with every inhale, the crisp air of the studio brushing across your skin. Seungmin moves slowly—methodical, precise. He reaches for the healing balm and the bandage roll with the same focus he uses when prepping a tattoo needle.

And then—

Then he steps into your space again.

You feel his gaze before his hands. That lingering look, dragging from the ink across your sternum to the fine lace of your bra. To the soft dip between your breasts. You’re not stupid—you know how you look. You know how he’s looking.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Just kneels beside you on the tattoo bed, bracing one arm by your head, and starts applying the balm.

It’s… soft. Softer than it should be.

His gloved fingers glide gently across your skin, cool gel easing the sting of the fresh lines, but what you feel isn’t clinical. It’s heat. A low, blooming throb of something far more dangerous. Especially when his thumb grazes the edge of your bra. Not on purpose, not exactly—but he doesn’t move it away either.

You exhale. Carefully. Slowly.

His voice comes quieter this time, rough around the edges.

“You really wore this just to fuck with me, didn’t you?”

You blink up at him. “Excuse me?”

“This,” he murmurs, brushing the bandage wrapper open, eyes never leaving yours. “The lace. The black. The fact that it’s barely covering anything while I have to touch you like a fucking monk.”

You smirk. “What, don’t like being teased?”

His eyes narrow. “You’re not teasing.”

“No?”

“You’re begging.”

Your stomach flips.

He leans down slightly. Applies the bandage. His fingers skim the top edge of your sternum, then press lightly under your breast to make it stick. You jolt a little—not enough to be a flinch, but just enough for him to notice.

His lips twitch. “Thought so.”

You swallow.

“You could’ve said something,” you murmur.

“I did,” he says. “When I told you to stop showing up half-naked and flirty like I wouldn’t do anything about it.”

“And yet—” you gesture around, breathless, “—you haven’t.”

He finishes pressing the bandage into place. Carefully. Slowly. But his eyes—his eyes are anything but.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says softly.

And then he leans in. Close. Close enough that his breath grazes your cheek, close enough that the heat of his body curls over yours like smoke.

“I’m just not done punishing you yet.”

You barely have time to gasp.

Because his hands are suddenly on your waist, fingers splayed wide, warm. He leans over you, lips brushing your ear as he speaks, voice like smoke curling from a lit match.

“You really think I’d let you keep pushing me forever?” he murmurs, his tone dark velvet, laced with something wicked. “Waltzing in here every time with that mouth—wearing shit like this—knowing damn well I’d eventually snap.”

You can’t speak.

Not with the way his hand is sliding up—up—fingertips skating the edge of your ribcage, the outline of your bra, the warm silk of your skin. Every inch he touches makes your back arch, breath stutter, pulse thunder.

“I—I didn’t—” you start.

“You did.” He cuts you off with a growl of a whisper, lips ghosting just beneath your jaw. “You knew exactly what you were doing. And you knew exactly who you were doing it to.”

His hand finds the clasp of your bra—flicks it once, expertly. Loose. Deliberate.

Lace falls.

You whimper.

He exhales sharply through his nose—his palm sliding up to cup you fully, thumb brushing across a nipple already sensitive from all that adrenaline and ink and restraint. The tension coils tighter—like it’s been waiting weeks to snap.

“You’ve been needing this,” he mutters against your skin. “Coming in again and again—acting like a brat. Begging for attention. Flashing me those looks like I wouldn’t fuck you into the goddamn wall the second I got the chance.”

A pause.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, mouthing down your throat, sucking once—hard. “You wanna be my canvas off-hours too?”

You nod. Frantic. Breathless. Your fingers clutch at the hem of his shirt, tugging, anchoring, pleading.

“Say it.”

“I wanted you,” you pant. “I want you. I’ve always—fuck—Seungmin—”

He snarls.

And that’s it.

His mouth finds your breast with zero pretense, tongue hot and teeth grazing—biting, not cruel, but enough to leave a mark. His other hand slides down, past your waistband, finding the thin lace of your underwear—

Already soaked.

You feel him smirk against your skin.

“Such a fucking mess,” he growls. “You come from the needle or from me?”

You writhe.

“Seungmin—”

“Yeah?” His fingers slip beneath the lace. “Lie to me again. See what happens.”

And then—

Then he presses in. Two fingers, all at once, knowing exactly where and how to touch you. Because he’s studied you. Memorized you. Sketched you in his mind over six tattoos and hours of tension, and now he finally gets to wreck you.

His fingers curl.

You break.

Your head falls back. Your thighs tremble. He’s still got one arm braced next to your head, and the other is fucking you open while his mouth maps every inch of your chest like it’s sacred.

“You’re mine now,” he mutters into your skin. “You wanted this? You earned this. So take it.”

You moan—high, wrecked, nearly slurred. His fingers don’t relent. Curling deep. Unforgiving. He’s fucking you with them like he’s trying to carve his name inside you, and maybe he is.

But just when it starts to crest—when you feel it, the rush, the crash, the electric burn starting in your spine—

He stops.

You jolt. “No—!”

He pulls out slow. Cruel. Slick fingers dragging free. You clench around nothing, hips chasing him, tears prickling your lashes.

He tsks.

“Thought you were smarter than that.”

You blink, dazed. “Wh-What—?”

“You think you get to cum already?” He leans down, lips brushing your ear again. “After walking in here like that? After tormenting me for months?”

His hand finds your throat—light pressure, just enough to pin you back against the vinyl bed. Your mouth falls open. Instinct.

“I spent hours sketching that design,” he whispers. “Tattooed it on your fucking ribs. You came in here dripping and smug and bratty. And you think you get to finish first?”

You whimper.

He lets go.

“Get on your knees.”

You blink. “W-What?”

“You heard me.”

He stands, undoing his belt in one smooth motion—his eyes never leaving yours. You follow his gaze down, down, as he pushes his jeans low and his boxers lower, cock flushed and leaking and so fucking hard.

You drop to your knees, onto the soft rug in his private studio, beneath the overhead lamp and the echo of the bed creaking behind you.

“Open,” he says tapping the tip of his cock against your pretty lips.

You blink up at him, lips parted, brain still catching up to the command. Seungmin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t repeat himself—he just stares down, eyes half-lidded, cock heavy in his hand, tapping the head once more—twice—against your bottom lip like a test.

You obey.

Mouth open. Knees aching. Head swimming.

"Good," he murmurs, voice like low thunder.

One hand tangles in your hair—possessive—guiding, not forcing. His hips roll forward, slow and controlled, and the first brush of him on your tongue makes you whimper. Your thighs press together instinctively.

Because he tastes like every fantasy you’ve denied yourself. And he’s watching you the whole time—jaw tight, chest rising, his gaze flicking between your mouth and your eyes like he's trying to brand the moment into memory.

“You always run your mouth,” he mutters, stroking your cheek with his thumb as you take him deeper, “but you’re so fucking quiet now, huh?”

You hum around him, tongue flattening, jaw straining, eyes locked on his like it’s the only anchor you have. He groans—quiet, raw, like it slips out before he can stop it.

Your hands steady on his thighs, you suck deeper. Hollow your cheeks. Let him feel everything.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You really—shit—you’re good at this, huh?”

You moan, just to be a brat. The vibration makes him jerk.

His fingers twitch in your hair. The other hand finds the back of your neck, thumb pressed right where your pulse jumps.

“Greedy,” he mutters, breath stuttering as you pull back slow—spit-slick, lips flushed—then take his cock again, deeper this time, choking a little and loving it. “You want all of it, don’t you?”

You blink up at him, teary-eyed and burning, and nod.

And that’s all it takes.

His grip tightens. His hips roll. Controlled at first, almost gentle—but the moment you relax your throat and let him in further, something cracks.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The next thrust punches straight down your throat.

You choke—once, loud and messy—but you don’t pull away.

You don’t dare.

Not when Seungmin’s hand tightens in your hair like a leash. Not when his cock sinks deep, hot and throbbing and slick with your spit. Not when his groan scrapes straight from his chest, raw and filthy, as he watches your throat swallow around him.

“Fuck—” he snarls, voice strained. “You were made for this. Look at you.”

You try—your eyes flicking up through the blur of tears, spit dripping from your lips, mascara smudged beneath your lashes. You can barely see, but you feel everything—his fingers curled at the base of your skull, his cock throbbing on your tongue, the harsh stretch of your jaw.

“You’re a fucking mess,” he pants. “Spit everywhere—shit—drooling on me.”

You are—slick and soaked, saliva trailing from the corners of your mouth to your chin, coating his cock in glistening sheen. You gag again when he presses deeper, but he doesn’t let up.

“Take it,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Take it. You fucking wanted this.”

He rolls his hips again—harder this time. Meaner. The tip of his cock bruises the back of your throat, and you sob around it, spit bubbling at the seams.

Seungmin hisses. “Yeah. That’s it.”

His hand tilts your head—just slightly—enough for him to watch you from above. “Look at you. Fucking crying for it.”

You blink up, lashes clumped and wet, mouth stretched open and obscene.

“Don’t stop,” he growls. “Wanna see you ruined.”

He fucks into your mouth like it’s a punishment. Like every gag, every wet choke is a penance you owe for teasing him for months. For bratty texts. For lace bralettes and stolen glances. For every look that said take me without saying a word.

Your throat tightens—and he moans.

“God—your throat—shit, I can feel it. Fucking clenching like your pussy would.”

You twitch.

He laughs—low and cruel. “What, you liked that? Want me to fuck both ends until you can’t walk or talk?”

You whimper around him. Loud.

Precum spills onto your tongue—hot and bitter—and he curses. Your hands claw at his hips, digging for purchase as he starts to lose it—thrusts jerking harder, messier. Your throat is raw, face soaked, and still—still—you stay open for him.

His voice shatters through your haze, ragged and mean.

“You look fucking perfect like this. Broken. Beautiful. Mine.”

One more thrust. Deep. Sharp.

You gag—again. Loud.

And Seungmin snaps. He jerks back suddenly—his cock pulling free with a slick pop, strings of spit connecting you still. You gasp—cough—spit dripping from your tongue.

“Open wider,” Seungmin rasps.

You do. Tongue out. Strings of drool glistening in the studio light. He grabs his cock—slick, flushed, twitching—and strokes once, twice—then spits. Right into your mouth. Then again. Then again.

You moan. Loud. Shameless.

“Filthy little thing,” he pants. “Look at you. Covered in spit and tears and fucking loving it.”

You nod. Once. Hard.

He leans down, cupping your jaw—thumb swiping through the mess on your chin, dragging it across your lips like warpaint. Seungmin's eyes watch you for a beat longer until he finally helps you up onto your feet.

You gasp, legs wobbling, mouth still slick and open as he turns you around and places a hand between your shoulder blades, coaxing you down on the bench.

“Hands flat,” he orders.

You obey.

He kicks your legs apart with his knee—rough. You gasp. Then moan, throat raw and spit-slick, head swimming from the sudden repositioning. His hands working quick, pulling down your pants and panties in one go. Seungmin hums in satisfaction at the sight of your wet cunt dripping. Fucking dripping.

“Better,” he mutters. “Stay like that.”

You squirm—but not far. Not really. Just enough to test him.

He growls.

And then—CRACK.

His hand lands sharp across your ass, a loud sting that echoes through the studio like an accusation.

You cry out.

“Still a brat,” he mutters. “Still fucking pushing me.”

His hands drag down—gripping your hips, pulling your ass back against him like he’s lining up a weapon.

“You think I won’t fuck you right here? Bent over the same bench I tattooed you on?” he says low, cruel. “You think I won’t use you just like this—all messy, full of spit, dripping down your thighs like a fucking reward?”

You whimper. “Then do it.”

A beat.

And then—he does.

He thrusts in all at once—deep, unforgiving, stretching you full in a single brutal push that knocks the air clean from your lungs. The bench creaks. Your nails scrape against the vinyl. You’re already soaked, still fluttering from his fingers.

Now you’re split open around him.

“Fuck—” he hisses. “Tight little thing—gripping me like you were made for this.”

You were. You want to scream it. But all that comes out is a cracked moan, spine arching as he pulls back—

Then slams in again.

Hard.

Rhythmic.

Cruel.

The bench jerks with every thrust. His hips slap into your ass, cock punching deep and devastating with every motion. The angle hits something brutal—low, mean, a spot that makes your vision spark.

“Louder,” he growls. “Wanna hear you.”

You whine—broken, gasping, drooling against the bench.

He leans over you now—chest to your back, breath in your ear, one hand fisted in your hair while the other snakes under your stomach to lift your hips just right.

His cock drags so deep, your thighs shake from the pressure, and the stretch is perfect—like he’s carving himself into you on purpose.

“This pussy’s been waiting for me,” he mutters, voice guttural. “So fucking wet—so ready to be used.”

You cry out as he pounds harder—faster—gripping your hips with both hands now, dragging you back onto his cock with every brutal snap of his waist.

“You hear that?” he pants.

Slap slap slap. Wet. Filthy. Perfect.

“That’s you,” he growls. “Fucking dripping down my cock—making a mess all over my bench like a desperate little toy.”

You moan—loud. The vinyl squeaks beneath you. Your toes curl, your back arches—and you know it’s close. That heat low in your stomach coiling tight.

“Wanna cum?” he grunts, snapping his hips even harder. “Gonna let me make you cum on my cock this time?”

You nod frantically. “Please—please, Seungmin—”

“Beg properly.”

“I need it—I need you—I’m gonna—fuck—please—!”

He slams in one final time—

And you break.

You cum hard—clenching around him, gasping his name like a prayer, back bowed and thighs trembling, your body nothing but nerve endings and his. It hits like lightning—violent, hot, devastating.

Seungmin moans through his teeth.

“God—fuck—you feel so good when you cum—” he grits, voice cracking with restraint. “So tight, so—shit—don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop squeezing me like that—”

He doesn’t slow. Not even a little. Seungmin just keeps going—thrusts deeper, harder, dragging your spent cunt right through the sensitivity like he wants to fuck you into a second orgasm.

You whine. Loud. High-pitched. Borderline sobbing.

“Too much—” you gasp, but your body says otherwise—clenching, fluttering, soaking him.

He groans, hips snapping into you again.

“I know,” he pants, voice wrecked. “I know it’s too much—but you’re taking it anyway, aren’t you?”

You nod. Shaking. Barely holding yourself upright over the bench as his cock slams into your soaked pussy again, again, again.

“You look so fucking wrecked,” he snarls. “Bent over this bench, fucked-out and dripping—mine.”

“Yours,” you echo—half-breath, half-moan. “Yours, Seungmin, fuck—!”

And that—

That does it.

He growls, deep in his chest, and thrusts one final time, burying himself to the fucking hilt—and you feel it.

His cock jerks once. Twice. Then—heat. Hot, thick, flooding you.

Seungmin’s cum spills inside you in brutal waves, pulse after pulse, spilling past your already-fucked entrance, dripping down your thighs with every twitch of his hips.

He groans—loud, broken—grinding in deeper as his release coats your insides.

You both stay like that for a beat.

Panting. Shaking. Silent except for the slow drip of your combined mess hitting the studio floor. His hands are still on your hips, fingers bruising, cock still buried deep inside you like he can’t bear to pull out just yet.

Finally—

“…fuck,” he mutters. “Look what you do to me.”

You whimper. “You started it.”

He smirks. Breathless. Still inside you.

“You came first,” he says, voice hoarse. “That makes it your fault.”

You roll your eyes. Weakly. Legs trembling.

But when he finally pulls out—slow, careful—you both groan at the mess. His cum leaks from you instantly, hot and obscene, slicking down your thighs in thick globs.

Seungmin watches. Just watches. Then hums.

“Pretty,” he says quietly. “All ruined. Just like I wanted.”

You’re bent over the ink bench, gasping. Barely conscious of your own limbs. There’s cum dripping down your thighs, breath fogging the vinyl, your body throbbing in time with your pulse.

And behind you—

Seungmin exhales. Low. Spent. Quiet.

Then: zip.

The sound of his jeans being pulled back up, the belt loosely fastened with one hand as the other brushes through his hair. You hear it—the shift. The snap back to reality. To composure. To Seungmin-afterglow, where all that bite turns to balm.

You expect him to vanish, to go grab wipes or complain about the mess—

Instead, you feel his hands. Gentle. Soft on your waist. Carefully guiding.

He straightens you. Not rough. Not impatient. Just… careful. Like you’re something fragile now.

You blink as he eases you to sit on the edge of the bench again, his hands steady on your hips until your legs stop shaking.

“Still with me?” he murmurs.

You nod. Slowly. “Barely.”

He huffs a breath of a laugh—tired, wrecked, softer than before.

Then he brushes sweaty strands of hair from your forehead and mutters, “Good girl.”

You melt. Right there. Ruined part two.

He disappears for a moment—only to return with a full box of wipes, a towel, and a silver water bottle you know is his personal one.

“Open,” he says gently, uncapping it and holding it to your lips.

You sip.

He waits. Watches to make sure you don’t choke. Then: another sip. A wipe to your neck. Another for your thighs.

He doesn’t comment on the mess—doesn’t smirk, doesn’t tease. Just… cleans you.

Tender. Focused. A little too quiet.

He wipes the insides of your thighs slowly, scooping up the slick and cum and sweat and ink-tainted heat with barely-there touches. When you flinch, he pauses. When you shiver, he murmurs something under his breath you don’t quite catch—but you feel it. Like a balm.

“You’re doing fine,” he says eventually. “I’m almost done.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

That shuts you up.

Once he’s cleaned every inch of you he marked, he helps dress you up again, pants and panties up but then he grabs his spare hoodie—crumpled on the back of his chair—and slips it over your head with no warning.

It’s oversized. Smells like cedar and ink and him.

He tugs the hood over your messy hair, then pauses to kiss the top of your head.

And that’s what finally ruins you.

Your eyes sting. But you blink fast. No way you’re crying in this hoodie.

“…Seungmin?”

He hums.

“You okay?”

His gaze lifts to yours. Tired. Sweet. Still a little dazed. Another soft hum in response. And then he's back in motion. Efficient again. Packing up the mess, tossing used wipes, wiping down the vinyl. He moves like he needs something to do with his hands or he’ll grab you again.

Once the bench is clean, he turns to you—really turns.

And in a voice way too soft for someone who just fucked the breath out of you against workplace furniture: “Wanna come back to mine?”

You laugh—hoarse, soft, still ruined. “Like this?”

He smirks. “I have more hoodies.”

You blink up at him.

“…And strawberries?”

He smiles.

"And strawberries."

You end up at his place that night. Still wearing his hoodie. Still barely walking.

He gives you a fresh towel and the softest pair of sweatpants he owns, sets you in the bathtub like you’re made of porcelain, and kneels beside it the whole time—washing your hair with slow fingers and kissing your shoulder between rinses.

You eat strawberries straight from the bowl while wrapped in his towel. He lets you finish the last bite before tugging you onto his lap and kissing you breathless all over again.

No sex that night. Not because he doesn’t want to—But because he already has you.

And maybe, he just wants to hold what he’s wrecked.

He lets you fall asleep on his chest. Hoodie, thigh over his lap, lips parted against his collarbone. He doesn’t sleep. Just watches. Fingers curled around your wrist like a habit he never wants to break.

And the next morning? He wakes you up with coffee. And a second round (Messier than before.).

And ever since that day? You just… kept coming back. Not for tattoos, though that’s still a bonus. No—now you show up for him. Your boyfriend. Your soft-spoken menace. Your chaos control. Your personal ink-stained sadist.

You still strut into NO SAINT INK like you own it—drink tray in hand, smug little smirk on your face, eyes locked on the back room like a predator in love.

You still flirt just to watch him clench his jaw. Still wear lace under oversized hoodies and whisper “miss me?” every time you lean against his worktable.

He still rolls his eyes and mutters “unbearable” without looking up.

But when the clock hits closing time?

And everyone is gone. The lights dim. The blinds are drawn. The door locks with a click.

Seungmin doesn’t pretend.

He pulls you into the back with one hand around your neck and the other already working at your zipper. He lays you across the vinyl like it’s a fucking altar. And he fucks you like he’s trying to tattoo his name inside your soul.

You moan like you were made for it.

And when it’s over—when you’re sore and sticky and boneless all over again—

He picks you up. Wipes you down. And kisses your forehead like you hung the moon. A ritual really. Because from annoying menace client, you are now his favourite annoying menace girlfriend.

Who still pisses him off about random designs and bullies him into doing them. And he still ends up doing them for you, except they are ten times better and equipped with all the loving bullying just for you.

Just for his favourite menace girlfriend.

#stray kids #skz #skz x reader #skz smut #kim seungmin #seungmin x reader #seungmin smut #승민

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torpublishinggroup · 5 months ago

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"Interstellar Guide to the Planet Earth" by TJ Klune

By the end of this guide, you will have been given the tools in order to safely and carefully visit Earth. If you should have further questions, please see Glorbak the Destroyer of Worlds, who will be happy to answer any inquiries you may have.

Remember: Exploration is the key to survival!

1. You meant to travel to the HUMAN LAND OF DEARBORNE MICHIGAN, but because of the bending of space and time, you accidentally ended up in the dark place known as TALLAHASEE FLORIDA. Do not fret! Though Florida is considered an area where dreams go to die (also see THE HUMAN LAND OF TEXAS), there are many wonderful things to discover, such as bugs, humidity, reptiles and HUMANS called JESSICA who chew loudly while running a business called a NAIL SALON. This is used to sharpen the talons of humans, and to paint them different colors. Though not much is known about this tradition, it is thought that it grants powers to the HUMANS who visit this establishment.

2. Oh no! While exploring the HUMAN LAND OF NORTH YORKSHIRE ENGLAND, you happen to see a GREY disguised as a chimney sweep. As you are well aware, GREYS are an odious species whose entire way of life is built around anal probing. Though we have a treaty with the GREYS, it is important to remember that anal probing does not provide any scientific and/or medical knowledge. Given that the GREYS have the technology to do non-invasive full body scans, it’s unknown why they continue to proceed through the back entrance. If you come across a GREY preparing to do just that, please remind them that it is against RULE 5#$7^45J to proceed with anal probing without the expressed permission of the one being probed. Consent is important no matter what part of the universe you are in!

"Interstellar Guide to the Planet Earth" by TJ Klune

3. HUMAN HOLES. Though it may seem disgusting to an elevated species, HUMANS evolved to have multiple holes in their bodies. Do not be scared! These are imperative to their survival. We have already discussed one hole (the anus), but did you know that humans have several more? The most diabolical is the hole in the top parts of their bodies, otherwise known as a MOUTH. Inside the MOUTH is a wet piece of muscle surrounded by shards of bone that pierce through the flesh. This is, as far as we can tell, a “feeding hole”, the bones used to break up sustenance, and the muscle inside swirls it around. In addition, there are glands in the MOUTH HOLE that create lubrication. It is unknown if this lubricant is poisonous. If you should see a HUMAN leaking lubricant from its MOUTH HOLE, it is either a) hungry or b) getting ready to attack. One line of thought is that the lubrication allows HUMANS to breathe fire, though no evidence of this has been noted.

4. Most HUMANS have communication devices they carry around with them at all times. Interestingly, these devices seem to have an unintended consequence: not one of them could survive without it. If, on the off chance, you find yourself surrounded by a mob of HUMANS CARRYING TORCHES AND PITCHFORKS, tell them you are going to take their communication devices away. Most likely, they will crumble and dissolve into LEAKING LUBRICANT FROM THEIR EYE HOLES, begging you not to do what you said. Some have suggested that the HUMAN’S life forces are tethered to these devices, and if they are taken away, there is a chance the HUMANS will turn feral.

5. And finally, the most important: DO NOT ASK HUMANS WHO THEY VOTED FOR. On Earth, people “choose” their leaders on a special day filled with love and celebration and good feelings. However, the HUMANS elected are oft considered “really bad at their job” and “unable to speak in coherent sentences.” In a fascinating turn of events, the HUMANS appear to be rare creatures who are somewhat advanced, but also continually make terrible decisions just because they’re mad about certain things that have no basis in reality. If you do make the mistake of asking a HUMAN who they voted for, chances are you will be stuck in a conversation that will last as long as the life of a star. The only way to get out of said conversation is to announce you voted for the other leader running in the election. This will most likely incense the speaker to say things like, “DAMN YOU, YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT ANYTHING BUT YOURSELF” before leaving. Congratulations, you survived an encounter!

#Tor Books #Booklr #New books #Tbr #The Bones Beneath My Skin #TJ Klune #LGBTQ #Sci-fi #unreality #tw politics

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rainydetectiveglitter · 6 months ago

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Astro Notes

🌞 Sun in the 1H — The Sun finds its strength here (considered a "place of visibility"). You’re meant to be seen and recognized, and your life feels aligned when you’re expressing yourself boldly. Themes of leadership and self-realization dominate your journey—this is the chart of someone destined to carve their own path.

🌙 Moon in the 5H — The Moon rejoices in the 5th house, so this placement brings a natural affinity for creativity, pleasure, and children. Your emotional state thrives in spaces of joy and self-expression, but watch out for getting lost in indulgence or romantic idealism.

🗣 Mercury in the 12H — Mercury here suggests hidden or esoteric knowledge. This is the chart of someone with insights that go beyond the material world. Your speech and thoughts may feel isolated or introspective, but you’re gifted with a knack for unveiling truths hidden in plain sight. Potential for prophecy or dream work!

💖 Venus in the 2H — A placement tied to Aphrodite’s love for material beauty. Venus here blesses you with a natural allure and ability to attract wealth or possessions. Harmony in relationships may stem from shared values or building something tangible together.

🔥 Mars in the 8H — The eighth house signifies taboos, shared resources, and mortality, making this a fiery yet transformative placement. You face challenges head-on, especially in areas others shy away from. Battles over inheritance, intimate bonds, or spiritual power may define key parts of your story.

💫 Jupiter in the 10H — A classic "kingmaker" placement. Jupiter elevates your public life, granting you charisma and the ability to inspire. Benefic fortune arrives when you pursue roles of authority or influence aligned with your principles. Jupiter in the 10th can also signify divine protection over your reputation.

⏳ Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pallas in the 2H — A heavy emphasis on the 2nd house ties your material possessions to themes of duty (Saturn), disruption (Uranus), illusion (Neptune), and strategy (Pallas). You’re navigating the weight of what you own or value—learning to master a balance between control and letting go is crucial.

🕳 Pluto in the 12H — The 12th house governs things unseen—Pluto here is akin to Persephone's descent into the underworld. Deep, subconscious transformations may shape your life path. Spiritual growth occurs through surrender, forgiveness, and diving into your shadow self.

🌐 Chiron in the 9H — The 9th house deals with philosophy, travel, and belief systems. With Chiron here, you might struggle with your faith or find your worldview shaken by personal wounds. However, these experiences push you to share wisdom and inspire others on their own paths.

💍 Juno in the 8H — Relationships for you are not surface-level. Juno in the 8th craves deep, binding intimacy. Themes of merging and transformation play out in partnerships—this isn’t a placement for lighthearted romance. Think soul contracts over fleeting connections.

🔥 Vesta in the 1H — Vesta in the Ascendant makes you a keeper of the flame. There’s something sacred about your individuality and presence. You may dedicate much of your energy to self-discipline or perfecting your identity, often attracting those drawn to your purposeful aura.

🌀 Node in the 1H — Your destiny pulls you toward asserting independence and finding your voice. The past may tether you to partnerships or codependent tendencies, but growth lies in carving your own road.

🐍 Lilith in the 3H — The "dark goddess" in the house of communication shows a razor-sharp tongue and an unapologetically raw way of speaking. Themes of rebellion might arise in sibling relationships or education. Words become a tool of both power and seduction.

💰 Fortune in the 8H — True prosperity comes from transforming life’s challenges into opportunities. You might gain unexpected financial blessings or have a knack for finding luck in the darkest corners of life. This is an alchemist’s placement—your fortune thrives in rebirth.

#astrology #astro community #astro blog #astrologers #astronotes #astral #asteroids #astro observations #astro.com #birth chart #astro notes #astrology observations #placements #horoscope #ascendant #rising #astro seek #astro com

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sp4ceboo · 8 months ago

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As Selfish as Love: Merman!Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

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

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

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

wc: 19.8k

For years, all you’ve known is darkness.

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

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

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

This is something you will not allow.

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

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

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

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

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

There is nothing honourable about the way they treat you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A merman.

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

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

Or maybe that’s just blood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re leaving you alone with the merman.

“Wait,” you call.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You need to get up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are a witch, are you not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What - ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes blaze. “What do you want?”

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

“I do not want anything, Bakugou.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wince. “I’m sorr - ”

“He’s dead,” Bakugou growls.

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

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

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

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

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

“You have been here for years, then.”

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

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

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

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

He hums but other than that remains silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I - ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(“Bakugou, what’s your name?”

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

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

Pause. “Katsuki. It’s Katsuki.”)

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

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

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

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

He never speaks of it in the morning.

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

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

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

They fit each other, no doubt.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are they yours?” You blurt.

“Huh?”

“Your pod,” you clarify.

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

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

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

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

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

His pod didn’t stop at just renouncing him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a fucking coward you are.

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

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

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

“Kats,” you slur. “Watch… watch out…”

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

You’re too tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He cannot love you.

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

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

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

Just like that, you know what to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He loves you.

Bakugou Katsuki fucking loves you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just like that, he knows what to do.

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

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

This time, though, he is strong enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A tempest is brewing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He loves, and therefore he is selfish.

It is no bad thing.

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

“Bring me the witch,” he roars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Katsuki!” You scream.

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

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

The shadows close in again.

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

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

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

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

He is losing himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I - I lo - ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grin. “Worse?”

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

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

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

You lean forward and claim his lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You balance on a knife blade’s edge.

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

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

You cry out his name as you come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better than alright,” you confirm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles. “Caught you.”

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

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

“I love you, Bakugou Katsuki.”

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

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

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

You are his home.

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

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

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

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michaela-o · 6 months ago

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Hey ya all! Here's a thing i had in mind about how a tutorial written by decepticons on how to capture a human would look like :D

Enjoy!🧡✨️

Decepticon Recommendation: How to capture a human

Objective:

Humans are physically fragile but resourceful and quick to flee when threatened. A successful capture requires precision, intimidation, and a deep understanding of their weaknesses. The objective is to immobilize them efficiently while instilling fear, ensuring no damage that might render them unusable or dead unless necessary.

1. SCOUT AND ISOLATE THE TARGET

The first step in capturing a human is separating them from their support systems and escape routes.

• Identify solitude opportunities: Humans are most vulnerable when alone or in small groups. Wait until the target is isolated—walking in the dark, separated from a crowd or traveling in a vehicle through a remote area.

• Cut off communication: Humans rely heavily on their communication devices (phones, radios). Disable these devices first, either by emitting an electromagnetic pulse jamming their signal ir straight up crushing the device. With no way to call for help, their panic will increase.

• Block their escape routes: Humans are agile in confined spaces but slow in open terrain compared to a Cybertronian. Use the environment to your advantage by cornering them. Block off exits with your size, speed, or tools like energy barriers to force them into a limited area.

2. INSTILL FEAR AND CONFUSION

Humans respond predictably to fear. A frightened target is less coordinated and more likely to make mistakes.

• Make a show of power: Land heavily, crush nearby objects, or generate loud, reverberating sounds to assert your dominance. The more you appear as an unstoppable force, the quicker they will give up resistance.

• Use sudden movements: Humans are startled by abrupt changes in their environment. Appear out of nowhere, shift from stillness to speed instantly, or make sudden lunges to disorient them.

• Speak in a threatening manner: Use their language, but distort it to sound mechanical or predatory. Tell them what awaits if they resist, ensuring your tone conveys inevitability.

3. IMMOBILIZE THEM WITHOUT LETHALITY

Humans are painfully fragile. Overestimating their durability could render them unusable for sale or other purposes.

• Deploy restraints: Use non-lethal restraints like energy nets, magnetic tethers, or adhesive traps to immobilize them quickly. Avoid physical contact unless absolutely necessary, as their unpredictability can lead to unnecessary complications.

• Target mobility first: Humans heavily rely on their legs for escape. Immobilizing their lower body—through stunning their legs or pinning them to the ground—will neutralize their primary means of escape.

• Minimize struggle: If the human resists, use tools that apply pressure without causing harm. For instance, magnetic cuffs or a localized stasis field will incapacitate them without lasting damage.

5. ENSURE SECURE TRANSPORT

Once the human is captured, the transport phase is critical to ensure no escape attempts.

• Enclose the target: Humans are adept at exploiting even the smallest weaknesses in containment. Place them in an energy field, sealed pod, or reinforced cage to ensure they cannot interfere with your systems.

• Suppress movement: Even restrained humans can be disruptive. Induce a state of stasis by muzzling them, covering their helm or sedation to keep them docile during transport.

6. IF RESISTANCE PERSISTS

Should the human continue to resist, escalate your methods to assert dominance and ensure submission.

• Induce pain: Humans are highly sensitive to pain. A brief, non-lethal application of pressure or energy can quickly deter further resistance. For example, an electrical shock or tightening restraint will subdue most individuals.

• Make an example: If capturing multiple humans, ensure the others see the consequences of resistance. This will discourage further defiance.

• Break their will: Use psychological tactics such as threatening their loved ones or showing them the consequences of defiance through holographic projections or live displays of power.

KEY REMINDERS

• Avoid unnecessary damage: As stated above, dead or severely injured human is less useful for experimentation for they will last much less and are hard to sold on the black market for solid fortune.

• Control the narrative: Ensure the human understands their helplessness and that resistance will only lead to greater suffering.

"A human’s strength lies in their fragile belief in survival. Crush that belief, and their submission will follow." - decepticons

( lemme know if you would like me to make an Autobot version aswell !! :DD )

#transformers #transformers headcanons #transformers x reader #decepticons #tf idw #mtmte #idw #humans are space orcs #djd #djd x human reader #transformers idw #tf x human reader #tf x reader #yandere transformers #transformers mtmte #mtmte rodimus #mtmte drift #michaela o ramblings #michaela o writings

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blacksapphirecookies · 1 month ago

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ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪꜰᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴄᴇɪᴛ

ᴀɴᴏɴ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ : ʜɪɪ ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ! ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ (ᴘʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴀʙʟʏ) ᴅᴏ ʜᴄꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴍᴄ ɢꜰ ᴏʀ ᴡɪꜰᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀɴᴅʏ ᴀᴘᴘʟᴇ ᴄᴏᴏᴋɪᴇ + ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ꜱᴀᴘᴘʜɪʀᴇ ᴄᴏᴏᴋɪᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ ꜱᴇᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ? ɪᴛ ᴄᴀɴ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ʙᴇ ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ɴᴇᴜᴛʀᴀʟ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ɪᴅᴍ!

^᪲ ⁞ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ : ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ ᴍɪʟᴋ ᴄᴏᴏᴋɪᴇ / ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ : ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ

ᴏᴠᴇʀᴠɪᴇᴡ : ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ɴᴇᴜᴛʀᴀʟ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ( ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴛᴀɢ ᴡɪꜱᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ )

ᴀ / ɴ : ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʜᴏᴡ ɪ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ɪᴛ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ, ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴡᴀɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ. ʙᴇꜱɪᴅᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ꜰᴜɴ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ! ᴛʜᴀɴᴋꜱ, ᴀɴᴏɴ ! ^^ OH my god i wrote like a whole story instead of writing the headcanons. JUST SKIP TO THE NEXT DIVIDER TO SEE THE ACTUAL HEADCANONS CAUSE IM NOT REMOVING WHAT I WROTE

this is longer than what I wanted it to be and that's my fault 😭

I could really see Shadow Milk either having a significant other, in this case- being a spouse, they would match his energy completely or they'll act the complete opposite of him. It's not like it would matter though, he'll still be headover heels for you regardless on how you act because you're his!

The best way that I could imagine the Beast of Deceit having a spouse is from an arranged marriage that the witches did at the start of your creation.

He quite literally picked you from the start, having you at his side even before he wasn't corrupted and placed into that godforsaken tree.

Having the two of you together before your husband's eventual capture makes a bit more sense due to how he doesn't exactly have the best way with friendships / relationships with other cookies without them being for his own benefit.

You weren't some tool to be used or pawn to shift into position whenever he wanted when he came back to ' achieve ' you. You were his balance, his obsession, his tether.

While Shadow Milk Cookie was trapped inside of the Silver Tree with the other Beast Cookies as punishment, you were with him. Not in the literal sense though, just hidden within the Farie Kingdom and under a new identity ( cool right !? )

The witches, due to the fear of having to deal with another huge panic around the world they created, chose to ' kill ' you off, deeming that you were also involved in the massive destruction that was caused that faithful day.

Their main goal was to keep the two of you away from eachother completely, aware of what might happen if your husband were to somehow get back in contact with you. Though, it seemed like their plan failed considering that as the Silver Tree grew weaker, so were the bounds of his power.

With the arrival of White Lily Cookie, and later Pure Vanilla Cookie and his friends, it ended up becoming clear to you that the seal's power was beginning to fade slowly, allowing your husband to communicate with you. At first, this was though slight visions of blue eyes appearing in your visions whenever you stared out in the distance for too long.

The visions only seemed to get worse overtime, now being more solid than translucent like before.

You can still remember the absolute shock that your being felt when you were jumpscared by your husband's.. spirt? You couldn't tell at first due to how it would fade when you stared at him for too long.

You turned sharply, breathcatching as a figure emerged from the haze, vague and shimmering like a memory half-remembered. The faint glow of blue eyes pierced the gloom, steady and unblinking. " You're here, " you whispered, voice barely more than a breath. The figure stepped closer, the outline of Shadow Milk Cookie materializing through the lingering shadows. His form was still intangible, shifting at the edges like smoke caught in a draft, but his blue-toned eyes light filled the room with a quiet intensity that made your heartache. He didn't speak at first. Instead, he reached out, a ghostly blue hand hovering just inches from yours, trembling with the weight of centuries. The space between you was charged, taut like a wire stretched to breaking, but no matter the distance, you could feel the tether connecting you-fragile but unyielding. " You. . stayed. "

Oh, the joy Shadow Milk Cookie felt when he first interacted with you after his centuries of confinement-! You could feel it ripple across your very soul, like a tidal wave crashing through everything you'd built to survive his absence.

He didn't speak at first, most likely due to him not being completely sure about the new chance in his physical form.

No clever words. No honeyed lies. No deception.

When he did start speaking to you, however, the conversations between yall would last forever- with the two of you making up for lost time.

From this point on, it felt like the world around you two was disappearing. All of the worries of the world seemingly fade away into obscurity.

When your husband eventually escaped from the Silver Tree, with a new body and everything, he was quick to come to you.

I think he'll be the type to gossip about how HORRIBLE of an experience it was to be trapped in that wretched tree for eons on end to you. As well as have you extremely close to him while doing so.

Expect a lot of physical touch from this man.

Years without form, sensation, or closeness have made him a creature of touch. He'll constantly have a hand on you in some way-fingers brushing your arm, an arm around your waist, sitting so close he's basically in your lap.

Hell, he would even wrap you around in his strings and you wouldn't even mind.

He's extremely playful with you, this being shown by the constant amount of times he'll pull pranks on you. Shadow Milk is also heavy on making you stuff, usually being puppets or plushies of things you like.

If Shadow Milk was in a relationship, his love language would definitely be gift-giving.

He would first start by gifting you things small before spending hours making you something intricate when he finds you taking more interest in what he has in store for you.

Drawing random designs for costumes and writing scenes in his plays would also be a huge thing in this relationship of yours.

Since you are his wife, Shadow Milk doesn't mind spending a couple of hours within the Spire of Shadows, making a plushie of a cakehound that looks nearly identical for the real thing.

Speaking of the Spire of Shadows, the two of you would spend days on end just reading and analyzing books that you guys could never finish reading before his capture.

As much as he hates to admit it, this has to be the only part of him that seemed to stay with him after being deemed as a ' Beast Cookie '.

Don't get me wrong, he still kept his silliness and playfulness to a minimum when he was Blueberry Milk Cookie, but that has been bumped up to a ten.

Since he was trapped up in that tree for so long, he just can't stand to not have him with you for an extensive period of time.

Poor guy is just extremely touch-starved and that's something you don't mind fixing.

The amount of cuddling that you two endure in a single day with eachother is unprecedented.

Sometimes, Black Sapphire and Candy Apple Cookie will walk into Shadow Milk and you cuddle and just stare at them until they leave ( I'll get into their section in a second ).

If you aren't into cuddling that much, the two of you will just remain to holding hands and hugging often.

With Black Sapphire and Candy Apple Cookie, it’s safe to say that they were a bit confused when they first met you in person. It almost felt like Shadow Milk kept you a secret from them until they met you.

I like to imagine that Shadow Milk made Black Sapphire and Candy Apple his servants while he was still in the Silver Tree, doing so by corrousing them into coming near the tree and communicating to them at a distance.

So, when Shadow Milk goes and finds you within the Farie Kingdom while they were still technically living there, they were confused.

Especially Candy Apple Cookie.

She was absolutely livid when she first found out about your existance.

Her master randomly having some. . other cookie show up and take all of his wonderful and graceful attention away from her was a big no-no.

She made it her number one goal to avoid you at all cost and just envy you from the sidelines, gossiping about you with Black Sapphire whenever they were alone. Though, they did get caught once doing this by Shadow Milk Cookie, which led to some. . unconfidental punishments and rules being put in place.

Black Sapphire, on the other hand, was more accepting when the two of you first met. Yeah, he didn’t know you and what threat you could’ve potentially held for his boss, but he wasn’t sure if there was to begin with.

He had never seen Shadow Milk Cookie act this way towards anyone before and it almost felt unnatural for him.

Unlike how Candy Apple would avoid you, he would still communicate with you, being rather pleased to have a different personality around him besides ones that were just mainly consisting of chaos.

But, he’ll still keep the talking to a minimum, only communicating with you when he found appropriate.

Overtime, as the years went on with you four being located in the same spire, they eventually come to like you.

Candy Apple Cookie, as much as she hated it at first, actually began to bond with you on some stuff. I mean, you two both loved Shadow Milk Cookie, so that was a start, right?

Things between you and the apple-themed cookie only seemed to grow after she attempted to trick a group of cookies into going into the spire ( i wonder who ).

You were there for her when she had gotten herself beaten up, and you tended to her wounds without a care about how Candy Apple felt about you. This, and Shadow Milk's constant attempts to try and get her to act right around you, helped your ' friendship ' with her become less strained.

It would be a little weird for Candy Apple to still have a heavy crush on Shadow Milk while he has a wife, especially with her seeing his wife as a mother figure. So, I think that her being head over heels for him would eventually fade away or disappear completely, in respect for you two.

With you being her mother figure, this meant that Candy Apple Cookie no longer hides from you.

She's more talkative and playful around you, contrasting how she would act to you in the past.

It was odd to you at first, but you two would only talk about Shadow Milk Cookie when you two started talking.

Candy Apple would practically harass you into giving you more information about her boss, like you didn't know who he was like she did.

This kind of behavior from her did eventually fade away when she found out how serious the relationship you had with was.

Could see her pulling a bunch of pranks on other fairies back at the Faerie Kingdom together, laughing your butts off as they ran away confused and scared by the threat of ' getting crushed ' by the girl's apple hammer.

You try not to indulge in her chaotic antics, but you just can't help yourself !

Seeing the pure happiness on her face whenever she's able to scare someone out of their dough makes you happy.

The attention that she once gave to her master has shifted onto you, nearly always being at your side no matter where you went.

She was always Apple Faerie Cookie whenever she was with you, and that was something that you cherished about the girl.

Black Sapphire, as he grew to know you, doesn't exactly see you as a mother figure at first. It felt more like a transactional relationship at most.

The best way I could see you two getting close is by your personalities colliding in a certain way, though a portion of it did have to deal with how you were able to keep Candy Apple in check alongside him.

He sees you as the peacemaker around the spire and he's very appreciative to have you fill that spot.

The jewel-themed cookie is very fond of the way you and he will gossip about other cookies for days on end, with a cup of tea in front of you both.

He can't help but thank you for the constant slander that you give him about other cookies. It felt a tinch bit boring on his radio show lately, but you never fail to give him the motivation that he needs.

I don't know why but I could also see Black Sapphire's love language being quality time with anyone who comes off as a mother figure to him.

You two, with Candy Apple, will be in disguises and just shop together when your husband is busy, finding cool trinkets and clothes that you would bring back to the spire.

Back with your husband, he isn't exactly happy when he sees his servants becoming more attached to you. It was taking up time that you could've been spending with him !

However, as much as he wants to try and convince you that they were just there to serve him and you alone, he ultimately ends up failing due to how much you've grown to like the two servants he had.

Jealousy was a BIG thing for him.

So, with communication, you're able to split your time from Candy Apple and Black Sapphire with your husband once again.

I wouldn't exactly call you guys ' family ', since Shadow Milk doesn't exactly treat the two like his spawn for it to make sense. But, the title ' servant ' has turned more loose.

It's almost like with you around, the relationship Shadow Milk had with his servants had become more peaceful instead of just being purely about control. Yeah, they'll still answer to his bidding and be his partners in crime, but it no longer felt like that was always case.

If you considered his two lackeys ' family ' of any sorts, he'll bound to make changes with the way he acts towards them in order to make you happy.

Though, he does keep the way he used to act toward them still apparent whenever you're out of the picture.

Besides that, the four of you are a pretty decent ' family '.

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idkwhylou · 8 days ago

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Gone, again pt.3

Summary : After weeks of silence, you finally apologize, but Bob’s done waiting. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. Until a storm rolls in... and you show up at his door, drenched, tired, and not ready to let go.

Bob Floyd x f!reader/pilot!reader

Warnings : Angst, hurt/comfort, smut, rough sex ?, soft!Bob turning possessive, past emotional hurt, makeup sex, mild choking, emotional vulnerability, reader has hair, one use of y/n

Words : 9,3K

A/N : today is the day, this time it's the right notification @bluegardenn

Bob’s masterlist | previous part

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

Bob was still there. Of course he was.

He always stayed a little bit longer after everyone else had scattered—tidying up checklists, rechecking gear, returning tools with a quiet kind of focus like it brought him peace. Maybe it did. Maybe that's why you found yourself walking toward him now, helmet cradled under your arm like it was the only thing still tethering you to the ground.

The sun was folding in on itself, smearing orange and violet bruises across the California sky. The heat still shimmered faintly above the tarmac, clinging to your flight suit. Everything around you smelled like jet fuel and burnt rubber, but there was also something lonely. You didn't move, not right away. You just stood there at the edge of the runway, shoulders heavy, throat tight, feeling your eyes sting more than the dry wind could explain.

Phoenix's words echoed again. Each one a quiet little cut you’d replayed all day like an old cassette—too worn down to fix, too familiar to throw away.

God, you’d been cruel.

You hadn’t meant to be. Well, not really. But fear twisted everything inside you, and when someone like Bob showed up—someone soft, honest, good—you hadn't known what to do with that. You’d twisted his kindness into something manipulative, his patience into pity, his warmth into something to be suspicious of. And the worst part ? He hadn’t argued. He hadn’t snapped back or called you names or even fought to prove you wrong. He’d just looked at you, stunned and wounded, like you’d broken something too delicate to fix. And maybe you had after all.

Your grip tightened on your helmet strap, fingers aching from holding too tight. For someone called Grumpy, you’d never realized how mean you could be until you saw the look on Bob’s face after those words left your mouth. And now the silence didn’t bring you calm. It rang too loud with all the things you’d been too scared to say. You swallowed the lump in your throat, as you never felt smaller that you did now.

He didn’t hear you at first.

Bob was bent over a gear case near the hangar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair was a mess—still slightly damp from the quick shower he’d probably taken hours ago, and now pushed back in that way he did when he was frustrated or focused. He moved quietly, with purpose. Like someone who didn’t need to make noise to take up space.

You took a shaky breath and started to walk toward him.

The gravel crunched beneath your boots. Your shadow stretched long beside you as the sun dipped lower. Then, he finally looked up, maybe hearing the shift in your steps or just sensing something, and stilled the moment his eyes met yours. He didn’t speak, didn’t smile, didn’t frown. Just... watched. Cautious. Guarded. Like he wasn’t sure which version of you shown up this time. For once the silence didn’t calm you, it just echoed all the things you should have said.

“Hey,” you said softly. Your voice came out thinner than you expected, like it had to thread its way through something jagged on the way up. It frayed at the edges, barely holding itself together. The hangar was too quiet for it, too still.

Bob didn’t turn immediately. He kept his eyes in the half-disassembled panel in front of him, shoulders rigid with the kind of stillness that says ‘I heard you’. Then, without a word, he set the wrench down with careful precision, the sharp clink against metal echoed in the silence.

Still, he didn’t say anything, just waited.

“I was an asshole,” you said, flatly. The words came out plain and raw—no room for excuses.

That got a reaction. His brows lifted, just a little. Surprise flickered across his face, quick and subtle, followed by the smallest curl at one corner of his mouth, but it wasn’t warm.

“I wasn’t gonna say it,” he murmured. “But… yeah.”

The tiniest laugh pushed out of you, more breath than sound. It wasn’t relief, not yet, but it was something. A crack in the ice. You shifted your weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, eyes dropping to your boots. “I said things I didn’t mean. I was scared. I lashed out and I’m sorry.”

The apology hung in the air like something fragile and heavy at once. It didn’t feel like enough, and you knew it wasn’t. But it was the only way you know how to start. Bob crossed his arms over his chest, slowly, tilting his head—not angry, but not letting you off that easy. His gaze didn’t soften at all. If anything, it sharpened.

“That’s it ?” He asked.

You blinked. “What do you mean ?”

He didn’t raise his voice, he never really did. But the words landed hard anyway, cutting straight through the quiet. He wasn’t unkind… just honest. “That’s all you’ve got for me ? After everything you said ?”

You swallowed hard and thought that it was easier when Phoenix explained to you what to say. You ran a hand through your hair, as your eyes darted away, feeling stupid all of sudden. Bob had this way about him—he could make silence feel like a pressure chamber, like if you didn’t pass whatever unspoken test he was giving you, the walls would close in.

You hated that you deserved it.

And still, somewhere beneath all of it—the guilt, the regret, the ache—you wanted him to say something. Anything. Even if it hurt. He tilted his head slightly, like encouraging you.

You breathed in deep, steadying yourself like you were standing at the edge of a cliff. Searching for a place to begin again. “You were the first person who didn’t look at me like I was too much.” You said quietly, “Or not enough. You just... saw me. And that scared the hell out of me.”

His face didn’t change, but something in his eyes—just for a second—softened. The hard edges didn’t disappear, but the blurred, like he was letting himself hear you. So, you kept going. Because silence had always felt like a wall, and if you stopped now, you’d never climb over it.

“You never asked me to change. Never tried to fix me. You just... were there, without asking anything in return. And the more you were there, the more I started to think that maybe I didn’t have to keep my guard up all the time. And that—” your breath hitched, “Bob, that made me panic.”

You looked at him then, really looked. The calm set of his mouth, drawn but not cold. It twitched slightly, somewhere between frown and understanding. The faint smudge of grease across the inside of his wrist. The gentle stillness he carried like armor he didn’t know he wore.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, the words catching up on something thick in your throat.. “Not because Phoenix told me I messed up. Not because someone else made me feel guilty. I’m sorry because I was wrong. And I hurt you. And I never should’ve.”

Bob stayed quiet.

Still listening.

Still waiting.

You could’ve stopped there. You almost did. But the weight pressing on your chest wouldn’t ease, not until you let the rest out. So, you stepped closer, eyes glassy, voice trembling slightly. “I didn’t know how to be cared for. And I’m still trying to figure out.”

Your throat tightened. But you didn’t stop, almost breathless now.

“My last relationship ?” You went on, voice barely above a whisper, “He thought love meant control. Before that ? Just another guy who liked the chase until I stopped being interesting. And then you showed up—” you smiled faintly, “You with your quiet, with those kind eyes and gentle hands—and suddenly you made me feel like a person again. Like I was worth something just by being me. Not just someone to fix or win.”

Bob’s expression shifted. His jaw tightened, just a little, and behind the clear lenses of his glasses, something raw flickered in his eyes. Something that looked like pain. Or maybe recognition.

“And that scared the shit out of me,” you breathed. “Because if I let myself fall into it, and it still fell apart ? I don’t think I could’ve come back from it.” You shook your head, biting your bottom lip.

He inhaled slowly, you watched the rise and fall of his chest. But still, he said nothing. You knew he was actually listening and not just cold to hurt you. His silence wasn’t passive. It was active, full of all the things he wasn’t saying. It pulled the truth out of you like a thread you couldn’t stop unraveling. And maybe that was worse. Maybe that was what cracked you open.

“I was scared, and I know that doesn’t excuse anything but—” you said, voice cracking, like the truth had been waiting too long to come out. “But it’s the truth.” You sobbed, letting a single tear roll down your cheek, but wiped it quickly before it could reach the corner of your mouth. “I wanted to hurt you before you could hurt me.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself—tight, like a shield made of shame.

“I said you helped me because it made you feel important. That was such bullshit. You helped me because that’s who you are. You showed up. Again and again. And I couldn’t handle that, so I turned it into something ugly just to protect myself.”

You looked at him—eyes watering, chest aching. “And that’s on me. I just didn’t want to admit to myself that someone could be that good without wanting anything in return—”

He exhaled slowly, cutting you off. “I didn’t want anything back. Just wanted you.”

“I know…” You sniffed.

Finally, Bob moved. Just a step. Barely anything. But it felt like gravity had shifted, as if he was crossing a line neither of you had dared touch in weeks. His voice was low and rough. “I didn’t help you to feel important. I helped you because I care.”

A beat, “I cared.”

“I know…” you whispered. The words trembled out of you. “And I think I cared too, that I wanted you too. I just… I just didn’t know how to let myself want someone like you without ruining it.”

His lips parted like he might speak—but you weren’t done. “So yeah. I’m sorry. But I’m not just sorry—I was wrong. And if you never want to look at me again, I get it. But if there’s a sliver of a chance...” You swallowed hard. “Can I t-try again ?”

You finally looked up. He was closer than you thought now—close enough that the ache inside you felt like it could reach out and touch him. But he didn’t reach for you. Didn’t smile. He just stood there, arms hanging by his sides, expression unreadable. And when he spoke, his voice had cooled.

“You think one speech undoes how you made me feel ?” You could hear the disappointment and hurt in his voice.

Your stomach dropped like someone had punched you hard. “No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “No, I don’t think that—”

He cut you off, jaw clenched. “You didn’t just hurt my feelings. You made me feel like a fucking idiot. Like I was some guy you could use for fun, until things started to get real.”

Your heart twisted so hard it almost felt like physical pain. “Bob, I didn’t—”

“I haven’t finished,” he cut you off harshly. “You said I only helped you because it made me feel important. Like I was… Like I was using you—fuck you said that I was invisible, y/n. That wasn’t just mean. That was cruel. Do you even realize ?!”

Tears welled again, hot and stinging. You couldn’t look away from him now, even as your vision blurred. “I know,” you choked out. “I know it was.”

“But you said it,” he went on, quieter now, almost like he was talking to himself. “And that’s the part I can’t forget.”

You folded your arms over your chest, just to try to hold yourself together as regret and shame consumed you. “I didn’t mean it,” you whispered. “I was scared.”

Bob exhaled through his nose, the anger in him didn’t vanish, but it started to settle like dust after a storm

He looked at you, eyes softening just barely. The hurt was still there. Sitting heavy in his chest. “I wasn’t going to leave,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “Not back then. I would’ve stayed. Figured it out with you.”

You could barely breath, “I didn’t mean to make it easy,” you murmured.

He looked away for the first time, not supporting your gaze anymore. “Well,” he said flatly, “you did.”

A long silence settled between you. Thick, heavy, final.

Then soflty, so softly it almost broke, “Can I do anything to fix it ?”

Bob looked at you then. And for a long moment, you thought he might say yes. That maybe this was the part where his kindness would stretch just a little further, where the damage could be undone.

But instead, he shook his head.

“I don’t know.” He let out a long breath, feeling his patience coming to an end. “Maybe not today.”

You nodded slowly, tears slipping freely now, as you bite the inside of your cheek. “Okay,” you whispered. “Then I’ll wait.”

Bob turned to go, took a few steps, then stopped. Looked out across the tarmac like the sky might hold something steadier than you ever had. “Don’t wait.” He said. “Do better. Be better.”

Then he walked away.

And you stood there. Alone. Feeling both emptier and more honest than you had in a long time.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

The days that followed were quieter than they had any right to be.

Not outwardly. The hangar still thrummed with the same mechanical symphony—clinks of tools, murmured checklists, jets screaming as they tore down runways. The Dagger Squad still laughed during mission briefings, still exchanged jokes over coffee, still trained like nothing had fractured beneath the surface.

But you noticed the silence behind the noise. The space where Bob used to be.

He didn’t ignore you—not exactly. That would’ve been easier, in a way. No, what Bob did was worse: he withdrew. Carefully. Methodically. Like someone pulling back a hand from an open flame. Every morning, you crossed paths. You tried, gently, to acknowledge him. A small nod. A soft “Mornin’, Bob,” as if his name might anchor something still floating between you. But just before your eyes could meet, he’d glance away. Pretending to look at something else. Sometimes it was a clipboard, sometimes the sky, sometimes nothing at all. Always just enough to miss you.

At lunch, you started to sat with the others now. Phoenix had nudged space open beside her with a look that said ‘she was mad but not done with you’, and the rest of the squad followed her lead. Hangman cracked a few jokes at your expense—biting, but not unforgiving. Rooster gave you a nod, solemn but not unkind.

Bob ?

Bob stood up every time you sat down.

It wasn’t immediate. He always gave it a beat, just enough time to make it unclear whether he’d already been about to leave. But it happened like clockwork. He’d tuck his sandwich into a napkin, murmur something about needing to check the sim room, and walk away. You never asked him to stay, you didn’t have the right. Instead, you sat through every meal with a pit in your stomach and his absence beside you like a second shadow.

What you didn’t see—what no one saw—was how hard he was trying not to reach back.

Bob was haunted.

Not in a melodramatic way, not with tears, breakdowns or late-night drinking. That wasn’t him. But in the way he moved slower now. In how he lingered in the hangar longer than necessary, pretending to review paperwork when he was just staring at nothing. In the moments when Phoenix caught him looking toward you—never at you, but toward you—and then quickly looking away.

He told himself he was being smart, guarding his peace. He had to remember what you said, the way your voice had landed like knives. The version of you that weaponized his kindness, made him feel like some foolish little boy who should’ve known better than to trust softness with someone like you.

He hated that he still missed you.

Hated that every time you tried to catch his eye, something in him itched to let you. That his heart still flinched whenever he heard your voice—lower, quieter these days, like it had learned how to apologize even in passing. He’d go home and sit in his apartment, unable to stop replaying things. The argument. The apology. The rawness in your voice when you said you didn’t know how to be cared for. That was what had undone him the most. Not the apology, but the truth of it. Because somewhere deep down, he’d known.

And that knowledge—understanding you—had made it so much harder to stay angry.

But he had to.

Because forgiving too quickly would mean erasing what you’d done, what you’d said. And he couldn’t do that. Not just to protect himself, but because part of him needed you to sit with the silence and to feel the weight of it. He hadn’t stopped caring. That was the problem. And caring without trust ? That was a kind of slow death. So, he gave you silence, gave you distance, gave you the shape of what he’d felt in those final, gutting moments—when you'd looked at him like he was just another mistake waiting to happen.

And you ? You took it. Quietly.

Each nod unanswered. Each meal half-eaten. Each failed attempt like a pebble dropped into an ocean of regret.

But still, you stayed.

You didn’t retreat. You didn’t lash out again. You didn’t demand forgiveness or try to make a show of change.

You stayed. You waited. You did better.

And though he didn’t say it—because he couldn’t say it—Bob noticed. That was the thing about him. He always noticed.

One day, Phoenix cornered him outside the sim room. She wasn’t subtle about it, as if she’d been waiting for the right moment. “Thought I’d find you here,” she said casually, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “You always get quiet when something’s bothering you.”

Bob didn’t look up. “I’m always quiet.”

She smiled. “Exactly.”

He let the silence stretch, but she knew better than to back off. “Okay,” she said, arms crossed tight over her chest, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown. “What the hell is going on ?”

Bob didn’t look up from his clipboard. “Flight rotation got pushed. Javy’s slot moved up, mine’s now after Rooster’s—”

“Not what I meant.” She cut in. “Don’t play dumb with me, Floyd. I’ve been flying with you long enough to know when you’re spiraling.”

Bob sighed, still flipping through pages that didn’t need flipping. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Oh, cut the bullshit.” Her voice dropped just enough to sound serious, not theatrical. “You and her, whatever that was, it’s over, fine. But the whole damn squad is walking on eggshells. You barely speak. She looks like she’s been run over emotionally every day at lunch. And I’m tired of the two of you orbiting each other like something might explode.”

Bob looked up finally. His eyes were steady but hard, colder than Phoenix had seen in a long time. “There’s nothing to fix, Nat.”

She blinked. “You think I’m trying to fix something ?”

“You know you are.” He said flatly. “And you don’t get to. This isn’t a squad issue. It’s not your mess.”

“She’s my friend, Bob. And you are too !”

His jaw clenched. “That doesn’t mean you get to play mediator.”

“I’m not trying to mediate,” she snapped. “I’m trying to understand. Because you’re walking around like she shot your goddamn dog and she’s walking around like she wants to say something but knows she can’t. It’s exhausting, really.”

Bob shoved the clipboard down onto the console with more force than necessary. The crack of plastic echoed in the bay. “There is nothing to say, Phoenix,” he snapped. “You want the truth ? It’s done. She said what she said. I believed her. End of story.”

“Bullshit.”

“No—truth.” His voice rose, sharp and cutting in a way Phoenix wasn’t used to hearing from him. “She made it very clear that I was just some… stand-in. A soft place to land until things got uncomfortable. She treated me like a backup plan, Nat. Like I was pathetic for caring.”

“I know.” She moved closer. “But Bob… You let yourself be more than the quiet guy. Don’t let her mistake, or your pride, make you disappear again.”

He looked away, throat tight. “I don’t know if I can trust her.”

“You don’t have to. Not yet.” She smiled. “But maybe… let her try.”

“You don’t understand ! ” He snapped suddenly.

Phoenix held up her hands, not in surrender but in restraint. “Okay. Okay. You’re angry, I get it—”

“I’m done !” He hissed. “I’m allowed to be done. I don’t owe anyone forgiveness on a schedule.”

“I never said you did,” she said, quieter now. “But maybe you owe yourself a little honesty.”

Bob opened his mouth, probably to say something else sharp—maybe cruel, maybe desperate.

But then he froze.

Across the hangar, just past the gleam of sun, you stepped inside. Head slightly down, hair damp, the kind of messy that suggested a run or a workout you hadn’t planned on finishing. Your flight suit hung low around your hips, unzipped and tied at the waist, leaving just the fitted black t-shirt above. One that clung in places Bob remembered too well. Shoulders tense but not guarder, jaw slack with fatigue, but eyes still moving and aware.

You didn’t know anyone was watching. You weren’t trying. You weren’t dressed up, weren’t putting on a face. You were just… you. Unfiltered. Real. And somehow that made Bob’s chest tighten with something sharp and hot.

Davis walked beside you—one of the newer engineers, younger, smug in a way that hadn’t yet been beaten out of him by real time in the air. His hair was neat, grin a little too easy. He said something that made his own shoulders shake with laughter, and you glanced sideways at him, not laughing, but not brushing him off either.

Bob saw the way your body leaned just slightly in his direction. The way your fingers flexed at your sides like they almost wanted to do something with the space between you. You weren’t exactly smiling. But the lines of tension Bob had come to memorize—and, later, miss—weren’t drawn quite so tight.

His stomach flipped, sudden and nauseating. His jaw locked into place. There was a flare in his nostrils, a tick in his temple. He stood completely still, as if moving would betray something more than he was already giving away.

Phoenix didn’t even glance at you. She didn’t need to. She saw it all in Bob, in the microsecond shift of breath, the hollow stillness in his spine. “You’re not over her,” she said plaintly, without accusation. Just fact.

Bob’s head snapped toward her. “Don’t—”

“She’s talking to a guy and you look like you want to murder him with a wrench.”

“I said don’t,” he growled. “This isn’t helpful.”

Phoenix raised her brows. “Not helpful or too close to the truth ?”

Bob took a step back. “I’m not jealous.”

“Jesus, Bob, you’re practically vibrating.”

He clenched his fists at his sides, knuckles white. “I know what I saw.”

“And what did you see ?” Phoenix asked, arms still folded, voice calm but cutting. “Two people walking ?”

“It’s not about her.” He looked like he was trying to convince himself more than her. “It’s about me. I’m allowed to move on too.”

“By what ? Sulking in silence and pretending like that ache in your chest is righteous instead of miserable ?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t look at her. His gaze had drifted back toward you, now paused near the lockers, head down as Davis kept talking beside you. You shifted your weight, arms crossed, nodding absently. Not engaged. Not glowing. Still a little closed off in that same way you’d been for days.

Phoenix’s voice softened. “She’s trying, Bob.”

“Yeah ?” He whispered. “What if it’s too late ?”

Phoenix exhaled. “Then it is. But pretending you don’t care doesn’t make it hurt less.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then straightened and shook his head. “I’m not ready,” he said, voice hollow.

And with that, he turned and walked away. Phoenix didn’t stop him, but she didn’t look away either. Across the hangar, you glanced up—like you’d felt something shift. Your eyes flicked toward the place where Bob had stood just moments ago.

But he was already gone.

And the ache between you stayed right where it was.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

The storm had been building all afternoon: bloated clouds gathering like held breath, sky thick with the kind of gray that made the world feel smaller, quieter. By evening, the first roll of thunder trembled low over the horizon, slow and deliberate, like a warning growl that hadn't decided yet whether it meant to break something.

Bob sat on the couch, back angled against one armrest, knees drawn up just slightly, a book resting open across his thighs—half-read and entirely ignored. The soft, pulsing glow from the lamp beside him threw golden shapes across the floor, and the steady sound of rain on the window had long since replaced any sense of real time. He wasn’t reading. He hadn’t been for a while. His eyes had glazed over somewhere in chapter seven, but his thoughts had kept moving, relentless and circular and sharp around the edges.

It had been like that for weeks.

The sound, when it came, didn’t match the storm. It wasn’t thunder. Not wind. Not the rattle of rain sliding down gutters or the metallic groan of the weather trying to come inside. It was a knock. Soft. Uneven. Like hesitation made audible. Bob’s head lifted slowly, the spell of stillness breaking. He didn’t move at first, just sat there, mug cooling on the coffee table, book splayed wide like it, too, was holding its breath.

Another knock came. This one firmer. Real. Human.

He rose.

His steps across the apartment were slow, uncertain, his body moving before his mind had caught up to the possibility forming in his chest. When he reached the door, he hesitated for a beat—hand on the handle, heart tapping faster beneath his ribs—and then pulled it open.

You stood there, just in front of him.

Soaked to the skin, shoulders hunched against the cold, jacket heavy with rain, hair slicked to your face in a way that made you look almost younger, almost fragile. Your lips were slightly parted, like you’d been trying to find words for too long and had given up halfway. Your arms were crossed over your chest, not from attitude this time, but because your whole body was trembling from the cold and the weight of something deeper. You didn’t try to smile. Didn’t joke. Didn’t speak right away. Just looked at him. Like maybe you weren’t sure you should’ve come. Like maybe standing there in front of him was already asking too much.

Bob stared.

Not out of shock—because somewhere, in some quiet corner of himself, he had been expecting this. Not tonight, not like this. But in that twisted way grief turns into instinct, he had known you’d show up eventually. You always came when it rained, when things broke open, when you had nowhere else to go.

He didn’t say your name.

Didn’t need to.

Your voice was quiet—hoarse, raw at the edges. “I—I didn’t mean to bother you. I just…”

You stopped, blinking hard, lashes wet.

“I can’t get into my place,” you said finally, voice barely louder than the storm behind you. “Lock’s jammed, and my landlord’s not answering. And I just…” You arms tightened around yourself as a violent shiver took you whole frame. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Bob still hadn’t spoken.

Something in his chest was swelling—too slow and too big to name.

The air between you buzzed. Not with electricity, but with tension—the dense, unbearable kind that lived in the spaces left behind by words unsaid. You looked like a ghost of yourself. Like you haven’t slept in days, like this wasn’t just about a lock or a door or even the rain. This was about weight. About collapse. About finding yourself standing in front of the one person you had hurt the most, asking, without asking, to be let in.

You shouldn’t have come. He knew that. But he also knew he would’ve opened the door every time. So, Bob stepped back, slow and steady, the motion smooth even as his pulse raced. His voice was quiet, but sure. “Come in.”

He didn’t ask why. Didn’t press. Didn’t reach for you. But the space between you two shifted—just enough. You stepped inside. And for the first time in weeks, the silence between you felt less like a wall and more like a beginning. Even if neither of you knew what it was the beginning of yet.

Bob left the towel folded neatly on the bathroom counter, along with an old Navy sweatshirt and a pair of joggers he hadn’t worn in years but couldn’t quite bring himself to throw away. The clothes looked absurd next to you, he could already picture how they’d hang loose around your shoulders, how the hem would puddle around you ankles, but he left them there anyway. No words. Just a gesture.

He heard the door click shut, then the soft shuffle of damp clothes being peeled away, and finally the steady hiss of water meeting tile. The sound filled the apartment like steam, like pressure finally being released, and yet it only made him feel more tense.

He didn’t sit.

He paced, slow and restless, hands threading through his hair, fingers tapping lightly against his thigh. Every few steps, he paused by the window and watched the storm roll across the dark horizon. Lightning cracked just far enough away to delay the thunder, casting flashes of silvery light across the wet pavement below.

The city felt quiet. Not calm, just muffled. Like it, too, was waiting.

He didn’t know what to do with himself. Hadn’t known since you’d shown up—soaked, shivering, eyes hollow but brave. You haven’t looked at him with guilt. You haven’t begged or joked or tried to smile you way out of it. You’d just stood there, miserable and real and too much like the girl he remembered falling for without meaning to.

And maybe that was what unsettled him most. You haven’t asked for forgiveness.

You haven’t asked for anything.

And yet.

He found himself folding the blanket on the couch. Tucking it just so at the corner cushion like he used to when you’d fall asleep there, boots still on, arms crossed, head lolling to the side. You used to mutter in your sleep sometimes. He’d never told you that.

He sat back down, elbows on knees, staring down at his hands until the bathroom door opened with a soft click and the light spilled into the hall behind you. You looked… different.

The oversized sweatshirt hung nearly to your thighs, sleeves covering your hands, the navy faded from years of washes. Your hair was wrapped in a towel, damp strands clinging to your cheeks, and your face was pink from the hot water. Not scrubbed clean of sadness—that was still there—but softened.

You were no longer rain-slicked and cold. But the vulnerability hadn’t left you. If anything, it clung tighter now.

Bob’s eyes lifted to meet yours. You froze there for a moment, bare feet on tile, like you weren’t sure if you should step further in. But then you did—slow, like testing the weight of the air between you.

“Thanks,” you murmured, voice barely above the hum of the storm outside.

He nodded once. Didn't trust his voice to do more. He didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t come out wrong—too sharp, too soft, too revealing. He motioned to the couch. They sat side by side, not close enough to touch, but not far enough to pretend they weren’t aware of each other’s presence with every breath.

The silence stretched between you, thick and aching. Rain lashed at the windows in long, wind-driven streaks, as if the storm was trying to speak on your behalf. The room was warm, but the space between you carried a chill.

Bob leaned back slowly, arms folding across his chest, as his eyes didn’t leave the window. You mirrored his posture, one arm across your body, the other tugging absently at your sleeve like it might unravel something.

“So,” you said finally, your voice dry but cautious. “Nice storm.”

He snorted. Just barely. A breath of a laugh, pushed through his nose. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t even peace. But it was something. A shift in pressure. A crack in the silence. And in that small, barely-there sound—not a laugh, but something like it—you let yourself breathe just a little easier.

He didn’t turn to look at you. Not yet. But the corner of his mouth twitched. Maybe tomorrow would still be complicated, maybe this didn’t fix anything. But tonight, the door had opened. The rain had come. And somehow, impossibly, you were here.

And for the first time in weeks, that was enough.

“Yeah,” he said, mouth tilting. “Real romantic.”

The line was dry, almost teasing—almost—but it didn’t land quite right. Not with the weight of everything else sitting between you. Still, it earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Bob’s mouth, a suggestion of a smirk that never fully surfaced. You rolled your eyes softly, more a reflex than a true reaction, and the silence settled again. Thicker now. Heavy as the humidity pressing against the windows.

You stole a glance at him—sideways, quick. He was staring out into the storm again, profile half-lit by the occasional flicker of lightning. His jaw was tight, mouth unreadable, but something in his posture had changed. Looser, maybe. Or just... tired.

“You always this quiet ?” You asked, trying for casual.

Bob’s answer came slower. A breath before words. “Maybe if you’d stayed at least once,” he said, voice low and even, “you’d have noticed that I’m quiet by nature.”

The words hit you square in the chest. And it wasn’t even the content that stung most; it was how carefully he said it. No venom. Just fact.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have—” his voice caught, shame edging it down to something softer. “It just came out. I didn’t mean to.” His eyes flicked toward you then. Not hard, just watching.

“It’s okay,” you said, before he could respond. “I deserve it.”

And just like that, the tension cracked, just a sliver. A sliver of something almost warm bleeding through the cold.

But beneath it, always, was the pulse. All of it, packed tight between you on a couch that had once held easier moments. Sleepy ones. Soft ones. This wasn’t that. But it wasn’t the battlefield of weeks ago either. It was a middle ground. Fragile, uncertain.

Your knee brushed his.

Maybe it was accidental. Maybe not.

But it was enough.

Bob’s breath hitched, not loudly, not dramatically. Just the smallest shift in the rhythm of his breathing. You felt it more than heard it, the way someone who’s once been close knows how to sense the cracks before they show.

You looked at him again. The soft amber of the lamp lit the edge of his cheekbone, the small crease at the corner of his mouth, the glasses he still wore like armor. His hands were clasped tight in his lap, fingers twitching faintly, like they weren’t sure whether to stay still or reach out.

And his eyes…

They weren’t angry anymore. Not entirely. They were watchful. Guarded. Sad, maybe. You shifted a little closer, your body turning toward him more fully, leg tucked beneath you, the oversized sweatshirt falling off one shoulder. You didn’t try to fix it. There was something honest in letting it hang loose.

“Are you still mad at me ?” You dared to ask.

Bob didn’t look at you right away. His eyes stayed forward, focused on nothing. His throat moved as he swallowed, and for a long second you thought maybe he wouldn’t answer. “I don’t know,” he said finally, voice barely above a murmur.

But something cracked in it.

And in your chest, something ached. Not guilt. Not even regret. Just that raw, painful recognition that he’d been hurt in a way you couldn’t undo, and he was still carrying it. You shifted again, not closer, but softer—as if your body could apologize for what your words never managed to say right.

The room held its breath with you.

And still, the rain came down.

You both sat in silence.

Not the peaceful kind, not the quiet that settles gently between two people who know each other well. It sat in the room like a third presence, thick with everything they hadn’t said, everything they’d said too late. Only the steady hum of rain softened the edges, thunder murmuring distantly like the storm was listening too.

Bob sat rigid, spine a straight line of control. His arms stayed folded tightly across his chest, fists hidden beneath sleeves, shoulders bunched like he couldn’t quite let himself relax—not yet. Not near you.

You sat beside him, your hands twisting in the oversized cuffs of his old Navy sweatshirt, damp hair from the steam of your borrowed shower. The fabric clung to you in places, your skin still warm from the water, but you looked so small in it. Unsteady. Like someone who hadn’t meant to break something and only realized too late how much it mattered.

You wanted to say something. Anything. But the words sat like stones in her throat, too heavy to lift.

It was Bob who cracked first. His voice came out low, sharp, quiet. “You know, it’s cruel… showing up here like this.”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It landed like a weight in your gut, and you flinched, visibly, your gaze dropping to your lap. “I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, voice scraped raw. “I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You could’ve gone anywhere.” His words were tighter now, each syllable clipped. “You just didn’t want to be alone.”

The air between them tightened—pulled taut like a line about to snap. You forced yourself to look at him. To really see him. And when you did, your chest pulled tight. He wasn’t angry the way he had been before. This wasn’t rage, it was ache, exhaustion. That slow, creeping bitterness of being made to feel like a temporary shelter in someone else’s storm.

“I didn’t come here to fix things, Bob.”

“Yeah.” He laughed once, bitter and brittle. “I kind of figured.”

“But I… I wish I knew how.” Your voice cracked on the last word, just a breath, but it changed everything. It wasn’t an excuse.

Bob blinked, just once. The muscle in his jaw twitched, but his posture didn’t ease. Still, the edge in his tone faded by a fraction. “I told myself I was done being some quiet corner people crawl into when they’re tired of running.”

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

You inhaled shakily, blinking fast as the tears gathered—not dramatic, not even loud, but like your body had stopped asking permission. You swallowed hard and wipe your cheek roughly with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, breath catching like it hurt. “I’ve been awful to you. And I knew it. But it felt safer to hate myself than let you love me.” You didn’t even finish the sentence, because he already knew. There was no need to repeat yourself.

Bob exhaled. A long, tired breath. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “You mattered to me the second you stopped pretending you didn’t care about anything. The second I saw you weren’t just Grumpy. But that you were scared, brave, messy. Real. That’s why it hurt.”

The storm cracked again outside—a rumble that rolled through the bones of the building.

Your voice came tiny now. “I’m sorry.”

Not performative. Not rehearsed. This one came from the part you’d always guarded. Bob looked at you for a long beat. Then, slowly—cautiously—he reached out. Just his fingers at first, brushing yours. A tentative contact, more question than comfort.

“Then stop running,” he said, quiet. “Stay. Even if it’s messy. Especially if it’s messy.”

You couldn’t speak, not in a way that would make sense, not with everything tangled in your throat. So instead, you reached for his hand. Your fingers closed around his like a question and a memory all at once.

Bob stilled.

The contact was small. Simple. But it grounded something in him. His eyes lifted to meet yours, cautious, questioning, but lit with a flicker of something he hadn’t let himself feel in weeks: hope. He leaned in, slow and unsure, like he didn’t want to spook the moment. His breath was warm against your skin, his gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips and back again, as if waiting for a sign—any sign—that you’d changed your mind. That you’d pull away.

But you didn’t.

You met him halfway.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t fireworks or fury. It was something quieter. Truer. Like coming home to a place you didn’t realize you’d missed until you stepped through the door.

His mouth brushed yours with a tenderness that almost undid you—patient and hesitant and impossibly gentle. Like he didn’t want to break whatever fragile peace the two of you had found in that sliver of time. His hands moved up slowly, one resting along your jaw, the other cupping the back of your neck with reverence, his thumb stroking the curve behind your ear.

You leaned into him, not just your body, but everything else. The ache. The apology. The want. And in that kiss, there was all the weight of what had been left unsaid: the bitterness, the regret, the hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late.

With a suddenness that stole your breath, his hands found your body, and in one smooth motion, he lifted you. One arm anchored beneath your ass, the other wrapped firmly around your back, pressing you to him like he couldn't stand even an inch of space between you. Your breath hitched, arms flying around his shoulders, clutching him instinctively. His grip was sure but desperate, not rough, not careless—just… intense. Like carrying you was the only thing keeping him grounded.

He moved fast, purposeful strides toward the bedroom, his mouth brushing your temple once, like he didn’t trust himself to linger or he might fall apart. You could feel the tension radiating off him, in the locked set of his jaw, in the way his muscles flexed beneath your palms. He was holding you like a man who’d just gotten something back he never thought he’d touch again.

When he reached the door, he barely paused, nudging it open with a shoulder and letting it swing wide, not caring when it thudded softly against the wall and stayed that way. There was no ceremony, no fumbling with lights. Just the two of you, shadows in the soft spill of hallway glow.

He lay you down with more care than his urgency had promised, your back hitting the mattress in a slow, reverent motion. And then he stood above you for a second—just one—his chest heaving, eyes devouring every inch of you like he was trying to memorize the sight. His hands trembled just slightly as he reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head with a sharp exhale. Then the rest stripped away with a raw, impatient kind of need, like his skin might catch fire if he didn’t feel yours against his now.

His gaze never left yours.

And something in it, something wild and wide and bruised, made your throat tighten.

He crawled over you slowly now, contradiction in motion, the same hands that had gripped you so fiercely now braced themselves on either side of your head, his body caging you in but not suffocating. He hovered there, breath ghosting over your lips, and for a moment the world slowed. Rain still ticked faintly against the windows. Your fingers curled around the sheets. His heart thundered loud enough that you felt it between your ribs.

And when he kissed you, it was nothing like before. Not frantic. Not punishing. It was a whisper of a question and a scream of a promise all at once. The kind of kiss that says ‘don’t leave me again’, without ever needing words.

You reached up to cup his face, thumb brushing his cheek, grounding him. “I’m here,” you whispered, barely audible.

And he exhaled, like the breath had been trapped in his lungs for days. Then he kissed you harder.

Bob hovered above you, the muscles in his arms taut as he held himself there. His breath came rough through parted lips, chest rising and falling like he was bracing for something too big to hold. Impatient, he entered you with a low, ragged sound. You gasp and let out a moan, your back arching beneath him, fingernails digging into his shoulders as if you could fuse yourself to him.

But even now, even in the rush of need, he paused.

His eyes locked on your—wide, wild, asking without words. You nodded and that was all he needed.

He began to move—quick, hard and urgent—like the question had already been burning in his skin for weeks and the answer was finally in his hands. Each thrust sent a wave of heat curling through you, spreading like wildfire. You bit your lip to hold back the whimper building in your throat, then let it go, head falling back as he filled you again and again.

You opened your eyes just in time to meet his. Something about the way he looked at you, like you were both salvation and ruin, made your lips part into a breathless smile. Without breaking rhythm, you let one hand drift up his neck, over the slope of his jaw, fingertips tracing his cheekbone. His glasses had slipped low on his nose, fogged at the corners. Carefully, you removed them and placed them on the bedside table, next to your glass of water.

Then, you leaned in, your mouth brushing past his temple before you whispered, “I’m sorry.”

A low growl rumbled deep in his chest as his mouth crashed against yours, swallowing the apology like he couldn’t bear to hear it again. He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel anything but your pussy squeezing his cock.

You felt the beginning of your orgasm bloom, your muscles tensing around him, but you pulled back just enough to guide him, gently pushing against his chest. He let you, eyes hooded and dark as you shifted on top of him. Straddling him now, you took him back inside you with a soft gasp, and he groaned—both hands flying to your hips, gripping them hard enough to bruise, holding you down, forcing you to take every inch. You moved with him, hips rolling, meeting each thrust with your own, the rhythm a fever between you.

You whispered his name as he drove up into you, his pace relentless. He kissed you like he was starving, like he didn’t care if it burned. And between kisses, you kept whispering it again: “Sorry.”, “I’m sorry.”

Each time, his grip tightened. Each time, his mouth silenced you with more hunger. You kissed across his face, tracing his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Apologies falling like rain. He bit down on your shoulder, not cruel, but enough to leave a mark, enough to say stop apologizing. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, grounding yourself as you tried to form another word, but it died in your throat.

“S-Sorry—” you tried again, and he let out a sound like frustration and awe wrapped into one.

“Fuck…” He breathed, then abruptly slowed, hands sliding around your waist as he turned you. With ease and need, he manhandled you on all fours.

Your breath hitched and then, he thrust back into you, hard. A cry ripped from your lips, the sharp sound echoing through the room. His chest pressed to your back, arm wrapping around your waist, the other sliding up to your throat—not squeezing, but holding. Grounding. Possessive. Like you always wanted.

His breath was hot at your ear. “Don’t run from this,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Don’t run from me.”

You whimpered, head tipping back onto his shoulder. And just as you were about to apologize again, his fingers—quick and sure—found your clit. His index and middle pressed in firm, circular strokes, drawing another cry from your lips. “If you apologize one more time…” he growled, not finishing. Instead, he pounded into you so hard your knees buckled and you collapsed forward with a strangled moan. Stars sparked behind your eyes. You clutched at the sheets, your body shaking around him, unraveling.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

The room was dark, but not still. Outside, the storm had softened into a whisper, rain tapping gently against the windows like the world had finally exhaled. The hush of it filled the space like a lullaby, steady and slow, wrapping itself around the edges of sleep. Bob lay tangled in the sheets, the quiet rise and fall of his chest the only sign he hadn’t drifted too far. One arm was slung carelessly across the mattress, fingers curled around nothing, resting in the imprint your body had left behind, still faintly warm, still unmistakably yours.

Then—A shift.

The faintest pull of cool air where warmth had just been.

The stillness of absence.

Bob stirred.

It started with a flicker, the subtle tightening of his brow, a small catch in his breath. Then a deeper kind of knowing bloomed low and sharp in his chest, dragging him out of sleep with the weight of memory and fear. His hand moved instinctively across the sheets, searching, but found only the cold smooth cotton of a bed that was no longer shared.

His eyes snapped open.

Empty.

Gone, again.

He sat up too fast, heart pounding, the covers falling to his waist like a discarded illusion. The shadows of the room pressed in around him, distorted by the soft lightning glow that occasionally lit the sky beyond the glass. His chest rose unevenly, his jaw clenched, and for a long, stunned second he just sat there, staring at the space you’d occupied like it had betrayed him.

You left.

Of course you did. Just like before.

And this time, after everything, he’d been stupid enough to believe it meant more. Bob’s hands curled into fists on his thighs, blunt nails digging into his palms as he muttered, almost angrily, “Jesus, Robert.”

His voice was low. Harsh. Mostly at himself. The echo of it settled into the silence like a weight. He shoved a hand through his hair, ready to get up, to move, to do something—anything—before the regret could fully calcify. His mind raced ahead, already rewriting the night into another mistake, another scar.

And then—

The soft creak of the bedroom door. He froze.

The hallway light cut a warm line across the dark floor, and there you were: a silhouette at first, backlit and quiet, framed by the glow of the kitchen. One of his T-shirts hung loosely on your frame, the hem brushing your thighs. Your hair was tousled from sleep and steam, and in one hand, you held a half-full glass of water.

You stopped when you saw him sitting up, tense and half-lit in the dark, the weight of his panic still visible in the tightness of his shoulders and the sharp edge of his expression.

“Hey,” you said softly, eyes narrowing with concern. “What’s wrong ?”

Bob blinked once. Twice. Then his head dropped, falling back against his pillow with a dull thud, his breath escaping in a ragged exhale.

“I thought you were gone,” he said closing his eyes, voice rough, too raw to hide what it meant.

And your face broke—not into guilt, but into something worse. Something that said you understood exactly how much that thought had gutted him. You crossed the room immediately, the glass forgotten on the nightstand as you climbed back into bed without hesitation, crawling toward him like you were trying to anchor him to the moment.

“I just got thirsty,” you murmured, sliding beneath the covers. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

He didn’t answer right away. His whole body was still coiled tight, every muscle drawn taut with leftover fear, like he wasn’t convinced this wasn’t a dream. Or a trick. Or a goodbye in disguise. So, you reached for him again—gently—hands moving to cup his face. Your thumbs brushed his cheeks, grounding him with every pass. Your forehead came to rest against his, and your voice dropped to a whisper.

“I’m here,” you said. “I’m not running. Not anymore.”

His hands came up, slow and unsure, sliding over your waist, then up your back, drawing you closer. He pressed his forehead harder against yours, his eyes shut tight like if he held on hard enough, he could lock this in place forever.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “It just… felt like before. For a second, it all came rushing back.”

“I know,” you said gently. “But it’s not before. It’s now.”

You kissed him then. Not out of passion, not to prove a point, but with aching tenderness. Lips against lips like a promise. Like a seal over everything broken and healing. Then you tucked yourself into his side, your arm draped over his middle, your hand resting against his chest. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, firm and certain this time. Protective. Possessive. Grateful.

And just as your breathing began to slow, just as the storm outside softened into something almost melodic, Bob tightened his hold on you. Not gently. Firm. Unmistakable.

You blinked, barely awake, your voice husky with sleep. “What are you doing ?”

He didn’t pull back. Just buried his face in your hair, his voice a murmur against your crown. “Just making sure you won’t go anywhere.”

You smiled into his chest. “I won’t,” you whispered. “I’m staying.”

And this time, he didn’t doubt it. This time, he let sleep take him. Because this time, when he reached for you in the dark—You were still there.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

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