#and he puffs up like a cat if hes startled | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 months

Text

CAT-EYES

PAIRING: Runaway Groom!John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Thief!Reader

SYNOPSIS: What begins as a normal day of stalking the back road for wealthy carriages, turns into a walking nightmare spanning three days. Who is this finely-dressed man stumbling about your woods?

WORDCOUNT: 13.3k

WARNINGS: Blood, injury, light gore, pining, intense banter, sarcasm, insults, kind of enemies-to-lovers but eh, angst, protective!John, light hurt/comfort, bittersweet?, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You were sitting in the branches again.

Lightly swinging your legs from over the sides, the rough bark at your spine shifted as you let out a tiny sigh into the chilled air. In your ears, you’re hearing the bugs fly past, and the large hart about fifteen feet away pushing through the undergrowth—built body just barely there as the puff of his hot breath wafts upwards.

Twirling the arrow between your fingers, your bow sitting carefully in your lap, you close your eyes and listen.

The years had come and gone and yet you remained here in this small corner of nowhere—resting in this old gnarled oak tree with its branches and leaves giving protection from the elements when nothing else would. Sure, you had a small home to call your own in these very woods, but your windows didn’t give a view of the back road to the East. Barely anyone took it now, and you think you’re partially to blame for it, but, well, perhaps those pesky nobles shouldn’t have been too prone to flashing their coin.

So it was their fault, and on your failing honor, the money always went to a good cause anyway. Who wouldn’t want a poor woman to eat?

But, no. There are rules that every thief follows, no matter how unsavory. You never killed anyone; you never harmed them, either. Just the money—a brandished dagger or an arrow to the side of a carriage wouldn’t hurt anything besides pride, and many of those you stole from had enough to last them multiple lifetimes.

“Greedy fellows,” you sigh under your breath before you stretch like a cat, arching your spine and spreading your arms high above your head. The few rays of sun you get through the leaves dance across your face, but still, the thick layer of cold air is present all around.

Shuffling a bit in your shoulder-wrapping, you yawn and fall back once more—licking your lips and thinking of warm stew and fresh bread from the inn down in the town. Shivering, your fingers move to play with your bow, tapping along the bend of wood as the trees are brushed by a soft breeze. The hart below huffs louder still—hooves crushing across the fallen twigs, and you think it’s a bit strange the thing is still here despite your scent clearly in the air, but your eyes are more focused on the road than an animal.

Until it speaks.

“Hells fuckin’ bells, this damn get-up is going to be the death of me,” the words are barked out quickly—laced with heated anger as a branch is slapped by heavy hands.

Startling, your head snaps below you rapidly; heart jerking inside of your chest so suddenly that you nearly send yourself off the side of your perch. Scrambling for your bow to make sure it doesn’t clatter to the dirt of the Earth, you force down a loud gasp at what you see.

“Bastard things,” meets your ears as you stare open-eyed at a bulky man as he stumbles out into the small clearing below your tree, looking behind him as he pants. Your jaw goes slack at the extravagant apparel clothing this sudden stranger—a red, black, and blue tartan thrown over his shoulder, pinned with the silver image of a great boar head, and the kilt has more than one bramble stuck into it as it swishes with his turn.

He has a sporran as well, made of dark furs with three tassels hanging, the metal also silver, as your experienced eyes can tell as they narrow in confusion.

“What in the hell…” You breathe quietly, leaning just a bit more over the edge of your branch slowly.

There were black belts and buckles, rich shoes of leather, and your gaze slowly drags to the hanging body of a sword strapped to his waist, swinging as the man rests his feet and looks down at himself with a deep annoyance. There wasn’t an inch of him not coated in dirt, mud, or sweat—all that deer-ish panting and huffing escaping his mouth in condensed clouds.

“Fuckin’,” he stops himself from continuing the curse, holding up his hands as he glares down at his form. “Jesus, this’ll never come out at this rate.”

This comment made your lips twitch, eyebrow-raising as your sharp vision filtered from one detail to the next—learning the brown shade of his cut hair and the strange way it’s kept long down the center, and short along the sides. He had a strong build to him, and the boar broach, while it may be something to distinguish a family line as he seemed wealthy, perfectly reflected the individual.

He was a being of muscle and stubborn willpower. All tusk and bristled fur.

Your eyes linger a bit longer on the silver of that broach—the thing that glints in the light alluringly. You hum under your breath, tilting your head softly. Yet, your impression was made, and your wits are about you as sharply as they always had been.

This was a formal outfit, for a formal occasion. So, why was this important man trampling through the woods where you were set to ambush the next unassuming noble on the road? Why was he looking over his shoulder so tense-like? Your curiosity had piqued the second you’d figured out the rabid crunching from the bushes wasn’t a deer but instead, a wealthy-looking man who wasn’t, you admitted, too hard on the eyes.

Blinking, you smile, fingers twitching over your bow as the stranger brushes his vest rapidly, growling down at the large mud stains.

“Lost, then?” Your voice makes him startle, skull whipping forward to the tree trunk until you whistle and lean forward; moving your bow to push away the cover of leaves. “Up here, now,” blue eyes immediately lock with yours and you hum, chuckling, at the moment of shock that shines through. “Poor bastard, look at you and all that mud. You’ve been through hell, mate, eh? By the state of you, I’d say you fought a bear and found yourself at the end of an unfortunate outcome.”

Your words are smooth—nearly sly just as they always are. There’s intent leaking out of every one of them until all that remains is a layered purpose, like that of a butcher peeling away flesh from a hide. You have to process that skin: lay it to a rack to let it dry before it can be stretched to the desired firmness, and, finally, softened.

You took as much pleasure in the mental hunt as you did the payoff. Where there’s money to be earned, there’s also knowledge—you were a thief of all.

The man watches you with wide eyes, those blues glinting as they blink, glancing around rapidly to check for any others like you that may be hiding. He steps back, a hand brushing his sword, and you think to yourself slowly, he’s smart.

You breathe down chilled air. Before he responds he checks to make sure it’s not an ambush—the man understands he’s out of his element here. He’s on edge.

The both of you stare at one another, before your face shifts, brow-raising up on your forehead.

“What, did I startle you?” Legs looping to hang off the same side, your body feels lighter than a feather as you send yourself over the edge, knees taking the brunt of the force as your head catches up to your stomach—grunting as you hold your bow heavily in one hand. The jostle moves the limbs of your arrows, kept in a quiver at the small of your back.

Standing fully, you huff and set an easy smile to your lips, all teeth.

“My apologies, Lord.” Your free hand finds your heart, and you bend your spine forward. “I couldn’t help but see you down here below my tree.”

“Best to stay where you are,” the stranger grunts, only giving you enough of a glance to deem you unthreatening, apparently. Your form straightened. He watches you warily on the next go-around, attention always drifting to every snap of a twig off into the trees or the breeze shifting the leaves. “No need to apologize,” is the hurried reply, caught on a rough accent and a hissed gravel huff. “I’ll be on my way once I get my bearings. I don’t have time for conversation—and you should find your way home before long.” Eyes dart. “It isn’t good to be out today...or tonight, I’d say.”

If possible, your intrigue gains strength like a saint in Heaven.

The man’s square face raves in a clench of his jaw, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Are you sure you’re not lost, Lord?” You continue, undeterred, and shift your bow to sling it over your shoulder. “I live in these woods, I’d have no trouble directing you to the road. It isn’t far.”

“It’s John,” he grunts, glancing over, out of sorts. He was tired—his limbs were shaking with exertion even if he didn’t realize it yet. You think that perhaps if he were more focused, he’d ask why a woman had just landed in front of him from the branch of an Oak; dressed in trousers and a tunic, with just a woolen wrap to keep out the chill. Dirt over her face and a cunning edge to her words. Or, maybe he did know, you wondered, and simply didn’t care at the moment.

“Just call me Johnny. And,” he shakes his head firmly. “No. Go home to your husband, Bonnie, this doesn’t involve you.” He blinks, staring with a line across his forehead, stubble pulling along his cheeks. “I know this place—there’s a road just to the…” he turns his head to the direction of your trail, blinking at the coverage of thick foliage. “Fuck,” the dark-haired stranger growls, blues sparking up in a feral display of desperate weight.

You can only see the winding bends if you have a vantage point—that was why you chose your tree in the first place. Your smile grows.

“It’s that way, Lord,” you breathe, pointing in the opposite direction of the road, back to the small path of brambles and bushes that leads closer to your home instead. “We pass my property on the way, I can offer you some drink for your troubles.” A chuckle wafts the air. “You look like you need it.”

There’s a large moment of hesitation, in which you begin to wonder if this prize might be too big to catch, but, then, as there’s a flash of something over John’s face, he grits his teeth and sighs.

“Aye, fine,” he nods, looking to the side as he lowers his tense shoulders and clears his throat. You’re offered a sincere expression that borders on strained guilt. “Thank you, Dearie. I…” John pauses, frowning. “I hope I didn’t scare you too much when I burst through the trees like that—I’m in a bit of a rush if you can’t tell. I need to make for the shore.”

“My,” you huff, shifting your body and motioning him to follow—he does, setting his feet carefully ahead of him with experienced movements; keeping a respectable distance away. Johnny wasn’t new to the woods, then. He knew where to place his feet, at the very least. “The shore? That sounds exciting.” You conclude, hiding your creased brows as you stare forward. “Making for the South? I’ve heard handfuls are leaving for the weather.”

Looking over your shoulder, you make sure he keeps on your trail as you push through the bushes. “More agreeable, they say. Less rain.”

John chuckles, though he’s still visibly aware of everything around him. He spares you a look, a small smirk taking over his slightly chapped lips. “Keep talkin’ like that, and I just might.”

You’re surprised by the genuine laugh that fights in the back of your throat. Humming under your breath, you shrug it off as simply as a dog does a fly. It was painfully obvious neither of you trusted the other.

John’s eyes were stuck on the back of your head, and yours were eager to slide back to his form on the off-chance you had to use the dagger strapped to the meat of your thigh, carefully hidden under your trousers and accessible via a cut in your pocket. He was all muscle, and already you know that any attack coming to you would be unwise to try and retaliate—slash and retreat was a much better escape plan.

You could outrun him.

“So,” your words bleed curiosity, eyes imploring as you glance over your shoulder. “Why are you out in the woods, Johnny? In such a nice outfit as well. Is there something going on around here?”

The dark-haired man tilts his head your way, sighing long. “A wedding, actually. Horrible thing, if I have to comment on it.”

Your lips twitch.

“Oh, aye. I’d heard about it in town not two days ago—something about a marriage of advantage? Who was the unlucky pair, then?”

John clenched his jaw, hand coming up to push at the smear of dried blood on his cheek, which you’d just noticed wasn’t dirt and instead the result of a branch slap. Pale cheeks were wind-bitten. Lungs heavy. You narrow your gaze before stopping the surge of questions in your mouth.

“Some poor bastard, that’s who,” he responds slowly, mostly under his breath, before blinking. “How much further is the road, Dearie? No offense,” he grunts, staring seriously at you “but I'd rather not be here for much longer.”

The boar broach winks at you.

“Not far,” you smile coyly. “Forgive me, Lord John—”

“Just Johnny—”

“—But I do hope you’re not a fugitive.”

Blue eyes widen, sure feet faltering.

“.... Negative, Bonnie, no, I’m not running from the law. You don’t have to worry about any of that with me,” he breathes, and not once does he look away from you. You have to commend the man, he seemed an honest fellow, and those, you knew, were very rare indeed in your time. “I just need to get out of these woods. You’ll never hear from me again after I’m gone.” He takes a breath, looking past you. “You have my word.”

“Is it worth believing?” You push, smirking. “There’s few dressed like you that I can say it is.”

John licks his lips as you both pass a fallen tree, standing more side by side than previously now that the density of bushes had dispersed. He huffs, sending you a side-eye before he seems to study your face, brows pulling jokingly.

“I don’t think my answer would make much of a difference, would it?”

You pause, enjoying this man’s company more by the second. “No, it wouldn’t.” The both of you stare, before you grin and pull your sharp gaze away, chuckling. “Follow me,” you motion a hand. “Before you fall into a mud pit and completely ruin what little is left of your outfit that’s sellable—” You fumble, faking a cough as you clear your throat and finish off with tension now in your spine, “Salvageable.”

“If I’m bein’ honest, Bonnie,” Johnny grumbles, either not noticing the mistake or simply not registering it. “I wouldn’t fuckin’ care if it got covered in horse shit.”

—

You open the door to your home, shifting out of your bow and setting it against the wall with your quiver following to rest beside it as two siblings should.

“You’re lucky,” you hum, “I just went to the well this morning—freshwater is in the basin, cups on the table.”

John’s eyes give a firm once-over, fingers fidgeting above his sword’s hilt. He nods once, moving into the doorway, and immediately goes to where you describe and grabs onto a carved cup, tilting it in his hands.

“Thank you,” he mutters sincerely, hand dipping into the collection of water. “Eh,” John puffs a laugh, “I’d imagine I would still be stumbling along if it wasn’t for you, little Lady. These woods are larger than I remember them.”

“You come from around here?” You ask, brushing down your wool wrapping as you pull at the burs in the fiber. “Don’t recall your face in the town, though I’m not there often.”

“Hm,” he takes down the water, and you watch his Adam’s Apple bob as droplets slip from his lips to drop off his chin. Once he had drunk the entire cup, he removed it and wiped at his mouth with his forearm, blue eyes peeking above it. “I…wasn’t in town usually. Not really my place—the forests outside of my property took most of my attention.” He confesses, head tilting as the strange cut of his hair flops along with his skull. “Those, I could run blind.”

“I’m sure,” you puff a laugh.

While the air was somewhat calm, there was still an underlying hesitancy: Johnny didn’t know who you were, and you didn’t know what he was running from. Both were important questions that needed to be answered. Yet, John seemed the casual type.

“Doubt me?” His eyes narrow, a smile brewing.

“I never said that,” you walk past him, also grabbing a cup before dipping it into the basin. Your finger points. “But it would be interesting to test.”

“Unfortunately,” John breathes, setting down his cup, “I’m occupied at the moment.”

“A groom would be,” you tilt your head, casually sipping at your drink. “Your wife must be fucking fuming right now.”

The room flips on itself, and the man is instantly frozen.

Johnny stares, shocked, and you see his feet instinctually ready a stance to either blot to the door, or to take up his sword. His expression is layered with secrecy.

“...What was that?”

“I said your wife must be fucking fuming,” you say louder, slipping your hand into your pocket and shrugging to make it seem meaningless—your dagger’s hilt is smooth under your flesh. “Or did you not finish the ceremony? Betrothed, then, Johnny Boy?” Your eyes glint. “Hell, the event must have been absolutely laced with wealth. Did you have wine imported? New fabrics for your wedding clothes? I’d almost be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“That’s none of your business, Dearie,” he levels, glare heavy and firm while his face is stoic. You can clearly see his body wound up like a wild dog. “I think we’re done here.”

He backs up quickly, legs taking him to the exit until you’re suddenly right behind him, and the man feels the sharp press of a blade into the back of his spine.

Your lips are at his ear, and you chuckle. “Sorry, but we’re not done until anything valuable is in my hands and not on your body.”

“If you wanted me naked,” he growls, glaring from over his shoulder, as his form is rod-straight. “You could have just asked, Little Thief.”

“I’d call it heavy persuasion,” you chuff. “Sounds better, don’t you think.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Johnny barks, teeth gnashing. “Put the knife down before this gets ugly.”

“I’m not entirely sure I want to,” your answer meets the air. “There’s enough silver and fine fabric on you to feed me for an entire winter, even when the deer move to better grounds.”

John grits his molars, his neck bent as his fingers twitch at his sides, slipping along to his sword slowly.

“Money? That’s why you’ve got a bloody blade on me? Christ, my day just keeps getting better and better.” You glare, anger moving behind your eyes.

“Some people have to work for what they want, you—” Your hand is slapped to the side as John spins, and your dagger is sent along the floor in a loud clatter; a hand finding your upper arm as you gasp, and, suddenly, there’s the chilled edge of a blade at your throat.

Wide-eyed, you gape at John as the man smirks at you, yet his orbs are infected with annoyance.

“When you draw a knife on someone, you best know how to use it.” The edge is slightly pressed deeper and your body refuses to move. “You put it at the neck, Cat-Eyes.” John frowns, glaring. “Knew there was something about you—down to the bow and arrows.”

“What,” you growl out, a low embarrassment stemming in your gut as John’s puffs of breath move along your face. Your face burns, and your fingers jerk with anger. “A woman can’t have hobbies?”

“Not when I find ‘em up trees waiting to ambush any bastard that comes by wearing silver.”

“Mate,” you sneer, eyes glimmering. “At this point, you can keep your damn silver. It’s more of a reward to watch you stumble like a fool through the woods five feet from the road.” Johnny’s face tightens, yet there’s little time to fight like children anymore when the sound of breaking branches is echoing off the windows of the house.

Both of your necks whip to the door, yours a great deal more carefully as you’re slightly nicked by the sword's edge, but the drip of blood is voided. High voices carry over the air.

“Find him!”

“His tracks lead through here—get the hounds on it!”

“Here!”

Your brow raises, smirk getting larger as you chuckle under your breath. “Better get on your way quickly, then.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Johnny snarls, all at once ripping his sword from your neck yet keeping his ruthless grip on your upper arm. He looks nervous now—his eyes jumping from one place to another, thinking. “Where’s the damn road, you minx.”

You shrug, eyes sharp. “What road, Lord?”

The strong man rages, eyes burning with a thousand suns as the sword is taken from your neck and re-sheathed in one motion—a second hand staples itself to your waist, gripping tightly. You blink, saliva swallowed down thickly at the dig of heavy fingers into flesh as your heart stutters.

“You’re going to tell me,” John levels, shifting the both of you back as the sounds of fast footsteps are echoed by the bay of dogs. “As much as I would enjoy being away from you in any capacity at all,” you smile humorously to him through his dead-tone monologue, “I need a guide out of these woods and across the land. If you won’t help willingly, I’ll just have to make do.”

You blink, confused.

“Make do?” Your body is taken up, and you shout as you’re ruthlessly flung over the man’s shoulder with a hiked toss.

Johnny’s smirk is lost to you, but his chuckle is not as he dashes to the door and slams it open, taking a quick left and looping the house—diving into the foliage as if a fish to water. “Unhand me, you brute!” You scream, clawing and hitting at the man’s back—kicking even, as your knee speedily finds his ribcage. “Ow!” John laughs, his grin highly amused as he turns back to look at you. The shouts from the trees get larger, but that doesn’t help you much as you’re both soon going deeper and deeper into the woods. “Jesus, you have a pair of legs, don’t you?”

“If I were marrying you,” you bark down at him, struggling with all of your might as your home disappears from view. “I’d be running instead of the other way around!”

“Well,” Johnny calls, his sword bouncing off of his hip. “It’s a good thing you’re not, then, isn’t it, you bonnie little thief? Your husband would be dead and all of his coin in your dirty pockets!”

“Stop calling me a thief!” You send a closed-fisted slap to the top of his head, and he grunts, balking to the side. “Learn how to handle a fucking lady!”

“Lady?” He breathes heavily, shoving into another bush as leaves get tangled in his hair—twigs stuck in yours as you scowl rabidly. “If you’re a lady, Bonnie, then I’ve got a beast waiting for me back at my ceremony.”

—

He stopped when the light of the sun was low, and your constant attack of his spine left an array of large, fist-shaped bruises on his skin.

“Easy,” John grunts, dropping you with a huff to a down-turned stump.

It isn’t long before you shoot back up, hands clawing for his throat. “Hells Bells!” The man ducks, boyish glint in his eyes as he darts to the side, stepping out of the way as you stumble on tingly legs.

“I’m going to skin you alive,” you yell. “Piece of utter dog shite!”

“Now that’s a bit strong,” John breathes, panting from his mad run for his single life. “Don’t you think?”

You take one step forward, and he takes two back—stuck in a game of cat and mouse. Your eyes are like tiny fires, illuminated with only anger and hatred.

“Give me one reason why I should even attempt to help you,” your screams rise above the trees, hands splayed as John puts his hands to his knees, taking down breaths as sweat dribbles down his neck into his vest. “You-you,” your tongue fumbles, “kidnapper!”

“Technically, it would be an abduction, Dearie.” You slap him across the face and see the man’s cheeks go red from the blow. Shoving your nose nearly right into his, you sneer.

“Correct me again, and it’ll be your balls I hit next.”

He swallows, blinking, before he smirks and pairs it with a chuckle as his eyes spark. “Yes, Ma’am.”

You growl as he holds up his hands, moving one to rub at the back of his neck and itch at the shaved portion of his scalp. That damned smirk—you despised it.

“Get me to the closest port,” John settles, getting to business as his expression mellows out. “And I’ll make it worth your while, I give you my word.”

“What?” You laugh, shaking your head in exasperation the longer the silence falls; realizing how serious the man is. “Oh God in Heaven, this has to be a joke.”

“Anything you ask for, you can have from me when this is over,” he sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his mud-caked shoes. “I don’t need more than the fee to secure a spot on a good ship sailing away from here, and whatever is left I’ll give to you if you want it. You win in this situation, and I’m not trying to hide it from you.”

Your sharp eyes hone in, unwavering in its heat.

“Christ,” Johnny breathes, “I’d even give you my damn socks if that’s what it takes—I need to get out of here. Quickly.”

You stare, sneering. “Is your betrothed a damn witch or what?”

Blue eyes blink, and his words are firm as they meet air. “Are you taking up my offer or not, Cat-Eyes?”

“Of course, I’m taking the offer!” You bark ruthlessly, rolling your eyes as you kick at the dirt. Rocks and grass fly as darkness settles heavier. “I’m not a fool.”

“Well,” he sighs in relief, looking to the shadows along the ground. “I can’t say you’re that, either, but you are certainly something.”

You narrow your eyes at Johnny but don’t waste your time any longer as you turn and study what you can see.

You had grown up here—in this land. The woods knew you just as much as you knew them. Already you could pinpoint a general map of this section based on the large cracked boulder to your right, and the tiny cluster of trees across the way. You knew the way to town, and from there, the port.

“It’s a three-day walk,” you grumble, side-eyeing the man as he moves to lean against a trunk. He wouldn’t be moving through the night—you didn’t complain on that front either. “You grab at me like that again, and I’ll—”

“Let me guess,” Johnny raises a brow. “You’ll hit me in the balls.”

Your thin lips tell him all he needs to know.

Shuffling past him, you frown and pull your wrapping closer, shuffling your chin into it. No fires for warmth, you know—not with people on your trail.

“I want an explanation,” you turn and dig into him, walking closer as John looks to the side. “If I’m sticking my neck out, I want answers as well as coin.” Poking him in his chest, you force your neck to find his gaze. “Why are you running?”

Johnny sighs, licking his lips as he nods with a low, “Fine.”

You tilt your head, and John moves back to sit against the stump, moving out his hands in an honest display.

“I was told I needed to marry and produce heirs if my house was going to survive, aye?” He states, and you know the story well. “My parents are gone, and my sisters are all married, but my estate is barren of anyone besides myself and the staff. To keep the peace, I gave my word that I would join into a union to secure my assets for my bloodline.”

It was all so formal, the talk of a wife and children—you never understood it. Why couldn’t people simply marry who they love and leave it at that? All this bloodline and assets. Don’t they ever get sick of it?

“What’s your last name, then,” you ask. “McDuff? Mackenzie?”

“MacTavish,” John shakes his head, rubbing his hand up and down the back of his neck. Blue eyes stay with yours. “John MacTavish, I have lands to the North.”

Your brows tighten, arms going to cross themselves. “You’re running from your home because of a union you can freely exit?”

“It isn’t free,” he grumbles, shaking his head firmly and setting his jaw. “My father’s wishes for his children were written down and sealed. I was to marry a daughter of Arthur Campbell when I came of age.” John chuckles face going a bit pink. “As you can see, I’m a good few years past that.”

You tilt your head, and while Johnny was certainly passed the normal age of a male in his position to be wed, it struck you as odd as to why he didn’t want to be in the first place. In marriage during these times, a man has little to lose when joined. Almost nothing else changes for them except another title is added to their long line of others already living under him.

John continues, and you stay your snake-like tongue for now. “Wasn’t until I learned that by now, Mr. Campbell’s second born daughter, who was the only one near my age, had passed nearly an entire year ago—leaving only the oldest behind.”

“And?” You hum, intrigued to see where this goes. Johnny itches at his chin, scratching the stubble that lives there along with the dirt and grime. “What, I’d imagine the head of the Campbell family wanted to uphold the arrangement?”

“Aye, they did,” John grunts, nodding. “Fiona Campbell was the woman I was set to marry today.” He pauses, sighing heavily before looking to the side. Darkness had set, and there was little light by way to see the expression of guilt growing on his face. “I’m not lyin’ when I say I didn’t want to make such a mess of it, but there’s only so much a man can do when he learns his bride is not only twice his age,” John breathes, grunting, “but also just…” He stops himself, sighing.

You frown, gut swirling.

“She was blank, do you understand?” Johnny asks, motioning a hand in a display of unknowing explanation. “All she seemed to care about was children and wealth. A slate waiting to be filled with someone else’s thoughts and ideas. I didn’t want to be the one to fill it—I’ll not be some husband that runs a wife around like a dog. That isn’t right to me; it wasn’t how I was raised.”

Your mind twists on itself with an indefinable feeling—skin tight to your bones as if taken and tied by ropes. Your heart pumps blood a little harder, but just because this man seems less of a bastard doesn’t mean you like him. He’d dragged you into this hunting party of his grand problem, and the sooner you got your payment, the better and easier it would be to disappear.

“How noble,” you huff, rolling your eyes. Yet, your voice is hiding an under-the-breath shock. “So you bolted into the woods?”

Johnny rubs at his nose bridge, growling in annoyance. “Yes—it was the best cover I had. Been going through the trails since sunrise.” He slaps his hands to his knees and stands back up with a grunt and an ache in his thighs. His sarcastic voice peels the shadows. “Are we satisfied, now, Bonnie?”

“I won’t be until you’re out of my sight,” you level, moving forward. “So are you going to bed so I can drag you to the port or not?”

John’s body is heard shifting as you slip down the trunk of a tree, backside hitting grass as you settle in for a restless sleep—pulling your wrap tighter over your shoulders. Here you were: weaponless and in the company of a runaway groom still in all of his finery.

You wanted that damn boar broach.

“Sleep’ll be smart, we need to be up early,” John says seriously, his shoes shifting the leaves. Letting the chill seep in, you burrow into your fabrics and glare ahead. Johnny’s sly voice is so reminiscent of yours, that you have to wonder if the two of you were cut of the same cloth. “I won’t be opposed to a cuddle if you get chilly, Little Lady—”

“I should have stabbed you when I had the chance.”

Johnny’s low chuckles waft over the air, and then the silence settles fully.

Yet, you’re up far later than you anticipated…and you find this honest man’s confession to be bouncing inside of your skull like an enraged bird.

—

“Christ, did I do that?” A finger is pressed under your chin, tilting your head up as you strangle a gasp at the sudden motion.

Johnny looks at the tiny cut along your neck from the edge of his sword—the barely-there irritation of the skin that you’d been itching at as you walked forward through the trees.

He frowns, glancing into your eyes as your body stills at the feeling of warm flesh.

It was the first day of walking, and the silence between the two of you had stayed. Not only were you annoyed at the situation, but also John’s story—you’d been mulling it over since last night.

But below that anger, you might have even felt a little wrong.

“Who else?” You sigh sarcastically to the man, trying to hide the rising flood of heated shock. Thick digits drag along your esophagus slowly in study, and John’s face creases the longer he looks. He’s hunched near you, too—and you can smell the low scent of leather and earth.

Johnny pulls back with a huff and slips a hand into his sporran. Your eyes watch with blatant distrust until a relatively clean rag is taken out by a steady hand.

He motions with it. “Come ‘ere. Let me get the dirt out of it before it gets infected, eh?”

You sigh lowly but decide it’s a good idea at the very least before nodding—John’s fingers return as the light from above leaks through the branches. The morning was cold, but not unreasonable; the woods gave shelter from the otherwise abusive wind of the open country.

“Look at that,” you breathe, “The first nice thing you’ve done for me.”

“Ah,” John lightly glares. “Not quite right—I carried you away instead of making you run with me.”

Your eyes roll, and Johnny’s chuckle echoes off the surroundings.

“Such a gentleman,” you grumble, feeling the rag press into your throat and the soft scrape of it across your scratch.

“So,” the man hums, blue eyes stuck to your flesh as he takes care of it far more nicely than you’d imagined someone to be. “Seeing as I’ve shared my sob story, Cat-Eyes, I think I’d like to ask after yours.” His voice is full of amusement. “As we’ll be keeping one another company.”

“It’s less as in-depth than yours,” your fingers twitch as Johnny moves back after the cleaning is done—returning the rag to his sporran as he blinks.

“I don’t believe that,” he raises a brow, as you ignore the remembrance of his touch and continue, paving the trail as the dark-haired man follows a close distance behind. “Can’t say there’s many times I’ve seen an unwed woman wielding a bow and thieving someone out of their money. I’ve seen a lot of things, Bonnie,” he laughs, “but never that. Scared the hell out of me when you dropped down.”

“You can add me to the top of the list, I suppose,” you puff a teasing breath. After an expecting pause in the conversation, you grow bored of the nothingness.

“I’ve lived out here my entire life—I do what I have to. That’s all there is to it.”

John’s face gradually pulls into itself, only looking away from you to glance at the path to make sure he won’t fall.

“No family?”

“None,” you tilt your head, shimmying under a low branch and pushing leaves off your shoulders. They sway to the ground softly as you brush an arm over your forehead, sensing Johnny’s attention.

The man grunts. “M’sorry.”

Your feet stumble for a moment, pace faltering, until you cover it up easily. You turn to stare, narrowing your eyelids as open blues watch silently. John’s shoulder brushes yours.

“It’s life,” you blankly answer. “Least I wasn’t married off. Where you had to worry about a blank slate, I had to worry about becoming a broodmare for a man who most likely would never love me.”

Johnny licks his lips, eyes darting to the ground. “Can’t imagine you like that,” he mutters, but it isn’t some joke—he’s truthful.

“Perfect,” is what his ears twitch to. “Because I’d sooner act like you and bolt from my wedding as well.”

“Would that make me the thief in your story, then?” Johnny asks, chuffing as he smiles towards you, reaching a hand above him to push another branch out of the way—separating it from your form as you bend under. “I’m tellin’ you, I wouldn’t be very good at it. All that dropping down from trees would have my knees screamin’. Not that they don’t already.”

Your laugh pierces his chest, and the man sends a kind if not a bit startled, show of interest to you. It sounded like a bowstring slapping a wrist—harsh and telling all at once: something to be known and understood even if heard only once.

John blinks at you, and his heart patters along in his chest.

“I think it would be more fun to think about you with a dagger,” you narrow your gaze at him, smiling. “A small thing like that would disappear in your hands, Johnny Boy.”

“Disappear?” He tilts his head, raising his hands to hover in front of him. “Ah, they’re not that big, are they?”

You shift, and, nearly without thinking, you slip your hand to sit above his. Johnny makes a noise in the back of his throat, eyes going wide as you reference the size of his grip under yours, but allows you to regardless. A blue gaze slides to your face, openly imploring, before they dart back down to your shared hands as the roughness of his callouses scraped against your flesh.

“Care to compare?” You smirk, lifting a brow.

Johnny’s lips parted quickly, blinking a few times as he tried to find the words to accompany his running mind. He clears his throat, but the small sheen of red pigment on his cheeks is undeniable.

Laughing, you detach the connection and pull ahead, leaving the man behind as he stutters with a fast pulse.

“You’re the strangest woman I’ve ever met,” is what he decides minutes later, a large grin on his face—he was enjoying this, for whatever twisted and flawed reason, he was. John’s adrenaline was pumping, his heart was pounding, and his feet were passing over the earth, yet, even better, his brain was sparking at a mile a minute for the woman who walked only three feet ahead of him. He watches you take these trails like an expert, not having to look down at your feet as stone and wood are passed as if you were water above them, whispering and nearly silent.

“At least I’m not boring.” Your eyes meet him, and in them, they create some horribly beautiful amalgamation of twin flames—two sparking fires that feed from the same ember. “You would never catch me becoming a housewife, Johnny Boy.” Your gazes never break. “There are far too many things to steal in this country, and so very few men who can keep up.”

John’s chest moves in the beat of his pulse—his attention wholly transfixed upon the sight of this wild-born woman whom he’d only met yesterday. There were leaves in your wrap, and brown-black mud coated up to your ankles, even sweat sitting at your temple, yet you moved with grace befitting a Lady: never seeming to tire of jokes or firm surety. Yet…you weren’t cruel—you weren’t without purpose.

Any accomplished thief would have just stabbed him and taken what they needed in your house. You offered John water, however, you chose to give him a chance to comply. It was such a small thing in the grand scheme, but Johnny was always one to analyze how one feather on a bird can affect the flight pattern, so to speak. One action that speaks volumes.

You liked creating games, and, lucky for him, John loved to solve them.

And that glint in your sharp-slitted eyes was becoming more and more enjoyable every second, he found.

Pushing back the strands of his wayward hair, John keeps up with you for every step, not unfamiliar with how to traverse unsteady terrain. He wasn’t lying in what he told you—he had spent most of his life in the forest beside his home: hunting, fishing, riding. There wasn’t an activity he didn’t enjoy when he was outside, though his mother was always heavy on him about the mess he brought back.

Blue eyes drop back down to your dirt-laced pants, and the man can’t help but give his best, lip-pulling smile.

Hell, if he didn’t know any better, he would say that you were something that made so little, and at the same time so much, sense to him.

“Well, maybe they just aren’t accustomed to hiking, Little Cat-Eyed Thief.”

There was something special in the glances you two would throw one another.

—

Your hands dip into the clear water, fingers open to feel the current drag through them gently.

“If you want a sip,” you say, cupping the liquid and bringing it up to your lips, “it’s safe. This river flows down from the hills—not perfect, but there’s only a small chance it’ll make you sick.”

John comes up and hums as he sits down beside you, folding his legs under him and leaning forward to submerge his arms up to his elbows in water. He sighs, and you hear the river gurgling as the man begins to rub up his flesh, getting rid of all the grime.

“Good to know.” Blue eyes spare you a look as he continues. “What’s this one called?”

“Woodney river,” you answer. “Old Man Jack Woodney ran a water wheel on this river a long walk West. If this place had a name before that, it won’t tell.”

Johnny washes his face, scrubbing at his stubble as the scratch of it plays in the side of your ear. You watch along the opposite shore, eyes going from trees to birds—even to the shadows of fish that quickly swim past. Sighing, you have to admit the beauty of this adventure. There were few times you could say you’d gone this far into the woods with no wealth to trade in with the townspeople.

You side-eye John and study him just as heavily as you do a wild animal.

He wasn’t unattractive, you admitted. Strong—sturdy. Johnny was capable in a way that most Lords wouldn’t be, some, you guessed, would already be complaining about the uncomfortableness of their clothes or the flesh of their blistered feet. But John was bright-eyed; more than once you’d seen him actively watching the stretch of the trees for any sign of his pursuers. He never complained. Not once.

“You’re not as insufferable as I thought you’d be,” you say. Frowning, your hands push back into the water and cup some of the chilled liquid. You let it drip before you extend your hand to your neck and feel your eyes droop in relaxation.

Johnny laughs, staring at you for a minute as he slowly raises a brow. His face shows amusement.

“Am I supposed to be insulted or not?”

“I leave that for you to decide.”

John cracks his knuckles and shakes his head as he stands. “C’mon,” he drags, but the smile in his voice is clear. A hand is set in front of yours. “Sooner I get out the port, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”

Your face softens slightly.

“Am I ever going to get an apology for being tossed like a sack of potatoes?” Skin meets skin as you slip your hand into his, and the man pulls you to your feet as you smile. Calluses brush yours, and yet again, you find you enjoy this game—perhaps more than any other you’d played before.

And you don’t understand why.

Johnny’s fingers are firm over yours, curling as water drips to the ground below in reflective droplets, and you think back to the first time you’d met him—panting breath and rapid eyes. Your eyes glance to that boar broach, and find it attached to a man that is suddenly more of a mystery than a closed book.

“Easy,” John mutters, steadying you by your shoulders as you remember where you are. The dark-haired man squeezes your flesh and looks into you.

Blue eyes glint, and that smirk, you find, is always followed by a tiny tint of his head. “And what’s that look for, Cat-Eyes?”

“You called me strange.”

John’s brows furrow. “Aye. I did.” He looks you up and down slowly. “You are.”

You do the same to him, not wasting more than a moment. “And I find it funny that you haven’t said the same thing about yourself. You’re far more strange than I’ll ever be.”

“Guilty,” Johnny smiles, nodding slightly. His hands are still on you, and he doesn’t seem to even notice. “I don’t think a normal one would fuck off from his own wedding, would he?”

“Or kidnap a woman as a guide,” you state, pulling out of his warm hold even as your stomach flips as you brush past

“Again,” John’s hand motions through the air. “Abduct.”

“You’re just saying that because it sounds slightly better,” you grimace over your shoulder. “Like comparing a dog to a wolf.”

Johnny is hot on your heels, and when the river-eroded stepping stones to the other side of the water are the clear path to take, he’s already on the first and holding out his arm for you as a true gentleman would. You glance at him and hop to the first stone, liquid sloshing at your shoes.

Your smirk is stuck with his like two pieces of a quilt, and neither of you realizes it.

“You put a knife to my back first, Dearie.” John puffs and his face is right next to your ear as you both cross the stones—you lean into him and elbow his side before your arm slips into his. The man grunts, blinking as he chuckles above the slosh of water.

“So? Maybe I only point knives at the men I like.”

“Then I’d say you have every right to put one right at my throat.”

Feet move carefully over rocks and the spray of the water that coats them—a dance of wit in their own right. It was like animals circling one another, all sharp eyes and pulled lips trying to find weaknesses. Deadly flirting and addictive banter.

Where annoyance was such a common emotion, now there was a near expectation of jabs; of tantalizing quips for the glimpse of another's mind.

Neither of you could understand the other, which was exactly why you both reveled in the brush of warm flesh.

“Careful,” your feet meet the hard ground once more on the other side, and John only lets go when he knows that you don’t need him to steady you. “You’re engaged, Johnny Boy.”

Your tease slips in one ear and out the other, and the man watches you turn and begin walking again with sly eyes. John’s wide gaze stays stuck there for a moment—mouth eager to continue any conversation given. Watching you walk, his heart beats speedily.

“I think my, ah, reputation has all but ruined my chances on that front—”

There’s something unique about the sound of an arrow sinking into flesh that can’t really be forgotten. John had heard it many times—even been behind the bow that shot it; the slap of the string across his forearm, the set of his shoulder blades widening until the arrow disappeared.

But there’s something worse knowing that the sudden expulsion of air from lungs, in fact, belongs to you and not some wild animal.

You’re hit in a fraction of a second, down on the ground in less than that—your mind not even understanding above the immediate pressure and the slam of earth. You gasp loudly, and then the pain hits.

Hand snapping to your left bicep, your eyes slash down to stare as grass and mud fly into the air, rabid sounds escaping the back of your throat at the image that strikes you. An arrow was stuck deep into your skin—sticking out as blacked feathers flutter at the end of the shaft. The adrenaline hits rapidly, but the expression of horror still remains.

“Cat-Eyes!” Johnny yells, rushing forward, and unsheathing his sword, the sound of metal on metal harsh, but not as harsh as the sound of blood in the man’s ears.

You see the swelling of crimson, and, from under your fingers, the red of blood slips as your breathing gets hoarse. Biting into your lip, the quick sound of an under-the-breath groan of agony ripples.

But you’re not stupid.

Scrambling to your feet with the arrow still poking out of you, Johnny gets to you and pushes you behind him just as your shaking legs straighten—-your eyes slashing the woods in panic. Pain can wait.

The runaway groom spares you quick glances, pushing you further behind as his raging gaze darts this way and that. He yells into the trees, anger and order infecting his voice, “Show yourself!”

Just as suddenly, there’s a relieved call and a moving shadow. You clench your eyes tight and grit your teeth as a wave of pain rockets through you.

“Fuck,” you grind out, lost under the louder voice. Blood drips to the ground.

“My Lord!” Men burst through the leaves, bows, and swords aloft. “Quickly—to us!”

Johnny’s face is stiff; there isn’t an ounce of care, but the flash of recognition is swift, and in his chest, his heart, once beating so quickly, drops to his stomach.

Knights. His knights. Christ, the two of you hadn’t been fast enough.

“Stand down!” John spits, and cares little now for the thought of robbery or assault on his person—these men wouldn’t hurt him, but they were tasked to bring him back. “Fucking bawbags, the lot of you.”

His sword is sheathed by twitching fingers, and no sooner were those digits around you instead.

You pant hoarsely, face tight as your vibrating body tells you to run—eyes locked onto Johnny’s, the man in front of you ushers you over to the trunk of a tree hurriedly, uttering, “Just breathe now, Dearie—listen to me. It’s alright, aye?”

“What is this?” You raggedly push out, flinching as your spine meeting the bark jostles your arm painfully.

Your teeth grit, tears collecting in the corner of your vision.

“Knights,” John mutters as if his words are chased by wolves. “They’re after me—probably thought you were either holding me hostage or trying to lead me into an ambush.” The colorful fabric of his pinned tartan is dragged off from over his shoulder and shoved into your weeping flesh, and you lightly moan in agony, head falling back to the tree.

Tears slip from over your cheeks.

“Easy.” John’s concern is palpable. Worried eyes dart from your face to your wound. “Jesus,” he utters under his breath, anger flashing.

“Who is this?” One of the knights asks, taking a step forward as Johnny holds the fabric to your wound and speaks to you lowly, utterly ignoring the people behind him.

“I need to break the shaft off, okay?” Blue eyes try to keep even, and John’s other hand captures your cheek. He levels your face right in front of his, breathing lowly. The man clears his throat as your tight gaze flutters, tightening his grip. “Hey,” Johnny breathes. You grunt, voice a low grind.

“Just make it quick.”

John’s lips thin. “Yes, Ma’am.”

His large hand swiftly moves to the arrow, gripping around it just where flesh meets wood, you hiss loudly, spitting and raging as your vision partially blackens. Pain sparks up and down your spine, racing like a cat after a mouse.

“Lord,” one knight tries again, coming closer and reaching out for Johnny’s shoulder. “We need to get you back to Castle Campbell—we’ve been hoping to find you unharmed for your future wife’s comfort. Everyone is in a panic!”

“I’ll count down to three,” Johnny whispers to you, breathing heavily as he swallows and steady himself, hand lightly clammy. He wished he had his hunting gloves with him, but this was the best he could do. “Eh,” the man grunts, eyes steady, “You listening, Bonnie?”

“I don’t care what you count to,” you nearly bark, orbs flashing. “Just break the damn thing off—!”

The wood snaps with a defining splinter, and your scream afterward has the man having to hold you up with his arms around your waist, muttering into your ear with his lips against the shell.

“It’s alright, you’re alright,” John hears the clatter of the shaft to the grass just as the knight’s hand is heavily placed on his shoulder. “Breathe. M’right ‘ere.”

You sag into Johnny taking in the scent of sweat, blood, and dirt—the musk that stays even as your ears start ringing and the voices start getting louder.

“Best get your hands off o’ me before I break ‘em, Mate” Johnny grunts from deep in his chest, shifting your body to the side and effectively ripping his flesh out of the knight’s hold.

All the others shift nervously—hands on their swords and looking back and forth between the strange scene.

Who were you? A mistress? A bandit luring their Lord away? Why was he with you out here; going in the opposite direction of where the ceremony was supposed to take place? They’d been given orders, and a knight is no good unless he can follow them.

John MacTavish was needed, and their duty was to see it through.

Johnny’s tartan had fallen to the ground behind the two of you, getting kicked by feet as they shuffle and as your blood slips off of your limp fingers. Mind failing, your pain-addled form shakes even as the knowledge of imminent danger is present.

You needed to figure out a way to get out of here.

Pushing your head up from Johnny’s shoulder, your eyes flutter but manage to analyze what little you can see clearly—adrenaline can take care of most of your agony, only leaving a dull ache as your heart continues to rage.

A group of four knights have their hands on their swords, and all of their eyes are on John.

Run, a deep part of you urges. Your legs are still good. Take off—none of them know the terrain like you do. You’ll be free.

You pant, your nostrils flaring with every breath as your sweat trickles off your jawline. Johnny’s grip on you tightens, head shifting back and forth, unknowing where to anchor itself, not understanding which is more important—your state, or your safety.

Free, free, free.

Your mind flashes to an empty house: silent woods. How you would go months without seeing another human face, but that was your own choice.

Wasn’t it?

Your eyes slip to Johnny.

“We’ve been tasked with bringing you back, My Lord,” the first knight says, looking heavily upon the runaway. “We have our orders. Please understand.”

“And I’m telling you your orders are utter shite,” John spits. “So back the fuck up and drag yourself out of this place. Now.” He glares, teeth snapping. “Those are my orders.”

Your arm is numb, and your chest expands as it sits on John’s own. And you think.

You knew you were a selfish person.

There was no debate about it—even when you’d stolen enough coin to feed you for weeks, there was still a part of you that longed for some chase; some challenge to your senses. You liked stealing. You liked the looks on people's faces when they realized they were being swindled for every valuable item they had in their possession. But there was something you liked even more than all of that—a challenge.

Johnny, to you, was that challenge. He was the largest challenge you’d ever faced. A Lord who was running from a bride, a man who held his beliefs higher than praise or standing…a blue-eyed stranger who matches your poking jabs word for word.

“Damn,” your growl, and John takes it as an exclamation of pain.

He grits his teeth and studies you, opening his mouth as his concern grows at the smell of blood.

“We need to tie it off,” he utters. “Bastards made me drop the tartan—I’m sorry, Dearie.”

Your lips are near his ear.

“When I say ‘go,’ run to the left.”

Johnny halts, attention snapping down. His fingers flinch around you, face open until the mask of sudden knowledge flies over it like a curtain. But it’s gone just as quickly—hidden by intelligent eyes that glint.

He doesn’t question you, and, in the crux of your shoulder, you get a near-infinitesimal nod from Johnny’s head.

The guards grow suspicious, all mulling closer by the second the longer you two remain so close—on opposite ends, you feel your heart mirroring John’s in a rapid and ravaging pulse: Thump-thump, thump-pump, thump-pump-thump.

Your attention is split three ways.

One: the rising numbness of your limbs and the heat of your brain. Two: the spread of Johnny’s panting breath across your sweat-slick skin and his hands tightening. Three: knights and the clatter of their armor. How they slide their hands across their weapons like intimate partners—the tension building in a hemp bowstring and the sound of arrows hitting off one another; one taken and played with between fingers so similarly to how you would act.

Your tear-stained eyes glare at the knight who’d shot you, your expression building into an act of hatred.

They take a step forward.

“Cat-Eyes—” Johnny begins to warn slowly.

“Go.” Your words are no shout. They don’t echo off the trees, which all hold their breeze in expectation, they don’t ring in ears except the ones of the man holding you. But they’re like the personification of a sword strike—like the release of an arrow and the impending thump of it hitting home.

The knights dash forward with calls for their Lord to stand down, but John’s already flinched away with a heavy grunt.

You do the same, your plan already formed—you would run the opposite way as Johnny, only slipping off when the cover of bushes had enshrouded the both of you to create two sets of tracks. With any luck, the guards would break off into two groups and pursue the both of you, and you could easily lose yours.

From there, circle back and find John: get your bearings before—

Arms never detach from your waist, and you’re once more tossed into a strong grip.

Eyes bugging, your focus breaks as gravity leaves and your head goes light. Johnny dashes away, and, just as the last time, you’re in his boar-like hold.

“You idiot!” You bark, the only difference to your predicament now is that you’re held in a bridal grip and not slung over his sweaty shoulder. There was only a small sliver of relief before the annoyance overtook you.

Johnny’s body crashes through the leaves, the shouts of the knights following as he gruffly raises his voice to the wind. The trees shake with amusement.

“Thinking you could hand over some directions, Dearie?!”

“Thinking you could put me down?!” You shout back, your arm sparking with pain as your opposite wraps the man’s neck firmly. “Damn.” Your lips twist in response. “My legs work just fine, you know—I wasn’t shot in the arse!”

“Acting like you were,” John grumbles, a branch slapping his cheek before you can. Despite it all, he chuckles wholeheartedly at his own joke.

An arrow whizzes through the air, and you yelp, ducking behind his body even more as your skull fits under his jaw. Your eyes snap to the visible terrain as Johnny’s legs push from one side to the other, running in a zig-zag pattern to avoid any more injuries.

“There,” your brows rise, fighting past the pain to find the familiar slash of a gnarled willow tree that whizzes by in brown and dark green.

Your head rises to see more of the woods, only to be pushed back down by an all-expansive hand as John utters a fast-breathed and firm, “Not the best idea.”

He shoves through brambles, and the sounds of rampaging knights are gaining. The second John sloshes through a low pool with a loud curse, you know instantly where you two are.

“Take a left near the overhang with vines coming down!”

“That one?”

“Yes!”

And so this game continued long after the knights had been lost to the woods, stumbling about without any sense of where they were, and the two of you came to a panting halt an hour later. Deep night was setting in on the second day, and, as your shaky feet hit the ground, John kept a heavy eye on you.

“Steady,” he mutters, sweat pouring off his face; saturating his clothes. He worriedly stares, looking you up and down.

Your vision swirls, the glade around you the exact place you both needed to be. There were hills here—surrounded by thick trenches carved by rivers long dried. The stars were out, and the moon was shining down; one thin trickle of a river was feet away, the sound of water on rocks addictive to your pounding ears.

All of it was null to the way your gut flipped at the humming agony of your arm.

Your hand snaps to the puncture and the flood of blood is enough to leave your fingers dripping with crimson glinting in moonlight.

There’s a heavy ripping sound, and then you find yourself sitting down in the grass as Johnny shoves the torn fabric of his suit into the small river. You hear the splashing as you glance down at your arm before rapidly looking away, biting at your lip as your spine hunches.

“Christ almighty,” you growl, glaring to the side as your fingers quiver. Tears well.

“The arrowhead is keeping pressure,” John hurries to speak, trying to distract you just as his own exhaustion is bare to see. The rung-out fabric is looped around your arm, tying off until you have to strangle down a scream at the tightness on your flesh. “We have to keep it there until there’s enough sterile material to fix it up.”

“Your knights are pieces of work,” you hiss, more from the wound than anything.

John gives a little look, blue eyes darting up until falling.

“Aye, they are.” His strong jaw clenches. “This shouldn’t have happened, Dearie.”

You stare as he finishes up, and you feel his fingertips slipping along your arm. Your eyelids droop, closing as your nostrils suck in shaky air. You take a moment to take in the silence that follows, John’s eyes not straying as your face is illuminated.

He watches the streaks of dirt along your skin, and, in a soft attempt to fix this, he stands and moves to the river once more—cleaning his hands. Johnny takes the rag out of his sporran and wets it, coming back to your body as the grass waves back and forth.

“Let me…” the man says slowly, and your eyes open back up as the chilled item is pushed to your cheek.

Wide orbs staring forward, you swallow as John concentrates on cleaning your skin carefully.

“Infection is my immediate concern,” the man says with a sigh, yet continues as your tongue stays tied; face growing more heated by the second. “But you mentioned it takes three days to the town, aye? That’s not unmanageable with two already under our feet.”

Blood, dirt, and sweat slip away with every drag of the fabric, and, stuck into his suit, that boar broach still sits—crooked now, but still there.

Your attention is momentarily taken by it, and your fingers twitch before you notice how very close John’s face is to yours.

The man focuses, relaying a plan as you’re stuck mute; your arm holding its own heartbeat as the grass shifts.

“I’ll use what I have to get you into a doctor. Make sure there’ll be no problems before I get going.” John blinks, tilting his head. “‘Course, that’ll decrease the amount you’ll get in turn.”

“Fortunately for you,” you breathe, voice strained, and blue eyes stick to yours. John pauses, brows slightly pulling up on his face. “I value my own life too much to complain about a man paying for my care.”

John’s rag stays where he placed it, right on the swell of your cheek as, this close to one another, you can see the scar on his chin—one that curves to the muscle and bone.

He was handsome, make no mistake about it. You knew it; you understood it. A lord with morals and the smarts to go along with the strength—now that was utterly unheard of. You liked that, truthfully. Someone who could think, and plan.

And, of course, follow directions.

“You’ll be fine,” John mutters, glancing to the side, yet his head doesn’t move back. He clears his throat with a sigh.

You roll your eyes, moving out and grabbing his hand with the rag. Johnny’s expression startles, arm tensing as you steal the dripping fabric from him. Water runs down your neck.

“I know I am.” You huff, smiling.

You push the rag onto his own face, and begin your cat-like approval of his character, washing away the grime just as he had your own. A blue gaze stays firmly on your flesh, the man’s shoulders loosening until he’s sitting just in front of you. Verident grass whispers in a language like a soft breeze, and you study Johnny’s skin until everything becomes a mosaic of scars and blemishes—stories woven into sinews holding as much history as the tines on an elk or the chipped tusks of a boar.

Two days and he’d become even more of a mystery than he had been before. Or maybe he always had been, and now your previous contentment had grown into an addictive curiosity.

He’d called you Cat-Eyes.

You couldn’t love a title more—not even if Lady were on the table.

“I settle my scores,” you grunt, tilting your head as you push back mud from his forehead, leaning in. “You wash my face, I wash yours.”

“Literally, then?” A sarcastic eyebrow makes you huff.

“Is that not what I’m doing, Johnny Boy?”

“Seems so, Cat-Eyes.”

Your matching glares hold no venom.

Smirking, you lean back after the last swipe at his forehead, pushing Johnny’s skull back as he chuckles, moon-lit visage something you would see scrawled on the parchment of an old story-teller's sketches. A man not made for this age.

Your face softens slowly, and it is a strange thing sitting atop the sharpness of your eyes.

John’s chuckles fade, and his breath catches in his throat.

“You’re an odd fellow, John MacTavish,” you say, here, with blood from an arrow wound drying to crack along your skin.

Your head tilts, eyes narrowing.

John’s lips slowly pull upwards, and the water on both of your faces drips to the listening earth. This place is alive with possibilities, and all of them stem from the growing draw of twisted human souls.

A just Lord and a cunning thief.

A sharp-eyed cat and a strong-bodied boar.

A future and a past—riddled with arrow marks; long sword slashes.

“Well…then I’m thinking we make quite the pair, Bonnie.”

—

The third day was spent on the latter half of the journey. Re-correcting the course and giving the best directions you could with the numb ache of your arm spreading up your shoulder.

But the town came easily as the midday sun rose to crest your heads.

“Want to lean on me?” Johnny asks, standing close by, but you’re already shaking your head.

“Feels better to keep myself focused,” you mutter, grimacing. You look at the entrance to the town, and as you both walk it, the stares are immediate—shocked residents looking at the haggard appearance of two individuals.

“Alright,” John sighs, side-eyeing you. “Just let me know if you’re goin’ to keel over, yeah?”

“Duly noted,” you tilt your head his way. Your lips smirk like a smug child. “You’ll catch me, won’t you?”

Johnny chuckles, shrugging his wide shoulders as his tattered finery is chock-full of brambles and leaves.

“Can’t say no to that.”

The Lord kept his promise—the doctor took the arrowhead, cleaned, cauterized the wound, and sutured you back up. For payment, as you lightly touch the bandaged section of your arm, you find your eyes freezing as a silver glinting reflects off the light through the window.

Johnny hands over his boar broach to the doctor.

Widely staring at the prize being pawned off for your health, your heart stutters in heavy greed.

No, you rapidly think. No, that was the one thing that I—

Your eyes inexplicably snap to Johnny.

The immediate thought is that he looks angry, but, the next and more accurate one, is that he looks sad.

John’s blues continue to follow the broach as it disappears into the doctor's pocket, and you see the weight fall back to his chest and arms—sitting heavy like a stone. The man’s feet shift along the ground for a moment, and he looks like he’s about to say something before he grits his teeth and shakes his head to himself. John grunts, fixing his nose.

You blink, and then your heart twists in on itself for no reason at all.

Or maybe there was a reason.

“C’mon, Cat-Eyes,” Johnny sighs heavily, tilting his head as his arms cross. “Time to see me off, then.”

He walks out the door, and your eyes follow like a loyal dog.

Standing there for a moment, your lips contort your face into a deep frown, sharp eyes gaining a sheen of light anxiety. Yet, there was no mistaking it—it had been said a million times—if there was one thing you could do, it was play a game.

Maybe you weren’t so bad after all.

“Oh my,” you mutter, putting a hand to your head and stumbling.

The doctor starts forward quickly, grasping at your un-injured arm. “Careful now, Woman. Don’t rip my sutures.”

He tells you, getting you fully up as you chuckle, placing your hands above his thigh, fingers twitching on the fabric.

“Apologies, apologies,” you mutter, retracting your hand and cupping it against your abdomen with a meek smile. “Just a little lightheaded. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Best be off, now,” the man grumbles, and you’re out the door swiftly.

Your shoes meet the cobble as you shift your hands into your pockets, shifting your body to look along after the large form that leans against the home waiting for you.

“Ready?” Johnny asks, though his attention is firmly planted on the ground five feet away, lost in thought.

“Aye,” you sigh, nodding your head to the East. “Port’s that way—let’s get this nightmare over with.”

“Hm,” Johnny agrees, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Quite the adventure for a runaway.”

“You can’t have thought it would be easy?” Your brows furrow. “You’re heir to the MacTavish lands.”

“I never said I thought it would be easy,” John moves at your side, a great hulk of honesty. He hands over his attention at last as you fiddle with the smooth item in your pocket. He huffs. “Just that it was an…experience, to say the least. One I’m not sure I’d want to go through again.”

“You’ll miss me,” you say confidently, meeting eyes with a smirk and a cocky shift to your form despite the lessening pain.

Johnny watches. He smiles, eyes crinkling. “Aye. I will.” You pause, expression stilling. The man hums, and you swear there’s something special in the way you can describe his look as delicate.

“You were the one part that I don’t regret,” he says lastly to you as if the words aren’t spears laced with poison.

Your breath gets caught in a way it never has, and John seems not to notice as he pulls ahead, muttering about him seeing the docks. The smell of salt water slaps your nostrils.

The legs under you slow until they’re stopped, and you look after the man as he begins speaking to workers along the port, asking for a spot on the large ships that sit in the water, rocking with the winds.

Your eyes trail, seeing the way he talks with such confidence—openly offering physical labor as his payment for even the dark quarters with the other laborers.

After what seems like hours of watching, you see him shake another man’s hand, and, just like that, passage is earned. He jogs back over, smiling.

You open your mouth to say something, but find the words null and void. You don’t know what to express. For once in your life, everything seems to be moving horrifically fast.

“Well,” John’s expression slowly sombers. “I suppose this is it then. I said you could ask for anything, and, I suppose,” he shifts the sword on his belt off after a moment, looking down at it. He holds the item, testing its weight. “I suppose this is all I have left.” Blue eyes slowly meet yours. “If you’ll take it.”

Always a thief, never a saint.

“I suppose it’ll have to do, Johnny Boy,” you sigh, the pain in your heart outweighing the one on your arm. “Hand it over.”

The sword is transferred and slipped to your waist. Many a man on the docks gives you strange looks, and, you find you welcome it—none could compare to the admiration in Johnny’s.

You lick your lips.

“Do one thing for me, hm?”

“Anything,” John mutters, not blinking.

You move forward, and place a firm kiss to his lips.

The man freezes, fingers twitching at his sides, before he sags and bends into you—his great hand capturing your cheek until all that remains in the sear of his heat and the scent of the earth.

You softly pull away, though not far enough as to where you can’t feel his breath on yours. Gazing into his eyes, you smile the widest you can remember.

“Don’t go running away from another wedding anytime soon. I can only save so many Lords until my reputation gets slandered.”

“You’re ruthless,” John growls, smirking as his eyes glint, looking you up and down. “Little Thief.”

He leans in for another kiss, but your hands only shift above his sporran before you dart back, chuckling.

“Always,” your hands brush his sword on your hip as you walk backward, grinning behind the strange pressure in your heart. If someone asked, you wouldn’t even know how to describe it.

John takes a step after you, face open and raw—an emotion you feel like mirroring if not for your excellent control.

Not yet.

“I’ll take care of this,” you call, patting the weapon.

“Good,” Johnny calls, taking one more step forward before stopping himself. One of the shipmates calls from the dock, and his eyes snap there with a jaw tense. He looks back at you and blinks, brows pulling in. In the heat of the moment, he exclaimed, “I’ll be back for it one day, Cat-Eyes!”

“Lovely!” You yell, back turning. “I’ll be waiting for you then. I do hope you’ll be able to get through the woods, and, please, don’t keep a woman waiting! You’re much too handsome for any of that.”

And then you’re gone.

Johnny stares at where you were, his smile large and his face heated, and after a louder call from the dock, he’s forced to turn and jog to the ship, hurrying up the board until he can stand on the swaying deck with his two feet.

He looks around, chuckling to himself, and still, his eyes shift back to land without fail; hoping for a glimpse—a small shadow.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, the man reaches into his sporran for his rag, intent to clean and set it to dry when he’s able to get the chance to settle in. It’s one of the last items to his name no matter how pathetic.

Yet, his hands touch something far more precious.

Johnny’s body goes as straight as a tree when his fingers caress smooth metal, and, slowly, his grip pulls out the silver of his broach.

It glints in his palm as he sets it there, and his breath is stolen in one great bound of shock and confusion.

“What in the…” He already knows.

Johnny’s feet take him to the railing gently, and his body stands there—torn wedding clothes and all looking over a town that begins to move as the ship sets sail. He holds the broach carefully, not intending to let it go for an age. He just needs to lay low for a while. He needs time.

John smiles.

“I won’t keep you waiting,” he mutters to the moving homes, and he swears he sees the glint of a sword from between the buildings, and two sharp eyes digging into him.

You’re there, of course. Hidden as always.

You want your trees back, and you think that a day of sitting in your Oak is a good idea.

There’s dirt on your face again—your lips are chapped and your face is bitten by the wind; scars and blemishes that time won't heal but make all the more visible as the ages pass by on bird’s wings and cat purrs. Yet here is an action held immemorial.

A gift given freely by a thief is one to be treasured like pure gold, and the man on the ship knows that more intimately than any other as he clips the broach to himself with a hum.

You both watch the other from opposite, distant points until there’s no sun in the sky left to see with. Just a faint hope lights the way: the hope that your eyes will grace each other's visage, at the very least, just one more time in your life.

There was never a story so willing to be experienced than that of a runaway groom and his cat-eyed Thief.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

1K notes · View notes

kaiijo · 6 months

Text

FRIENDS TO LOVERS — [KNB]

characters: aomine daiki, midorima shintarou, hanamiya makoto content: gn! reader, reader has implied tieable hair in midorima’s, toxicity (it’s hanamiya, no one is surprised) notes: scenarios inspired by prompt list here

aomine daiki ✶

aomine yawns again as he reclines against your pillows, sitting up only to peer at you. you’re working on homework that’s due in a couple of days, headphones covering your ears. you promised that you’ll order in food and play super smash bros with him when you finished, but it’s nearing eight and you’re still hunched over a problem set.

aomine groans loudly, “are you even close to being done?”

you move one headphone cup off. “i would be closer if you didn’t interrupt me every ten minutes.”

“i didn’t ask to hang out just to sit around.”

you roll your eyes. “you can go if you want, daiki.”

he sits up fully now, moving to the edge of your bed. “why’re you even doing this? s’not due ‘til friday.”

“some of us want to be good students.” you slide your headphones back on and turn back to scribbling out complicated equations on paper.

a couple of minutes pass again and instead of asking you anything, aomine stands up and shuffles behind you, reaching around and snatching the paper from underneath you. “hey!” you protest, shooting up from your seat and tearing off your headphones. “give it back, daiki.”

“no, you said you’d be done, like, two hours ago.”

“i swear i’m almost done!” you make a lunge for it and aomine just holds it above his head, his long arm adding to his already-massive height.

“no.” he smirks at the way your eyes furrow and your cheeks puff out. your head tilts to the left, and he knows that you’re thinking. he’s sure you’re going to try and jump of it again, so as a show, he stretches up further, the hem of his shirt lifting slightly. he swears he catches your eyes flickering down and something in his body sings a song of triumph and satisfaction at the motion. he can’t say why.

what you do next though is nothing that he expects. you stand on your toes, rest your hands delicately on his shoulders, and gaze up at him through your lashes. he startles; there’s something so… heated about your expression, about those half-lidded eyes.

“daiki,” you say softly. it’s almost hypnotic, the way you say his name, and he’s watching you with one raised eyebrow. the tips of his ears feel like they’re on fire.

he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing as his arm lowers, heading for the dip of your waist. he only snaps out of it at your victorious cry. “ha!” you take advantage of his still half-dazed state and push him firmly out of your bedroom door, closing it. the lock clicks into place and he hears you call on the other side, “one more problem, daiki, i promise. be a dear and set up smash in the living room?”

he walks down your hall automatically, the fire-like feeling spreading to his neck.

midorima shintarou ✶

takao holds up a porcelain statue of a cat. “what about this?’

“takao, what about that screams ‘midorima shintarou?’”

takao shrugs. “i don’t know, maybe it’ll be december 25th’s lucky item. does oha asa put out horoscopes ahead of time?”

“no, that’s why he listens every morning when it airs,” you reply, setting down a teapot from a bigger set. you thank the tired-looking cashier, who just waves drowsily as you two exit the shop.

the two of you have been shopping all day for midorima’s christmas present, wandering all over japan and into various tchotchke stores to look. he’s a notoriously hard person to please, especially with gifts, and neither of you want a repeat of the ‘grey’s anatomy incident’ where four people got midorima the same book last holiday season when he announced his intention to go to medical school. nor do any of you want to get that look from him that struggles to look somewhat grateful while being very, very obviously displeased.

“we’ve been walking all day!” takao whines, clutching his stomach as it lets out an ungodly rumble. you check your watch; you two have been out for at least four hours. you point at a small diner boasting american food. “would you be okay with that?”

“i’d eat you right now if you’d let me.”

you snort, “hard pass. come on.”

the hostess sits you two at a booth and you shrug off your heavy winter coats. you pick up a menu and glance over it, but when you go to ask takao what he’ll be getting and if he wants to split a large order of assorted fries with you, you see he’s not looking at the menu.

you definitely do not like the way takao is eying you right now. “what?” you ask defensively, hands flying to the top of your head to try and pet down at hair you presume has been ruined by your excursion. “do i look bad or something?”

“is that shin-chan’s sweater?”

fuck. you had forgotten about pulling on one of the sweaters midorima left at your house the last time you studied together. it’s insanely soft — a mix of gray wool and cashmere — not to mention extremely cozy and warm. you tried to return it to midorima before but he just pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and huffed, “wear it until you get proper sweaters. no, sweatshirts don’t count.”

you internally groan. you don’t need takao on your ass again about whether or not you’re sure you and midorima aren’t dating or if you like him like that. honestly, the only reason you haven’t given him a certain yes or no is because… you don’t really know yourself.

you don’t have proper time to answer before the bell to the restaurant chimes and you see very recognizable green hair. of all the time and places he has to show up. (well, he did text you this morning that your zodiac sign was the least lucky and to wear a blue watch in order to improve your fortune; you should’ve found the watch.)

“oh! shin-chan!” takao waves him over, giving you a sly look. “we were just talking about—” takao’s stupid hawk-eyes zero in on midorima’s wrist as he tugs off his gloves. he looks way too please with himself as he asks, “shin-chan, is that they’re hair tie?”

hanamiya makoto ✶

hanamiya steps out of the locker room shower, cracking his knuckles as he makes his way to his locker to dry off and change. he rolls his shoulders, toweling off his hair as he changes back into his school uniform. yamazaki and hara a prattling away, snickering under their breaths about the injuries they inflicted: sprained ankle, a hairline fracture, a minor concussion.

hanamiya doesn’t even turn around as he growls, “can you two shut up?”

to just bug him more, hara pops his gum. loudly. “who pissed in your cereal, captain?”

furihara drones, “you were sloppier today. almost got fouled by the ref.”

hanamiya doesn’t reply, yanking the knot of his tie down furiously. “fuck off.”

hara lets out a low whistle and seto asks, “does this have to do with your little friend? they got a boyfriend, right?”

hanamiya lets out a long breath through his nose and he spins around to face his teammate. “for now,” he says, slamming his locker shut.

“you got a plan, captain?” asks yamazaki as he digs through his duffel bag.

“when do i not?”

———

you greet hanamiya’s mother with a thin smile when she opens the door. her face lights up when she sees you and she pulls you into a warm hug, telling you that hanamiya’s in his bedroom and that you could go right up.

you wonder if she can see the glossy film to your eyes or if she was polite enough not to comment on it.

hanamiya’s sitting at his desk, head propped up on his knuckle. he languidly flips through pages but you know he’s not really reading the material. he’ll get away with it too and get an a anyways, the bastard. he glances at you. “you look like shit.”

usually, you could banter with him. it’s why your friendship works; you have a thicker skin than most and you give just as good as you take, especially when it comes to hanamiya’s sneering, half-joking insults. normally, you would have replied with something like “still better than you,” but instead, your frayed nerves snap and you feels the hot tears start rolling down your cheeks.

hanamiya’s simpering expression sobers up and he sighs heavily, ushering you to sit on the bed. “why’re you crying?”

you sniffle and tell him that the guy you’ve been seeing from your literature class broke up with you. just out of the blue told you that you two wanted different things and you were going to colleges in different areas and that wouldn’t work and he was sorry and… that’s all you gleaned because his words were so rushed as he scurried off as fast as he could.

hanamiya’s brow furrows sympathetically and he draws you into a hug, saying, “i told you i didn’t like that guy. fuck him.”

you sink into his arms. “yeah,” you mutter, “fuck him.”

as you relax against him, hanamiya can’t help but smirk to himself in satisfaction. someone who runs off after a little confrontation doesn’t deserve anything from you.

#knb x reader #kuroko no basuke x reader #kuroko's basketball x reader #aomine daiki x reader #aomine x reader #midorima shintarou x reader #midorima x reader #hanamiya makoto x reader #hanamiya x reader #knb scenarios #knb imagines #knb #kuroko no basket #.𖥔 ݁ ˖ kaiijo writes

864 notes · View notes

frost-queen · 5 months

Text

Potions master (Reader x Theodore Nott)

Requested by: Anon; Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia, @alex--awesome--22, @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly@denkisclown, @wildieflower, @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @justanothercoco@subjecta13-thefangirl, @m-rae23, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr, @swampthing07, @melsunshine, @panhoeofmanyfandoms, @venomsvl, @the-uncoordinated-house-cat, @rosecentury, @imagines-by-her, @evilcr0ne, @vviolynn

Cauldrons were bubbling and frizzing. The smells of variant ingredients filling the air. A puff of grey smoke popped up out of the cauldron beside yours. Class divided in small working stations, with four cauldrons at each one. Your station was shared with Blaise, Pansy and another Slytherin boy. Blaise was cutting his root as he suddenly called it out. Bringing his finger rapidly up to his mouth to suck at the blood.

Pansy snorted loud at his stupidity. Blaise shot her a glare. – “Cut your little finger?” – Draco teased from the table behind yours. You briefly looked over your shoulder to see Lorenzo, Theodore and Goyle. – “Shut up.” – Blaise told him off. You looked across the room to where Professor Snape was. Clearly not giving a care to what all the Slytherin students were doing in the back.

As long as they conjured up their potions all was well. Lorenzo started to mimic Blaise, holding his finger and pretending to whine. Pansy laughed loud at that. Blaise pointed his knife at Lorenzo. Lorenzo shot his hands up in defence whilst still chuckling. The only one who didn’t seem to be engaged in the matter was Theodore.

His expression focused. He wiped his hands off against the side of his pants before grabbing over the table for an ingredient. – “Knife down Mister Zambini.” – Professor Snape said casually when passing the table. Blaise lowered the knife, holding it firm under his grip. Pansy threw in a leaf petal when Professor Snape rounded your table. He gave one glance inside her cauldron. She swallowed nervously when he batted his eyes away, clearly disappointed in her poor skills.

He clicked his tongue when going round the boy at your table. He came behind you, watching your cauldron. It was buzzing and frizzing. He admired the colour and watched you cut with precision. Your back startled when you felt his hand pat your back twice. Was that just a compliment that you received? Professor Snape then went to the table behind yours. He didn’t even glance at Lorenzo’s cauldron.

Lorenzo made a face out of disbelieve. At Draco’s cauldron he hummed poorly. When he came to Theodore’s cauldron he looked inside. – “It seems you have competition Mister Nott.” – he simply said taking his leave. Theodore’s gaze went up right up to you. You felt him stare at your back, making you turn around to wave teasingly at him.

Theodore pressed his fist onto the table as it trembled with rage. There was no way that someone did better than him at potions. He was the best of the class. You turned back to the front to finish your potion. When class ended Professor Snape announced 10 points to you for your excellent brewing. – “Oh Salazar.” – Lorenzo whispered to Theodore, seeing how clenched his expression is. Theodore didn’t like one bit of it. You felt euphoric.

It felt good to have out-bested Theodore. You were still packing up when everyone else was leaving. Theodore motioned with his head to his friends that they should go on without him. Outside the dungeons he waited. Back against the cold stones by a torch. You walked out startled by Theodore who had removed himself from against the wall. He came walking in front of you, making you back away.

Doing a little turn you ended up against the wall. Theodore slapped his hand hard against the wall above your head. – “What do you think you are doing Y/l/n?” – he asked rudely. It took you a second to turn that shocked expression of yours into a teasing smile. – “Is it getting cold underneath your feet?” – you teased playing with his shirt.

Theodore grabbed your hand, pulling it firm down. – “You got lucky this time, but it won’t last forever.” – he replied. You tilted your head slightly. – “Do you want to test it?” – you whispered to him to taunt him. Theodore hardened his expression with a glare. – “That position is mine!” – he made clear. – “Are we desperate for a praise from Snape?” – you answered making him grab you by the throat.

His wand pointing down at you. You glanced to the side to his wand, smiling. – “So sensitive.” – you said. Theodore pushed himself off you with a groan. – “Final warning Y/l/n!” – he made clear with a firm point. He walked off needing to cool down as he had worked himself up over a silly thing.

Yet potions was his thing. He excelled in it and hated that he had competition. You exhaled deep looking around if anyone had seen any of that. Adjusting your tie, you took off. Who know Theodore Nott had such a temper. He for sure had a hidden personage.

The next moment you found yourself at the library. Picking out every book about potions. Thin books, thick books, over-used books and perfectly fitted books. You took them all. Carrying them in your hands, piled up that you couldn’t see in front of you anymore. With some directions from some fellow students and your own memory of the hallways, you found your way to the great hall. – “Oh my Merlin.” – one of your friends said at you arriving with the books.

The girl beside her gawking at the books you were carrying. You let them drop onto the table with a hard thud. It echoed so loud it made bystanders turn to look. You exhaled loud setting your hand on the pile. Your friend having laid her head down to read side-ways. – “Are those…” – she questioned as you hummed loud. – “Potion books.” – you filled in.

“You are one crazy girl.” – she blew off with a shake. You shrugged your shoulder. – “Someone doesn’t feel so satisfied with your findings.” – the girl beside your friend said nudging behind you. You turned your head seeing Theodore Nott glare at you. His wand trembling in his clenched hand. It made you laugh loud. – “Like I give one fig about Nott.”

You had turned back around opening the top book to look through the pages. You furrowed your brows hearing your friend clear her throat in a warning way. Her eyes wide with fright trying to hint something to you. Before you knew it had he approached you. You felt his presence behind you. Close and firm. His arm went around your body to the stack of books. – “Studying to get on my level?” – he teased flicking the first book off the pile.

Your friend moved her hands back just in time before it would drop on her fingers. You turned round with a witty smile. – “Are you feeling nervous Nott? Afraid you might have some competition?” – you replied pulling his tie from underneath the sweater. He scoffed loud. – “You are cute thinking you are as good as me.” – he answered smug touching your nose. You laughed once. – “Do you feel threatened?” – You grabbed for his stomach, tickling him just for funs.

Theodore jumped back, squirming away from your teasing hands. – “Back off Y/l/n!” – he shouted. Out of angriness he toggled the pile of books over just to piss you off. Your friend squeaked loud catching a book that nearly attacked her. – “Oh real mature Nott!” – you shouted at him when he had walked off. You puffed loud sitting down. – “Maybe you need to tone it a bit down.”

Over a month you had been rivalling with Theodore. Competing for ultimate praising. It was like a drug. Constantly needing more and wanting it faster. You were anticipating the moment you would see him again. The teasing getting out of hand. Sometimes physical, sometimes verbal, most mostly full of hotness.

There was something about Theodore’s determination that drove you wild. There must be something in you driving him wild as you noticed more often the way he looked at you. A deep desire he seemed to be battling inside of him. Whenever you looked in those eyes it felt like he was about to grab your face and kiss you till you no longer could breath.

You were tripling to keep yourself warm. Theodore looking your way with a scoff and a role of his eyes. Pansy stood by his side, arms crossed as she glared at you. –“Now I want you to all get on your brooms.” – madam Hooch ordered. You swung your leg over it, holding the broom tight. All of you rose a few inches from the ground. – “How you doing prodigy?” – Pansy laughed out. – “Don’t call me that!” – you snapped back at her with a glare.

Pansy kept laughing seeing as you were focusing hard to not fall from your broom. – “Watch this.” – she said to Theodore. Theodore hummed confused, not listening very much to her. Pansy moved her head to the side, covering a bit of her mouth while whispering something. You shrieked loud feeling your broom go higher. Madam Hooch staring confused at you. – “Miss Y/l/n where are you going?” – she asked.

“Ascend immediately!” – she ordered pointing firmly down. – “I…I can’t Madam Hooch.” – you answered followed by a scream. Your broom did a swift move to the right nearly making you fall of your broom. You held on tight when the broom rolled, spinning you upside down. – “Y/l/n come down now!” – Madam Hooch repeated. – “I’m not controlling it!” – you cried out as the broom flew up high with you. Theodore turned his head to Pansy hearing her laugh loud.

“That will teach her.” – she said sharing a high five with Lorenzo on her other side. – “You cursed her broom?!” – Theodore called out feeling his grip tighten around the wood. You were tumbling and diving in the air without control. Being flung from left to right as you nearly got knocked off. Theodore clenched his jaw wanting to kick Pansy off her broom. He withheld himself seeing you get knocked off your broom, hanging on by just one hand.

Feet dangling up in the air. It made him gasp loud. – “Mister Nott!” – Madam Hooch called out as he zoomed past her. He flew up to you within a matter of seconds. The broom still swaying from side to side to get you off. You kept holding on tight, legs kicking in the air. – “Y/n let go!” – Theodore called out. – “Are you insane!” – you shouted back at him. – “Just do as I say!” – he yelled getting angry that you weren’t doing what he wanted you to do.

Then snap. A drop. Your hand had let go of the broom as you started falling. Theodore flew down after you, grabbing you by your wrist, pulling his broom to a stop. Panting loud as he looked down at you dangling underneath his broom. Only holding you by your wrist. He slowly descended with you. Your feet touched the ground as he let go of you, getting of his broom.

He threw his broom aside grabbing you firm by your shoulders. – “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” – he asked checking you for any harm. – “I’m fine!” – you answered still a bit shaken. – “How… how did this happen? I didn’t do anything.” – you told him. – “Did you curse my broom? Felt the heat underneath your feet?” – you asked as Theodore shook his head bothered. He pulled at your hand, spinning you round up till your back hit his chest.

His hand moved around your waist up to your stomach. – “If I wanted to toss you around I would do it in another way.” – he whispered by your ear. You gasped when you felt him give your side a teasing squeeze. – “It was Pansy.” – he spilled glaring at her from over your shoulder. You hummed intrigued. – “Didn’t think you cared Theodore.” – you told him with a smile. Theodore spun you back around, looking all smug at you.

“I’d have no competition if you are in the infirmary.” – he said touching your chin back with a touch of his finger. Theodore took a step back when Madam Hooch approached. – “Are you alright?” – she asked touching your shoulder. You hummed loud with a nod. – “Thank Merlin Mister Nott was there to catch you.” – she glanced at Theodore. – “What can I say, I can’t resist getting a point ahead of you.” – he said throwing a teasing wink at you.

“Let’s get you checked out.” – Madam Hooch said half turning you away from him. – “Expect my revenge to be sweet.” – you called out to him. - “Aww how you know me Y/n!” – he shouted back pressing his hands against his heart. Turning your head you stuck your tongue out to him. Theodore smiling as he watched you get guided inside.

-------------------------------------

Read more of my fics on my Masterlists!

507 notes · View notes

drjholtzmann · 18 days

Text

this is dreamling more than dead boy detectives but it's been in my head since reading issue #25 after s1 of sandman. so, now feels like a good time to release it into the world. i just want them all to get in each others way

(season of mists spoilers)

------------

It’s not often that Hob smokes. It’s an expensive habit, and secondhand smoke and all that. But it’s hardly going to kill him, so he’s usually got an ancient pack on hand somewhere. Handy, especially in situations like this. Not that there’s ever been a situation like this before but, well. You live long enough.

He slips out into the beer garden of the pub, lighting up almost absent mindedly, the action still muscle memory.

“What the fuck,” he mutters, rubbing his thumb along his lower lip, “what the fuck. Dream, if you have bloody anything to do with this, I swear to god, Morpheus. What the fucking fuck.” He closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the brickwork. Despite it all he huffs an exhausted laugh. Because sure. Of course. Yeah, why not. Of course this would happen. “Jesus Christ, Morpheus. Even if this isn’t you, bloody… fucking wish I could just ask.” It’s all said barely above a whisper. Just in case. Always just in case. He blindly ashes his cigarette and heaves out a heavy breath, “Lord above,” he scoffs, raising the cigarette to his lips again.

“Hob?”

Hob startles, eyes snapping open, head knocking back sharply against the brick. “Fuck – ow – Dream?” He raises his free hand to rub the back of his head, wincing slightly. “That, uh… that worked better than expected.”

“You were calling for me?”

“Yeah… sorta. I didn’t… think it worked like that. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You did not. I had thought briefly of you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Hob grins. “How come? You miss me already?”

Morpheus sends him a withering look.

“I, um… dreamt of you. While ago. Was that – real?”

“It was.”

He nods, thumb nervously tapping the filter of his cigarette. “Uh huh. Figured. With the wine, and…” he trails off. The hollow feeling of that dream, or rather, of that waking coming back to him in full force. “You said some ominous shit. Then I said some ominous shit. Was that real, too?”

Morpheus nods solemnly.

“Right. Don’t suppose you’ll explain that?” Morpheus remains silent. “Right. Course not. Things okay, though? Now? I mean,” he gestures to his friend, “you’re here. That must be good, yeah?”

“Yes. And no.”

“Great. Fab.”

“What I thought I was facing has… changed.”

“...’kay. Well, can I ask you a question?”

Morpheus pauses but, after a moment, nods.

“S’it got anything to do with the dead kids hanging out in my pub?”

“What?”

“Yeah, couple of boys who look like they should definitely be in school – about, oh, fifty years ago. At least.”

Morpheus’ eyes don’t actually widen in alarm, but there is something to that effect happening… not quite in his expression, but in his aura, perhaps. Hob gets the feeling that if he were a cat the fur along his spine would be standing on end.

“So… it is related?”

“Perhaps.”

“Definitely, then.” Hob takes a short puff of his cigarette.

“Show me?”

“Uh… I don’t know if they know that people can see them. I don’t know if people who aren’t me can see them, actually. So just, um…” the caution dies in his throat as he realises who it is he’s talking to. Morpheus will do what he will, Hob’s advice be damned.

Dream draws close, peering in through the windowpane of the door back into the pub. “How do you know?”

“You get pretty good at feeling when things are off once you’ve been around the block six hundred years or so. Also, they walked in through the closed front door. As in, passed right through the solid wood and glass.”

“I see.”

“Why are they here?”

“To sample your fine selection of craft beer, perhaps?”

“Oh, he’s joking,” Hob has joined his side in peering not-so-surreptitiously through the door. “‘Mortal plane’ here, not here-here.”

“Death must have been busy… It is not like her to leave a job unfinished without good reason.”

“Must’ve…? What the fuck could be so horrific that Death is being kept busy?”

Morpheus, beside him, is silent. Deadly still. And it tells Hob all he needs to know.

“Dream,” he hisses, “what the fuck is this? What’s going on?”

There is a long pause. “I ought not to tell you.” Dream murmurs, still facing the glass panel of the door.

“And I ought not have two dead teenagers in my pub. All things relative.”

“They are causing no harm.”

“I don’t doubt that. It’s you I’m worried about now.”

“Your concern is of no use. What I mean is that they are no poltergeists, not aggressive, there seems to be nothing demonic about them.”

“Which means… there are poltergeists and demons running about at the mo?”

“I told you, I ought not say. There are diplomatic proceedings to take place.”

“You get that that makes even less sense, yeah?”

Dream seems to, at last, with an almighty eye roll, give in. “Hell is closed,” he hisses, turning to face Hob directly.

“Hell is closed.” Hob repeats back, dumbfounded. “And that means… The devils are all here?”

“Precisely.”

“But the boys… aren’t devils?”

“They are not.”

“Okay. That’s good news. And the devils?”

Dream shrugs, sharp and languid. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

“Great. Okay. Less good. Very much less good. So, uh. What… do I do? Am I supposed to exorcise them? Because, I have to be honest – would really rather not do that.”

“You are under no obligations.”

“Oh.”

“They could not be here without Death’s knowledge or her say-so. She will come for them in time.”

“Oh.” Inexplicably, Hob’s heart sinks a little.

“They are not alive, Hob.” Dream says, looking him in the eye. “They cannot live forever as the dead.”

“Hm. Yeah. S’pose.” He looks through the windowpane at the two boys, chatting animatedly at a corner table out of the way. “They’re just kids, though. Barely got a normal life.”

“You cannot save them, Hob.”

“Why not?”

“You cannot. They may not be destined for Hell, but that doesn’t mean they can stay amongst the living.”

“Says who?”

“The universe. Death, herself.”

Hob smirks, tilting his head down a fraction to look up at Dream from under a quirked brow. “You know what I think of Death.”

And Hob catches the tension at the corner of Dream’s mouth that he knows, whatever he might say to the contrary, is a suppressed smile.

“C’mon, what if I just help ‘em live a little? While they’re here?”

“Hob.”

“What?! Can’t a guy be nice?”

“I have meetings to attend to.”

“That’s not a no.”

“I think it a poor choice to flaunt immortality in front of two who have died so young. I would caution against it.”

“Okay. Fuck, fair point. But they don’t have to know about me. They wouldn’t somehow know, right?”

“I would caution against it, Hob Gadling.”

#sandman #dreamling #dead boy detectives #sandman fanfic #my fic #hob gadling #dream of the endless #charles and edwin get a cameo lets say #im so excited for the show yall have no idea

200 notes · View notes

pellucid-constellations · 7 months

Note

Hey!!! I just finished reading song of Achilles and I have been crying for the better part of the last hour while reading, hence in serious need of some Bucky comfort. So how about college or lumberjack Bucky (cuz they’re my favorites) who don’t really understand the whole fuzz over books but still holding his girl while she sobs her chest out out about a book (you can change the book of you want), hot tears down her face, ugly crying yknow?

It’s okay if you don’t want to :)) Have a great day 💕💕💕

Pairing: lumberjack!bucky x reader (can be read separately from undisclosed, but also a little reference to it)

A/n: Okay sooo this was so sweet and I had to write a drabble for it!! All this angst I've been writing needs some comfort! :)

~~~

He hears the crying first.

It’s a terrible sound that constricts his chest each time it meets his ears. Bucky would like to consider himself partially responsible for your tears becoming a rare occurrence, so when he hears them, he experiences an array of emotions—fear, panic, a twisted sort of heartbreak.

At the front door of his home, Bucky strains his ears to confirm what he’s already dreading. Because maybe you weren’t crying. Maybe you were sick? That wasn’t much better, but at least it was a more concrete issue.

When he hears the tissue box and the loud meow from Alpine—the closest thing to concern he’d ever heard from a cat—Bucky doesn’t even take his coat off before he’s barreling into your bedroom.

You startle, puffy eyes darting up to him as he takes up space in the small room.

And he’s devastated. You hadn’t looked like that in a long time, all tear-stained cheeks and frazzled hair. Bucky considers the multitude of reasons you could be so upset, but then decides it doesn't matter. Not when you’re looking at him like that.

“Oh, honey,” he coos. His socks make soft sounds on the carpet as he walks over to you, but the action only sends more tears down your face. Bucky could collapse. “Sweetheart, what happened?”

You don’t say much at first, opting to bury your face into his chest the second he makes contact with the bed. It’s too warm in here for the amount of clothes he’s wearing. Bucky doesn’t really care. You keep crying—Bucky keeps running his fingers through your hair.

Each sob that leaves your lips sounds more broken than the last, breaking Bucky down bit by bit. He wants to fix this, make it better, but Bucky has never been good with words. He’d been trying, for you. He will try now.

“Tell me what happened, sweet girl?” he mumbles into the skin of your temple, lips hesitant to leave your skin. He was always better with physical communication. He was also the best at loving you like this.

Your breathing gets choppy as you try to calm down. Shallow puffs of air meet the stitching of his sweater, and he rocks you as a way to coax a more steady pattern into your lungs. Even though he was wrought with panic, you were okay. Bucky had you, so you were okay.

“He—he died, Buck,” you eventually choke out. “He died and then there was no—there was nothing—” your words cut off again as more tears soak his chest.

“Who?” he stresses, although his tone doesn’t give that away. “Who, honey? Someone you know?”

“No,” you sob. The sound knocks the air from Bucky’s lungs.

Taking inventory in his head, that means all of his friends are safe, all of your friends. It means your awful family is alive as well, and while that doesn't matter much to him, at least he knows it isn’t the source of your strife. But the pain in your voice, the way you were limp against him and fighting for air.

Bucky couldn’t understand.

“Tell me who. What has you so sad, hm?” he tries, voice dropping into an even gentler tone.

You dig your fingers into Bucky’s jacket, pulling away after a moment. Bucky reaches for you, trying to chase your figure because he wasn’t done trying to make this better, he needs to make you better. But then you slap something into his lap and he’s confused again.

“Them,” you all but sob, turning back into the material of his jacket.

Bucky wraps an arm around your shoulders as he inspects the book on his thighs. He’s still lost, but your crying has morphed into sniffles so he asks, “What was that, sweet girl?”

He’s packing it on with the endearments, but seeing you like this is brutal.

“In the book,” you explain. “They were so in love. And then he died. And afterwards—Bucky it was awful.”

Oh.

A book.

This is manageable, to Bucky. You’re not in pain and he can handle this.

He hauls you closer into his chest. You shuffle until your frame is enclosed by his. Bucky’s size had always been something he found inconvenient until you came into his life. Because after that, he found it was good at making you feel safe. A way to protect you from anything.

Even… a book?

Surely a book.

“Hey, it’s alright, I got you,” he hums.

“Never die,” you whisper, and Bucky's mouth twists uncomfortably.

“I won’t.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes #lumberjack!bucky #undisclosed #asks

459 notes · View notes

4izawas · 5 months

Note

Could write a aizawa fic with a hybrid!reader? Like the shounya fics you wrote? I love those ones!

𝐈 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 (𝐂𝐀𝐓)𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋! | 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮-𝐧𝐲𝐚.

𝐂𝐖 ‼️ | hybrids, hybrid au, no quirks, catgirl reader, fem reader, shou-nya uno reverse ( ur the kitty now besties ! ), misunderstandings, aizawa is a big dumb dumb n didn’t research *all* cat hybrid behaviors so u get a lil pissy ngl, night shift security guard aizawa, rut cycles/in heat, creampies, biting, breeding kink, daddy & master kinks, use of ‘kitty’ as a pet name.

“This’ll be your room,” Shouta grunts, opening the door to the guest bedroom in his apartment. “Used to be the guest, but you’re here to stay, so it’s all yours now. Decorate it however, I don’t really care.”

You blink owlishly into the dark room he’s offered you. It isn’t bad or small, it’s rather nice actually, but you were confused. Turning to look up at him, your bottom lip trembles a little as you ask, “B-But — I just got here, what did I do?”

“Huh?!” The noise he makes is filled with blatant confusion, but you don’t even register it as you clutch at your tail, upset.

“What did I do wrong?” You ask again, eyes starting to water a little, and your new master starts looking a little uncomfortable; he never knew what to do when people cried.

“Nothing!” he exclaims, starting to panic just a little. Why were you having such a visceral reaction to getting your own room?!

“Then why am I being punished?” you whine, eyes shimmering with tears, and he shakes his head and hands placatingly.

“What?! You aren’t!”

“But I’m — I’m supposed to s-sleep with you!” You hiccup, and Shouta can honestly say he doesn't know what to do. You’ve been in his apartment for less than half an hour and he’s already made you cry. How the fuck was he supposed to know hybrids slept with their owners? He’d never owned one before! Besides, aren't cats supposed to want their own space? That was the entire reason he allowed Hizashi and Nemuri to talk him into adopting a cat hybrid, eventually choosing a catgirl over a catboy after Nemuri showed him a picture of you cuddling your tail while sleeping that the hybrid shelter you’d come from had posted.

“It’s not a punishment,” he says patiently, “I just want you to be able to have your own space.”

“But I won’t take up much room, I promise,” you say quietly, refusing to look at him. “I can be good — you won’t even know I’m there.”

Shouta sighs, then shakes his head. “No, you need your own room. I don’t want to share mine with you.” He knows he’s said the wrong thing when he sees your body stiffen, your fur puff up, and your ears flick back to pin themselves against your head, but what was wrong about it he doesn’t know. He reaches out a hand slowly, but you dodge it with an angry-sounding inhuman noise, and it startles him.

“If you didn’t want me, why adopt me?” you ask coldly, shocking him, before stalking into your room and locking the door behind you. For the rest of the night until time for his patrol hits he tries to coax you out, but you refuse dinner and snacks and cuddles ( all the things that Nemuri and Hizashi had said could tempt you out when he’d texted them in a panic ), holing yourself up in your room and sticking it out until he’s forced to leave for his security job from midnight to five. When he gets back he finds an empty tin of cat hybrid-specific food in the trash, one of the dozen and a half tins that the shelter had sent him home with that he’d turned up his nose at and promptly decided to feed you real food instead of, alongside a freshly washed bowl and spoon drying on the counter rack. The plate he’d made for you is untouched on the counter, and likewise with the bag of cookies he’d tried to get you to come out with, and he groans.

If it wasn’t obvious you were pissed with him before, it definitely was now.

“C’mon, please come out,” Shouta groans a week later. Seven days have passed, and he’s not even caught a glimpse of you since that first day, and he’s starting to worry. He knows you’re still in there, he’s heard you moving stuff around, and he knows you come out every now and then to snatch stuff because so many blankets are missing that it isn’t even funny anymore, but he doesn’t know what to do. Obviously he isn’t going to force his way inside your room, considering that would defeat the entire purpose of giving you your own space, but the nerves were starting to get to him.

Honestly he might have sent an SOS to Nemuri had he not come home from his night shift later that night and found you lounging on the couch in front of the TV while some random true crime show played, your tail flicking back and forth idly as the narrator recounts a particularly grisly murder case.

It’s a welcome surprise, seeing you out of your room, and he’s relieved — then startled when he goes to gently scratch one of your ears and you hiss at him, climbing onto the back of the far end of the couch and draping yourself there while giving him a warning look. He just blinks, shocked, before dropping the hand he’d still had raised, and retreats to the kitchen for a late snack. While he’s there he shoots off a text in the group chat telling Hizashi and Nemuri that you came out as well as what had happened, and when Nemuri jokes that you must really not like him now he groans quietly, because wasn’t she right?

The next few days are the same, with him coming home to you lazing around the house and acting growly whenever he gets too close or brushes against you by accident. You’re at least eating more, though, considering he comes home nightly to find the meals he’s made you gone entirely without even leftovers remaining. Maybe a different man would be angry, but Shouta was just happy you were eating what he was making and that everything was falling into a lax routine that he could understand; like he’d thought before, cat hybrids weren’t unlike cats, so of course you’d get pissy now and then — it’s how cats are.

And then he comes home, and you aren’t somewhere in the living room. His heart plummets as he worries that he’s somehow managed to fuck up again, but then a pained-sounding yowl reaches his ears and he rushes to your room in a panic. He’d not locked the door that night, overtired from a rough night’s sleep ( or lack thereof, really ) and if someone had broken in due to his stupidity and was hurting you —!

Throwing your door open with a call of your name on the tip of his tongue, he’s greeted by the sight of your slick, swollen pussy pointing directly at the door as you arch your back while on all fours and reach a hand under and between your legs to finger yourself, distressed mewls falling from your lips as they do nothing to satisfy you, and suddenly everything clicks into place for Shouta. You were in heat — meaning the week before you were in preheat, and therefore excessively hormonal. It would only be expected for your patience to fluctuate like the temperature just between summer and autumn.

Stupid, stupid! He thinks, moving to back out of your room, but it’s too late since you’ve caught sight of him. A demanding screech falls from your mouth and he freezes, locking eyes with you as you pant open-mouthed before you whine, “M-Master, help me~!”

Unwittingly he feels his cock twitch in his uniform pants and his mouth fills with saliva. He can’t smell what could only be a desperately cloying heat scent to catboys, but the sight of his new ‘pet’ shaking her pussy at him was enough to spur him into stalking into the room carefully, slowly but surely peeling off his security uniform and freeing his more than half-hard cock from his underwear. He never tears his eyes from where you sway your ass back and forth on the bed in front of him, whining and calling for Master all the while.

“‘M so hot, Master, please make it go away!” you moan while looking back at him over your shoulder with tear-filled eyes. Your watery gaze is what really gets him even closer, and when he places his hands on your bare hips he can feel how hot to the touch your skin is; it’s almost alarming, but you’re distracting him by rubbing your bare cunt against his crotch. “Wan’ it in me — fill me up, Master, I’ve been a good girl!”

“Have you?” he growls, gripping you by the hips tightly and yanking you back at the same time he rolls his hips into you, grinding your burning hot pussy against his cock and drawing a lewd meow from your lips. “Been bitchy all week, growling and hissing and swiping at me…”

“Sorry! I’m sorry!” you whine, sniffling. “Please fuck me, Master!”

Shouta fists his hand around the base of your tail and tugs you up by it, pulling a yowl from you, while taking his cock by the base with his other hand and proceeding to rub it against your sopping wet cunt. His sensitive tip skips across your wanting entrance and rolls across your swollen clit, and he continues rutting his hips against you this way so he can coat his cock with a good amount of your slick before stuffing you full — but you’re impatient, and you want him now.

“In me!” you demand, hiccuping out a tiny growl between your moaned sobs. “Put it in me!”

His hand, wet with your slick, darts forward at lighting speed and grips you by the chin in a borderline bruising grip as he turns you to face him. “You’ll get what I’ll give you when I give it to you,” he snarls, and a new gush of wetness coats his cock at his tone.

“You’re s-so mean!” you wail, then shriek as his hand comes down across your bare ass in a brutal spank that leaves it stinging.

“Don’t be a bad girl, kitty,” he croons mockingly, pressing a kiss to your jaw, and you tremble; the scratch of the stubble on his face got you even wetter. “You want Daddy to fuck you, don’t you?”

You just whimper and mewl, arching your back in what you hope is an obvious invitation, and thankfully Shouta can read desperate whores better than freshly adopted hybrids, because he knows that’s his cue to press inside, which he does. You let out a sharp, drawn out cry as he fills you up all at once, and he lets out a deep groan as your almost unbearably burning hot cunt wraps around him perfectly; he can hardly keep himself from starting to fuck you right away, but he manages to hold off until you start begging for him to move, which only takes a couple seconds.

“M-Move, move-! Please!” you wail, pushing back against him to bury his cock as deep inside as it would go. “Fuck me!” Shouta doesn’t have to be told twice and immediately sets a brutal, unforgiving pace, his heavy balls slapping against you wetly with each rough thrust. His grip is bruising, and heavy moans escape through his gritted teeth.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he grunts, releasing one of your hips to press it flat against the wall, stabilizing himself as practically tears you apart.

“O-Oh! Oh, fuck — f-fuck, Daddy, you’re mixing up my i-insides!” you wail, claws digging into the bedding as you cry out for him. Mid-thrust his hand slips and his entire front plasters itself to your back, the arm that had slipped curling beneath your neck while the other wraps around your middle and he fucks into you like a man possessed. His moans and growls at your ear make your body tingle pleasantly from your fingers to your toes, and you tremble beneath him as you begin to cry from the stimulation.

“That’s a good kitty,” Shouta groans as you scratch at the bed in front of you, “Yeah, cry for Daddy—!”

“D-Daddy!” you hiccup through a wail, tears rolling down your cheeks as what of your tail that wasn’t pinned between your bodies lashes back and forth violently. “Bite, bite, bite!” you beg, tilting your head to the side to bare where the soft column of your throat met with your collarbone and shoulder; your jaw presses against his thick bicep, and other than his hands on your body and his cock in your cunt that’s the only thing grounding you right now. “Bite!”

He doesn’t argue, biting down as he fucks into you and earning himself a high-pitched scream from you that he knows the neighbors heard; all he can do is mentally cross his fingers that they realize the context without being expressly told because he sure as fuck wasn’t going to pull out of your oerfect fucking cunt just to answer a noise complaint notice.

“P-Please, Daddy!” you gasp, drool rolling down your chin. “Please, cum in me! Breed me! Fill me up, claim me on the inside too!”

Shouta lets out a shaky moan around his mouthful of your collarbone. God, you’re filthy.

It doesn’t take much more time before you’re yowling again, and he isn’t sure why until he feels your cunt rhythmically spasming around his aching cock. His eyes roll back a little at the feeling, which is all it takes for him to start cumming with you. You can feel a pleasant warmth that you know is him start to fill your lower belly, and you let out another cry as you arch your back more as far as it’ll go while he keeps fucking you through both of your orgasms, all former coherency leaving you both as gibberish moans flm from your lips. It’s only once he stops cummung that he begins to ease to a stop before finally pulling out and rolling over to lay on his back, breathing hard. You immediately begin pressing the cum that was dripping from your cunt back inside, repeating the action a handful of times before licking your fingers clean and kissing him.

The two of you kiss for a bit before you pull away to lay down for a second to rest between the heat waves, and during this rest he finally speaks again. “How long do — how long do your heats usually last, kitty?” Shouta asks through deep breaths, his heart pounding. You purr and curl up close to him, tail curling back and forth.

“‘Least a week more,” you answer honestly, and he groans as one of your hands reaches down and starts stroking his cock back to full hardness. “So hurry up ‘nd fuck me again, Daddy — I can’t cum without you being mean to me.”

#shou_nya.♡#shouta aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #shouta aizawa x you #aizawa shouta x you #my hero academia x reader #my hero academia x you #mha x reader #mha x you #quick disclaimer but this is prob the only time i’ll do a lil flippy flip on the shou-nya universe since it’s *catzawa* not cat reader #but hey i had fun so dhcbrhc hgf

273 notes · View notes

chaseadrian · 1 year

Text

fragile concessions

you don't mind leaving Eddie to his devices in your bedroom as you shower, you don't mind even more when you catch him taking advantage of the opportunity. [masterlist]

pairing: eddie munson x f!reader tags: 18+ ONLY, explicit, voyeurism, pillow humping, invasion of privacy, friends to lovers, handjobs, blowjobs, facesitting, mutual masturbation, light backstory aka porn w some plot, fluffy ending word count: 4.2k+ a/n: yeah yeah i know i've been gone a long time. hope y'all like this <3

Rifling through your dresser, you’re startled by a knock at the window. You bring the sweater in your hands to your chest instinctively, and step backward as you look through the glass.

Black leather and ring clad hands wiggling a ‘hello’ from outside are more than enough to calm your nerves.

“Morning, Eddie. You’re way early.” You push the curtain out of the way, muscling the old pane open, “Why didn’t you use the front door?”

“I knocked!” He grunts as he climbs over the ledge, clamoring for your forearm when he loses balance.

Your nails sink into the leather sleeve of his jacket, and you cock your head, “You did?”

He looks up at you with a smile, brushing his wrinkled shirt, “No. Just wanted to see your bedroom. You never let me in here I—wow.” He reaches out for the chiffon fabric of your canopy bed, pointing at the cushion of pillows at the head, “Feel like I’m in a palace. Silk pillowcases? Classy.”

The sweater knots into your arms as you cross them, “Weirdo.”

Leaving him to wander, you pull a fresh towel from the hall closet, yelling back, “Well, get comfortable. I still have to shower.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about me.”

You linger by the adjacent bathroom door, looking halfway over your shoulder to watch him explore.

Eddie runs his knuckles over your belongings like they’re the most delicate objects in the world. Grazing over the rim of dust on your dresser’s edge, he scrapes it off on his jacket with a touch closer to his typical gentility.

He threads the loose corner of your pillow through his fingers, and hops backward onto the comforter, settling into the mattress with a familiarity you aren’t sure he’d earned.

You yell again from the bathroom, door half cracked, “I just washed those.”

He adjusts his legs to hang off the bed, kicking his old sneakers onto the shag rug, “My apologies.” Grabbing a spare pillow to hold over his stomach, he’s half sat up against your headboard, tapping his fingers on the silk.

You can hear him humming from your room as you shower. The softness in his voice when he thinks you can’t hear him always makes you smile. His kindness had a bite to it; if you asked for the shirt off his back, he’d throw it at you.

Sometimes you like to watch him when he thinks he’s safe to shuck off his harsh, protective cloak and just be Eddie. The Eddie that leaves out a can of tuna by the trash for the trailer park cats, or carries the neighbor’s wandering toddler home on his shoulders. These little concessions towards fragility—like the soft hums with your silk pillow in his lap—remind you why he’s in your life.

The bathroom clouds with steam while you settle into the hot water, humming along to his voice, reaching blindly for the shampoo. You shake the bottle over your head and squeeze, only to be hit with a puff of air and a few pathetic pearls of lather. It isn’t even worth it to scrub the remnants in, and you pop out of the shower with a groan, tossing the empty bottle into the sink.

If Eddie were to try and sneak a peek right now, the thick, fluorescent steam would ruin his show. Still, you pull on the robe hanging behind the door. You’re sure you bought new shampoo, sure it must be under the sink, but you freeze before you can even take a look in the cabinet, half kneeling with your fingertips wedged against the wood.

It’s silent in your bedroom.

Eddie’s no longer humming, and when you turn on your toes to peek beyond the door you can just see his silhouette behind the thin canopy.

He’s on your bed as before, pillow over his lap, but now his hips rock up, knuckles white in the silk case.

The cabinet door slips from your fingers, clapping shut, stopping Eddie in his tracks.

He looks to the bathroom, and you dart behind the door.

“You okay?” He yells, obvious strain cut with even more obvious panic.

“Fine! Almost dropped the shampoo!” You shout back, sitting down on the edge of the tub, wringing the string of your robe between your fingers.

You don’t know if you want to look again.

Eddie was always over familiar. Always controlling the situation, the ringleader who branded his group with every rough touch. Fingers hard on your neck, a peanut flicked your way at the bar, judgment in his smile.

All this to keep you—and everyone else—at arm’s length. The clothes, the hair, the rings, they did enough to keep most people away. But the ones who looked past that, they got the neurosis and informality. You know him more than he thinks, more than he allows, and you aren’t against taking that initiative.

Of course you want to look.

This is far deeper than you ever thought you’d get.

Slipping off the edge of the tub, you crawl over to the door, inhaling a big breath of steam, robe damp and sticking to your body.

You feel safe enough sitting on your knees to watch him, enough layers of steam and fabric and poor vision between you and him to keep this mutual intrusion a secret. If you were to argue it, Eddie using your pillow to get off is probably a bigger invasion than you watching him do it, but the shame was the same.

One hand presses the pillow into his pelvis, the other pets along the grain of the smooth fabric, fingers touching down one after the other.

Sometimes Eddie taps you on the head with a ringed knuckle when you’re being smart. This feels like the gentle variant of that.

Though his lips are parted, you can’t hear anything outside the hammer of the shower. A playback of all his dramatic grunts and scoffs loops in your head instead, and you see the way his Adam's apple thrums in his throat with every note of pleasure.

It’s easy to piece together the way he could look behind that hazy chiffon, his chest rising and falling, slow to combat the noise he wants to make. The knee hanging off the bed just peeks out of the canopy, and he pushes up against your pillow using a firmly planted foot. You know the way his tendons move in his hand as he grabs tighter, presses harder.

You make up the sound of his zipper sleeves against the pillow, a soft kind of scratching that could catch at any moment. If you hadn’t seen him now, you would’ve blamed him for being so careless with your stuff later. His name would’ve been the first in your head when you noticed the imperfection.

But everything about right now is perfect.

You can’t say there’s an established attraction, exactly. A curiosity, sure, little question marks in your head every time he calls you pretty with that surface grin. Maybe a dream or two in the years you’ve known him, dreams where he pulled you in from arm’s length. Not romantic, never that, but close and real and earnest.

If this is the closest you get—a voyeur to your own invasion—then you’ll take it for all it’s worth. At least you know he really thinks you’re pretty.

You sit in stunned silence for a minute more before new movement startles you back behind the door, and when you peek again, Eddie has both feet on the bed, his knees pulled toward him, thrusting up harder against the pillow. It’s still slow, but he’s sunken into the deep plush of your comforter, hair blanketing his head. His features are distinct enough, the curve of his open mouth, the valley of his throat, you can carve expressions from familiar topography.

It’s from this position that a weak moan cuts through the pattering water, and—for what you think is the first time—you feel something more than curiosity.

Eddie pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, and he presses two harsh fingers between his eyebrows, smudging his fingertips across his forehead in what you’re sure is frustration.

You’ve gone past filling the gaps of what you know, the pulpit of your stomach swirling with thoughts of more moans, how it must feel under the rough hew of his jeans, what he’d do if it were you on his lap, and whether he’d accept you there at all.

For all his drama and fire, Eddie couldn’t sit in discomfort. He loved being the discomfort, but if it turned on him he was like a cornered dog.

As you continue to watch him, the swirling in your stomach slips down, and for now a hand between your legs is enough to calm this bud of interest.

The floor is slick under you, steam quick to fill the space of your parted thighs, heat on heat crushed under the just pruning skin of your fingerprint. You sigh, chest stuttering against relief. Slow, concentrated breaths quell any noise you’d want to make as you swirl your middle finger over your clit, Eddie’s moan looping in your brain.

You focus on the line of his figure, the indent he’ll leave in your bed when he gets up and tries to pretend he’d been peacefully laying there the whole time.

Without trying, your brain fills in gaps of space in your time with Eddie. Every time he left a party before you, a quick ‘I’ll wait for you in the van. No rush.’ and a tap on the shoulder. Trips to the 7/11, insistent that he must surprise you with snacks for the session, or each time you lost him in the bar, distracted by drifters who thought a beer or two would get you back home with them.

The memories are tinged now with the sight of his arching back, his parted lips, and that singular moan.

The thoughts carry you as far as they can, and the sight of him behind the curtain even more, but the rhythm of your fingers isn't what you want. It grows as stale as you hope that pillow must be for him, and with a sharp swallow you stand up to turn the shower off.

It takes a minute to gather yourself, roughing your hair with the towel to shake off what nerves you can. You face yourself in the mirror, dewy glass blurring your body into something amorphous. You can contend with this fuzzy figure, gazing over your shoulder to watch it slip past the bathroom door. In your mind’s eye, it’s not you taking this risk, but the reflection. It’s enough to get you into the bedroom.

Eddie has his ankles crossed and an arm behind his head, and he taps his fingers over his stomach as you approach, still roughing your hair as you enter.

“All cleaned up?” He asks, his eyes following you until he’s looking up through his lashes, a quick flick to the space next to him before he meets your eyes again.

You sit where he’d looked, tossing the towel into a laundry basket opposite the bed, “Mhm.”

There’s a long moment of your eyes on his, and he snaps out with a shake of his head, and that stupid grin, “Shit, sorry, you probably want to get dressed, huh?”

As he pushes to sit up, you close the space between you, your mouth just pressing against his. He pulls back with wide eyes that dart around your face, and he keeps a hand on your shoulder to hold you away.

His lips form and abandon several words, but before he can get a noise out, you cut the space, “I saw you.”

He jerks his head back, swallowing hard and looking past you now. More sentences starting and stopping without a thought fully formed.

You feel the hand on you loosen, see him shift in front of you, but there’s no easy way for Eddie to escape the situation.

“It’s okay.” You start reaching over for the hand on your shoulder, and he flinches.

“It’s okay.” You repeat, voice quieter and firmer, and he lets you take his hand, lets you guide it from your shoulder to the pit of your throat, over the drying beads of water between your breasts, and under the plush cotton collar of your robe.

His hand cups around you, rings warm and sticking to your skin, your fingers loosely wrap around his wrist for a moment before he accepts where you’ve left him.

You both let out a slow breath. Eddie’s starts with a hitch, but settles into something calm and certain. He doesn’t meet your eyes yet, they’re trained on the concealed hand, resting dead over your breast.

Placing two fingers under his chin, you coax him to look at you, your thumb brushing under his bottom lip, a few out of place dots of stubble pricking at your skin. You don’t think he could grow a beard if he tried, but random hair sprouts around his jaw from week to week, pimples following if he plucks them too late.

You bring your nose close to his, and he tilts up almost imperceptibly, tongue darting between his lips.

That first kiss was so brief you already can’t remember what he felt like, but the calm heat of his breath on you is steady, warm and inviting, and his eyes glisten as he looks at you.

His palm is heavy under your robe, thumb running back and forth ever so slightly, catching on the natural pull of your skin.

You let your eyelids slip closed, and finally he kisses you.

It isn’t harsh or fast and it doesn’t light your insides up the way your imagination did, but you’re sure you’ll remember it for the rest of your life. His bottom lip trembles for the first second, slick and soft, and you feel the scratch of those loose facial hairs against your chin. The hand beneath your robe squeezes shut, the warm metal of his rings sticking and unsticking with a little sting as he builds confidence in the moment.

The hand he’d kept on the bed comes up to curl over the slope of your neck, and as you lean into him he slides the collar of the robe down past your shoulder. It sits against your bicep, not revealing anything he’s not sure you’d want, but enough to let him kiss down your jaw, spattering over the bare landscape you’ve allowed him.

You slip a hand under the hem of his old t-shirt, pinching at the rolled skin of his abdomen, body curved uncomfortably as he’s half sat up on the bed.

He backs away from kissing when you push him down onto the comforter, both hands grabbing your arms to bring you with. You stay sat on the edge of the bed, torso twisted to follow him as he wants.

“Take off the jacket.” You whisper against his mouth, dragging your lips under his jaw and down his throat. You pull his shirt up and fix your hands on his hips, marking the skin down his chest with nips and long kisses. He struggles to tug the jacket off and can only manage the sleeves, leather crinkling under him as he wriggles under you.

You drag the tip of your tongue over his happy trail, and he watches with quiet interest, fingers gliding over your bare shoulder.

Eddie isn’t wearing anything under his jeans, you can feel the length of his erection stuffed uncomfortably beneath the denim.

“Ohh, please.” He whispers, more breath than anything else.

You hum with a smile, watching him as you unbutton and unzip and tug the bottoms down his thighs.

His hand hovers over the back of your head, nails just touching down along your hair, and he settles for resting it on your back.

He isn’t over or under-endowed, you can comfortably wrap a hand around his base and hold the rest of him in your mouth without strain, but you start with the hand. Dribbling a mouthful of spit over his tip, you slip your fisted hand down the shaft, thumb pressing into the rim of his head. He holds back expletives, syllables drawn out and dying behind his teeth. You’re slow, gliding your hand over his length and watching the wrinkles as he screws his eyes shut and pushes his hand over his forehead, bangs fraying out of place.

His cock thrums under your hand, and you squeeze his thigh as it jerks, quick spasms of enjoyment relieving tension.

You wait until there’s obvious pressure in his chest, until his Adam’s apple is taut against his throat, and he can barely eke out breaths.

Without knowing, he gives you what you want as you swirl your tongue around his tip for the first time. He can’t hold back the languid, whimpering moan that escapes his open mouth, all the air in his lungs expelled with it.

Watery, salty precum slides over your tongue, and you close your lips around him, hollowing your cheeks as you work down his shaft. Spit pools into your mouth and over your bottom lip, and as your chin brushes the hair at Eddie’s base, you feel sweat and spit drying on the skin.

Eddie’s hesitance falls away as he starts to lose himself, the hand on your back coming up to gently push down your head, not forceful, exactly, but wanting. He whimpers with increased impatience the harder you work him, the hum of your mouth around him an added jolt of pleasure.

You break for a moment to suck marks into the sharp angle of his hip bone, your hand a warm substitute that still pulls beautiful noises from him. He hisses against the kiss, the curve of his belly heaving with full breaths. He has faint marks of muscle definition when he flexes against your touch, but his abdomen rounds with every intake of air, and you press your lips along his pelvic line to feel the way he’s working through your touch.

Kissing the bush of hair around his shaft, you run your thumb over his head, your tongue flat against his base, dragging up to lick away the new dribbles of precum.

He lets your name fall from his lips, and a mewling, strained, “Please…keep going…” with his nails combing over the back of your head.

You take him entirely in your mouth once again, and he ruts up, hitting the back of your throat. You swallow the near-gag, and Eddie’s laughter—tied into an apology— hits your ear, the first instance of that rough-hewn boy you’re used to.

In response you curl your free hand around his balls and give them a light squeeze, clutching them against the base of his shaft to compress the tension he must be feeling. You imagine it’s a tight, coiled pain in his stomach, and it’s your greed more than anything that keeps him from relief.

Eddie wriggles underneath you, his body twitching outside his control, incomplete requests for release dying on his tongue.

What he finally chokes out is an ill timed warning, his orgasm already spilling into your mouth by the time he tells you he’s going to come. It’s warm and salty down your throat, and if it came from anyone else it would be an off-putting sensation that you’d be quick to spit out, but with Eddie paralyzed under you as he finishes, no taste could be sweeter or more satisfying.

You don’t even have time to swipe the sleeve of your robe over your lips before he’s tugging you up to his mouth.

This kiss is harsh and deep and the hand on your head presses you hard into him. His tongue twists over yours, warm and slimy, loud smacks between you with every kiss.

You’ve no choice now but to climb on him, straddling his stomach, his hand coming down to slide the robe entirely off. Your knees nick on the sharp parts of his jacket, but it’s a pale feeling compared to the heat of your bodies and his hands burning into your skin, branding your hip as you grind on him.

“Hey, hey.” He pulls you back with a hand on your cheek, thumb tugging at the bulb of your cheekbone. You’re both flustered and disheveled when your eyes meet, and you feel you could fall forever into the pit of that dark brown. “Sit on my face.” He breathes, kneading at the skin of your ass, gaze trained on your reaction.

“Yeah?” You ask, the throbbing between your thighs ever present as you’ve stilled on him.

He nods, his hand slipping from your cheek to coast down your body and rest on your other hip. They coil underneath your thighs to hold you as you re-situate yourself over him, hovering just above his mouth, a little hesitant to drop your weight on him. This felt somehow more intimate than a blowjob, smothering him with your body, the full potential of your spasms direct and right there on his tongue.

Eddie didn’t care, he forced you down with his arms, and you lurched forward against the headboard, one hand wrapping over the edge, the other a buffer between your forehead and the hardwood.

The pleasure was instant and overwhelming, Eddie’s tongue indistinct in its movement, lips and spit and the tickle of his nose worming their way through your body.

His grip was tight on you, arms wrapped around your thighs, and the soft curl of his hair rustled under your skin. He doesn’t move you over his tongue, but rather keeps you still, tries to stop you wriggling and doing the work yourself. You oblige best you can, holding the headboard tighter, biting down into the skin of your forearm, wanting even now to give him what he wants, to let him help you in whatever way he sees fit. He’s giving you more of himself than you ever imagined he could, and more than anything you just want to languish in this moment for as long as you can.

He hums underneath you, satisfied little hums that rise and fall with his focus.

It’s when you go silent—your breath caught in your chest, moans stuck in your throat—that Eddie starts rocking you over his mouth. The heat in your stomach is unbearable, and you gasp as he guides you back and forth over his tongue, everything below his nose a wet, slobbering mess, just as much from you as it is him. You slip against him with ease, grinding harder and faster, any worry you had about smothering him long gone with the ever-winding spiral of ecstasy that sits in your belly.

Tighter and tighter it curls, the rocking of your hips uneven and desperate now.

Eddie slides his hands as far as he can up your back, combing lines down your skin with his nails, and you wriggle closer to the headboard, so close to the end that every touch is torturous.

You haven’t spent half as long with his head between your thighs as he did with your lips around his cock, but any shame you could possibly feel will come later. You just want the relief, to unfurl and collapse and let him feel you shaking over the knack of his tongue.

You drop entirely onto him, his tongue swirling over the pulsing nub of your clit, and he grabs you as hard as he can, just as needy and wanting.

He groans underneath you, and your vision explodes behind your eyes.

Spasming and shaking, he holds you as you come undone, tilting his head up as the orgasm sends you backward to lay on his chest. He doesn’t stop running his tongue over your clit even as it becomes overwhelming, wanting to capture every last dredge of your climax. He laps up the arousal that wells from you, sucking kisses between your lips.

The euphoria layers in your body like waves of radar, one after the other until you’re begging him to let you go. You can’t quite catch your breath, wheezing as you try to pull air into your lungs, evening out as the radiation of pleasure cools to satisfaction.

You roll off him onto your stomach, resting your head in your arms to look back at with a smile.

He pushes his bangs up and shakes his head with a laugh, “Nuts.” He squeezes your calf.

You both sit in the moment, a comfortable silence between you with his hand resting on your leg.

Silence wasn’t golden in your experience with Eddie thus far. If there wasn’t conversation, there was music; if there wasn’t music, there was his humming. Any quiet with Eddie around was borne out of tension, but now you feel a deep tranquility even as the cool air of the still-open window hits your bare skin.

He runs his fingers gently back and forth, and the both of you let out a content sigh at the same time.

“J—”

“—inx! Ha!” Eddie is a hair faster, and he jiggles your calf in accomplishment before shifting to mirror you on your stomach. He hovers in front of your lips, muscling you over a bit with his shoulder, “Owe me a…kiss?”

You let your head fall into your arms, a kick of giddiness in your stomach, but you come back to meet his lips.

There’s a smile in this kiss, you think maybe there could be more. Kisses, smiles, whatever you can get.

Whatever Eddie can give.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x f!reader #my writing #mine

767 notes · View notes

alienaiver · 2 months

Text

Rugged

Aizawa Shouta x GN!reader

warnings: quirk-induced amnesia, canon minor character death (major in my heart tho), spoilers for... season 5 and forth? to be safe wordcount: 4.9k content: confessions, first kiss, fluff, sfw, no use of y/n, pro hero reader but quirk is unspecified, canon compliant, genderneutral reader, poc!friendly reader, body positive reader, hurt/comfort in like the mildest sense, soft love, amnesia situation, friends to lovers, childhood friends to lovers, started as a meme turned into something serious, something about cats, unbeta'd, flashbacks to high school days

notes: this is so embarassing to admit but i only came up with this story bcos of that tiktok/insta reel (link is a tiktok as thats where i could find the source material) about having a type that's 'rugged'. it was supposed to just turn into a little joke on that and... uh, ykno suddenly i was almost 5k deep into a childhood friends to lovers, ..ya my brain had a VISION alrighty!!!!! please enjoy a one-eyed kitty, one-eyed aizawa and interrupted confessions!

Aizawa’s leaning forward on the desk, meticulously writing down an exact copy of your notes from English Literature that he missed yesterday due to being in the infirmary… again. He’s always known that becoming a Pro Hero with a non-physical quirk would be tough, but he didn’t imagine landing himself in a hospital bed as often as he does. He’s bulking up nicely, but he feels beaten black and blue every other day and it’s… exhausting.

Rewarding, but exhausting nonetheless. He’s momentarily disturbed as a chair is being dragged across the floor, screeching away before haphazardly thrown next to the desk, wrong side facing it, and Yamada throwing himself onto it, arms leaning on the backrest. He says your name in a sing-song voice – your given name, has he no shame? - and steals a peek of you from over the rim of his glasses. You rest your head in your palm and smile at him, “what’s up?” you ask, and he hums as if he’s thinking deeply about something. Aizawa’s got a bad feeling about whatever subject he’s about to bring up; ever since he appointed himself Aizawa’s wing man, the pestering’s both been non-stop and non-discreet.

Aizawa keeps his face buried in the notes, purposefully removing himself from the conversation.

“What’s your type?” Yamada asks and Aizawa has to hold back a facepalm. You simply giggle and play with the zipper from your pencil case before you answer, “hmm, I’m not sure. But with all due respect, I know it’s not you,” you tease him and he straightens his back in mock-surprise, the conversation’s one you’ve had before. He takes a hand to his chest, “what? Not me? Well you’re not my type either!” the shriek in which he yells is a little too loud, his quirk still a little too unmanageable when he gets excited – he winces as the rest of the class turn their heads. You simply laugh and bite your lower lip. Aizawa steals a look at you through his bangs, admiring the glimmer in your eyes.

“Yeah, I’m sorry ‘Zashi, I truly am, but… you’re just not… rugged enough.”

“What? I’m so rugged. I can be rugged!”

“Look at you, you’re not rugged,” you laugh as you gesture vaguely to… all of him. He takes offense as he puffs up his chest, “how am I not rugged? Because I’m not wearing a flannel in 80 degree weather?”

You hide your face in your hand as you try to contain your laughter, “yeah, sure, whatever… but look at you now. You fly off the handle like that, you’re too angry.”

“That’s a very rugged thing to do!”

“No, it’s really not.”

Aizawa has been saddled with the two of you for almost two semesters now, and he’s still not entirely used to the way you joke around. In the beginning he was always worried about you fighting and not getting along and he’d stare at you both with wide eyes like a startled cat and hope you’d settle down soon. You always did, laughing like the greatest joke was just told.

You lean forward on the table to bark out a laughter deep from your stomach, momentarily blocking the view of your notes that Aizawa’s copying. He lets out a soundless grunt at you being so close and pulls away in surprise when he accidentally smell your shampoo. He wants to lean forward again, to commit the scent to memory, but you’re already straightened back up, wiping an imaginary tear from your eye, “you don’t even want me, Hizashi, why is this always so important to you?”

This makes Aizawa freeze, terrified that Yamada will accidentally tell his secret to you. But Yamada simply crosses his arms, puffs up his cheeks and nods, “you’re right, I don’t. But I want you to want me. I’m the entire package.”

You laugh and shake your head, letting your arm fall onto the desk in defeat. “Sure then, ‘Zashi. I want you. Badly. More than anything. Please go out with me.” your face is as flat as Aizawa’s can be, and Yamada smiles proudly, “no thank you.”

Aizawa’s startled out of grading papers when his personal phone starts ringing next to him on the desk, the screen much too bright for the darkened room he’s situated in. It’s an unknown caller, which makes him hesitant at first but since it’s well past office hours, he knows it won’t be a salesman of any sort.

He bites his lower lip before he picks up.

“Aizawa speaking.”

“Ah, good evening. I apologize for contacting you at this hour, however, you are written down as the emergency contact for…” he apologetically butchers the pronunciation of your name, but gets your hero name correctly, “this is Aizawa Shouta, right?” the person on the other end confirms, and Aizawa nods before he verbally comes up with an answer.

“Well, it’s just that…” he explains your situation precariously, advising Aizawa to just come down to the station if he’s able, since someone will need to escort you home. He makes sure to remind Aizawa that you have two more emergency contacts on file in case he’s not available, but after getting the location, he’s already up from the chair before he’s hung up with the poor officer dealing with you.

From the call he knows you’re neither mortally wounded or in any kind of distress. You were on patrol when you encountered two villains. One of them turned out to have an amnesia quirk, and now you were stuck at the precinct, not entirely sure where your apartment is located. The officer informed Aizawa that you seemed calm and collected but that the last date you remember was well over 10 years ago even if you haven’t age-regressed in any way.

When he arrives, the officer leads him to one of the offices, profusely apologizing and thanking him at the same time. He’ll never really get used to the way newly appointed officers act around Pro Heroes.

Even if all facts and rationale tells Aizawa that you’re fine, he still grips the door handle way too tight, throwing open the door and evidently scaring the shit out of you, sprawled out on the couch with an ice bag on your knee. You spew out some profanities as you sit up. Aizawa immediately calms down as he sees you alive and well. He thanks the officer and agrees with the officer to sit down and talk with you before taking you home. He bows before he closes the door and looks back at you.

“I already gave a statement – was anything missing?” you ask, resting your hands neatly on your thighs. Aizawa shakes his head, “I came to pick you up – they informed you about which of the emergency contacts to call, right?”

Realization seems to travel across your features as Aizawa masks the sting he feels. Instinctively you reach out, but ultimately pull your hands back, “Aizawa?”

For a split second he lets his emotion show on his face – the way you say his last name instead of his given name, but he’s quick to hide it again. He nods and sits down on one of the chairs on the other side of the coffee table, “I was informed that your memory’s been wiped.”

You nod and look at the floor, “yeah. They took in the villains and interrogated them. It seems it’ll wear off in five to seven hours, but until then I’m stuck with my first work study as my most recent memory. I don’t feel like high school me, though, it’s just like there’s an empty gap in my timeline and not an age-related kind of thing. I can’t remember what has happened since then, but cognitively speaking, I’m still myself.”

Aizawa breathes in sharply, “well, that’s a relief. I have enough students to take care of,” he dryly jokes and the way your eyes widen make him self-conscious. He shouldn’t have made the joke he thinks as he shrinks in on himself.

“You’re a teacher?”

The way you ask betrays your emotions all too clearly and Aizawa holds back a snort. If the last of his personality you remember is high school, he gets why you struggle with the image of him taking care of the budding youth.

“A homeroom teacher, actually.”

Whatever preconceptions you had initially seems to dissipate and you smile proudly, “that’s amazing.”

You haven’t commented on his appearance; besides the moment where you didn’t recognize him, you don’t seem all too taken aback by his lack of eye and prosthetic leg. He’s relieved.

“You ready to go?” he asks, patting his lap with his palms before bracing himself to get up. You get up too and stretch your arms over your head, waiting for that satisfying pop, but it never comes. Annoyed, you let your arms falls and Aizawa smiles at you.

He leads you out of the room and as you put on the jacket he came with, he thanks the officers for their work with some polite back and forth and a bow.

The trip back is quiet as you seem to just take in your surroundings. You stop by your Agency to grab your personal items and civilian clothes that you left behind before your patrol. Luckily the offices are mostly cleared out, so you don’t have to ‘meet’ everyone and Aizawa gets out of explaining everything to everyone.

“Do you want me to escort you to your place? Or do you want to come to mine?”

The question is straight-forward and innocent; you sleep over so often that Aizawa’s spare futon has simply been dubbed your futon, but you seem taken aback, eyes wide and mouth agape. For a moment Aizawa’s blind to the confusion before he remembers.

“Sorry, you sleep over at my place a lot since it’s close to your work. I thought you might also like to see Benben.”

Your eyes that had seemed so tired ever since he arrived, lights up in recollection and excitement, “Benben’s alive and well?” you ask, absentmindedly leaning into Aizawa’s space in your joy. He struggles not to lean back reflectively.

“Yeah, she’s living with me now. She’s becoming old, though. But you’re still her favorite human, so she’d be happy to see you too.”

You giggle into your palm, clearly trying to picture Benben. She was a stray that you and Aizawa started to feed your leftover lunches to back during your first year at U.A. She was also one of the reasons you even started bonding with the stoic classmate. When you talk about the name Benben, a very bad nickname based off of bento, you always laugh and tease Aizawa about his cat-naming skills. While he defends himself in front of Yamada – the man with a habit of getting out his childish side – he never once argues against you on that subject.

Next to Aizawa, you clear your throat right as he’s about to unlock his front door. He’s been polite enough to not comment on the level of staring you’ve done ever since he picked you up, but it seems to be getting too much for yourself. He smiles at you gently, like he’s communicating with a lost child, and the smile makes you act before you can think too long about the action. Aizawa’s breath hitches and whole body freezes when your cold fingertips reach the skin of his cheeks. Your eyes look at him like they’re searching for something, and shortly after your palms make contact, your thumbs start traveling around his face, from his eyebrows to the slope of his nose and then a finger is being traced over the scar under his right eye. He can see all the questions fly through your head, the way you hold back from tracing the eye patch but stare at it like it’s not supposed to be there. He’s about to clear his throat when a thumb starts tracing his chapped lips before continuing down to his jawline, tickling his 5 o’clock shadow. As he tries to smile patiently at you, you mumble something under your breath that makes Aizawa’s heart stop for just a moment too long before racing at the same speeds as Yamada’s car when he’s late.

“It really is you… you’re just so…” you pause for a moment to swallow thickly and lick your lips, “…rugged.”

Not until you’ve had your (in Aizawa’s terms) grabby little fingers on every part of his face and given his heart an aneurysm with your words, does realization hit you. You seem to shrink and pull away to bow half-way a few times at him. Aizawa grumbles out a weak complaint about personal space and jingle the keys again to find the right one. No matter how advanced his work place is in terms of security and technology, he finds it unbelievable how many different types of keys he is expected carry for the school grounds alone. Logically, he’s aware that he’s fumbling due to your innocent advances but his brain’s not exactly acting calm and rational, so he furrows his brows and as he puts in the correct key, takes in a deep, calming breath.

When he motions for you to enter the apartment, he can’t help but observe you as you curiously peek around while you enter. You don’t toe off your shoes or step up from the genkan until the door behind him is locked and he gestures to the left pair of slippers in front of you. You let out a breath as you mumble, “sorry for intruding…” as if this isn’t your home away from home.

As Aizawa toes off his own shoes, he takes notice of your searching eyes. He jerks his head towards the living room, “she’s probably sleeping on the couch. She can’t hear very well anymore, so she doesn’t greet by the door.”

There’s a clear sort of heartbreak in your eyes that Aizawa recognizes, before you nod and walk in the direction of the living room. While your memory might be gone for the moment, it seems there’s muscle memory still intact as you purposefully step over the loose floorboard he always warns guests about. He smiles at that. Benben seems to spot you from her pillow on the couch because no sooner than you enter the room, he starts hearing the hoarse bleating of the senior kitty in there. She must’ve stayed up when Aizawa suddenly left, since it’s out of routine. She’s never been able to meow properly, which enchanted you since she first bleated at you for a bite of your convenience store-bought onigiri back when the two of you met her for the first time.

He hears you coo at her and can only imagine you both before he turns the other corner for his office to shut down the computer for the night. He quickly rejoins you and finds you with Benben on your lap, purring and headbutting your hands to her heart’s contents. When his eye travel higher to meet yours, he’s taken aback momentarily at the strained smile and wet eyes.

“She looks so loved.” you try to explain, and Aizawa can’t hold back the blush from the compliment. She does look loved now, a little on the fuller side (not by a lot, as her physical health is very important to Aizawa), her coat is shiny despite the coarseness that age brings, and she no longer has that stubborn eye infection it took Aizawa several years to treat out of her; she’s missing an eye now as a result, but she’s healthy.

You look around his living room, smiling and heaving in breaths at all the external proofs for her love; she has a pet staircase to both the windowsill, couch and the dining chair next to his; there are three different cat towers and several cat shelves for her to perch on although they’ve rarely been used for several years now. Aizawa can’t bear to take them down – what if she wants to go on one last adventure to the shelf highway he built for her close to the ceiling? It obviously wouldn’t be safe for her to do so, but robbing her of the options feels cruel to his heart.

When you pet her behind her ear and Aizawa situates himself on the floor pillow, you giggle, “you match.”

You’re referring to the missing eyes and while Aizawa takes no offense from the comment, he can’t help but snort at the straightforward observation. It’s very like you.

“How did you lose it?”

You don’t remove your eyes from Benben as you ask and from the shaky lilt to your voice, he knows you’re afraid of the answer. He’s afraid of telling you, too.

So much bad has happened during those years – you were there during his low points after, and asking that question is like removing the experiences you’ve shared. The grief you’ve suffered.

But he knows you want to know. Before he can answer, you continue, “can you tell me everything? About you… Oboro and Hizashi, too. I was informed it was only you, Hizashi and my mom on my emergency contact list. I know it’s not supposed to be miles long but… yeah…” you trail off and Aizawa’s grateful that you’re not looking at him. He’s not sure he’s able to control his face right now; and the emotion he’s showing wouldn’t be remotely close to soothing for you.

“Uh,” he jerks and clears his throat several times to stall, “when did you say your memory would be back?” he asks instead even if he’s aware of the answer.

You look up and hum thoughtfully, “they said five to seven hours around … two hours ago? So…” you count on your fingers and despite everything, Aizawa huffs out a soundless laugh, “three to five hours? Give or take.”

He inhales sharply. He can’t drive you off for that long, even if he used going to bed as an excuse. You’d just toss and turn in fear of what you’d come to remember.

So he tells you. He retells every painful memory with clear objectivity, pausing to let you process each one, seeing the light slowly dissipate in your eyes for every terrible incident. When he reaches present day, he inhales slowly and holds his breath for a moment to control his own emotions.

You’ve stopped petting Benben who’s sound asleep on your lap now, your hands hanging like lifeless limbs by your side. Aizawa then clears his throat, “you were scouted. In third year. ‘Zashi opened a radio station shortly after graduation. Oboro’s mom still invites us for hotpot for his birthday every year despite the mismatch in dish and weather,” you both laugh at that one – of course she insists on his favorite dish on such an important day. An image of the four of you huddled around, sweating over a pot of delicious food has you throwing your head back in sincere laughter, “you have a prodigy; you inspired me to take a pupil on as well, and he’s graduating this spring… I, uh… I use eye drops now.”

The last tidbit of information makes you turn your head so fast you almost get whiplash. Then, your expression turns stern, “didn’t I tell you! Didn’t I tell you to be careful!” you reprimand and he almost rolls his eye at you. Almost.

You shake your head at him and focus back on Benben, a little more color on you again as the mood has successfully shifted. He’s unsure if you’re pretending to be fine for his sake or if he actually succeeded in making you feel better, but he can’t stifle the yawn that comes out of him as soon as he feels relief.

You look up apologetically, “oh my God I’m so sorry, I’ve kept you up haven’t I? Please, you can just go to bed, I’ll be okay!”

Aizawa wants to argue but he also can’t fight the creaky ache he feels in his bones. He went straight from a night shift to school, napped in the teacher’s lounge and then home to grade papers. He’s dead-tired.

He gets up to carry his futon into the living room and set yours up in his bedroom. Usually, you sleep in the same, bare room as him and Benben, but he feels it might be too much for you without your memories, even if you sleep on separate futons with space in between. You make a joke about the futons but then, in a soft voice admit, “I think it’s nice you sleep on something accessible for Benben…” there’s a warm tone to your voice that makes him blush heavily before he pushes you out of his living room.

“I’ll sleep out here, you take the bedroom.”

You meekly argue about taking his bedroom, but he shuts you down in the same way he’s always done, and urges you to carry Benben in with you. You agree to have the door ajar in case Benben wants to walk around, and you bow your head when you bid him goodnight. Aizawa lets the light in the hallway stay on.

////

You wake up with a hitched breath and sweat on your brow, unsure when you managed to fall asleep. Disoriented, you take in Aizawa’s bedroom; you were supposed to sleep home tonight after your shift though, not to mention that Aizawa’s futon isn’t laid out next to yours. It takes you a moment to gather your bearings until it all comes back to you. You’d lost your memory.

You’d lost yourself. You hug your arms around you as the feeling of being lost still sits heavy in your body and makes you shiver. Seeing Aizawa was terrifying; you’d no idea of the obvious horrors he’d had to endure. You didn’t remember your best friend’s death.

For a moment you control your breathing, making yourself calm down as best as you’re able. It makes sense why Aizawa decided to sleep in the living room, if the last memory of him was a pimple-y teenager and not the gruff man he is today. You close your eyes and think back to right before you entered the apartment.

You roll onto your stomach and hide your face in your hands, letting out a drawn-out flustered groan. Without thinking, you kick your legs on the bedding to alleviate the embarrassment that’s coursing through you at your own actions. You’d just went all up in his face! The sensation of his stubble underneath your fingertips, his warm breath and his chapped but so, so kissable lips.

No!

You groan again, drowning in your one-sided misery of a crush. Your honed Pro Hero senses are completely dulled by your pining, so when Aizawa suddenly throws open the door and asks if you are alright, you screech as you lift your head from the pillow, “Shouta!”

“Shit, sorry, I heard you moving around so I thought you might have a nightmare,” he hurries to explain, secretly relieved to hear you say his given name again. He frowns when he can’t see your face with your back turned to him. Still frozen, you barely breathe before he continues, “...you are alright, right?”

Making a grimace and with no interest in facing him right now, you choke out “mhmyepdefinitelyeverythingsperfect!” in one single breath before you’re forced to inhale deeply. You hear Aizawa’s metallic foot as he walks towards your futon and hear the rustling of his clothes as he bends down in a squat next to you, “you don’t sound perfectly fine to me, though. Do you have a fever? Is it an aftershock from getting your memories back?”

Being the perfectly rational man that he is, he oversteps any boundaries to quickly check your temperature with his palm. Embarrassment can come after he’s made sure you’re okay.

You push his hand away weakly, still looking pointedly at the wall in front of you, letting out a strained laugh, “heehee, I’m just… you’re right, it must be an aftershock, right? Nothing else!”

He lets you swat his hand away without much resistance but stays where he is, letting the silence hang over you both for a minute. Suddenly, he croaks out all hoarse and desperate, “Just tell me if there’s anything, please.”

Your shoulders fall at the voice. Aizawa’s the opposite of having a heart on a sleeve, but you’ve been with him through enough tragedies to know he must be scared shitless right now. Whenever you or Yamada is even remotely bruised, he fusses over you in his own, annoyed way, until he finds you sufficiently healed. You sigh before you let your head fall back onto your pillow, a short moment to gather your thoughts and feelings before having to face him.

It must’ve been a lot for him, when you asked him to recount the years you’d momentarily lost. It would’ve been better to let it be, but he knew you so well and knew you wouldn’t let it go. Curiosity kills the cat, right?

With heavy and slow movement, you turn around so that you’re facing him, hoping your expression won’t betray your real emotions. You sigh and reach out for his hand. It’s shaking but as soon as your warm fingers make contact, he flinches before he relaxes.

Then, he grunts like he’s annoyed and chastises you for worrying him. You giggle, “I’m sorry, you’re tired, right?” you ask, knowing his schedule this week is packed. He usually leaves little wiggle room for emergencies, however many he encounters.

Before he can reply, you pull at his hand and he topples over, half on the futon and half on the floor, on his knees. You laugh and pull him even closer to you, hoping your beating heart isn’t as loud as it feels.

You and Aizawa have cuddled before; loneliness and grief has made you carve out comfort in each other, but nothing else have ever been spoken aloud. No kissing, no romantic notions to trace back to. Having a one-sided crush since high school feels deafening right now, when all the years travel back to you after what only amounts to a moment without them.

You want to tell him how you feel; losing your memories made you realize how much you’d like for him to comfort you with kisses if anything should ever happen; how you’d like for him to hold you without holding back.

He grumbles where his head is rested in your neck after he’s settled, but he makes no effort to move. You nuzzle into the mane of hair and breathe in his scent; it’s a lavender-scented shampoo that Yamada insists on buying for him. He never accepts it without complaining, but he also never showers without using it. There’s a spare in your bathroom, at the Agency’s bathroom and at his teacher’s dorm at U.A.

“Y’know, I was really surprised for a moment that you became a teacher.”

He makes no movement, but you know he’s listening.

“But as soon as I thought about it, it made perfect sense. You care so much it sometimes hurts to watch…”

You feel his fist tighten around your bedding, but he stays otherwise quiet still.

“You hurt watching me, too, right? How we both have a habit of bending over backwards for what we perceive is right.”

You start dragging your hands through his hair, letting out a sigh.

“I like that we know each other so well. I like how after so many years, you’re still right here in my arms…”

You pause as his upper arm snakes around you, a sharp exhale against your neck.

“You’ve never dated anyone. At least, not anyone you’d tell me about, so I have no idea where this will lead me to but,”

You take a moment to gather your nerves. There’s really no backing down now. Even if you regret it, your words have already given your feelings away; there’s nothing you can take back.

There’s nothing you want to take back.

You’re about to continue your confession when Aizawa pushes against your neck, his warm lips, soft despite the dryness, presses against your pulse point. You can hear your heartbeat so loud in your ear that the rustling of the sheets from Benben is indistinguishable to you, the only sensation you’re able to take in being Aizawa’s lips as they briefly pull away from your neck, only to push back higher up, closer to your jaw.

You whine and pout, but it’s shaky and without much force. You want to protest, scold him for interrupting you but suddenly he lifts his head to face you, and you’re faced with wide eyes and blown pupils. He steals a glance at your lips before he licks his own, pink tongue peeking out. You feel like a cornered prey, one that’s about to be devoured by a beast. When he hovers mere millimeters above your lips he pauses as if to ask for permission and the sigh you let out makes him know that everything’s okay. That everything he’s ever wanted, wished for, dreamed of, is real.

That losing your memory for a second made you desperate to make more meaningful ones.

And you kiss.

While curiosity did kill the cat, satisfaction definitely brought it back.

#its been a while since i wrote and posted a full blown fic so im suddenly nervous........ in like the way i used to be when i started! its #little fun to feel that way again after 30+ works!!!#aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa shouta x you #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha x you #bnha fluff #aizawa shouta fluff #reader insert #nohr.writing #nohr.bnha #i honestly MOSTLY hope that this is coherent. i really did shift my perspective half way in bcos i like to flesh out pain apparently KJDASK #ilysm yall<3333 hope u enjoy this smooching offering

72 notes · View notes