#and that's fucking sick as hell. things get better and I heal bone deep.

[neverendingford]

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[whiskeynwriting]

Recovery

Simon “Ghost” Riley x OFC “Bones” 

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Word Count: 6.8k

Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI)

Trauma, physical therapy, some reader descriptions (strong/muscles), dirty talk, size kink, grinding/dry humping, mentions of male masturbation, spanking, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, mentions of smoking, tattoos.

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A/N: Hope y’all aren’t getting sick of Ghost x Bones because they’re not leaving anytime soon lol. Also this gif has my HEART, baby has some makeup in his eye lol

ALSO also, thank you to @thesleepingmusicneek for honestly just being an amazing fucking friend but for helping me SO much with my writing 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

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Simon “Ghost” Riley Masterlist

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Nothing but scribbles stumble across the page, now disfigured with angry wrinkles. And the writer, no more frustrated than he is stubborn, sitting with the pencil’s tip just at the paper’s edge. What’s worse than watching him struggle, is knowing there’s little to nothing you can do about it. This journey is up to him; his progress, his growth, his recovery, it’s all in his hands. 

“This is bullocks.” Finally, he tosses the pencil down with an aggressive huff. “Never even was a lefty.”

“That’s not the point.”

Looking away with a frown, he mumbles, “I know.”

Simon’s physical therapist tries his best, he really does, but his patient is stubborn, and these injuries are unforgiving. Having you here is the main thing that keeps Simon going, out of both pride and general encouragement. In the therapist’s eyes, your open sass doesn’t help. But hey, it’s how the two of you bond. 

“Try it this way, Ghost.” He then offers, speaking into the growing silence. 

“I’ve already tried it that way. Fuckin’ hurts!” His left hand wasn’t ever his strongest or most favored out of the two, but practicing his writing skills is a step in the right direction in regard to his healing. 

Sometimes, this was embarrassing for him, having you watch him struggle. But even through the bad days, and the really bad days, he insisted that you come. Your support meant more to him than anything, and you were glad to tag along. He found great offense in the mere offer of you leaving, which was suggested many times by his therapist. They claimed he’d focus better without you there. A fucking distraction. 

“She’s my doctor,” He’d state firmly, eyes burning holes into his PT. “Not you.”

And this was true. Price had allowed you to be Simon’s main physician, figuring there really wasn’t anyone better. You had both personal and professional reason to be here. So, Simon’s physical therapist can suck it. 

“Perhaps if we had some privacy, maybe -”

“This again?!” Ghost shouts, and you try your best to hide your chuckle. He should’ve known better than to bring this up now, when Simon is most frustrated. “Bloody fuckin’ hell, how many times do I have to tell you?!”

“Hey,” Laying a hand on his forearm, you request gently, “Take a breath.”

Regardless of his deep inhale, Simon’s dark eyes continue to glare at the physician. Though, as irritated as he may seem now, Ghost truly has come a long way. He’s gotten a lot of feeling back in his feet and legs, and can even wiggle his toes and feel pain. On this area of his body, the therapist has moved onto moving his entire foot. 

“Why don’t we try the lower extremities?” 

“‘S difficult, too.” Glancing away, Simon focuses on the view past the windowpane. It’s a sunny day, soon to rain but nice enough now. 

The soft rub of your thumb on his forearm is what pulls him back, nodding with a sigh. “Alright, fine.”

Redirecting his focus to his feet, Simon concentrates, determined to do… something. He’s been instructed to wiggle his toes, which he does successfully. And the gentle squeeze you give him offers the slightest bit of encouragement. 

“Alright, now let’s try your ankle. Start with the right one.” 

“Rotate it fully?” Scoffing, he raises a brow.

His therapist shrugs. “Any movement at all.”

Narrowing his eyes, Simon zones in on his right foot, doing anything he can to make it move. A twitch, a wiggle, anything. But by his quick yet shallow breaths, his small grunts, you can tell he’s becoming agitated again. 

“Be patient with your body.”

“My body can do so much more than this.” He spits out in return. 

“Yeah?” You return, not one to take his sass. “Then show me.” 

There was nothing more motivating than your snarky remarks, always ready to challenge the man you love. And wouldn't you know it, a small shudder runs through his ankle. The way Simon’s head immediately snaps up toward you makes you grin, his eyes wide with little crinkles on the side, evidence of his eager smile. It's like he himself was surprised by it, and to say you’re proud of him would be an understatement. 

“Way to go, big boy.” With the widest grin, you congratulate him. “You’re making progress.”

And even though he doesn’t respond, he keeps his smile. He’s proud of himself, too.

*

*

*

Subtle glances, small brushes or touches, cheeky grins and flirtatious laughs, that’s what accounts for your interactions. And while your exchanges have been sweet, they’ve also been dulled, in a way. The fire doesn’t seem to be there anymore. Your love still grows, is still everlasting, but the desire you had for one another, it’s faded.

Or at least, it seems that way. 

The first few months of Simon’s recovery were the most difficult. Getting him stable was more important than anything, and you were by his side through it all. You weren’t thinking sexually, those thoughts weren’t anywhere near your headspace, not when you were so worried. But the more Simon healed, the more touchy he should be, right? It makes sense in your head. Going so long without so much as kissing or even hugging you, you’d assumed he’d want to put his hands on you as soon as he got the chance. 

The injuries on Ghost’s face and head have healed, externally, at least. So, he’s been lifting his mask more around you, but only to the tip of his nose. And you wonder if he regrets showing himself to you. But even with that thought lingering heavily in your head, you also wonder, why hasn’t he kissed me yet? Why hasn’t he initiated anything? A small hug? A peck on the lips? Anything? Honestly, it feels like you’re losing him all over again.

Simon has shown his love for you through his actions and words. The two of you don’t often say it, but it comes up every now and then. His physical intentions, though, those were much more prominent. They came in the form of voicing his requests for you to stay, whether it be at his therapy sessions or just throughout the day. He wasn’t shy about that. Occasionally, he’d compliment you, call you smart and sweet, call you his doctor, his girl. But nothing more, nothing even remotely sexual. And it’s strange because Simon used to be so sexual. Even when he couldn't do much with you, couldn't he have said something to express his physical interest? 

On the other end, Ghost’s worrying about this topic just as much as you. While you’ve been waiting for him to make a move, he’s been waiting on you. His body has always been scarred, mutilated with cuts that ran deep and marred with burns over his flesh. But he wasn’t insecure about any of that, not until these recent injuries. He knows he looks different, especially on his left arm and legs, even his face a little bit. Simon hasn’t felt truly insecure in decades, but that rotten feeling has now been clawing at the insides of his chest, breaking free and wreaking havoc on his mind. 

Simon wanted to give you space, give you the option of turning away. He wouldn’t blame you, this wasn’t exactly part of the package. Besides, you can’t help it if you’re not attracted to him anymore because of these injuries. He’d understand it. It’d crush his entire being, but he’d understand. 

And so, he waits, wondering if the day will come where you’ll make a move, where you’ll show him that you’re still attracted to him. But he refuses to bring it up to you, he doesn’t want to push. 

“‘M sorry,” Simon grumbles quietly, somberly. 

“You don’t have to be.” His regret is obvious, and you appreciate the gesture of him apologizing. But you’re used to his attitude during those sessions, and you honestly don’t blame him one bit. You can’t imagine how frustrating this situation would be if it were you personally. 

Moving about the room, you clean up your station, sorting notes into files and wiping down the desk. And Simon watches you with thoughtful eyes, hoping for a chance to reconnect. You’re the most precious and special thing he’s ever had the pleasure of possessing. But not possess in a way of dominance, possess in a way like his own soul possesses his body. Natural, connected, at peace. 

“How was your day?” He asks, voice low and muddled by the rain tapping against the windowpane. 

Without turning, you respond with, “Normal. Nothing too crazy.” 

“What was your favorite part?” Simon pries gently, not wanting the conversation to end.

Now, you do turn. Leaning back against the edge of your desk, you grin. “Spending it with you.”

And it’s true. Regardless of the worries slowly but surely consuming you, it was nice to be with him. 

Swallowing, his pulse becomes thunderous in his ears, heart beating against his chest. He wants you, wants to feel you next to him. So, with great hesitancy, he requests, “C’mere.”

Excitement shoots through your limbs as you all too quickly prance over to him, ecstatic that he’s even asked. And your eagerness makes him smirk beneath the mask. Sitting yourself down on one of those round, swiveling chairs, you rest beside his left arm. Out of curiosity, you look down, eyeing his decorated forearm. His tattoos no longer look the same, some of them having changed with the healing of his stitches. 

“Bunch of bullshit.” Ghost murmurs, glancing down, too. “Paid good money for those.”

Laughing, you give your head a single shake. “They still look hot as hell.”

Eyes widening, he speaks before he can stop himself. “Really?”

With you being so close to him again, and now complimenting him, he feels like he’s soaring. 

“Fuck yeah.” You respond, as if it were obvious. To you, it is.

Impulsively, you lay a hand over his forearm, fingers brushing the black and white ink. And for a split second, it feels electric on his skin. But you’re quick to flinch away, wide eyes staring up at him. “I’m so sorry, did that hurt?”

But all he does is shrug. “Not at all. Stitches are healed, love.” 

Love. You swoon. 

“So, I can touch you?” It obviously isn’t meant to come off dirty, but Ghost’s brain registers it as that, anyway. 

“Of course you can.” He nearly blurts out, his tone hopeful and welcoming. And immediately, you’re wrapping both hands around his sleeve. The small hum he exudes prompts you to glance up, grinning at the sight. Ghost has closed his eyes, chest releasing a relaxing breath. 

“Feels nice.”

“Just this?” Humored doubt laces your tone. 

“Feels like ages since you’ve touched me.” 

His words twist the thoughts collecting in your head into something new. Has he… he’s wanted me to touch him?

“I know…” The way you say it expresses your sadness, your regret. “Just need you to heal, ya know?”

Because of what he’s now said, you feel the need to explain yourself, explain why you haven’t fulfilled his expectations. Throughout this entire healing process, you focused mostly on his physical health. You never once thought to tend to his emotional wellbeing. It’s a failure, on your end. 

“Does it,” Inhaling a motivating breath, he finishes with, “Does it bother you?”

“What?”

Lifting his arm slightly, he gestures to himself. “These stitches, the injuries.” 

Twisting your face in confusion, you lean back a bit. “Um… no? Why would they?”

“Just… missed your touch, is all.” He’s mumbling, quiet and very obviously insecure. “Missed you.”

“Baby… I’m so sorry.” All at once, regret hits you like a truck. He’s been suffering, and you’ve done nothing. “I’m sorry I haven’t done more for you.”

“You’ve done everything you needed to.”

“No, I haven’t. How could I let you feel this way?” 

An abrupt knock on the door dissipates your conversation into seemingly nothing. Instantly, you pull your hands away from him, turning in your chair to greet whoever’s about to approach. And to your delight, it’s Johnny.

“Hey Lt.” He grins, walking in and giving you a nod. “Lovely Bones.”

There’s that flirtatious nature again. As always, Ghost knew it meant nothing, not really. But now that he feels like you’re falling through his fingers, he wants to tighten his grasp now more than ever, wants to pull you back into his chest and never let you go, whisper all the sweet things he’s been dying to tell you. Especially when another man compliments you.

“How’ve ya been?” Striding forward, Johnny takes a seat opposite of Ghost’s bed. Spreading his legs and leaning in on his knees, he flashes that cheeky smile, giving Simon his full attention.

“I’ve been fine, Johnny. Nothing new.” Simon answers simply, almost in a kind of brain fog. Switching conversations so quickly is difficult for him, still trying to regain his focus from the incident. 

“See your scars are healin’ up nicely.” Pointing to his forearm, he nods. “That’s good to see.”

“Yeah, messed up my bloody ink, though.”

“Ah,” Soap waves a hand, “Looks better that way.” 

The team visited Simon fairly frequently. And since you’re by his side for ninety-five percent of the day, you get to see the guys every time they come by. Oftentimes, they’d bring him little treats, a snack from the cafeteria or his favorite energy drink. And while Ghost knew they had the best intentions, their pity disgusted him. Sometimes he wished they would just leave him alone. Especially now, considering the two of you were in the middle of a rather important discussion. 

“Oh!” Johnny then says, startling you. Reaching into his back pocket, he retrieves a small package. Tossing it Simon’s way, Soap says, “Know you like these.”

Catching it easily, Simon reads the wrapping. A Snickers, he can’t remember the last time he had one of these. And that was mainly due to his brain injury. 

“Thanks, Johnny.”

“I know all this can’t be easy, Si. I’m for you, ya know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ghost sighs, staring down at the candy bar. Johnny rarely called him Si, and it tugs at his heartstrings. 

Soap can feel something is off in the room, the energy is just weird. He’s been wanting to ask about your relationship, but hasn’t had the balls to. He doesn’t want to make either of you uncomfortable and hasn’t had the chance to be alone with Simon or you. 

“Well, I’ll let you lovebirds be.” Smiling cheekily, he stands. “I’ll visit again soon, yeah, Lt.?”

“‘Course, Johnny.” 

Before Johnny leaves, he offers you a hug, strong arms embracing you fully. And you rest against him, leaning into his sturdy frame. He’s been a great part of your support system since all of this happened; Simon’s injuries have only brought you and Johnny closer together. 

“It’ll be alright, yeah, sweetheart?” He sighs quietly against your head. Nodding, you take in a steadying breath.

“Yeah, it’ll be alright.” 

Another knock, another groan from your end. “Come in.”

Opening the door is the other half of the medical team assigned to Ghost, making their way in so they can clean. Their tasks were to change the sheets, wash Simon and his clothes, wipe down surfaces and mop the floor, the list goes on. And while you were more than happy to do these things, Simon wouldn't allow it. Ghost’s recovery prompted new boundaries to arise in your relationship, lines that he was firm on setting. The first regarding this exact circumstance; you already cared for him medically and he refused for you to do anymore, he didn’t want you to be his full time caregiver. He would never want to burden you with that, and he knows it would cause nothing but strife in your relationship. Besides, the mere thought of you changing his bedpan and regularly washing his sheets was humiliating. So, whenever it was time for those types of tasks, you left, fulfilling other duties. 

But why did they have to come now? 

“I’ll, um…” Turning back to Simon, you see he’s already looking toward you with a pleading gaze. Stay. 

All you want to do is stay. 

But at the same time, Simon doesn’t want you to see him this way. 

“I’ll… see you later, Si.”

Swallowing, Simon’s rough voice then appears. “Babe,”

Immediately, your eyes widen, if only ever so slightly. For him to call you that in the presence of others speaks volumes. Sure, Price had you sign those HR papers about workplace relationships, but you hadn’t exactly made it known to others after that. The two of you favored your privacy. But right now, that simple word is speaking louder than anything else he could’ve said.

“C’mere for a sec.” Grunting, he does his best to reach out to you, using his left arm. And as soon as he does it, Johnny is letting you go, wanting you to meet Simon’s gentle plea.

Leaving the sergeant’s arms, you do just that, stepping over to Simon’s bedside. Placing both of your hands in his left, you grin, looking into those deep, warm eyes of his. 

“You’ll come back, yeah?” Ghost asks quietly, your team beginning to work around him.

“Of course, I will.”

“Eh, won’t be long.” Johnny chimes in, “She can come hangout with me and the boys, get a game of pool in.”

“Sounds lovely.” You return with a murmur, eyes not leaving Simon’s. “I’ll be back later, baby.” And that, coupled with the kiss you give his palm, is shocking to your team. Though it sends waves of butterflies through Simon’s stomach. 

These public displays of affection are entirely foreign to your relationship, but you’re both basking in the sweetness of it. And maybe this is the perfect time for you to explore it, for you to outwardly show your love and attraction for him just when he needs it most. 

On your way out, Johnny doesn’t mention the way every single person’s eyes widen in the room when your affectionate nicknames are exchanged, or the way a few heads turn. He chooses to stay silent, smiling to himself while leading you out of the room. 

*

*

*

Returning to a sleeping Simon is bittersweet. You’re glad he’s resting, but you’d do anything to finish your earlier conversation. But it’s late, and you figure at this point, you’ll have to wait until morning.

The rainfall makes you tired, too, yawning as you walk further in. It was only three days into Simon’s recovery that you started sleeping in his room, bringing a small, foldable cot for you to curl up on. His bed wasn’t big enough for the two of you, and besides, you’re pretty sure Price would light a fire up both your asses if he caught you snoozing next to him. 

As quietly as you can, you unfold your small bed and bring it to the side of his. It sits lower, but Simon often made up for that by dropping his arm, letting you hold onto his hand throughout the night. But with him asleep, you don’t think you’ll get that luxury tonight. Nevertheless, you curl up in your blanket, resting only in your underclothes as you doze off beside him. 

“Miss you.”

That rumbling voice almost scares you in the near silence, your body jolting ever so slightly. When did he wake up? Still, those two simple words make your insides burn bright. 

Lips curling happily, you mutter, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Quietly, you then ask, “Want me to come up there?” It’s happened once or twice before, but only for some cuddles. Simon’s grown quite accustomed to your touch. 

With a heavy sigh, he gives in. “You know I do.”

Absolutely thrilled with his request, you pop right up, situating yourself on the right side of his bed. Simon likes it best when you curl up on this side, allowing him to wrap his good arm around you. Cuddling into him, you revel in the closeness - you haven’t done this in weeks. He’s resting on his back, the same position he always sleeps in. And with you by his side, he turns his head in your direction, releasing a contented breath. 

“Hey, gorgeous.” He says to you sweetly, fondly, covered lips pressing to the top of your head. 

“Hm…” Sighing happily, you twine your legs between his much bulkier appendages, draping an arm across his abdomen. You’re so happy he still wants this, wants you and this relationship. 

“Cozy?” He chuckles, eyes closed as he grins. 

“Mhm,” Snuggling further into him, he can feel your smile press against his bare skin. Ghost usually slept nearly naked, only black boxers hugging his body. And you liked it best this way, for multiple reasons. One being that you’re able to see more of his tattoos. He has some on his chest, one reaching up to his collarbones and neck. And you just love them, found them incredibly interesting and undeniably sexy.

“Love this…” Tracing a particularly larger tat, your smile becomes brighter than ever. “Love the way you feel.” 

“Yeah? Even when I’m like this?” His tone expresses the dry humor he’s far too familiar with, the same dry humor that covers up his emotions. 

“Big teddy bear.” And that makes him fully laugh. “Strong.”

“Don’t feel too strong.”

Simon was never one to be insecure of his body, of the multitude of scars on it. Cuts that dug deep, burns that marred his skin, none of it bothered him, not even when he showed himself to you like this. What did bother him, though, was the fact that he looked weak. He couldn't stand it, and to say his ego was taking a hit would be an understatement. 

“Baby,” With a heavy breath, you shake your head lightly beneath him. “You’re so fucking hard on yourself.”

All he does is grunt in response, becoming quite pensive. Though, he tries not to be. Getting lost in his thoughts wasn’t something Simon liked doing. Lucky for him, your hand serves as a distraction. Running your palm down his torso, you take this opportunity to feel the muscles along his stomach and ribs, the v-line leading down to his pelvis. And it makes him shiver with anticipation. 

You’re not sure how to start this conversation again, mainly because of how distracted you’ve become. Feeling Simon’s naked body always made you feel excited inside, always made you feel eager and lustful. But you want to care for him emotionally, too. 

“I hope you know how much I still love you.” Continuing to lower your hand, you suddenly feel Simon’s chest dip, releasing a heated breath. “How much I love your body…”

“Hm…” The further you get, the more interested he becomes. The fact that you still find him appealing, even like this, it’s repairing his ego bit by bit. Truthfully, it’s everything he’s needed. “Miss you touchin’ me…” 

“Do you miss this, too?” Lightly, ever so lightly, you cup him over his clothes. And the gentle stimulation is more than enough to arouse him.

The intimacy you share with Simon is addicting, and the withdrawal has been a bitch. But just like that, as soon as you get the tiniest taste, you’re hooked all over again. 

“Fuck, yes.” Groaning in frustration, he forces out a breath. And fuck you’ve missed that, hearing the eager roughness to his tone. “Been so long since I’ve had you.” 

Feeling your hand on his crotch like that, it lights a fire inside him. All over again, he wants you, wants to throw you down on this bed and take you. Shove himself inside until you’re fluttering, spurting with cum before he releases his own. Hold you down and make you take it, for however long he likes. Rub his face over your chest, down the valley between your breasts, sucking on their soft flesh. Haul your leg up over his waist and grab a fistful of your ass, spanking it until the pain turns into something irresistibly sweet. 

But he can’t. He physically can’t. 

The arm holding you tightens against your body, against your own strong muscles. Irritation courses through his veins, knowing he can’t do much but god damn if he won’t try to do what he can. Turning his head, he ducks down, pressing his covered lips to your own with a forceful breath. Easily, wholeheartedly, you embrace him, hand lifting to cup his jaw. Your mouth presses to the shape of his lips, the covered kiss far too teasing for the current moment. 

“Baby, can we? Please?” Sliding down ever so slightly, your fingertips graze the edge of his mask, wanting desperately to see him; any part of him.

“I… I want to, B.” The hesitancy in his voice is worrying. “But it just… it won’t be the same.” 

Even through the mask, you can feel his breath, experiencing the humid touch of it against your face. 

“I don’t care how it is, I just want it. I want you, Simon. I’ve missed you so fucking much.” Impatiently, you tug on his mask, leaning up against to press your mouth to his skull covering. It’s needy, it’s wanting, so openly throwing yourself at him he honestly can’t believe it. He hasn’t seen you like this in far too long, and he’d be an idiot to let this opportunity go, especially when it’s all he’s fucking thought about.

The way your tongue slides out, pressing against the white and black fabric, it makes him growl with passion. Quickly, yet shakily, his left hand rises, flipping the edge of his mask up before grabbing onto your jaw. Squishing your cheeks a bit he brings you in, bare lips crashing into your own. Open mouths press together, wet and warm and familiar. And those thick fingers dig into the fabric along your hip, wishing it were bare skin. 

“Baby,” With your fingernails scraping down his chest, you have to stop yourself from digging in too deeply. But it’s difficult when he’s kissing you like this, when he’s shoving his tongue inside your mouth so he can map it out all over again. “How could you ever think I’m not attracted to you?” 

The air leaving your chest is instantly sucked back in, your chest rising and falling as you feel Simon’s hand glide down your waist. He’s bringing you in even closer, pressing your body to his, feeling your warmth. 

“Don’t you know how fucking sexy you are, Simon?”

“Get up here,” That gruff voice suddenly demands, “On my lap, B.” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice, your eager movements are evidence of that. Slipping your shorts and panties down your legs, you leave them on the cot as you slide easily on top of him. Your thighs encase his hips as you make yourself comfortable on him, center lowered right onto his. And your lips don’t even leave, he wouldn’t allow it.

“That’s so good…” Both of Simon’s hands now fall to your hips, holding onto you firmly. 

The way his teeth nip at your lips makes you sigh, little whines spilling from your mouth when they turn into bites. And all at once, his hands are roaming your body, sliding up beneath your shirt to feel your bare stomach, the skin of your hips and sides. The way you’re embracing each other is so lustful, so impassioned and fervent. It’s like it’s the first time all over again.

“You’re fucking perfect, you know that?” His words make you laugh, but he’s insistent. “Every goddamn day, whether you’re working or not, even on that bloody mission, you’re stunning, B.” 

“Simon,” You begin to protest, but he continues, mouthing at your lips as he bursts with praise for you. 

“Such a pretty girl for me,” Your lover says, hips beginning to grind up against you. “Always so pretty…” 

“Ugh, I fucking missed you. I need you, Si. I need this.” Holding his face with both hands, you lean in, resting your forehead over his own as you begin to meet his gentle thrusts. “I don’t give a shit how many scars you have, how many injuries I have to see through. I’m here, Simon. I’m here and I’m not fucking leaving you.”

“I love you.” He suddenly blurts out, as if he’d been dying to say it this entire time. “I can’t lose you, B. Never opened myself up to anyone but you.” 

“I know, baby. I know… and I love everything you’ve given me. Everything you are.”

“Not everything.” Giving his head a quick shake, hands guiding the sway of your hips over him. 

“Everything.” 

Your correction prompts Simon’s direct eye contact, a small pause in this heated moment. Flickering between your irises, Ghost’s own pupils widen, filled with something akin to adoration, something made of lust and absolute devotion. 

“Simon,” Whining quietly, you resume your subtle shifts over his lap, his own hips easily resuming their pace, too. “Please, I need you again, baby.” 

“I, I just… it won’t be the same, Bones.” But he’s still kissing you, still grinding up against your sensitive core and breathing the air puffing past your lips. And you can feel him, having fully hardened and sitting firm between your legs.��

“I don’t fucking care, Simon. If you want this, tell me. And I’ll make it happen.”

“Yeah? And what’ll you do?” He asks, grinning while lifting his good hand to the back of your head.

“Ride you,” Panting, you grind yourself over the thickness of the erection rising steadily in his briefs. “Just like I used to.”

Betraying his rotten inner emotions, the ones that had convinced him you no longer saw him with the same desire in your eyes, a smirk forms on those smooth lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Devouring him, your tongue slides into his mouth, swallowing his moan while dragging the wet muscle over his own. But he quickly takes the lead, using the hand on your head to move you how he likes. He takes great pleasure in this, in having some semblance of control while you’re like this. 

“Fuck, do it.” He finally decides, his entire body shuddering with desire. “Fucking do it.”

Instantly, you’re dropping one hand from his face and reaching for his boxers. You find him easily, pulling aside the fabric and watching as he practically jumps into your hand. 

“Christ,” Red and leaking, throbbing, Simon’s cock weighs heavy in your hand.

“Excited?” Grinning wildly, you lean in, running the tip of your nose over his cheek. 

“Very.” Evidenced by the liquid warmth drooling from his cockhead, he’s correct. 

Running your thumb over his slit, you take great pride in watching him twitch. “Don - Don’t tease. Just put it in.”

It’s too damn easy for you to listen to him, to follow his every command. Lifting yourself, your eyes fall to the sight you’ve so dearly missed. And with both of you watching, you line him up with your entrance, licking your lower lip with anticipation. 

“C’mon, come down now…” His hands are pulling on your hips, becoming impatient. “Put the tip of my cock against that pretty little hole.”

Fuck, you missed this, the way he talked to you during times like this. He was always so good with it.

“Mm…” Slowly, you sink down, inch by thick inch. The whine that slips past your lips is shrill, feeling his head spread you open. But Simon is quick to hush you, bringing you in for a bruising kiss. 

“You can do it, just like before.” He says to you through sweet, wet kisses. 

“Simon…”

“Just like that, just like that, princess.” His hands continue to urge you on, pulling you down onto him. “What happened, huh? Get a little tighter without me around?”

“F-Fuck,” Dropping your head onto his shoulder boosts his confidence incredibly; your submissive side is coming out again, and it’s making him feel dominant. 

“Oh, just look at the way it stretches for me, Christ…” Feeling your velvety inside envelope his tip, it’s almost too much for him. “Such a good pussy.”

“Baby…” Turning your head, you press a flurry of fervent kisses to his mask. “I’ve needed you for so long, you don’t know how bad I’ve missed this.” 

“I know, trust me.” Releasing a dry laugh, Simon’s eyes raise with awareness. 

Clinging to his shoulders, you gasp when he finally bottoms out inside you, sitting entirely over his pelvis. And with your ass flush against his lap, he throbs violently against your walls, every thick vein pulsing beneath your core’s hot squeeze.

“Sweetheart,” Taking in a lungful of air, he says, “You know how many times I’ve thought about this? Thought about fuckin’ you again? Thought about this sweet ass on my lap, about the way this pretty pussy grips me…” 

 “Tell me,” Clinging to his shoulders, your nails dig into him once again, lips pressing to his neck. “Please tell me.”

Wrapping his right arm around your back, he pulls you flush against his chest. The sudden movement knocks you away from his neck, with Simon’s lips returning to yours all over again. The embrace is sweet and smooth, his talented lips captivating your attention. 

“Whenever you weren’t here… I took every goddamn opportunity. Fucked my fist to the thought of you, B. But, ngh…” Feeling you wiggle over his lap, he grunts. “It’s never the same. Not even bloody close.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Using those broad shoulders as leverage, you lift yourself, setting a steady pace over him. 

“Christ,” Head lolling back, his eyes follow. “Didn’t, fuck… didn’t want to pressure you.”

“I like when you do that to me. Make me feel small, and needed.” 

The stride you continue with over Simon’s lap is baffling to him, riddling his body with overstimulation. Every time you meet his pelvis, you grind down onto him, onto the grown-out hairs surrounding his base. 

“You’re always needed.” He whispers to you, kissing your cheek as it rests beside him. “Fucking hell, princess, I can feel you dripping down my shaft.” 

The sound your wetness creates resonates throughout the room, prompting a bashfulness to rise hotly in your cheeks. Dropping your forehead to his shoulder, you moan openly into his ear, feeling both of those broad hands lower to your cheeks. Summoning every ounce of strength he has, he bounces you down onto his lap, punching himself into your depths. And every thrust he gives shoves him even deeper inside, his tip nudging your most sensitive skin. 

“No,” He then seethes, moving his head in your direction. “Don’t hide yourself from me, not now. Not when I finally have you again.”

But when he turns his head to the side, his mask shifts, a bout of frustration rising within him. “Fucking, ngh.”

It’s a quick decision, one he makes out of genuine love for you. 

Reaching up, Simon tears his mask from his head, tossing it to the floor and grabbing your face again. Before you can get a good look at him, his mouth is on you, the hand he used on his mask now pawing at your breasts. 

“Take it off, love. Take this off for me.” 

But you’re still processing the fact that he just took off his mask, and you want to see him. He doesn’t let you, though, he’s too busy tugging at the ends of your shirt. So, you oblige him, leaning back to lift it from your torso. Just as it leaves your head, Simon is lifting his chin up to your chest, mouth enveloping your left nipple. 

“Baby, let me,” Hands holding his head, your own tips back, mouth falling agape with a graceful moan. 

Ghost’s mouth sucks on you fervently, tongue flicking over the delicate peak before biting at it ever so gently. 

“Please let me see you.”

Insecurity overtakes him then, now that you’ve fully asked. And you can tell - he practically curls in on himself. 

“You don’t want me to?” And with that gentle inquiry, he’s taking in a steadying breath, eyes beginning to lift. 

From beneath his brow, those dark eyes lift to yours, chin following soon after. And for the first time since this horrid incident, you’re seeing him, fully seeing him. 

“No,” Giving his head a light shake, he stares into your dazzling orbs. “Don’t stop, babe. Please, don’t.” 

And you want to listen, want to give him what he wants but it’s hard when you’re witnessing the beauty of Simon’s face. The scars, the cuts and curves, his nose and jawline, all of his features coming together as one, once again. The memory of his face was once a painful thought, but now… it can be replaced. 

“It’s so nice to see you again, baby.” 

The strength of his arms and hands continues your movement, pushing you forward onto his chest. Here, he nuzzles into you, arms securing themselves around your midsection. Simon’s nose rubs against your neck, committing your scent, your feel, to memory. 

“Only for you.” He murmurs, placing a tender kiss. “Can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.” 

“You’re everything I need.” Grinding up into your center, he forces a gasp from your chest, spreading your cheeks until slight pain begins to bloom. “Christ, I’m not going to last long like this, not with these gorgeous fucking tits pressed against me like this.”

“Baby, we need this more… can we please? Please?”

“Every chance we get.” Nipping at your ear, the low groan he exudes sends a shiver right through you. 

The pleasurable waves flowing through your hips are nothing compared to the sharp jolts of ecstasy every thrust of his hips gives. At times, you think about how foolish he is to think that his strength has left him, what with the way his muscles bend and ripple with every firm grab, every harsh slap he now delivers. 

“Look at me.” Ghost demands in that deep, rough tone. “Look at me, and listen well.”

Lifting your head, you do just that, memorizing every feature of his face. Subconsciously, your hand lifts, cupping his clean jawline with your thumb stroking his cheek. 

“You’re mine, understand? Mine to fucking keep. And there’ll be no more misunderstandings between us.”

“No more,” Shaking your head, you hold his gaze, lips parting from his continued movements. “F-Fuck.”

“You gonna cum for me, huh? Just like you used to? Back when you first cared for me, back when we’d smoke in the Jeep…”

“Yes,” You don’t want to look away from him, but your head drops regardless. The pleasure flowing through your thighs turns every muscle you have to jelly, the wetness growing beneath you evidence of this. “I miss it.”

“Then give it to me, before I give mine to you.” 

The way he phrases it has you falling apart in his arms, still strong enough to keep you together on his chest. His body, thick and bulky, holds you tightly against him, feeling your limbs quiver above him. His fingers continue to dig into the softness of your cheeks before landing another harsh smack, listening to your shrill cry while you shake on his lap. It’s all-consuming, blinding, the euphoria bursting inside your body. 

“Goddamn,” Simon huffs out, his voice tense and strained. 

The grip he has on you turns bruising, his body curling around you as he releases. And his teeth bite into your shoulder as he does, the muscles in his abdomen flinching with every milky rope that leaves him. 

You can feel it, the evidence of his pleasure washing your insides white. The way he throbs against your walls, swollen and pulsing, his entire body releasing. Every ounce of worry and stress, any bit of anxiety, it’s flushed away with the help of your reassurance, of your devotion and unwavering passion. 

Fully wrapping your arms around his neck, you rest flush against him, mouth pressing to his stubbled cheek over and over again. And the next sound to delight your ears is Simon’s laugh. 

“Mm…” His groan sounds… content, relaxed. “You make me happy, B. Happier than I’ve been in… a long time.” 

“Happier than you’ve ever been,” You correct him cheekily, shuddering slightly as you come down from the pleasure he so wonderfully brings. “You can say it, baby.” 

Rolling his eyes, he gives your backside a light tap. “Don’t get cocky with it, now.” 

“Simon,” Inhaling a deep breath, you allow yourself to be fully vulnerable with him. “I don’t ever want to be that far from you again.”

And he knows what you mean. Ghost was never known as an emotional man, and likely never will be. But with you, it’s a different story. 

“You won’t be.” He reassures you quietly, calmly. “We’re here, everything’s just like it should be.”

“Mhm,” Nodding, you keep your arms around him, not wanting to let go. 

“It’s just you and me, B.” 

[paradimeshifts7]

All my things, all in one place 🌱 ↴

Twitter | ao3

All my fics, mostly steddie:

Desperado (You better let somebody love you)

Rated E | 164k | Exes to lovers

Twelve years after tire tracks and shattered trust, Wayne's illness brings Eddie back to Hawkins.

Once Bitten (Twice Shy)

Rated E | 22k | Christmas fic

Steve’s relationship with Christmas had always been tenuous, to say the least, but it didn’t help that this was the first Christmas he would be suffering through since his ex-girlfriend had snatched up his self-esteem and taken off running the year before.

He knew it was the intrinsically romantic quality of the holiday season, and nothing more. Just his lonely bones after a year of healing from heartbreak.

But Eddie's arms around him when he needed them most were starting to feel a lot like love.

Silk Chiffon

Rated E | 6k | Library smut

Steve and Eddie visit Robin and Nancy at Emerson, and a casual stroll through the library stacks turns into the best blowjob of Steve's goddamn life.

Tooth and Nail

Rated E | 113k | Punk pop slow burn

Eddie told himself that he was done, because he wouldn’t survive another heartbreak at that boy’s hands. But he really, really needs someone to open for them on tour.

Steve has a fist full of letters by the time he arrives in Los Angeles, but the Eddie Munson he knew is nowhere to be found. Left to make sense of this new version of the friend he once bared his soul to, Steve’s just trying not to fall off the fucking deep end again.

Lover, Come Over

Rated E | 15k | EMT Eddie/Divorcee Steve

Steve Harrington is the last person Eddie expects to see sitting on the curb when he responds to the call, but there he is, looking like absolute hell.

Sometimes, love is right on time.

Apple Pie (Baked Just Right)

Rated M | 4k | Food as a love language

Three times Steve silently says "I love you", and the one time Eddie says it back.

This Little Light of Mine

Rated E | 4k | Dad fic

It begins with a cough.

Just a dry, brittle thing that starts up one Friday morning over rice cereal and apple juice.

One look at Rosie, and Eddie knew she’d pull through just fine. Kids get sick, a simple fact of life. Something Steve, surely, is aware of.

Right?

Star Light, Star Bright

Rated E | 4k | Soulmates, Dreams

Steve swore he never dreamt before the age of sixteen, his nights spent swimming alone through dark, formless slumber until suddenly — he was no longer alone.

At age twenty, he finds himself staring into a pair of familiar eyes.

The Very Thought of You

Rated E | 65k | Jazz AU

The jazz music scene explodes when world-renowned pianist Eddie Munson is spotted getting cozy with a mystery man in New York City. Journalists have managed to link the pretty face to the prestigious Harrington name, an old money family with business all over the globe and a direct link to Diana Harrington, famous jazz starlet. But reports of bad trades and schemes gone wrong are beginning to muddy the waters of this particular love story, and it’s only a matter of time before the real origins of this torrid affair emerge.

The Poem You Make of Me

Rated E | 7k | Touch-starved wlw

“Could I?” She asks, barely a whisper.

“Could you what?”

“Take care of you,” Eddie says, ducking down to press a slow kiss to Stevie’s shoulder, pausing to murmur against her skin. “Make you feel good.”

Soft as Sin (Let Me In)

Rated E | 2k | pwp

Steve Harrington was drunk, although not as drunk as he wanted to be. Definitely not drunk enough to distract him from the fact that Eddie was sleeping no more than six feet away, the curves of his body laid out on the twin bed blurred in the dark. Despite the constant swimming in his head, Steve lay still, having to remind himself to breathe every couple of moments lest he pass out from the sheer apprehension.

Sugar’s Sweet (And So Is He)

Rated E | 42k | Sugar baby Steve/lit professor Eddie

The sugar baby!Steve and lit professor/author!Eddie au, wherein Eddie is a disaster at fine dining, and Steve helps him out.

Among the Wildflowers

Rated E | 28k | Steddie BB ‘23

It was easy, letting go. At least, that’s what Eddie told himself as he watched Hawkins fade to a tiny smudge on the horizon, his whole life packed into the van and Wayne’s old truck as they fled the Indiana tree line for the high mountain valleys of Idaho. Amidst the hot, dry air and sweet sagebrush, Eddie’s mind wandered, crawling back night after night under a blanket of stars to the golden boy he left behind and the chasm in his chest that used to house his heart — whistling and waiting, a near eternal ache.

Home came together slowly, and then all at once when Steve Harrington showed up on his doorstep a year later — haggard and worn, searching for something among the wildflowers.

A tale of death, birth, and the promise of green.

Some Kind of Angel

Rated E | 6k | Accidental subspace

The one where Eddie yells at Steve, and Steve accidentally goes into subspace about it.

Strawberry Fields

Rated E | 19k | Small town romcom

So close to earning his Emmy and the life he's always wanted, Steve sets off with a cameraman to the tiny town of Mt. Harding, hoping to catch a glimpse of a winter solstice phenomenon held secret by locals. It’s not exactly the gig he’s always dreamed of, but he’ll make it work. The only problem is that he has to do it with Eddie Munson.

The Moon Doesn’t Mind

Rated E | 14k | Unconventional omegaverse

Stuck in the Upside Down, Steve and Eddie are forced to reckon with what they’ve become, and what they’ve always been.

Monster. Inhuman. Changed.

In the Garden, Under Your Hand

Rated E | 23k | Community garden au

Thrown into community service after a bad run-in with his dad, Eddie is hardly expecting the next few months to be anything of note. That is, until Steve Harrington emerges from behind a patch of sunflowers at the community garden, claiming to be his supervisor.

The Winner Takes It All

Rated E | 32k | Romcom (My Best Friend’s Wedding AU)

Later, as he was sitting on the toilet, he remembered what Steve had said: February. The wedding was in February. Eddie checked his phone, confirming his suspicion.

“Fuck,” he swore softly, and then again, “Fuck.”

A little over two months until Steve said I do, binding himself to a total stranger. Eddie wasn’t about to let his best friend get snatched up by someone who was likely not good enough for him, let alone someone Eddie had never heard of. Steve was too kind to be taken advantage of like that — too special.

How things had ended up as they had, Eddie couldn’t be sure, but one way or another, he was going to get to the bottom of it.

On the Living Room Floor

Rated T | 1k | Stobin minific

The end of the world happens on a Tuesday.

Kalahari Down

Rated E | 11k | Small town country singer Steve/Rockstar Eddie

When his tour bus breaks down just outside of Hawkins, Indiana, Eddie Munson isn’t expecting the tiny town to offer up anything more than a cheap drink and a few side eyes.

He isn’t expecting Steve.

Tempest Entire

Rated E | 20k | Lighthouse/amnesia

The shape loomed dark and odd in the middle distance, flat on the sand like some dead thing, ominous in its unrecognizability. Through the lash of salt, Eddie squinted, walking toward the shape with morbid curiosity. He felt himself pale as he came closer, a knot of dread drawing tight in his stomach, because it wasn’t a seal or any kind of plant-based lump that lay motionless on the beach.

It was a man.

Impossible Not To

Rated E | 2k | Stommy collab with @tone-mariie

Except for Steve, it had always been more than that.

I’ll Show You Hands Ready to Bleed

Rated E | 5k | Vampire Eddie

It was meant to be a casual offer.

“You could drink some of my blood, I don’t mind.”

But the moment Eddie’s pupils began to narrow at the notion, Steve knew there was going to be nothing casual about what happened next.

Evermore

Rated E | 50k | Magic/fantasy au

The blight spread quickly, ravenous in its hunger as it stretched toward the high seat of the royal city, its evil already well-known to the farmlands where the earth lay dry and cracked — where magic and its ruin had no friend.

Steve knew the labor he put forth on his father’s land would amount to nothing, but still he toiled, knowing not what else to do, the oath he’d sworn a noose around his neck.

That is, until a stranger stumbled into his shed and into his life.

Until Eddie.

Come a Little Closer

Rated E | 10k | ren faire, omegaverse

Waylaid by a surprise rut, Eddie is certain he won’t be able to get through the ren faire without making it tragically weird for everyone involved. Steve is convinced he can get him through it — what are his stupid pheromones for, after all? Everything will be fine. That is, if Steve can keep his own feelings in check.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

hmmm can vampires get sick? maybe sick vampire chris thinking Jake is gonna pull out or file down his fangs? or just thinking Jake’s gonna hurt him?

CW: Sick whumpee, vampire whumpee, blood drinking, vague implications of past sadistic/creepy whumper, dehumanization, vague tooth/mouth whump (nothing direct, but aftermath)

Sort of a sequel to this piece, part of the Vampire Chris AU

"What hurts?" He keeps his voice low, and carefully doesn't hesitate before he lays a hand over the vampire's forehead. Of course it feels lukewarm, room temperature, but he still goes through the motions of feeling for a fever. It's muscle-memory, instinct, and he keeps forgetting Chris is dead.

He has been dead for a long time, if his occasional comments on what sounds like Prohibition are true.

"Bones," Chris whimpers, twisting where he lays in Jake's bed. There's a bright flush in his cheeks from the blood he'd drained from the two men who broke into the house. Those odd eyes glitter, overbright. "My... m'bones hurt, Jake."

His mouth opens, pulling air in over his tongue and down his throat in soft pants, and Jake is reminded that vampires don't sweat. Not the same way, anyway, although with enough blood they can, in thin sheens of pink-tinged liquid that are even more alarming than their tears.

His fangs are visible this way, razor-sharp canines that come down further than the rest of his teeth, a brighter white than all the others from being pulled and regrowing so many times.

Jake swallows against his nervousness, brushing hair away from the vampire's forehead. His slit pupils are dilated, taking up too much of the iris, and he tells himself that Chris is as scared as he is of the instincts that drive him, barely understands them.

Vampires aren't animals - but when they don't understand themselves, they act like it sometimes.

"Do you think maybe those guys were on something? Like, a drug maybe?" He pets through Chris's hair, fingercombing his hair, and watches Chris's eyes flutter closed.

It's hard not to feel more than a little reassured not having to look at them any longer. Which makes him feel guilty, considering this not-a-kid kid just beat up people for hurting him.

Killed them, his brain whispers. Killed them like he could kill you.

"May, maybe," Chris mumbles, and pants again.

His gums seem oddly dark, where normally they're pale, and Jake frowns. He wishes now he knew more about vampire physiology, that he'd paid more attention in class when they took the safety courses on how to avoid them.

There's not exactly a class on caring for one - not unless you can afford to purchase them outright.

"Well, when you were-... uh, before you found us... did you ever feel like this?"

Chris's eyes blink slowly back open and he nods. "Sometimes. My, my, my, my-... someone would, um, take something before, before the party, and I'd..." He groans and shudders. Jake can see the pain move through his body as he trembles nearly violently. "I'd feel like, like, like this after... for hours..."

"Okay. So... probably you just have to let this get worked out of your system, right? Or... is there a medicine?"

"No... just... just drink more." Chris looks up at him, eyes so wide and sad and scared and hurting, and grabs onto his wrist with one hand. Those cool fingers are never not a little startling, colder than the air around them, than the rest of his body.

Vampires have poor circulation, Jake knows, even when they're filled up on a fresh meal. He's seen Chris heal his own wounds before with his tongue, had him explain that they don't heal on their own with time if they're on hands or feet.

"Chris-"

"You, you, you, you-... can, um, you can take my teeth after. You can. I'll hold still. I'll, I'll be good." Chris's plea is barely a whisper.

His nails, which must have been a little too long when he was killed and turned, dig painfully into Jake's wrist in his desperation.

"I'll be so, so, so so so so good, Jake. So good for you, and then, you can, you you you can take my teeth-... Sir always liked it, it makes me me me cry, we we cry blood, Sir liked to take photos of it-"

"Sssshhhh. Hush, Chris." Jake's mind races. There are others in the house, but-... he can't ask them to give up blood to Chris. They've already taken over cleaning the blood up from the hardwood floor. Nat's already dealt with talking to the cops and the EMTs and the coroner before the bodies were taken away. They already handled hiding Chris in a false-backed closet while Jake was interviewed by police officers who looked interested and excited,, not disturbed.

It's not every day you see a vampire attack, after all.

Mostly they're under control, kept on leashes and muzzled like dangerous dogs, the property of rich celebrities looking for novelty in a world where they already have everything. The few ferals are killed pretty fast.

Or so everyone says.

Jake is starting to wonder if there are more vampires out there than he knows about.

The cops had even insisted on checking the attic, as if Chris was a bat they might find hanging upside down. That had been ridiculous, but it's not like Jake could say he knew better without being asked how he knew so much about them in the first place.

Oh, because we keep one like a stray fucking puppy. That wouldn't go over well.

He feels a little woozy from the adrenaline crash, and still aches from the bruised ribs where he was kicked around. His mouth aches from the duct tape they'd put over it, and he'd got a hell of a rash starting around his wrists. He's so exhausted he might collapse.

But... Chris really did show up right on time, and maybe saved his life.

Chris pulls Jake's wrist to his face, nuzzles into the inside of it against the pale blue veins that show through the thin skin. Jake shudders at the feeling, swallowing back a low-level disgust.

He wonders how old the teenager really is - he wonders that all the time.

"You c-can have my teeth, after," Chris whispers, lips moving against Jake's skin. "You can keep them. Sir used to, to, to keep them in a box and show m-me. Just, please, please help me feel better, Jake, please... It won't hurt."

Jake closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "If it'll help... fine. But I'm not taking your teeth. They're yours."

"Thank you," Chris breathes out. "That's, that's, that's okay. I can still fix it for you. Thank you, Jake." His fangs slip back into Jake's skin as easily as a heated knife through warm butter.

The venom hits his bloodstream before the pain hits his nerves, and Jake feels himself slump over, head falling onto Chris's shoulder as all his limbs go dead.

It almost feels good, as his ribs stop aching, and the bruises stop throbbing on his skin. He can see why rich people love it as a party drug. You could drift in this place of perfect no-pain for a long, long time.

He feels only the wet movement of Chris's tongue, the shift of his fangs, the soft pressure of the other teeth pushing down. Chris purrs softly, drinking his blood like a kitten lapping milk.

It goes on and on, and for one terrifying second Jake thinks he's not going to stop until he's dead.

"Ch-... Chris-"

Those fangs slip suddenly out of his skin, the wet cool tongue licks rough over his wounds - closing them instantly.

The venom slowly fades, the aches and pains settling back into his body. Jake groans, feeling weak and exhausted.

Chris has to push him up off his shoulder, with unnatural strength moving him to lay on his side on the bed. Jake can barely keep his eyes open.

Chris, leaning over him, could rip his throat out and he couldn't even raise a hand to try and defend himself right now. Jake sees the body of the first dead robber behind his eyelids, the expression of horror written in eternal rictus in his expression, the blood down his shirt and puddled beneath him on the floor. The other man, fighting until he stopped, slumping until Chris had drained him to death.

"I feel better," Chris whispers, kneading at Jake's shirt briefly. "I, I, I feel so much better. Go to, um, go to sleep, Jake. I'll fix it so you're safe."

Jake can't even begin to understand what that means before he's already slid into something more like unconsciousness than actual sleep. The world around him simply goes black, and the last thing he feels is Chris pulling a blanket up to his chin.

The last thing he hears is those soft padding footsteps leaving the room.

When he wakes, he finds two fangs, pristine white with bloodied roots, sitting in a washcloth next to where his head lays on the pillow. he finds a pair of small pliers on the bathroom sink, with droplets of red around them.

The sun is shining outside the window, a bird singing loud enough to drive a drillbit into his head, and Chris is curled up asleep in the dark at the back of a closet, mouth slightly open.

Jake stares down at the empty spots where his fangs should be, and wonders if he's grateful, or horrified.

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband

[cdroloisms]

yk, I always thought of c!dream to perfectly fit the saying “the road to hell is paved with good intentions.” and every time I think about it I get even sadder send hepl

hello !! it’s been a bit, so sorry anon, but ty for ur patience :D 

but yeah !! that saying REALLY fits c!dream - he’s someone that has done a lot of awful, unjustifiable things, but they were all for a Reason, as much as people like to think otherwise. he’s said so before, repeatedly - it’s all for a vision of the smp as it “used to be,” one “giant family” that can be happy again. and obviously, what he does isnt right, and will never be right - but in the end it’s all in a very twisted attempt to find a home he lost, which makes his character all the more twisted and tragic, yknow? 

sometimes i wonder what an earlier dream would say, after seeing how far he’s fallen, which is what really led to this oneshot - it’s a bit messy, but i like it nonetheless. c!dream is a disaster that makes me Very Sad 

tw: derealization, implied torture, hallucinations, injuries, dark content, mentioned abuse, manipulation, emotional distress, implied suicide, panic attacks, self-hatred  

“Was it worth it?”

Dream blinks, looks up; this is new. He’s no stranger to hallucinations, of course - they’d started somewhere around the first week or two of solitary, and had only grown in frequency and duration as time went on, but this has never happened before.

The figure standing - well, sitting in front of him is hazy at the edges, indistinct, little more than a splash of green and grey, blown out at the edges by the bright white highlights from the lava lighting them from behind. Even so, Dream is all too familiar with the craftsmanship of the iron armor they wear, with the bright green hoodie tucked underneath that he’d once worn like a second skin. The figure’s face turns just enough to catch the slightest sliver of a mask.

“Well?”

“You’re me,” Dream says - breathes, really, his throat too sore for the words to be much more than a labored exhale. The other Dream turns, the lava throwing shifting shapes in orange and red all over his chestplate, his mouth visible and pulled into a frown underneath the bottom edge of the mask. Dream touches the cracked surface of the one sitting on his own face reflexively, feeling the jagged hole on its left side surrounding his eye, the edge pulled over his chin to keep as much of his face obscured as possible.

“Well, I mean,” the other Dream’s hands come to the edges of his mask, easing it over to the side of his face in a practiced motion; his eyes burn brilliantly in the dark room, green and furious and bright. “I wouldn’t exactly say that, now.”

Dream knows that this man isn’t him - well, isn’t him anymore, doesn’t have the burn scars that trail all over his body, doesn’t know the feeling of his stomach turning itself inside out in pain and emptiness, doesn’t know how it feels to have an axe dragged painfully, slowly over his skin over and over and over and over until he’s screamed his throat raw. This is the ghost of a man that has not lived and died a million times, that does not know the feeling of blood on his hands better than he does kindness, that can think of other faces and feel something other than shattered ribs and remembered pain.

“Was it worth it?” The other Dream watches him, eyebrows furrowed, insistent. It’s hard to remember that this was once him, that he has a face made of skin and muscle and bone instead of porcelain and leather even with the bruises and dried blood beneath his mask reminding him otherwise. The expressions on his face, the ones that must be on Dream’s own face, feel foreign, like they belong to someone that isn’t him. Maybe that’s the point.

“You’ll need to get more specific,” Dream’s voice cracks, throat protesting at the strain pulling at the still healing wounds from within it. Dream takes the pain, boxes it up, files it away; he’s becoming pretty good at that. “Was what worth it?”

The other man throws his arm out in an arc, gestures vaguely at the entire cell. “This! All of this- this prison, what you did to Tommy, what you did on Doomsday, what you did in the vault.” His words burn with a dangerous fury, and Dream closes his eyes. It’s not real. It’s not real. “You ruined everything! You destroyed our home! Everything is gone and it’s all your fault!”

“Don’t-” Dream’s voice cracks, shatters in on itself, and he swallows around the pain and pushes on. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the exact same thing as me.”

The other man scoffs, a fiery light dancing in his pupils. “As if. This is all your fault. You didn’t have to exile the kid. You didn’t have to blow up the community house. And you sure as hell didn’t have to manipulate a fucking teenager, you sick fuck.”

The voice morphs, overlays with the echoes of voices he hasn’t heard in what feels like an eternity. His back burns, stings; his head pounds furiously and threatens to plunge his world into darkness. Through it all, green eyes stare at him, twin flames in his ever blurrier vision, looking for all the world like a god handing down judgment.

“You know you would,” Dream mutters, each word dropping and shattering on the ground like broken glass, “if you had to sit in here for just a chance at bringing them together, you would. If you had to burn the whole damn server down for them, you wouldn’t hesitate.”

The other Dream shakes his head, teeth bared. “Don’t you dare pretend that you did this for them. Don’t you dare pretend that you don’t deserve this.”

I deserve this. I know, I know, I know. “But you would.”

The hallucination’s shoulders rise, fall; it’s hazy, shimmering from the heat, but the eyes glow ethereally and feel more real than anything in the cell.

“You’re an idiot, you know?” He laughs, and Dream tastes iron and ash and salt. “You’re so fucking stupid. You- you thought that the problem was Tommy. You blamed everything on Tommy because you couldn’t see him as anything other than the person that ruined our server and you’re so fucking stupid.”

The voice distorts, echoes in on itself; a half-hearted whisper of wrong wrong wrong rises in Dream’s mind and melts under the fury of the other’s glare. The image shimmers, shifts, and the other Dream- is he even Dream, anymore? - smiles humorlessly, stepping closer. It’s not real, Dream knows, because the image is hazy and flat and wrong but his mind echoes with the sound of shoes scuffed against obsidian and a netherite blade dragging against stone and the book, Dream, and we’ll stop-

“The real problem was you. It was always you. You were the one that ruined the server, you were the one that blew up the community house, you were the one that destroyed L’manburg. You are the one that everyone hates, that everyone fears. You are the villain, Dream, a monster. You’ve always been a monster. Now that you’re gone? The server is finally at peace. You were the problem.”

“And- well, Dream,” The figure leans over, lips right by Dream’s ear, and when they speak their voice is sweet-sharp, all-too-familiar. Quackity. “I guess you should’ve fuckin’ offed yourself when you had the chance.”

He flinches back, eyes squeezing shut, hands scrabbling around his neck. His lungs heave and he tries to suck in air but he can’t there is lava in his chest like everything inside has been torn apart like the words have ripped through him like he’s no more than wet paper and he chokes and stutters on the exhale and it’s not real it’s not real it’s not-

(That night, long after Quackity leaves with a fresh bouquet of bloodstain blooms splattered over his shirt like a field of blooming poppies, after the Warden leaves from forcing another round of health potions down his throat, Dream curls around his ribs in the back corner of his room, watching the lava fall.

Was it worth it?

He laughs, low, bitter, every inch of him feeling scaped raw and open and hollow, thinking of a world without himself in it, of a sky and earth and family with the ugly parts cut neatly away. He thinks he must be a wither skeleton, watching as everything his fingertips touch crumbles away into black rot and ash, breathes in and out and hears the same echoing rattle from deep within his chest. Was it worth it?

It must’ve been, he tells himself, even as the sound of a drop of brilliant purple magic falling against the obsidian makes his muscles seize, leaves him cowering under a blow that does not come. It must’ve been worth it, because-

What was this all for, if it wasn’t?)

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

I Melt With You - Bakugou Katsuki

All Parts:

Part 3:

“Okay, so that’s about it.” You smile brightly, pressing a band-aid into the  boy’s skin. “Thanks for being so brave for me!”

“Mhm. I’m the bravest!”

The child before you beams, all teeth gaps and kicking legs as he bounces in his seat. You’d just given him a few routine vaccinations, and true to your praise, he had been very brave about it. All he’d done was sit there, holding his breath until his face went red, and trying not to grimace. It reminded you of someone else you’d recently treated- someone else who was currently blazoned in all his snarling glory on the little boy’s shirt.

“Oh, I’m sure! Just like Dynamite!” You agree enthusiastically, gesturing to his clothes. You turn your head, catching his mother’s eye from where she sits next to him. “Isn’t that right, mom?”

“Oh, not if I can help it.” She smiles something a little exhausted, but ultimately fond as her son starts making explosion noises. “Not if I can help it.”

If you’re being completely honest, you sort of agree with her. Just a little bit- actually, on second thought a lot.

“If that’s everything and you have no other concerns for me, then we’re about done here.” You say gently. “Do you know where you’re going? I can point you toward reception again if you need it.”

“No, we’re alright, thank you!” 

You nod, holding the door open for them as they leave. 

When the door closes, and you’re swept back up into silence, you can’t help but think of that interaction as just more proof- more proof that no matter where you were, no matter what you were doing, you absolutely could not escape Bakugou.

When you weren’t actively thinking about him, then you were seeing his face everywhere. He was on television, and he was on the cover of newspapers, and as evidenced, he was printed in perfect grumbling, snarling accuracy on children’s t-shirts. It didn’t help either that every day brought another civilian who was saved by him, and every night brought another small-time criminal who was beat to hell by his fists. You swore he was responsible for a solid 70% of all of your hospital’s traffic- it was pure insanity when you really started paying attention. 

You quickly come to realize that Bakugou is a plague; and a horrifyingly effective one at that. You’re not sure how you never noticed it before. 

Still, you can’t help but find yourself worrying a little bit. When you think of him, all you can see is his face covered in blood, the pallid hue of his skin under the hospital’s sterile lighting, and the deep-set bags under his eyes. You remember the way he practically fell asleep, laid out and injured on a hospital table. The way he was drifting while you were digging a needle and thread through his skin. 

Thinking back on it always makes you a bit sick. No one who wasn’t absolutely exhausted would ever fall asleep in a hospital- especially not in the middle of being sewn up. When you match that to the anger and terror you’d felt, that very first night you’d ever met him, it doesn’t paint a pretty picture. You come to realize that even if Bakugou was an asshole to you, you still wouldn’t wish that kind of mental torture on anybody. 

Your rest of your week goes by quickly after that, and by the time Saturday rolls around, you’ve gathered quite a few bones to pick with him. It seemed the amount of criminals you were patching up was only increasing, and their injuries were only getting worse too. Each passing day only brings more lowly criminals and thieves flooding into your hospital, all covered in the same scorch marks, broken bones, and dark bruising. It was overkill, plain and simple, and you knew exactly who the culprit was. 

You began to think that, even if it was Bakugou’s job, he really shouldn’t have been digging graves for people who were just stealing purses. There was a massive difference between a super villain and a petty thief, but he didn’t seem to understand that. Dynamite punished everybody just the same. You saw that first hand.

Still, you try to shake off those lingering frustrations. You were on your way to take out his stitches, and you didn’t want to accidently bring them up. Bakugou only mildly tolerated you the last time around, but you were sure that generosity would cease the moment you criticized anything about him. True to his quirk, Bakugou had proven himself to be a teetering powder keg- just a little bit of friction, and he’d explode on the spot.

“On your way to help his majesty?” Your superior remarks, smiling sardonically as you pass her. “Good luck, I’ll be praying for you! Try your best to come back with your head still intact, yeah?” 

You nod, smiling uneasily, but your stomach turns a little bit. 

That had been another reoccurring theme that week- jokes about how your impending doom was imminent. Apparently, Bakugou had been making a name for himself for years now- a name that was a lot less loved by your hospital then it was the rest of the outside world. You’d been hearing horror stories for days now; tale after twisted tale of nurses and doctors getting chewed up and spit out by his bad temper. It always read as a little strange to you though; in every story you’d heard, he was either hardly injured or on his death bed- no in-between whatsoever. You figure that it didn’t really matter though, the result was always the same. Relentless, explosive anger. 

Which you sort of begun to think you were in for, when you opened the door to his scowling face.

“Hey!” You greet unsurely, trying to walk into the room with a confidence you didn’t really feel. Moving past him, you rinse your hands, drying them and then slipping on a pair of latex gloves. You then pull the medical cart over to him, taking out the blood pressure cuff. Just like his last visit. “You ready to get those stitches removed?”

“Yeah. Obviously. Why the fuck else would I waste my time here? Witch.”

Yep. There it is- just what the other nurses and staff were warning you about. His attitude.

“Oh. Okay, so I see we are still using that nickname. Great.” You mutter wrapping the cuff around his arm. You fall back, crossing your arms as you wait to jot down his vitals. There’s angry tension rolling off of him, and you smile uneasily, trying to discharge it with a subject change. “On an entirely different note, though, I did want to congratulate you.”

Bakugou just scoffs, turning up his nose. A beat passes and then he folds, minutely nodding at you to continue.

“You’re not covered in any blood this time! Congrats!” You say breezily, unwrapping the cuff from around his arm. “Guess the third time really is the charm for us, huh?”

Bakugou just looks away, hardly even acknowledging you as he rolls his eyes. You think you see his lip twitch though- just a bit, and it only lasts half a second, but you count it as a success.

“So, any worries about the stitches? You been cleaning them as instructed?” You ask, gently taking his forearm in your hands. You remove the bandages and gauze with feather-light touches. “Wow, you must’ve been. They look pretty good to me.”

When you look up at him, he’s got that same prideful smirk you’d seen before; it doesn’t distract you from his condition though. His skin somehow looks paler than before, skin purple and darkened under his eyes. You see the cut on his head, still hardly healed and scabbed over. He’s overworking himself, but you didn’t need to have any medical background to see that.

“Obviously they look good. You think I’m fuckin’ stupid?” He says.

“No, but I really did think you would’ve exacerbated them by now. Especially with all the hero work you’ve been doing. Which, believe me, I know is a lot.”

“What- you stalking me now or somethin’?”

“Not exactly. Me or somebody else here always end up treating all those people you save.” You tell him, setting his arm down on the empty surface of the medical cart. You try to keep your voice light, keep it entirely void of anything accusatory, but you can’t help your next words. “And every person you beat into the ground.”

Bakugou’s eye twitches when you look at him. He breathes deep, eyebrows creasing.

“Oi- somethin’ you wanna fuckin’ say to me?” He utters, eyes glinting like blistering wildfire. He leans forward, flipping his palm up towards you as it begins to crackle. “Better choose your next words real fuckin’ carefully.”

It’s his tone that catches you off-guard.

You knew it was a stupid move, your comment, but the pure poison in his response surprises you anyway. His voice is dark and angry, smoldering like a low heat as he stares you down. The words are vicious thing, a gripping threat that drips from his mouth, seeming to bite back around his teeth as he speaks it. It makes you shrink. You think that it would probably make even the strongest people shrink.

“No. It’s- I wasn’t. I’m sorry.” You apologize professionally, pasting on your best appeasing smile even as you fight off the anxiety. There’s nothing left to do but try to defuse the situation- so you turn away from him, busying yourself with grabbing a discard tray and your stitching kit. “It’s really wasn’t my business. Shouldn’t have said anything. Sorry.”

Bakugou just huffs at that, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. He somehow looks even more annoyed than before and you don’t know what he wants from you. Doesn’t he know how intimidating he is? Why does he even bother acting surprised when people fold for him? Especially if he chooses to address them like that?

You wish you were the sort of person who could stand up to him- the sort of person who could put him in his place. After all, there was no room for arrogance in a hospital, and you’d always thought egotism to be a selfish waste of valuable time. But, even so, you just couldn’t be that person this time. There was a lot you could power though, but you’d never seen hot-and-cold anger like his before. He wasn’t like any of your other difficult patients- none of their threats ever sounded like promises. 

There’s tense silence as you start removing the stitches, only the sound of your scissors and Bakugou’s own breaths. You try to keep your hands steady, try to keep focused, but you’re finding it hard to keep still under his intense gaze. You feel he’s looking right through you again, waiting for any excuse to blow up again.

You’re almost done removing them entirely when he huffs, rolling his eyes as he shifts uncomfortably.

“You’re so fucking sensitive, you know. It’s pathetic.”

You stiffen.

There’s a lot you’re willing to put up with- being underappreciated and overworked was pretty much your entire job after all- but Bakugou was really wearing on you. He wasn’t the first patient to insult you, and his comment was far from the worst thing you’d ever been told; but it’s something in the way he spits the insult. Sly and challenging like he knows something you don’t. It makes you look up at him, and all you see are his sharp canines. His smirk and the way he looks down on you.

He’s picking a fight, but there’s no threat. He’s testing you.

It makes your blood boil.

“If you don’t like me, and the way I do my work,” You bite out, staring right back and speaking through own clenched teeth. “Then you shouldn’t have asked for me. No one made you come back.”

“I told you, witch. No cutting corners. You put the fuckers in my arm, you take them the fuck out.”

“Why are you fighting with me?” You ask, swallowing as you try not to shy away from his glare. “I told you last time, if this works better for you silent, then just say that.”

He flares his nostrils at that, setting his jaw. When he goes silent, you go back to snipping away his stitches. At this point, you just wanted to finish as quickly as possible.

“Silent is fuckin’ boring.” He grits, flexing his fingers. It makes the skin on his forearm shift, throwing off your work. When you look at him in frustration, you can see he did it on purpose. “It’s wimp shit.”

“Pardon?”

“I said-” He leans in close, voice low and venomous. It feels like he’s trying to paralyze you with his stare alone, sitting up straight until he’s glaring down at you. “Silence is boring. You’re fucking boring.”

You’d had a long day- you’d had a very long day and he was being extremely rude and your patience was wearing thin hours ago. That’s why you let him break your careful composure- at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

“Oh yeah, I’m boring?” You ask in frustration, entire face warming in fury. “I’m boring? Really! At least I don’t spend my entire day blowing things up and beating people half to death!”

Bakugou blinks. He blinks, sucks a breath, and then you watch his smirk crawl slow and sure across the entirety of his face. He got you. He got you to break, and he won, and he knows it.

He knows it and he settles back on his good hand, leaning away to get a better look at your flustered face. He cocks his head to the side, studying and analytical for a moment. He nods.

“There. We’re fuckin’ even.”

“Excuse me?”

“Even. You shouldn’t have fuckin’ pried around in my head and not expected me to pry in yours.”

“That’s what this is about?” You sigh incredulously, putting your scissors down on the medical cart. “Really? You’re still on that- how- how does this even tell you what’s in my head? You’re just insulting me. It doesn’t!”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then why are you so fuckin’ pissed right now? Hah?” He squints his eyes, voice smooth and dripping with arrogance. “It’s cause I’m right. You’re so fuckin’ boring when you play nice all the time.”

“Play nice? What the hell are you even on about? You don’t know me.”

“I know that you piss me the hell off bein’ fake. If I fuckin’ irritate you then say so. Don’t put on your fuckin’ kid gloves and try and be professional. It’s weak.”

“No. It’s how I keep my job. Which you know, you wouldn’t understand, because you literally pick fights for a living!” You huff, pushing the medical cart off to the side and stepping back from him. “Actually- you know what, no. I’m done with this. This conversation. Your stitches are out, and you can leave since you obviously can’t stand me and would rather be anywhere but here.”

You watch him flare his nostrils again, a snarl ripping from his mouth. He slams his closed fist down on the hospital bed, eyes like blazing conflagration. Bakugou looks pissed, but more than anything he looks vulnerable. Worn raw.

“I can’t.” He grits.

“Yes! You actually can! Just walk out! Literally just walk out an-’

“God, you’re so fucking dense! I can’t leave without figuring out how the fuck you do it!”

“Do what?” You nearly scream, your owns hands beginning to clench into fists.

“I need to know.” He repeats again, hopping off the hospital bed.

His feet hit the ground, steps like rolling thunder as he nears, broad shoulders and muscular arms casting an intimidating shadow. Bakugou looks like an angry bull storming toward you. Like he’ll obliterate you given even half the chance.

“Take your fucking gloves off.”

You’re scared now, eyes darting over to the door. You knew nobody was doing rounds in the luxury wing right now, and sound didn’t pass through walls that were made to ensure silence. Heart racing in your chest, you size him up, try to think of a way to escape but he’s so close to you and he’s built like a linebacker and-

“Jesus christ. Not like that. Fuckin’ idiot.” He growls, hand pinching the bridge of his nose. He stops a few feet in front of you, sneering. “You’re not my fuckin’ type, so don’t flatter yourself. Now, grow the fuck up and take them off before I do it for you.”  

You’re not sure what makes you listen, maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s something else, but either way you listen. You pull a glove off, just barely dropping it on the counter before Bakugou speaks again.

“I’m gonna touch your hand- but do not use your quirk. Don’t even think about using it. Just fucking stand there. And don’t freak the fuck out and put up a fight about it. You’re just gonna waste time.”

You nod, hand shaking as you extend it. Bakugou seems to roll his eyes at that, but he surges forward anyways, fingers meeting yours. 

You feel it almost immediately. Your heart speeds up, but just slightly, beginning beat against your chest where it had just barely been grazing it before. You breathe deep, close you eyes, focus in on the buzzing of your skin- the way your bones sing of subtle fire. It’s barely there but it feels like warmth. Reminds you of that night, with Bakugou, when you were burning alive. Reminds you of how your bones felt too large and your skin felt too small and there somehow wasn’t enough room in the entire world to hold the weight of your rage.

“You ambient fucking bitch.” Bakugou swears under his breath. When you look at him, he’s fluttering his own eyes open, dropping your hand like it burned him.

Then he steps back and you’re gasping for air. It’s not entirely back again- but it’s reminiscent. There’s an inkling of that bone-deep exhaustion. That weariness that so often stole the air from you lungs and the ground beneath your feet. 

“Your quirk. It’s ambient. Through your skin.”

You shrink back even more, blinking owlishly up at him. 

“What? You didn’t fucking know? Jesus, how clueless are you?”

“It’s-I-” You drop your head, running a hand through your hair. “I never- I always wear gloves. Always. And long sleeves. Since I was little. Never wanted to take the chance- how did you even know.” 

Bakugou seems to turn his nose up at your question. He steps back, further and farther until his back hits the hospital bed. There’s distance but somehow he keeps the air just as charged, averting his eyes when he speaks next.

“Went to sleep. A week ago. When I saw you-”

“What? Bakugou that doesn’t- you’re not-”

“If you’d let me fuckin’ finish,” He glares down at you again, trying to beat you into submission with eye-contact alone. It works and you fall silent, holding your breath as he resumes. “You put me to sleep. Then and three months ago. I haven’t slept peacefully like that in fuckin’ years. So obviously you used your quirk on me. It’s easy. A fuckin’ moron could’ve figured it out.”

“No- but I didn’t touch you! Well, the first time, yeah, I did, but not a week ago. I was wearing gloves and I-”

“When I told you to do the splint over, the sleeve of your coat rode up.” He grits out, cheeks slightly flushing as he averts his eyes. “Then I almost fell asleep. Not like the first time, but still. Asleep. So obviously it’s your fuckin’ skin.” 

Suddenly, the ground is ripped out from under you.

Your entire life you’d always been tired. Day in and day out, constantly dragging your feet like you could never get enough sleep. Like there wasn’t enough hours in the day for you to live and be rested. 

Was it your quirk this entire time? Were you somehow ambiently draining people of their pain- even if you just accidentally brushed their skin with yours? 

You don’t know how you never realized it. How you never put two and two together. 

You’d spent your entire life purposefully using your quirk to help people-  had then sacrificed days and weeks of your life afterwards tucked away in bed and sleeping off the exhaustion. When you used your power on purpose, depending on the severity of someone’s pain, it would debilitate you. But you still did it- over and over and over again because you wanted to help people. Because you knew you could and that became the only reason you needed. 

You’d always just assumed your constant exhaustion to be aftershocks of how often you used your quirk- you never even considered the possibility that it was something you were doing unintentionally. That you were draining yourself with every hug and handshake and high-five that should’ve made you feel better.

You’d always sort of disliked being touched. Somehow always walked away with your skin prickling uncomfortably for as long as you could remember. You just never knew why until now. 

“Oi- I thought I told you not to freak the fuck out.”

“It’s- how the hell am I not supposed to freak out about this?” You gasp, hands braced behind you on the counter. “I didn’t know! My entire life! And you met me like, what, twice and you figured it out and- Are you falling asleep right now?”

In your spiral Bakugou had somehow ended back up on the hospital bed. He was still sat up, but his shoulders were completely slumped over and his eyes were half-lidded. He looked completely drained of all previous anger, swaying slightly as he blinked himself back to perfect alertness.

“Yeah. Probably.” He grumbles. “It’s your fuckin’ fault.”

“You barely touched me! How the hell is-”

“Don’t ask me, you fuckin’ leech.” He yawns, hand closed into a fist as he rubs at his eyes. “You’re the one with the stupid goddamn quirk. Not me.”

“That’s- sorry. I didn’t know. Holy shit,” You curl arms around your stomach, eyes widening. “Have I been doing this shit to everyone? My entire life?”

Bakugou groans. Audibly. Loudly.

“You’re the stupidest goddamn idiot on the face of the planet. Swear to fuck, I don’t get paid enough for this shit.”

“You’re not helping!” You exclaim. “It was rhetorical question! Excuse me for freaking out right now- I’m sure you’d freak out too if you suddenly found out you were osmosis-ing people’s emotions your entire life!” 

“Heh.”

“God, and just what the hell are you laughing about? This isn’t funny!”

“Osmosis.” He reiterates, mouth drawn up into a shit-eating grin. “Change your quirk name. To osmosis. Alleviate is shitty and stupid and it makes you sound fucking dumb.”

You bristle again, suddenly shaking any and all tiredness, rounding on him as you seethe.

“You- you are a goddamn asshole! You know that?” You start, stopping just a few feet in front of him. “You come in here, and insult me. Call me boring! In my own fuckin’ workplace! While I’m literally taking your stitches out! And then you tell me how my quirk works- somehow have the audacity to be fucking right about it, and now you’re insulting me? Again?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re just sitting there, completely fine, smiling like there’s something funny! This isn’t funny! I’m not funny! This is my life- which you literally have been bulldozing through for months now- are you falling asleep? Again? No! No! Not in my- wake the fuck up! Asshole!”

You’re snapping in his face, just inches away from his eyes, and Bakugou hardly even blinks. He just sits still, calm and sated as you seethe just inches away from him. You huff in absolute hatred and that finally shocks some life into him. He smiles. Tiny and barely-there, but he smiles.

“See, not so nice anymore. Knew you weren’t. Fuckin’ liar.”

You want to scream. You want to tear your hair out and maybe take Bakugou’s too, and scratch and claw until you’re bathing in all the rage you’d accidentally stolen from him. You can’t though- you can’t because suddenly the sun starts to set. It falls behind the horizon line, seeping the gold from his skin and drowning him in sterile, white, artificial pallid-ness. His skin goes translucent and the only color in the entirety of his image are the bags under his eyes. Well, the bags under his eyes and the stark red of the barely-healed slice on his forehead. 

You curse your own heart. Nearly collapse under the weight of your own sympathy. Bakugou was an asshole, an absolute, irredeemable dick, and you still wanted to heal him. Help him. Somehow. Miraculously.

So then you’re centering yourself, rubbing a hand down your face to soothe your wound-up features.

“God, you actually do look pretty bad.” You say, all attempts at grace and keeping it professional completely gone. “You really weren’t kidding about needing to sleep, huh?”

“No shit. Leech.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. That’s fine. Trade one mean nickname for another- I mean, hey, at least this one’s accurate right?” 

Bakugou does actually exhale a laugh at that remark, limbs a flurry of chaotic movement when he throws himself back on the bed. His head hits the pillow and it’s only seconds before he’s shutting his eyes.

“So, what, you’re just, like, sleeping now?” You ask, rolling your eyes.

“Yeah.”

“You can’t.”

“I can.”

“This is a hospital, Bakugou.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” He mumbles, yawning into his hand. “‘m fuckin’ Dynamite. I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”

“I’m sorry- do you, do you actually think you can ego your way out of rules? Seriously? You can’t sleep here! Not unless you’re critically injured and need like, round-the-clock care.” 

He stills, breath evening and you think he’s fallen asleep. Then he’s lazily bringing a hand up, pointing it loosely at his head.

“I’m critically fuckin’ injured.”

“No- you’re not. That’s a cut and it’s already healing and-”

“I need round-the-clock care.”

“Oh my god, are you kidding me?”

“No.” He grunts, flopping as he turns away from you. Then he’s facing the wall, nuzzling into the pillow. “I’m tired.”

“It’s-” You start, but then you’re once again falling victim to your own empathy. One look at his translucent skin is all it takes. “Fine. You know what? I don’t give a shit. Do what you want, I guess. Nobody else is using these rooms.” 

“Okay. Leave.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get the fuck out.” He slurs, cheek pressed up against the pillow as his eyes flutter beneath his eyelids. “Bein’ too loud. Leave.”

“Fine. Enjoy your sleep. Jerk.”

“Leech.”

You nearly punch him in frustration- until you realize that would probably only relax him more; because apparently this really is Bakugou’s world and you were the unlucky one just living in it.

He’s out before you’re even finished packing up. You’re wiping down all the surfaces either of you had touched, just about to leave, when he starts snoring. It’s a soft, almost kitten-like sound, just barely audible over your own breathing. It pisses you off. Boils your blood in your veins because it’s so goddamn humanizing even when he acts like the anti-christ with an even worse temper. It’s stupidly endearing and ridiculously sobering and incredibly, incredibly irritating. 

That stupid sound is why you double back upon leaving the room. Why you’re suddenly choosing to reverse instead of moving forward, why you’re suddenly reaching into the cupboard instead of shutting the door behind you. 

When you carefully unfold the blanket, settling it gently over his sleeping form, there’s only one thing on your mind.

Fuck being an empath.

--/--

taglist:  @fluffyviciousbunny @definitelynottrin @imsuperawkward @i-need-air @ahbeautifulexistence @brennabooz @jazzylove @flattykawadoorusmilkbread @katsuki-bakubabe @sorrythatspussynal @bakugouswh0r3 @cloudsgathering @un-limit-edd @thekatsukisimp @pollayra21 @the2ndl @officialtrashbusiness 

[venhedish]

Ven’s Masterlist of SPN Fic

I write mostly pre-series and early seasons Big Feels™ Wincest fic. There’s a lot of angst and pining here, but plenty of love and devotion mixed in with the darkness.

I always deeply, deeply appreciate likes, kudos, comments, and reblogs!

Wincest Fic

Stand-Alone

Yesterday is a Ghost I Believe In ~4.1k, Teen, Pre-series, Epistolary, Multimedia, Experimental There's an old shoebox under Sam Winchester's bed. It's been there almost as long as he can remember. He doesn't look inside it very often, but when he does, he takes his time. A multimedia collection of letters, journal entries, pictures, and other ephemera from a life on the road. .

That Monster, Love ~2k, Teen, Pre-series, POV Outsider, POV John Winchester, John Finds Out, Angst “You think you’re doing your boys any favors, raisin’ ‘em like this?” .

To Cure My Lonesome Blood ~8.8k, Explicit, Pre-series, Pining Dean, Angst, Bittersweet Ending Dean’s been sick since before either of them was born. The disease is incurable, written into his blood – the same blood he shares with his brother. If he’s not careful, the fever will spread like a fire and consume them both. .

Like Sand, Like Water, Like Sunlight ~1.7k, Gen, Pre-series, Mutual Pining, Angst, Pre-Slash Sea birds circle overhead and Dean wishes he had a camera. Sam looks so young, all of twelve years old, and exhilarated. Dean wants to hold this image in the chambers of his heart, but his pulse just carries it along; time is cruel that way. .

The Space Between Sense and Memory ~4.8k, Teen, Pre-series through Season 1, 5-and-1 Things There are a hundred unwritten rules on all the acceptable ways brothers should touch each other. There are hardly any ways at all to break them. Or; five times they follow the rules and one time they don’t. .

Every Goodbye, all at Once ~900, Teen, Pre-series, Stanford Era, Pining Dean, Angst, Epistolary "Hey, It's Sam. If you're looking for my dad, you can reach him at 866-555-9352. If you're looking for me, leave a message." A series of voicemails Dean leaves at the number Sam left behind. .

Breathe You In (Choke You Down) ~6k, Explicit, Season 01, PWP, Scent Kink, Guilty Dean Winchester Once Sam was gone, Dean missed him in a way that was all-consuming, all the way down – so deep in his bones that he shook with loneliness some nights. And it was the familiar scent of his brother’s hair where it tangled warm against the pillows, his pulse beating under his skin and sending the fear of the hunt wafting off of him in waves that Dean struggled to hold onto the hardest. Dean really likes the way Sam smells..  .

Dawn is Coming (Open Your Eyes) ~5k, Explicit, Season 01, Hurt/Comfort, Getting Back Together In which Sam and Dean suffer new wounds and stitch old ones back together. There’s an awful storm, a dead monster, an injury, and a whole lot of feelings. .

You put the Magic in Me ~9.1k, Explicit, Season 02(ish), Sex Pollen, Porn with Plot, Casefic “This is the weirdest thing we’ve ever done for a case,” Dean says under his breath, leaning into Sam and scouting the crowd gathered around a dozen tables inside the little café. “Dude, relax,” Sam says back, eyebrows raising at his brother’s nervous energy. “I thought this would be, like, your thing.” He gestures vaguely to the women milling around inside. A long, vividly red banner hangs across the open french doors that lead into the space, emblazoned with the words The Oolong Tea Room Presents: Lonely Hearts Club Speed Dating! Feb 11-14th! Or; in which Sam and Dean learn a thing or two about chemistry. .

The Stars are not Wanted Now ~2k, Teen, Season 02, Episode Tag: s02e21 All Hell Breaks Loose, Angst, Death Rituals There was a body on the bed.  It had been there long enough that the slanting light of morning crept into the room like an unwelcome invader and washed the world in a dream-shade of palest blue.   But there were no dreams here; only death, only memory. The body on the bed was all that remained of Samuel Winchester, who had died in his brother’s arms the night before. .

Demi-Gods and Hungry Ghosts ~5.8k, Explicit, Season 03, Episode Tag: s03e11 Mystery Spot, Dark, Dub-con, Hurt No Comfort This dream-state of living on pause and rewind leads to some interesting avenues of thought that Sam doesn’t mean to travel, but after a certain number of unrelenting Tuesdays, they just become inevitable. If Dean dies every day—if his memories are wiped, or if they never happen at all—what could Sam get away with, if he wanted to? Could he dare to find out?  .

In Sanguine Vita Est   ~5.2k, Explicit, Season 04, Knifeplay, Dean’s Hell Trauma, Hurt/Comfort Everything was different now. Dean was here—back from the fucking dead—but he was a stranger in his own body. Scars gone, aches from broken bones that hadn’t set right vanished back into the void as if they’d never existed at all. He’d become a stranger to the whole world. He’d become a stranger to Sam. _ Dean asks Sam to help him heal after he returns from Hell. .

All Heartless Spectres, Happiness ~5.7k, Explicit, Season 06, Episode Tag: s06e06 You Can’t Handle the Truth, POV Outsider, Angst, Soulless Sam Lisa Braeden receives an email with the subject line, "You Deserve to Know." It contains a single video file and nothing else. .

The Rungs of Me be Under You ~1.6k, Teen, Gencest, Post-Bunker, 2nd Person POV, Queerplatonic Sam and Dean, Non-Sexual Kink What they share has never been easy to define. Why should this be any different?  .

Wincest Series The Top/Bottom Discourse Series (Ongoing) [Each story is canon compliant and listed chronologically, but they can all be read as standalone works.] This series was born originally from a silly meta post I made on Tumblr as a response to some very angry top/bottom discourse I was seeing about how only Sam could truly be A Top™, or how only Dean could truly be A Top™. I personally like to kink and let kink and not drag outdated gender politics into my fandom (Dean can't be a bottom because he's too masculine? Ice cold take, bro), so I wrote a filthy little tongue-in-cheek post about all the ways I think Sam and Dean have fucked each other over the years.

 I’m Thinking About Whatever You’re Thinking About ~5.1k, Explicit, Pre-series, PWP, Bratty Sam, Exhibitionism, Fear of Discovery Sam is such a brat, sometimes. .

 Shoot to Thrill ~6.7k, Explicit, Season 02, Porn with Plot, Hustling, Getting Back Together It's just like riding a bike. .

Burn Out The Night ~4.9k, Explicit, Season 08, Porn with Plot, Car Sex, Light BDSM, Fluff What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. .

Destiel Fic

Love Made a Martyr of Me ~500, Teen, Season 05, Endverse, Past Sam/Dean, Angst Sam says yes in Detroit, and in the space of a single syllable, there's nothing left in Heaven or on Earth for Dean to love. Cas doesn't seem to care. .

The Sharp Teeth of the One You Love ~2k, Teen, Season 05, Endverse, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Pining “Quit bein’ a baby, Cas.” Dean’s hands were covered in blood, but they were steady as always while he worked to stitch Castiel back together. “I’m sorry,” Cas growled between gritted teeth. “I don’t exactly have a lot of experience feeling pain.” He hissed again when Dean slid the curved needle back through the eight-inch-long gash that ran deep and bloody down Cas’s bicep. Castiel learns something about what it means to be human. .

Wincestiel Fic

Temerate ~700, Teen, Season 05(ish), Past Sam/Dean, 2nd Person POV, First Time Your brother is sitting in the corner of the motel room. His big hands are worrying at each other; he squeezes them together, fingertips white from the pressure of his grip. He meets your eyes and his gaze is like a lightning strike. .

Dean/John Fic

Cruore ~1.1k, Mature, Pre-series, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Blood, Intrusive Thoughts Bites, Dean could deal with – claw marks and broken bones. But this- ... a bullet was a different kind of monster altogether. .

Supernatural RPF

Il Cielo in Una Stanza ~4.4k, Explicit, Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki, Getting Back Together, Prequel-Gate, Polyamory, Non-AU Jared Padalecki receives a present he wasn't expecting at all for his 39th birthday. . 

Other Supernatural Fic

Bad Things, Better Reasons ~2k, Explicit, Pre-series, Dean Does Sex Work, Angst, Brotherly Love. Dean does whatever it takes to keep the bills paid while John is gone. The kid waiting for him back at the motel room is all the justification he’ll ever need. .

No Was Her Name ~1.3k, Teen, Season 12, Dean/Mary, Light Angst, First Kiss Mary Winchester was alive. She was solid—made of skin and blood and bone—and she existed in the same world as Dean. It wasn’t a dream; she walked and talked and breathed. She ate, she slept, she wandered the halls of the bunker at odd hours. She was a ghost made flesh, and Dean was haunted by her presence. .

[djxrxn]

a regular thing

fuse (ct-8902) x reader

wc: 1.7 k

warnings: alcohol consumption!! some explicit language, maybe some mentions/references to sexual situations

art used is by jangofctts!!!!!! fuse and the rest of the sunburst squadron also belong to jangofctts!! this is because keida ( @jangofctts ) as well as danielle ( @jango-fettish ) REFUSE to let the sunburst squadron be happy, so now i have to step in ugh, ridiculous. anyways enjoy!

Damn. You forgot how gorgeous Fuse’s smile was. 

It had only been a year since you wandered back onto your assigned base to find your squad was missing a member. Not dead, your commander had told you, just not here. There were snide comments, remarks told under breaths and in languages you neither spoke nor understood. They didn’t need some fucking mechanic trying to start a fight because a transferred clone had been insulted. 

Your commander - Fang, all sharp words and crooked smiles, a man you were nervous to talk to in the first place, let alone push him on a topic he didn’t want to continue talking about - had told you to leave it, leave him be. This was for the best. 

So you did. You left the thought of him behind on base, closing off the memories you carried in your chest to rot and slowly starve. Hopefully, one day, they’d be nothing, and you could finally wash Fuse off like the rest of the grease stains that littered your hands. 

That was so kriffing difficult, though. Every blaster fire, every stray explosion no one had planned for on the field, Maker, even a fly-away spark, and you felt sick. You missed him, you missed his warmth so much. You felt his absence in your fucking bones, your body physically ached. You worried, how was he supposed to stay alive without you watching his six? How was he supposed to get out of the trouble he caused without someone like you, someone who wasn’t hell bent on pissing off their commanders and brothers?

And how were you supposed to do anything without your partner in crime - without someone to ease your fears and anxieties, to calm you down so you could fix one last wire on the last speeder needed to get away from the Seppies. 

A unit - a duo. And now, you were alone. 

Stumbling upon him like that, watching him scrub the red off the plastoid armor… if you hadn't known better, you would have thought maybe something like the Force had brought you together. You supposed the Force had also pulled you apart, too, but-

Now here he was. 

Getting his ass to come with you to a club was easy enough. All you had to do was pay for his drinks - maybe it had been a year, give or take some time, but Fuse was still Fuse. 

Empty shot glasses littered the table. This late into the night, you weren’t really sure how many you had, you didn’t really remember much. Everything existed in a haze, a bright and vibrant dream. The music was almost too loud to hear your own thoughts, let alone the person you came here with. The patrons of the nightclub moved about, but the only person you wanted to focus on was right in front of you, a wide grin stretched over his cheeks — you never noticed the dimples in his cheeks, or the handful of freckles over the bridge of his nose. Up close, and with only him to transfix on, every detail was explicit and bright, the warmth radiating off of him feeling more like fire than a gentle spark. 

The feelings you tried to push away, the real reason you were so upset that you never looked for him, the fear that nothing would be reciprocated, all of it, it came roaring to the forefront of your drunken mind. He was beautiful, like a violent sunset, all fiery reds and deep oranges — you felt the panic flooding through you as you remembered that every sun crawls behind the horizon, leaving a cold and dark night in its absence. Nothing was forever. 

You tried to say his name, but it came out crooked and garbled, a mess of syllables and vowels, it didn’t sound correct. “Fuse,” you tried again. Better, but your words still slurred. 

Now it was his turn to say your name, and Maker, it made your chest ache. 

“I—” Did you want to tell him? You couldn’t un-ring this bell, you couldn’t go back. What if Fuse was still hurt and wanted nothing to do with you, what if—

You didn’t know when you were going to see him again. For all you knew, his new squadron was moving out in the moving, being shipped out to another moon or a Inner Rim planet, He would be gone just as soon as you had him again, and if this was it… 

“Hey,” you tried to shout over the music, “I love you.”

“What?” Fuse shook his head. “I can’t hear you, what?”

“I missed you,” you said. He rolled his eyes, but his smile grew a little bit brighter, and his eyes looked softer. For a moment, the past was forgotten and your Fuse was back. Every transgression had been forgotten, and for this bright and shining minute, you were better. 

“I missed my favorite cockroach,” Fuse laughed. “We have to do this again, huh?”

You tried not to be upset that you couldn’t say it, couldn’t fucking tell him. You wanted so badly for him to understand why you didn’t look for him. Fang was a terrifying commander, sure, but you and Fuse had gone around him and his orders before. No, the reason you didn’t look for him because you thought Fang was right, this was for the best. You couldn’t really be with Fuse, even if he did feel similarly. 

“I can’t let you go,” you said. “Not again.”

Fuse wasn’t sure — chalk it up to the whiskey, or maybe to the fact that Fuse had never paid close enough attention to you, to the way you looked at him like that, with eyes that almost looked misty, with a tight little frown forming on your sweet mouth - but to him, this felt so much deeper than the normal shallow of your relationship. This was not cut and dry, what you two had was not simple. Maybe it had never been simple. 

“So, yeah, this is gonna be a regular thing,” you added quickly. 

Fuse nodded. He didn’t want to think about what you meant. If you pushed on it, sure, you both could have that conversation. But he wasn’t running head first to be burned by you again. You could call the shots, and Fuse would follow. 

“Alright,” he said, shooting you half of a grin. “Fine by me, cockroach.”

You took a breath, glancing away for a moment. The lights around you glowed neon pink and purple, a haze of color and sound and life — your life had revolved around the war. You didn’t know where you would be without it. Out of a job you supposed, but then, you wouldn’t have Fuse, or any of his brothers. All the same, it was nice to get drunk in a dreamy club and pretend like you were normal sometimes. You could pretend that you were a normal civilian, and that you weren’t required to be on a military base in the morning, preparing for another battle, another violent and miserable day. You could imagine a life with someone, maybe with Fuse - making caf in a cramped kitchen space in a small apartment in the Inner Rim. You and Fuse could open a shop, maybe something repairing vessels, or blowing them up, fuck, none of the details mattered. The more you thought about it, the more you just wanted a normal life with Fuse. You wondered if he had ever thought about a normal life with you too - you really hoped so. 

When you looked back at him, Fuse was already staring at you - dark eyes and parted lips, his brow was furrowed up. Some dark thought was eating at his thoughts, tearing through him and overwhelming senses. You wanted to help him, you wanted to take his mind off of everything, you just wanted to heal. 

You worked with machines — you knew how to retire and reprogram and fix things to make it run smoothly. Fuse was not a machine, and he was not made of wires and parts. You didn’t know what to do to fix things, if there was even a way to fix the damage. 

Fuse leaned forwards, just a fucking hair closer, but it was enough to make it hurt. This was too much, he was too bright and too much, and you were suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to touch him. 

“Can I kiss you?” You stumbled over your words, and you were worried he couldn’t hear you again, but—

He surged forwards to reach you, his hands flying to cradle your head. Fuse’s lips were warm against yours, his belts were warm, he was so fucking warm, you felt alive. Every breath you stole between soft groans and nips of teeth came easy, releasing the tension that had been building in your chest all night. His tongue grazed along your bottom lip before slipping into your mouth, and this was home.

How many times did you think about kissing Fuse like this? How many times did you imagine his hands instead of your own? This was everything you could have ever wanted, everything you needed from Fuse. You missed him so much, thought about him every moment, but this was worth it. Fuse could burn you in every way he knew how, and you would probably deserve it, but you would brave it all to kiss him again.  

“Can this be our regular thing too?” You whispered against his mouth. Fuse pulled away for a second, and you almost were afraid that he was about to say no. But he moved forwards again, silencing all worry in your mind as he kissed you again. 

“Yeah, it can be,” Fuse answered you. He wouldn’t mind at all if kissing you like this was a regular occurrence. His thoughts weren’t in order — not that he had excellent ideas sober either, but he couldn’t quite figure out how to sneak you onto base without Blanche or Blue catching wind of it. Fuse was trying to come up with a plan, something that no one would notice. That would be hard, especially if Sweets was on patrol for the night- 

It didn’t matter, he decided as you tugged on his bottom lip, your gentle hands crawling up his thighs. It really didn’t matter at all — his brothers would be fine with it, or they would get over it. Fuse just wanted you, and now that he had you? Nothing could take his little bug away from him. 

[glassartpeasants]

Fragile Hearts

Tomura Shigaraki x F!Reader

Warnings: Angst, Hanahaki disease, sad reader hours, reader is insecure, mentions of death, name calling, this is really sad so read at your own risk

A/N: I wish this shit didn’t hit different. Wanna know why? Probably because i’ve got 2 series going down at this moment. Crying In The Club plus and a Shigaraki one thats still in the making. So we’re suffering together ya’ll.

It’s angst month motherfuckers >:)

~~~

God he looked so handsome today. Those beautiful ruby eyes always found a way to creep into your brain. How could they not? You felt a wave love whenever you stared into them. It always gave your heart joy staring into them.

But it always gave you pain.

Maybe cause you were to afraid to confess? Or was the fact that he seemed to not even show a pinch of interest in you. Or was it the fact that he seemed much more interested in a different women every day. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he indeed hire prostitutes or escorts. 

You never showed it but every time you saw a different woman leave his quarters it always felt someone had stabbed you right through the heart. You knew he was a reserved and quiet man. Hell he barely talked to anyone if it wasn’t for a meeting or telling someone off. He was a pretty angry and harsh soul. While you, well,

You were that kind of soul that you would have given the shirt off your back to anyone in need. Many villains (mainly Dabi) asked why even bother becoming a villain if you were so kind to them all, in Dabi’s words “Villains are suppose to be rude and horrible.” It was an reasonable question really. The true reason you became a villain was simple.

You held a unruly grudge against heros.

When you were about 8 years old a fire had started in your family home. The flames were so bright. You remembered that day so vividly. The screaming of your family trying to get everyone out. But they were stuck inside while you had managed to go over to a neighbors house and call the cops but when you called and they heard your voice they said,

“Listen kid we have bigger things to do. Next time when you call make sure there’s a real emergency instead of prank calling us.” And then he hung up. The cops, who were there to protect you had hung up on you.

And that fateful call was what sealed your families fate.

After that, you never really believed in the hero system. They had failed you and your family. Which was lead you to villainy. You may have been a kind soul but you would rather use that kindness to help out someone who you feel is worthy. The League of Villains picked you up off the streets, so to you, they were your only family.

~~~

You laid down on the bed that occupied your room, staring at the ceiling. It was nicer then the old bar you guys use to live in but, to you it didn’t feel the same. You were happy for how far you guys came but it just felt like most of the PLF kinda made you sad. You didn’t know why but it did. Maybe was it due to the fact that you wanted it to be just the league? You weren’t fond of these new people. Probably cause they tore you down a lot. 

Your quirk was Energy, your quirk allowed you to use energy of the sun to heal you and use sun rays. But the down fall of your quirk was that it was absolutely useless at night. So you had to rely on your combat skill in the night. That was one of the reasons they didn’t like you, cause your quirk kinda had a big flaw. But they also merciless teased you about being kind to your fellow league members. 

You wanted to scream at them. Tell them off, do something at least but, no matter what you thought you could do. Your confidence faded when you remember that they would probably tell Tomura about your outburst. And since he has a habit of decaying people without warning, you just decided it was best to keep your pretty mouth shut.

You sigh as you get off your bed before changing your clothes to pj’s. You put on the black tank top and pajama pants which were super soft and fuzzy. Putting on some socks you open the door and make your descent into the kitchen. You tried to be as quiet as you could. Not wanting to wake anyone up while you ran to get a midnight snack.

Once reaching the kitchen you turn on the lights and almost let out a scream but took a breath instead.

“Oh geez Dabi, scared the shit outta me.” You laugh before making movements towards the fridge.

“Good, gotta keep that blood pumping.” He chuckled before setting his whiskey down. 

You grab your snack before going next to Dabi and sitting down. You picked up your fork and begun to eat only to almost choke at Dabi’s words.

“So when are you gonna tell the boss you have a thing for him?” You almost choke on your food before looking at Dabi with wide eyes. What?! Was your staring that obvious? Oh god...

“H-how did you know?”

“We maybe surrounded by them but i’m no idiot. I can tell when someone has the hots for someone else. It’s just funny seeing you even try with that gremlin.” Dabi laughed at you while you crossed your arms. 

“So what if I think he’s hot? I know that I’ll never have a chance with him, considering all the woman he has coming in and out of his office.” You say with hints of sadness in your voice. It wasn’t hard to tell. You knew what this feeling was. You knew you had grown a one-sided love for your boss.

“Well if you think that you better be careful.” You uncross your arms with a confused look on your face.

“If your talking about me getting with him I know’ll get my heart bro-”

“No, I’m talking about you getting Hanahaki Disease.” What in the ever loving hell is that?

“What the fuck is that?”

“I can tell you one thing is that it never ends up being in a happy ending. So pray you don’t get it.” Dabi said before drinking the rest of the whiskey and going towards his room.

You furrow your brows as you look down at the table. Hanahaki Disease eh? Well you could probably look it up tomorrow, since you have no missions tomorrow as far as your knowledge. 

“The disease can’t be that bad, right?”

~~~

You wake up to a burning pain in your chest. You let out a little cough before going over to your bathroom to take a shower. This time you let out a louder cough, it felt like something was in your throat. Ugh this feeling was always the worst damnit.

You start coughing trying to get whatever the hell was in your throat out. You pounded at your chest before a little daisy popped out of your mouth. You fell on your ass while holding your throat, rubbing it as you looked at the flower with confusion. 

“How did that get in my throat?” You crawl over a scoop up the daisy. Looking at it with amazement and confusion. This is impossible, how the hell?

Grabbing your phone you opened up google and searched online for any answers on what this could mean.

‘i just coughed up a flower, what the does that mean?’

You wait for the screen to stop loading only to drop the flower and scurry away from it as fast as possible.

No way...this couldn’t be real, how could this happen! You knew you liked your boss but when you read the article saying it can only happen from a one sided love you knew you were boned.

How can you get rid of a love that has taken so long to blossom? Only for it to be your down fall. You kept reading up on it while sitting on the bathroom floor. The more you read the more scared you became. You could die from it if you didn’t get it treated! But the procedure was said to be very risky and highly dangerous. So it was pretty much up to you to get over your feelings for Shigaraki. Yeah that was going to be a pain in the ass.

Time could only tell.

~~~

Day One

You sat at the meeting while your eyes couldn’t help but stare at him. He was so gorgeous, who could you ever compare to the girls he brings to his beck ad call? They were perfect! You just felt like no matter what you did, you never could get the attention of your leader. No, you need to work on yourself! The disease can’t get worse or else-

“(Y/N)! Were you even paying attention?” Shigaraki’s voice boomed causing you to yelp. Snickering could be heard around the table causing your face to heat up in embarrassment. You look at Spinner and he sends you a apologetic look.

“No Shigaraki, I’m sorry. I had something on my mind.” You say looking down. You’ve never been one with getting yelled at. 

“Well get your head out of your ass and pay attention and if your not going to the doors right there.” 

“I’ll pay attention.” You said as you looked down, trying to stop the tears that threatened to spill. Your nails dig into your clothes thighs as you only listen to Shigaraki. You wanted to but all you could hear was sweet voice that you wished was there instead of the one now.

~~~

Day 5

You looked terrible to say the least. You couldn’t believe that is was growing this fast! I mean when you looked into it it said 2-3 months but you didn’t think it would grow so unreasonable fast!

Thinking about it and pushing your panic aside you’ve come to the conclusion that its going faster because of how deep your love and loyalty is for him. It’s so deep rooted that the flowers are growing faster.

Especially the one growing on your neck. 

You’ve looked into what each flower means and the first one which was a daisy meant innocence, purity and loyal love. This time however, it was a rose. You looked it up and saw that it meant girlhood, modesty and secrecy. You knew why this one had popped up. Probably cause of the fact that you’ve been hiding in your room a lot lately. You didn’t want anyone to catch you hacking up flowers. It was already painful as it is so you don’t need any judgement stares.

That didn’t mean your coughing didn’t go unnoticed though. Your coughs were loud enough that Toga and Spinner came to ask if you were okay a couple times. You told them you were and that you were just sick and that you would get better soon.

‘If by better then you mean dead.’

You shook your head before putting your head into your pillow. Effectively screaming into it out of frustration. How in the ever loving hell where you going to get rid of this damn thing if you couldn’t keep him out of your mind?

~~~

Day 14

You felt like shit. Your entire being just felt weak in general. There were bags under your eyes and more little flowers covering your face. If it were glued on and not attached to your skin, you would have thought it as cute. Now? You hated them, you hated yourself. What would your parents think? Seeing you dying over a man that doesn’t love you back. unknowingly killing you from afar.

A knock came at your door and before thinking you said come in. Your eyes went wide and before you could change your mind Dabi walked in and locked the door behind him.

“How long did you think you could hide huh?” Dabi said as he sat on the bed next to you. He may not have shown it but he was worried. He had known your little thing for Shigaraki but he didn’t know it would be this bad.

“I don’t know. How can I get rid of it when I can’t even look Shigaraki in the face. He would think I’m weak.” You said before coughing up another flower. This time blood was seen covering some of the petals. 

“Shit this is worse then I originally thought. It’s at stage three already. Yours is progressing insanely fast. What will it take to realize that he doesn’t love you.” You knew Dabi meant good with his words but you couldn’t help but feel a little bit of your love for him chip away.

Which caused a flower to fall off of your face.

“That’s it.” Dabi said as he picked up the flower and held it in his hands. You look at him with your brow raised.

“Stay here. But before I do what im about to do, just know I’m doing this to save your life understand?” You nod worried about what he’s planning. All you can do is sigh and hold your pillow closer to your chest as you waited to see what Dabi had in store.

~~~

Day 16

You laid in you bed watching some netflix when Shigaraki barged into your room with an angry look. Your eyes widen as you clung to the sheets you had wrapped yourself in.

“So I’m hearing that you love me.” He made it sound like a statement rather then a question. You look all over in the room to avoid his gaze. You shut your eyes only to have your head jerked towards shigaraki, making you look into his crimson eyes.

“Well news flash, I don’t feel the same way.” You swore you could have felt your heart drop in his stomach. Tears rimmed your eyes as Shigaraki looked all around your face noticing all your flowers. Looking into your eyes noticing how they were slowly turning white, making him let out a little chuckle.

“Your pathetic, you let something like love get in the way of my goal? Your so selfish you know?” Your tears were falling at this point. Blurring your vision while you felt a strong pain on your cheek. Shigaraki had ripped off a flower. A pink rose that bloomed on your right cheek.

“I find this hilarious honestly, look at you, needing my validation. When guess what bitch? Your not getting any. And you never will so you might as well tear off all these flowers off your disgusting face.” You couldn’t say anything before pain filled your entire being as Shigaraki picked off every flower that covered your face and neck, leaving you bleeding. 

You feel a light feeling in your chest as you felt like you could breathe again. the flowers that bloomed on your shoulder were slowly withering away. The feeling off something in your throat went away as well as all the flowers that bloomed on your body that was still left had withered and fell off. Your once blurred vision now crystal clear as you looked Shigaraki right in the eyes.

“Look better. Now if i ever see another flower on your face or in your room I’ll dust you myself understand?” You nod your head yes before Shigaraki let go of your face.

You hid yourself under the covers in order to avoid his gaze. Not seeing the little face of sadness that crossed his face.

~~~

“Did you do it?” Dabi asked Shigaraki when he saw him leave your room.

“No shit sherlock.” Shigaraki said as he walked past him only to be stopped by Dabi’s arm.

“It was for the best. She would have died if you didn’t.” Dabi spoke softly  before taking his arms away, Not looking Shigaraki in the eyes.

“I know.”

Shigaraki walked away before going to his room. Once he stepped in he closed the door behind him before falling to the floor. He threaded his hands in his hair before pulling out all the flowers he had taken from your face. Each one of them a different color. A cold feeling entered his heart, knowing that you were suffering because of him.

He had to remain strong. He couldn’t have love be in the way. At least that’s when he told himself at first. 

Ever since you showed up at the bar that faithful day, he knew he had to have you. He knew that he needed you. Why else would his heart beat so fast when you walked past. He always imagined you by his side, sitting on his throne with him. his queen of the villains.

If only he had confessed sooner. If he had he would not have to see you dying in your room because of it. Watching your life slowly slip from your eyes as the days passed by. You were hurting because of his stupid mistake.

And now he had to suffer the consequences. 

He held your flowers close to his face. They smelled of you. Reminding him of the deed he had just done. Tears hit the petals of the flowers, effectively collecting shigaraki’s tears. It hurt. Why did it have to hurt so bad.

A blue poppy was slowly growing on Shigaraki’s neck.

[cake-writes]

making the beast beautiful (one)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (cheating); Steve x Reader (married)

Story Warnings: Mental Illness, Borderline Personality Disorder, Splitting, Clinical Depression, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Low Self-Esteem, Cheating, Angst, Drug Addiction / Abuse (Cigarettes, later Alcohol & Pills), Recovery, idk it’s gonna get depressing but we’ll have a happy ending!!!, Eventual Smut, 18+

Summary: Bucky knows the struggle, the pain, the emptiness. He understands. He can relate, because he knows. And some days, he still struggles – even told you once how low he’s been. But Steve? Your sweet, loving husband of a year and a half? No, Steve doesn’t understand. He can’t, no matter how hard he tries. So one day, you finally give up and give in to your most self-destructive temptation of all: your preoccupation with his best friend.

A/N: i know this is another wip SORRY but it’s literal word vomit because ya girl just really needed to yeet these sad bitch feels into outer space lmao 🤷 

Your addiction to him starts slow, like the creep of nicotine through your veins from the cigarettes that he offers you on the rooftop.

Not often enough to do any damage, you try to tell yourself about your smoking habit – or maybe what you actually mean is the amount of time you spend with him. Bucky Barnes. Your husband’s best friend. Your former teammate. Not that it matters, because from one night to the next it’s all you can do to cling to the one good thing you have left, the one ray of light– or maybe he’s the one last shred of hope you’re willing to bind yourself to like a lifeline.

And if it snaps, you’ll fall. 

Too bad the threads are already starting to fray.

And lucky, lucky you that you fall even sooner, because your reality has shifted to one shade off from normal, and you can hardly tell what’s right and what’s wrong anymore. You want to prioritize yourself because you know you should – maybe be a little selfish for once, to combat the awful feelings of self-hate that plague your mind, but you don’t know if that particular affirmation is driven by self-esteem or self-destruction.

You can’t tell anymore. You don’t know who you are.

You’re a mystery, a chameleon, borderline, and the only thing you do know is that Bucky makes you feel again – too much. He makes you feel things you shouldn’t, makes you obsess and overthink and daydream and wonder about what life could be like with him instead of Steve.

Because that’s what you do when you fall in love. You turn into that. A monster. A beast. A siren hell-bent on the destruction of yourself.

So, you fall. You fall deep. You fall hard. You fall fast, but it’s the savouring of the moment that always brings out the worst in you. It brings back the worst part of you that you’ve buried under layers and layers of trauma and depression – the clinginess and neediness and desperation at the center of it all, and every layer covering up the euphoria makes you cry because you have to hide it for fear of losing yourself all over again. Losing that feeling. Losing what makes you you.

You’re happy, now. Right? So why do things you shouldn’t do?

But you just can’t help yourself.

You shouldn’t have accepted that first cigarette.

You shouldn’t have texted him asking for another.

You shouldn’t have talked to him about personal things meant for your husband.

You shouldn’t have talked to him about the most personal of things: your husband. Your relationship. Your insecurities because of your illness.

You shouldn’t have – because Bucky knows. He understands. He’s been there.

He knows the struggle, the pain, the emptiness. He understands. He can relate, because he knows. He’s been there. He’s done that. And some days, he still struggles – even told you, once, how low he’s been. 

He might have a different slew of acronyms to define his own mental state, but they all spell out the same thing: FUBAR. And so do yours.

But Steve? Your sweet, loving husband of a year and a half? The man of your dreams, the one you’d married in the gown of your dreams, in the venue of your dreams? He’s resilient. And let’s not forget your wedding, with Bucky standing right there as his best man – the same Bucky who accidentally caught the bouquet you threw in his direction, because your aim was purposefully off to make him feel like he belonged for once.

Even before you got to know him, you always had a soft spot for him. 

And now? You’re fucked. Completely and utterly smitten.

No, Steve doesn’t understand. He absolutely, fundamentally cannot, through and through. Not for a lack of trying, though, or that’s what you keep trying to convince yourself. He supports you physically: makes dinner when you’re ‘tired’, runs errands when you’re ‘busy’, gives you love and affection just like he always has. You’re his wife; it’s his obligation. He has to.

That’s how you feel, anyway.

He treats you that way out of duty, not love, because Steve always has to put the greater good before himself. He puts your happiness before his own, you think. And he tries so hard – he does. And whenever he tells you he’s happy, you just can’t believe him because you think so poorly of yourself.

Why would anyone willingly want to be around you?

And emotionally? He tries so hard with that, too, but he just doesn’t know. He doesn’t get it. He never says the right things, only well-meaning insensitive ones because he hasn’t been there, he hasn’t done that, and he thinks it’s all in your head – that you’re just not trying hard enough, that you just don’t want to get better badly enough, because if you did then you’d be up and at ‘em already. Then you’d be healed. Then you’d be out of this funk and back in the field with him.

You’re not.

You won’t be for a long time.

You’re not the same girl he fell in love with. Not that he’s ever said that directly to you, but sometimes you think it’s how he feels. He signed up for a wife, not a child. He signed up for the you from a few years ago, now, not the shell of a person you’ve become because of your illness.

Ironic, considering what he was like as a kid, Bucky likes to remind you when you start to hate on yourself because of how you’ve changed – because you’re not normal anymore. He used to be so sick all the time. Then the serum made him right as rain. Don’t take it to heart.

Steve got better because of a miracle. Hard work and determination can only get a person so far, but it was pure luck that got him to the serum. You know that. Bucky knows that. Steve probably knows that deep down, too, but he doesn’t see it that way. All he sees is his hard work.

He lies to himself. He always has.

He probably lies to himself about his love for you, too.

So it’s hard to believe he’s happy. How can he be? You don’t bring anything to your relationship but self-pity and unhappiness. And how can you not take it to heart that Steve doesn’t understand? Your husband, the one who should be supporting you and validating you and making you feel like you’re seen, thinks you’re always throwing a pity party for yourself, thinks you’re just too lazy to get up and actually do the things you want to do, thinks you’re just not trying hard enough.

Come on, doll, he says. Let’s go for a walk.

To you it just sounds like, Walk it off.

Because he’s said that before, too. A hundred times. In the field, and out.

You’re not an agent anymore. You can’t handle it anymore. You can’t handle anything anymore.

Deep down, you’re convinced that Steve thinks because it’s not physical – that because there are no scrapes or bruises or broken bones to prove that you’re in pain – that your depression isn’t real. Not really. It’s an illness, same as any other, and he just doesn’t understand it because he can’t see any physical evidence of it.

Never mind the weight you’ve lost.

Never mind the bags under your eyes.

Never mind the crying spells, the dissociation – but then, you hide those from him the best you can these days. You don’t want him to see how bad you are anymore, because he just doesn’t get it. Because it hurts so much every time for him to look at you with those soft, confused baby blues and act like it’s not a big deal, like a little bit of sunshine’s a cure-all for your woes.

Ironic is right. The boy’s been to war and he hasn’t even processed his own trauma. Hasn’t even been to a shrink despite having two best friends poking and prodding for him to go. He’s in denial.

He refuses to believe that you just couldn’t get to the laundry today because you’re too exhausted from lying in bed all day. He refuses to believe that you couldn’t eat a bite because you didn’t even think to, too busy caught up in your own pain to remember, let alone care. He refuses to believe that you don’t even feel like you deserve to do anything good for yourself, so why even get up? Why bother? Why try to do anything anymore?

Just let the darkness take you away. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. And then, maybe one day you won’t have to feel anything anymore. Maybe you’ll just disappear.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

He refuses to get it, and some part of you feels like it’s because he doesn’t want to. Because he’s afraid to acknowledge that it’s true. That if he starts therapy like you did, then this could just as easily happen to him, too.

But hey, that’s his problem, not yours. You’re still learning to prioritize yourself – to break away from co-dependency and focus on your own needs for once. You’re barely keeping your head above water; why should you have to work on him, too, when he doesn’t offer you the same consideration? You’ve done what you can, and he just turns a blind eye because he doesn’t want to understand your issues. Or his.

So, you’ve given up.

You plaster on a happy face when he’s home – a painful, never-ending reminder that you’re not okay, and you keep your troubles to yourself. You’ve stopped sharing your struggles with the man you married because he doesn’t understand, and it hurts. You try so hard to act like nothing’s wrong that sometimes you dissociate, and you don’t come back to yourself until you have a cigarette hanging between your lips, lit by a Zippo engraved with a clever, If you want to make love, smile when you hand this lighter back.

Seeing the joke on Bucky’s lighter always brings you back, because it’s ridiculous. It’s a throwback to his army days; Steve found it awhile back with Bucky’s old personal effects. Makes you wonder what he must have been like back then.

Cigarette smoke and leather and sandalwood in the dead of night – and you always make a point to smile when you hand it back to him.

Temptation incarnate, now. What a dream he would have been back then.

Sometimes you text him when you and Steve have had another fight.

Sometimes he texts you when he needs you to ground him.

Sometimes the two of you just text each other for the hell of it. It’s usually related to someone’s mental health, usually yours, but occasionally not; after all, over the last few months he’s become your partner in misery and crime. The two of you have shared things to each other that you’ve never told another person, not even Steve; and in some ways, you feel like you’ve bared your soul to him.

It’s intimate.

In other ways, you’ve kept your guard up because you know you’re playing with fire.

It’s wrong.

You know you should really tell Steve about your midnight conversations – that you probably know his best friend almost as well as he does, now, but Bucky’s become a guilty sort of pleasure that you keep near and dear to your heart. He makes you feel things that you haven’t felt in a long time, but you’re not ready to acknowledge what that means. Not yet.

And neither is Bucky, evidently, because Steve’s still none the wiser.

Eight months of this and you still want more.

Your husband trusts you. He never asks who you’re texting or what you’re up to. You’ve given him no reason to believe otherwise. He feels safe and secure in your relationship, but maybe he’s turning a blind eye to that, too.

He shouldn’t. 

You wish he didn’t.

Some small part of you wants him to catch you, and that’s what you resent the most. You’re self-destructive – ready to destroy the one good, stable thing in your life in favour of an impossibility, but you can’t deny that Bucky gives your brain the dopamine it needs, it craves, it lacks.

He’s been gone on a mission the last week and a half, but you saw the Quinjet fly in the hangar earlier in the evening, around six, and you’ve been keen to text him since. You’ve held back for a little while, not wanting to appear to eager to message him – so you’re certainly not too proud of how quickly your resolve cracks.

You, 10:33pm Please don’t tell me you came home with Lucky Strikes again.

Bucky, 10:41pm Sorry, princess. Didn’t realize I was seeing royalty tonight.

And then he sends through a photo of a slightly crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes in his hand – an invitation to come to the rooftop. Judging by the setting, he’s already there.

Despite his choice in a particularly harsh smoke, you’re more focused on the pet name that has your face burning hot. It’s something he’s started to tack on recently – ‘princess’ being most common, particularly when he’s teasing you about being spoiled in some way, but when he slips it in during a real conversation is what really makes your heart pound.

You know you should tell him to stop. You know you should, but, you don’t.

You like how it feels to feel for once.

You’re married. It’s wrong. You need to stop, but you just can’t help yourself. You’re lonely.

Steve’s still away on a mission, which doesn’t bother you nearly as much as it used to – you hope he returns safely, of course you do, but you don’t really miss him. Not like you should. That’s happened more often than not as of late, and you can feel your attention shifting the longer you keep up this dangerous game with his best friend.

If it even is a game, that is. It’s probably not. How could he possibly be attracted to you? You’re depressed. You’re boring. And, to top it all off, you’re his best friend’s wife.

Of course you’re the only participant. Bucky’s just humouring you. That’s all.

And now, as you swipe on some deodorant and attempt to make something out of the rat’s nest that is your hair, you feel a particularly awful level of disdain for yourself. The self-loathing pairs nicely with your poor appearance; you haven’t slept well in days, and you’ve barely eaten in just as long.

It’s only when Steve is here keeping you on a regular schedule that you do. Otherwise it’s a free for all anymore.

Bucky never seems to mind – just encourages you to go do what needs to be done when the conversation’s over. And somehow, you listen. 

Sometimes he texts to ask if you’re doing okay while he’s away on a mission, too – and you always lie, because he can’t prove otherwise. He sends you a couple reminders anyway, because he just knows. He understands that you’d rather not burden him with the truth.

And then, when he comes back, he calls you out on your lie. He calls you out and reminds you how valuable you are – to Steve, mostly, and to the team. You’re irreplaceable. You’re needed.

He never says how important you are to him, but you always wish he would.

It’s stupid. It’s wrong.

You’re married.

Tonight will be no different. Despite your negative beliefs about yourself, he’ll tell you otherwise, but you won’t believe him. You never do, even though you desperately want to.

You’re a mess, so a beanie it is. You pull it over your tangled hair and somehow get your bangs looking presentable, at least; then you give your clothes the sniff test, spritz a little body spray just in case, and head out the door. You had a shower yesterday because even you couldn’t stand it anymore. 

That’ll do.

Fingers tap anxiously at your feed in the quiet elevator. There’s some mild jazz playing, just like usual, but your heart pounds inside your chest – only brings more attention to your nerves.

Bucky hasn’t been gone long, but you’ve missed him.

It’s stupid. It’s wrong.

You’re married.

After exiting the elevator, a short flight of stairs takes you to the roof. Once you start to push, the fire exit door blows open of its own accord; it’s windy up here due to the change of seasons, not that you’ve even noticed it considering you haven’t been outside in over a week. The fresh air shoots straight through your hoodie and sweatpants, and you briskly rub your arms to warm up, immediately wishing you’d checked the temperature before you came outside, maybe grabbed a jacket. You hadn’t even thought of it. Your mind’s a mess.

Hadn’t thought of dinner, either. Or lunch.

That’s when a heavy leather jacket is deposited ungracefully on your shoulders, and you glance up behind you to find Bucky standing there, giving you the look. It’s the one that pre-empts the lecture. “That help?”

You nod, basking in the smell of him – sandalwood and spice. Ah. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He knows.

He can tell with just one look that you’ve been lying to him – that you haven’t been taking care of yourself like you said you were. But he doesn’t reprimand you this time, or offer you platitudes; the disapproving look is enough.

Slippers on your feet, you pad over to the two lawn chairs he set up awhile back near the edge of the eastern wing; it’s got a nice view of the landing pad, but beyond that is the lake, and the two of you have come up here long enough to catch the sunrise once or twice. It’s nice.

“Good mission?” you ask, shoving your hands into your pockets as you collapse into your chair. It’s made of a terrible green fabric, seated low enough to the ground to let you curl your knees to your chest and cry when you want to. And you do. A lot.

This time, however, you’ve got your legs extended far ahead of you. You don’t want to talk about yourself tonight. You want to focus on him.

A distraction. That’s all. That’s what you try to tell yourself.

The other chair, woven blue and white, is where Bucky comes to rest just like always. You suspect that it was the cheapest one in the store, because it creaks and groans and you always think it’s going to break when he sits in it, but it never does. It’s also taller than yours, so you call him old man every now and then for it because that’s just hilarious.

It’s not flirting. It’s not.

Not even when you’ve nearly fallen into his lap on more than one occasion thanks to drinking beforehand.

“Well,” he starts hesitantly, pausing to consider his answer, “I made it back.”

His tone is soft – distant. Not a good mission, then.

“I’m glad you made it back,” you offer, giving him what you hope is a hopeful smile. It feels fake, but the intention behind it is real.

He studies your face for a moment or two, before he averts his eyes. “You’re probably the only one. I had to do some things on the mission that I—” He cuts himself off, then, and pulls the pack of Lucky Strikes out of his pocket to fiddle with. A crutch. “I don’t like to use my strength when I don’t have to. Makes people nervous.”

He’s told you about it before. By ‘people’ he means ‘agents’. Other agents. The ones he was working with, no doubt. As if his arm isn’t reminder enough, sometimes if he doesn’t hold back – well, they start to treat him a little differently after that. It’s a reminder that he’s not fully human.

You can empathize. “It’s a little shocking at first,” you remind him gently, “but you do get used to it. I did. It just takes some time.”

Of course, you also married a super soldier, so there’s that. You can’t really gauge what’s ‘normal’ anymore.

That’s when he cracks open the pack  of cigarettes – half full, which means he must have been smoking on the mission, too, something he doesn’t usually do – and when he meets your eyes, the dark, anxious look there turns your stomach to knots.

“Are you?” he asks, voice low and laced with an emotion you just can’t place – or maybe you’re too afraid to acknowledge that you can, and very easily feel the same way. “I could break you in thirty ways before you could even tell me to stop.”

Your brain halts like a record scratch when the clear implication of his words sends a jolt straight to your core. Not just because it’s true, the threat, but because of the dangerous way he’s staring at you, coupled with the casual authority in his voice.

He could hurt you so easily, but you know he wouldn’t. Not you.

He could do other things, too – something a lot less violent and a lot more pleasurable – but you don’t let yourself consider that. You can’t. Even if it’s what he’s implying.

Is it what he’s implying?

You’re married. He knows that.

There’s a long pause while you try to gather your thoughts, until you finally manage as evenly as you can, “Are you trying to scare me?”

Your voice is still a little hoarse despite how much you willed it not to be. He did scare you a little – not that you’d ever admit it, because he excited you a hell of a lot more, and you hate that, too. But you love it even more.

Your question makes his shoulders slump, just slightly, just enough to let you know that that’s exactly what it was – that Bucky was lashing out, in his own way. That he’s the one who’s scared. That he’s trying to push you away.

Why?

“I’m not afraid of you, Bucky,” you reassure him, because you aren’t. You could never be. Not like that. What you’re afraid of is so much worse than that – because it involves him and you, and you can’t make yourself stop wanting more of this. More of him. More of what he threatened to do to you – the underlying meaning you hope to god you’re not imagining, but you should never, ever want.

It’s wrong.

“You should be,” he responds, quiet, rolling the cigarette he’s half pulled out of the pack in between his fingers like he’s debating whether to light it, but he’s trying his hardest not to this time. “You shouldn’t be up here with me.”

The ball drops.

The truth that the two of you have been dancing around for months finally comes out, and you laugh – you laugh, because otherwise you’ll cry. “What are you talking about?”

“Darlin’, you’re—” he starts, and then lets out a frustrated sigh and shoves the cigarette right back in, shoves the pack shut too for good measure. Blue eyes burn into yours. “You know why.”

“We’re friends, Bucky,” you emphasize, lightly, but deep within your chest you can feel the anger, the anxiety start to burn and meld together into something entirely unrecognizable. It’s the tiniest ember now, but it won’t be if this keeps up. You know you’re married. You know that. You don’t need the reminder. “We’re just talking. What’s the problem?”

“Come on, sweetheart.” He’s calm, too calm, and it bothers you. “Don’t play dumb. You’re too smart for that.”

It’s just pretend. It’s not real. You’re happily married with Steve. You’re happy.

Right?

“That’s all it is,” you argue. “I’m married. You said so yourself. Steve and I are happily married.”

Saying it out loud is just another cold, brutal reminder that you aren’t. Just like the façade you’re forced to wear. 

“Yeah? You’re happy?” Bucky asks, pulling himself to his feet – and you suddenly realize how tall he is when he’s towering over you like this. You’re not scared, no, you love it. And that makes it worse, the way he makes your heart race like this. “Then there’s gotta be a reason why you haven’t told him about our little talks.”

Because they’re more than that. That’s the reason.

“Well, why haven’t you?” you shoot back, finally getting to your feet, too, feeling your face flush with anger. “You haven’t told him either. Why’s that, huh?”

Tense silence falls over the two of you as you glare at each other, the only light illuminating your features coming from the full moon. It’s a beautiful night, clear and chilly and bright, and you originally had hopes of maybe stargazing with him like you’ve done so many times before.

Not tonight.

He’s pushing you away. He wants to push you away. You know he is, it’s obvious – he tried one approach, and when that didn’t work, he went for the thing he knew would invoke a reaction. The thing that would hurt the most.

Steve. Your marriage. Your happiness, or lack thereof.

No matter how many times you try to tell that to the rational side of your brain, you just can’t handle it. It’s another rejection from someone you cared about – someone you felt yourself growing a potentially unhealthy attachment to – and he just had to hurt you like all the rest. He wanted to hurt you. He wanted to see you suffer.

You can’t stand him.

So you shrug off his jacket and shove it at him. “Take your fucking jacket,” you bite out. “You want me gone? Well, I’m going. Hope you’re happy.”

The way he takes it from you catches you off guard, blue eyes wide with hurt and surprise – but you don’t give him another second of your time. Instead you spin around on your heel and stomp your way back to the access door.

You’re not well enough for this. You’re depressed. You’re broken. You’re lonely.

And now, the only person who understands has thrown you away – discarded you like you’re nothing. Maybe because you are. You’re worthless.

Your fingertips just brush against the handle when you’re tugged back by the wrist, and then his arms are around you, his chest pressing into your back.

He’s warm.

It’s wrong.

But it feels right, and you hate how easily you melt into his touch, into the feeling of his lips at your ear.

“I don’t want you to go,” he whispers, and you’re done for.

The heat from your anger warps into something else – something that burns you up in a different way, and you swallow thickly at the feeling of his arms so snug around your waist. “What do you want, then?”

It’s barely audible, your question -- but he hears it just fine. Soft lips drag from your ear to your pulse, and you shiver, lulling your head back onto his shoulder.

“You tell me,” Bucky breathes against your skin. “I need to know what you want.”

The two of you are playing a dangerous game, and the stakes are only getting higher. You both have a lot to lose, but you’re the one taking the higher risk. Not him.

“I want—” His teeth gently nip at your neck and you can’t help yourself. “I want you—”

And then your back is pressed into the closed door, cold metal biting through your sweats but you don’t even notice, too focused on the feeling of his lips on yours. They’re soft and ever-so-slightly chapped, and his stubble scratches just a little, pleasantly, just enough to hurt in the best way.

It’s hot, too hot, god, you can’t handle the heat of his body against yours—

“Bucky,” you gasp against his lips, sliding your arms around his neck, fingers carding through his hair to pull him closer. You can taste with the barest bite of mint from his gum, along with the slightest hint of cigarette smoke, and you realize—

He must have been up here for awhile.

Overthinking. Wondering what to do. Lost in thoughts of you, perhaps.

The idea of it sends a rush of delirium through you, and you open your mouth just enough to let his tongue explore – or dominate, which you soon find you like very much when Bucky does it to you. His flesh hand cups the side of your face as he kisses the breath out of you, and his vibranium one snugly presses into your lower back – purposely, you soon find, because suddenly your knees go weak and your arms tighten around his neck to catch yourself from falling.

A breathy laugh escapes you. “Oh, wow. That’s never happened before.”

“First time for everything,” he teases, kissing your forehead as he steadies you back on both feet – and it’s then that the realness of the situation seems to sink in.

You’ve just cheated on your husband.

He’s just kissed his best friend’s wife.

There’s a prolonged silence as the two of you look at each other, watching, wondering, waiting, and then—

“We have to tell him,” you say, a little uneasily. “Just… not yet. Figure this out first.”

You can feel the desperation to see where this leads, no matter what a bad idea it is.

Bucky swallows. It’s clear that the prospect of lying to Steve bothers Bucky just as much as it bothers you, but you know he feels that same desperation when he suggests, “And if it turns out to be nothing, then…”

“Yeah. No harm, no foul.”

You won’t tell him. Because if it’s nothing, then it’s not worth worrying about. 

Even if it’s wrong.

Right?

two

and a moodboard I made because why not

[revengeoftheantichrist]

From Eden

Warnings: Head Injury, Violence, Jealousy, Mentions of Miscarriage and pregnancy, ritual sex, stalking, creepy behaviour

AO3  <<<Previous

Chapter 5

You had always been a heavy sleeper, thinking of it as an advantage. There was no waking you unless you were violently shaken awake. Michael had figured this out and used it to his advantage. Ever since you had moved into the 9th floor, Michael had slithered into bed beside you every night. He used his magic to lower the temperature of the room, so you’d snuggle into him for needed warmth. Clinging to him without you even knowing you were doing it. He would spend the nights sending you dreams, watching your unconscious reactions to them. Occasionally he’d spend the time with his hand on your stomach, rubbing it, thinking about the future he was going to give you, the one you didn’t know about yet. //// “Who the fuck is Y/N?” was the question being asked in the harem. The king had visited a few nights ago, he slipped up and had moaned your name. A name no one in the harem had. The girls were now angry and suspicious. Who was this pathetic little ant that occupied their King’s mind? Was she better than them? They had done some digging, what they found was a kick in the teeth. You were just a measly little grey, a blip on the radar, some random girl that should be lucky enough to be in their presence let alone the Kings. Of course, he had fucked greys before, but it was never serious enough to even know their names. And now here you were, infringing on the sacred space of the harem without even being there. He chanted your name like a prayer and the girls threw it around like a curse. You were a grey, they could just get rid of you, no one would notice. But they were merciful, so you’d just get a warning for now. //// You had been called last minute for a delivery shift; this would be your last one. You were headed to the harem in your overalls, you had a royal garden to get back to. As you entered the harem, all eyes were on you. You looked around, stunned, you had never been noticed before so why was everyone staring at you? You didn’t like the look on the six harem girls’ faces. “You’re Y/N then?” a girl sneered. You could just nod in reply. She nodded to a guard. He came forward and whispered a quick ‘sorry’ before hitting you over the head, making you black out. //// You came to, tied to a chair. The bright light of the room pierced through your skull, making it hurt. The same six sneers surrounded you. “Who the fuck even are you?” asked one of the girls. You couldn’t reply. She slapped you hard enough for your lip to split. You could taste the blood in your mouth. You weren’t having this, so you spat at her with your bloody spit. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you treat his Majesty like this too? Does he know what an insolent piece of shit you are?” another girl shouted. “King? What king? Is the coke getting to your brain or something?” you replied. What the fuck were these girls on about. “You have the wrong person ladies, I spend my days knee deep in mud, not on my knees.” Someone pulled your hair back, “there’s only one Y/N in this whole place. It’s the only name to come out of his mouth recently,” she spat, slapping the other side of your face before letting your head drop. Your lip was split, both cheeks red and swollen and your head was pounding. You still had no idea what the hell was going on. “Can you guys hurry up. I don’t know what you want from me, but I have a shift to get back to.” “I’ve had enough of your attitude!” the girl proceeded to punch you on the side of your nose, a sickening crack indicating it was broken. You could feel the excruciating pain, disorienting you even further. You not replying was seen as an invitation for the girls to take it all out on you. All that frustration of the past five years was taken out on you. You blacked out again, not knowing how long they went on for. //// You came too two days later in the hospital wing. Everything hazy to you and your face in so much pain. The doctor came in, “Oh Miss Y/N you’re finally awake, please don’t get up yet, you’re very concussed right now and you might be sick.” “W- what happened?” you slurred out. “No one knows, you were found slumped in a corner on the 5th floor and severely injured. As for injuries, you have a broken nose and cracked jaw. There are other minor injuries like your split lip. Finally, you have a lot of bruising.” You winced just hearing about it. The doctor gave you further instructions, you had permission to recover in your room with a further week on bed rest. Ms Mead came to collect your morphine-ed out self, slowly walking you to your room. “Do you remember anything kid?” she asked. You raked through your brain, “I went to make a delivery to the harem and that’s the last thing I remember.” “we’ll look into it. HE was worried about you, you know.” “he? Adam?” “Adam?” she hesitated, “Oh yeah, Adam. He was worried, he’ll visit soon.” You reached your room, she took you in and led you to the bed, tucking you in. “I’m not a baby Ms Mead,” you whined. “Shut it, I’m under special orders. Stay in bed. Understand? We need you nice and healthy before the end of the week.” She shut the door and left you to sleep. End of the week? Why were you needed then? You didn’t dwell on it too long, falling asleep. This was the first time you weren’t working for five years and you were going to make the most of it. //// Michael was raging. How dare they touch what was his. The two nights you weren’t next him were sleepless, he’d become so used to your presence. He was thinking of the millions of punishments those girls would get for their actions. But he would have to wait for the end of the week, he had other things to do. He strolled into your room, seeing you fast asleep. The sight of bandages on your face caused a pang in his chest, and anger, lots of anger. He slipped under the sheets beside you and you snuggled into him. He let out a sigh, finally having you in his arms again. Careful not to wake you, he inspected your bruising and broken bones. He held your face in both hands, resting his forehead against yours, sending gentle pulses of magic to your injuries to speed up the healing process. This was a rare occasion where his magic was used to heal, it was usually used to destroy. You’d be good as new, unblemished by the end of the week, ready for the next stage of Michael’s plan. //// You were giving orders from the bed, being unable to do anything yourself. Ms Mead tried to complain but you pointed out that you were only instructed to not leave the bed, no one specified you couldn’t work from it. She reluctantly let you continue, especially after seeing the way you were recovering. The centre of the garden was to be completed this week. The door opened, you spoke without looking up from your laptop, “Hello Mr inspector.” “How did you know it was me?” “Your irritating presence can be detected from miles away,” you smiled. He sat down next to you on the bed, rearranging pillows to make himself comfortable. You turned to just look at him, eyebrow raised. “What?” he asked. “Take your shoes off, I sleep here.” He huffed and kicked his shoes off, flinging them across the room like a child, reclining back into his throne of pillows. You rolled your eyes and got back to work, your typing the only sound in the room. “So,” he broke the silence, “how are you doing now miss scientist, you still look like you got dragged backwards through a hedge.” “I’m recovering quite alright actually, thank you for asking. But also, you did drag me through the mud last week,” you pointed out. “Quite the dirty girl last week weren’t we miss Y/N,” he trailed his fingers up your spine and to your neck. The touch was light but enough to make you shiver and stop typing. You cleared your throat, “uhm, well, yeah we were in literal mud.” He just hummed and continued with his light touches. He noticed the ribbon in your hair was the one he gave you, delighted at the fact you kept it. You had started typing again, so he pulled the ribbon out of your hair and began to lightly scratch your scalp. You felt like a cat, almost purring at the action. It felt so good, so tender, without thinking you leaned into his touch and closed your eyes, just enjoying the brief moment. You were putty in his hands at this point and he was relishing in it. He gently pulled you back to his chest and you let him, lost in a sort of spell. Neither of your said anything. He used his magic to gently lull you to sleep, you would need all the energy for the full moon tonight. //// You awoke to the sound of hissing, thinking it might have been caused by your concussion. But you were compelled to get out of bed anyway. When had you fallen asleep? You can’t remember. It was like your legs moved on their own, leading you out of your room. The hallway was silent, only that hissing sound was getting louder. So, you followed it to the garden. It lay practically barren except for the greenery in the centre and the ring of trees surrounding the alter. The moonlight shone down onto it. You worked from centre out, the rest of the garden not yet being complete. You felt something around your ankles. Looking down to see snakes slithering around you, but you didn’t feel the need to scream, instead walking ahead to the alter. A figure was kneeling on it, as if he was waiting for you. You walked forward, the image becoming clearer and clearer. ‘Adam’ was waiting for you; bare as the day he was born with his hand stretched out for you. Without thinking, you took it, feeling a warmth envelop you; he pulled you to kneel in front of him. Your eyes finally locked with his, getting lost in those icy blues, the moonlight giving them a glow. You realised you were as bare as him. not knowing why or how. He didn’t give you much time to think, leaning and resting his forehead with yours. He whispered something to you, you can’t remember what, but you nodded. He then started whispering in Latin, still keeping his eyes locked with yours. He stopped and kissed you hard, you kissed back with equal passion. You had been thinking about these lips for weeks, all day and all night in your dreams. They were as soft as you’d imagined them to be. He pulled away, a string of saliva connecting you both. You felt an intense heat overcome you, a burning desire to have him inside you, for him to claim you. He smirked as if he was reading your thoughts. You didn’t notice him pull out a knife until he began to cut into his arm. Deep channels dripping red liquid onto him and the pentagram below you. He pulled your arm out, and did the same to you. You winced a little at the sting, but it wasn’t painful, it just seemed to intensify the heat you were feeling. He finished the other cut and whispered to you, “Cover me in your blood dear one, and I shall do the same to you.” You followed his instruction, your hand painting him red, feeling the heat of his skin, every muscle that twitched, all because of you. He started from your neck, making you moan when he reached you breasts, pinching your nipples before moving down to your stomach. He took his time gently coating your stomach, whispering more Latin as he did so, increasing the heat you felt; you were sure you were dripping onto the alter. He pulled you in for another kiss, both of you painted red with each other. He pulled away and kissed down your neck, making you moan when he sucked on your sensitive spots. He reached your nipples, sucking on one while palming the other breast. “These will be so full soon,” he groaned out. His hands eventually reached your slick folds. You moaned at the feeling of his fingers. “P-please I need you inside me so much,” you whimpered. He just chuckled, pushing you onto your back, kneeling between your spread legs. He looked down at you, wiping the tears that you didn’t know had formed. “Look at you, so desperate for me, so desperate for me to fill that virgin pussy of yours.” You nodded and mewled as he slid his cock over your core, coating himself with your juices. “You’re practically weeping for me.” He lined himself up, gripping your hip with one hand and holding yours in the other. He pushed himself into you slowly, both you moaning at the sensation you had waited so long to feel. He bottomed out and sat still, pressing his palm on your stomach. “I’m the only one who’ll ever be this deep inside you.” You pressed your hand where his was, shivering at the fact you could feel him from here. He slowly began to thrust, splitting you in half on his cock. He watched himself entering you, grinning at the fact that he would be the first and only one. You pulled him down for a kiss as he picked up the pace; your moans increasing in volume. You could feel your muscles begin to tighten for that inevitable release and Michael rubbed your clit. “Tell me what you want from me and I’ll give it to you.” “Please I want you to fill me up.” He began to rub faster. “You want the antichrist to fuck a baby into you huh? You want me to breed that virgin cunt already?” “Yes, please, that’s all I want,” you cried out. You don’t know what overcame you, it really was all you wanted at the moment, it was all you had dreamed about, to be filled by him, to be claimed by him, to give into that animalistic instinct. “Then say my name,” he growled, “Scream it, I want god to hear it.” He rubbed faster and his pace got quicker, both of you on the edge. You could feel yourself about to snap. “M-Michael! Michael! Michael!” you chanted out. This was Michael, the King of the new world, the antichrist but to you he was your ‘Adam’. You came with a cry of his name, the euphoria washing over you. He followed not long after. “Fuck, Y/N you want this so bad you’re milking me dry,” he huffed out. Kissing you while slowly pulling out. He held your face in his hands while you both caught your breaths, looking at each other with dazed out smiles. He moved his hand over your stomach, feeling for the little life you had created. The moonlight made you both glow in your little Eden. The blood from the ritual seeped into the pentagram shaped channels and spilled out into the soil below. The trees around you absorbed the liquid, making the pomegranates on the trees ripen, ready for picking. Michael used his magic to pick one, splitting it in half while whispering something, the juice dripping down his hands and onto you. He hand fed you some seeds, and you did the same for him. No words were spoken. He cradled you to his chest and lifted you, making his way out of the garden. You were so tired, falling asleep in his arms before you could see where he was taking you.

[abluescarfonwaston]

Shapeshifter Au -12

Masterpost

He cawed out to Geralt as he approached. Geralt held out his arm to land on and he did.

“Still too close?” Geralt asked glancing down at Ciri and Roach’s drooping forms. Exhausted. Ciri was half asleep in his arms.

He nodded sadly. He’d found a scout camp not an hours fly behind.

Geralt looked down at Ciri and Roach. “We can’t stop.” His face pinched painfully and he glanced at him. “Jaskier-“

He nodded.

He could shift. He could ride.

They pulled off to the side and he shifted. A few hands taller than Roach with black stockings over his chestnut hair.

Thank you. He told her pressing his neck into hers.

That’s my line colt.

I’m older than you Roach.

I’d never have guessed.

Geralt shifted the tack over to him and he did his best to tolerate the feeling. The few times they’d done this it was bareback and he wasn’t a fan of the way it sat on his back. But it would be better in the long run. Probably.

“I know you’re not a fan of this.” Geralt waved to. The whole situation really. “Thank you.”

He stopped his grooming of Roach’s withers to bump Geralt reassuringly. I might not enjoy being ridden -like this at least- but that doesn’t mean I won’t do it in a pinch. It’s fine.

Tell him he owes me so many apples for this. And some clover grass.

You know you’ll get sick if you eat too much of that. Hm. Apples tho. Not as good as lamb but-

Well that was progress at least.

I’ll make sure he knows Roach.

You’d better.

And they were off.

He wasn’t proud of how quickly he tired but his bones still ached from shifting into the wolf. Less. It hurt less now. But the insistent throb of it wore at him as the hours passed. The grime that still matted his hair itched. Hunger rumbled his belly. Lamb sounded so good right now. He could eat one whole right now, wool and all.

We’re here. Roach interrupted his. Frankly too vivid daydream.

Here? He asked as Geralt turned him off the road into the pinewood forest.

The road home.

Home. They were almost home. He surged forward with it.

“Jaskier.” Geralt grumbled at him.

How much further? What’s it like? What are they like?

She whinnied a laugh at his excitement. Two or three days still colt. Doesn’t have enough grass. Scorpion’s fun.

Days?

The ache in his toes grew that much more noticeable.

They continued on.

Geralt pulled him to a halt and he let his head fall forward panting. They jumped off.

The saddle and bit were removed.

Geralt brushed him down. Picked his feet. He felt. A little cleaner.

“Staying a horse?” Geralt rubbed his neck soothingly as he finished.

No. He leaned into Geralt and let the form collapse under him.

Geralt caught him with a sigh and pet his long ears.

“Does he do that a lot?” Ciri asked. “Turn into a rabbit?”

Geralt shrugged and set about making camp one handed. “He shifts small when he wants to be carried.”

That was. Probably not inaccurate.

No fire again. Geralt had passed him into Ciri’s arms at some point. Her warm hands soothing the pain of the day and he did his best to keep her warm in turn while Geralt worked.

“What else can he turn into? Can he turn into a shrieker? A unicorn? A dragon?”

“I don’t know what a shrieker is. Unicorns are extinct. If he could turn into a dragon he would have by now just to show off. It’s just animals. Bears, wolves, rabbits. The like.”

“What about the griffin?”

Geralt paused. “I don’t think the griffin was. Natural.”

“Why?”

“Because he.” Geralt hesitated as he carried the blanket over, settling behind her. “Didn’t recognize me.”

She looked up at him questioningly as he reached down to pet between his ears.

“But he remembers you now. Right?”

They both nodded.

“So why’d he forget?”

Geralt shrugged.

“Don’t you care? It could happen again! Why didn’t you ask him when he was human!” She turned back to him. “And why haven’t you become human since then!”

He folded his ears back and shrunk down. He. He just-

“If it happens again I’ll deal with it. He isn’t much of a fight. When Jaskier wants to talk about it he will. Talking isn’t his problem, it’s getting him to stop.” He clucked at Geralt. “See?”

He clacked his teeth together a few times before pointedly flopping on Ciri. Look how comfortable I am. More comfortable than you are. Be jealous Geralt. I’m happier than you.

Geralt shook his head at him like he was being Over Dramatic! Which he Was! Because that was his Thing!

“He looked a mess in human form. Probably has some big plan about how he’ll get all fancied up and win you over with his charming smile and music.”

Yes that was the plan.

Ciri’s face scrunched up at that. “Why?”

The drama! He wanted her to like him! He wanted to make a better first impression than the one his dirty unkempt appearance would make. He wanted her to like him at least a fraction of how much he liked her!

“Because he’s an idiot.” He snapped at Geralt’s fingers. “An over dramatic idiot who thinks he has to put on a show to make you like him.”

She studied him. He wiggled his pink nose adorably. Which probably proved Geralt’s point.

“You’re making a production out of this. So it had better be grand reveal or I’ll be immensely disappointed in you.” She threatened him with a yawn.

He purred in agreement as Geralt pulled up the blanket.

“How much further?” She asked curling into Geralt.

“The evening after next we’ll arrive.”

Almost there. Just a little bit longer.

A little bit longer and they’d be home.

 “Fuck” Geralt shifted out from under them, shoving him awake. “Bandits.”

“Nilfgaard?” Ciri whispered grabbing him around the belly which wasn’t comfortable. Support the rear Ciri! This was going to hurt his back!

Geralt crouched over them. Listening. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Plan?” She squeezed him tighter and – nope nope nope! His leg kicked out and she dropped him with a pained start which he was very sorry for except hide- hide –hide run and hide run and hide.

“Jaskier!” He heard his cub whisper shout after him but-

Run hide! Run and hide! Run and hide!

Rabbits were not brave.

He squished himself under the dense cover of a bush and waited.

“What have we got?”

“Horse and a guy with his kid.”

“Easy enough. Let’s make this quick aye? Baz was making dinner.”

Easy. They thought it would be easy. Like Geralt couldn’t lay ruin to them. Wouldn’t lay ruin to them.

Ciri would witness more bloodshed and Baz would eat alone wondering where his unlucky companions had gone.

It was the wolves all over again.

Hungry said the bellies. Easy said the eyes.

It would be a slaughter.

Rabbits where not brave and he wasn’t sure Jaskiers were either. But they were idiots so he darted between their legs and shifted.

He sniffed them loudly and they froze. Eyes and then heads slowly turning towards him.

I have rules about violence Gentlemen. The words coming out a deep growl. Protecting my mate and cub does fit within that framework. But I’d really rather not. If its all the same to you.

They shuffled away from him, clutching their weapons.

He slammed his paw and roared at them. They turned tail and ran. Roach whinnied her terror.

‘Chase!’ The bear and the wolf and the griffin screamed. ‘Hide.’ Whispered the rabbit. It was all that kept him still.

He turned and walked back to their camp. The stragglers fleeing.

Geralt was soothing Roach with axii. Ciri yanked on his arm as she spotted him. Adrenaline and fear rolling off her.

Geralt turned and he watched the tension drain from his shoulders. “Jaskier.”

He smiled back at them. Watching as the axii faded from Roach’s eyes, replaced with recognition. She settled back to her search for grass.

“That’s Jaskier?” Ciri asked. Doubtful.

“Hm.” Geralt confirmed.

She studied him before stomping up to him, hand tucked under her armpits against the cold. “You kicked me!”

He rumbled apologetically but I couldn’t breath and you were breaking my back.

She glared at him. He nosed at her, slowly shoving her into his side. She allowed herself to be tucked into his fur with only a token of protest. The fear scent fading.

“Jaskier.” Geralt returned from their things holding – oh Geralt. “You can’t play like that?” Holding his lute.

He shook his head and dragged Geralt by the arm into his side as well. That would only be significant to us Geralt. Ciri wouldn’t know what the hell we were on about and I’d still look like a disheveled mud rat. Besides she’d get cold and your bedroll’s not big enough for all three of us. Really man.

Geralt plucked a few of the strings. They were painfully out of tune. Really. Had he done any maintenance at all? He glared at Geralt as he curled around them dragging the blanket up over them. Geralt glared back.

“You can’t play like that?” Ciri questioned from insider her burrow of Geralt, fur and blanket.

“It was. What I told him the first time he shifted in front of me.” Geralt explained adjusting them so he was comfortable.

“Oh.” He felt her petting his fur under the blanket. “How’d you met?”

“I’d been hired to retrieve a family heirloom from an infested crypt but it’d been stolen by a group of bandits. I tracked them down and retrieved the sword. But I found something else there too.”

“What?”

“A little lark with a broken wing, clutching a lute like its life depended on it.”

“This lute?”

“No. That’s later.” He told her. “I bandaged it up and kept it in a nest in my saddlebag until it was healed.”

She yawned and sunk heavy into his side.

“Then I woke up and the bird and lute were gone. A single crown on my bedroll where it normally slept.”

“And then, a few months later, I met a boy in Posada, the valley of flowers, at the edge of the world.”

He listened to Geralt recount the tale until sleep pulled her deep under.

“You should have told her that story. You’re better at telling stories.”

Yes. I am. But I like your version quite a lot too.

“You will be human again right?” Geralt mumbled into his fur. “I want you to be whatever you are but I miss knowing exactly what you’re yelling at me for. I miss your stupid raunchy pun infested songs and how you’d complain about your feet being tired but you still wouldn’t shift because you wanted to talk. About nothing. You just wanted to talk.”

Geralt’s hand clenched in his fur and he rubbed his snout against him reassuringly.

“Is it something I did? Is this about the mountain? The griffin? Did I-“

He shoved him slightly to cut him off. Shook his head.

Not everything’s about you Geralt.

“Right. But you will be human again. Someday?”

He nodded.

“Okay.” He listened to Geralt drift off. “Okay.”

He’d get a bath and a haircut and he’d tune his lute and practice some scales and he’d figure out the prefect thing to say and do so that she’d love him even just a tiny fraction of how much he loved her.

That wasn’t how it worked but he needed her to like him. To not be disappointed or disgusted by him.

He longed to be simply human. Then at least he wouldn’t have had a choice. She would have known exactly what he was from the start. No tricking her into thinking he was helpful like a horse or a hawk or as soft as a rabbit or as worthy of trust as the white wolf. He would have just been Jaskier. Simple and human.

Would she feel tricked when she saw him? Would adding a human face mean she wouldn’t trust him to keep her warm? Wouldn’t trust him to listen to her if he too could speak?

He was just Jaskier and he wasn’t sure that had ever been enough.

It would have to be. He couldn’t be anyone else.

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t put his best foot forward. Or at least his best paw until he made that jump.

[colorfullfalls]

Adore you

Summary: Sam and Emily finally get to their wedding day. The outside venue is beautiful and everything is in order except for the fact that Embry and you are fighting.

La Push, ah. What a wonderful- dare say mystical place to be. Waves roared violently against the beach, crashing roughly into the minuscule pieces of sand. Rain pelted among the ground, mixing with ocean, grass, sand, skin, and materials. Clothes stuck to russet toned flesh, sticking like a temporary tattoo for a child.

Panting hard, Embry Call's hands reached up his hands to pushed back Y/N's hair away from her neck, peeling the thick mop away to rest on the other side. Her eyes refused to meet his, wavering to look at the waves. She wished she was anywhere on Earth but in front of him. The way he looked at her hurt. His face held the upmost gaze of betrayal, beautiful brown orbs burning you from the inside out.

Behind her ear held the mark that would cause wretching heartache. A dainty black tattoo rested, rooting anger between the two. Tattoos were meant to be meant to have a deep meaning, and her's did. It was a sail boat. A symbol for the sea. Vast area of the unknown that humans did not get the privledge of ruining. Getting their hands and tainting the beauty it beheld. Embry did not mind her logic behind it, nor did he dislike her love for the sea. But the tattoo. He hated it. Disgust curled in his stomach, gripping his ribs like quicksand and pulling. He wanted to scream.

"You lied."

His words came off venomously. A snake's bite. Harsh syllables announciated with distrust. And pain. Mostly pain. You bit your lip to stop it from trembling. Crying would not solve the issue that was present because you betrayed him. Broke his heart a bit when you swore to guard it and protect the beautiful organ.

"I'm sorry, Embry. It was impulsive-"

He cut you off by shriveling back by your words. A cold laugh escaped his lips, "Damn right it was impulsive. Must've been if you couldn't have talked to me about it."

Fighting over a tattoo seemed dumb. But not in this situation. Embry was not mad that you got a tattoo. It was that the sailboat was your first tattoo. Years ago you promised Embry at the ripe age of 13 that you two would get your first one together. You a small sun and him a small moon. Both on your hips so that it would be a private thing. The ultimate proclamation of love. It was obvious as kids that you two were meant to be, even before you were his imprint. You were raised as best friends. Learned together. Aged together. Grew as individuals together. When the promise was made and 13 you had not yet been lovers, but it was a promise as two beings connected molecularly as best friends.

Even dating you two were still best friends. No one understood you like Embry, and no one ever would. His corny jokes made you laugh so hard that snorts would skip out of your nose. His hugs melted you to the bones. He made you feel complete. Best friends turned lovers, but best friends still for eternity.

"I didn't tell you to avoid this! I knew a fight would ensue." You cried out helplessly, feeling incredibly guilty but defensive at the same time.

"Why do it then? Or maybe consider taking to me about it, telling me at the least. You hid this for, well, it has to have been a while. Clearly healed." He deadpanned, pointing to it like it cut his foot off.

"It's been three weeks, Em."

His eyes lit up in realization, "You wouldn't have sex with me in the daylight. I figured it was just odd timing but no. Just blatantly lying to me to cover this up."

Tears welled in your eyes at how removed your gentle boyfriend was. You didn't recognize the person in front of you. Not that you didn't fully deserve it, but it still stung to see the love of your life so repulsed by your actions. Your female best friend convinced you to get one with her when her long time girlfriend broke her heart. She said she needed it to heal. And you. Against your better judgement, your ass was in a leather chair while a needle plunged relentlessly into your skin. You loved her and wanted to be there for her. Your mind was foggy when it happened due to a few drinks in you too.

Your best friend knew that you and Em talked about getting tattoos together, but she didn't know it was such a sacred vowel or else she never would have helped you break it. She got an eye that had a ring around it like a planet on her forearm. She was an artist and drew it up herself. It meant a lot to her. You loved her, but now you were paying for the actions.

"Y/bff/n made you get this?"

"What?! No! Of course not. I willingly did it, but a few drinks were in me. Which doesn't excuse it, but she got one too. Not like marching or anything..."

Embry stared.

You scrambled to get in as much as you could without interruption, "Wholeheartedly my heart is pounding with guilt that I broke our pact to get our first tattoo together. But to be fair you already have yours."

Embry shook his head in disbelief, "Are you fucking me right now? It wasn't my choice to get this. It's membership into the pack, Y/N. My culture."

You sighed, "I know that Embry, and I'm not trying to disrespect that. I love you and the pack. I love your culture. Undoubtedly it's your first tattoo though. We can get our second together."

You tried to grab his hand but he pulled it away, searing a burn mark right into your heart. Rain pelted down even harder. What had been a nice beach date went to hell when Embry went to move your hair back to kiss your neck when he saw it. Usually you could dodge his attempts to get close to there, but you were so blissed out by his intoxicating kisses that your mind wasn't all there. Ironically the weather went to shit as soon as fighting began.

"Don't touch me. I don't want to hurt you." What you failed to notice earlier was that his hands were shaking. Typically you could caress his bicep or face and he would melt into you. Today the same touches would have the opposite effect. No matter how angry he was, he was terrified to harm you. Any wound inflicted by him would drive him crazy. He loved you. Forever. Even when he was furious he was cautious to keep you safe. This only made you feel worse.

"I think I rather have you physically hurt me than you be angry with me." You mumbled, sniffling at how bad you just wanted to touch him.

He snarled. His veins bulged as he pointed at you, "Shut up! How dare you wish for something like that?"

"I don't wish for that. I'm just saying us fighting is unbearable!"

"You just said you rather me hurt you physically! You want scars like Emily? You want me to be in withering pain and agony as you bleed on the floor?!" He bellowed, shaking even worse.

You let out a sob at his words. This all escalated too quickly. His eyes softened momentarily at your cry but his anger got the best of him as he reminded himself why you were crying. He scrambled to throw his clothes off. His body contorted until his grey wolf stood tall in front of you.

It whimpered, but turned and booked it for the woods. Leaving you alone with his clothes, the rain, guilt, heartache, and the beach. You slid down to your knees, clutching his shirt to your chest.

Emily's wedding was tomorrow. She would look gorgeous in her wedding dress, smile beaming with every step down the aisle towards her wolf. Laughs, happy tears, and hugs would be shared between the wedding and reception. Of course dancing would be a necessity. You were unsure if you were going to be involved in their experience anymore. The pack loved you. You were one of them. But with Embry so upset and not knowing when you two would makeup, maybe it was for the best if you stayed home.

Half an hour later you were still on the beach crying. Jacob ran next to you, scooping you up in his strong arms. You snuggled into his warmth, wishing that it was Embry instead. After everything you still wanted him to be with you. Jacob took you home and helped you dry off before leading you into the shower to encourage you to take a hot shower. If you got sick Embry wouldn't be happy with his packmate.

He sat in the livingroom as you got dressed in the bathroom. You sheepishly walked out, embarrassed of the state he had found you in. His large frame took up the lounge chair. Two cups of hot tea sat on the coffee table.

"For me?" You asked, gesturing to the cup. He picked one up and handed it to you before taking his own. It felt good going down your throat. Warm and reassuring.

"Embry should not have phased like that. He feels like an ass for losing control like that." Jake began.

"He had enough control to strip first. I wasn't in danger." You assured.

Jake nodded, "I saw the whole fight go down. I was on patrol."

You laughed sadly. Poor Jacob had to relive Embry's anger and pain through the shared pack bond. He seemed to not be effected by it. You wondered how Embry was doing now. Texting him seemed like a bad idea. Especially with how things were left.

"It was an ugly fight. Worst one to date. His eyes held repulsion, Jake. Like he could barely look at me. This tattoo is giving me hell."

Jake sighed, motioning for you to come sit next to him. You squeezed into the chair with him, resting on his lap. Jake was like your brother that would help you through anything. His warm hand rubbed your back lightly to assure you that he was there. He would always be there.

"Life is weird and there's a lot that I don't know. What I do know is that if anyone is meant to be together, it's you two. Bonded and meant to be before he even shifted. Imprints are strong but you two are even more. This fight is a pebble that will chip away, I promise."

"Thanks but I don't know. He looked crushed. Phasing like that.. showing up to the wedding tomorrow might not be good. I'm not going."

Jake recoiled, "What? Of course you have to attend! Emily wants you there. Screw Embry. Tomorrow is about Sam and Emily and they certainly need you there. You're family."

"Don't say screw him." You mumbled. Feeling defensive was part of the bond, "I will think about it."

Jake ignored you scolding him because he understood the loyalty you felt for Embry. He felt the same exact way towards Reneesme. Rough times caused fighting like any other couple, but the bond required unconditional love and affection. Some portrayed it as toxic, but you didn't. Relationships typically didn't happen like this but you couldn't stay mad at Embry while growing up. It was an impossible defeat.

"You're a bridesmaid, not going would be terrible. Embry wants you there whether he admits it right now or not. I'll come pick you up, make sure you go."

You sighed, nodding. Lack of your presence would only cause a bigger rift between you two. On top of that, Emily would be crushed and that would make Sam frustrated towards you too. And that would lead to arguing between Sam and Embry because another wolf cannot be rude to an imprint. You helped plan this wedding and you deserved to be there. Jake was giving you big puppy dog eyes. Begging like Embry did. Begging that you could not deny.

"Fine."

Jake stood up, "I will see your pretty face tomorrow."

***

Hours later you laid in bed. Ceiling fan high blast cooling the room. Goosebumps danced across your skin, chilling you more than it should. Embry's warm embrace should've sheltered you from the breeze, making the ceiling fan actually necessary compared to his radiating heat. He wasn't with you tonight. You were alone. Restless. Where did he go if he didn't come home to you? Was he on Jared's couch? Sharing Quil's bed like he did when they were kids? Back home with his mom?

Phone screen said 2:41. Four hours after you laid down. Sleep was battling you, heart beating too fast with each memory of the argument. His hurt tone rang through your ears. Past text messages assured you that things would get better between you two. His corny jokes and memes made joy fill you.

This fight was dumb.

Your thumbs typed out all the words you wanted to say and you were about to send it you saw three dots meaning that he was typing too. He was reaching out too! The three dots dissapeared with a lack of text. Mood officially dampened. Who knew texting could be an emotional roller coaster.

Hours later your ass was seated in an uncomfortable chair while your hair was being done. Makeup had been applied an hour ago and you already wanted it off. Your upset hands liked to rest on your face and makeup didn't allow that. Emily and the other girls were chirpy. Gorgeous teeth on show from beaming. You did your best to match their mood. Key word, tried.

"Okay, you're hair is done. Go get in your dress!" Emily cooed, hands on either side of your shoulder. You offered a smile.

Putting on the dress took help from Leah. She was in a sour mood. Her first love getting married to her cousin and all. It was reasonable and truly expected. She may be a shape shifter, but human she still was. Her warm hands zipped up the back of the dress. Leah sensed your bad vibe like second nature.

"Go find Embry, makeout for a minute and get over with whatever the hell this is. It's ridiculous. You two are disgustingly in love. Fix it because it's dragging us all down." Her words were honest. Leah was always honest. Basically in her DNA.

You snorted, "We are not making out here. Im sorry that this is impacting you guys too, but this is not getting dealt with today. Emily and Sam are getting married."

"Won't be perfect if our favorite couple is on the outs."

"Favorite couple?" You questioned.

She nodded as if her sentence was as obvious as stating that the vast sky was blue. You rolled your eyes and moved the bottom of the dress so that it was in place. The light pink silk dress suited you. It suited all of the bridesmaids. Nice dress. Emily had great taste. Speaking of the devil, Emily walked around the corner. Her brown eyes widened at the sight of you and Leah. As if it wasnt her wedding day. As if she wasn't the most stunning looking woman for the day.

"Gorgeous! Oh my goodness, you both look amazing. Thank you for sharing this day with me," her eyes shifted to her Leah, "Especially you, Leah. I know I don't deserve your support considering what happened on your wedding day, but it means the world to me that you are here."

"Yep." Leah gave a tight smile. Emily's face fell at the lack of words from her cousin. You sighed and nudged Leah. She rolled her eyes but tried, "This isn't easy but I'm doing it. For you."

Emily closed the distance between them and pulled her cousin in for a hug. Tension resides and still would for a while, but the bond was slowly mending. Cousin like sisters trying to reconnect. It was hard when Leah was the one who lost everything and Emily gained what she had. Leah still did have one thing. Seth. And you. Seth was her brother and best friend. He always had her back. But you did too. Days after Embry introduced you to the pack you befriended her.

You felt intrusive of the moment so you walked out into the hall. A few doors down led to the outside. Some fresh air would be lovely. Sunshine fluttered through the glass door when you arrived. Glancing outside you halted.

Embry.

Black material covered his toned body, rose sitting perfectly on his left peck. His brown floppy hair was styled perfectly. Your fingers longed to run through the thick locks. You should've been the one to help him do his hair rather than peaking at him behind a door like a child that is supposed to be in time out. He was standing with Jake and Quil. His two friends were laughing as Embry leaned against the wall. Not laughing. Although his face didn't look miserable like yours did.

Jake's eye caught yours and you froze, terrified of what would happen next. Talking to Embry in front of them would most likely cause more issues. You knew Jake would side with you and Quil would side with Embry. Quil was forever Embry's best friend. Jake could see past that.

"There's Y/N." Jake spoke. Embry leaned off the wall and looked around for you. And there you were. Looking gorgeous as ever on the other side of the door. His face faltered into vulnerability as he realized how sad you looked. He did that. He made you sad. Before he could do anything you walked away. He grunted in annoyance, hitting the brick wall behind him.

"Fuck!"

Line up for walking down the isle was what you dreaded because obviously Embry was your match. Room silent as you grudgingly came to stand beside him. His eyes scanned over your beautiful face in sorrow. You busied yourself by picking at your nails. A tick that you did when you avoided confrontation.

Walking down the isle, an arm intertwined in his was mandatory. You did it. Sparks flew up your arm at touching him after so long. His warm skin blazed against yours pleasantly. During the wedding Embry kept stealing glances at you. You noticed and held his gaze when you could.

Sam and Emily's vowels were beautiful. Raw and true words about their unconditional love. Hell Emily has scars on her face from his anger and they got past that. Certainly you could get over Embry shifting yesterday. He did look incredibly handsome across from you.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife."

The crowd cheered as Sam and Emily kissed. He dipped her back like a princess and the cheers only got louder. Kim nudged your shoulder and you two shared a smile when they road off to the reception hall in their decorated car.

You contemplated how you would get to the reception yourself. You arrived with Jake but your body was buzzing with anticipation to touch your boyfriend. Fighting seemed pointless. Today was about love. And you loved eachother. This tattoo was permanent but so were you guys.

Embry was leaning against his truck when your knuckles tapped on the door. He jumped at the surprise but he calmed down when he saw it was you. Looking beautiful as ever. Your hair blew in the wind, giving him a nervous smile.

"You look gorgeous, baby." He lowly said, gesturing to you.

You blushed, "Thanks. Not so shabby yourself, mister."

"I love you." He blurted, "I love you so much. I'm sorry for yesterday. I'm sorry for yelling at you. I'm especially fucking sorry for phasing."

Your eyes watered as you walked straight into his blazing embrace. He scrambled to pull you as close as possible. Your hands clutched the fabric of his tux as his hands gently rubbed up and down your back. Your mind was flooding with euphoria at how close he was to you. Intoxicating. You hadn't been this far away from Embry for so long since you were fifteen.

"I'm sorry for my tattoo. It was shitty of me not to talk to you about it."

"I was just hurt that you got one without me. I wanted your first tattoo to be shared with me. It was selfish. You may be my imprint, but it's still your body." He confessed.

You pulled away so that you could look up at him, "Yes. My body is mine. But my soul is undoubtedly mixed with yours, belongs to you. Getting a tattoo doesn't make that any less."

An infectious smile broke out on his face. His hands cupped your face as he brought you closer, noses rubbing affectionately. His hand moved to your chain to raise it up, lips slotting quickly against yours. His tongue slipped into your mouth, eliciting a moan. You pulled back when you heard someone behind you two.

Jake stood there with a shit eating grin, "Was gonna ask if you needed a ride but you two clearly made up."

"Shut up dude." Embry groaned, pressing a few kisses to your cheek, "I missed her."

"Yeah, as if the whole pack didn't know that. See you guys at the reception." Jake retorted.

"See ya Jake!" You called out.

"Think we can manage a quickie before the reception?" Embry asked, hands dangerously roaming your body as he lifted you into the truck. You laughed as you were put on your back in the backseat. Your head lifted to see that no other cars were in the parking lot. You hummed as he shut the door and climbed on top of you. His hands pushed the dress off from your shoulders, head dipping down to appreciate what was his.

"This is a church parking lot." You teased as his tongue ran along your collar bone, hot saliva trailing behind. You grabbed his head and pulled it back up so that he could look at you.

"Yeah and? Everything about you is holy."

You snorted, pulling him down for another kiss. His warm hands slipped under your dress and grabbed your thighs, soft flesh melting against his. He pulled your hips up closer to him, grinding into you. You moaned at how his body moved against yours, two bodys and basically one soul. His lips moved to press hot kisses to your neck until they sucked on your tattoo.

"I think I actually like this spotch of ink." He murmured, running his tongue over it as he bunched up your dress to rest around your torso.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. It's hot."

Twenty minutes later you two walked into the reception hall hand in hand. Embry was especially lovey after the ten minutes spent in his truck. You both made sure that no evidence of your quickie was present. Emily and Sam were sharing their first dance in the middle of the dance floor. You led him to your table where Jake, Quil, Jared, Kim, Paul, and Rachel sat. Seth and Leah sat with Sue and Charlie a table over.

"Hot make up sex?" Paul teased as Embry pulled your chair out for you.

You shook your head at his blunt question. It wasn't like your sex life was a secret. Embry could not keep those thoughts to himself when he was shifted. Actually none of the boys could. It was how it went. Over time you got used to it. It wasn't Embry's fault.

"The best." Embry said intertwining your hands, "But not that that's any of your concern."

Paul raised his hands in surrender. The hothead knew better than to overstep and disrespect a fellow wolf and imprint. That would lead to a fight and Sam would murder them.

"Don't listen to Paul. We're glad that you two fixed things." Kim sweetly said. Her eyes were always so wide and kind.

"Yeah, bunch'a miserable kids in love. Embry was mopey all morning." Jared added.

Embry rolled his eyes, thumb rubbing affectionately across the top of your soft hand, "Beg to differ.."

"Oh wanna bet, Call?! You leaned against walls and didn't talk. Like uh," Paul snapped his fingers as he tried to think of the word, "like a mute."

"Love you man, but he's right." Quil spoke. Embry snapped his head to glare at his best friend. In return Quil sheepishly shrugged and sipped his water.

Embry then shifted towards you again, "Do you think any other wolf packs are around that I can join?"

You laughed at his deadpanned tone and lightly slapped his bicep, "You love them and you know it, bub."

"Yeah, bub." Rachel teased, a beautiful smile gracing her lips. Paul smirked with a profound proud feeling bubbling in his chest as he listened to his imprint.

Sam and Emily's dance ended and the dance floor was opened up. Embry took this chance to escape the ragging from his friends to share a slow dance with you instead. His hands rested on the curve of your back while yours intertwined around his neck. His face bend down to be close to yours.

"So I was thinking about our tattoos..." Embry started.

You cocked a curious eyebrow, "Oh? And what conclusion did you arrive at?"

"Let's get them tomorrow. Quil knows a guy who does some wicked cool ones and I just know he will make them exactly how we want. And why wait? Why did we not do it a year a or two ago?" He rambled, twirling you around and bringing you back into his arms.

"No clue why we waited. But.. I am so down for tomorrow. Sooner the better."

He hummed happily, "Great. Tomorrow it is."

Harry Style's Adore You came on and you grinned, "You may be an ass at times Embry Call, but I adore you."

"Thank you baby, but hey." You looked into his loving brown eyes and waited for him to go on, "I'd walk through fire for you."

Song lyrics or not, Embry Call would legit do anything for you, "Just let me adore you." You responded.

He leant down to peck your lips, "That's the only thing I'd ever do."

[supernaturalfreewill]

Words: 5,724 Sam x Reader Warnings: none! Summary: What exactly are Y/N and Dean now going to do with what they know... Decisions must be made. A/N: Don't yell at me for another cliffhanger. :D This is part of a series! Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, and Part 5 first!

Your name: submit What is this?

“Oh, God…” Sam’s voice, murmured but still clear, drifted into the kitchen from the hallway and a second later he appeared in the doorway. “Oh—” he said, apparently not expecting you to be sitting at the kitchen island as you were, with a cup of tea.

You studied him for a moment. “Your hand wake you up?”

“Uhh…” he glanced down at his cast, which he had somewhat cradled in his other hand. “Yeah, a bit.”

Your eyebrows contracted in the middle, forming little worry lines as you looked at him. “Did you take a dose of your prescription meds?”

“I have prescrip—oh. Right. I do remember that now,” he said, scratching absently at his head. “Any idea where I left them?” he said with a small laugh and a somewhat sheepish smile.

“I gave them to you when we got back, so my best guess is somewhere in your room,” you said.

“Mmm. Probably.” Sam raised his arms and stretched his tall frame. You couldn’t help the uptick of one corner of your mouth. It was late. He had slept for about 6 hours since you both got home. He needed that.

“Yeah, actually. I guess I was pretty exhausted.”

“You were,” you agreed. “Physical trauma on top of not sleeping will catch up with you.”

Sam sat down on the stool across from you and you could feel him studying your face. You gulped at the strained feeling in your throat, but it did nothing to diminish it.

“Have you, um… heard from my sister by chance?” you asked hesitantly. You grabbed your cell phone and pushed the side button to illuminate the screen. No new messages. Still. She had told you that she would “be back in 30 minutes” about 5 hours ago. If you weren’t already so pissed off you’d be sick with worry by now. But seeing as you knew what she actually had been doing all day, you had a feeling she was perfectly fine and had simply decided to stay out longer. Or… stay in longer. And who cares about notifying the people probably waiting on her at home, right? It was like your brain couldn’t decide if it should be signaling to make you nauseous or flush with anger. You were continuously oscillating between the two.

“Oh.” Sam felt that same familiar sinking feeling he always got in his chest when reality encroached on him suddenly as he was just enjoying being with you. “No, I don’t think so. I should probably double check my phone though. And look for those meds. My hand is… actually pretty sore.” You knew if Sam was saying it was sore, it was probably pretty fucking painful.

“You should. Definitely time for the pain meds,” you said.

He got up and started to head toward the doorway, but stopped and glanced back at you. “You’ll still be here when I get back? You’re not about to run off to bed, are you?”

Fuck me. You felt sick to your stomach suddenly. He was so sweet. How in the hell could your sister do this to him of all people? “Nope. Not running off anywhere,” you said.

“Good. Okay…”

As soon as Sam left, you sent another text to your sister. ”Where are you??? You said you would be back HOURS ago, and you still haven’t come home to check on your boyfriend and his fucked up hand???” You were past caring about how she would feel about your tone. You and Dean had come up with some semblance of a plan to deal with what you had discovered but you had no idea how it was going to shake out in execution.

You only knew two things: first, that you couldn’t participate in such an awful lie of omission to Sam and second, that she needed to be told exactly how shitty she was being. You were going to confront her, in a way, but what would happen after that you didn’t know…

Sam was back a moment later with his little prescription bottle, filling a glass with water from the tap. “Nothing from your sister. It’s kind of late... She must be out having fun still, huh?” he said. His tone was carefree, but you noticed a little tension around his eyes when he said it. Your stomach twisted again. God, this was a mess…

Sam took his pills and fixed his eyes on you for a long moment, leaning back against the counter in front of the sink. You were staring into your teacup and he got the sense that there was something weighing on you. “I wanted to thank you,” Sam said. Your eyes flitted back up to his now. “For today.”

You swallowed hard again at the strained feeling in your throat. “Oh, don’t thank me for that. It was nothing,” you said, managing a small smile. “Besides, I should be the one thanking you still. I’m the whole reason your hand is busted in the first place…”

“No. You’re not. That asshole is.” He sipped from his glass, holding it in his left hand since his cast prevented him from using his dominant one. “I, uhh… I hope I wasn’t too much trouble,” he said.

You didn’t have to force a smile this time. “You weren’t. Do you not remember it?” you asked him, wondering if he knew how he had held your hand or if he remembered telling you that you were beautiful… All those little moments were crystal clear in your mind. You couldn’t stop thinking about them.

He ran a hand through his hair, which immediately fell back into place. “It’s a little foggy but… I think it’s all there,” he said with an awkward laugh. He thought he felt his cheeks growing a little red as he remembered some of the things he had done (Had he really held your hand for almost two hours?) and some of the things he had said (He had a vague recollection of telling you just how beautiful he thought you were… and teetering on the edge of almost telling you something more.)

You nodded. “The nurse commented that you were an excellent patient.”

Sam laughed. “Well, I think most people are probably fairly agreeable with the intravenous morphine,” he said. He sat down again on the stool across from you, spinning his water glass in his hand a little anxiously, his cast resting heavily on the granite countertop. “You know, it’s funny… that nurse—she thought we were a couple,” he said, immediately clearing his throat a bit nervously.

You stared down into your tea. “Yeah,” you laughed. “She may have said something to me about it.”

“She, uhh… she told me if I was smart that I would hold onto you for good,” Sam said. He wasn’t smiling this time. His expression was perfectly sincere, and his eyes were flitting between yours.

You heart started to race in your chest. “Oh… That’s—” A nice thought? Better than nice… “That’s a sweet compliment,” you finally managed.

“Yeah,” Sam said, still holding your eyes. “I just thought you should know that.”

Something in his tone and the way he was looking at you, you felt like he was telling you some truth he couldn’t say. In an instant the sick feeling and the ache in your chest were replaced with a fluttering. There was no worthy response for that which you could come up with. And then a moment later the fluttering diminished and the sick feeling returned. You couldn’t help but pass a hand over your face. Fuck.

“Are you alright?” Sam was instantly worried.

“Yeah. Yeah,” you said. “I think I’m just tired.”

Sam wasn’t buying it. “…you sure?”

“Uh huh,” you said. You swallowed the last couple sips of your tea and got up. You were having that feeling again… like you were lying to him, and you couldn’t stand it. It was impossible for you to imagine anyone doing what your sister was doing to him. “I—I think I’m just going to get ready for bed.”

Sam’s eyes followed your progress toward the door. “You’re sure you’re okay? You look a little pale all of a sudden.” There was that familiar worry line by his eyebrow, and the way his mouth was cocked to one side created that deep dimple in his cheek you found almost irresistible.

“I’m alright. I hope you can get some more rest tonight. You need it so that hand will heal up quickly,” you said, giving him the best smile you could muster. You almost stepped into the hallway right there, but Sam watched in curiosity as you froze at the threshold and turned back around to look at him. Another beat and you crossed the kitchen and grabbed him into a tight hug, surprising him and yourself. Sam’s un-casted hand pressed flat on your back.

He loved the feeling of the edge of your shoulder blades and how small your frame felt under his hand. “Goodnight,” he muttered.

You felt your cheeks warm at the feeling of his strong arm around you, his strong chest and stomach under his shirt. “Goodnight, Sam.” You practically ran from the kitchen after that, worried that the whole ugly truth really was about to burst out of you.

Despite your words and explanations to Sam, you weren’t planning on going to sleep. You had unfinished business with your sister, and you would wait for her to come home until the sun came up if you had to. As the time ticked by, you fumed more and more. The idea that she was maybe off fucking some guy, obviously not giving a shit about her boyfriend who had a bone in his hand shoved back into place that very day was unfathomable to you. Had she even texted him? Had she said anything to him at all? A phone call? Any explanation of her whereabouts? Finally, at almost midnight your heard footsteps coming up the hallway and passing your room, heading toward the kitchen and front of the bunker.

You grabbed the paper cup from the café, which was still sitting on your desk, though now emptied of its long-cold contents, and followed the sound of her footsteps into the kitchen.

Your sister looked over her shoulder as you came in. ”Hey.” She was filling up a glass with ice water and gave you a sheepish smile. You did not return it.

“Where have you been? Did you get my messages? You said you’d be back like 8 hours ago.” Your tone was icy and you watched something grow in her eyes. You read it as guilt.

“I know… I know. I’m sorry! Sarah talked me into going out and my phone battery died! I’m sorry! I know you were probably worried sick. And how is Sam? I hope he isn’t waiting up, too.”

“Sarah talked you into going out,” you repeated.

She took a deep drink from her glass. “Yeah.”

“Really?” you asked again, your tone growing skeptical.

She sensed something, some danger in your voice maybe, because her expression completely changed. “…what’s wrong?”

You placed the paper cup from The Ivy Café on the kitchen island and you watched as her eyes flickered down to it, landing on the distinctive logo, and then back up to your face. Despite its light and airy material, it felt like you had just set a lead weight out on the counter. You thought you saw her swallow hard.

“I don’t—What?” There was the slightest waver in her voice now.

“You tell me.”

She avoided your eyes and took another deep drink from her water glass. She shrugged and shook her head a little. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Bullshit,” you interrupted.

She met your eyes now and the two of your stared at each other for a long moment, the tension growing heavy and thick in the air, like humidity in the tropics. Your heart was pounding. It was like she was waiting for you to explicitly accuse her, to banish any thought she had left of hope that this was some weird coincidence that she was misreading, mistaken. And you were just waiting for her to speak.

“Y/N, I—”

“Don’t you dare lie to me. Don’t you dare. You’ve done enough lying just today to last a lifetime.”

She didn’t say anything. She set her water glass down with a sharp clack and leaned back against the counter. Her posture was guarded, her arms crossed over her chest.

“How could you?” you accused, and it came out in a raspy whisper from the tightness in your throat that you couldn’t seem to loosen. You felt angry tears welling in your eyes. “How could you do this?”

She cleared her throat. “Honestly, what are you—” her voice was a little sharp now, but you couldn’t have cared less.

“Why didn’t you just break it off? Hmm? How long exactly have you been cheating on him? This is just—I feel like I don’t even know you. Where is my sister?”

A muscle in her jaw tensed as she clenched her teeth. “I’m right here.”

You shook your head, anger giving way to another wave of emotions; betrayal, sadness, disbelief. “No. You’re not.”

You watched her jaw tense again, and her chin lifted stubbornly. “This is between me and Sam. It isn’t any of your business. You don’t even know what’s going on with us.” She was trying to sound forceful but you could hear hesitancy in her voice. It was forced. It was weak. It fell flat.

“I don’t need to know any more than what I already know. What you’re doing… it’s—I don’t even know what to call it. And if you don’t resolve this, one way or another, Dean and I will. I’m giving you a chance right now to do the right thing and in some small, miniscule way make up for what you’ve done.” And with that you walked out, leaving her staring at that empty paper cup, the simple symbol. You knew. Dean knew.

_ _ _ _ _ _

It had been three days since you had confronted your sister in the kitchen after her late night out, and still you were held in strenuous anticipation of the coming disaster. There was no sign that she had told Sam anything, though she certainly seemed to be avoiding everyone. Your disgust and anger was mounting. You sat with Dean in his room, breaking down and cleaning guns, organizing hunting gear, just for something to do.

You sighed heavily all of a sudden and Dean looked up to watch you set down the coil of rope you had just untangled and straightened before you fell back on his bed where you were sitting, your knees at the edge and feet dangling off. You stared up at the ceiling and listened to the metallic click of Dean shutting the slide on the pistol in his hands.

“What do we do?” you spoke into the still air. You laid there flat on your back for a long moment, your hands resting on your stomach, just staring up at the shadows on the ceiling.

Dean was sitting at his desk, but you heard the scrape of the wooden legs as he got up. In a moment he was standing over you, looking down at you with a shadow darkening his face. “We give her one more night, tonight, to do the right thing. If she doesn’t… I’ll take care of it.”

You leaned up on one elbow. “What does that mean?” you asked, apprehensive.

“I’m not gonna murder her,” Dean said with wry smile.

You sighed and flopped back down. “I’ve already thought about it,” you muttered.

Just then, Sam appeared in the doorway and was a little surprised to see you laying back on Dean’s bed. “Hey—sorry. I, umm… sorry. Am I interrupting… something?” He cleared his throat awkwardly.

You and Dean just peered at him with curiosity, clearly not getting what was going on in Sam’s brain… which was surprise and jealousy to see you laying on his brother’s bed, apparently at ease… even though he knew how stupid that was. What was the point of his envy? Wasn’t he the one with a significant other? Dean shrugged, the corners of his mouth pulled down. “Not at all. What’s up?”

“I was actually looking for Y/N,” Sam said. “Umm… could we talk for a sec?”

“Sure, of course,” you said, hopping up. You gave Dean an annoyed look in response to the way he raised his eyebrows at you as he caught your eyes. You followed Sam out into the hall and back toward his and your bedrooms, keeping pace with his long strides by taking at least two steps for each one of his. You were suddenly nervous and crammed your hands into your pockets.

Sam stopped just outside his bedroom and leaned on the doorframe, fidgeting a bit, also clearly a bit nervous.

Your brow drew down low over your eyes. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?” you asked.

“I just—I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Sam said.

You shook your head, confused. “Sorry?”

“Uhh… yeah.” He bounced one knee nervously. “I know I mentioned I have some vague, fuzzy recollection of the doctor’s office the other day and—” he chanced a glance at your expression but found it unreadable beyond some confusion and perhaps a touch of concern. “—well, I just feel like things have been a little… weird since then, like… I don’t know… Maybe you were avoiding me or something?” He cleared his throat awkwardly and looked down at his feet. “I just—I’m sorry if I said or did anything that was out of line or… made you uncomfortable or—” He let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t know. I just—I’m sorry.”

You fell a swell of something in your chest as you looked at him, an achy feeling rising up, ready to burst like a bubble. He was apologizing to you. You knew if you spoke your voice would be weak or would crack and break, matching how brittle you felt at that moment. The only thing you could do was meet his eyes for a moment and then throw your arms around his neck, stretched up on your tiptoes. Like always, he didn’t hesitate to wrap you up, and you didn’t know that an immense wave of relief was washing over him at that moment. He had sensed that something had changed since that day, and he had worried obsessively that he had done something wrong… something that had pushed you away… but he knew that hug was you telling him everything was fine.

After breaking apart, and stumbling back, feeling a little off-balance, with a steadying breath, you managed to reassure him. “Sam,” you said gently, “you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. Nothing. Don’t think on that for a second more. Okay?”

Sam felt like his heart was soaring and he nodded, his hazel eyes still connected with yours.

“I’m sorry if it seems like I’ve been a little more distant the last couple days,” you said. You wanted to give more of an explanation than that but you couldn’t, not without giving away too much or lying to him.

He shifted his weight a little anxiously, subconsciously cradling his casted arm in the other. “Are you okay?”

“I’m completely fine. Don’t worry about me. Okay?”

He nodded, feeling more encouraged. “Okay,” he said, giving you a small smile.

You pulled out your phone and checked the time. It was nearing dusk. Your sister still wasn’t home. Again. You glanced up at Sam. “Do you want to go for a walk? I could use some fresh air,” you said.

His face brightened. “Actually, that sounds just like what I need.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you outside?” Sam nodded, and you went away to grab your shoes, poking your head in Dean’s bedroom. He was laying on his bed, headphones on. He lifted when when he noticed you peeking in.

“What’s up?” he asked. The gravel in his voice was thick. You realized you had been so focused on how Sam was and how you were feeling that you hadn’t stopped to consider exactly what turmoil Dean was going through.

“Hey. Sam and I were gonna go for a walk. You wanna come with? Get some fresh air?”

He gave you a half-smile. “Accompany you and Sammy on a romantic, sunset walk? I think I’ll pass,” he laughed gruffly.

You gave him a scolding look. “Just a regular walk, Dean…”

“Really, I’m good. But thanks,” he said, giving you a warm smile.

You were about to leave but hesitated. “How are you doing with all this? I really should have asked you before… I think I’ve just been so focused on Sam and being angry.”

He shrugged. “Obviously, I’m pretty pissed off, too. And I want to see it dealt with. But I’m also not in love with one of them, so I’d wager better and less conflicted than you are,” he said pointedly.

You felt the apples of your cheeks grow warmer and averted your eyes to the floor. “I didn’t say that I’m—” Dean’s knowing look stopped you from arguing over his wording. “Well, if you ever need to talk—” Dean gave you another warm smile. “I know where you live.”

You smiled back at him. “See you in a bit.”

Sam was waiting outside in front of the bunker, leaning on the metal railing. He turned and gave you a smile when he heard the metal door open and shut behind him. “Hey,” you said. He was giving you a smile that was threatening to make you melt. You anxiously tucked a strand of hair back behind your ear.

“Ready?” he asked, straightening up. You nodded and fell into stride next to him, enjoying the sound of the gravel beneath your feet.

“How is your hand feeling?” you asked.

He looked down at his cast. “It twinges every now and then but nothing unmanageable. Almost done with those good painkillers though,” he laughed. “Too bad, too. Because I think they’ve been helping me sleep.”

“Well, I hope it is still manageable with just some Advil or something,” you said.

“Me too. It’s weird being out of commission. It’s been a while since any of us was out of hunting shape. Thank God,” he added. “But you don’t realize how much you need your dominant hand until you can’t use it,” he said.

“Oh, I know,” you agreed. “Remember when I broke my collarbone? I had to sleep sitting up. That sucked.” You shook your head, remembering all the inconveniences. Sam laughed and when you glanced up his eyes were already on your face. “What?”

He shook his head. “Just remembering you when that happened. The rant you went on about how hard it is to wash your hair one-handed,” he said. “I’ve since discovered the same thing. I got shampoo in my eye this morning.”

You laughed, feeling unburdened and carefree for the first time in days. “Ouch. That sounds awful.”

“It was. And not only did the cast create the situation, but it also made it way harder to remedy! I thought I was going to go blind,” he joked. You smiled up at him.

“Maybe next time you should just let me wash your hair for you in the kitchen sink,” you suggested, laughing lightly.

Sam thought about it for a moment, his heart fluttering in his chest a little as he remembered the feeling of you gently sliding your fingers into his hair at the doctor’s office. It gave him goosebumps all over again. He almost wondered if he had dreamed that. “My own personal spa? I’m in. Do I have to pay extra for a scalp massage or is that included?” You laughed again. “For my hero? It’s the least I could do,” you said.

Now it was Sam’s turn to laugh. “Ah, come on. I’m no hero.” He looked up toward some birds wheeling in the sky. As he watched them drop into a particularly old, and spectacularly craggy oak tree he felt your hand on his arm suddenly and his eyes snapped down to see yours, vibrant even in the diminishing light of the setting sun, staring up at him. He stopped abruptly, involuntarily.

“You and Dean are both so stupid about that,” you said seriously. “You are completely, totally, and inarguably a hero. And not just for that night at the bar. And not for some huge, crucial action like—stopping the apocalypse. It’s just—who you are, the choices you make, big and small. Every day.”

Sam was almost overwhelmed at your words and if he had been a braver man, and… less ”taken”, he would have kissed you right then. Not for saying he was a hero, but for the forcefulness which showed that you truly believed it with every fiber of your being. You saw worth in him when he couldn’t see it in himself, consistently and unabashedly. Your hand slipped from his arm and you tore your eyes away, perhaps feeling something akin to what he was—that if you kept looking up at him and he kept looking down at you like that, there wouldn’t be any reason big enough to stop you from colliding.

You walked together in companionable silence for a while. Sam was thinking that your sister had been gone a lot more than usual lately, and he even considered asking you about it, but he was unwilling to burst that bubble of happiness you were sharing together right now, so he put it out of his mind. The colors faded from the warm oranges and reds of the setting sun to the cool purples and inky blues of a sun that had set, and finally the two of you turned back toward the bunker, again talking and laughing comfortably the whole way.

Dean was in the library on his laptop when you and Sam returned, the echoing of the heavy metal door slamming announcing that you were home. You came and scruffed a hand in his hair just to annoy him and laughed as he swatted at you.

“Whatcha doin’?” you asked, falling comfortably onto the long couch nearby, looking over your shoulder at Dean and Sam, who had just sat down at the table too and was pulling off his boots with one hand.

“Just trolling for cases,” he said. “I figured even down Sam we could still go kick some ass. I mean, he’s not that crucial anyway,” he said, casting a snarky look at his little brother.

“Fuck you,” Sam said through a laugh.

“Need some help there, Cinderella?” Dean asked him. Sam was struggling to pull off his left boot.

“Cinderella?” Sam repeated.

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. Shoe-related. I’ll admit, not my best work.” You and Sam both laughed. Sam climbed to his feet again. “Your sister is home,” Dean said, making sure it was loud enough for both you and Sam, who was heading toward the bedrooms, to hear.

You nodded. “Oh. Good. Where is she?”

“I think she headed to her and Sam’s room,” he said pointedly. Maybe this was it.

“I’ll be back,” Sam said over his shoulder to you and Dean. His good mood had immediately vanished. He was wondering how much longer he could keep this up. Something was going to have to give. He was fully aware that with how much his girlfriend had been gone lately that he should have been missing her, and probably also should have been wondering what she was up to. But instead he only felt relieved that he didn’t have to put on some act he felt was deceitful. The bottom line was he was dating someone while he was in love with an entirely different person…

The door to their bedroom was closed and when Sam cracked it open he saw it was dark inside. Your sister was seemingly already in bed, asleep, and even that was a relief to Sam… he crept in and set down his shoes before heading back out toward the library, ready for a stiff drink.

“Hey, pour me one of those,” Dean said as Sam was at the bar cart.

“Me too!” you yelled from the couch.

“Guys… you know I literally only have one hand. I can’t carry and deliver three drinks,” Sam laughed. You vaulted the back of the couch and were beside him in an instant.

“Gimme that,” you said, reaching for the whiskey bottle in his hand.

“I can still pour it!” Sam argued, holding the bottle in his left hand over his glass. You gave him a skeptical look.

“Fine. Don’t spill. If you spill a drop, you owe Dean $50. House rules. Right, Dean?”

“Damn straight,” he yelled from in front of his computer, not even looking over his shoulder.

Sam gave you a skeptical look and opened the bottle awkwardly with his casted hand, eliciting a giggle from you.

“What is so funny??” he demanded. You immediately pressed your lips together in a thin line to conceal your smile.

“Nothing.”

He raised his eyebrows at you. You couldn’t hold the smile in any longer. “It’s just… I just realized that because of the way they casted your pinky and ring finger on that hand too, it looks like you are always trying to be a fancy British person drinking tea,” you said. You grinned at him. “Pinky up!”

Dean turned around and grinned at his brother. “She is totally right. You’ve always been a fancy boy,” he drawled, turning back to his computer.

Sam rolled his eyes, but there was a faint smile on his lips. “First, of all, I’ll say it again, fuck you, Dean. And second,” he looked at you, “You’re a goofball,” he said.

“Well, duh,” you said, grabbing the bottle from him and pouring some whiskey into a tumbler glass for yourself and one for Dean. You set Dean’s down beside him at the table and pulled out a chair across from him. Sam settled in on the couch by the fire, stretching his long legs out and propping his feet up on the coffee table. “Find anything good?” you asked Dean.

“Maybe a coven in Oklahoma, but I’m not really sure yet.”

You sipped at your drink and nodded. “Mmm. We could handle it.”

Sam turned and looked at you from over the back of the couch. “You can’t just automatically say ‘we could handle it,’” he said. “You don’t even know anything about it!”

“Sam, I don’t know if you have forgotten, but… I’m frickin’ awesome,” Dean said. “And last time I checked, so is Y/N. So. I think it IS safe to say we could handle it.”

Sam sighed but you could tell he was a little amused. “You still need to thoroughly check it out. You’re still down an entire hunter!”

“Well… maybe more like half a hunter,” Dean teased him, throwing back the rest of his whiskey in one go. He closed his laptop and got to his feet. “If you two will excuse me, I have a special screening of Beverly Hills Cop to attend happening,” he checked the time on his phone, “right now.” He smirked at the two of you. “Don’t stay up too late.”

You laughed and gave him a nod. “Goodnight, Dean.” His footsteps faded down the hall. You left the table behind and settled in the armchair across from Sam, swirling the whiskey in your glass absentmindedly.

Sam had already finished his drink and was watching the crystal fracture the light from the fire into colorful prisms. “I just realized that I’m probably not supposed to drink alcohol with that prescription,” he said suddenly.

You glanced up at him. “Oh. Right. Probably not. Hard on your liver. Don’t have anymore.”

He nodded. “Well. It’ll just make me a bit drowsier if anything.”

“What was my sister up to?” you asked him suddenly, unable to stop yourself.

“She was asleep already when I went in,” Sam said. His eyes studied your face as you stared into the flickering flames in the grate but your expression was impassive.

“Mmm,” you said. “Early bedtime.”

“Yeah…” Sam agreed. There seemed to be a lot of unspoken things suddenly hanging in the air. Not too long after, you excused yourself to get ready for bed and when you returned to say goodnight to Sam he was already asleep on the couch. You grabbed the nearby blanket and covered him up before making your way to Dean’s room. He paused his movie when he saw you in the doorway.

“Sam’s asleep in the library,” you said. “And my sister is asleep already too.”

You thought you saw a muscle in Dean’s jaw tense as he clenched his teeth. He nodded. “Okay.”

You anxiously chewed your bottom lip.

“Hey,” he said, drawing your eyes back to him. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

The sick feeling in your stomach returned. Tomorrow.

[magicianapprenticelyra]

Counting the Days

[Finding Space and Time] | [Counting the Days]

Timeline: Muriel's Route; The Moon/The Sun

[Featuring @vesuvianoak‘s fan apprentice Ąžuolas]

Asra staggering back to the camp was not what Bảo and his family had wanted to see.

“Asra!” Bảo drops everything, rushing on toward the young one.

His face becomes etched with worry: the original party of three is down to one . . . plus Doctor Devorak. The latter follows closely behind the young magician, trying to get Asra to go steady on his feet.

“Asra?” Bảo repeats, placing his hands over Asra’s shoulders. “Asra, where—?”

“Ah, Mr. Nguyen,” the doctor murmurs, placing a firm hand on Bảo’s shoulder, “I would recommend that you, uh, give him some space at the mo—”

“Where are they?!” Bảo pleads. He shakes Asra a bit, trying to get the magician to talk to him, to look at him—

Unfortunately, the young magician’s purple-pink eyes are wide and blank: the poster child of shell shock.

“Bảo—” James’s voice cuts into his inquisition from a distance. He’s quickly moving to get to them, but Walt gets to the trio first.

“Hon, c’mon,” Walt gently pries his hands off of Asra. She nods at Julian as he leads Asra away, a protective arm around the latter’s shoulders.

By then, James has caught up with his partners, quickly ushering them away. Already, there was talk, talk of concern, worry, and dread of what this meant to the resistance against Lucio.

As Walt, James, and Bảo make their way back to their tent, the shortest of them keeps looking up at the sky, a sky that looks too bright, too nice of a blue . . .

How fucking cruel.

Whispered over and over, Bảo mourns, “Ở đâu? Ở đâu, con?”

Where? Where are you?

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

The war council that night is joined by what currently remains of the Aster-Nguyen family. Walt and Bảo are understandably quiet; James is pacing back and forth along the length of their side of the table; Neha, on the other hand, is livid.

“Why the hell am I the last one to know?!” Neha demands vehemently. “She’s my sister! We just got her back—!”

“Nene—” Bảo gets cut off with an aggravated snarl from her.

“Why did you have Ly and Muriel be the ones to go?! There are a lot of other people that could’ve gone in their place!” Neha snarls, her gaze hard and pointed at the Countess. “There are more experienced soldiers in the camp—I know this because—”

“Neha, stop—!” James shakes his head, but it’s no use.

“Who the hell do you think you are!?” Neha demands, slamming her hands onto the table. Tears flood her eyes; as they drip down her cheeks, she yells through gritted teeth, “They’ve already done so much for you! Are their lives that expenda—”

“Neha!” Walt snaps, “Stop it! Don’t talk to the Countess that way!”

“But Mom—”

“No! Enough is enough,” Walt sighs, shaking her head. She looks to James, who nods in return.

Wordlessly, James pulls his daughter away from the war council. Neha fights him the whole way, but James ultimately bundles her under his arms and walks off into the night. Before long, all that could be heard of Neha are her distraught, furious sobs.

The silence around the table is incredibly awkward. The Consul breaks it with: “ . . . well, that was dramatic.” He sips the last remnants of his wine, shaking his head.

For a moment, Nadia is at a loss for words. Her gaze is turned to Walterine and Bảo in sincere apology.

“There are not enough words for me to say how deeply sorry I am that you and your family are going through this,” she says.

“They, ahem . . . they wouldn’t want you to feel bad, Countess,” Walt reassures, though her voice warbles a bit.

“They’re not dead,” Bảo retorts, sighing. He rubs his eyes, tears having already made tracks on his face. “We just need to wait . . .”

“If there is absolutely anything you need,” Nadia replies, “please do not hesitate to seek me out. You know where to find me.”

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

After the first three days of Lyra and Muriel being missing, the Aster-Nguyen family are a wreck. The people around are kind enough to cover their shifts with cooking rotations, patrols, and even tidying around their campsite.

One of them, Ąžuolas, is a dear family friend. A frequent customer, the young man has seen Lyra around the Shop before and after the Red Plague. As of right now, Ąžuolas is among the camp that believes that Ly and Muriel will return. However, his firm belief in them didn’t belay his worries. From what he heard the pair were facing the Pontifex . . . defeating them would not have been easy. Still, he visits the Aster-Nguyen family daily, checking in with them and helping them out wherever needed,

It’s also during this time that Neha became rather sedentary. She did not go and see any of her friends; they came to her instead. With permission from her parents, they had sleepovers around their tent.

For hours at a time, Bảo wandered around the forest. He would come back in an hour or two, but he has this vacant stare in his eyes that sent chills down everyone’s spines. James had to nudge him more often than not to eat.

Asra wasn’t any better: he was usually travelling the realms of the Arcana with Walt to search for their loved ones. They did not have any luck, and it got to the point where Walt actually invited him and Julian to stay a while around her family’s campsite.

“We’ll find them sooner or later,” is her hopeful remark during one dinner.

Asra and Julian look at her with matching expressions of inscrutableness. She falls silent there, quietly returning to her food.

“The point still stands.”

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

The fifth day is when Walt, James and Bảo return to low levels of returning to their assigned duties. Neha was exempt, and she makes a habit of traipsing off into the woods.

It’s Asra who finds Neha out there this time.

It’s not too far away from the edges of Tent-Vesuvia; the magician had been intending to nap at the base of a certain tree, but Neha was already there.

Upon seeing him, Neha says flatly, “You can lie down or sit down or whatever . . .”

Accepting her invitation, Asra spreads out the blanket he has in hand, lying down on it. Settling on it with Faust coiling up on his chest, he places his hat over his eyes, hoping to sleep.

“. . . do you think they ran away?”

Lifting his hat off, propped on his elbows—and hat in hand—Asra raises an eyebrow at her. “How do you mean?”

“That they ran away from all this . . . crazy,” Neha gestures vaguely to the surrounding area.

“I don’t believe so,” Asra replies.

“How can you be sure?”

“For one: I know Lyra wouldn’t intentionally leave the family she was getting to know again,” he explains, sitting up fully now. “Muriel too.”

Neha’s expression screams I doubt it, but she only shrugs. Asra follows her line of sight, seeing the camp getting prepared for what seemed inevitable: lines were drawn into the dirt and a clash between their side to Lucio’s growing army of mercenaries would happen in weeks, if not days from now.

Children, those unable to fight, and the elderly were to stay in a cave until the fighting was over. Nadia wasn’t going to let anyone be stolen away to be a war prize for any of the enemy.

“I want to fight,” Neha exhales, drawing her knees to settle under her chin. “I’ll sneak away if I have to.”

“You’ll get into more trouble.”

“Do you think I care at this point?”

Asra frowns. “Even if you don’t, your parents will. Lyra will.”

Neha scoffs, but she concedes to that point. “She’s got enough trouble in her head with all this . . . if I add to it again she’s gonna get sick with worry.”

“Mhm,” he nods, then goes right back to sleep.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

“For the love of the gods, Bảo!” James exclaims. He had just witnessed his husband leap over the six foot wide, six foot long, nine foot deep hole of a trap he and several other people had just finished digging. “You could hurt yourself!”

“Well, it still easy to cross!” Bảo retorts, leaning over the edge of it to stare into the abyss.

James swears under his breath, pulling him back to safety. “You break a bone it won’t heal as well! You’re not that young anymore!”

Bảo gasps, absolutely offended. "Hey! I'm not that old!"

"Says the man with gray hair!"

Bảo sticks his tongue out at his husband, but then breaks into laughter with him. James has a point: he was no spring chicken.

Double checking their map, the group’s cartographer makes note of where this trap is. Upon finishing, they all head back to Tent-Vesuvia.

Everyone was ready for the battle ahead: Bảo was going to be stationed in the trees with some other fellows, pelting things at the enemy; Walt would be with the group where the children and elderly would be hidden away, maintaining the shields and protection spells around her charges; James was going to be among the foot soldiers, which to no end worried everyone in his family.

“Are you sure you want to be on the ground when it happen?” Bảo murmurs softly. “You could stay with me or something . . . fight them from there.”

“The only reason you’re in th’ trees is because of your height and th’ fact yer lungs are givin’ ye trouble again,” James reminds him.

“Mm,” his husband nods, shaking his head. “You don’t need to be given a boost from the top of the ladder!”

“No I do not,” James replies, laughing softly. He dips down, placing a kiss on Bảo’s cheek.

“I’ll make sure you’re up there before I get to my post.”

In turn, Bảo gains a pink tint to his cheeks. He pulls James’s arm to wrap around his waist, keeping him closer as they walk together.

O*O*O

When they’re back in Tent-Vesuvia, there’s a loud racket occurring toward the center of it. James pauses, going on his tip-toes to see that a large crowd has gathered around Muriel’s hut.

“What in the world . . .?” James murmurs, startling a bit when he can hear his wife and daughter shouting in pure elation.

“Someone get the Countess!” one of their neighbors shouts.

Bảo and James look at each other, eyes wide before scrambling onward. People got out of the pair’s way. As the pair pass people by, they hear snatches of voices, relieved and awed.

“They’re back!”

“CANDANCE, DID YOU HEAR—!?”

“Oh thank the stars, they’re okay—!”

“LYRA!!!” Bảo cries out, bursting through the circle of people to pull his niece into a great big hug.

As James catches up with Bảo, the latter is hugging the stuffing out of Ly. The shorter man is soon twirling his niece in circles, sobbing and laughing with her. Before long, Bảo sets her back down. James joins in on the group hug with Neha and Walt, a great big weight drawn off his shoulders.

She was back! She was back and safe—

“C’mere you two!” Walt beckons, waving for Asra and Muriel to come over.

“But we’re not—” Muriel’s cut off by Walt grabbing his sleeve and pulling him into the hug. Asra joins in, with Faust encircling all of them in the seven people-strong hug.

“Can you please stop fucking disappearing!?” Neha pleads with Lyra once everyone lets each other go. The younger one holds onto her elder sister tightly, with Lyra returning the hug in kind.

Before Lyra can answer, Nadia enters the scene. The sight of Muriel and Lyra safe and sound brings a smile to her face.

Everyone parts ways as she approaches, and Lyra respectfully dips her head in greeting.

“You’re here,” Nadia exhales in relief.

Cheers, hurrahs, and delighted laughter light the crowd as Nadia pulls both Muriel and Lyra into a hug.

“Perhaps it is cruel of me, to keep sending you into danger . . . yet you always come back . . .” As Nadia steps back, she wipes away a tear, which makes Lyra fret a little.

“Oh Nadi—” Lyra soothes, pulling a handkerchief out of a pocket to give to her.

“Thank you,” Nadia sniffles, wiping away the rest of her tears. “Next time, I will be right beside you. I promise.”

Neha has a doubtful expression at that. She gets nudged by her mother, and gets a look from her father.

Reluctantly, they move away as Lyra and Muriel are whisked back into the hut with Asra and Nadia. Doubtless it’s to catch them up for the battle ahead.

“C’mon,” Walt urges her family, arms around the shoulders of her husbands as Neha leads the way. “Let’s do one final check of our stations and off to bed!”

[NEXT]; Updated July 26th, 2021

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

I Melt With You - Bakugou Katsuki

All Parts:

Part 6: 

Truthfully, it’s been a long day. A really long day.

The weather’s begun to change, and people are coming in left and right riddled with the flu. Your entire day was spent running between rooms, administering medication, taking temperatures and, unfortunately, cleaning up puke. All in all, it was a terrible night, and it was only going to get worse when you still had to go grocery shopping afterwards.

Still, you tried to calm yourself, taking a deep breath as you pushed the door open. Your last patient of the night, was thankfully, not flu-ridden. From your chart she was old, and the only thing you would be doing is taking her vitals before she moves on to radiology.

“Hello!” You greet, trying your best to smile kindly. “I’ll be taking care if you today.”

The old lady greets you, smiling gently as you approach. She’s got one hand wrapped in a bandage, the other cradling it protectively. Her face is a little uneasy, no doubt in obvious pain, but she seems to try and smile through it.

“So, I take it you’re here for your wrist? To get an x-ray?” You say, pulling over the medical cart. She nods and you take the blood pressure cuff, wrapping it gently around her arm. You take her vitals and then step back. “Alright, do you think you could take off the bandages for me? I just need to see.”

“Of course, I understand.” She says, calmly removing the bandages.

When she removes them entirely, her wrist is a sickening shade of blue. It’s swollen and discolored and looks incredibly painful, if the look on her face wasn’t any indication. When you look a little closer there’s strange disfigurement to her palms, like healed over burn scars. You try not to look at them too long, especially when the woman seems to become more uncomfortable the more you study them. You wonder if she’s alright. Your fingers start itching in your gloves.

“Yeah, that does look pretty nasty, I can see why you came in.” You try to smile reassuringly, but something about the woman’s scared demeanor is making you uneasy. “But, that’s pretty much the extent of my duties before I send a radiologist to come get you.”

“Oh. Okay. Thank you.”

You’re about to walk out, about to turn away and finally go home, but then she sucks in a sharp breath. When you look at her, she’s wrapping her wrist up again, and her pain is written clearly across her face. Your fingers itch trails of fire, and you find the decision is made almost immediately. You’re nearing her again, smiling gently, and thanking the hospital for lettings you use your quirk entirely up to your own discretion.

“That must hurt pretty bad, doesn’t it?” You start softly, pulling your gloves off. You move to the sink, washing your hands before you address her again. “I can help- my quirk, it lets me relieve others of their pain. If you would like me to, I would be happy to provide you with at least a little relief.”

“No- I- an old woman like me isn’t worth the fuss. Really! Don’t feel like you have to trouble yourself!”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” You smile back at her, pulling up a stool and sitting on it. “This is my job after all, and I’d be happy to help. If you would like me to, all I have to do is touch your hand. It’ll be instantaneous.”

“You’re sure?” She asks, eyes crinkling a little unsurely. She’s trapping her injured wrist to her chest again, hope coloring her voice. “You really wouldn’t mind?”

“Absolutely not. It’d be my pleasure.”

The woman nods, holding her hand forward. You smile reassuringly again, reaching for her. You stop just a few inches away.

“I just wanted to let you know- a lot of previous patients have said that everything goes green when I help them. I’m not saying this to scare you, as I’ve actually been told it’s quite pleasant, but I just wanted to tell you beforehand.”

She nods, and you take her hand, closing your eyes as you focus.

You feel it immediately. An ache in your wrist that throbs with every beat of your heart. It’s familiar, you’ve felt a break like this before, but the feeling that swallow you up next isn’t. It’s a sickness coiling in your stomach, dripping through your veins and running viscous like a slow poison. It’s like you’re being boiled alive- all of your sinew and muscle falling apart and being sewn back together. All in the span of a second. It leaves you dizzy, reeling, sick and nauseous when you release her hand.

“My- that is some quirk.” The woman marvels, flexing the fingers on her injured wrist. She does so without pain, and looks at you, a wide smile across her face. “That is very impressive. And, you were right. Green. It’s all green.”

“I- Yeah.” You try to recover, hiding your breathlessness behind a hand itching at your chin. “Of course. Your very welcome.”

“You must be able to help so many people. You must be a very good nurse with that quirk.”

“I-I’d like to think so.”

“You know,” She says suddenly, and her tone is nearly devoid of all the meekness she had walked in with. She looks brighter, livelier. “My husband and I run a facility to help grow people like you.”

“People like me?”

“Yes, dear. Those with extrordinary potential who might just need a little push.” She smiles gently, grabbing her bag at her feet. Rifling through it with her good hand, she pulls out an index card. “I’m sure your quirk is plently strong all on it’s own, I’ve certainly seen that, but if you ever wanted a little help- well, we’d be more than happy to have you.”

Then she’s pressing a business card into your hand, turning to face the sound of the door as it opens. The radiologist walks in, gesturing for her and she follows behind him gracefully. The woman leaves behind her a trail of perfume, like lavender and lilies in your nose, and then door is then shut. It seems she is leaving you just as quickly as she’d arrived.

The card in your hand feels heavy, weighty as you flip it between your fingers.

Center for Quirk Advancement

You almost couldn’t believe your luck. You had just been talking about ways to strengthen your quirk, and, as it turns out, life really did decide to let you off the hook for once. You think it’s justly deserved- it did seem pretty intent on saddling you with Bakugou, after all. Maybe it’s a strange sort of cosmic reward?

Either way, you slide the card into your bag, smiling to yourself. A part of you still feels uneasy, still sick after what you’d experienced from her, but she seemed nice enough. It made the poisonous feeling almost a little too easy to brush off.

You pack up your things, and you can feel the exhaustion creeping in. By the time you’ve gone grocery shopping and have finally made it back home, your arms loaded up with bags, you feel dead on your feet. The familiar tiredness seeps into your bones, but you blink yourself awake, determined to put the groceries away before you pass out. You brace your head in your hands. If something didn’t wake you up soon, you really would be asleep in front of your fridge.

“Oi- shitty leech!” You hear screaming, knuckles against glass and an irritatingly familiar rasp. “Let me in! Shitty leech!”

Oh- joy. Seems like something did wake you up. What was that you were saying about a cosmic reward again?

When you turn around, Bakugou is standing on your balcony, shifting impatiently on his feet. His expression is skewed up something nasty as he taps on the glass once more. He’s shouting your name, well, nickname, clad in sweats and stomping dramatically just a few feet away- you think he’s almost better left outside. Then you recognize the goosebumps on his arms and the red of his cheeks. It’s cold outside, you know it, and you curse your own heart once more, trudging dutifully over to the door.

“Wow, only a week since I’ve last seen you. And you look awfully uninjured today, don’t you?” You say, yawning as you pull the door open a fraction. Just enough to peek your head out into the cool night air. “No blood or anything. Good on you, Bakugou.”

“Shut the fuck up, leech. I was bein’ nice for once.”

“Yes- because shouting ‘Oi- shitty leech’ at me from my balcony was nice.” You roll your eyes, pulling the door open enough for him to walk through. “But sure, come in, make yourself right at home.”

“Gladly.”

You just shake your head at his curt tone, turning back to the kitchen to resume putting away your things. You’re just barely organizing vegetables away in the fridge, when you hear him stomp up behind you.

“Fuck are you doing?”

“Groceries?”

“No, idiot, I meant why’re you doing it now?”

“Because this when I have time to do it? And I just went shopping?” You ask him, bewildered, and confused. You’re tired and his mind games really aren’t amusing you right now. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand the question.”

“Are you-“ Bakugou swears under his breath, turning his nose up at you. “Jesus you really are stupid. You’re so fucking stupid. Why the hell would you go grocery shopping at 1 AM?”

“Because that’s when my shift ends, you asshole. Actually, you know what, no- I absolutely do not have to defend myself to you!” You sneer right back, whirling around to face him. Suddenly you find you’re not very tired anymore. “It’s really none of your business why I do anything, let alone when I do it so if you think that maybe you want to open your mouth again to me- don’t. And I-“

“Not like that. God, you’re fuckin’ clueless. I don’t give a shit what you do, but you do realize you can’t outrun somebody with your arms full of groceries right?”

The stunted look on your face must frustrate him, because then he’s huffing, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment before dragging his hand down his face.

“You seriously didn’t think about that? You fuckin’ kidding me? Jesus fuck I should’ve know, you’re so stupid.” He breathes out, rolling his eyes. “If I saw you fumbling around like an idiot, on a dark street, in the middle of the night? When you can’t outrun me because you’ve got all those shitty fuckin’ bags? Please, even I’d be attempted to attack you. You’re making it too fuckin’ easy for those weirdos, you moron.”

Is that- is that concern lacing his features? Bakugou’s brow is creased, and if you didn’t know any better you’d almost say he sounded more exasperated than outright angry with you- but you did know better. Of course you did. Believing that Bakugou regarded you with anything but begrudgingly familiarity would be foolish.

“Okay, well than you can take that argument up with my superiors.” You purse your lips, biting back another yawn. “Until then I guess I’ll just keep going out entirely defenseless and vulnerable. Lord knows that’s apparently how you see me.”

“Please, don’t flatter yourself, leech. I see everyone as defenseless and vulnerable. You’re not special.”

“Mhm, I’m sure I’m not.” You mutter, turning back to your fridge, to put more food away. “But, really, if you have such a problem, then you can figure out how to stop all the ‘weirdos’ before they get me. Isn’t that literally your job?”

Bakugou just sighs at your remark, looking very put-on. Then he clenches his fists up, eyes determined focused on the ground. “Just- fuckin’- just tell me when you’re going next time. Stupid idiot woman.”

Truthfully, you want to give him shit. You do, because there were so many nicer ways he could’ve shown concern-but you don’t. One look at his flushed face and insecure body language has you relenting. And being way nicer than he deserves. You are pretty tried after all.

“Yeah. Okay, but you’re carrying all the bags, Bakugou.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Or I’ll just go without telling you, and then we can catch up when I’m bleeding out in the street.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a joke. It was an incentive.” You smile cheekily, then you point to the bags left on the counter. “Now be a dear and unbag those for me, would you?”

“Fuck you.”

Bakugou seethes but he moves anyway, unbagging all your groceries with an absolutely unnecessary amount of force. It’s like he’s picking a fight with each plastic bag, and you try to hide your giggles.

It’s a strange little domesticity, but as weird as it is, it’s nice too. You’re still tired but things are moving much faster now, with him handing you items relatively quietly. All things considered, Bakugou did seem to be in a good mood (well, a good mood for him) and, you supposed it was nice to see him uninjured. And would’ve been totally great, totally perfect- if you didn’t turn around to see him plucking a piece of paper out of your purse.

 “Fuck is this shit?”

“Are you- stop. No. Don’t just go digging around in my stuff!” You huff tiredly, grabbing your purse from him with one hand snatching the card out of his grip with the other. “You’re being rude.”

“And you’re being fuckin’ evasive. So spill it, leech, the hell is it?”

“None of your business, that’s what!”

Bakugou just rolls his eyes, plucking the paper from out of your hand with little effort. You’d like to chalk up your loss to being surprised, but no, he really is just that strong.

“Hell is this?” He asks, grumbling as he flips the card over. “Center for Quirk Advancement?”

“Yeah. That’s what it says. Asshole.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why the hell do you have it?” He stares, squinting at you like you’re an idiot. “Looks fake as shit. Get rid of it.”

You can’t believe him. Seriously. You cannot believe him. There has never been one moment, in your entire life, that you would ever feel comfortable enough to dig through someone’s things- let alone ridicule them on the spot about it. It’s pure, unbridled insanity.

“I’m not- Bakugou, I’m not getting rid of something just because you said so!” You exhale, arms crossing around your stomach as you lean back against the counter. “It’s from that woman I saw today, alright? A patient.”

“Doesn’t smell right.”

“Doesn’t- What are you? A dog?”

“No. Fuck no.” He grumbles in defense, while simultaneously scrunching up his nose and barring his sharp canines. “I’m just saying, it doesn’t fuckin’ feel right.”

“Okay, well you weren’t there, so how would you know?”

“Because this company name is bullshit. It’s stupid as fuck and I’ve never heard of it before.”

“Okay? And? There’s a million stupid companies I’ve never head of before, and I don’t immediately think they’re fake!” You stride over to him, snatching the card back from his fingers. “And you know why? Because that’s paranoia. Blatant paranoia! The world doesn’t revolve around you and your knowledge, you know?”

“God, you’re so fucking dumb.” He laughs under his breath. “It’s killing me, leech. Can you really not see how shady that shit is?”

“No? Because it’s just a business card? A business card that was given to me by a kind old lady- and, why are you- no! Stop! Bakugou!”

He just rolls his eyes once more at your yell, tearing the business card in half easily. Apparently, he’s still not satisfied, because then he’s tearing those halves in half and tearing those fourths into eights, and shredding the paper entirely on your counter.

“Can’t call ‘em now, leech.” He says evenly.

You think you could scream, maybe even murder him right where he stands. Not necessarily in that order.

“Okay. No. No.” You reprimand, nearing him with determined steps. “You are not going to just walk in here and tear up things when you feel like it! That’s incredibly rude, for one, and-“

“What, so you were actually gonna call ‘em?”

“No! But that’s not even the point! The point is, you cannot just walk in here and feel free to do whatever you want! I don’t know how it is everywhere, but here, in my house, there are manners! Manners which I expect you to have, and that means you can’t just treat my things like that! It’s disrespectful and I will kick you out if you try it again. Understand? Play nice, Bakugou.”

He pinches his face into a scowl, squinting at you from just a few feet away. It looks like he’s sucked on a lemon. Then Bakugou’s scoffing, gathering the shreds of paper into his palms.

“Here. Take ‘em then, leech.” He growls, pressing them into your outstretched hand. “Since they mean so fuckin’ much to you.”

“It’s- oh my god. Oh my god, you really don’t understand what the problem here is do you?”

“No. It’s a piece of shitty paper. Who the fuck cares?”

“Me!” You nearly shriek, letting the paper fall through your fingers and back onto the countertop. “I care! It’s my house and all the things in here are my things! So, you either apologize, and I can be way more lenient than you deserve and forgive you, or you can walk yourself out.”

Bakugou leans forward, shoulders broad and intimdating as he stares down at you. You glare right back, unwilling to lose. He was in the wrong here- not you. A few seconds pass and then he’s throwing himself back against the, hands braced behind him.

“God, fuckin’ seriously? You want me to say sorry? For that shit?”

“Hmm, for walking into my house, in the middle of the night just to tear up my things?” You nearly screech at him. “Yeah! Yeah. I do.”

“You’re annoying. This is annoying. But fine. Whatever. I’m sorry. You happy now?”

“No, actually, not even a little bit.”

Then your stomping back to the remainder of your groceries, putting them away sloppily and not really caring much to organize them. You were tired before, exhausted from using your quirk, and now? With Bakugou needling you in your own kitchen? You were beat.

“What’s wrong with your face, leech?”

Spinning on your heels, you clenching your jaw tightly. You’re gonna throw him out. He’s just asking for it at this point.

Bakugou seems to pick up on your vexation, and he, to his credit, relents a little. By looking the slightest bit sheepish, for all of one second, before wiping it away into a scowl.

“I meant- why the hell do you look like that?” He grumbles, “All fuckin’ dead inside. You look terrible.”

“I- god, there are so many problems with that statement. So many. That I will not be getting into because it isn’t even worth the effort and I-“ You rant, red in the face before you take a calming breath.

It takes a second to center yourself, but you do- because cleaning up his blood would just further deplete your tank already running on empty.

“Okay- Bakugou, have had a long day, a long one. So if you have any other little mean comments you’d like to spew, don’t, alright? Because I swear to god I will euthanize you right where you stand if you open up your mouth one more time.”

He just blinks, once, twice, tilts his head to the side. Bakugou squints, rolling his shoulders back before a slow smile creeps across his face.

“Oi- you used your quirk, didn’t you? Shitty leech.” His tone is devoid of any real venom, slight amusement coloring his words. “I didn’t know it made you so fuckin’ cranky.”

“Are you making fun of me? Right now? After what I just said to you?”

Bakugou just shrugs, flicking all the lights off in your kitchen. He doesn’t even wait for the room to fall into darkness before he’s leaving, not even looking back to see if you would follow. Of course, you had to, because your bedroom was past the living room, but you almost wanted to stay rooted where you were. Just to see his frustration when you weren’t listening to him.

“You shouldn’t use your quirk just because someone tells you to.” Bakugou says, dropping himself onto your couch. “Shit’s weak. ‘s how you get burnt out.”

“Oh, whatever. And she didn’t tell me to do it.”

“So, what, you’re telling me you chose to do it? Knowing it’d wipe you the fuck out?”

“Yeah. She needed help.” You say softly, dropping down into the opposite side of the couch. You try not to get too comfortable, but you find yourself sinking into the cushions anyway. “I’m not done till I’m on the floor. Or unconscious. Kind of which ever comes first at this point.”

“Jesus. Somebody oughta put you on a fuckin’ leash. That’s stupid as shit.”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk.” You mock, eyes sliding lazily over to his. “Mr. ‘Let me kill myself without sleep for 3 weeks straight and then show up half dead at Y/n’s hou-“

“Y/n.”

“Yeah?”

“Your name is Y/n.”

“Yes? Did we not already know that?”

“No.”

You blink your eyes open entirely, flopping sideways to face him. Bakugou is smirking openingly, lips pulled back into something disarming and shit-eating.

“You fucker.” You seethe, scrunching your eyebrows together. “You’re telling me, this entire fucking whole time, that you didn’t know my name? My name! That’s my goddamn name, you shit! And you didn’t even think to ask? What the fuck?”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Excuse me?”

“Swearin’ a lot. It’s disrespectful as shit.”

“Me? I’m the one swearing? Fuck you! You swear all the time, and it’s really funny to me that you’re even running your mouth right now considering you didn’t know my name until a minute ago! You’ve slept on my couch! Multiple times! And you didn’t think, not even for a measly little second, to ask my name and- are you laughing right now?”

Bakugou is rested against the arm of your couch, one hand across his stomach and the other covering his chin. There’s no sound, he’s trying to keep quiet, but you can see his eyes. They’re crinkled up. Almost entirely closed into little slits. He’s laughing.

“Do you want to be kicked out? Seriously? Do you want to be kicked out on your ass right now? I’ll do it! I’ll fucking do it, I swear- try me again! Stop laughing, you jerk!”

“I’m not.” Bakugou tries, doing a horrible job of covering up that he is, in fact, laughing. “Ya get so fuckin’ mad, leech. Shit’s hilarious.”

“Wow, really, me? Mad? No- see,why would I be mad about you not knowing my name? After knowing each other for months. Why would I be mad about that?” 

Bakugou eventually does sober, but you still he still looks a little brighter than you’ve ever seen him. It hits you then that the only color you’d ever seen in his cheeks, at least before then, was dripping blood. 

““s fine. Doesn’t matter anyway.” He says, voice deceivingly light. “Your name’s leech. Don’t really give a shit what’s on your birth certificate.” 

You just sit up, grabbing the pillow behind you and launching it at him. Bakugou catches it, because of course he does, and throws it right back. When it hits you it feels like you’ve been socked in the face. Because he is an asshole. An asshole who can’t play nice to save his life. 

“Fuck you. Fuck you, Bakugou.” You say matter-of-factly, swiping the stray hairs from your face. You stand from the couch, glaring down at him. “I really hope you enjoy tossing and turning all night because I am not helping you.” 

“Yes you will.” 

“What? Making orders again? It didn’t work the first time and it’s not going to work now.” 

“Nah. Don’t need to.” He says confidently, grabbing the blanket off the back of your couch. A smirk lies across his face, one you want to slap off. “You’ll help me. Because you’re too fuckin’ nice right?” 

Then he’s flopping back against the pillow, sprawling his legs out and settling the blanket up to his shoulders. Bakugou looks at you expectantly, that same irritating grin still plastered on his mouth, and you want to hit him all over again. 

Because he’s right. You are too nice, and you are too forgiving, and unfortunately the everything and everyone you care about includes him. It’ll always include him, even when he insists on being an exasperating child.

“Fine, go to sleep then.” You’re pulling a glove off, nearing the back of the couch with your own devious grin. “Go to sleep.”

You lean over him, bringing your hand down to flick his forehead. He catches you, of course he does, just like that fucking pillow. Bakugou traps your wrist in his grip, his grin only growing wider. You think it softens a little too- just a bit, but then again, the lighting in your living room wasn’t that great.

“Got you. Leech.” He goads lowly, tapping his thumb against the base of your wrist. “Should’ve been faster. Shit was fucking pathetic.” 

“No, you’re just a freak, with weird reflexes.” You pull back, but he doesn’t seem to be letting go. Whatever it is he’s basking in, he looks a little too prideful for your liking. “Let me go- or I use my quirk on you.” 

Then he’s throwing your wrist back in your face, applying so much force that you almost knock yourself out. You stumble back, grasping on to the back of the couch for stability. When you look down at him again, Bakugou is blushing but you’re not really sure why. You shake it off- it’s his problem not yours.

“Well, there, since you insisted on being a little shit, that’s all the skin-to-skin contact you’re getting from me.” You sniff, flicking off the light behind the couch. “Better pray it’s enough to send your impudent ass to sleep.”

“Stop swearin’.”

“I swear when I’m angry and-”

“I make you angry?”

“Yes!” 

Bakugou just seems to almost- smile? It’s a tiny thing, curled up against the edge of his lip for all of a moment before he’s smoothing it out again. You’re about to turn away, to finally go to sleep, when he speaks again.

“Oi- shitty leach. You’re not gonna call ‘em right?” He slurs, voice raspy. “Right?”

“No? I wasn’t? But now I can’t because somebody tore up the paper.”

“Do it again if I fuckin’ have to.”

“Why’re you so concerned about it anyway?”

“None of your fuckin’ business.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep. Go to fuck to sleep.”

Then he’s out, giving into sleep and snoring into the cushions. His breathing is deep and even, mellow and relaxed, and you realize that’s all you’re getting from him tonight. 

 It’s not until you’re settling in bed, just on the verge of drifting, that you realize it. When Bakugou grabbed your wrist- no fire. Warmth and anger on the likes of which you’d never experienced before, sure, but no searing fire.

You wonder if he somehow forgot to put his angry pants on that day. 

-/-

pls this is not edited i am so sorry ahahah 

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