#ash slow suicide

[shibaraki]

IF TIDES COULD SPEAK (THEY’D CALL YOU HOME) ┊ BAKUGO KATSUKI

synopsis: an unlikely hero comes in the form of a barbarian. your stolen pelt is returned by his hand— but for a selkie that is more than simple kindness. it is a proposal.

tags: AFAB reader (referred to as a 'wife' once + 'baby' a few times), fantasy au, barbarian bakugo (+ the squad), selkie reader, brief non graphic suicide attempt, minor injuries, previous forced marriage + captivity, strangers to friends to lovers, accidental marriage + bond, magic elements, bathing together, sharing a bed, miscommunication, love as a choice, getting together, shapeshifters, angst + fluff, eventual smut, bakugo carries reader (he’s strong!!), oral + fingering (reader receiving), unprotected vaginal sex

wc: 25K+

↳ for the mermay collab hosted by the teahouse server ↰

The battle rages on behind as your bare feet carry you frantically toward the cliff side, incognisant to the uneven earth and jagged rocks cutting under your heels. 

A magnificent orange glow is cast across the land. Blistering heat radiates at your back and seeps through the thin robes pulled across your shoulders. Fire eats away at the canopy above, at the dry grass in the gardens, at the place you deign to call home. 

It is a sight you wish you had more time to savour. A draconic clan hailing from the north had descended upon the land and sought to reap the riches for themselves. The anguished screams of your once wretched husband still echo in your heart, dancing through its chambers like wind through chimes. 

You fled with only one destination in mind. 

Many, many moons ago, you had been stolen away by greed. A man that called himself king yet acted anything but kingly. Lord only in name. He speared your pod mate and took you, dirty calloused fingers sinking into your flesh, violently tearing the pelt from your back. Nausea churns in your stomach as you recall his grin, eyeing you greedily, desiring servitude that was not his to have. 

“You are to be my wife,” he said, drunk on tales of rare creatures who would keep a hearth burning and bear his children if only he stole their hide. “Now you belong to me”. 

Your pelt remained locked away in an armoured vault along with his other opulent treasures— goods that would now be burning, turned to ash. He had finally taken from the wrong people and must reap the consequences. 

You are so relieved to be free of his clutches that there is no time to grieve the loss. This is your chance. With or without your pelt you are a selkie, and the ocean always welcomes her children home. 

Guided by the tides' tumultuous song you sprint through the woods, treeline funnelling out on a plateau to reveal the edge of the cliff. You take a staggered breath, wincing at the pain in your chest. Now your momentum has slowed to a stop, the fatigue catches up with you. An ache seeps through your legs and your knees threaten to buckle as you shiver. 

This is it, you think. You watch the waves below roll like dark ribbon. Steeling your resolve you spread your arms as far as they go, until the sinew holding your back pulls taut. Something acrid sinks in your gut and you feel distinctly ill. It takes all of your willpower to deny the fear pounding in your body as you step forward. 

The wind billowed around you, swaying your human form towards the edge. Faux wings spread and a roar pushed to the limits of your small voice, sound whipped from your mouth and cast far asea. Eyes squeezed shut, you tip into the oncoming depths trusting your mother will catch you. 

The sound is cacophonous. Not even your pulse can be heard over the waves; elemental fingers apply sharp pressure to the north and south of your body, shaping flesh until you're nothing but a pebble caught in gravity's path.

If you should concentrate you’d hear a frantic shout through the white noise. And between the milliseconds left before bone collides with the tide, a large clawed foot encircles your forearm. A rush of air swells in your lungs as you try to scream, the abrupt disruption of your freefall forcing your shoulder from its socket, talons tearing through capillaries as if your skin were wet paper. 

Suddenly, you’re a sail without a mast, rippling over the open ocean. Dark and cloudless, not a speck on the surface. The spray is icy against your ankles, a million papercut kisses. In the mirage, you can see fleeting reflections. The silhouette of a dragon mid-flight. 

You’ve no memory of hitting the sand or being carried along the shoreline. Your consciousness dips and peaks. The few times you come to are when your body is being jostled, a blurred figure looming above and unrecognisable. In one breath they are washing your wounds with water poured from a wineskin, the next you are flinching away from salve covered fingers as they poke and prod to stem the bleeding.

Warmth is the first thing on your mind as you wake. With a sudden gasp for air, all the exhilaration and adrenaline hits you as if your soul had been caught, suspended in that moment. Phantom touches skim the length of your spine and all at once you are overwhelmingly aware of your body. 

The sharp noise startles a figure in your periphery. 

“Back in the land of the living, huh?” 

A broad, bare chested man sits at your bedside with his arms crossed tight and pillowed in his lap. There’s a single delicate braid by his ear, longer than his short-spiked hair and dangled loosely beneath his jaw. You’d find him beautiful if not for the searing glare. 

“That was a fucking stupid thing you did back there,” he snarls. Brusque and overfamiliar. When you don’t respond he continues, “What’ve you got to say for yourself?”

You shrink back. 

There’s an awful pinch in his brow. Concern seems to be superseding what was a show of honest anger. Dimly lit by a few oil lamps, from what you can ascertain there is no one else in the room but you two. Inhaling the residuals of healing magic you find that your throat is unbearably dry, tongue stuck to the back of your teeth. How long have you been asleep?

You couldn’t find a voice to ask, exhaling a pathetic whine. The silence provides a window of opportunity for him to further scold you yet he doesn’t take it, fuming as he recedes into his chair. “Don’t need to act so fucking skittish. M’not here to hurt you,” he exhales hard through his nose, reaches out and leaves his hand upturned on the edge of the bed. “Alright?” 

Something draws you to this stranger. Inexorable, like the pull of the tide. You accept his proffered palm and it feels unsettlingly familiar. The skin is rough, battle worn and hot. Slowly, your fingers intertwine, and you see fair hair on the back of his knuckles. 

Disorientation, loss and anxiety err on the edge of your consciousness. The lamp above his head gives him a warm hued crown, highlighting strands of gold. You can feel sleep weighing on your eyelids but you don’t yet want to look away. “Whatever,” his mouth sets into a frown. “Get some more rest or I’ll knock you out myself”.

When you come to the sun has risen and filters into the room in thin streams of light. Dust fairies dance around the bed. You squint as your vision sharpens, a dull throb reverberating through your skull. 

You look at your body first, arm well bandaged and the rest of you bruised tender like an old peach. The wounds throb in time with your pulse when you shift, reminding you that they’re there as your thin clothing brushes against them with little movement. All you can remember is falling. How the waves had careened up the cliff side to catch you, only to have you snatched out of reach once again. 

Wherever you are now it is obviously far from your Lord’s grasp. He has never bothered to take you to a healer. You are in a private office, tucked into a bed with soft blue sheets. The shelves are stocked with various medicines, salves, and analgesics. Herbs and chopped petals are stuffed in glass jars labelled with messy penmanship you can’t decipher. A metronome sits on the nearby wooden desk, ticking back and forth, filling the silence until the door is pushed open. 

Whoever enters is trying to be careful. You can tell by how slowly they turn the handle and pause at every little complaint the hinges give. Their hair is green, richer than the later weeks in spring, with loose waves that bounce as they move. You watch wearily while they move through the space, humming under their breath and picking up a notebook from one of the desk drawers. 

The healer, you presume, pinches the end ball on the metronome and brings it to a stand still. He hushes it as though it were an unruly child before turning on his heels toward you—

And immediately screeching as your eyes meet. 

Loud enough for the entire country to hear, his abrupt shout seems to alert others in the building, causing a gaggle of people to burst their way into the room. A metallic tang fills your senses; magic ready, the man that sat brutish yet kind at your bedside wields explosive sparks in the palm of his hands, adorning chains with carved talons and beads and asymmetrical armour strapped to his left bicep beneath a red fur lined cloak. 

“What is it, Deku?!” 

You offer wordless gratitude to the final dregs of sedatives in your system. You barely flinch at the hostility in his voice, time seemingly slowed as your gaze drags to the companions at his back. First a woman doused in pink. And like the sun, her face glows the rich ochre of dawn, framed by silky salmon toned curls. There are horns protruding from the top of her head, bending like the junction of a tree branch. 

Beside her is a large man. Red, red, red. Bright eyes split with a reptilian slitted pupil. Crimson hair styled into sharp spikes. He’s built like a warrior, tall enough to swallow most of the doorway, yet you feel no true fear when you look at him. Something innate in your gut tells you this is a kindred spirit. Energies aligned, you think he must be a shifter of some kind too. He locks onto you first, his alarmed expression smoothing into a wide toothed grin. 

Last are two men who have managed to tumble to the floor amidst their rush to get into the room. Distinct gold bangs with a symbol of lightning, pale faced, an undercurrent of electricity thrumming below his skin. Dark shoulder length hair, white spools of rope wrapped around the crook of his elbow, grappling hook in hand and ready to strike. 

“Sorry, Kacchan!” the healer, Deku, spluttered. He holds his hands up in surrender, shaking them in a placating motion. “Nothing, it’s nothing! All of you please calm down!” 

Deku is quite the unfortunate name, you think. At his insistence the group lower their defenses and slump forward, relieved. All but ‘Kacchan’, who only raises his hackles further. 

“Don’t fuckin’ scream like that if it’s nothing,” his upper lip curls to bear his teeth, moving fluidly as his group slinks past him to stand by your bed. “I damn near blew up the building”. 

Distantly, “I couldn’t help it…!”

The frame jostles, mattress dipping as it takes on the weight of another. Head turned into the pillow you blink dazedly at the sharp toothed shifter. Propping his chin in his hand, his elbows are braced next to your thigh. “Hi. I’m Kirishima,” he chirped, unmoving as his friends wrapped themselves around him to get a look at you, all repeating his jovial greeting with introductions of their own. 

“…Hello,” you rasp. The word grates the inside of your throat and tears well in your eyes as you fight the urge to cough. “Where am…?”

“Back up, losers,” ‘Kacchan’ forces his way to your bedside, shoving the group aside. There’s that odd sensation again as you stare up at him. Strong jaw clenched with eyes narrowed and blazing; sliding to where you lay, waning briefly. “Have some manners”. 

“Since when have you cared about manners,” the pink woman, Mina, bemoans. 

“Shut it!” 

Deku’s nervous disposition dissipates quickly and he ambles to the opposite side of your bed, his notebook flipped open to a page covered in incomprehensible scrawl. While the others squabble he leans forward and flashes a trembly smile. 

“Hi! I’m Midoriya Izuku, the one that fixed you up,” Midoriya—not Deku—lowers his voice into a more soothing tone. “It’s good to see you awake. Do you think you could tell me your name?”

You remember your name. Yours. The one given to you before human hands stole your hide. Midroiya’s pen scratches at the parchment as you recite it, his lips silently repeating it. “Great! Thank you. Now can I ask, how are you feeling?” he asks, eyes darting across your face, your body, scanning the bandages wrapped around your arm. “Any pain? Nausea? Loss of vision? Numbness in your limbs? Hallucinations?”

“Slow down, nerd,” Bakugo grunts. 

Midoriya immediately appears sheepish, “I’m sorry”. 

“It’s okay,” you say. “My mouth is dry and my arm hurts but I’m— okay, I think”. 

“That’s my bad,” Kirishima speaks up from his place next to Bakugo, lifting a hand. Despite their difference in stature it was clear who led the charge and who fell in line. “I was rushing so I wasn’t very careful when I caught you”. 

Your first thought is that he must have been the dragon. Your second thought is, ah, right. You had tried to fling yourself off the cliff. 

As though he’d read your mind, Bakugo scoffs. “Not much choice when you’re saving someone that’s trying to kill themselves”. 

Overlapping objections ring loud in your ears. “Bro, not cool,” Kirishima groans, similar sentiments sent loud and fast from the rest of his group. 

“I wasn’t trying to—” your half lie is halted by the seething look Bakugo turns to you. Same as before, beneath it all is worry and confusion, unblinking as though you might disappear between the seconds. “I just wanted to go home,” you confess weakly, tethered by the restless twisting of your fingers into the linen. 

“Home?” the electric blonde, Kaminari, murmurs. 

Tension returns to your limbs, instinctively bracing for the greed you have learned to expect. You may get away with evading questions now, but the healer—if he’s worth his salt—would already know what you are. 

“I’m a selkie,” hesitance bleeds into your tone, the confession coming quiet and small. Your chin dips as you swallow, canines sinking into your inner cheek. “The Lord whose castle you raided stole my pelt and kept me hostage for months. I figured it was long gone, so as soon as the attack gave me an opening I ran”.

The atmosphere is stifling. Silence befalls the group, equally stunned. Midoriya is the only one that does not react, kind eyes closely observing you.

A litany of emotions weave through Bakugo’s face as you speak. Disbelief, anger, regret. “Sick bastards,” he mutters heatedly from behind gritted teeth. 

A head of pink hair rests by your knee. You’re taken aback by how informally they all behave towards you. “You still would have died though,” she says, bottom lip jutted, sadness colouring her features. 

“I would have become seafoam,” you rectify passively. “It doesn’t mean death, not to my kind. It’s a sort of rebirth. My pelt is with the ashes now. I thought… it was my only option”. 

“Wait. It got burned up in the fire?!” Kirishima straightens worriedly, eyes wide and apologetic. His fingers twitch as though he wanted to reach for you but thinks the better of it. 

“Surely. I mean, I assume it was,” your mouth thins into a strained, rueful smile. “He kept it in the vault with all his other treasures. I watched his quarters go up in flames”. 

Recognition passes over Bakugo’s expression but Midoriya is already stepping forward with his outstretched hands waving dismissively. “Okay, guys! No more stressing my, uh… patient,” he says, allowing some strength into his instruction. “Give us some space. You can ask more questions later. Please?”

Your new guests surrender with a chorus of groans. Bakugo squints pointedly at you over his shoulder as Sero ushers him out into the hallway. You feel rooted by its significance somehow. An unspoken instruction that you can’t decipher. 

“Are you really feeling okay? No wooziness?”

Drawn to the gentle cadence your gaze meets Midoriya’s. He has set the notebook back onto his desk and rolled up his cuffs. “I’m okay,” you reply after a moment of consideration. “Thank you. You fixed me up, right?” 

Rubbing at his nape, Midoriya shoots you a sheepish grin. “To the best of my ability, yeah,” he says. “I’m just a researcher and I don’t have an affinity for healing magic, but Kacchan insisted that I help”. 

“You’re not a healer?” it’s then that you notice how untraditional his dress is for a doctor. A bishop sleeved shirt, six buttoned green waistcoat and dark pants. There’s a belt strapped tight around his hips, small satchels hooked into the leather, and an empty waist sheath clearly meant for a sword. “Ah. You really aren’t a healer,” you repeat blithely. 

Midoriya giggles, nervous. “No— I mean, this is my office! And I guess I am an apothecary of sorts, but that’s only a small part of what I do,” he explains, gesturing to his various  shelves and cabinets. “Kacchan could’ve taken you to the next town over on Kirishima’s back but I think he was panicking— oh, please don’t tell him I said that. He just doesn’t trust other people much. So you got shafted with me”. 

When he leans down to untuck your bedsheets you bend your unharmed arm, propping your upper body onto your elbow and working in sync with him as he fluffs the pillows behind your back. Sat upright you hold your bandages out to him. “Thank you,” he mumbles, delicate as he slides his hand around your forearm, patting around his belt and satchels with the other. 

Finding a small pair of scissors he tucks it beneath the top of the bandage and carefully cuts down the length of your arm. Your chest constricts as the inflamed skin is slowly revealed to the tepid air. There are ribbons of sutures running from your inner elbow to your wrist, puckered but thin and largely healed, sinew clumsily fused together. 

“Sorry about my poor suturing,” Midoriya says as he overturns your arm in his palm, checking from root to stem. “Everything looks good, though. No infection or fever,” he continues muttering, thumb pressed to the shadow beneath his lip. “Your immune response was pretty quick. I wonder if it has something to do with your selkie blood…”

You barely register his apology, stuck on the jagged scar tissue decorating his own hand. The cautious call of your name breaks your reverie. Midoriya’s brow is furrowed, eyes wide in genuine concern that wanes when you try to smile at him. “Got lost in my head there, sorry”. 

“I get it,” he breathes, glancing over to the largest cabinet in the room. Reaching the ceiling, stained dark wood, and looks slightly out of place alongside his other furniture. Misaligned, you realise. It is on four small wheels and placed an inch away from the wall. Odd. 

You watch Midoriya stroll over with a bounce in his step. His biceps strain under the pale sleeve fabric as he grabs either side of his cabinet and pulls. The wheels squeak and it rolls away with some exertion to uncover a hidden door. Dust cascades through the air; he coughs into his shoulder, shaking out his hair. 

“I’ve got a private washroom through here if you’d like to use it,” he explains after catching your questioning frown. The room is barely bigger than a closet. There’s a toilet, a tiny sink, and a tub that, given the width and depth, would require you to sit with your knees beneath your chin. A mere speck compared to home. If you closed your eyes and concentrated, maybe you could pretend you were resting in a tide pool along the shallows of a beach. 

You stand for the first time in who knows how long. An uncomfortable prickling sensation crawls the length of your legs as the phantom turns solid and blood rushes to your toes. You grip at your bare thighs where the hem of your robe falls, flesh bursting through the gaps between your fingers, and you gasp through the pain. It’s as if you’re growing a new limb all together. 

“Careful,” Midoriya murmurs kindly, hovering at your side in case you need assistance. You hobble over to the washroom, each step like treading on seaglass. He moves away once he is happy with your progress. 

“It’ll take a while to warm up,” he warns. “But there are various medicinal soaps and salts under the sink that I’ve made, so you’re free to use them”. 

The door is closed behind you. 

Left to your own devices the first thing you do is fill the tub with water. You find that the bathroom has no lamp, illuminated only by the cool light flooding in from the main room. His warning had not been exaggeration — fingertips touching the bottom of the basin, the water comes slowly and remains cold up until your second knuckle. Then it warms, warmer than the sea, and with no salt at all. 

Bare knees against the floor and skin pimpling under the thin robes, your breaths come quick, stumbling over the erratic jumping of your diaphragm. Indentations between each tile press uncomfortably into your skin, the initial pain dulling into numbness as you sit back on your heels. Beneath the sink behind you are the medicinal soaps and salts. You delicately take a small pot, squinting to decipher the handwritten labels in the dark. 

Pulling back one of the lids you’re overwhelmed by an unfamiliar floral aroma. Inside are rocks— tiny, tiny pink rocks, with dried white petals. You pinch some with your already damp fingers, feeling as they immediately dissolve in the moisture, and sprinkle them into your bathwater. 

Once full enough, you strip yourself of the robe and fold it neatly, left by the closed doorway. The cold air prickles, your nipples pebbling and the soft hair across your body standing on end, but the water is hot. 

You dip your foot in and breathe a sigh of relief as the temperature suffused through your skin, swaddling you in warmth. You submerge yourself completely. As suspected the space is remarkably cramped. Your legs are bent, tucked against your chest with knees below your chin, arms folded around your shins to keep yourself together. 

Enclosed in four walls again, shrouded in little to no light, you feel lonely. The type of quiet that makes you whisper. Your mind drifts to the stranger that had saved you, wondering where you might’ve met him before. You smile ruefully, cupping the scented water between your hands. He’s strong for a human. Imposing, you muse, staring back at the reflection held in your palms. Not only in his stature, but even his presence is difficult to ignore. 

You bathe, scrub away the blood and grime until you’re a flesh wound. The temperature is cold by the time you’ve turned focus to your fingernails, neurotically picking away the flecks of blood dried beneath them. Drain the murky water, refill, repeat. No matter how harshly you pinch and pull, the feeling of being dirty does not go away, but you stay in the water at least until you feel like yourself again.

The towel you find is coarse to the touch. Sitting in the heated water has tended well to the knots in your muscles. Ungainly as you re-enter Midoriya’s empty office, you flop back onto the freshly made sheets with little guilt. You sit there for a while and let the air dry your body. 

There is a pile of spare clothes on the end of the bed; neatly folded shirts, tunics, skirts and pants. You throw on a sleeved shirt and come across a simple beige kirtle as you parse through, the skirt falling just above the ankle, delicately sewn buttons lining the back. The fabric is very soft, though fitting and naturally cutting at the waist. 

After putting on some thick knitted socks and a pair of hardy brown boots left by the desk you run both hands down your sides and spin on your heel, causing the free flowing skirt to plume. Satisfied, you slip out the door and creep toward the gathering voices at the far end of the hall. Phantom fingertips walk the length of your spine. Odd, but you put it down to the apprehension churning in your stomach. Gradually you are able to make out what they’re saying. 

“Get your filthy hands off it,” Bakugo growls venomously. 

“I just wanna feel,” another whines. You recognise it to be Kaminari. “Why is Kacchan the only one allowed to touch it?”

“Stop calling me that, fucker!”

You round the corner and the bickering halts with a harsh shushing sound. They’re all in the centre of a cramped lobby, few chairs lining the walls, woven tapestry hung from the ceilings. Kirishima stands in front of you wearing a pleased grin, comically large. The armoured plates on his naked shoulders clink as he moves. “Hey! You clean up nice,” he tells you. “Feeling better?” 

“Much better,” you affirm, perking up at his sincerity. “I’m grateful to you all for watching over me”. 

“Our Bakugo did most of the work, really. Got a little protective,” Mina, the one kissed by dusk, leans into your space with her plump mouth curled into a smile. The thin gold jewellery hung from her lobe to ear cuff glints in the late afternoon light. “Barely let us in the room”. 

“Cause you idiots are too loud,” Bakugo grumbles, stepping forward holding a shiny garb. The fond undertones belied his annoyance, and everyone heard it loud and clear. Your skin prickled as he drags his eyes over your clothed body, evoking a sense of insecurity that is foreign to you. You aren’t sure what, but you wanted him to see something in you worth coveting. 

Then your gaze falls to the fabrics folded over his forearm. Your heartbeat ricochets through your ribcage. A tide of emotion wells at the base of your throat. He handles the pelt with purposeful care. Shivers break out across your skin as he smooths a hand over it. Holding it out, he says your name as if it was the simplest thing in the world. 

“Here,” he thrusts the pelt into your arms. You scramble and clutch it to your front. Something deep inside you shifts. “This is yours, right? We took it during the raid”. 

You’re frozen to the spot, mouth gaping around words that won’t come. Bakugo frowns, the group members behind him glancing at each other and shrugging when they find no answer to your silence. 

“Well?” he demands, embarrassment staining his ears pink. 

“Yes,” you choke, bringing the hide up to your face and rubbing your cheek against it. So warm and alive. Brine fills your senses, overwhelmed by the smell of home. The relief is short lived. “Thank you for returning it, but…”

Losing strength, you try to convince yourself that he needn’t know— that the old ritual would not be binding if done with a human. If the Gods were merciful there would be no condition that tied you together for the rest of your lives. Yet you felt it the moment your pelt was handed back to you. You’ve been feeling his touch all this time, even before the bond had solidified. Heat rose to your cheeks at the realisation; such an intimate act, and it had been accidental. 

From one prison to another. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. Bakugo seemed good, in his own rugged way, and he was handsome even by faerie standards. 

You wet your lips, breath shaken. “Bakugo. Do you understand the significance of what you just did?” 

Bakugo’s expression darkens and he becomes rigid. You get the impression he hates being left in the dark. “What is it?” 

“To…” your nails sink into the short velvety fur. “To a selkie their pelt is like an extension of their soul. In our culture, to find and return it is viewed as a…marriage proposal”. 

Sero catches Kaminari and Mina as they grapple one another in a dramatic fashion, swaying on their feet. Kirishima puts a hesitant hand on his friend’s shoulder, eyes flickering between the barbarian and your slouched form. “Bro… don’t do anything hasty,” he faltered. 

“Bakugo is married now?” Mina shrilled, promptly shut up by the hand covering her mouth. Sero sends you an apologetic grimace. 

“Like hell I am”. 

Hackles raised, voice sharp and commanding, Bakugo is staring you down like an enemy. Your knees threaten to buckle but you stand your ground, shielding your body with your thick hide. His hands remain by his hips, sparking as the tang of magic bleeds into the air. Despite making no move to attack you still feel his rejection strike you. 

“Break whatever vow I just made,” he demanded. “Now”. 

“I can’t,” you admit helplessly. “It’s more than a legal contract or a declaration of love. We’ve— it binds us together”.

The barbarian starts forward, upper lip curled into a beastly snarl, held back by the dragon shifter’s grip. Stumbling as you dodge, two familiar scarred arms catch you before your fall. “Kacchan, what are you—?!” Bakugo darts out to grab you and Midoriya immediately pushes you behind his back, shielding you with his body. “Stop it!” 

“Midoriya,” Kaminari wheezes, tears beading along his lash line. “Kacchan accidentally got married. Can you believe it?” 

Midoriya observes their exchange with a look of confusion. In the seconds that follow you see his eyes fall to the pelt folded against your chest, eyes brightening in understanding. Incognisant to this, Bakugo continues his verbal barrage. “Oi, Deku. You’ve got brain cells. Figure out a way to fix this”. 

Mouth gaping like a fish out of water, Midoriya pins Bakugo with a pleading look. “Kacchan. Please tell me you didn’t personally give back the selkie pelt”. 

“You knew and didn’t think to say anything?!”

“Why would I?” Midoriya returns, equally irritated. You press your face into the space between his shoulder blades, feeling the vibrations of his voice as they argue. “It’s common folklore!”

“You know I don’t listen to fucking fairytales, Izuku”. 

Midoriya reaches back to brush your wrist and offer a comforting touch. You knock your knuckles to his own, grateful for his consideration but unneeding of it. While Bakugo’s furious refusal hurts, and his volume is harsh on the ears, you aren’t truly scared of him. More than anything your body remembers those warm palms— how he had held your hand, even as a stranger, and how he meticulously groomed your hide only knowing that it was of importance to you. 

“There’s nothing I can do to fix this,” lowering his tone into something more apologetic, Midoriya’s shoulders slump in defeat. You step to the side, coming into view. Head bowed, weight shifting between each foot. You refuse to be subservient any longer but cannot ignore the guilt that churns in your stomach. 

Bakugo sees you. Something flickers in his features; a brief glance, a rough exhale, it flies across his face like the shadow of an albatross and disappears, equally fleeting. Never taking his vermilion eyes off you he argued, “What about cheeks?” 

The golden hour spreads her hands all over the room, air cooling when his spitting frustration dwindles to uncertainty. 

“Uraraka?” Midoriya mused aloud. His softer countenance tempers your anxiety. “It’s possible she could do something… Let me go see if I have her recent coordinates written somewhere…”

Midoriya scurries back down the hallway, leaving you defenseless. Without thinking you ask the group, “Uh. Who’s Uraraka?” 

Everyone’s attention falls to you and you resist the reflexive urge to cower. “She’s a witch,” Kaminari supplies happily, arms wrapped around Sero’s neck like a scarf. “An old friend of ours, but she’s pretty hard to find now. I heard her place is always moving”. 

A building that could move with magic. The human world never ceased to be fascinating. 

Mina nudges her elbow into his side and a shock of electricity sparks from his crown. “That’s outdated, dummy! You’re supposed to say occultist”. 

Kaminari whines, rubbing at his ribs. “To-may-toe, to-mah-toe,” he enunciated, pouting. “Same thing”. 

Bakugo growls, ignoring their exchange in favour of pacing the room. Your pelt is a comforting weight as you follow the back and forth motions, taking the chance to really look at him. The fur lined cloak across his shoulders billows obnoxiously as he turns, jewels and talons strung around his neck knocking against his clavicle. Doused in sunlight, the markings painted across his bare chest are highlighted, and you notice the uneven skin beneath them— more scars. 

He combs his fingers aggressively through his hair and his arm bulges beneath the armour strapped to his bicep. Kirishima tires of watching and cuts into his path, hands open in surrender. 

“Stressing won’t do you any good, man,” the shifter reasoned. “We’ve all got your back. I’m sure Uraraka will know what to do”. 

Bakugo huffs. You think there should be steam coming out of his nose. “I know, shithead. I just,” he takes a quick look at where you are awkwardly standing. “I don’t like this”. 

There’s an abrupt yelp in the distance. Midoriya’s cry is followed by a crash, the sound of books tumbling from shelves onto the wooden floor. He stumbles out into the hallway slightly dishevelled, patting off the dust on his waistcoat and proffering a sheet of paper. Tucked under his arm is a rolled up map. 

“Kacchan,” comes his breathless chime. “Here’s where she was last. But I remembered that she was planning on taking a short trip to the valleys near the coast to find more idiran leaves since they’re in season now. I mapped out all the areas where they usually grow, in case you—”

Bakugo snatches the coordinates and the map without ceremony. “Thanks,” he grunts, turning on his heel and making for the exit. “Come on, losers. We only got a few hours until it’s too dark to fly”. 

The group works in perfect synchrony. Sero reaches under one of the nearby chairs and drags out a large bag, hoisting it over his shoulder. Mina does the same, pulling back the draping tapestry by the doorway and taking back a concealed sack. You watch as they walk leisurely behind Bakugo, in no real rush despite his demands, Kaminari lamenting how little they trusted him with their cargo. 

Kirishima lingers behind, clapping Midoriya soundly on the back. “Thanks for everything as usual, man. We appreciate it,” he emphasised his gratitude with a strong squeeze. 

“I’m always happy to see you,” you’re impressed by Midoriya’s reaction; a smile from ear to ear, sturdy and unaffected by Kirishima’s obvious force, his smaller frame belying his strength. “Just promise not to shift too close to the building. I don’t have time to re-thatch my roof”. 

“I promise!” Kirishima traces a cross over his heart with his fingers. Their focus turns to you. You tense, feeling entirely out of place. “Sure you’re feeling alright? Have you ever flown before?”

“No,” you admit, needlessly smoothing the fabric of your kirtle down. “I’ve probably never been this far inland, nevermind flying”. 

Midoriya’s eyes widened, though not unkindly. They’re sparkling, as if he were excited on your behalf. “Then you’re in for a real treat,” he beams, the intensity dimming within the next breath, sadness hemming his smile. “Just know you’re in good hands. Kacchan is a little abrasive but he means well”. 

“And I swear I’ll fly carefully,” Kirishima interjects. It’s funny, a man so large exuding such gentility. “I’m a dragon shifter, if you hadn’t already guessed”. 

You had sensed it immediately. Shifter energies were palpable and animated things. They hung in the air like a humid fog. Despite your similarities you are still so uniquely different. While you were tied to the pelt in your arms, Kirishima had no such restriction. You envied his freedom. 

“You caught me…?” you say. He nods at your words. “Thank you, then. Again”. 

“That was all Bakubro. He saw you before anyone else did,” as though on cue, Bakugo’s voice penetrated impatiently through the walls, demanding that you both get outside. Kirishima’s lips uptick affectionately. 

“If I don’t get to see you again, well…” Midoriya begins to corral the pair of you to the door as he speaks. “I hope you make it home. And I’m really happy I could meet you”. 

Surrounding Midoriya’s residence is a dense forest. The trees are tall, older than any you’ve seen, their branches reaching out and intertwining with one another to conceal your group under a canopy shrouded in gold. Further ahead it thins out onto a winding road. Built on a steep hill it dips in the distance, opening up to the many plots of land below. 

The earth is soft under your boots. There are wildflowers at your feet. You try to step around each one carefully while Kirishima advances forward to the group with vigour. 

Bakugo is saying something but you barely hear it, lost in your thoughts, besotted by the vast canvas around you; a sense of harmony as the pigments blend together. It is like a dream in which you can’t tell one side of the veil from the other, and nothing like the dreary castle you were once stowed away in. 

Your moment in lucidity is soon interrupted. You instinctively pull the pelt closer to your chest before realising who had approached. “You listening or what?” Bakugo calls quietly, an attempt at being reposeful. Amidst your daydreaming Kirishima has disappeared into the overgrowth and the others are watching your interaction with poorly veiled interest. 

“Uh, sure,” you blurt uselessly. He raises a brow and you feel ridiculous. 

“Kirishima said it’s your first time,” he pauses and you nod in affirmation. A hand comes to rest on your back, breath caught in your throat, pressure pulling you close to his side. “Then you’ll sit up front with me”. 

Your head bobs again, unrolling the pelt and knotting it tight to your waist, skin prickling under his close scrutiny. Bakugo brings his fingers to his lips and whistles, “Red!”

‘Red’ answered the call with a low room and a rustle of wings. The dragon’s head lifts, towering above the treeline, his body following as he steps out into the open. Amber eyes gleamed in the early evening light as he bobbed his head on a serpentine neck. His deep red scales shimmered with a faint golden sheen as he flashed his teeth in greeting. 

You err on the side of reticence while Mina and Kaminari sprint toward the dragon whooping excitedly. Various lines of thick rope trails behind them and Sero picks up the slack, looping it thrice through their bags. He spins the cut end, undulating as the momentum builds, and throws it over Kirishima’s back to be caught by Kaminari and pulled taut. 

“C’mon,” Bakugo leads you forward. He is surprisingly patient with you now. You’ve faced young whales and sharks yet still you feel dwarfed by the sheer size of the dragon, heart all pitter patter behind your ribs. It is the prey animal in you. 

Kirishima snorts, lowering to the ground. The earth trembles, a gust of wind dancing through the grass. Another rope is flung around his neck, threaded through the horns protruding from his skull like a set of reins, dropping in front of you. 

The hand by your hip slides further at your abrupt flinch, arm securing around your waist. “On three I want you to climb,” he commands, giving you no time to think. “One… two…”

Bakugo takes the weight like it’s nothing, lifting you higher so you can grab the rope. Molten heat. You pull yourself up, scrambling to straddle Kirishima’s upper back. The others are further down his spine, playing around at the base of his tail without a care in the world, as though they were not about to be thousands of feet in the air. Kirishima’s lungs expand for breath and you cling to a spike protruding from the dragon’s nape, grip flexing at the warmth that settles behind you. 

Bakugo frames your body with his thighs, thick by the skirt bunching above your knees, and pulls the rest of the rope up to wrap it around your pelt. In an instant you are all too conscious of him as a man, the proximity plucking at your centre of gravity, a cold sensation spreading throughout your chest. “Sorry,” he mutters unprompted, so quiet you aren’t sure you were meant to hear it. You get the impression he doesn’t say it often. “For dragging you into more shit”. 

You mull the words over as you relax into his hold. With that one sentence you think you understand him a little more than before.

Sero’s voice travels through the silence, “Good to go!”

Fastening his arm across your middle, solid and steady, Bakugo brings his boot hard down onto Kirishima’s shoulder. “Get moving, Red!” he roars. 

The dragon’s movements are heavy, slow. Aligned with the winding road, he builds up speed. As though he’d shaken off his own mass Kirishima is suddenly quick on his feet and breaking into a run; forced back in the momentum your stomach swoops, upheld by inertia as your body follows the broad bounding movements. 

Leathery wings snap open into the clearing. Your hands clutch at Bakugo’s forearm and he digs his fingers in harder, his lips warm against your temple. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, but all you can hear is the thundering wind and the blood rushing in your ears. You watch the steep edge approach and take a reflexive breath as it abruptly disappears. 

Air pours into your lungs and then out again in a ragged, exhilarated gasp. The ground falls—and then you are gliding.  

The cool air whips against your cheeks. Smooth and steady as a horse’s canter, Kirishima soars through the open skies, his magnificent wingspan bearing the weight of five riders. Below, the fields coalesce into one land. Towns and villages become an inscrutable speck. Incredulous laughter bursts from your throat, nerves evolving into excitement in the climb towards the clouds. 

Bakugo mellows by the second, tension ironed down by gravity. There’s a particular satisfaction to his expression, contentment you’ve only ever experienced in the ocean’s depths, and yet, as he squeezes around you intermittently to remind you he is there, you can feel it too. 

“You with me?” he shouts. “Not scared?”

You lock eyes and try to show him a tremulous smile, answering at the top of your lungs, “I’m good”. 

Then he bares his teeth, grinning proudly. Over you comes the sense of being praised. Your smile widens.

Time moves differently in the skies. Closer to the sun, you thought perhaps things naturally moved slower. Change is always less apparent when you are walking alongside it. Instead, you measure the hour by the shadows cast chasing Kirishima’s tail, and eventually the skies darken. 

Lowering his head, tilting a wing to swing out in a broad arc, Kirishima angles toward the earth. Bakugo raises up a battle worn hand, the lineaments of his face irradiated by streams of dim light threading through his fingers. He makes a specific gesture, signalling to the others of the incoming descent. Like the sun, you can’t look away from his raw brilliance. 

Kirishima lands at the base of a mountain valley. It sends a gust of wind across the clearing. Through the dark you make out a familiar reflection of light in the distance. The lake is hardly an ocean, but you’re extremely comforted to be by a body of water. 

Chest pressed flat to your back Bakugo’s natural heat spreads through your shirt. Helped down much in the same way you were boosted up, he seems determined to keep you near. You can’t say you mind it— a quiet attraction comes and goes as he steadies you on your feet. He clicks his tongue, muttering clipped insults that he doesn’t mean. 

It’s decided you’ll remain there for the night. “You can bet your ass we’re having an early start,” Bakugo says, pointing at each of you with stubborn intent, squinted glare lingering on the less than enthusiastic members. Kaminari slumps forward dramatically and you worry his knees might buckle. 

Kirishima leaves again, briefly, to circle the area in his full form while Bakugo starts on the pit. It’s lit by a whisper of fire from the returning dragon’s mouth, setting the tinder ablaze over the nest of branches; the dry, withered pine slowly releases years of energy soaked up from the sun, the air, and the ground, keeping the camp brightly lit. 

Smoke swirls above and dissipates into the atmosphere. You are far enough from any large human settlement that you see the night sky in all its clarity. Around you now are the soft voices of acquaintances filtered between conversations; none you could hear properly, but the sounds were still soothing, coming in hushed tones that add to the intimate atmosphere. 

Flames dance on their cheeks, illuminating the prominent parts of their faces. You’re sitting beside the water’s edge with your pelt strewn across your lap, close enough to feel the warmth as it crackles and spits, watching the way they love each other. 

Kaminari has fished out a big bottle from his bag, dramatically popping the cork, and is steadily passing it around. Alcohol, you guessed. Sero took a heavy swig without flinching. Mina had tried to do the same and now has her head pillowed by Kirishima’s thigh, thick and sturdy as a human, and his fingers stroked through the curly by her temple aimlessly as he lost himself in discussion. Sensing your gaze, she meets your eyes and smiles dazedly, lids fluttering. 

You look away, take a breath and notice the air tastes like sake and smoke. Darkness covers the lake. Under the waxing moon your face stares back at you, swimming among minnows and echoes of stars. It ripples where you dip your fingertips, mind empty, anaesthetised by the chill.  

“You idiots never pace yourselves,” Bakugo’s voice rumbled over the flames and rolled over your skin. He is sitting closest to you, legs loosely crossed in the dirt . “If you throw up on Red tomorrow I’m not cleaning it up”. 

Kaminari shakes the bottle in his direction. The bubbles fizz upward, some spilling out. “Such a stick in the mud, Kacchan. We gotta celebrate your marriage somehow!” 

Sero cackles as the other two chime in agreement.  You stroke your pelt, restless at the mention of your union, and it soaks up the water from your fingers. Surprisingly, Bakugo lets it slide, though not before scooping the loose earth into his hand and throwing it at an oncoming Kaminari. 

Eyes of amber briefly flicker over your form in his approach. Kaminari drops into the empty space beside you and pulls the bottle from his mouth with a resounding pop, leaving behind a wet sheen, and tilts it forward. “You too,” he grinned. “Congrats. Our boy is quite the catch, y’know”. 

“So I can see,” you smile, letting the gloom be pulled right out of you, your fingers wrapping around the bottle's neck. They grazing his own and spark static. Neither of you comment on it, his squinted stare fixed curiously on your expression as you bring the finish to your lips. 

The aroma is rich, sweet like overly ripe bananas. You tip back, feeling it dry and bitter on your tongue. There are hints of vanilla and brown sugar, a sting to your throat that begs you to cough. You hear a quiet laugh. 

“Too strong?” Sero teases lightheartedly from across the campfire. 

Your expression twists, “It’s good. But it burns. Is that normal?”

“That’s why it’s good,” Kaminari snickers. You clear your throat, handing the bottle back, attention drawn back to the lake in a beat of comfortable silence. “Oh, hey. I did want to say— you can swim if you need to, y’know”. 

“Hm?”

“Kiri has all sorts of weird urges if he doesn’t shift for a while. Gets all restless and snappy,” Kaminari gives a knowing look to the man in question. Kirishima nods at you, his features taut with sincerity. “So if you want to swim for a while or something we totally get it”. 

You’re flustered by their earnestness, gripping at your pelt, all too aware of it. Slipping into your other form feels far too personal; well meaning as they are, they’re still strangers to you. “That’s— I’m alright,” you politely decline, “my needs as a seal aren’t really felt while I’m like this”. 

A surprised noise resonates from Kirishima, Mina unmoving from her place in his lap but watching with rapt curiosity. “You’re practically human right now, then?” he asks. 

“Practically,” you give a self conscious shrug. Somehow admitting it felt like stripping yourself. Confessing to a weakness. Unsettled, you deflect the subject back. “Do you keep your dragon traits as a human?”

“Nah, not while I’m in this form. I don’t even have my hydrogen glands— look,” Kirishima hooks his fingers into his cheeks to spread them wider. You lean in for a closer look. The glow from the campfire illuminates the back of his throat— barely, and ironically. His tongue wiggles as he tries to lay it flat. You’re not sure what he’s trying to show you. You’ve  never seen a dragon’s maw before, but aside from the shark-like teeth his mouth really does seem the same as any other man’s. 

“Pretty boring, right?” his words come garbled around his fingers and so he pulls them out, wiping the spit on his pants. “But even though I can’t breathe fire right now, I can do this!”

You stare in surprise as the skin along his forearm hardens into tough scales. He holds it out to you in permission to touch; they feel jagged under your fingertips, tough like the bark of an ancient tree. “That’s amazing. You have your own shield,” you breathe, awed. 

“Damn right,” Bakugo interjects. There’s that unfettered pride again. Kirishima’s cheeks redden and you sympathise with him. In your short time with them you knew receiving praise from Bakugo felt like standing under the sun. “Should‘ve seen him as a kid,” he continues, eyes alight and mirthful. “Had scales like wet paper. Even cried when he first shifted”. 

“D’you have to bring that up,” Kirishima groans, though not upset by it. He shares in the amusement, uplifted by the sound of his friends' laughter, and pouts playfully in your direction. “It was scary!” 

Mina giggles. Her movements are sluggish and dopey as she waves her arm in Kaminari’s direction, who then stretches around the pit to Sero, who then passes it off to her. She takes a quick sip, free hand pinching Kirishima’s cheek. “Wasn't your first time an accident, too? That’s so cute”. 

“He sneezed actually,” Sero supplies, smirk crooked, foot tapping Kirishima’s ankle in a preemptive apology. “Destroyed half his house”. 

Kaminari slaps his knee, “Man, you were stumbling around like a newborn foal. It was hilarious”. 

Bakugo grinned as the others bickered, a fond, radiant thing that lit up his whole face. He’s softer like this, drenched in warmth. Cloak tucked behind his shoulders you are given the view of his broad chest. And when he finally looks at you, his half lidded gaze has been softened by his third swig; though he remained considerably sober compared to his companions. 

“What’re you starin’ at?” he mutters.

“Nothing,” you answer quickly, then, quieter, “It’s just nice that you’ve all been together for so long”. 

“Since we were snot-nosed brats. We hail from the same clan. Deku too,” he replies, elbow propped on his knee, chin cupped in his palm. “Getting sick of seeing their faces at every turn”. 

“Liar,” you hum amusedly. “What do humans call it…? Emotionally constipated”. 

His eyes slide over you, brow quirked. With his friends distracted he is more emboldened giving you attention. “Got some liquor down your neck and suddenly you’re givin’ me cheek?” 

“Guess so,” you feel yourself endeared by your not-husband. The pleasant honeyed sensation shrouding your body must’ve loosened your tongue. “Anyone can see they’re like family to you”. 

The barbarian kisses his teeth and shifts himself toward you, an ugly look on his face. You catch his peek at your pelt. “What about you?”

“Me?”

Bakugo grunts. “Yeah. You got family?” 

If not for the alcohol that question might’ve sucked all the joy from the air. You settle on a sad smile, dragging your fingertip through the dirt to draw a vague seal shape. “That’s hard to answer,” you intoned gently, barely audible over the crackling fire. “My memories of them are vague. The longer I stay human the more I forget”. He frowns, but you continue, unperturbed, “Usually it would be the same thing in reverse, if we weren’t bonded I would likely forget all of this”. 

“And you’re okay with that?” he says, some edge to his tone. “You’re okay with being stuck here?” 

The ‘with me’ goes unspoken but you hear it, and you fall silent. Because you have no answer. You’d had months to reconcile a pallid future— at one point you thought you would never again see the ocean, least of all your family. It was probable that they’d already moved on without you. 

“I don’t feel stuck,” you admit. His actions and his words, albeit harsh, proved that to be true. Aside from the obvious differences from your previous capture, the biggest is that you are equally in possession of Bakugo’s individual liberty— you’re married, you mentally amend, not in possession. While it is true you wouldn’t be able to stray far from him with the bond established, you held your pelt, independence, control. 

A near imperceptible tension seeps from him at your answer. “What about you?”

He scoffs, stretching out his legs. The soles of his boots drag in the dirt. “Do I look fuckin’ stuck?” 

“No,” you murmur with amusement, turning to gaze at the flickering pyre. “A man that can fly hundreds of miles on dragonback in a single day certainly isn’t stuck”. 

“Now you’re getting it”.

The other conversation has worn into soft murmurings. Kirishima drunkenly hands off the last of the alcohol to Bakugo, gesturing to the three who’ve surrounded him and fallen asleep. As the dragon shifter repositions himself to join them, curled together like a pack of seal pups, Bakugo takes a sip. 

There’s probably only a mouthful left and you accept it when he offers. “You should sleep, too”. 

You heed his instruction and lie down on your side, your pelt pillowed under your head. The smell of home swaddles you. “Early rise, right?” he nods, leaning back onto his arms. “How long do you think it’ll take to find the—uh, occultist?” 

“A week if she’s where she’s supposed to be,” he scowls. You’re not sure what draws the heat to your face; the drink or his voice, now gravelly with fatigue. “Three at most”. 

“Okay,” you exhale, eyes fluttering closed. “Thank you, Bakugo”. 

A soft breeze dances through the brush. Your skin pebbles, shivers slipping down your spine. Something heavy drapes over you and encases you in a warm cocoon. Fluff tickles at your nose. Your fingers curl into the familiar red fabric of Bakugo’s cloak. He has pointedly angled away from you, ready to ignore any attempt at interrogation. The gruff act of kindness makes your heartbeat faster. Fondness settles in your chest, so big that it aches. His natural scent mixes with yours and it’s like being laid on the shoreline, stitching sea and land together. 

“Don’t fuckin’ thank me yet,” the muscles in his back ripple as he tends to the dwindling fire, declaring with conviction, “Just follow me. I’ll fix this and get you home”. 

You lick your lips, mouth dry from the alcohol. In that very moment you want to tell him that the ocean and the sky are like a two way mirror; that when you were up there with him, strangely, your body thought it was at home. 

Instead, you close your eyes and watch the embers paint yellow and orange kaleidoscopes behind your eyelids. 

Instead, you sleep. 

The weeks that follow are arduous. Uraraka is nowhere to be found, and your group resorted to searching the areas of iridian growth Midoriya circled. 

You weren’t used to hiking up mountainous lands, navigating forests or scaling dragons, not in the beginning. Rising with the sun, enduring unpredictable changes in weather, wincing through the ache that grew in your weaker human muscles, Bakugo found your crankiness amusing and irritating all at once; never missing an opportunity to comment on your lack of stamina, then using it as an excuse to assist where assistance is not truly needed. 

But you saw through him, and let him. You did not need help climbing, yet your hands weaved together so he could pull you up. You’re soon practiced in saddling Kirishima, yet you always wait for Bakugo to put his arm around your lower back every ride. Your inner voice sings whenever he brings you food— begrudgingly, he throws it into your lap and grunts like the barbarian he is— or hangs his cloak over your head without a word as though you were a rack. It’s a little more charged every time you interact, and you found you liked being taken care of in those subtle ways that did not undermine your independence. 

The others noticed and teased accordingly. They call him a dutiful husband and his aggravated explosions saw you driven out of two small settlements for startling livestock. You become closer to each of them. Their patchwork family makes room for you quicker than you know what to do with. And you enjoy it; learning about the people around you, peeling back the rind of their lives piece by piece with mundane questions, seeing what they’re made up of.

You learn Kaminari enjoys literature, dramatically reciting love tales in the night, referencing poems you’ve never heard. He’s charming but never with actual intention. It is somehow more endearing that he doesn’t know his own allure, finding comfort in the role of a jester. Mina is pure joy wrapped in flesh. Apologetically overbearing and well meaning. Like an older sister she showed you how to securely fashion your pelt—over one shoulder, a belt fastened around the waist, keeping it in place— and let you use her combs. She speaks fast when she’s happy, hits hard when she laughs and gossips avidly, picking up new information wherever she goes. 

Kirishima looked at you with kindness and iron surety in his eyes from the start. Good natured and feeling— he has a heart so big that he apologises to a flower bed after he steps on it. There’s a natural fraternal air about him that sets you at ease and the group’s clear affection and appreciation for him diminished any worry about your own treatment as a shifter.

But of everyone else in the group you found Sero the most easygoing. Conversation came fluidly and your initial diffidence was thrown by how naturally you were able to fall into place with him. He lends an ear to any questions you have, practised in the art of human interaction; a man capable of adapting to any one person he comes into contact with. As such, he is the member sent to negotiate, collect information, and make arrangements. 

When you make it to the last destination on the map you are drenched in a time-steeped sunset. Sero trudges back through the brush, returning from the nearby port town. Landing at such a late hour Sero had been tasked with finding the local tavern to buy a few rooms for the night, and the lazy thumbs up he waves from a distance is proof he accomplished his goal.

“They don’t get too many travellers passing through here so I swiped up three rooms,” he huffs, coming to a stop and brushing the dirt off his pants. “They’ve got a bathhouse, too”. 

Bakugo makes a noise of approval, lifting a bag over his shoulder while Kirishima carries the rest under his arms and  flashes a toothy smile. “Glad it went smoothly, man”. 

“Thank the Gods,” Kaminari cheers, clapping his friend on the back. “You’re a lifesaver. I can’t wait to sleep on an actual bed again”. 

“Uh huh. Two twin rooms for us lowly minions,” Sero continues, his grin curling into something more sly. You get a sense of foreboding. “And of course, a double room for the newlyweds”. 

Mina whistles, slipping her hand into yours and tugging. You freeze, heart in your throat, and force yourself to relax, not yet used to how tactile they can be. She’s too invested in Bakugo’s response to notice. Your eyes flicker over to find him red faced and incensed, knuckles white with the pressure he has around the drawstrings of his bag. 

Sharing a room with Bakugo. Alone. Thus far you’d all been together. Either under the stars or in caves, or packed into cramped quarters stuffed with wattle and daub if a villager felt kind enough. 

“You've got exactly five seconds to explain why you thought that was a good idea”.

Sero quickly put his palms up in surrender. “You gave me a budget, Bakugo. They offered to lower the price as a wedding gift. I figured it would be okay for one night”. 

Bakugo jerks his head in your direction, his steely glare unmoving. The tips of his ears are pink, too, frustration unfolding across his skin. “You don’t get to decide that,” he chided, tone harsh like a hiss. 

Suddenly, Sero looks rather ashamed of himself. “Shit, I’m sorry. Should’ve asked,” he says to you, rubbing at his neck as his head lowers. It’s unlike him to be so wilted— and all because of your potential discomfort. 

You meet Bakugo’s eyes, gleaming intensely, already trying to scrutinise your reaction. Mina hums quietly. She tightens grip on your hand again in reassurance, the other running along your bicep. “If you want I can swap with you”. 

Bakugo snorts at that, as if the idea was ridiculous, but he doesn’t shoot it down despite his clear aversion to sharing with Mina. You understood his disbelief. They behaved much like siblings, squabbling and poking at one another. It’d rouse suspicion and you didn’t fancy being chased out of town for swindling the keepers for a discount. 

“Thank you guys. But it’s alright,” you reassured, mouth lifting into a small smile and reciprocating Mina‘s gentle squeeze. “I don’t mind sleeping with Bakugo”. 

A few beats of silence. You see Bakugo’s expression slip, jaw loose and eyes wide for a brief moment before it twists. He turns away from the group as a chorus of suggestive crowing erupts. 

Understanding your mistake almost immediately hot mortification comes over you, stifling beneath the pelt on your shoulder. “Shut up, you useless fuckin’ perverts,” Bakugo snaps, flustered and wild, swatting at the nearest victim. Kirishima feigns a wounded noise. 

“Hey, I didn’t do anything!”

“Just get moving,” the barbarian marches onward, tearing his way through the overgrowth and heading for the tavern. “And walk behind me!”

His choleric mutters continue, heard even at a distance. Tucking your chin to your chest, you hide your laughter in your silken pelt as you follow after him, mouth filling with a comforting briney scent. You think Bakugo undeniably cute when he’s embarrassed; a sight you’ve had the pleasure of seeing more than once on account of his pod. That feeling from the campfire returns, fills your chest, pulsing through to your fingertips, tempting you to reach out, to touch him. 

More and more you’re inundated with the need to be close. You quell the urge and tighten your grip on Mina, her cheek squished to your shoulder, loose curls the colour of blossom tickling your throat. “Don’t worry. He’s not really mad,” she tells you furtively, as if it were a big secret. 

“I know,” gaze lingering on Bakugo’s back, covered by that thick red cloak, you wonder if your scent still clings to it. Contentedly, “I’m getting used to it”. 

The town is beautiful. Bursting with flora and fauna, accentuated by the dusk, ocean curling around the village in a way that reminds you of mother. Nature's cradle. You cling protectively to your pelt, scenting the salt in the air and hovering closer to Bakugo. If anybody could identify a selkie skin it would be fishermen. Stray drunken locals stumble by, arm in arm with boisterous cheer. You’re greeted like a long lost friend, neither person recognising your true identity. Humans really can be hearty and genuine at their core. Life before had been so desolate in comparison, so lacking in love and colour. 

“Oi,” Bakugo beckons you to his side. When you don’t fall in line he grabs your wrist, pulling you close. His natural body heat lingers like a brand. “Make sure you call me Katsuki from now on,” he instructs under his breath. 

You blink at the unexpected request. The muscles in his face are tight, twitching, and his nose flares the longer you stare. Given names are important to humans in this region. Sharing them is an intimate thing, a sign of your close relationship. “Are you sure?” 

“Wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t sure,” he punishes your questioning with the fleeting tightening of his grip. You can’t help it. He’s pink again and you like it. “I’m your husband, yeah? So call me by my fuckin’ name”. 

The keeper waits surreptitiously by a sheltered stairwell leading to the inn above her tavern. A small Elven woman, uncloaked, the lantern overhead creating a halo of light to circle her ginger crown. She perks up when Sero hands over a small velvet sack, the drawstrings pulled tight. “For the rooms,” he emphasises, coins chiming dully against one another as he shakes it. The woman takes it and cradles the payment to her breast, exchanging the gold for three keys. 

You’re guided up the stairwell and into the building, presented with a narrow corridor. There are numerous doors, decorative runes carved into the frames, a coloured piece of string hung from each handle corresponding to the colour of the keys.  “It’s good to see some youngins pass through. We only ever get the same old geezers around here,” she says, “Makes for a mundane life”. 

The crows' feet wrinkle by her eyes when she smiles, laughter lines framing her mouth. She hands out the keys to your pod who all rush in childish excitement to see their rooms. At last she turns to where you stand stiffly beside Katsuki. 

You’re handed a key. The stem is long and thin and made with copper, the key wards in the bit uniquely shaped to your door. Threaded through the bow is a lavender string. “It isn’t much but I hope you will be comfortable for the night,” with a wink, she adds, “Congratulations to you both”. 

“Thank you. We will be in your care,” your reply is tremulous, undecided whether to be pleased with the sincere acknowledgement of your marriage or nervous to be seen through. At your side, the large barbarian grunts. 

It is uncharacteristic of him; always very respectful of his elders. You lean against him, just a nudge. His attention snaps to you and you smile innocently. “Be polite, Katsuki”. 

Like it was meant to be spoken only by you, Katsuki’s name sits right in your mouth, lips shaping around the characters softened by warm intonation. The reaction is instantaneous. His jaw ticks. His faint blush returns. His stoic expression wanes as he looks to the keeper, who is observing the interaction with mirthful eyes. Lowering his head he mutters, “We appreciate your hospitality, ma’am”. 

“You’re quite darlin’ together, aren’t you,” she comments heartily, mostly to herself, as if airing her thoughts. “We got good food and drinks downstairs, do come if you’re hungry! Blessings be upon you”. 

On her departure you enter the room. Spangles of light dusted the air. While it clearly isn’t lived in, it is homely. You canvas the space. Two square-headed windows facing the street are covered by thin cloth. There is an old, tattered tapestry strung across the wall to cover up a fist sized hole, a patterned glass vase and various other unique tchotchke adorning the shelves. You drag your fingers across the brick fireplace opposite a wide double bed, mattress made of wool but compensated by the many feather pillows and blankets. 

“This is good,” you say, “homely”. Though there is an animal hide on the floor, which you find rather… untoward. A soothing musky smell with overtones of caramel and vanilla rising through the cracks in the floorboards from the tavern below. You breathe it in deeply. 

“It’ll do,” Katsuki voices his agreement and drops his bag with a conclusive thud. “Let me hide our stuff and we can meet with the others for food downstairs. You haven’t eaten in hours”. 

The small consideration makes your heart flutter. “Ah. I’ll be there soon,” you tell him. He squints at you, attempting to mentally pry the answers out of you. “I’m okay, Katsuki. I just need a minute”. 

Pausing in the centre of the room, Katsuki scrutinises you. You fidget under his intense appraisal, undecided whether it pleases you or not. It is strange to want something that often leaves you feeling excruciatingly… exposed. 

You wait apprehensively and wonder if he’ll comment on your use of his name— needless, this time. After all there are no ears or eyes in these walls. You’re not sure what you’ll do if he asks you to stop. 

“Are you sure?” you nod, mouth strained in a thin smile. Bakugo frowns but ultimately gives you your space. “Make sure you catch up. If you’re not down in ten minutes I’m coming back”. 

“I will,” you land heavily on the edge of the bed, wrinkling the sheets as you unclip your pelt. The collar of your ill-fitted shirt slips forward with the motion to reveal cleavage, and Bakugo immediately averts his gaze. 

“Whatever,” he rasps, unexpectedly shy. The door slams as he leaves. You right the collar, tugging it back up, lips pressed thin to repress the laughter that bubbles in your chest. Aimless and left to your own devices you take a solitary moment to groom the pelt in your lap, marbled and downy-soft. Brushing through the coat, fingertips trace the rings of black and brown.

Things are so different. Being a person is more overwhelming than you imagined. Being locked away had kept you in a state of inertia, suffocating in numb misery, but now you were left to grapple with the immense spectrum of human emotion. Urges and wants that you had never experienced before meeting Katsuki. 

You swallow, staring at the spaces between your fingers. Spaces filled with short tan fur. Selkie marriages were simultaneously complicated and simple. Rather, they were so simple that they bore unnecessary complications. 

A stolen pelt creates a one sided bond but upon return it is consummated. Between two selkies in courting pelts were exchanged, solidifying their promise to one another, deeply unified by their magic. Elder podmates said that it meant they belonged to only one another. Abandoning the tides, in a way. 

Since being a pup the voice of the sea was a ceaseless whisper you were always aware of. Yet since Katsuki held your seal skin, unknowingly cradled your very being and returned it to you with only sincere intention, that voice had gradually been ebbing away. 

Would there come a day that you no longer recalled your identity as a selkie—? No. You quickly smother the thought. The immaterial, chimerical magic that made up your very being could never be forgotten. And deep down, you knew Katsuki would not let you. Indeed, you can only picture his surly retaliation if you ever woke up and could not recall your lineage. 

With that you get to your feet. Ten minutes would soon pass and his probable wrath was enough motivation. You consider the pelt in your grasp and give a surreptitious glance around the room for somewhere to hide it. Taking it into a tavern full of drunken strangers and mariners seemed like a much worse idea. 

After rolling it up tight you stuff it behind the pillows at the head of the bed, further pulling over the coverlets. The hallway is quiet when you step out. You lock the door, tensing at the loud click. You can hear muffled laughter rising through the floors. 

It grows in volume when you step out into the evening air. Slurred conversation and bickering pour through the tavern windows. At front is a large, arched door, overshadowed by a dark blue awning. The wood panels are weatherworn and rustic, covered in rivets. You reach for the brass handle. It’s heavy in your palm as you turn it, using your full strength to push forward. 

First, you are met with a crescendo of boisterous cheers. Stepping inside, your eyes are drawn to the green dyed sailcloths hung from the rafters above the bar. The establishment is modestly sized, enough that there is a longtable set up in the centre of the room and a fair few smaller roundtables dotted with stools. 

Across the far end of the tavern is a line of small booths, separated by wooden screens decorated with mosaic carvings. Oil lamps are hooked on the walls, casting a warm sepia hue that seems to cohesively bring everything together. It felt welcoming, and intimate, like approaching a friend by the fire. 

You try to seek out a familiar head of blonde hair. The place is busy but nobody bats an eyelid at your entrance, lively enough that you cannot hear clearly above the overlapping voices around you, intermingling with the low playing of music. 

“Lost, stranger?”

You startle. 

She finds you easily, like she’d been waiting. Mina curls an arm around your back, pressure light as if she was suddenly worried about being too familiar. It tightens when you lean into her and she smiles with more vigour. 

“C’mon. Let’s get you something to eat”. 

The distance between you and them is barely that of a crevice, but it is daunting, yawning like a trench. Over in the far left booth, both secluded and closest to the bar, is a group of friends. Directly beneath a lantern strung onto a hook, Katsuki is bathed in orange and nursing a drink. The others are tucked away in the booth, cups and plates lining the table top. Their laughter slows as you approach and you battle the urge to recoil from everyone’s eye. Mina, sensing the discomfort, begins to rub her hand along your back. 

“All of you scoot up,” she asserted, wiggling her pointer finger. “Make some space for us!”

They move around on the long, curved seat to make space. You end up on Katsuki’s right, sandwiched in by Sero who smiles, though awkward, earlier remorse persisting as you take your place beside him. “What’s the verdict, are you happy with your room? Best I got from Bakugo is a grunt”. 

“Yeah, I like it. You did good picking this place. It’s cosy,” you glance over toward Katsuki. “Beats a cave. The fireplace is nice. I wonder if it works…”

Mina tucks into Kirishima’s side where he sits across from you. Most of the plates are piled up in front of him, food aplenty to sate his dragon-sized appetite. His chin dimples as his bottom lip juts forward, “You guys get a fireplace? That’s so unfair”. 

“C’mon, Kiri. The fireplace is there for…”—Kaminari leans in, suggestively lowering his voice and nudging Katsuki’s left arm—“…ambiance”. 

You feel a gentle nudge. Katsuki, ignoring his friend's harmless influx of innuendos, slides a glass across the table toward you. “What is it?” you ask, bringing it to your lips. The liquid is dark, red like fresh blood, but it smells fruity. Before he can tell you, you’ve taken a sip. 

It is weighty on your tongue, unlike anything you’ve tasted before. Cherries and jam and oddly well paired notes of spicy tobacco. The corner of his mouth curls into a barely there smile, pleased at the immediate delighted sound. He brings forward a large opened bottle and presents it to you. 

“Barmaid gave us this to share,” Katsuki taps at the calligraphy on the label. “It’s wine. Expensive too, usually”. 

“Guess marriage does have benefits,” Sero gibed, raising a glass of amber liquid you assume to be beer. Expression open in sincere merriment, he declares, “To the happy couple!” 

Six glasses come together, toasting to your accidental bond, alcohol spilling over your hands. Katsuki’s cup is there too, his monotonous voice blending into their hurrahs. A hand slides from the back of the booth to rest upon your shoulders and you lean into it, heat prickling over your skull at the feel of his bare skin. Blood thinning, belly full, inhibitions lost to bliss. 

Mina brings her hands together in a succinct clap, weaving her fingers. “Another round!” she beams, and the enthusiasm stirs once more. 

The evening crawls on. Your modest group barely puts a dent into the chaotic din but it sure can eat. You’re made to swallow your fill under Katsuki’s direction—watching you closer than he did anyone else—and savour the dishes, heady and complimented by your flavoursome wine. 

Stories pass through loosened lips, new and old. You don’t mention it when Kaminari repeats himself twice over— nobody else does, either. You all sink into the balmy atmosphere, sharing food and conversation, relaxing entirely for what felt like the first time in months. 

Sero chokes on his drink as Kirishima recounts the story of when he and Katsuki first became friends. How the tiny blonde barbarian would sneak up on him through the bushes, throw rocks at his tender head, and challenge him to battle all in pursuit of friendship. 

Your shoulders shake, burrowing into Katsuki’s side to sap his warmth. Bare skin pebbles as your fingertips skim his ribs, poking near his armpit. “Would it kill you to communicate like a normal person?”

Trembling mouth pressed firmly together, Katsuki refuses to give anyone the satisfaction of making him laugh. You see through it plain as day. “Shut up,” he grumbles.  

“Didn’t even flinch when ma threatened to eat him if I came home with any more teeth missing,” Kirishima continued, sighing happily. “My bro is so manly”. 

Steadily the energy begins to dwindle into a pleasant hum. You’re together, drunk on wine and laughter and a sense of harmony. Being with them is startlingly effortless. It feels like family. 

In the recesses of your mind you think, I don’t want to let go. 

“Hey,” Katsuki says, sharper when nobody hears him. “Hey, shitheads”. You lift your head from where it had come to rest on his shoulder, cheek slightly numb. “Think I’m going to head up”.

You hear a chorus of sluggish objections with no real heat behind them. While he’s fighting off their interrogation you simply watch him, awkwardly angled and ignoring the twinge in your neck. The bead in his braid glints in the low light. 

Sensing your stare, Katsuki looks down at you, dappled by lamp light. The flames dance in his irises, gaze unbearably soft, as it had been that first night by the campfire. You hold your breath when he sets his thumb with his tongue and uses it to wipe a crumb from your cheek. The touch is like a spark to flint. A fleeting sort of hope stirs in your chest, like this is all you’d been waiting for, that the universe was finally making things right for you. 

Then he snatches his hand back, as though waking up to what he was doing. 

“I’m going to bed. You idiots better behave,” he groused, returning his focus to the group. You mourn his attention. “If we get kicked out early I’ll kill you”. 

“You love us too much,” Mina tucks her drunken smirk into the cradle of her palm, arm almost slipping with the weight. Cloudy eyes follow Katsuki as he forces his way out of the booth like a bull. “Admit it!” 

Bending at the waist he meets her stare head on and deadpans, “Die”. Mina merely laughs and plants a kiss on his forehead that he aggressively rubs away as he leaves. 

You stay a little longer but find your mood dampening. Katsuki’s absence makes known an ache usually quelled by the weight of your pelt, almost as though his presence had placated that innate yearning for home. The thought leaves you dizzy. 

“I think I’m going to go, too,” you announce out of the blue. 

Expressions fall, concerned. Kaminari tilts into your space. You barely even blink at the proximity now. “Everything alright? Y’dont feel sick or anything, do you?” 

“No, not at all—“ he frowns at you, unconvinced, “—I just feel like going for a soak before bed. Sero, you said there was a bathhouse?” 

Sero perks up at his name and nods loosely, head barely held by his neck. “Yeah! They’re around the back, apparently. Just walk beyond the stairwell,” he shoots you a thumbs up. “They’re mixed but only guests can use ‘em, so don’t worry about it being crowded”. 

That’s comforting to know. If luck was on your side it would be empty. You duck out of the tavern with a final wave and a promise to see them in the morning. Thankfully the boisterous chatter grows dull as you step into the night air, stopping to look up the stairwell. You hope Katsuki can sleep through it. 

Heeding Sero’s instructions you follow the beaten path around the back of the tavern. There you discover another building, smaller, but with a steeped tile roof and shuttered windows. Curious, you gently lift the green dyed curtain hung in the doorway and enter the earthen-floored threshold. 

You are led to what you guess is a small changing area. Cabinets left open, again each handle corresponding the key colours. You find a lavender ribbon and peer around the empty space, contemplating getting undressed. 

Gathering courage you pull the strings in your shirt slack, slipping your arms from the sleeves and pulling it over your head. Tepid air breathes over your skin as you push down your pants, stepping out of them where they pool at your feet. Your clothes are folded and left on the shelf, boots lined neatly by the doorway. 

Further in is an open space covered in tiles of smooth green. There are low stools and basins with natural running water, washcloths and soaps. While unpracticed you are at least somewhat familiar with bathhouse etiquette. Sitting hesitantly, hissing as your bare thighs meet the cool wood, you dip one of the cloths to soak and begin to scrub at your body. 

The knots in your muscles become undone with the repetitive motions, again and again until you’re lathered in bubbles. You breathe in, feeling the humidity cling to your lungs, and rinse away the soaps. 

Eventually you dub yourself clean enough to enter the baths. The seafoam tiles soon taper to stone that borders the baths. You take in the tall ceiling with beautiful carvings along the walls and high placed glass windows allowing the moon to shine in easily. The patterns are comfortingly familiar. Shells, waves, gulls, rock formations and arches. Though the bathhouse is much warmer, hot tendrils of steam rising from the bubbling water. 

Penumbral light glinted on the water's surface. It held a distinct earthy scent, rolling in from the nearby springs. Again, you are reminded of a tide pool, but deeper. Clear and clean and natural. What immediately seizes your attention is the familiar man sitting close by, a head of wet golden hair still somehow holding its shape, the loose strands that typically make up his braid now tucked behind his ear. 

Katsuki tips back to rest on the bath's edge. A thin white towel is laid across his face. Your gaze follows the slope of his shoulders, roving over his defined chest, skin pink with the heat. Rivulets run between his pecs to his sternum, lower body distorted below the water but patently bare, same as you. You exhale a breath you hadn’t known you were holding and quickly look away from his lap. 

Time spent with Katsuki taught you that he hated being treated delicately. Tip toeing around this was not an option. You would join him in the baths and behave as normal. But—

Humans were fickle about nakedness. Where should you sit? What is an appropriate distance? Straying too far could make him defensive, yet getting too close might—

“Are you going to stand there all night?” 

Startled, the soles of your feet almost slip on the smoothed stone. “You knew it was me?” 

Katsuki scoffs. The towel remains over his eyes, obstructing his view, that which you were grateful for. Your previous indifference had so abruptly burgeoned into apprehension. Just the thought that he might see you this glaringly bare and skinless, a body without boundaries, made your stomach swoop. It is a peculiar sensation; you wanted him to look and you didn’t. 

“Nobody else thinks that loud. Unless you’re Deku,” you can imagine his eyes rolling, the exasperation clear in his voice, though not unkind. The corded muscles in his shoulders shift beautifully as his arm stretches across the bath’s edge, wrist limp to allow his fingertips to breach the surface. He flicks the water in your direction, creating capillary waves. “Just— fuckin’ get in already”.  

“Right,” you laugh quietly under your breath, descending the steps into the baths. The heated water is soothing, climbing the length of your lengths, eventually coming to rest above your hips. 

You sink near to him and pointedly keep your eyes above his collar. Katsuki neither twitches nor acknowledges your approach. In fact, you aren’t sure he is even breathing. It occurs to you that he too could be nervous, tempted to look but refraining. The possibility of being wanted by him brings a sudden sharp sort of awareness that slides through you and heightens your senses. 

Outstretched fingertips brush featherlight between your shoulder blades where you lean back against the wall. You sit with your knees close to your breast, relieved to be covered. “I thought you were heading to bed,” you comment quietly. 

“Saw the path and followed it,” he replies, stiff shoulder jerking as he shrugs. “Wanted some quiet”. 

A deep pink flush is spreading across his collarbones, clawing up the column of his throat. Your rational mind knows it is caused by the steam, yet the greedy part of you, the part so distinctly human, wants to know if you affect him as much as he affects you. 

These feelings had gradually been accumulating since the very beginning. You’ve no idea where to put them. The voice in your hindbrain all but panics at the idea of leaving. You’ve spent a lifetime listening to your instincts and they’re telling you to keep your place at his side. 

You inhale until the pressure in your chest is smothered by your lungs and your heart beat slows. Exhale. The water shifts in sync with your subtle movement. Emboldened by the wine in your veins you slide closer. The soft hair on your legs prickles, everything in you gravitating toward him. Katsuki doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“Always staring,” a flustered growl snaps you back to reality. “You got something to say to me?” 

“No,�� you answer too quickly. 

“Good,” his upper body sinking lower. After a length of silence it must get to him. Voice pitched low, as though afraid to disturb the atmosphere, he mutters, “Ever had a bath this big, back at that shitty castle?” 

You snort. He turns at the sound and the surface ripples as you quickly smother it with your wet palm. It’s easy to picture the searing glare beneath the face towel. “Sorry. It’s just,” your mouth pulls into a tipsy grin. “All things considered, this place is pretty small to me”. 

“Dumbass. You know what I meant,” he huffs, not bothering to hide his fond exasperation. “The sea doesn’t count”. 

Humans are cute, you concluded. Trying to emulate the ocean in their warm wooden structures. “It counts,” you insist, moving closer still. You’re giddy in the water, with him. Like you’re sharing some special part of yourself in a strange way. “Have you been?”

A rough hum, “Where?” 

“The sea”. 

“Which one?” 

The steam must be making you light headed. You’re tucked to his side again. Thigh to thigh. Skin against skin. You are acutely aware of your shared nakedness. His arm has slipped over the bath's edge to drape around your shoulders. “The closest, obviously. Or any of them,” you knock your knees together. “It’s not like you to be purposefully obtuse”. 

“Big attitude for a little fish,” he mutters, free hand reaching for the towel, sliding it up to his hairline and revealing a crooked grin. Your heart squeezes. “Course I’ve been in the ocean. Flown over it on Red a few times too”. 

You want to do that, too. To bear witness to the wind driving the currents from above, feel the sea salt spray sharp on your cheeks, touch the unreachable seam where your two worlds become indistinguishable.

“Never bathed in it, though?” 

“No,” he drawled, an impatient edge to his tone. “I don’t plan on giving the finfolk an eyeful of my dick anytime soon”. 

You laugh, “Like you are now, you mean?”

Katsuki tears off the face towel before you’ve any time to process it. The water thrashes. You daren’t look away. His stare has a certain ferality, pupils dilated, fair lashes damp from the steam and clumped into little spikes; it pins you in place like prey. 

The blush across his chest is matched in his cheeks. A droplet slides down the delicate slope of his nose. You feel the surface of the water calm and settle just above your breast. You watch his gaze flicker reflexively to them, then to the ceiling, then clamping shut with a growl. Apprehension pulses through you and your thighs clench. 

“You—” he inhales sharply, gathering his thoughts. You track the movement of his tongue as it swipes across his lips. Thickly, Katsuki asks, “What are you trying to do here, exactly?” 

A sense of dejection comes over you and your immediate response is to feign innocence. “Soak with you,” which is no more than a half truth. You attempt to create some distance and his arm coils around your waist. Any effort to twist away from him proves futile; a snake that constricts the more you struggle. He doesn’t allow you to slip away, hand hot at your hip. 

“Yeah?” but there’s no real bite, no vitriol as he drags you closer. “Soaking, s’that what you call this? Rubbing up against me, practically climbing into my lap?”

You might feel demeaned if not for the lust hemming his words. His grip is bruising, fingers kneading soft flesh. You can see this for what it is— a choice, a question. He’s confused, and wanting. Presenting an opportunity for you to change your mind in the face of his callousness. Katsuki is kind, in his own way. 

Your palms come to rest over his sternum, pushing with no real effort, an accomplice in whatever cat and mouse game he was trying to play. His breathing picks up, abdomen clenching. You stare where bodies meet, low light reflecting off the wet sheen. Beneath your touch his heartbeat ricochets around his ribs. 

Katsuki calls you. Your name is barely above a whisper. Peering up through your lashes as his hand comes to cup your nape, the other massages simple shapes into your hip, his fingers splayed across your navel. You exhale shakily as his pinky fits into the crease of your thigh. 

He cradles your nape, guides you into his magnetism, and then you’re tilting— your world with it— into a careful kiss. Static blankets your thoughts. Katsuki’s lips slot over your own, a gentle press that quickly grows feverish as your tongue traces the seam of his mouth. 

Exhaling harshly through his nose he drags you over his lap, the bath water splashing onto the stone tiles, holding you to his front in a way that makes it difficult to discern where you end and he begins. You have all of him now. Half hard under you and tense like he was exerting effort not to do anything about it. Hands wandering, mapping out the topography of your body, clutching greedily at your thighs. Smoke fills your throat, a tang of explosive magic lingering in the grooves of your teeth. 

Minutes passed imperceptibly. You leave it feeling as though all the sinew in your body had unravelled, undone in his embrace like loose skeins of yarn. Katsuki doesn’t appear any more composed than you are; staring at you, slack with hunger, jaw relaxed the way a beast would do to taste the air. Palms cupping his cheeks, thumbs moving in idle back and forth motions under his eyes, you smile—

“Katsuki,” you murmur reverently. For reasons you can’t understand, it wakes him up. Snaps him out of his stupor. Panic flits over his features and you’re being pushed away, deposited back into the water. It rocks with the abrupt movement, waves breaking against your chest as he brusquely wades toward the steps with the small towel barely covering his modesty. 

Echoing louder now, “Katsuki?” 

And he was gone. 

You stare at the entrance to the baths for a long time, willing him to return. You stare until your eyes sting and you’re forced to blink. All that’s left is the soft sound of the running springs, your shallow breath, and the muffled chanting of a few drunken men. 

An emptiness makes home in your chest. Bereft, you follow in his steps, exiting the baths and heading to the changing room. You pat yourself down, rough towel absorbing the moisture, and pull on your clothes. 

A hopeful spark catches when a figure ducks in under the curtain. Snuffed out, then, when Mina greets you cheerily. She seems to have sobered up for the most part, more coherent than you’d last seen her. 

“You took a dip too?” she bounces on the balls of her feet as she undoes her shirt buttons, oblivious to your somber disposition. “I saw Bakugo come from this way too. Looked a little constipated if you ask me. I thought hot baths were supposed to relax you, not—”

Finally, she looks at you. Her voice stops as her brows pinch into a frown. You offer a brittle smile and endure the scrutiny. “Did something happen?” she asks worriedly. 

Your throat closes up. Your teeth sink into your cheek and lower your gaze to the tiled floor, cracks overlapping as your vision blurs. Mina reaches for you. She halts in your periphery, thoughts and actions misaligned. A flash of hesitance, and then determination. She strides across the threshold to pull you into an embrace. Her arms slip around your shoulders, crossing over one another at your nape, tightening. 

The tension begins to soften. Your body slumps, sinking into her kindhearted warmth as the rigidity weakens with your resolve. Bowing into the crook of her neck, you inhale her gentle scent. A soliflore smell, a flower you don’t know the name of, earthy undertones and hints of saké. 

Your eyes are wet. Tears cling to your lashes as you blink. The moths dancing in the lamp light blurs, small specks of white stretching and flickering like pallid butterflies. Breathing shuttered, there’s a thickness in your throat that squeezes your voice into a frail whisper. 

“Thank you”. 

She hums, rubbing a comforting hand along the top of your spine. Her natural heat seeps through the thin fabric of your shirt. Though her arms are muscled they are also supple, like her chest, like her waist. You haven’t been held like this since you last saw your podmates. 

After a few beats she asks, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

You shake your head, grasping your bearings, “No”. It’s best left between you and Katsuki. 

“If you’re sure,” Mina gives a final crushing hug before releasing you. “I’m bunking with Sero tonight. Knock if you need anything”. 

“I will,” you say on the end of a shuddering exhale. “I’ll see you in the morning”. 

She hums, watching apprehensively as you make your way through the changing rooms. The retention of her heat clings to your clothing when you step into the cold night air. Your boots rub at the sore skin around your ankles, fitting loose, having foregone tying the laces. They encumber your steps, obtrusively loud and ungainly on your journey up the stairwell. 

A closed door should not be so daunting. Your hand hovers over the handle, steadily turning it, flinching as the locks click open. Low light floods in from the hallway and your eyes adjust to the darkness between blinks, the shape of a figure under the covers sharpening into view. Katsuki is laid on his back, hand disappearing under the pillow beneath his head where your bunched up pelt resides. 

Hesitant, you shut the door and kick off your dirty shoes. You tiptoe around the frame and climb into bed. You try to alleviate your weight, balanced between your hands and knees so the mattress won’t dip, yet it is futile. “I’m sorry, Katsuki,” you whisper, feeling fragile as you lower into the linens. He’s awake, you can tell despite his efforts to appear otherwise, because you feel him stroking your sealskin between his thumb and forefinger. 

“…Shouldn’t have done that,” his cadence is unsettlingly calm; gently sheathing the sharp words. “We’ve been getting too comfortable, letting shit influence us. It was just the magic talking”. 

What? 

“It’s not—”

“Go to sleep,” the volume raises in momentary frustration, but as quick as it came, anger dissipating. Dropping his head into the pillows he looks as defeated as you feel. He closes his eyes. “I won’t fuckin’ do anything to you so just. Sleep”. 

You try, fitfully. The atmosphere is unbearable, keeping you glued to the far side of the bed lest you accidentally touch one another. Pressing your fingertips to your lips, you remember. You ache. You stare into the shadows and wonder at what point did the intentions become so crossed. 

Katsuki valued the right to choose above all else. You liked that about him. He respected and surrounded himself with people who steered their own destiny, marching to the beat of his own drum; a rhythm you had fortuitously interrupted. In his mind he’d given into a temptation, and that act of indulgence was somehow the same as losing in battle. 

Katsuki viewed your relationship as an infliction he needed to fight against. 

That knowledge hurts you in ways you hadn’t expected. The words “we’re getting too comfortable” reverberated around your skull. Perhaps he was right. Somewhere along the lines you forgot that these truly were temporary circumstances, childishly wishing that maybe he’d come to love you, that you could simply accept this reality and grow into each other like a child into new shoes. 

You blink. Linens rise and fall with his shallow breath. Katsuki’s mouth is open, the corner of his mouth wet with drool. His lips smack together as he bundles you closer. Unconscious, yet still seeking you out. He’s devastating even when he’s not trying to be. 

Sleep feels impossible. 

Then you wake. 

Morning spills her dewy light throughout the room. Katsuki’s side of the bed is empty— made up and tucked at the corners. Cold. You are suddenly a distance apart and scrambling to make it all better again.

You push up into a sitting position. The bedsheets shift and pool around your hips, creasing the perfect slate Katsuki left. You rummage for the pelt hidden behind the pillows, dragging it out and around your shoulders, ducking your nose into the dark fur for comfort before tying it to your midriff. 

Judging by the sun’s position you would guess it is still quite early. Sluggish movement can be heard through the thin walls, indicating that others are awake. Knowing Katsuki he would want to set off early to find Uraraka, especially after last night.

Another figure joins you in the hallway. Kaminari remains unaware of your presence as he fiddles clumsily with the key, squawking when it almost slips between his fingers. He’s dishevelled, shirt half tucked into his belt, cuffs undone and hung off his wrists; there’s still an impression of his pillow printed on his left cheek. 

Having finally turned the lock, Kaminari spins on his heel with a happy hum. The tune escalates into a shriek as he notices you standing a few feet away. “Holy—! Warn a guy, would ya?” he clutches at his chest, exhaling harshly. “I think my heart just stopped”. 

“Sorry Kaminari,” amused by his shrill intonation and melodramatics, you smile for the first time that morning. It exaggerates the bags under your eyes. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” he falls into step with you, knocking your elbows together on your way out into the stairwell. “I don’t think you can say the same, though,” his mouth twists into a smirk, “did Kacchan keep you up all night?” 

Normally the teasing wouldn’t bother you. In many ways you saw it as a sign of acceptance into the group. Now you wince like somebody had carelessly pressed a bruise on your body. Kaminari, for all his obliviousness, knows when to drop the masquerade. 

Your smile tightens uncomfortably as his fingers circle your wrist. In daylight you are left feeling exposed, unable to temper the regret written so plainly across your face. His mouth opens and shuts, searching fruitlessly for the right words, only to be interrupted by a callous shout from below. 

Katsuki’s voice is incredibly distinct. He’s yelling, which is nothing new, but now it is with genuine frustration. Kirishima, Mina and Sero are there alongside him, speaking in low tones as you would to an untamed animal. 

Kaminari tugs at your sleeve and gives you a meaningful glance, gently coaxing you to the bottom of the stairs. He must’ve at least connected Katsuki’s poor mood with your own.  “Kacchan, my man. It is too early for all this shouting,” he implored, settling back into his jovial self. 

You collect yourself, trying to retain shape and rationality as Kaminari draws Katsuki’s ire. Those vermillion eyes rove over you, head to toe, before flickering to the man on your right. Fast, like he’s afraid to look too long. Nostrils flare. The warm puff of air from his nose is visible in the cool air. 

“It’s late enough. What took you so long?” Katsuki snarled, poking a finger harshly between Kaminari’s eyebrows. “The keep told me cheeks is planning on leaving today, so all of you get moving”. 

Kaminari pouts, rubbing at the spot. The pale skin turns slightly pink. Unheeding of the wary scrutiny he is receiving, Katsuki charges onwards in expectation that everyone will follow. Kirishima raises a brow at his shape verbiage but doesn’t comment. He takes you under his arm in a half hug, sharing a look of understanding with Mina and the others. 

Sero recounts their findings. According to the townspeople, Uraraka, the occultist, landed her abode miles outside of their bounds and set up wards in the valley to confuse strangers. It steered them in opposing directions and sent them in circles, practically making her impossible to find. You’re worried clear up until your group crests the precipice of a steep hill several hours later.

You take in the gentle undulations of earth and fauna. Grass tall enough to brush your shoulders, wildflowers and weeds hugging the barely worn path, sparingly tended nature left to flourish. The magic becomes apparent with proximity. It hangs in the air like humidity, an unnatural sheen muddying your vision. Katsuki continued with brass-bound determination; weaving skilfully through the runes, barrier fracturing under the pressure of his explosive palms. 

There’s a quaint cottage in the middle of the glen, done up with a sweet ivy on the walls, latticed strips of wood around the windows, and a cobbled chimney towering from the pink tiled roof. Each windowsill appeared to have a different unidentifiable herb growing on it. A small, circular stained glass window in the door refracted the afternoon light, a knocker below it. Hanging by the door frame is a wind chime, shells tied to strings producing delicate crisp sounds in the breeze; in the effort to knock, Katsuki shoulders it carelessly, and the tune turns sour. 

His fist comes down with hard momentum, stopped midway by another. “Be careful,” Kirishima gently chides. Katsuki shoves his hand off, sparing him an incredulous glare, which the shifter subjugates with a pointed reminder: “She won't help you if you bust her door down, bro. Play nice”. 

Katsuki grunted his understanding, jaw clenched. He raps his knuckles on the wood. The sound is dull, and you stare down at your scuffed boots as an unpleasant pang of anxiety knocks around your chest. A voice shouts from inside, somebody scurrying around, then the door is pulled open. 

“Can I—Bakugo?!”

“Uraraka,” Katsuki greets bluntly, giving a short nod. It is the first time you’ve ever heard him say her name. His hands flex at his sides, restless. Through gritted teeth he adds, “Deku sent me. I need your help with something”. 

“Oh,” Uraraka exhales in disbelief. She steps back, pink slippered feet in your periphery. “Come in, then. I haven’t seen you guys in forever…”

Their voices fade into the background. All at once subconscious acts like breathing and blinking become tiresome. Hearing him let go of his pride felt so final. You fall away, stuck in a cold fog. Your gait is uneven as you remind yourself to put one foot in front of the other, incognisant to the worried looks thrown your way. 

You remember being seated on a plush feather-pillowed sofa. Hands running over your shoulders, grounding you. You reach for your pelt, sinking fingers into the downy fur, and find no comfort in it. Now you’re here it feels more like a husk, leaden and hollow, ready for you to be stuffed into. 

“You married a selkie by accident?” Uraraka blanched, her volume rousing you from your haze. “You know, Bakugo, for someone so smart your ignorance is truly astounding”. 

“Can you fucking reverse it or not?” 

“Reverse it. Are you kidding? You’re not. Gods, Bakugo—breaking a soul bond isn’t common,” Uraraka snaps, rubbing roughly at her eyelids as she loses patience. You feel a pang of guilt, that which worsens as it unearths the hope that perhaps she wouldn’t be able to separate you from him. “Most of the methods are based on myth. You realise it will be incredibly painful, and possibly for nothing?”

You take in the surroundings while they continue to bicker. The cottage is modest. A small foyer leads to the living space, rugs of various shapes and colours laid to insulate a path through the house, runes and scrawls carved into the hardwood walls. Logs presumably for fuelling the hearth monopolise much of the space, spilling out from the nook in which they’re stacked. There is nothing particularly otherworldly, at least not where you can see it. Uraraka obviously lives within her means, a humble and frugal person despite wielding magic of her calibre. 

“I do have something I can try, ” she sighs with a sidelong glance. The skin on her lip breaks between her teeth. Your prolonged silence has likely done nothing to reassure her. You try to feign interest, to smile and express gratitude, but she grimaces. 

“What do we have to do?”

“Essentially I can sever the bond at the stem but not the root,” the group is quiet, tense as they listen. Mina’s grip is bruising, as though making sure you were still there. “The dissolution of your marriage will only be complete when the selkie returns to the sea. Within a day or two they’ll… forget you”.  

You sense the atmosphere darken. Katsuki shifts his weight in your periphery. Neither one of you can look at the other. Whether he’s threatened by your feelings or ashamed of them you can’t be sure, but what you know is that they are real, sown and tended in the weeks you spent together. 

Kirishima exhales a shuddered breath. His big body crouches before you, warm hand resting on your knee. Kaminari and Sero linger on either side, watching over the scene, wearing grief plainly on their faces. A broken part of you wants to laugh. They are acting as if this is your wake. 

“Are you sure about this?” he implores, discreet and unintentionally cruel. If you were to say no, what of you then? Nothing to do but follow them on their journey, dragging along like the hide of some shorn animal. Stuck waiting for Katsuki to resent you over an incredibly frustrating and misplaced presumption that he played a part in fabricating your thoughts and feelings.  

Uraraka’s method may well cleave the ties created in your accidental matrimony. You trust in her capabilities because Katsuki clearly respects them. You’ll say yes. And after it all, when your soul has been excavated, when you’ve gone home crying to your mother, rocked to sleep in her gentle undertow, you will still stubbornly want him. 

The thought comes unbidden, a sudden clarity that overcomes you. At that point he would have no room to question your will. “I’m sure,” you say, still breathless with the realisation. “You can go ahead with it, Uraraka”. 

Hesitating in her movement, Uraraka considers you for a moment longer before disappearing down the hall. When she returns she pulls seven tear shaped crystals from a velvet satchel. Dread churns in your stomach, sensing the energy emanating from them. 

She begins to recite machinations beyond your comprehension. Opalescent rays of light burst from within her enclosed fist where it pressed against her mouth, dappling sentient shadows across her face, now taut with concentration. Her features ripple and distort, not unlike a reflection on the ocean's surface, then fades into obscurity as the spell settles into its conduit. 

Uraraka hands the lustre of the stone to you, knuckles pale as she squeezes the magic out into your cupped palms. As a pup you would try to drink sunlight, specks chased across the seabed as the clouds shifted, caught like a cat to a mouse only to remain empty handed. Light was not made up of solid matter— it was intangible. To be felt, seen, but not touched. 

Yet it is swirling in your hands like that lovely warm wine from the night before, slipping through the thin cracks in your fingers. “Drink it,” she coaxes gently. 

You look at Katsuki. His eyes flicker up to meet your own. There’s an awful urgency coursing through your body, frozen like a fawn, something inside willing you to stop. Begging him to speak up. He lowers his gaze, expression pinched and inwardly furious. 

Heel to chin, you tip your head back as if drinking from a cup. Her magic is entirely flavourless, waning with your own imagination as if it were allowing you to choose the taste yourself. The consistency is like steam; inhaled rather than swallowed, and hot on the roof of your mouth. 

Elemental magic was external in the way it bursts forth from the user, often causing flesh wounds or dramatic change in the terrain. You think of Katsuki, the calamity at his fingertips, juxtaposed by the tender manner in which he would always touch you, cauterising your fear. Uraraka’s magic is unforgiving and uniquely invasive. It is so much worse than being burned. 

It spreads through your sinuses like searing wildfire, pressure balloons behind your eye sockets, undoing the seams that make up the very fabric of your being. Waves of nausea engulf you, throat tight and constricted. Breathing laboured and irregular, you fight against the urge to retch it all up. 

It’s too much. The incorporeal spell pierces through your mind, tearing at the bond, more overwhelming than anything you’ve ever been dealt. Knife-like pain persists after her chanting stops. You wince and cradle your head, weeping as it passes. Left in its wake is a muted soreness throbbing across your brain. 

“Hi,” Uraraka is before you, ducking to examine for any injury. Careful, her fingers encircle your wrists and pry your hands away. “You’re okay. Can you look at me?”

You squint, reluctant to blink and irritate the soreness around your eyes. “How’s your vision?” she asked, sotto voce. Her touch is deliberate and gentle, slightly pulling down your bottom eyelids, petting over your jaw and down the nape of your neck, feeling for something. “Does anything feel wrong, or out of place?”

Wrong? your mind echoes. Out of place? Cold is creeping into your muscles, gritty and dense like wet sand. You’re unnerved by the veil of apathy that settles around you. “I don’t think I’m injured. The light is more intense. Hurts,” you admit, voice breaking. 

Everything that remains the same yet is somehow more drab, lacking colour and difficult to look at. Your friends, clinging to each other. Your Katsuki, staring back at you. “But I can still see everything”. 

“Good,” she breathes, relief entirely palpable. If this is success then you wonder what the worst outcome might’ve been. “That’s good. If you reach for the bond, is it there?” 

You’re not sure what she means. Seeking connection you clutch your sealskin to your front, kneading at the familiar fur. It’s minor but it’s back— the voice belonging to the tide, beckoning you to shift again. “I don’t think so,” you reply. 

“Then there’s only one thing left to do,” Uraraka smiles and covers your hands with her own. You sense the tips of her fingers ever so slightly across your collar where they brush the pelt bunched in your fists. “You’re free now. You can go back home”. 

Her soothing countenance might as well be dry grass to your precipitous anger. “Right,” you deadpan, voice entirely devoid of emotion. Best kept that way, lest you release all your bubbling frustrations onto a woman that only wanted to help you; in her eyes—and the rest—you were just another trapped, useless selkie. 

That anger carries you to your feet. You want to cry but the tears don’t come. When you exit the cottage with a curt bow and a ‘thank you’ you find yourself in the lead for once, marching ahead of the group. They remain a few feet behind, muttering amongst each other. Without the view of Katsuki’s back you feel lonely. Even so you keep your hurried pace, too afraid to turn around and be inundated with questions. 

The journey back passes in a blur. Hours, surely, because you’re ready to pass out from the exertion. Loose dirt and geosmin clings to your clothes.  Shadows stretch across the emptying streets as dark cloud cover canopies the town, sparse instances of light rainfall that stick to your skin. There's a chill in the air now, a bite to it that rattles your bones and quickens your breath. It’s damp, imbued with the scent of sea salt. 

You don’t stop, not when the desperate calls of your name begin. Further up the dock is lit golden, lanterns lining cobbled roads and emitting a warm orange glow. You trudge through the quieting bustle, workers scurrying to shelter, while enduring a pervasive sense of wrongness. 

You don’t know what to do with this freedom, this precipice, so joyless and empty. Slowing to descend weather-worn steps onto the beach there’s a presence at your heel. “Shit. Would you slow—!” Katsuki moves to stop you. His fingers flex, start to close around your wrist. Then they hesitate and fall away, clenching at his side until all the blood recedes from his knuckles. “You don’t need to immediately run off into the damn water”. 

“It’s easier this way,” and quicker, you think. 

“What?”

Listening to the sea sings an ancient litany, you let your anger wash away with the oncoming tide. The whiplash is intense. Your lips tremble, pulling into a tearful smile, laughter bubbling up through your chest, choked by the swell in your throat. “I think I understand why you’re always yelling now,” cumulus clouds pass overhead and bring with them a curtain of rain.  “Being human is very melodramatic”. 

Katsuki clearly hadn’t expected that, of all things. His expression softens in his surprise. The short hairs by his temples are laid flat, braid swinging in the breeze, the fur around his cloak dark and saturated. “That’s what this is? Baby’s first tantrum?” his tone is mean, and your hackles would rise if he were not visibly deflating. Katsuki reacts to vulnerability like a wounded dog. He laughs despite himself and scratches at his neck, “Fuck. I thought you’d be happy, or something close to it”. 

Standing a few feet behind him, Kirishima, Sero, Mina and Kaminari are linked together, waiting to approach. They remain in your line of sight as you consider the barbarian in front of you. A cold shock billows through his cloak, a wave crashing onto the shore. He shivers, but remains stubbornly rooted to the steps. 

“I’m not happy,” you lamented. “I’m going to miss you. You are an impossible man, Katsuki. Impossible to forget. I wish you’d believe that”. 

Katsuki’s mouth opens and shuts. Silence falls once again, and he can’t find the words to fill it. Your fingers work at the belt keeping your hide secure, tugging it loose and letting the sealskin unfurl, blanketing the length of your body. 

Mina takes this as an indication that you are leaving. She rushes ahead, stumbling past a stunned Katsuki, gathering you into her arms. The pelt is trapped between your bodies as you curl into the embrace. You feel yourself warm up, the wet winds rolling off the sea obstructed by three larger figures trailing right behind her, encasing you in a group hug. 

Constricted from all sides, the arms around your waist tighten. Mina’s nails dig in, and she shakes you gently in an attempt to scold you, “Don’t go leaving us without a proper goodbye”. 

Kirishima is at your back. He must be. The height, the rough skin, the hard spikes in his hair poking at your nape where he inhales deeply, memorising your scent. Sero flanks your left, resting his head on the shifter's shoulder as dark eyes watch you. Kaminari bears down his weight, slumping against your right, a sour metallic taste at the back of your throat as the grip on his magic loosens with emotion. 

It feels wrong without Katsuki. You crane your neck and look for him. The sight of him dithering off to the side, alone and wearing a visage of muted guilt, makes your insides twist. Your hand bursts through a crevice in the huddle, coaxing him over. 

He comes. Mina drags him into the middle without fanfare, and enclose around you in a last ditch effort to keep you together. “This is the worst,” Kaminari snivelled. “It’s like my parents are divorcing all over again”. 

Katsuki weakens to it. Gives a quiet, choked laugh and it blows warm across your temple. You’d know his hands anywhere. Hesitant, they rest on your hips. You close your eyes and centre yourself in the present, tilting your head to rest on his collar. The motion drags your lips up to his jugular and you kiss the words against the damp skin, thicker than intended, “I’m—really, so happy I met you all”. 

The briny air greets you when they finally step away. Mina rubs harshly at her eyes as your feet sink into the sand. There are stragglers by the port but nobody along the beach, so they trail after you to the shore, equal parts unwilling to leave and curious about your selkie form.  

You’re pointedly aware of their presence as you shake out your fur. You hold it to your face for a moment, blocking out the wind, the light and the rain with how insulated it is, before setting it on the sand. Kaminari coughs, the group spinning on their heels when you begin to undress. Katsuki does not. 

Kicking off your boots as you fiddle with your shirt strings, you consider the barbarian, impressing his appearance behind your eyes for a final time. “What will you do after this?” 

Broad shoulders rise and fall as he sighs. Looks up to the sky, frowning, a blush on his cheeks. “Go further inland to one of the bigger cities to find something to pay back Deku, I guess. Circle around, head back, and then home”. 

Shirt discarded, you unbutton your pants, letting them fall down your thighs, and step out of them. “How long will you be in the city?”

Shrugging, he grunts, “A week at most”. 

That’s good. Long enough to wait out the final stages and prove his place in your memory. You nod, spine straightening with determination. “When you circle back I want you to stop here again. Just for a day”. 

That half lidded gaze slides over to you, squinting. Pointedly kept above the shoulders. Searching. “Why?” 

The tide crawls further ashore. A wave breaks around your ankles. Your toes wiggle in the sand, sinking as it is displaced, a small smile curling at your lips. You bend to grab the pelt and slide it around your shoulders like a coat. It’s comforting, familiar. Energy thrums at the surface of your skin, ready to pull. But you wait. 

“In a week. Promise me?” you say without explanation. 

Katsuki swallows. Eyes boring into yours. His jaw shifts. Then he nods, tersely. Reassured by this you hold the coat tighter, chin tucked as you steady your breathing. Consciously, you reach inward, drawing upon the pelt.

And you change. Falling to your knees, cold water biting at your thighs, you crumple in the sand, body shrinking as flesh and fur meld together. It’s painful after so long, unsettling to be snapped back abruptly into your hindbrain, but the discomfort eases quickly, like stretching a muscle. 

You lift your upper body, nose flat and wide and twitching, scenting the air. The sand sifts under bootstrapped feet. A human approaches, beautiful and familiar, lowering into a crouch as you freeze. Forearms resting on his knees, he holds out his fingers. Faintly smoky, a mix of spice and earth. 

The way in which this man appraises your form is uncomfortably solemn. Vacuous expression betrayed by the gentle light in his eyes. He smiles ruefully and readies himself to speak. Alight with a bitterness that is vaguely accusatory in the oncoming darkness he says, “Already forgot us, didn’t you?”

It steals the breath right from your lungs. Recognition strikes through you. Bakugo Katsuki. The thought is alarmingly fleeting, almost evading your grasp. Nostrils flaring, you drag your body forward to wipe the look of self-deprecation from his face. You nudge your snout into his hand, not shying away from the fierce elemental energy radiating from his palms. You unhinge your jaw, canines gently indenting the heel, as if to scold him. 

He laughs, disbelief bleeding into the sound. It beckons his pod, more humans— one not so human. “Don’t fuckin’ scare them,” Katsuki calls over his shoulder. Not once do his eyes stray from you. 

A thick tang of draconic magic overwhelms your senses as the largest in the group mirrors Katsuki, making himself impossibly small, aware of his magnitude and the imbalance between your species. “Wow…” the shifter, Kirishima, breathes in awe, genuine rather than tainted with greed. “So cute”. 

More people come closer. Their faces filter through your memories in bits and pieces, stitching together into a patchwork timeline. “Yeah…” Mina echoes the sentiment. She gets on her knees, doesn’t care when the waves drench her skirt. “You’re beautiful like this too,” holding her hand an inch away from your skin, she asks, “Can we pet you?” 

Five fingers to your scruff, one hard pull and you could be torn from your rudimentary shell. Human hands are dangerous but not these ones. You give a short tonal whine and hope she interprets it as permission. They do, taking turns tracing the marbled fur and clawed flippers, murmuring awe filled words. 

The tides are high, wrapping around and coaxing you into their arms. You look toward the horizon and the itch grows. A seamless vista of clouded sky. Warm mouths litter the top of your head with kisses, their blunt human teeth behind soft lips, juxtaposed by rough, barely decipherable mutterings of something that sounds mournful. 

Mina sniffles as Kirishima helps her to her feet and they wade backwards toward the port. Katsuki cups your muzzle in his palms, searing where his thumbs swoop beneath your cheekbones, brushing over the whiskers by your nose. “Stay safe out there, yeah? Don’t get eaten by a shark or whatever,” he bends, bringing your foreheads together as if to impress his thoughts onto you. “I won't wait around for a weakling”. 

You can only hope he saw the promise held in your eyes as you stare at his retreating back. The swelling waves pull you into the current, submerged until only your head is above the surface. In the distance your pod breaks into cheers. They line up on the beach, jumping high as their legs will allow, waving their long arms in the air. 

A descending chorus of trills build in your own throat, mellifluous and loud enough to cut through the wind and the waves. Noise becomes muffled as you’re submerged into the dense water. Wrapped up in brine the ambience fills your head. It pushes out rational thought, drawing only instinct to the forefront. 

Your vision adjusts quickly to the dark the further you swim. Stretch your flippers and sweep them down like a dragon's wing, flying through the depths until you tire. Coming to an ocean shelf, there you rest. Cradled by a moving, ever evolving element. Creatures big and small pass by. Fish with vermillion scales haloing wide faces dart in and out of your dreams, shimmering under weak streams of sunlight. 

The shifting tide keeps you cognisant. You linger close to the surface to monitor the sun. Days pass and you are unbearably alone. It is harrowing; this unending, sombre ache. You think of Katsuki. Repeat his name until it sounds foreign. You recall his handsome face, the way his eyes always seemed brighter in the early dawn, how his nose would wrinkle if you stared too long, like he’d tasted something bitter. You miss him. 

Come the week’s end you’ve become something else, something new. Irrevocably changed by love’s hand. You recognise that you exist in two worlds: as a  selkie, tethered to the seabed and embraced by buoyancy, and as a human, struggling against the currents, compelled back to land—

To Katsuki. 

You glide through the waves, riding them as they swell and break onto the shore. Undulating your body, the hitching motion pulls you forward, wriggling up into a cluster of rock pools, safe from any onlookers. You wait there, chin propped on the shoulder of a jagged stone to observe the beach. 

He finds you there beneath an almost oppressive dusk. The approaching footfalls command attention, announcing his arrival. You slink into the shadows for a moment, detailing the subtleties in Katsuki’s expression on his march along the sand, pinching more and more as he casts he searches the beach. The breeze ripples through the notorious red cloak, fur collar tickling his cheeks. Shirtless, wearing his scars proudly. His pants sit low on his hips, adorning various belts and jewels. Warmth curls up in your chest at the sight of him. Giddy. You remember him. 

You lift your head. His focus immediately latches onto the movement. A croon rumbles in your throat as he approaches. He climbs up onto the rock, towering over you, his body obstructing the evening sun. It halos around his golden hair. The braid by his ear falls forward as his head tilts, squinting to get a good look at you. 

The laughter lines by his eyes deepen, brow creasing. Almost slipping as he climbs down, Katsuki frowns at the lack of traction on the surface. You laugh and it comes out like a rough snort. The shallow pools splash loudly under his boots upon landing. He curls his upper lip at you, “Laugh at me and I’ll kill you”. 

You do so again, more deliberate this time. He senses your sarcasm and flicks water at you. Your whiskers twitch, subtly tasting the air. He slumps hard on one of the flatter ridges and clicks his tongue. “This better be you and not some random fuckin’ seal I’m talking to,” he mutters, embarrassed. 

Unwilling to prolong your reunion any longer, you shed your pelt. Joints slot into place, the sealskin receding, your human form unearthing as it loosens and pools around your naked lap. Katsuki watches the air bite at your skin, nipples pebbling as you shiver. 

“Katsuki,” you rest your cheek on his thigh, knelt between his legs. You let him take it all in. Satisfied with his assessment of you his fiery eyes meet yours. 

“Almost didn’t come. Figured you wouldn’t be here,” he intoned gruffly, chin dimpling as he juts his bottom lip. “You were supposed to forget about everything”. 

You nod, mouth curling into a helpless smile. Your fingers flex and you feel the muscles jump underneath, “I know”.

Katsuki exhales a long breath, fists clenched tight in his lap with obvious restraint. “Why didn’t you?” his eyes track the movements of your hands. “It worked, I know it did. Cheeks doesn’t do shit halfway. I felt when… So what the hell are you doing back here?”

You pause when his words register, suddenly off kilter. There it is again, the displeased wrinkle on the bridge of his nose. You had never considered that he, too, would’ve experienced the connection. Admittedly a naive oversight on your part—but he never mentioned it. You figured it was just a selkie thing. Perhaps, all that time, he had been contending with his own feelings as well as yours. Wondering if he could trust himself, if they were true. 

Vows dissolved, he still chose to come back for you. To bet on that slim chance. Just as you did. 

The knowledge compels you to touch him more, to reassure, to lean further into the clutch of his thighs. The intrusion forces his legs wider and when you reach to cradle either side of his taut jaw he lowers to close the distance. 

“I felt it, you know. Before you offered me my pelt I felt you touching it,” you begin, watching how his expression splits open as your eyes meet. “I knew it was safe with you”. 

“That’s stupid,” he utters, though you can hear that he doesn’t mean it. Embarrassment slowly stains his cheeks pink. You can feel him twitch, smothering the instinctive urge to snap at whatever made him feel so intensely. 

“Maybe,” you pull back a hair's breadth to lightly knock your heads together. “My point is, I was drawn to you before all that, in such a short window. I think… I didn’t forget you because those feelings grew naturally”. 

The more you speak he progressively gets pinker, flustered and mad about it. It births an odd, primal urge to sink your teeth into something. To bite his cheek white, watch the blood retreat under the skin. Instead, you slide your hand lower to rest on his neck and his own cuff your wrists. 

“That first day, you apologised to me because I never had a choice,” there’s a soft grunt in acknowledgment. His pulse dances under your palm. “I’m making one now of my free will. And you—can say no, if you want,” you stutter, then, suddenly realising the real possibility of him rejecting your request altogether. “But I want to be here with you”. 

The last rays of sun stretch across the land, cosseted behind soft clouds as it sheaths. Katsuki considers you quietly. There’s a soft sort of intent in his eyes, wearing the revelry of dusk. You kneel in the rock pool, literally and figuratively bare, heart pounding in your throat as he readies himself to respond. 

“Back at the bathhouse…” he hesitates, promptly clears his throat and struggles to look at you. 

“Nothing was influencing me that night. Except maybe the wine,” you admit timidly, abashed at his sudden demurity. “I’m sorry”. 

That garners a reaction from him. In true Katsuki fashion his tongue clicks behind gritted teeth and applies pressure to your wrists, pulling you up. “Come here,” he tells you. You uncurl your legs and begin to stand moving with all the grace of a newborn fawn. “Oi, don’t—!” jerking his head to the side, he averts his gaze from your naked lower half, glaring at the shoreline. The sea-scented air prickles your skin, heat gathering where he has you held. “Expose yourself to everyone in the fuckin’ country, won’t you? Come here,” and then he’s hooking behind your knees, making them bend, gathering you into his lap in bridal fashion. 

“What’s the problem?” you mutter. Heat creeps up your neck, feeling defensive and distinctly embarrassed by his behaviour. “I don’t see how my nakedness is any different here than it is in the public bathhouse”. 

He holds you closer, voice vibrating through his chest as he roughly insists, “It’s different”. 

Your pout softens into a small pleased smile, letting him manhandle you until he’s satisfied with his grip. He bends, incidentally baring his throat stretching for the pelt discarded by the rocks. Tucking your nose to the underside of his jaw you revel in how his arm tightens around your lower back. 

Katsuki draws the pelt into your lap, covering your modesty. You laugh at how sweet and boyish it seems. “Laughin’ at me again, huh?” two fingers pinch at your cheek, pulling until you whine. “Got a death wish?”

Kneading at the sealskin coat your affections roar into existence once more with an intensity. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” you grin, and he abandons the pinch to stretch his big hand across your face. Thumb on your left cheek, fingers on your right, he squeezes together until your mouth is misshapen and pursed. 

“Sure about that?” he warns, tone steeped in fondness. It is exhilarating to have him touch you again, more freely than he ever had before; it is as close to ‘I believe you’ as you think you’ll get. 

You smile with your eyes, locked with his. Close enough to count every fine eyelash. Your words come garbled as you say, “You still haven’t given me an answer”. 

Katsuki exhales shallowly through his nose. His throat contracts as he swallows. The pressure releases. His hand cups your face, flexing with uncertainty. You shudder when he dips to press your lips together. You’re kissed without hurry, besotted by his firm but cautious movements. He relaxes as you lean into the rhythm, humming proudly. The soft, wet sounds of your mouths meeting again and again echo over the crawling waves. 

Katsuki pulls away first, eyes still closed but smiling to himself. He licks his lips and rasps, “I guess you can come along with us,” as though that was all the answer he needed to give. 

Alight with excitement you squirm in his lap, earning a quick slap to your hip. Katsuki ignored your grumbling and set to covering your body entirely. “Hold onto the corners,” he says, draping the hide over your shoulders, comforting warmth enveloping you as you obediently take the corners. “Put your arms around my neck. Do not drop it”. 

You do, curtaining both of your bodies with the pelt in the process, fingers interlocking at Katsuki’s nape. Your faces remain a whisper away. It feeds a skin hunger that plagued you for days. Satisfied, he then unties his cloak to slide it over-top, layering the two to keep you covered. 

Your stomach swoops as Katsuki pushes to his feet, carrying you in his arms with no sign of exertion and much better balance than before. His bicep bulges, fingers flexing under your thighs. “Where are we going?” 

Sand and broken shells crunch under his boots, gait leaden like wading through mud. Mariners whistle suggestively in your direction as he climbs the steps to the dock, making his teeth grind. “Taking you back to our room,” he grunts.  

You flush with heat at the implication. “You still have the key…?” 

Without disrupting his pace, Katsuki’s nose nudges along your temple to press a kiss there. “Said my shitty wife left something behind,” you feel his mouth pull into a smirk, “so they gave me it to go take a look”. 

A pleasant sensation erupts in your stomach. Fluttering like butterflies. “And the others?”

Darkness covers you when he ducks into a narrow alley. Katsuki meanders along the winding path with unfettered confidence. “I sent them on ahead. Said I’d catch up on foot,” he explains, eyes darting over the surroundings, striding back out into a familiar road leading to the tavern. “Wanted to be alone”. 

You’re carried up the stairwell despite the stern assertion that you would be just fine on your feet. In that same vein, Katsuki is clearly just fine taking all of your weight— proud of it, you think. Unwilling to put you down.  

He shoulders into the room and kicks the door shut. It is as you remember. Dim and homely, accented by a lamp that casts a soft yellow glow over the bed. Heavy footsteps take you forward, and you are swiftly deposited on the mattress. You bounce a fraction, losing purchase on the pelt and cloak. Both layers peel away, rumpled under your back, leaving you splayed out and bare. 

Katsuki stands next to the bed, watching the rise and fall of your chest. His features are tender in the light, smoothing his hard edges. It flickers in his irises. Gaze hungry, restless. 

Your body can’t help but react to Katsuki’s silent observation. The ardent stroke of his eyes across every part of you like it were his hands themselves. Heat races through you and coils between your legs. Feeling exposed, you try to close your thighs. 

There’s a hand on your knee, stopping the movement, firm but gentle as he pries them back open. Katsuki moves closer and kicks off his boots. The mattress dips under his weight. One knee on the bed, your legs part further to make space for the intrusion, wrapping around his waist without second thought. 

“This okay?” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. You exhale shakily, hands roving along the thick of his arms to clutch at his shoulders. The buckles on his pants bite into the back of your thighs. You can feel his arousal swelling through the fabric. 

Rocking your hips, your feet cross at his lower back. “Yeah. I want…” his eyes flutter, almost rolling up into his skull, pupils dilated. You chase the phantom feeling of his lips with your tongue and he tracks the movement. “Kiss me again”. 

“Thank fuck,” Katsuki groaned, the sound dwindling into a low chuckle. His forearms settle either side of your head, pressing all his weight down, pinning you to the bed. Taking up your vision until only he is in your orbit. The braid by his ear hangs loosely, the bead cold where it brushes your jaw. You tremble, fingers threading into his hair to scratch gently at his scalp. 

Your mouths slot together and he kisses you full, nibbling your lips until they part. Pushing deeper, tongues sliding over teeth, stealing the breath from your lungs. He handles you with indecision. Careful kisses followed by rough ones; grabbing at the soft parts of your body a little too hard, smoothing the flesh with his thumb in apology. 

It’s overwhelming how much he wants you. And you try to return the fervour, arms sliding around his back to keep him close, undulating your hips to feel the tremors wrack through him. 

The talons strung around his neck graze over your chest as he descends. Kisses left on the corner of your mouth, cheek, jugular. He takes your pulse between his jaws and you whine, clenching at his waist. Katsuki moves away, laving his tongue along your throat. 

“Wanna touch you,” he says. Goosebumps break out across your skin as he blows cool air over the wet stripe left behind. “S’all I could think about. You’re fucking distracting”. 

“Yes. Please,” your eyelids flutter, leaning back to hear your throat. “Please”. 

“Needy,” he mumbles, a satisfied lilt to his tone. His hand slides down to your ass, grabbing one cheek and filling his palm with it as he spreads you open. “Bein’ too quiet. I like it when you say my name,” he rasps. “Gonna let me hear it?” 

Fingertips brush against your sex. Heat flushes under your skin, anticipation and understanding unfurled within you. “Katsuki,” you sigh into his mouth. 

Katsuki flashes a predatory grin. Pleased, and pink all the way to his ears. Breath puffing over your lips he says, “Again”. 

“Katsuk—ah,” his thumb circles over your swollen clit, sparks zipping up your spine. Your breath hitches. You chase the touch, his four fingers splayed low on your navel; the other cups the back of your knee to keep you spread as he descends from throat to chest, forging a path of wet kisses, stopping intermittently to softly suck at the flesh and coax blood to the surface. 

You’re wet. Wet enough, warm enough, that the still air feels cold on your skin. His lips wrap around your nipple and you arch up into the sensation as he slowly sinks a finger inside of you. You take him to the knuckle, and he waits, gradually pulling out until you’re clenching around a fingertip. 

Again and again he fucks you on his fingers, adding another, curling them up mid stroke to brush the most sensitive part of you, spreading them to work you open. You mewl, steeped in pleasure as it diffuses through your belly, pooling between your thighs. 

Katsuki watches you, peering up through heavy eyes, mouth full of your breast. He flicks his tongue over the pert nipple, coming up and switching to the other, lavishing you in attention. You exhale, tremors wracking your body. Cradle the back of his head, grip tightening reflexively when he hits that sweet spot, and the groan rumbling in his throat prickles under your skin. 

Satisfied, he continues lower. Throws your legs over his broad shoulders, laid flat along the bed. The mattress jerks when he ruts into the sheets, still confined in his pants. You hold his gaze as his cheeks hollow. Saliva pools into his mouth and he tucks his chin, spitting it on your clit, massaging it over with his thumb. 

You shudder, hips canting. “Shit, look at you,” he pants, voice so thick and supple you want to wrap yourself in it. “Keep your eyes on me, yeah?” he litters kisses across your inner thigh, pressing praise into the sensitive skin there. Your heels dig into the thick muscle at his back when he dips to kiss your clit, licking in and around his fingers. “I wanna see your face when you cum”.

You’re pulsing around him, frantically chasing the feeling. It’s— overwhelming, like you can’t breathe through it, and every string in your body has been pulled taut, wavering on the precipice. You reach to grasp his forearm. The muscles flex under your palms, pave unrelenting, and tears begin to sting behind your eyes. 

“Fuck, Katsuki,” you gasp, breathlessness abated by the sudden rush of air to your lungs. “Feels so good, I can’t… Katsuki I can’t—”

A broken sound reverberates throughout the room the moment he stops, pulling back and leaving you empty. You can barely believe that it came from you, squeezing your eyes shut in shame. But then he’s right there, crowding into your space, caging your body with his own. “Oi,” he softly takes your jaw, “What did I say? Look at me”. 

You squint up at him. You take in his swollen lips, lidded stare, the sheen of sweat on his brow, hair matted to his forehead, arousal and spit coating his chin. For the first time you think you might understand, just a fraction, the greed of those who kept you. Because now you desire to be the one to take. To keep. To stow away his shamelessness and be the only one to see it. 

“You hurt?” 

“No,” you whisper, blinking away the haze. Katsuki tucks his knees up higher against your middle, tops of his thighs shelving your splayed legs. You feel yourself clenching around nothing, empty. “I’m sorry”. 

“Don’t fuckin’ apologise,” he tucks his nose against your temple, indifferent to the sheen of sweat. You inhale his musky scent and slide your arms around his shoulders. “Got too in your head, huh?”

His cock twitches in his pants, still hard and pressed to your thigh. Gathering your bearings you subtly rock your hips into his lap. You shiver at the sharp hiss by your ear, the drag of his soft lips over the shell. He nips at it in warning. 

“You want to keep going?” 

You nod, playing with the thin hair at his nape. He rumbles and it feels like a purr, pushing up only to pull at the belt buckles around his waist. Impatient, you reach to help, pulling the leather out from the loops, fingers trembling. 

Katsuki frees his hands and lets you work at the buttons. He wears a small, crooked smile on his face as he watches, chest rising and falling with every anticipatory breath. You pull them down his hips, a trail of light hair leading from his bellybutton to his cock. He shifts, hooking into the waistband and pushing them down his legs, kicking them off the bed. 

In your impatience your fingers wrap around his length, playing with the soft skin. You circle the blushing tip, smearing pre with your thumb. He throbs, abdomen clenching with a guttural moan that shoots straight to your own. 

“So impatient,” he cups your jaw and forcing you to meet his eyes. “Get me nice and wet?”

“Yeah,” you rasp, detailing how his pupils expand as you slide his cock through your folds. The corner of his mouth twitches. He grins as he dips to kiss you. It is more chaste than the last, a kiss for the sake of kissing. 

Then the grip on your jaw tightens. Firm and unyielding. Katsuki’s big hand engulfs yours, squeezing his dick, teasing the tip at your entrance. “Gonna make you cum on my cock. But you’ve got to listen to me and relax. Okay?” 

You desperately want to dig your heels into his lower back, to drag him inside and fill up that awful emptiness, to take him to the hilt and keep him there. Instead you acquiesce, forcing yourself pliant; rewarded with a soft kiss, he presses his forehead to yours. 

“Take a deep breath for me,” he tells you. You inhale, ribs expanding as your lungs bloat. Slowly, Katsuki pushes his tip past your entrance, and begins to sink his cock into you. His expression shutters, eyes rolling shut as his face scrunches up. Strained, he says, “Breathe out, baby. Slow”. 

You exhale, ending on a long moan as skin meets skin. He settles in the cradle of your hips. “Good,” his voice is gravelly, strained. His nails bite at your waist, “And in”. 

Repeating the motions your muscles clench around him as he pulls out, as though your body couldn’t be without him. He huffs through his nose and you feel it hot on your cheek. It continues like that. He fucks you slow and deliberate, pinned to the bed like a butterfly, guiding your breathing. You cannot look away from him. He’s devastating. He’s yours. Wild spikes are tousled around a flushed face, mouth kiss-bitten and slack with awe. “Katsuki,” you whisper, each more frantic than the last. 

The earlier intensity does not return, rather, it accumulates inside of you with every inhale, suffusing through you like a warm, pleasant fog. The pressure has you bursting at the seams, undone by the indelible drag of his cock, how his pelvis pressed so perfectly against your clit, little incantations of your name murmured into your hair. 

“Ah, fuck. Katsuki, I’m—” your thighs seize either side of his waist, toes curling as the words catch in your throat. “M’gonna…”

“I’ve got you,” he fucks you a little deeper, gritting his teeth. The muscles in his neck flex with exertion. “In and out, baby. I’ve got you”. 

Those practised breaths quickly stagger into uneven whines as you’re tipped over the edge. Ley lines erupt behind your eyelids. You arch back into the sheets—pelt and cloak rumpled beneath—as the pleasure quakes through you. 

Katsuki fucks you into your orgasm and then beyond it. You cradle him to your chest when his rhythm stutters, releasing a long groan as he spills into you. 

Together you collapse back on the mattress, rolling onto your sides. He slides his arm beneath your head and hooks your knee over his hip, keeping himself nestled inside you for a while longer. You lie there until the fog recedes, leaving a sated contentment in its wake. 

In that instance you can no longer tell where the line of your own body ends and where Katsuki’s begins. You feel warm, comfortable against him. All the fears and hypotheticals that sought to fill the hole in your chest have faded. You realise in those intimate few minutes that home is what you choose it to be. A place, a concept, a person. Home is the ocean, said to cover more than half of the earth, fissuring inland and stretching further than the eye can see; it is a current that will always run in your veins. But humans, too, are made of the sea. Water, minerals and tissue. Home is in the blood that rushes to Katsuki’s cheeks when you kiss him. 

This is where you belong. 

Eventually Katsuki decides he needs to get up. Your objections go ignored, silenced when he returns dressed with a damp cloth to wipe you down. Once he's done he pulls up the bed covers and manhandles you under them, declaring that he needs to go downstairs and pay ‘that woman’ for the room. 

“Won’t be long. Don’t even think about getting up. I’ll need to buy you some clothes tomorrow…”

Grin hidden under the blankets, you call out to him before he goes. He stops in the doorway, softened by the lamp light. Feigning innocence, you jokingly ask, “Before you go, could you pass me my pelt?” 

Your heart races when he reflexively goes to do so, only for him to halt halfway. His eyes narrow, lips thinning into a smirk:

“Real fuckin’ funny”. 

[captain-tch]

Anchor (Logan Howlett x GN!PlatonicReader)

Logan finds you when the memories of the past threaten to swallow you whole Warning: mentions of self harm, implied suicidal thoughts below the cut

There was so much blood. Tents where you once huddled with your friends, laughing, talking, bonding were in ribbons, the poles keeping them upright having been ripped from the ground. One of the poles was skewered inside a body, the face hidden by the red spray masking their features. Fire pits where you once warmed your hands and toasted marshmallows had been destroyed, the thick smell of ash consuming all of your senses. A charred hand reached towards another, mere inches from touching each other. The makeshift laundry lines had been broken, leaving clothes strewn across the ground, muddied footprints and blood stains marrying the materials. And then there were the bodies.

So many bodies. 

You knelt in the middle of it all, unable to move a single muscle. Your friends, your family, all dead. You were the lone survivor. 

It didn’t feel fair - what made you different from the others? What made you worthy of being alive, whilst your knees sank into their pools of blood and their skin grew cold around you? 

You didn’t even move, or speak, as you heard footfalls behind you. You didn’t look up as people descended upon the crime scene, where you most likely looked like the perpetrator. You just prayed that those who caused this harm had returned to finish the job. However, the horror was only beginning. 

“Hey, we missed one!” 

You stared at your reflection with venom in your eyes. Your gaze honed onto the jagged scar running from the corner of your mouth all the way down to your collarbone. Similar wounds ghosted down your body, but this was the one you could never hide from. The feelings rushed you like a wave - rough hands shoving your shoulders into the ground, their hands leaving bruises, a menacing grin leering down at you, the coolness of the blade as it was first caressed against your skin. The fiery hot pain that lit up your entire being when the knife was plunged into your skin. The feeling of hot liquid rushing out the wound, the overwhelming taste of iron hijacking your senses. 

A bubble of anger and hatred began to boil in your veins. The memories kept flooding you, until you couldn’t remember where you were or what was happening or when you were. All you knew was the pain and the terror and the hate.  

A scream ripped out of you. You grabbed the nearest thing your fingers landed on, a small metal bin, and hurled it with all of your might to the mirror. The crash was like music to your ears, the shards flying around you in slow motion. You didn’t feel them slice at your skin. You didn’t feel the blood well or the liquid slip down your skin. You felt absolutely nothing at all.  

It wasn’t enough. You could still see their faces, frozen in death. You could still smell the fire and ash and burning flesh and you couldn’t stop feeling like you were standing back at your campsite all over again and - 

Your fist flew at the shattered fragments. A delicious fire consumed your knuckles. The images fizzled slightly, then overpowered you. You became starved for that feeling of relief, craving the sweet moment of ecstasy where all your brain could focus on was the agony rippling through your hand. 

Again and again you sent your fist flying into the glass, the hits becoming less coordinated as blood coated every surface you could see.

Bodies burned to a crisp. 

Hit. 

A singular shoe discarded in the mud. 

Hit. 

A knife glinting in the light, glowing brighter as it got closer to your face. 

Hit. 

You were so absorbed in seeking relief you didn’t hear how the thud of your fist matched the one coming from behind, until yours was the only thuds once again. You didn’t hear the tirade of swear words leaving their lips, or your name being repeated over and over again. You weren’t in this reality anymore, too deep into your nightmare of memories to escape. 

A pair of muscular arms wrapped around your chest, dragging you from the mirror. A sob wracked through you - now the images were hitting you ten fold, and no matter how much you struggled in your captor's grasp you couldn’t escape. In the jagged remains of the reflection on the wall, you saw Logan behind you, concern painted over his face. 

“Ssh.” A voice soothed in your ear. You thrashed against them even harder - you didn’t deserve comfort, you deserved to be with your family. 

“Let me do it.” You begged, unsure what exactly you were asking for, only knowing you wanted the leaden guilt and torment to be erased from your being. “I just want it to stop.”

“This is not how it’s done.” Logan held you tighter, gently leading you away from the bathroom. You tried to fight back; god, you were so tired. You were tired of fighting back the memories, or pretending to be okay. You were exhausted. 

You crumpled in his arms, leaning heavily into him. His body didn’t falter, only grasped you tighter. You turned to bury your face in their shoulder, trying and failing to stop the images of terror and agony from flashing across your retinas. 

“What can you see?” His gruff voice asked. 

You froze, the words sinking in. Your brows furrowed, struggling to comprehend what he was asking. “What?” 

“Name five things you can see.” 

Your breathing quickened. “Broken tents -” 

“No,” Logan grabbed your shoulders, firmly pulling you away from his neck. He held you at arms length, staring deep into your eyes. “Here, now. What can you see?” 

“Um,” you sniffled, gently pulling your attention from him to the rest of the room. “Glass. A toilet. Shower. Tap. You.” 

“What can you touch?” 

You sought your senses, reaching out to all of your nerves. “Your flannel, the floor, my clothes, my blood.” 

“What can you hear?” 

Forcing your eyes to close, you tried to turn off your other senses, focusing on your hearing. The distant dripping of the tap snatched your attention. Logan’s steady breathing. Faintly, you could hear shouts and playful screams of children from the hall. 

“What can you smell?” 

The answer flew out of your mouth without even needing to think - it was the smell of safety, the first thing you smelt after you escaped from death's clutches. It was what you smelt as you were carried away from the cemetery that was once your home. “Cigar smoke.” 

“What can you taste?” 

Your lips turned slightly at the corners. “Scott’s shitty bolognese.”

Logan kept you at arm's length, taking you in. Your breathing was laboured, but it was evening out. Your eyes appeared more focused and he felt you could actually seem him now.  

“You good now?” 

You contemplated it. The guilt still lay heavy on your shoulders, and the memories were always playing in your brain, except now it was muted enough that you felt like you could cope. Your heart rate had resumed its usual pace and you didn’t have the urge to smash glass.

“That’s a stretch,” you sniffled, wiping at your nose. “But I’m better. Thank you.” 

“Let’s get you to the infirmary.” 

“No!” Your hand shot out, snatching at his shirt, smearing blood on it. “Please, no.” 

His brow quipped. 

“I don’t want them to see me like this.” 

Logan sighed, assessing your injuries and thinking for a beat. “Fine, but you can’t complain about my bedside manner.”

He wanted to go get a first aid kit; he didn’t want to leave you alone. He used his best judgement, hoping the cuts he could see were as minor as they appeared, grabbing a rag and running it over a faucet, being careful to avoid the glass. He came back to your bed, where you sat on the edge staring after him. He knelt in front of you, opening his palm flat to you. You moved your hand into his, wincing at the sight. Your knuckles looked like they’d been massacred, red coating so much of your skin you couldn’t even see the cuts. Without warning, he dragged the fabric across your wounded skin, a flame of pain following in its wake. You tensed up, squeezing your jaw tight to keep the hiss quiet. 

“You know, this isn’t the best way to deal with your feelings.” Logan’s eyes darted up to connect with yours. 

You scoffed. The hypocrisy wasn’t lost on you - many times you had walked into the gym to see him destroying the boxing bag, blood being flung in every direction. “Coming from the expert, clearly.” 

“I can heal.” 

“That’s so not the point.” 

He grunted, dismissing your argument. He carried on his work, his grip on you tight but gentle as the blood disappeared wipe by wipe, revealing the skin beneath. Your skin was littered with cuts; thankfully they seemed minor, them having already stopped oozing blood. 

“Look, kid, you ever speak to anyone about what happened?” 

“Did you?” Logan huffed, frowning at you. You ignored his reaction, watching as he finished cleaning one hand and started on the other. “There’s nothing to talk about.” 

Logan stared pointedly at you. “I’ve lived over a century and survived a war - you can’t fool me.” 

“Honestly, I’m fine.” 

“The mirror says otherwise.” 

A bubble of anger exploded in your gut. Your words were flung like knives, their edge sharp. “Why does everyone have to keep asking me about how I feel? Is it really that important to have feelings? Why can’t I just bury it deep down til it disappears?” 

“I wish that was how it worked. Stuff like this doesn’t go away overnight. You shove it down, it gets ugly, infected. It’ll turn you into a different person.” 

“Is that what happened to you?” 

A few beats passed, then some more. You worried you had crossed a boundary - this man saved you, and was saving you again, and here you were opening up his wounds whilst he helped clean yours. 

He surprised you by breaking the silence, his voice so low you had to strain to listen. “...Something like that.” 

“No offence, but why should I take advice from someone who clearly doesn’t take it themselves?” 

“Take it or leave it, that’s your call. It changes nothing for me.” He shrugged, wiping away the last bit of the blood. He evaluated his work, carefully turning your hand left and right, assessing for any further wounds he couldn’t see.  

“Either way, it’s going to destroy me, isn’t it?” 

He paused, eyes flitting to yours. He surprised you yet again, sending you a small smile. “Great thing about destruction - it leaves room for something new.”

“Hm.” You pondered it for a minute. “That was very wise of you, you’re starting to show your age.” 

Logan brushed off your attempt at humour, his face turning serious. “Let’s just get one thing clear - this,” he gestured to the bathroom, where the glass still lay shattered on the floor. “Is not going to be a habit.” 

“Why do you care?” 

“Because I only have a few shirts and you’ve already stained two of them.” 

You looked at his white top, cringing. It had smears of red, marrying the immaculate white. “Sorry.” 

Logan waved it off. He threw the rag to the floor, bringing himself up to his full height. He towered over you, yet you felt no fear at his size. You felt at ease, enjoying how his shadow fell over you. 

“What do you suggest instead?” 

“Find me. We can spend some time working on your god awful fighting form.” 

“It’s not that bad!” 

“Whatever you say.” He smirked. A warmth blossomed in your chest. 

Maybe you wouldn’t feel like this forever. Maybe the memories would overwhelm you less and less with time, but they would never disappear. They would always haunt you, lingering in the back of your consciousness. But the man in front of you, your friend, would help keep you grounded. He would be your anchor. And he’d never admit it, but you’d do the same for him too.  

marvel masterlist

[buddierecs]

slow burn buddie fics

all mature rating!!! make sure to kudos/comment on these amazing works :)

tell me about despair by: hattalove "the entity often affectionately referred to as the unrepression fic." word count: 148k important tags: ptsd, therapy, trauma, heavy angst, friends to lovers, pining, getting together ripples all the way down by: iriswests "christopher partakes in some parent trapping" word count: 57k important tags: mutual ping, parent trapping, jealous!buddie, miscommunication don't worry baby (everything will turn out alright) by: woodchoc_magnum "buck and eddie are falling in love, and it's obvious to everyone but them." word count: 63k important tags: friends to lovers, team as family, fluff, angst, mutual pining overcome by: orphan_account "set post season 5A, where buck is alone, and angry, and exhausted, but mostly terrified that everyone he loves is slowly slipping away from him." word count: 53k important tags: TW: past child abuse, alcoholism, past suicide attempt, insecure!evan buckley, hurt!evan buckley, panic attacks, mental breakdown, eventual happy ending, mutual pining, sharing a bed, eddie diaz takes care of evan buckley standing on the brink of emptiness by: woodchoc_magnum "in which eddie is struggling in the aftermath of being shot, learning how to take care of himself and realising he's in love with buck; and buck is dating taylor, taking care of eddie and christopher and trying to figure out why he's so goddamn confused about everything." word count: 70k important tags: ptsd, injury recovery, pining, pre-relationship, getting together, angst

'cause we belong together now by: smilingbuckley "on a call, buck and eddie meet an adorable little girl that they fall in love with and want to adopt. the only problem? they're not together romantically..." word count: 68k important tags: fake dating, marriage of convenience, adoption, pining, fluff, soft!buddie, friends to lovers for a holiday (and forevermore) by: wikiangela "eddie's sick of personal, intrusive questions about his love life whenever he visits his family, so he starts bringing buck for the holidays as his (fake) boyfriend. he only wants to shut them up, and doesn't expect that the small crush he has on his best friend could actually turn into something more.." word count: 94k important tags: fake dating, sharing a bed, pre-relationship, idiots to lovers, soft!buddie, oblivious, fluff, angst, eventual smut i've got your back by: sammyunhinged "a very slow burn fic chronicling the progress of buck and eddie's relationship, buck's parenting journey, and eddie learning to accept himself, in which buck gets injured in an accident and he moves in with Eddie and Christopher." word count: 109k important tags: idiots to lovers, falling in love, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, cuddling, getting together, eventual smut the pain will leave you once it's done teaching you by: fruitsdoesnotknow "when daniel buckley lives a little longer, evan Buckley dies a little more. and this is how eddie diaz saves him, a little later on." word count: 43k important tags: angst, hurt/comfort, panic attacks, mutual pining, found family, grief there's an ache in you (put there by the ache in me) by: goforeddie "the buddie couple therapy fic where, following the events of eddie getting shot, both him and buck are forced by the department to go through mandatory couple therapy." word count: 50k important tags: couples therapy, ptsd, post s4e14, pre-relationship, anxiety attacks, panic attacks, nightmares, fluff and angst, sharing a bed every single things to come (has turned into ashes) by: imdarlenescousin "eddie starts dating, makes some friends, makes some realizations, and makes a serious offer." word count: 66k important tags: friends to fiances, demisexual!eddie diaz, mental health issues, pining,

heart of flowers/heart of gold by elvensorceress "after nearly losing each other, buck and eddie find their way to each other and their family’s happily ever after." word count: 144k important tags: season 4, friends to lovers, mutual pining, evan buckley takes care of eddie diaz, demisexual!eddie diaz, gun shot wounds hold steady, hold steady by: thetalee "after eddie's bombshell announcement on christmas, buck runs away and finds himself back on his first day on the job. a time-travel fix-it fic of sorts, ft. a stranger that totally just wants to help, honest." word count: 172k important tags: time travel, time loops, supernatural elements au, shannon diaz lives, hurt!evan buckley, temporary character death

explicit slow burn buddie fics :)

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

ANGST WARNING: How would Ace!Tav react to Astarion dying and being unable to revive him? Or vice versa -- how would Astarion react?

A/N: There is actually a lot to this, so here is a headcanon in three parts. Apologies for the length.

Warnings: Gore, Blood, Passively Suicidal Thoughts, Major Character Death, Heavy Angst

Astarion x Ace!Tav Masterlist

How Ace!Tav Would React to Astarion Dying and Unable to be Revived

In order for this to happen, it would be sudden and unexpected

There would be no preparing for his death

They always thought Astarion would outlive them, he's an immortal vampire, but, more importantly, he's a survivor, always has been

I'm thinking he'd have to be burned up in the sun or something else like it; revivify and raise dead both require a body and the sun would turn him into ash

Maybe he gets caught by surprise, maybe Tav can’t get to him in time or maybe he pushed them out of the way of a blast; the result is the same

No final words, no last touches, there’s nothing left, not even a body

Tav wouldn’t be able to move, the rest of the world going fuzzy at the edges and silent

It would take another party to get them to move, literally dragging them away from the scene like dead weight

It’s takes them several moments to come to their senses, to fight back because he can’t just be gone

There has to be something left, something they could use to bring him back

If it’s an ally with them then they’d hold them back telling them they need to get somewhere safe

They would be in full denial, trying desperately to think of something, anything, this can’t be how it ends

But there’s nothing, not a single thing they can do

Once that realization dawns, they just go numb

They spent so much of their life just surviving; they don’t want to go back to that, not when they finally had a taste of what it was to live

They’re just so tired, maybe it would be easier to just…sleep

Even the thought of revenge is too daunting, what would be the point? Astarion would still be gone. Can’t they just rest?

It would take their friends to pull them out of it

I imagine Lae’zel and Shadowheart specifically would lay into them about just giving up. What would Astarion say if he saw them like this?

Tag can well imagine, they can all but hear his voice in their ear

“And you call me dramatic,” he tells them. “Flattering as it is to know you miss me, there's still work to be done. Now get up.”

They want to ignore the words, but they have their own survival instincts to contend with

It’s a slow process

The first several months it’s an ordeal just to eat, but they do

Gale, Shadowheart, Wyll, Karlach, Lae’zel, they all take turns checking in, making sure they’re okay

Gale maybe even has them come to stay in Waterdeep just to keep a better eye on them and keep them away from the memories associated with Baldur’s Gate

It’s a kind gesture and one that slowly starts to pay off

They're able to watch a sunrise again without the urge to weep

They sometimes come in to talk during Gale's lectures, recounting some of their exploits with a smile

They never fully recover, their music isn’t quite as lively, there seems to be a spark missing behind their eyes, but they find a way to survive

They have their friends and find solace in knowing they’re not alone

Eventually they go on the road again, taking in every sight and sound, imaging Astarion seeing it with them

They never fall in love again, they knew that they never would and don’t try to force it

Still, they live; it’s brutal work, but they can’t stop now

How Astarion Would React to Ace!Tav Dying and Unable to be Revived (Dying of Old Age Edition)

Couple different options with this one

I picture Ace!Tav as human, so Astarion outliving them was part of the deal when they got together

All the same Ace!Tav dying of old age vs. dying suddenly and horribly, are going to spark two very different reactions

If they die of old age, Astarion has a much longer time to prepare

There's no hiding getting old, even if Astarion makes jokes about them being with a man four or three times their age

Tav is there to help him through it, even as they're lying on their death bed with him beside them the entire time

They don't want him to try and bring them back; they told him as much

They want him to keep going, to keep living, to find love again after they're gone

Astarion doesn't want to hear it, he doesn't want to think about them being gone even when they both know it's coming

One human life time wasn't nearly enough, he wants more, he always wants more

But the end does come and when Tav finally slips away, all he can do is weep

He wouldn't be alone though, he has friends, strange as it might have once been to admit

Gale, Wyll, Karlach, Shadowheart, and Lae'zel would all find their own way to help him as they too grieve the loss of their friend

He's not the easiest to deal with, he lashes out, he argues, he pushes, he finds himself crying at unexpected moments and mortified at himself for doing so

He wishes he could talk to Tav about all these emotions drowning him and ends up curled up on the floor all over again

But somebody is there to help him back up again

He can’t stay in their home anymore, too many memories bombard him every waking moment

Gale offers for him to come to Waterdeep for a time, but Astarion refuses

He needs to get out, go somewhere far away, someplace he’s never been before

So, one day, he packs a bag and just starts walking

The only thing of Tav’s he takes is a that damned violin, they did try so very hard to teach him how to play, but he always was a better audience

Still he can’t bring himself to leave it behind

He doesn’t know where he’s going or what he’s even doing, but he keeps going anyway

One of the nights, months into his travels, a bard plays at the inn where he's staying

He recognizes the melody, one of Tav's compositions

He had finally convinced Tav to write down some of their music, and even publish a few; this one isn't one of them

The bard plays it differently, emphasizing different words and finding a new meaning while still keeping the integrity of the song

He can all but hear Tav’s contemplative approval as they grin in that “I told you so” sort of way

The best ones live in memory after all

The bard is good, reminding him of Tav in so many different ways

He's not sure what exactly possess him to do it, but he offers them the violin, telling them that it's been a long time since he saw somebody play it properly, maybe they'd like a go

Gods do they play it,

Light and music flow from the instrument, evoking the same vivid display Tav had show him all those years ago

Astarion then leaves without a word, leaving the violin behind for the bard to take

He finally understands what Tav tried to explain to him, how much of themselves they put into their music and how even as the interpretations may change it’s still them

So, he keeps going, keeping their memory alive in what ways he can, mostly as an anonymous patron to promising young bards; he’s always been a better audience anyway

Years later he even meets that first bard, the one he gifted the violin; they turned to be a great performer and was thankful to finally track down the man who put them on that path

They form a true friendship, one that lasts years and allows Astarion to know he can form new relationships

Slowly, Tav's death doesn’t hurt the way it used to

They’ll never fully leave his heart; they were his first in so many ways

It would take him years, possibly even centuries to finally fulfill that final promise to love again, but he does

He’s a survivor by nature, but Gods does it feel good to live

How Astarion Would React to Ace!Tav Dying and Unable to be Revived (Dying Suddenly and Horribly Edition)

This can only end in blood

They're in a middle of a battle, something bigger and worse than they anticipated

Both are skilled in their own way, but they each know their strength lies in stealth and surprise, neither of which they have facing this threat

Astarion was sure they were safe, he was watching their back and vice versa as they had for years

He doesn't see exactly what happens, all he knows is one moment his love was standing in front of him and the next, they're pulp on the floor

Air leaves his lungs, the rest of the world fades as all that exist is their blood in his nose and their desecrated body and then everything goes red

He uses everything at his disposal, knives, nails, teeth; more blood fills the air, his body is covered in it to the point he can't even grip his daggers and just uses his teeth

He doesn't stop until the only thing breathing in the room is him

He then goes to Tav's body, and wraps what's left of it in any cloth he can find; he's not leaving them here, there has to be a way to fix it, to bring them back

He finds a place he can keep them, using what magic he can to preserve the remains of their body until he can find a better solution

He reaches out to any contact he has begging for help, surely their friends would come to their aid

What he gets is all but useless, no answers, no solutions, nothing but empty apologies and condolences

They even have the audacity to them him to let Tav go

They don't understand, they never could

After everything he'd been through, Tav was the first real happiness he found; 200 years of torture and just six months with them was enough to counterweight all that misery

He'd had years since then, and now they were just gone

How could anyone expect him to let that go, not when he had expected a life time with them

Their time together was already limited, he would not be cheated into giving up more; the world didn't get to do that to him

He curses his so called friends, burying himself in necromancy and tomes trying to find a solution

There may still be a way, a much darker way, one that would require sacrifice, but it would be worth it whatever the price

He knew that about himself the moment he started to fall for Tav, there was no telling what things he'd be willing to do, all for them

There is a part of him that hesitates, a little voice inside his head telling him to stop, that he can be better

It's the same voice that told him not to ascend, one he curses just as deeply as the rest of them

If he had ascended none of this would have happened; he would have been able to keep Tav safe, he could have made it so not even time could touch them

He had hesitated then, but he won't now

He'll find a way to bring them back and make sure they never leave him again

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 5: Rebellion

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 5.8K

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience}

Run?

Your stilled heart may not be able to beat any longer, but all-consuming fear still afflicts your battered body. You feel the familiar prickling sensation of adrenaline expanding outward from your constricting chest like a glassy lake disturbed by a thrown stone. All your hair stands on end as you think about the approaching dawn.

Staring into the icebound pools of Astarion’s scarlet eyes, you think about everything he has stolen from you - your life, your body, your soul, your love, your loyalty, your freedom.

He has taken everything from me.

Your voice shakes, “The sun can’t harm me if you’re near.”

“How certain are you that I don’t control that lovely little benefit?”

“Do you?”

One of his eyebrows pulls down hauntingly, “Perhaps I do. Perhaps I don’t. Are you willing to risk your life on it, pet?”

“Yes.”

“What about dear Shadowheart’s life? I would give her a very warm bloody welcome when she comes looking for you.”

Shadowheart.

“I won’t let you touch her.”

“If you’re a pile of ash on my front step, I don’t see you having much choice in the matter, darling, but you’re welcome to loiter out here all you like.”

Astarion turns his back on you. You seethe with a noxious loathing - for yourself, him, and the mess you’ve dragged your friends into. A deep rage you have kept caged for too long finally breaks free of its prison.

With a bellowing roar, you lash out at him, casting Telekinesis and hauling him off his feet, throwing him across the courtyard.

His body impacts a stone statue with a thud, shattering it into rubble. The ground greets his body with such force that he bounces off it.

What have I done?

His muscles tense, and he shifts his body, using the momentum to easily roll back onto his feet. A weeping gash on his forehead causes blood to stream down his face, streaking it with vicious red to match his eyes.

“You’ll pay for that.”

I know.

His reflexes might be like liquid lightning, but you’re not some feeble halfwit. Even though you’re not sure it will hold him, you cast Hold Person on him, catching him off guard. You see his frame flicker slightly as he tries to turn himself into mist, but your magic is strong, fuelled by your rage.

Shadowheart.

You have a choice - you can hold your ground against him as long as possible and allow either the sun or him to end you, or you can try to make it home before sunrise. He may follow and hunt you down like a rabid animal that needs exterminating, but either way, your fate remains the same.

Gale. Shadowheart. I have to try.

You pivot and force your body to move forward as fast as you can. Feeding off your rage, hatred, and all the devastated pieces of your broken heart, you run.

You dash over fences, skip across roofs, pull on every ounce of magic your body can contain and Misty Step until you’re not sure whether you’re mist or corporeal from one moment to the next. You push forward erratically, skittering towards home.

You don’t look back. If Astarion follows, you don’t want to know. You already know the fate that awaits should he choose it.

Your muscles twitch and cramp woefully with over-exertion as you draw closer. The stars no longer shine in the sky as they are snuffed out by the quickly rising light of dawn, but you can see the little house just up ahead.

I’m so close.

As the first light starts to break over the horizon, you throw the old wooden door open, throwing yourself to safety inside, slamming it shut.

Backing away from the door, you wait pensively, wondering if Astarion will burst through at any moment to make you pay for what you’ve done. You watch that door with a fixed, heated glower for hours, but nothing happens.

You go up to your bedroom and sink to your knees on the ground. Without the swarming fervour of hatred to dull the aching of your heart, you fall to pieces.

He really is gone, isn’t he?  

The spasming pain in your stomach cleaves at you, awakening you from the troubled trance you slipped into. Your arms curl around your midsection, trying to stifle the recurrent waves of convulsing pain rocketing through you.

I need to eat. Badly.

You have to force your starving body to move forward. Your muscles cramp and jerk out of your control. Each step has to be taken with purpose and effort as you try to control your writhing body.

The journey is agonizing and takes you longer than it should. When you finally reach the forest, you’re already exhausted. You fill your useless lungs with air they don’t need in an instinctive sharp inhale.

Another spasm in your unruly limbs causes you to stumble. You catch yourself on a tree and rest your forehead against the rough bark, squeezing your eyes shut so tightly that the muscles of your face ache.

“There you are, little love. I’ve been waiting.”

You groan at the velvety smooth voice and force your eyes to open, casting them toward it. Astarion is standing on the other side of the small clearing.

Dressed in black, he melts into the shadows like an apparition. His clothing is reminiscent of what he wore the first night at camp after the crash, and you curse at him inwardly for wearing something that reminds you of old times.

You push yourself away from the tree and try to stand tall, but the cramping in your stomach persists, and you lurch over awkwardly.

“What the fuck do you want.”

“To talk.”

You scoff, “I have nothing to say to you.”

Astarion starts to walk towards you, and you grasp at the weave. Using Telekinesis, you throw him backwards, off his feet. He skids harshly across the moss-covered ground.

Once again, using the momentum, he tucks and rolls onto his feet, righting himself, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Yeah, right.

“If you come anywhere near me, I will burn you with every ounce of magic I have!”

Will I?

He starts towards you again, but before you can cast anything, he shifts into mist and rapidly reappears behind you. Terrified, you turn, ready to defend yourself against whatever horror he is going to inflict.

You might be fast, but he will always be faster. He effortlessly grabs your hands and forces them together, rendering you unable to cast. You struggle against him furiously, but he easily overpowers you, barely wavering.

He snarls, “Why do you insist on making me treat you in this manner? Why do you fight me at every turn?!”

Make him?

You break into venomous, hysterical laughter, and his eyes widen in shock.

“No one can make you do anything anymore, Astarion. What you do and who you are - those are your choices to make. You have no one but yourself to blame for any atrocities you commit and your shitty behaviour.”

His eyes soften, “You’re right, which is why I need to speak with you.”

Wait...  

I’m right?

No.

Don’t fall for this again.

“Did you not hear me? I want nothing to do with you!”

He sighs, “I understand. If you wish, I will leave Baldur’s Gate and never return. You will never have to see me again, but you must hear me out first.”

… What?

“I’m going to let your hands go now. Are you planning on attacking me some more, or will you listen?”

“Let go and find out.”

He chuckles, “Fiery as ever, my dear.”

Astarion releases his hold on you and puts his hands up in an innocent gesture, backing away from you slowly.

You watch him through narrowed eyes as he retreats. You position yourself in a defensive stance. A fireball blooming in your palm, and your fangs bared.

“What is this, Astarion? What kind of sick trick are you playing now?”

“No tricks. No games. Please, hear me out, but allow me to get you some food first.”

“You want to feed me?”

He nods, “It will allow you to think clearer. I can see you’re in pain…”

He pities me, but Gods, I am so hungry.

“No, thank you. The last time I accepted your help, it nearly got me turned into a pile of ash.”

His crimson eyes look at you sadly, downturned at the corners, “Let me help you. Please.”

Starving.

“Fine.”

“Excellent. Perhaps you should stay put. You are likely to scare everything away. Do you have a preference? Deer, boar, bear… Kobold?”

What the fuck is happening right now.

You wave a hand at him in dismissal, “It doesn’t matter. Blood is blood.”

Astarion vanishes somewhere into the thickly treed forest, leaving you with your thoughts. Your mind is reeling, confused, and unsettled. Your nerves buzz, your skin feels like it’s crawling, and you have no doubt that if your stilled heart could beat, it would be throwing itself around your chest, trying to break your ribs.

What part of the nine Hells have I fallen into?

Astarion returns quickly, and you consider for a moment if he may have poisoned the animal, but what do you have to lose at this point?

Once you finish your four-legged feast, you stare at him, observing his behaviour. He stands with his arms crossed, leaning against a tree, looking exceptionally pensive. His cardinal red eyes dart rapidly, never focusing on anything in particular.

He looks… anxious, scared even.

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about now?”

He jolts out of his thoughts, “Yes, of course. Do you feel better?”

Gods, yes.

You could almost moan at how relieved you feel - clear-headed, strong, no more gut-wrenching pain, turning your insides to mincemeat. Your muscles have stopped their relentless, painful spasming and are finally under your control again.

You might hug him simply for this feeling alone, but you lock your knees and keep your feet firmly planted.

“I feel fine. Tell me what you want.”

Astarion shifts away from the tree he’s been leaning against and steps toward you. You take several steps back, instantly lowering your centre of gravity protectively, and fire sparks to life in your hands.

He stops, a dismal expression on his face, “You’re afraid of me.”

“Observant, as always.”

Afraid doesn’t begin to cover it.

“What I did to you… What I’ve done to you… I… I abhor myself for it.”

You scoff, “Which part?”

“All of it.”

You stand there clinging to your fire for comfort. Your mouth is dropped open in astonishment. You observe his features keenly. His crimson eyes are downcast and glassed over, melancholic remorse shining brightly in the waxy moonlight.

His shoulders are slumped. His demeanour reminds you of the night he tried to bite you in your sleep, and you awoke to him hovering over you, fangs bared.

What can I even say to this?

He drags his fingers through the highlighted silver curls of his hair, “I feel different after the ritual. Something in me is… broken. I am not myself.”

No shit.

He looks at you with frightened, round eyes, “I don’t want to be this way, this person, but the power…” He looks at his hands as they ball into fists and clenches his bared teeth, “It corrupts, and I lose myself in it.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

“I need your help.”

“You want my help? After you threatened to kill me?” You shake your head, “What kind of morbid trick is this, Astarion? What games are you trying to amuse yourself with now?”

“No games, my love.”

My love?

Am I actually considering this?

Have I gone completely mad?

Tightness coils like a spring constricting your chest, and you let the fire burning in your palm retreat, “How can I ever trust you again? How can I know if this is real?”

Astarion comes closer with slow, deliberate steps, “You can cast Detect Thoughts, no?”

“Yes, you know that. You’ve seen me use it countless times. Why?”

“Cast it.”

“What?”

“You need to know this is not a trick, and I can hardly blame you. Cast, darling. Tell me what you see.”

Astarion continues his slow advance toward you. The one good thing about being dead and having no heartbeat is that he can’t tell how scared you are. You hold your ground with a rigid stance, muscles tight and ready to react at a moment's notice.

He searches your face, looking deeply into your eyes, “They never did completely change colour, did they? Your eyes, I mean.”

All of your friends had remarked that although your eyes did take on the red hue of his, your irises held splotches and slivers where your original eye colour was still visible. You wonder what it must look like, but your face will forever be just a memory until one day it too fades.

“I wouldn’t know. I have no reflection anymore.”

“I’ve taken much from you.”

My love. My passion. My life.

Astarion hand trails down your arm to your wrist before turning your palm up and kissing it softly, “Cast, love.”

Do I want to do this?

You shouldn’t even be humouring him; you should be asking him to leave the city as he said he would, but there’s something in his voice, in the way he moves, and in his eyes that you recognize, and it tugs at your inherent intuition. You grit your teeth and cast.

My Astarion… If there’s even a small chance, I have to take it.

“What do you see?”

“Nothing. I haven’t used it.”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid of what I might see, hear.”

He chuckles, “Me too.”

You delve into his mind. There is so much noise in his head that it makes it hard to focus on any one thought, and you struggle with isolating them. The cacophonous commotion maims your conscious mind and makes you want to yelp.

Shaking your head, you try to stifle the throbbing pain between your ears, “You need to settle your mind, Astarion.”

“How?”

“Focus on something that calms you.”

“Okay,” Astarion anchors his eyes on you, “try again.”

The chaotic mess of his mind batters yours as you try to focus yourself from one thought to the next. You manage to catch snippets here and there, but nothing concrete, nothing that can tell you if this is a trick, game or some other form of callous manipulation.

“Not calm enough, Astarion.”

“Is everyone's mind like that?”

“No one’s mind is like that. At least no one I’ve done this to. Thoughts are usually coherent and fluid like a slow stream slipping into a bigger river, but yours are chaotic, loud, like a raging storm.”

Although this certainly sheds some light on his erratic behaviour.

“What now?”

This might not be my brightest idea.

“I have an idea, but you might not like it.”

He narrows his eyes at you, “Well, what is it?”

You take a deep breath and exhale slowly, trying to calm the fear curdling in your stomach. Closing the distance between you, your lips meet his tenderly.

He’s shocked for a moment, and you wonder if you overstepped, but his arm comes around you, pulling your body flush against his. He deepens the kiss with a low moan.

Now, the hard part is trying to keep enough of your mind off this moment to be able to read his thoughts accurately.

You once again focus your spell. The blaring white noise that had obstructed and retaliated against your intrusion slowly drops to a low murmur in the background.

His thoughts start to form coherently, and you follow the meandering stream. You can hear them now, as long as you don’t allow yourself to get too lost in him.

A challenge all on its own.

There’s something different about his thoughts compared to others’ minds you’ve read. He’s in there, but there’s something else, something sinister that chants malice, hatred, and corruption. It grasps at and infects his thoughts as they flow, polluting them.

You can hear his thoughts as they drift.

“What have I become?”

“Who am I?”

“Help me.”

He’s not lying.

Having heard enough to get answers, you allow the spell to wane. You intend to break the kiss, but his mouth on yours feels divine. He hasn’t kissed you with this much passion since the night he turned you, and you soak into it and immerse yourself in him.

I have to stop this, but Gods, I don’t want to.

His tongue trails along your lower lip, sending spiralling shivers running down your spine, and you gasp, parting your lips for him. He explores your mouth skillfully, tasting you, and a growl reverberates in his chest. Feverish need washes through you in a deluge and pools hot in your stomach.

You push yourself further into him, trailing your hands greedily up the smooth contours of his body. His thumb sweeps affectionately across your cheek. He is the center of your universe, and you can’t help but be pulled into him. Your yearning desire swells between your thighs, and you sigh against him at the throbbing ache, begging for him to relieve it.

You can feel your rationality start to slip away from you as you gravitate towards him helplessly.

Reluctantly, you push him away, with a panting breath, “Stop.”

He groans but releases you immediately, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

Shaking your head, you hold your hand up to stop him. This wasn’t his fault. You had initiated it in the first place and allowed it to go on far longer than you should have. Your lips still tingle with the phantom feeling of his urging mouth, and you crave more.

His sultry gaze penetrates you, “I did very much enjoy that idea.”

Me too.

“You’re not lying, as far as I can tell, but I still don’t know what you think I can do for you.”

“You’re the only one that will stand up to me. Well, that I know I won’t kill anyway.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

His eyebrows round, and his mouth drops open, “You think I will kill you?”

“Yes. I think you might. You’re certainly more than capable of it.”

“I…” Surprise dances across his features, “I would never.”

You scowl at him, “You almost did.”

“Darling, I was right behind you the entire time, just out of sight. I would never have let you burn.”

Was he?

“Oh, I see. So, you just, what? Enjoy seeing me running for my life, terrified? I hope you enjoyed the show.”

“I don’t enjoy it, but I feel… compelled to do it like something takes over, and I’m out of control…” he sighs, “again.”

“I don’t know if I can save you from yourself, Astarion.”

His eyes fall to the ground, full of sorrow and fear, and your heart breaks for him.

“I… I understand.”

“But I will try.”

I have to.

“You will?”

What do I have to lose?

Reflexively, you take a deep breath and nod, “Yes.”

Astarion takes your hand in his, “Thank you.” He smiles, “Will you move back into the palace?”

You pull away from him, “I have to think about it, Astarion. I need time to process…. Whatever this is.”

“Yes, of course. That’s eminently reasonable. Shall we discuss your terms tomorrow night?”

Another transaction for my help. Lovely.

“Fine. Until tomorrow, then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, my treasure.”  

You sit in the stark chair by the fireplace in the empty house you share with Shadowheart and Gale. Anxiety prickles your skin and ripples through your thoughts.

Am I falling for another trap?

Agreeing to help him may prove to be your undoing, but when have you ever been able to resist him when he’s pleading for your help? It’s what got you into this mess in the first place - isn’t it? If the ritual did cause this change in him, you can’t help but feel it’s your fault.

It sounded like he was still in there. If he is, how do you save someone from their own corrupted thoughts?

Tears slip down your cheeks, and you bring your knees to your chest. The fire wanes in the fireplace as it runs out of fuel, and you allow it to die like you allowed Astarion to take your life. As the fire burns out, it washes you in darkness. You wish Shadowheart were here to try and talk you out of the stupidity you’ve just agreed to.

Can I even be talked out of it?

You have always been headstrong, likely to your own detriment at times. You preserve where others balk. That resilience had carried you through after escaping the Nautiloid, but could it carry you through this?

The hectic cacophony of Astarion’s mind makes you shudder. You’ve listened in on the thoughts of countless people and never encountered anything similar. It had been like watching a crystal-clear stream slip through a contaminated bog, turning it into a gelatinous, toxic soup.

Could the ritual have caused that? 

There was no way to know for sure. You had never listened to his thoughts before. Even when you had the tadpole, you never forced your way into any of your friends’ heads out of respect for them and their privacy. The only times you had crossed those boundaries was when the tadpole resonated with his out of your control.

Going to your room, you crawl into your bed. The wooden walls creak and groan eerily around you as if the ghosts of the 7000 souls you condemned were haunting you. You let your consciousness glide into the meditative tranquillity of your trance. 

You awake when the shadows have devoured the light again. Slipping into a tightly fitting robe, you bolster yourself for what’s to come. You run a comb through your hair and adorn your favourite circlet. The metal is delicately shaped in prancing dragons, and a shining red gem hangs low on your forehead.

A knock on the door makes you twitch slightly, though you already know who it is. Astarion is waiting when you open it, leaning against the doorframe, handsomely bathed in the small beams of pale light that slip through the parting clouds covering the inky sky.

He’s dressed in a fancy red and black jacket with silver and gold piping and finely embroidered. His scarlet eyes are vibrant, dazzling you.

“Hello, little love. Are you ready to discuss?”

Am I?

“Yes. We can talk.”

“Where are Shadowheart and Gale?”

“Not here.” You leer a warning at him, “Stay away from them.”

His eyes cast down, “Do you truly think I am such a monster that I would hurt them?”

“I don’t know who or what you are anymore.”

He shakes his head with a sigh, “Neither do I sometimes, my dear. Shall we get you something to eat before we talk?”

“You’re not dressed for hunting.”

He chuckles, “I may be a tad overdressed. I came from a business meeting.”

Business meeting?  

“Come, let’s go get you some food.”

You and Astarion walk to the forest in uneasy silence. A low fog covers the ground in an eerie, chalky mist. You keep a tight grasp on your magic, ready to cast at a moment's notice.

Astarion may seem different, but you’re not entirely sure if you can trust him. Part of you thinks this is all just another manipulation, and you’re walking straight into it.

The lovesick hero… Gods, he couldn’t have been more right.

“Do you always stomp so loudly when you’re hunting?”

You scoff, “I am not a hunter, Astarion.”

“Yes, that’s evident. How did you keep yourself fed?”

You shake your head, abject, “I didn’t. Not well, at least.”

Astarion strips himself of his jacket and shirt once he’s surmised you’re deeply enough into the forest. His pallid skin makes him appear almost ghost-like in the washed-out glow of the diffuse beams of light that flicker, cast from the full moon glowing brightly behind the clouds. His muscles appear as though they have been etched from stone by a master mason.

Fuck.

He looks ethereal in this moment, and you can’t pry your eyes away from him.

“Enjoying the view, precious thing?”

“Yes, the forest is beautiful tonight.” You cast your eyes upward before meeting his with a taunting glare, “I could take or leave your body.”

“Oh,” he giggles, “feeling bold tonight, I see.”

This feels too much like before he usurped the Rite of Profane Ascension, making you restless. You fidget with your hands and shift uncomfortably on your feet. Your palms are still warm, prepared to cast, just in case he turns on you like he has so many times.

“We can talk about what’s bothering you if you wish.”

You didn’t even notice him walk over. Astarion stands in front of you. His eyebrow is cocked, and he eyes you acutely with a probing gaze.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Stay put, and do try not to move about too much. You scare away the animals.”

You roll your eyes at him, “I’m well aware of my inadequacies, thank you.”

Just like the night before, Astarion returns promptly with your dinner. He redresses himself while you eat, and you mourn the loss of that mouthwatering sight.

Get ahold of yourself.

“Where would you like to talk? I presume you have… demands.”

“The palace is fine as long as you don’t currently have any… guests. ”

“Guests?” He cocks a brow at you, confused.

“Your new lover. Whatever her name is.”

“Oh…” He shakes his head, “It’s not what you think, my dear. We will discuss it.”

Not what I think? She basically told me as much.

Once you hit the city streets leading to the palace, you are overwhelmed by all the people outside, even at this late hour. They smell like prey, and even though you just ate, that hunger is insatiable. You could likely eat every person in this city and still not quench that sanguine thirst.

Their hearts beat lazily in their chests as they mull about, and it’s the only thing you can hear. You grimace and grit your teeth, trying to stay in control of the bloodlust that consumes you.

Astarion notices your unease. He had spent two centuries with it, after all.

“Hold my hand, little love. I’ll keep you safe and them.”

He holds his hand out to you, and you look at it tentatively, unsure if you should take it. A child runs past you, chasing his friends, laughing hysterically, and you grab Astarion’s hand in a death grip. You clamber and hug tightly to his side as you fight the urge to chase the gleefully playing children.

Gods, what have I become? 

“Eyes on me, darling. You’re alright.”

“Astarion, I can’t.” Your voice is panicked, pleading, “I need to get out of here before I kill someone.”

He nods and looks around, “Do you see that rooftop?”

“Yes.”

“Can you make it up there?”

You nod, “Yes.”

“Go.”

You cast Misty Step and disperse into a fog, reappearing on the rooftop. Astarion is already there waiting for you, no doubt turning himself into mist as he had done in the forest to subdue you. He holds out his hand again, and this time, you take it gratefully. Despite the fear he has instilled in you, there is solace in his touch as there always was.

Astarion leads you over rooftops, jumping from section to section and catching you when you inevitably nearly fall. The breeze up here is unhindered by obstacles and remains fresh and mostly void of the smell of the living, allowing you to calm your raving mind.

Walking into the palace courtyard, you eye the statue you had thrown him through in your rage just a few nights prior.

So much can change so quickly.

The square base of the statue remains largely intact, but the rest of the marbled-grey figure lies in large, jagged pieces strewn haphazardly on the ground.

Astarion follows your gaze and smirks, “I didn’t like it much anyway.”

You follow him into a large, lavish sitting room, obviously meant to occupy the spawns’ guests before Cazador came for them. Looking around the dim, dreary palace, you shudder.

I hate this place.

“Darling, do you mind?”

“What?”

He points at the fireplace, “Would you be so kind?”

With the flick of your wrist, fire springs to life, igniting the kindling and logs, crackling and popping. A soft, tawny glow casts across the room. The tacky paintings and art he hated still embellish the walls, and the furniture remains the same.

Why has he not changed any of this?

He sits down and watches as you glide through the room, inspecting it. You finally shake your head and bring yourself back to the matter at hand.

Let’s get this over with.

“I have stipulations.”

He chuckles, “I would not have expected any less.”

“I don’t want to live in this horrid place.”

He waves his hand dismissively, “This is my home.”

“It’s not mine. Let me be perfectly clear - I will not live here.”

He sighs, “Alright, but please tell me you are not asking me to move back in with Shadowheart and Gale?”

“Absolutely not. I don’t want you anywhere near them.”

“I will purchase another then.”

“I don’t want to see your lover. If you must be with her, you can go elsewhere. Return to this palace for all I care as long as I don’t have to see her and you together.”

“It upsets you.”

Your anger flares, the fire in the fireplace pulses and sputters along with it, “Yes, it fucking upsets me. Does that make you happy?”

He stands and walks over to you. You cross your arms over your body and keep your eyes off him, not wanting him to see just how much it breaks you.

Astarion uses his fingers to gently bring your eyes up to his, “Why does it upset you so?”

You scoff at him, “That’s a stupid question.”

“Be a dear and humour my stupidity then.”

“You wouldn’t even touch me after you turned me into… this. You barely laid a finger on me.”

His eyebrows knit together, “Did you want me to?”

“… Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

I wanted you to want me...

“It hardly matters now. Let’s move on.”

“I’d rather like to know why you care so much about the, what did you call her?” He cocks his head, eyes upcast, “Ah yes, my “purple-haired hussy.” You left me, remember?”

“You didn’t give me a choice. It was either run or be ruined by you, but I don’t wish to drudge this up. Let’s move on.”

He grabs your robe aggressively, tugging you close to him with a threatening sneer, “I said tell me.”

Well, that didn’t last long, did it?

Here goes nothing.

Reaching up, you grab one of his fists holding you, and you burn him. He winces, recoils and throws you to the floor.

“You little shit!”

“Stop listening to whatever is whispering to you in your head, Astarion.”

I need to snap him out of this, but how?

Your words in the forest float through your head, “Focus on something that calms you.”

Me… He anchored himself with me…

In a swift motion, you throw yourself up and wrap your arms around him in a tight embrace, “Don’t let it win.”

He growls menacingly, and you squeeze him tighter. Your whole body is trembling, terror-stricken, and you clench your jaw hard and wait for whatever comes next.

He’s either going to throw me off, kill me, or….

Astarion stills. His muscles flex and relax chaotically. You look up at him, and his eyes are tightly shut with his teeth grit together so harshly they rasp sickeningly. The tendons in his neck jut out unnaturally. His hands are balled into fists at his side. You reach up and cradle his face, and he snarls threateningly, but you sweep your thumb across his cheek.

“Hey, eyes on me, Astarion.” You echo his words from earlier when he had saved you from your own morbid, intrusive thoughts.

His eyes open slowly and meet yours, “Easy now. You’ve got this.”

Quiet minutes tick by without a word from either of you. You watch the war raging inside him through his eyes. They flash from cold and dead to the crimson warmth you recognize and back again while he battles with himself.

With a slight shake of his head, his whole body relaxes instantly, and his eyes warm again.

“I… I apologize. I…”

“Lost yourself, I know.”

He pushes you back and looks you up and down, “Are you hurt?”

“No, you didn’t hurt me, but I burnt you. Apologies.”

He looks at the reddened marking on his pale hand, “Think nothing of it. I heal quickly.”

“Yes, I’m well aware.”

Astarion’s eyes look at the floor, ashamed of himself, “Are you going to leave? I’ll take you home if you wish.”

“No. I believe we still have terms to discuss.”

“You’re still going to help me?”

You smile, “Always.”

“You truly are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

His confession at Moonrise rings through your mind. The memory is overlayed in sorrow, and your chest clenches tightly, remembering his words, “I want us to be something real.” 

You thrust the thought away as quickly as it reared up, “Are you okay now, or do you need a moment?”

“No. I’m fine. We can continue with your demands. You will not live here, no lovers, what else?” He smirks, “You are a particularly demanding little thing tonight.”

“You need to teach me how to hunt so I can feed myself.”

“We’ve swayed to this particular song already, love. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, I remember. I will endeavour to be a better pupil this time.”

He chuckles, “You may get the hang of it in a century or two or three. Fine. I will do my best to educate you. Anything else?”

“When this is over, I want my freedom. I know you won’t turn me into a True Vampire, but I want to be free to decide my fate.”

“Why do you think I won’t?”

“You told me as much. “Trust me, it doesn’t happen.” After you turned me, I was too blinded to realize you were saying what I wanted to hear in honeyed lies. I am not so naive anymore."

He scowls but takes a deep breath, “Then you will have it, my dear.” 

Big thank you to everyone who takes the time to read/follow/like/reblog/comment/etc. I'm honoured to know you're enjoying reading my fics!

I'm sorry this chapter took awhile to come out - I've rewritten it so many times I've lost count, so I hope you like it!

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

AO3 [Crossposted]

[wilsons-three-legged-siamese]

before i get started, i do not post anything to do with political issues in the world.

i am not being hateful, i just simply do not know enough about it. im very uneducated on it and id rather not get into politics online. thank you. x

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name: wil/wilbur

pronouns: he/him

gender: trans masc

sexuality: bisexual

age: im a minor !!

birthday: june 2nd

zodiac: gemini

MBTI: INTP

fandoms: house md, dead poets society,

swing kids,

jeeves and wooster, rsl, hugh

laurie, hamilton (musical & hi-

story, history mainly)

extra info: i am a writer! i do accept

requests. im a beta. but i am

very slow at beta'ng and writing.

‼️ i only beta for poetry and

fan fiction of fandoms in in.‼️

warnings: i will make suggestive jokes as

i am a teenage boy in secondary

school, lol. also maybe sense-

tive subjects? ill always add

a tw. just yeah-

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my dear mutuals;

@example-of-a-romantic @remy45 @asclexe @arrr-im-a-dead-poet @y-a-w-p @yourfavvgal @your-local-dead-poet @prettypinkbubbless @adozenforks @sesamie @shockviaelectric @desire-mona @forrestpoet @ghostboyhood @sillyhyperfixator @jellifishiez @joonof1989 @kattt-5865 @kim-the-kryptid @lv3buzzz @zephsterrrrrrrrrr @cherrishnoodles @crow-king-ash @xxcherryberriezxx @vivaalaviidaaa @boabel @birdyboyfly @neil-perrys-reincarnation @noctilucaa @midwest-quill @neil-perrys-suicidal-tendencies @star-laboratory @perksofbeingpoet @1mlostnow @mighthavebeenmurder @pingunaa @this-vexes-me @richardcameronshusband @littlelqtte @more-mousebites

(i think thats everyone, just please dm or ask if i missed you. or if you wouldn't like to be tagged <3)

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boundaries ‼️

i dont appreciate people being negative. like all the time. im extremely good at reading people, so if i feel like you are lying about your problems, i will block you. its happened too many times. my dms are open if you need to vent, but dont make it a regular thing. i have my own things to deal with, so i appreciate if you only vent a few times - make it occasional.

also please dont block me outta nowhere. i wanna know what i did, please.

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my side blog; @ask-head-of-cardio ! i dont use it as much as id like to but go check it out <3

other ask oc blog; @most-loved-ppth-patient

ask wilson blog; @dr-well-adjusted

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my kins;

steven meeks [dead poets society]

james wilson [house md]

will mackenzie [the inbetweeners]

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links to significant posts & my socials;

oc info - sydney forrest

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background on my user!;

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special mentions;

@chaoticamberr - my partner obviously 🙏

@yourfavvgal - matching bios ‼️

@richardcameronshusband - first ever mutual 😨

[storiesbyrhi]

Witch!Reader x Bat/Vampire!Eddie Munson Series Masterlist The Grimoire The Timeline

Warnings: canon typical violence, horror genre typical violence/some infrequent gore, swearing, animal death, no beta, death in childbirth (mentioned, not described), abusive parents, suicide, spiders/bugs, grief/mourning; light smut; warnings updated each chapter.

Synopsis: No witch has stepped foot in Hawkins since 1845, but when Vecna opens the ground and poisons the town, a voice begins to call to you. Have you been brought back to this cursed place to heal the townspeople’s wounds, to save a hexed bat that always finds its way to you, or to redefine your history with a reunion 150 years in the making?

Chapter Summary: To build a home. 2888 words.

1986

When the temperature dropped and a near-constant fog hung low over Hawkins, you were glad, being more of a winter witch than summer. You stood on the peak of a hillside and looked over the vast plains surrounding the town. The mist made everything look ghostly and romantic.

The land had been returned to the descendants of the original Native American peoples who once lived there, but with no immediate plans to reoccupy the space, your new coven had been granted permission to make home on the condition you would oversee its protection.

For the moment, you were alone on the hill. Eddie was hiding from solar rays in the trailer, listening to the radio and writing in a journal he had recently started.

There was a lot to do before your sisters arrived and you wanted it all done by then. You wanted everything to be perfect. The first dwelling of a new coven would set the tone for centuries to come. It was time to build.

The advantages of being magically blessed were many, but you’d always thought enchanted seeds had to be right up there in the top ten. You’d had seven seeds soaking in seven jars over the past seven days.

You’d lined them up and filled them to halfway with moon water. In went a seed each, apple slices, and petals. In Ash’s jar went dahlia petals, while Hailey’s had peonies. Purple mums for Meg. Foxglove for Ev. Mel’s had snapdragons and lucky last, Kelsey’s was filled with delphinium.

Now, you’d fished each seed out and planted it where their cabins, cottages, and homes were to be.

“I plant these seeds,

Where homes will grow,

By moonlight

And good intentions.

In this time,

And in this place,

A coven new

Offers protection.”

You laid on the grass in the shade of an old sycamore tree. Closing your eyes, you let yourself melt into the natural world. Bones became tree roots. Blood swapped for mud. Total harmony. Infinite peace.

The air grew cooler and the shade expanded outwards. Darkness enveloped you and your body slowed as if you were in your final resting place. That’s how he found you; not asleep but not awake.

Eddie surveyed your work. The seeds had already sprouted, grew, and bloomed. Magical in their speed. He picked one of the snapdragon flowers and squeezed the base, like you’d shown him. It opened the flower’s mouth, a tiny floral puppet. Eddie smiled to himself.

You felt their heartbeats before you saw Eddie. Sitting up, you watched the deer and her fawn meander in from the forest. She’d looked at you, poised in question. What is he? Is he safe? Given a witch’s blessing, she let her baby approach Eddie.

He too had heard their heartbeats. Eddie had remained where he was, mindful not to scare them. When the fawn appeared at his feet, he slowly opened his hand to the animal and let it eat the snapdragon from his palm.

“You would know if it was poison, right?” he asked in a quiet voice. The fawn looked up at him, long eyelashes and soft whiskers.

Eddie turned to find you standing close behind him. You were getting very good at sneaking up on him.

“Hi,” he greeted.

“Making friends?”

Eddie nodded.

“Feeding my flowers to them?”

There was an overwhelming feeling that the moment was beautifully preordained – and really, knowing fate, it probably was.

Eddie turned back to the flowers. “I thought you said they would grow into homes?”

“They will. They just need some time alone with the moon… Shall we?” You held your hand out to Eddie.

…

While you appreciated Walmart’s late night hours, their range of Halloween costumes was less than ideal. You stared at the row of wigs for a while before drifting away in search of decorations. October was a good time to find homewares you’d use all year round.

You were shaking a snow globe filled with little black bats when Eddie appeared in front of you, holding up a vampire costume. “It comes with plastic teeth,” he pointed out. “And a cape,”

You snorted. “Is that your pick? Because generic vampire would be very meta of you.”

He smiled but shook his head. “I don’t think this would put the humans at ease,”

“Probably not. So… something more friendly?”

“Yes. More… normal,” he said in a way that made ‘normal’ sound taboo. Eddie’s gaze wandered from you over to the back corner of the store. He handed you the vampire costume then walked away without further explanation.

You frowned, watching him go. Looking down at the costume in your hands, an idea sprung to mind. The red cape. You returned to the wigs.

A little later, Eddie was waiting for you when you came out of the fitting room with a white dress. You glanced at the jeans and long-sleeved blue polo top he was holding.

“I need a cat,” he told you seriously. “The children in the toy aisle are…”

“You’re afraid of them?”

“No. I’m afraid I’ll eat them. Come. Restrain me if you must,” he announced dramatically, loudly. The Walmart employee at the fitting room door gave you a concerned look as Eddie grabbed your hand and dragged you away.

Both your endeavours were successful; Eddie found the necessary prop in the plush toy bin, and you raided the craft section. With a few other odds and ends in the basket, you were ready to head home, arriving at Forest Hills just before midnight.

Eddie carried the shopping inside, leaving you to unpack and get started on your project while he brewed tea for you. He had been practicing with flavour combinations and brewing times, constantly requesting feedback since he himself could not drink the tea without immediately throwing it back up. The best he could do was let it linger on his tongue and capture the taste in the few seconds before his dead mouth killed it.

“You should sleep soon,” he insisted, albeit softly.

You took the mug of tea he held out and smiled at him. “I will. I just want to organise this stuff,”

“Why are you making it? Could you not cast some sort of illusion spell? Or magically will all the pieces into the shapes you want?”

“I could. But where’s the Halloween spirit in that?”

Eddie nodded and began to go through his costume pieces. “Could you possibly spare a spell for a pair of my boots? They need to be brown, I believe,”

“Didn’t want to just buy some brown boots?”

His frown was bordering on pout. “I’d never wear them again.”

You laughed.  Eddie had been developing his own sense of style. If style was beat-up combat boots and a ratty denim jacket he probably stole from someone in the city. Consistently though, he wore a lot of black.

“I’ll work on it,” you agreed with a nod.

An hour later, when you kept pausing mid-sentence to yawn, Eddie whisked you off to bed, tucking you in and wishing you sweet dreams.

“You going to sleep too?” you asked, meaning ‘do you need the bat spell?’

“No, my love. I’m hungry,”

“Walmart kids wet your appetite?”

He chuckled, always amused when you made dark jokes. He kissed your forehead and watched you fall asleep, then left Hawkins in search of violence.

…

The next day, Eddie waited for the last of the light to leave the porch before he stirred. He’d spent hours curled up in one of the many nests you’d built for him around the trailer. The nest on the porch was as soft as his fur and perfectly positioned so he could sleep in the sun all day.

When night fell, cool and calm, he flew inside and found you in the bath. You said the words with your eyes closed, letting a human-shaped Eddie settle on the tiles.

“You’ve been gone for hours,”

“I was just outside. These may be the last fine days we see this year,”

“My baby sunshine bat,” you cooed with a smile, waking yourself up to look at him.

You had woken that morning to Eddie curled around you, satiated and happy. He asked to be battified, then disappeared outside. You’d spent the day working on your costume.

Eddie rested his chin on the edge of the bath, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body. “I miss you when I’m not near you,” he said suddenly.

“I thought you were just outside,”

“I was. Even then. Even sleeping. It’s too far.”

You held a hand up for him to take. Tangled fingers. A warm pulse against cold skin.

“Maybe we should stitch our bodies together,” you whispered.

Eddie’s lips curled into a devilish grin. “I could just bite down and never let you go,”

“I could cut you up into itty bitty pieces and consume you entirely,”

“You’re starting something you cannot finish,” Eddie warned, his eyes growing dark. He untangled one of your fingers and held it between his teeth.

“I’d let you eat me whole.”

Eddie dropped your hand abruptly, pulled you from the lukewarm bathwater, and had you wrapped around him like a koala before you even registered movement.

“I will reach my hand into my throat and tear down until I find what is left of my unbeating heart. I will serve it to you and you will feast and we will become one.” His voice was earnest and emphatic.

Teeth clenched, you smashed your forehead to his and pulled hard on his hair. Maybe you said what you needed him to do out loud, maybe he read your mind. Either way, you were facedown on a mattress within a second, Eddie’s teeth and tongue scraping and licking up the backs of your legs.

“I…” he started.

“Want…”

Words separated by kisses.

“To…”

By bites.

“Eat…”

Like a recited spell.

“All…”

Well timed magic.

“The…”

He was at your hips.

“Love…”

Pushing beneath you.

“Out of you.”

…

Little witch…

Little witch…

His voice was in your head.

In your dreams.

Then, real.

“Little witch, my love? You wanted to check on your flower houses before the night is through,” Eddie said. He was right. That had been the plan. But the sun had set, he’d taken you to bed, and you’d lost hours with him. When did you fall asleep?

Slowly, you crawled from bed and checked the time. Midnight had only just left you. Heavy, sluggish movements. Weighed down by an unscheduled nap. You flopped back onto the bed.

“Do you need help?” Eddie asked as he came to stand in front of you.

Pouting, you nodded.

You watched him collect fresh clothes, ruminating over what he wanted to see you in. Eddie pulled you by the ankles to the edge of the bed, hooking underwear on and sliding them up. Still foggy with sleep, you felt like you were still rolling through a dreamscape. Eddie worked slowly. Sensually. With tenderness. It almost brought you to tears.

With your shoes laced up, there was no reason left to delay. You twinkled your fingers at Eddie, asking to be lifted off the bed. He acquiesced, leading you out of the bedroom and through the trailer.

On the car ride to the new coven, with your Moody Midnight mix tape playing loud, you watched Eddie out of the corner of your eye. He wound down the window and glided his hand through the fall wind.

As the flowerbeds came into view, Eddie’s mouth dropped open and an expression of pure delight lit up his face. He was out of the car before you cut the engine.

The seedlings had gone. In their places, beautiful buildings set apart from each other with enough space to grow gardens and vegetable patches, yet close enough to wave through windows.

Kelsey’s cottage was the first on the street, a warm welcome with shutters the shade of delphinium blue. It seemed small, unassuming, but you knew as soon as she moved in, she would charm it so it grew bigger and bigger on the inside, never changing on the outside. Eventually, as the coven embraced new members, Kelsey would take on housemates, her little cabin becoming the heart of the sisterhood.

Across from the cottage were Ash and Hailey’s cute tiny homes, their dahlia and peonies growing strong out front already. Down the way sat Ev’s Victorian style house. It was grand and gothic, and undoubtedly filled with secret nooks and spaces that Ev would hide all sorts of weird things in. Both Meg and Mel had dwellings on the far side of the field. Meg’s thatched roof a bright purple, and Mel’s garden already sprouting with plants she could feed her turtle.

“This is… It feels…” Eddie didn’t know what to say. Truthfully, he couldn’t believe this type of magic was allowed. It seemed too immense, too obvious.

“I know,” you told him. “We don’t always build like this. But I want them to feel at home, you know? I want this all to feel… right.”

Eddie nodded, finally stopping his awestruck pacing, and focussing on you. “They will love it,” he assured you. “I love it… It’s…” Still, not a single adjective would form. He looked over the buildings again. “Wait… There is not… You have not grown a home for yourself?”

“For us,” you corrected.

“For us… Please don’t tell me you intend on dragging that trailer across town?” Eddie joked. Half joked. There was clear apprehension in his tone. A little fear in his eyes.

You laughed. “No. I don’t intend on doing that… It’s just, you know, we haven’t talked about what kind of home we want.”

He couldn’t maintain eye contact, turned back to the houses, watching them as if they were going to continue to grow. They wouldn’t, of course. Not with an audience.

You let Eddie ponder while you walked the perimeter of the field. The land the coven would care for extended far beyond the little neighbourhood you’d grown from petals, but the air was already crackling with magic. Out in the forest over the hill, a family of red foxes were jumping and playing. Bats swooped through the sky and fireflies carved patterns through the dark.

Eddie sat on the doorstep of Ev’s Victorian. He listened to your heartbeat. How, when other living things came close to you, their breathing synced to yours. Leaves twisted in your direction like you were the sun. The center of everything. Definitely his.

You were almost out of his eyeline, crouched down scratching the belly of a fox cub, when you went still. For a moment Eddie thought you’d sensed or seen danger, but quickly you were up and turned to him. “You do want a home, right?”

In an instant, he was in front of you, the breadth of the field nothing to him. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because. Like I said. We’ve never talked about it.”

Eddie’s brows pulled together and his expression so sharp it could have been mistaken as anger, rather than the abject confusion it was. “Everything I have ever said has been about you. Loving you. Getting this far,”

“Yes. Yeah. But logistically… Vampires are nomadic. And all the time taken from you. You don’t want to see how the world has changed?”

The foxes had gone, unnerved by the thing that wasn’t human or witch. The breeze had settled, the trees providing a windbreak. Eddie saw through your line of questioning, tracing it back to the niggle of anxious thought settling in your brain. His face softened, then the beginning of his trademark smirk.

Eddie threw himself onto his knees at your feet, twisting his hands in the layers of your long, black skirt. “I am bound to you. Where you are, is where I am.”

You couldn’t help but grin. His dramatics wouldn’t distract you though. Dropping to your knees you looked at him seriously. He laughed.

“Eddie. You have been trapped in Hawkins for a hundred years. I’m not going to be the next witch to keep you here,”

“You want to know what I desire, in the deep, dark, catacombs of my soul?”

It was rhetorical, but you nodded.

“What do you picture me having done between 1586 and… well, you? 250 years of stillness? No, my love. I have seen the world. I know what is out there. It may have changed, but it will change again and again. I don’t want the world. I want you. I want to know you when you’re happy. I want to see you build this coven. Grow plants. Heal human ailment and cast witch magic…” Eddie tipped his head to the side a little, cocky as ever. “Logistically we should consider blackout blinds and room for books, not international travel.”

You wore that glazed-over look, drunk on the articulation of Eddie’s love. “You want a library?” you asked, voice coming out in a dumb whisper. Eddie nodded. “Me too. Maybe two… One for fiction and one for non-fiction,”

“Maybe three. Fiction. Non-fiction. Then, one for grimoires and other craft books.”

The foxes watched on from burrow doors. They still didn’t know what he was, but as long as he was with you, they’d leave him be.

End Note: Thank you to @jo-harrington for, well, the cannibalism.

There is a short playlist linked in this, little witch's Moody Midnight mix tape. I hope you like it.

There are a lot of people on the tag list that I have no idea if they read this story anymore. Feedback and love are deeply appreciated. xo Rhi

P.S. I hope you love your witchy homes @vintagehellfire @courtingchaos @pastel-pillows @ghost-proofbaby @kookygranger @toomanyacorns

Fic Taglist:  @paranoidmunson  @idkidknemore @paprikaquinn @stardustworlds @loz-brooke @wyverntatty @vintagehellfire @dark-academia-slut @scarletwitchwhore @becks1002 @mrsdollardog @heyndrix @luceneraium @rosaline-black @devilinthepalemoonlite @goldencherriess @iamwhisperingstars @wiltedwonderland @blueywrites @breezybeesposts @jadehowlettthewolf @spikesvamp79 @foreveranexpatsposts @tortoiseshellspells @wingedpeachjudgegiant @stardustmunson @live-love-be-unique @fangirling-4-ever @reanimated-alice @b-irock @gh0stlybunnie @myown-worstenemy-2003 @woozzz @cyberxlust @hiscrimsonangel @buckysbarne @m00nlight101 @word-wytch @spicysix @briasnow-blog @goth-cowgirl-03

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[dizzyjaden]

❝ I heard a cry. ❞

Kaedehara Kazuha x gn! Reader

♤ Summary: The reader reflects on their losses from the vision hunt decree that is active in Inazuma and meets someone they did not expect.

♤ Warnings: Suicide, death of family members, maternal mortality, depression, isolation, Stab wound, burnt skin, overall disheartening tone, angst

♤ A/N: Take care of yourself today <3 Kazuha loves you

⋆｡°✩

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March 15th...

Days always blurred together living rurally off the land. Time passed slowly but life moved quick. There was a certain beauty in the black ink markings scrawled along your calendar. You mark off another day with a brush. Forever the beginning of your daily routine. Check off the previous day you pulled yourself through. Acknowledge that time is still passing, no matter how slow. Then, get your chores done. Everyday is the same.

You have to keep yourself alive. Therefore, you have to keep the animals on your farm alive. You can't help but feel envious of those who live without trying to live, those who are cared for. You debate each morning between rotting in your bed or feeding the chickens because honestly, rotting seems easier than most things as of late.

Trudging down the stairs, you glance over the railing at the dining table made of wood crafted by your father. He was usually stationed there in the mornings when you woke up, preparing breakfast for the two of you. Occasionally, he'd get to work earlier than you would if there was something that needed to be repaired or urgent tasks that needed to be hurried. No matter, he'd always ensure there was a plate of food on the table by the time you came down.

You haven't been greeted by those plates of food in many mornings, by now you feel you should be accustomed to it, but you simply can't help expecting him to be there, or that plated signal of his presence. Rather, You can't help but hope. Of course, neither are there and you are once again served with the reminder that he is not coming back.

Food, you need food.

When your father passed, he didn't go without previously teaching you how to take care of yourself. You didn't grow up spoiled by any means. He had you working the moment you could walk. It's what you attribute to your optimism. There is no way you can give up when he worked so hard to keep you alive.

So with that, you are cracking an egg over a pan heated by the stove in your kitchen. You really don't need much. You find yourself entranced in the feeling of heat that the stove radiates. Inazuma is cold and wet. It's easy to forget you are shivering. You close your eyes, focusing on it as it calms your body. You love the feeling of warmth. It makes you recall the first time you used your pyro vision.

It was an enthralling experience, and you found yourself shocked at how even though the flames emitted from your hands were unpredictable and violent, the heat felt no different than the heat of a sunny day. It was a typical sensation. It always unnerved you how natural the feeling of heat from open fire was, coming from a dangerous source, you expected it to be different. Now, you consider how if your house caught ablaze while you were asleep, it would only be a comfortable sensation until it was too late.

Sometimes, you did hope your house caught on fire. You hoped every single horrific event that happened within these walls became ashes and singed every painful memory from your head.

Catching the scent of smoke, you clench your fists. The ability to produce flames given to you by your vision, you practiced your elemental skills so often you can almost feel it in your palms, the fire, the heat, the smell of smoke, it's all so close to you.

Then when you open your eyes, you realize it isn't close at all. You simply got so lost in thought you burnt your egg. Your eyes widen at the sight of your ruined breakfast. Then, something completely unexpected happens.

Tears roll down your face, but no sob leaves your throat. You discard the egg as you silently cry, the reality of your situation always hurls itself upon you in moments where you almost feel comforted. It was simply too fast, everything happened too fast. And now you are left with an aching heart, and a wasted egg.

You wipe away the inconvenient tears on your cheeks and sigh. Crying does nothing to bring back your parents, or your vision. Sometimes, you wonder if this dread weighing on your back is due to the loss of your vision, or merely grief. Likely both. You wonder if there are people out there who relate, people out there who fought to keep what was bestowed upon them by Celestia. You know your father would have if he had any time to prepare. Instead of receiving word of the vision hunt decree as soon as possible like the city folk did, Shogunate soldiers appeared on your doorstep one day completely out of the blue.

After you and your father had your visions revoked... He changed. You both changed. Your father became depressed, anyone could see that. His ambition and livelihood disappeared. He became unmotivated, cold, and quiet. It was as if taking his vision took a piece of him out, and you suddenly couldn't focus on your own pain anymore, you had to take care of him. You had to make sure the two of you survived, there was just no other choice.

Your efforts made no difference. Eventually, his despair swallowed him and he just could not take it anymore. He gave up. That night, you buried your own father. You buried him right next to the spot on the ground where long ago he buried your mother, who was not strong enough to keep you both alive when she gave birth to you. Now you fight to hold yourself together, and it makes you angry. Everything about it makes you angry.

What you witnessed in your father made you lose hope. The loss of a vision is something he couldn't bounce back from, so why would you be able to? However, you are still here, trying. You know that's worth something.

You have spent too much time this morning reminiscing. You must pull yourself through this day too, just like all the others and all the ones to come. You give up on the idea of breakfast, your appetite is gone.

Back up the stairs to dress yourself, you throw together your outfit and pull on a haori that once belonged to your father. Larger, to bear the cold chill in the air while the season neared winter. Down the stairs once more, and you place the sugegasa you keep by the door upon your head, finally heading out to tend to your chores.

You walk down the steps your father built down the hill your humble home rests on. It is difficult to find joy atop your isolated little mound on the earth, but the birds still chirp and the breeze still blows. The leaves on the trees tightly encasing the pathway down the hill brush your arms. It is serene, and worth maintaining. First, you'll care for the animals, then tend to the agriculture, then you will-

Cough

You stop descending the hill in an instant, and all the muscles in your body stiffen. You slowly turn your head and peer into the trees to your right where the noise was sourced with a wide-eyed gaze. Your farm was a part of no village or community, it was in the middle of nowhere, built by your family. You had only seen maybe two different people who knew your father visit the farm in the last two decades.

The voice sounded male. You rack your brain for absolutely anything you have on hand to defend yourself with. The best choice seemed to be your shoe, but even then you'd have to pack powerful force behind that attack to do any real damage, force you weren't sure if you were capable of. You consider running back to the house.

Cough

He is not visible where you are standing, but he sounds close. You can pinpoint where he is. You're completely aware of which tree he is behind. The one with the widest trunk, hiding him completely from sight. Something holds you in place, keeping you from attacking or fleeing.

He sounds pained.

Quietly, you approach, hoping to catch a glimpse of him from an angle. You walk into the woods, focused on keeping your steps silent. Slowly, he comes into view, as you tip-toe around the tree he is propped against. He has pure white hair, that is what catches your eye first. The next thing is his sword. Lying dormant next to him on the ground. You pause.

He is armed. Even if he is injured you won't win in a fight with him using your shoe and it would be idiotic to attempt that. Caught in a debate with yourself, you remain under the belief he does not know you are there, until he speaks.

"H-Hello?" He murmurs, looking around as if he somehow sensed your presence. As his gaze finally locks on you, you freeze in fear, but you are quick to the realization that he is just as scared, if not more.

You were correct in your suspicions. He is injured. He clutches his side which you can only assume has been wounded. Unless of course, this is all some kind of act to draw you closer.

"I am... No threat." He forces out as if reading your mind. "I'm sorry for intruding. I had to stop running somewhere... Please allow me a few more moments to compose myself... I will be gone by evening, I promise."

You are at a loss for what to do. He's hurt, obviously hurt. There is no more doubt in your mind about it. The strain in his voice is something difficult to fake. Naturally, you wish to help him. However, he mentioned running just now. Running from what, you do not know. But whatever it is might still be chasing him, and that means trouble for you if he remains in the vicinity.

All the same, if he leaves there is absolutely no guarantee he'll survive. There's no telling how bad his wound is and civilization is far away from where you are now. The odds are against him. So, you need to make a decision on whether or not you care now.

You sigh shakily, still tense.

"Who are you running from?" You ask quietly. He appears nervous at your question which instantly raises your guard again as he restates what he already said.

"I will be gone by evening-"

"Who are you running from?!" You demand, cutting him off. He flinches.

"Shogunates." He speaks shakily. "But I swear to you I have done no wrong."

"Then what have you done?" You inquire. "Where are you even coming from? You must've run a long way."

He lowers his head and entrusts you with a sight that genuinely shocks you. He holds up a crudely bandaged hand, loosened around the wrist and practically falling off which allows you to see the deep burns in his skin. That isn't what takes you by surprise, what really leaves you speechless is the glowing anemo vision he holds in between his fingers. Just like that, you understand and sympathize with him in a single moment.

"They are difficult people to lose..." He sighs, dropping his arm back into his lap. "I'm not sure how long I've been running, honestly."

You cannot let the poor man bleed a moment longer, you finally allow your guard to drop and you approach him, he eyes you carefully as you do, still unsure of how you took that information he just gave you.

"I have bandages and disinfectant back in my house." You say, offering your hand when you are in front of him. He stares up at you quietly, then a grateful smile stretches across his cheeks. He pockets his vision, picks up his sword, then takes your hand before you help him off the ground, supporting his weight while you begin to help him up the hill.

"T-Thank you for this." He says, his voice growing more and more hoarse by the moment.

"Save your energy." You advise. "You're clearly exhausted. There is no need to thank me."

He is quiet for the rest of the time it takes the two of you to reach your house. Thankfully, you didn't get far down the steps before you noticed him. When you are inside, you bring him to the living area and help him onto the ground against the wall.

He cranes his head to watch you as you disappear into a different room, then offers you another grateful smile when you return moments later carrying in your arms a bottle of clear liquid, a cloth, and four rolls of bandages.

You kneel in front of him, laying out your supplies. You finally take a closer look at the wound on his side, which seems to be a stab wound from a sword. You sigh.

"So, you are... On the run? How long has that been going on?" You ask curiously, eyes wide as his extravagant upper body attire intimidates you. You decide to start by removing the black and red scarf adorning his neck.

"Well..." The white-haired boy begins. "Recently, actually. I do not make a show with my elemental abilities, so I likely could have flown under the radar when the vision hunt decree struck. However... I won't go into detail, but let's just say I was spotted with my vision. I fled. Ever since then, it's been constantly battling each and every day. I couldn't tell you exactly how many days it's been... They seem to... Blur together."

You gasp at his choice of words, staring at him in stunned silence for a few moments before you move on to unbuckle the strap around his torso.

"I... Completely understand." You nod. "It seems you are struggling to survive."

He shakes his head and wraps a tender hand around your wrist where you were fidgeting with his clothing.

"I am struggling to live..." He corrects you. "There is a difference between surviving and living. I'd rather die than just... Survive."

He removes his hand from your wrist and sighs sadly.

"Losing a vision changes a vision wielder. They lose their ambition and drive. It is... Terrifying."

You hum in agreement as you take off the armor on his shoulder, inspecting it curiously for a brief moment before setting it down. You pull the edges of his kimono out where they are tucked in at his waist and begin untying the knots keeping it nearly folded across his chest.

"I have seen it... And experienced it." You tell him. His eyes widen as he processes your words, while you narrow yours. "Do not feel sorry for me. I have not given up."

"What is your name...?" He asks in a hushed voice. "I'd like to remember it, if that's alright with you."

You are finally able to remove the cloth covering his upper body, you take care to fold it neatly and place it to the side. His entire torso is already covered in scars, some older, some newer. The wound in his side seems to have already stopped bleeding from how long he must have been clutching it, but it is still gruesome.

"(Name)." You supply, loading your solution onto the cloth you brought. "This might sting."

"(Name)..." He whispers. He sucks air in through his teeth when the solution makes contact with his injury.

"And you?" You ask, trying your hardest to be gentle as you brush the small towel over his punctured skin.

"Kaedehara Kazuha." He strains a smile. "Kazuha, If you please."

His name is a pleasant song on your ears, so surprisingly fitting for someone of his kind personality.

"Kazuha... The sound reminds me of autumn." You muse. "When leaves fall."

You begin to wrap bandages around his midsection, he appears to be growing more and more tired. His head tilts lazily to the side and his eyes fall half-lidded.

"When I'm done, you can rest." You tell him. "There's two bedrooms in this house, one is unoccupied. You should stay until you are recovered."

His eyes immediately widen in surprise again.

"No... You've already done so much." He shakes his head. "I will not overstep by taking up your space."

It has been a long time since you've spoken to another human being, you don't really want to voice it to him but you are lonely. Now that you've chosen to believe he is trustworthy, his presence is comforting. You almost want him to stay.

"That's how you will repay me for helping you." You say sharply. "It's not like I want to give you shelter, I just could use some help around the house and farm."

You tie the bandage you wrapped around him off and meet his eyes, he seems to be working your request through his head.

"I see... So you want me to help you, then." He contemplates. "Well... There is no way I can refuse. I shall stay as long as you need me to, then... Thank you."

You hum in satisfaction and then you take his horribly bandaged hand to hold it up on display in front of him.

"Did you do this yourself?" You ask humorously. He smiles bashfully.

"Suppose I'll have to indebt you further, then." You say with an air of confidence, unwrapping the bandages. "How did you get a burn like this?"

"Ah um... Perhaps that's a story for a later date..." He says regrettably. You worry you might have crossed a line with that question, but you shrug it off.

"Alright then... Sorry."

"No worries." He says quickly. "It is only natural to be curious about things like this. I am also curious about you."

You urge him on with a nod, he looks slightly saddened.

"Well... When I sat to rest by that tree you found me at... The wind carried such a tragic sound to my ears. I heard a cry."

You pause and stare at him in surprise.

"A cry? It couldn't have come from here." You say quietly.

He shakes his head.

"I did not actually hear someone crying... Nature has a way of communicating certain things to me that others will not pick up on." He explains. You are positively confused by his statement.

He smiles.

"Forget it. I suppose what I am really trying to ask is... Are you alright?" He asks sympathetically.

You bite your lip, which causes his smile to drop. You practically jump out of your skin when his free hand grazes the side of your face, then moves to brush your hair behind your ear.

"I'm sorry..." He whispers.

A subtle blush spreads across your cheeks at his affection, unused to the feeling of someone else's hand.

"It's um... It's not your fault." You say, turning away from the contact. "I'd rather not talk about it... Let's just get you fixed up."

To your relief, he seems completely okay with remaining quiet as you fix the bandages on his hand. His silence carries through you helping him up the stairs and into your father's abandoned bedroom.

"I feel... Useless right now." He expresses when you assist him down onto the futon. "I hope I am not burdening you. I will do whatever I can to help as soon as I'm capable."

You blink in surprise, having forgotten you made that demand.

"Oh... Yes, of course." You nod. "For now though... You should focus on resting."

He smiles and nods.

"Right... Goodnight then, (name)."

Something about the way your name sounds in someone else's voice never stops taking you by surprise, the idea that you could be perceived by others is so foreign, when you are mostly the only one who knows yourself.

You smile, the pitch black darkness of isolation that once kept you blinded felt more dim than dark now.

"Goodnight, Kazuha."

You believed that in your lonesome void with nothing for sound to bounce off of, any cry you let out would go unheard. But you aren't sure now as you think back to his previous claim. Someone might have been listening after all...

[animeyanderelover]

how would sebastian, ash, karl, yui, kaneki, obito react with a s/o goddess?I'll wait as long as it takes for this reaction 🥰

Stay tuned because I'll announce when I'm going to open my requests again either today or tomorrow.

Tw: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, unhealthy relationship, possessive behavior, obsession, delusion, clinginess, manipulation, worshipping, mentions of suicide

Goddess s/o

Obito Uchiha

🔥Obito isn't someone who is religious, if there is a presence like god after all, why did they let Rin die, someone who was innocent and good? He doesn't believe in a higher being that will listen to your wishes if you pray and believe so the very first emotion he might just feel when discovering a real goddess is anger and pain. So much pain. Feelings he has stuffed down for years break out of him  as he lashes out on you, wrath and sadness tearing his heart apart. Why didn't you do anything back then? You're clearly shocked by his reaction although instead of anger towards him your heart goes out for him as you pity him, sense in how much pain he is despite all the crimes he has committed. You end up comforting him and to his own surprise he lets you, your very presence warm and soothing as he can't bring himself to push you away. He blames your godly powers for this as he allows you to stroke him gently and whisper sweet words to him, every gesture causing his heart to speed up.

🔥 You end up staying with Obito, be it out of guilt or because you secretly seek out his company too since he has already seen you. In either case, you only make Obito worse as your intention to help him backfires, only in your eyes though. Because in Obito's opinion you definitely help him as your touches and your voice are mending his broken heart and slow down all the racing thoughts inside of his head. You can't possibly be responsible for all the horrible things that happen on earth, you're too kind and pure for that is what he genuinely starts believing after a while, his obsession cleansing out all previously bad images he had of you. He worships you, fitting since you're a literal goddess, might even build you a shrine when he finds out that it's a big honor for any god or goddess to have a shrine build for them, especially since it would be your first shrine since you're still quite unknown among humans. Being the first one to build you a shrine would be a big honor.

🔥 There's something so utterly intimate as he's the first follower you've had in years as you're often ignored in favor of other well-known divine beings who have established themselves among humans. In Obito's opinion there's nothing wrong with that though. He has you all for himself and you don't need anyone besides him, your most loyal and possessive worshipper. Humans would just turn their back on you as soon as something bad happens, he would never do that. The situation grows visibly worse with time because he flips out as soon as he can't find you near the shrine and has a meltdown. You've become a need for him, he can't properly function without your embrace and your calming aura anymore. He needs to be with you. There is even a change of plans now that you have entered his life as he strives to create a world perfect for you, where you don't have to hide and be forgotten in favor of gods who do absolutely nothing for humans. A world for you and him as he will never let you leave his side.

Sebastian Michaelis

🐈‍⬛ Perhaps it's the first time Ciel catches his butler being the closest thing to being alarmed when he senses you long before he sees you, such a powerful and strong presence that manages to even catch him off-guard. He immediately knows what you are as it feels like his very own essence is being pricked, a testament to your own powers. Angels are seen as pure, gods on the other hand don't have to be innocent as he has witnessed them just seeing themselves above every other creature whilst humans foolishly pray for them, naive about the fact that only few actually care. What he is is no secret to you either as you meet his eyes curiously, not faced nor afraid of the demon there. There is a strange and foreign feeling sweeling up like a bubble inside of his chest when piercing red eyes drill themselves into your own shining ones and his composure sways when he gets a whiff of your scent and his pupils turn to slits and his orbs turn magenta.

🐈‍⬛ Sightings of gods among humans and other creatures is fairly rare as they prefer to stay with their own kind, viewing the earth as not worthy. So there is only little information which makes the reveal of your magnificent scent and the discovery of his mate shocking for the demon whilst you only rise your eyebrow intrigued. He doesn't show it on the outside as he goes on as usual with his day as a butler yet on the inside his thoughts and feelings resemble a storm more than anything. Sebastian has never expected to find a mate in a literal goddess and the very idea of a being from heaven and a being from hell indulging in a romantic relationship would make anyone shudder with the sheer wrongness of it. Luckily for Sebastian though, demons are known for their bad reputation of enjoying the sin and the thought only tickles excitement out of him. It's the very wrongness that makes it all the more interesting and thrilling after all. Let's see what you're made of.

🐈‍⬛ Sebastian entertains you, delighted to find out that you actually plan to stay in London for a while and he quickly figures out your motive. You're incredibly bored with your life in heaven. Luckily for you, the demon butler knows how to entertain and keep you on your toes as he ensures that you won't grow bored of him. The very fact that he is a being known as your kind's nemesis makes it all the sinfully sweeter for you and Sebastian is fully aware of that. It flatters him, your fascination with him as you've never seen a demon before in your life and you silently have to admit that he's far more interesting and enjoyable than most of your kind who have just sort of settled down comfortably in their reputation and power and have all become boring. Sebastian likes to tease you about your clear liking you eventually take to him and how your kind would surely abandon you if they would ever find out. Don't delude yourself into thinking that he cares though, he knows fully well that if he taints you, you'll have no place in heaven anymore and no choice but to stay with him.

Ash Landers

▫️ Angels are in general known to be the common company and loyal messengers of gods yet Ash hasn't seen a god for a long time now since he's been banished from heaven due to his fanatic ideas. Despite this betrayal he has no ill will against you when you two meet by sheer accident. He instantly senses what you are and so do you and even if you quickly turn around and try to lose him, Ash is hot on your trails, entranced with you. He catches you eventually in a lonely street where no one is and instantly goes down on his knees, violet eyes brimming with unshed tears and hands clasped together in front of him, staring up at you with unbridled reverence. A goddess right in front of his eyes! What honor! What beauty you possess, shining so brightly among all the pest that surrounds you. Tell him though, what brings you to earth, a place so unfitting for someone as divine as you. He can't let you go on without any protection. Let him escort you.

▫️ He quickly arranges a place for you to stay with the help of the Queen as he uses her to give you an accommodation, unworthy for you yet the best he can provide you with. Whilst you don't mind, the angel apologizes profusely, ashamed to disgrace you with such a simple and plain house. You didn't expect to find a fallen angel on your way down to earth as you've left heaven for the time to simply enjoy time for yourself, free to roam as you're one of the more powerful among your kind. Most would kick someone like Ash away as he no longer belongs to the divine realm yet you find him very fascinating and stay with him for that reason, in a way he's very adorable. Something about the way he worships you, builds you eagerly a shrine only to break down and lament about the fact that it doesn't do you justice flatters you. Ash is quick to obsess over you, how couldn't he when you're a literal goddess, someone he's meant to serve and protect.

▫️ You can be very reassured that this angel will only worship and serve you though as Ash is dedicated and beyond loyal, something you appreciate a lot. He clearly is a very fanatic individual but that's what makes him all the more interesting in your eyes. You allow him to go on with his goals although you don't actively support and help him, not that he would let you. His goal, to purify London, becomes suddenly his sick present of love and adoration for you, to show you his loyalty. Humans don't know how to worship you, casually walking next to you on the streets instead of going down on all fours and being grateful for breathing the same air as you do. You like to reward him with bits of affection from your side, feel a growing fondness for this twisted yet beautiful angel who belongs solely to you. This angel is your dedicated servant who would gladly venture to hell if you'd ask him to do so, who would rip out his own heart and serve it on a silver plate for you if you'd ask it of him. This angel will burn down the entire world for you.

Yui Komori

💎 Yui is rather religious and believes in a god so she'd be pretty overwhelmed when she is actually standing face to face with a real goddess. So much so that she is at a loss for words and doesn't know what to do which leaves her just gawking at you for a few moments, her eyes shimmering with amazement and awe. Yui is only human as she has learnt that there exist other creatures like vampires and demons in this world so she has already started feeling more tiny. Next to an actual goddess she feels insignificant though, although she does not fear you like she fears vampires who want to suck her blood. In fact she starts praying actively to you from that day on in hopes that you listen to her prayers and that she might be able to see you again. Knowing that you exists gives her hope and courage and that is what keeps her motivated and helps her to get over her past and the painful memories she has made. There's a fear of being abandoned by you though.

💎 This fear of being abandoned grows if she doesn't see you for a longer period of time, although she tries to soothe herself by repeatedly telling herself that you probably have other things to attend to. You're a goddess after all, you must be busy with a lot of different things. The loneliness and despair only grows with each day though yet she continues her prayers, even if she feels like bursting out in tears. You're her only ray of light, she doesn't have anyone besides you. So when you show yourself to her again, she's very emotional about it and can't hold back her tears. She would die to have you spend more time with her yet she never speaks up as she's terrified that she might anger you, feels insecure next to someone as great as you are. Her longing is very obvious for your sharp eyes though, if her anxious glances to see if you're still there and the way she follows you like a puppy aren't enough of an indicator, your own powers would let you definitely know.

💎 You'll have to initiate anything as Yui is far too insecure and dazzled to ever speak up about her hidden wishes, too ashamed that she secretly wants the love of a goddess. There's a strong feeling of safety and protection that she associates with you as you're constantly surrounded by a warmth, proof that you're not from this world. Yui could get lost in this warmth which lulls her gently into a sense of comfort, a feeling of home which she longs for every moment. She is quick to grow very clingy around you, although there is still a lingering feeling of insecurity that is covering her like a drape as she still can't shake off the feeling of not being worthy of you. Yui just feels like she could never repay what you give to her everyday. How could she when she's a mere human whilst you're a goddess? She feels like she has to prove herself and it's that fear of not being able to return your love and kindness that sometimes causes her to push herself too far as she sacrifices her own health at times. Luckily you're there to stop her in time.

Karlheinz

🍷 Now this is certainly intriguing for the king of vampires, the one hailed as the strongest man on this earth. The race of gods and goddesses is one not commonly known to mingle in the world of humans, much less in his world so discovering one of your kind in the city where he lives under the disguise of a famous politician and philantrophist is a surprise, but a much welcoming one. Your scent alone already tells him that you're nothing ordinary yet you have hidden your true identity well but that much can be said about him too. You instantly sense that he is no normal human either yet you can't pinpoint just what exactly he is. Both of you only know that you are no mortals. You're slightly terrified since your deepest gut feeling tells you that Karlheinz is not someone you should spend time with yet the Sakamaki thinks differently, fascinated with you. You're definitely not a species he has met before in his life which is pretty impressive considering just how long he has lived already.

🍷 Karlheinz is still being a tad bit careful around you, mainly because he doesn't wish to frighten you but also because as long as he isn't sure just what exactly you are, he thinks he shouldn't be too relaxed even if he is the strongest of his kind and possesses the most powerful magic. You can use strong magic too but you aren't entirely sure if you can match the mysterious man in front of you, the one who often coaxes you into spending time with him and who seems to want to get to know you better. You'd like to reject him but a weird curiosity keeps you from leaving as you're flattered by the undeniably charming man. It's only a question of time until both of you find out the truth about each other and to say that Karlheinz is enthralled when he figures out that he has a real goddess right in front of him is a bit of an understatement, even if he masterfully conceals all his emotions. Your kind is so rare nowadays since they very rarely enjoy leaving their own kind. You're a bit different than most of your kind.

🍷 You probably figure out what Karlheinz is around the same time as he does and you aren't as thrilled as the king is. Vampires and demons have always been sort of enemies of your kind since your kind was seen as ruler and savior of humans and their kind always as the chaotic and sadistic evil. Your gut feeling insists strongly to not meet the man again and so you trust your instinct and hide yourself, hoping that the man will not search for you. Your hopes are futile though as the vampire king very quickly realizes that you must have figured him out and fled the scene but dearest, this won't be as easy as you might think. Whether you intended to or not, you've caught the interest as much as his heart during the time you two have spent together, tip-toeing around each other. Keeping a wonderful goddess by his side sounds wonderful and he doesn't care what he has to do to get his hands on you. Just wait, he'll show you that you only need one man to truly please and worship you instead of the cult of useless followers you may have at the moment.

Ken Kaneki

🔲 Kaneki has already given up on everything and everyone after Jason has brutally torn his body and mind alike apart, he has no reason to believe in some divine people. You're a goddess that just happens to currently reside in Tokyo when you meet Kaneki and sense how broken he is and your first instinct is helping him and his wounded soul, something you often do. You decide to keep your identity a secret though as you're sure he would only resent you if he would find out what you are because you weren't there for him when he would have needed it the most. Instead you disguise yourself as a normal human who just happens to hang out with him a lot and give him something he secretly longs for but doesn't think he will get now. Genuine kindness and understanding, someone who listens to him without any bias. Kaneki, initially hesitant about you who so suddenly entered his life, quickly grows addicted to you, your voice, your scent, everything. You're like glue that keeps the last pieces of his sanity together.

🔲 You only wanted to help but instead it seems like you've worsened the situation as you soon realize that Kaneki has gained a very unhealthy obsession. He's clinging to you desperately all the time and panics as soon as you leave him, begging you to stay with him. You decide to distance yourself for a while from him and just disappear like this over night and no matter how much Kaneki might search for you, he's unable to find you. You on the other hand always know where he is which is why you rush to him as soon as you witness how he starts attacking other ghouls as he believes that they might have killed you and eaten you. You won't let him kill someone who is innocent of the crime he blames them and that's the first time you appear in your true form in order to stop him in his kaguja form as he has lost all sense of reasoning and rational thinking. With your powers it's easy to stop him and he only looks at you in shock and reverence before you touch his forehead and he loses his consciousness.

🔲 When he wakes up in his apartment, he's all alone as you aren't with him but he still remembers very clearly what he has seen. You, surrounded by a white shimmer of light who easily overpowered and calmed him even whilst his kaguja was activated, something he still struggles to controll. It's clear that you are no human to him but you definitely aren't a ghoul either. Kaneki has been a big bookworm before his date with Rize though so he recalls the tales of gods and goddesses and when he considers it, it makes much sense. At least to him as you have always been something divine in his eyes. On that day, he truly tumbles down the rabbit hole of obsession as he finally knows what you really are. The thought of you never wanting to see him again because you might view him as evil terrifies him to no end and he prays feverishly every day and every night for you, even builds you a shrine. If you never show yourself though, Kaneki will attempt suicide because a life without you is no life at all. It's at that point that you return, unable to let him do what he attempts to do in order to see you again.

[stargirl-writes]

[navigation] the secret history of anakin skywalker

pairing : assassin! reader x general anakin skywalker

status : ongoing

tags : enemies-to-lovers, SLOW burn, angst, hurt/comfort, mystery.

warnings: !mature content! (violence, mentions of abuse, mental corruption, mentions of suicide ideation) scheming, eventual smut(?) i'll be specifying on each blog !

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sypnosis

you have only known one truth about this war, the republic and the seperatists are two sides of the same coin. but now, your master count dooku has disposed of you after your consequent failures. his betrayal fueled your thirst for revenge. and in the cruel twist of fate, you have found yourself with an arrangement with the enemy. general anakin skywalker is willing to do what it takes for the republic to win, even if it meant dealing with you, his nemesis.

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chapter summary / navigation

↝one

captured

chapter summary

your mission to secure umbara has failed. your master, count dooku would not have asked of anyone but you to deliver success. but as you stand amongst the pile of bodies of umbaran soldiers, the horror of your failure washes over you.

and in the hopelessness of events, a jedi appears amidst the ashes of your city. one that did not hesitate to kill the jedi general krell despite his jedi order's honor.

warnings : mentions of ptsd, mentions of abuse, war, mentions of a panic attack.

notes : centered around the same time as the clone wars season 4 episode 15.

↝two

the arrangement

chapter summary

after your old master has betrayed you, you were captured by the jedi general skywalker. stricken by the grief, you resigned to your faith.

on the way back to coruscant to face republic jurisdiction, a sniper has fired in open space. taking general obi-wan kenobi down.

in a fit of anger, anakin skywalker accuses you. but you have already made up your mind in taking revenge on your old master. and even though you are terrified, you struck up an arrangement to aid anakin's mission to find obi-wan kenobi's true killer.

warnings: violence, imprisonment, betrayal, mentions of ptsd.

notes : centered around the same time as the clone wars season 4 episode 15.

↝three

common ground

chapter summary

a clue tipped by the jedi council leads anakin skywalker back to your cell. now his anger has passed, he wants to clarify the terms of your new alliance.

on the way to nal hutta, anakin skywalker steers the conversation to his fascination over your beliefs— which legitimizes the doubts he's been having about the republic.

warnings : none so far.

notes : centers around the same time as the clone wars season 4 episodes 16-17

↝four

the attempt

chapter summary

rako hardeen escapes with two known bounty hunters on orandia. anakin skywalker claims obi wan kenobi remains alive. and a revelation by cad bane made you head down a bar and drink the night away.

warnings : alcohol.

notes : involves spoilers for the clone wars season 4 episodes 16-17

↝five

a dance

chapter summary

coming soon...

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notes

hello my lovely people! thank u for taking interest in this story :)

i've always been in love with the enemies-to-lovers trope and this series would be canon compliant (mostly)

the timeline would be around season 4-7 of the clone wars.

and this series will be dark and angsty and contains mature content that i want to clarify is meant to serve the plot. and my depictions/interpretations is no way of endorsing or 'romanticizing' these situations.

please don't post my works anywhere else. though likes, reblogs, comments are highly appreciated ! (and fuels me hehe)

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if you're looking to find more of my works, you can check out my navigation list !

© to @cafekitsune for the borders!

[b33zlebubz]

RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER THREE

SIMON RILEY X AFAB READER | MASTERLIST | AO3 PREV CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER TAGS: reader uses she/her pronouns, blood violence & death, suicidal ideology, slow burn, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, toxic workplace environment “Abandoned in a battlefield with the one person you thought you would never see again; you're forced to come to terms with the ghosts of your past."

MONDAY APRIL 22ND 2024  MEXICO, 2200 HOURS

Your camp is the cabin of a wrecked SUV.

You're not sure what did it, yet; what wrecked the car and left the side of it charred.  Air strike, landmine, a very high-quality grenade launcher…you don’t really care what specifically, you just know that it's supplies and shelter.  It's lodged into the mud on the side of a dug-out, having crashed some time after the battle turned sour.  The rain has cooled the metal over the course of the past day leaving the back somewhat intact.  One of two of what must be the soldiers that drove it are now laying in the ditch; shot from the front window during the wreck, you imagine, charred and dead.  Their uniforms and helmets suggest they’re part of your battalion, but you try not to think about it.

It makes a decent shelter; dry and shielded from the rain that still pelts against your helmet.  The inside stinks of gunpowder and ash as you usher Ghost into the back and he collapses against a supply crate pressed in a corner.  He grunts, breath quick and heavy against the soaked cloth of his mask as his head falls back against the container.  First aid training kicks in and you’re listening for any sign of a punctured lung or liquid in his lungs.  

"We gotta get that mask off," you huff, helping him fumble with the straps to his helmet.  With the adrenaline fading, your own voice sounds muffled to you, the product of damaged eardrums.  "You're waterboarding yourself."

He lets out something that might be a humorless chuckle, his eyes closed as he juts his chin up.  His hands are clumsy and useless as they pull at the strap.   "Wouldn't be my first time, sergeant."

"Colonel."

You lift his helmet off and he blinks at you blearily, "what?"

"It's Colonel, now," you say, taking off your own helmet and tossing it aside.  Your hair free from the heavy armor, it sticks to your face in wet clumps.  "A lot can change in eight years."

You could be imagining it, but you swear you see a flicker of hurt in his eyes before he grimaces, his neck lulling before you catch his head.

Ghost strains, his breathing growing labored.  Still, he finds the energy to smile through the rip in his mask, and a rivulet of blood flows from the side of his cheek and into his mouth.  

"Knew you could do it, love," he slurs.

You hate how your heart twists with fondness that still lingers, and it tastes like copper and bile when you swallow it back.

"Never doubted it," you say, words softer.  You pat the side of his face and he grunts.  "Stay awake.  I don't know how bad you're hurt yet."

Your hands grasp at the torn edge of his soaked balaclava.

You watch his eyes flicker through water and blood.  Dark brown irises with uneven pupils glance down at your hands through lazy eyelids, and then up at you—but he doesn't resist like you imagined he would.  Instead, he can only manage a heavy swallow and a resigned nod.

He hisses as you lift the fabric away from his head as carefully as you can.  A five o'clock shadow crisscrossed with scars greets you before a broken nose on a ghostly-pale, angular face.  Sandy hair is cropped short, dark with blood that cakes high on his temple.  

If it were another situation—another time—you think, maybe, you would've stopped to marvel at him.  Commit the facial features you had once wondered about so much to memory while you traced the sharp curves of his face with a gentle finger.  Instead, you can only focus on how your injured hand fumbles with the first-aid kit on your vest—pulling out a sterile cloth that you press to his injury.

"Fuck," you hiss.

"I'll live," he breathes, closing his eyes again.  He places a hand over yours, applying more pressure that's weak, but still more than you can manage at the moment.  "Looks worse than it is.  Head wounds always do.  Just keep your hand there."

"Yes, sir," you mutter, falling back on old formalities as your bloody hand quivers against his face.  He squeezes it before his grip loosens, and his head lulls again.  You grab him by the chin.

"Ghost.  Don't."

His eyes flicker open again briefly before they sink shut once more.  When he doesn't reply, a flicker of panic sparks in your chest.

"Stay with me, Lieutenant," you pat his face again, trying to keep him awake.  "Ghost?"

"You," he whispers, his voice barely a breath against your face.  “We’ve met before…yeah?"

You swallow thickly.

"Angel," you tell him.  "It's…it’s Angel, Ghost.  It's me."

"Angel," he repeats with all the softness eight years of distance, blood, war, and anger can muster—and the idiot is still smiling as his hand slides off of yours, leaving a bloody handprint in its wake.  "'Missed you."

Panic ebbs at your mind, and you grab his arm as you get in his face.

"Ghost don't fucking fall asleep, you hear me?"  Disparity makes your voice crack, "Don't fucking leave me here."

No response.  You shake his shoulder.

"Ghost," you beg.  "Simon!"

His head lulls against his chest as his eyes sink shut, and your breath catches in your throat.  Slowly, you remove your hands, backing up against the side of the van.  You sink against the opposite wall.  Unable to catch your breath, your heartbeat thuds in your ears.  The sound is backed with the static of rain that still pours down around you and Ghost's unconscious breathing while thunder rumbles distantly across the sky above, mocking you.

You're left, once again, with only the corpses of your dead squad outside to keep you company.

[blueywrites]

new skin

The diner’s signature dish: Fresh-baked soft pretzel knots with sweet Georgia peach jam, topped with bitter trauma. Recipe includes a dash of pining, a sprinkle of faith, and a generous heap of healing love.

Linecook!Eddie x Waitress!Reader. 60s Diner. Slow Burn.

Follows canon, except Eddie lives, and Vecna is defeated after causing the 'earthquake'. This is written in second person 'x reader' format, but you've been given a name. The name and nicknames that appear throughout the story are listed below; use the InteractiveFics extension to replace them if you'd like!

full name: emmaline louise. nicknames: emma, emmy

series content warnings -> eventual sexual content (18+), fem!reader, plussized!reader, fatphobia, domestic violence, domestic abuse, miscarriage/pregnancy, discussions of suicidal ideation, significant religious themes, found family, hurt/comfort, slow burn, angst with a happy ending

chapter content warnings -> 18+ for mature themes. mentions of blood, numerous Christian religious references, disordered eating habits, anxiety, references to emotional abuse and manipulation, body image issues, internalized fatphobia

one: an empty room (10.3k) | next | masterlist | playlist | AO3

You surrounded me

and my windows are breaking

Something is rotten inside of me

I have to find it and

cut it out

House Song — Searows

It was a mortal man who drove you away but divine providence that guided you to Hawkins.

You’d been dropping off the key to your motel room when you saw it: a cockeyed paper pamphlet in the dusty wooden holder mounted beneath the counter. Stuffed beside “Indiana Caverns” and “The World’s Largest Ball of Paint,” it advertised a place where fissures had unfurled like the spindly legs of a spider, all radiating out from the center square. ‘Visit the town that hosts the gates of Hell,’ it read. You knew the town couldn’t really host the gate of Hell because Hell is a lake of fire and not a crack in the earth, though even the thought made a chill of foreboding shudder through you. Still, as you gazed at the name written in big red letters across the faded paper, you rolled it around in your mouth, seeing how it felt against your molars and exploring the way it tasted on your tongue.

Hawkins.

You’d expected bitterness. Ash and fire and brimstone, if the leaflet was to be believed. Instead, Hawkins tasted of pine, of sweet corn, and drugstore laundry powder. And that was odd, certainly. But maybe odd was what you needed— something wholly unfamiliar, nerve-wracking in its foreignness but peaceful in the knowledge that, if nothing else, you know he would never expect you to escape to somewhere like this. 

You’d been cutting a path from your home in Georgia due north, aimless and wandering, restless like a frightened prey animal consumed with nothing but thoughts of flee, flee, flee. The instinct had brought you from parking lot to roadside fuel-pump to motel six day after day, bouncing as the stacks in the cashbox wedged beneath the passenger seat began to dwindle. A pawn shop helped resupply your reserves, and your ring finger was lighter for it, but the running is beginning to wear on you. And there's just something about the taste of Hawkins lingering in your mouth, yeasty like wheat and clean in a way you haven’t felt since the day after Christmas when the bleeding began.

Your fingertips twitch before you snatch up the folded paper from the holder, spilling out into the gray of early morning. You cut a path back to the crack of warm light leaking from your room, where you’d wedged a stone against the metal edge of the door to prop it open. You slip inside one last time before you depart. 

There isn’t much to gather. Inside, there's just a musty floral bedspread and a side table with a bolted-down lamp. You flick the switch, leaving the room cold and dark in preparation for your departure. Your few personal belongings are already packed away in the car waiting outside, and it’s with a sense of familiar shame twanging at your heartstrings that you duck back into the tiny tiled room nestled in the corner of the bedroom. The pamphlet crinkles as you fold it and slip it into your coat pocket, freeing your hands to do what they will. 

This place is just one in a long line of stark rooms, transient nests that shelter you briefly as you flee. It's what made you think you were aimless and wandering, but you weren’t. Not really. 

During your flight from Georgia, you’d stopped in Lexington, Kentucky. And when you drove on, you could have, just as easily, chosen to go northeast, toward Columbus, perhaps curving over toward western Pennsylvania. But you decided to go northwest instead, dipping into the southern edge of Indiana, avoiding Cincinnati and its choked smog until you nestled into fields and farms again. It was divine providence that guided you that way, that bid you stop at this motel for the night, that helps you now discern the notes of flavor you hadn’t noticed back in the office as the leaflet crinkles in your coat pocket. Because beneath the unfamiliar— pine and corn and laundry powder— there is the familiar musk of fresh hay, mown on a sweet summer morning by your pa as soft whinnies huff from the stable. It warms you, though the January wind cuts through to the bone as you scurry back out of the motel room and let the door thump closed behind you. Your eyes dart for lookers-on, though the sting of self-consciousness isn’t quite as acute now as the first few times you’d waddled to the pastel blue Lincoln and fumbled the back door open with laden hands.

When you found that pamphlet and chose Hawkins, Indiana, as your final nesting place, God was calling you home. You will know that in the end, but you don’t know it now. Now, you’re just a scared girl carrying toilet paper, satchets of soap, and tiny bottles of mouthwash in your fists, pilfered from yet another temporary room. They tumble to join the pile of stolen treasures in the backseat, right beside the pillow from Tennessee and the scratchy blanket from Kentucky.

You've known since you were small that you aren’t a lamb— only Jesus is the lamb. Still, you'd hoped you are a sheep, pure and white, close to Him. Yet it turns out you’ve been wrong all this time. It turns out you're just a dirty, thieving crow, poking your beak in the dirt to search for shiny things to sustain you. As you stare at the pile of your baubles, the shame tugs again at your heartstrings, clawing up to settle heavily in the base of your throat. Thick like the beginnings of tears.  

You slam the back door and climb into the driver’s seat, sitting motionlessly for a long moment as you speak with your Father. You've always talked to God as long as you can remember but never had your prayers been so consistent as they've been this past week. First the waiting. Then the bleeding. Then the forsaking. Then the stealing. In all, you ask the same.

Please, Father. Forgive me.

 You pull the leaflet from your coat pocket, unfolding it carefully, avoiding the inflammatory language about gates and fissures as you search until you spot the tiny map and the star in its center that demarks the location of Hawkins. The instructions say that, from the south, you should take route four-thirty-one to route three north. 

Your aimless crawling has suddenly gained a clear direction; with it, your prayers shift for the moment. A hymn comes to mind, and you close your eyes as its melody plays in your head: Lead me, guide me, along the way. For if you leave me, I will not stray. Lord, let me walk each day with thee.

“Lead me,” you sing, a breath of a whisper as your eyes open. “Oh Lord, lead me.”

Beside your Lincoln, a businessman is loading his trunk into the passenger seat of his station wagon.

You crank down your window hastily, resting your fingers against the doorframe as you peek out without making a sound; working yourself up to speak with this strange man takes some effort. He has just closed the door and is about to cross around the front bumper when your voice finally comes, timorous but sweet as Georgia peaches. “Excuse me, sir,” you say, brows tipping as he turns to you. “Do you happen to know the way to route four-thirty-one from here?”

The cloud cover never wanes as you meander along the highways that lead to Hawkins. Even as the hour deepens to late afternoon, there is no glow of warmth from the sun; only cold bright grayness follows you as your gas gauge edges toward a quarter-tank, and you pull off to find a gas station and something to fill your aching stomach. You shade your eyes as you stand beside the pump and squint across the street, gaze catching on a familiar mascot: a swirl of hair like a dollop of black whipped cream and the red suspenders of Frisch’s Big Boy. The sight promises cheap food which will almost certainly be filling enough for your single midday meal.

The place isn’t overwhelmingly busy inside, but you still need to wait by the empty hostess stand before you’re taken to your seat. Against the long smudged window, shiny stickers and little childish baubles crowd the twenty-five cent machines, but your interest lies in the considerably more drab newspaper dispenser beside those colorful globes. You aren’t quite at your destination yet, but you’re close enough that local ads will likely provide you with a taste of your chosen home before you reach it. You purchase one quickly, wedging the newspaper under your arm and jumping almost guiltily when the hostess returns and finally chirps a greeting at you. You feel as if you’ve done something wrong as you trail after her, though as she hands you a menu and leaves you with a pleasant smile, she implies nothing of the sort.

You don’t spend long perusing the menu before you make up your mind. You order with a soft voice as the waitress scratches across her pad, promising to bring your orange juice and coffee in a jiffy. “Thank y’ma’am,” you say, small with your hands folded one over the other in your lap. 

You wait eagerly, stomach rumbling in earnest now that it knows your meal is well on the way. If you had to choose one type of food to eat for the rest of your life, breakfast would surely be it. A smile plays on your lips, and your mouth wells up with wanting as you picture it: crispy fried potatoes, eggs any which way, fluffy sweet milk waffles, cream of wheat with maple syrup and cinnamon. That one’s mama’s favorite. Pa’s is country fried steak, with a crunchy crust but tender and pink inside. Paul’s is—

You hedge from the thought, skipping quickly along to yours: dense, crumbly biscuits and thick, well-seasoned gravy, with little savory bits of sausage mixed in. They hadn’t had that here, so you ordered the pancakes and sausage links with a side of over-easy eggs, plus the coffee and orange juice. You’d gotten into the habit of eating once a day, mostly because it was easier to eat one big meal than try to stop for several smaller ones. That means that, as you sit there waiting, the scents of the kitchen and the clinking of silverware quickly become a dizzying reminder of your hunger, one that necessitates a distraction. So you spread the newspaper out against the table, turning each page slowly as you scan for the town that tastes of fresh laundry and hay.

You spot it once you reach the classifieds. It’s in an ad blazoned with one bold word across the top: vacancy. Forest Hills Trailer Park, the paper reads. Ready-to-move-in trailers, spacious for singles and small families. Just a five-minute drive from downtown Hawkins. In tiny font, tiny enough that you need to scrunch your nose and draw your face close to the paper to read it, the ad remarks, No background check or references required. First month’s rent plus deposit due at lease signing.

Forest Hills Trailer Park will clearly be a far cry from what you’ve left behind, but it checks all the necessary boxes, especially the most important ones.

You fold the newspaper, creasing it carefully with your fingernails before tearing bit by bit along that manufactured edge until the advertisement comes free. You’ve just carefully deposited the clipping into your pocket as the food comes, steaming and succulent, making your mouth instantly water. 

“How’s it look?” Your waitress asks as if you aren’t itching to pounce on the plate the second she goes away, devouring your sustenance like a starved animal.

“Looks great,” you assure her, tiny and sweet and small and docile. “Thank you so much.”

But even once she leaves you to it, your manners forbid you from such a thing. You keep your elbows off the table and cut the pancakes with little even saws of your knife, spearing each square daintily with your fork before raising it to your lips. You eat your meal as if everyone around you is watching, even though no one is.

When your waitress returns with a refill for your coffee, you ask her for directions to Hawkins. For the first time, her eyes rove over you, taking in the winter coat you haven’t removed and the glinting silver cross at the base of your throat that peeks above the collar of your starchy dress. She squints at you and asks, “What, ya visitin’ family?”

When you don’t reply, she gestures with the coffee pot. “Take thirty-five west and keep drivin’ ‘til you reach the barn with the cow out front. Then turn left there. Y’can’t miss it.”

The ‘cow out front’ turns out to be a cow statue, bigger than any real cow you’ve ever seen and certainly not one you could miss, as she said. You slow and turn left, finally abandoning the highway for a scenic road lined with pine trees that stand like silent sentinels as you carefully guide your vehicle along the road to… 

Home.

Your new home.

Now that it feels so imminent— this decision you’ve made to build your nest at the feet of the supposed ‘gate of hell’— doubt begins to creep in, freezing at the edges of your ribs and creeping toward your center. You’ve driven more than twelve hours from your origin-place, and America is vast— so vast— with more motels than stars you can count across the expanse of the sky on a clear summer’s night. 

And you’ve set your mind on this place because you saw it in a pamphlet? 

Your fingers tremble as you pass tree after tree, branch after branch, leaf after leaf, a sea of unending forest stretching to enclose you and the road you follow. Might as well’ve spun myself around at the treeline, pointed a finger, and started walking, you think to yourself, the leather of the wheel creaking under your wringing hands. It is one thing to run aimlessly; it is quite another to plop yourself down the same way.

'Trust in the LORD with all your heart; and lean not unto your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct your paths.'

“Proverbs,” you whisper, your trembling beginning to subside with each exhaled word that passes through your lips. “Chapter three, verses five and six.” The fingers of one hand unpeel from the steering wheel to clasp instead around the silver at your throat. And by the time your fingers have warmed the metal, your doubt has calmed, and a sign on the right interrupts the treeline, declaring you’ve arrived. 

Hawkins, Indiana. The forest gives way to typical small-town life, though the evidence of what occurred here almost three years ago is still evident in the divots of scarred earth now frosted over with ice, like sharp gauze packing a wound. Some buildings are in permanent disrepair— collapsed, crumbled, roofs caved in, wood and brick sinking into the earth like sinew and bone, partially covered over by hairy weeds that expose the steady march of time. But as you drive slowly toward the center of town, where is rebuilt is teeming with small-town life, not unlike the place you’ve come from. As the sun begins to wane, warm lights slowly blink on inside cozy split-levels and ranches to take its place. Wives welcome husbands home from work before sitting down for supper; children are called in from the streets as mothers stand in breezeways, dropping bikes to be left abandoned in the frosty grass until tomorrow. Despite the present bleak midwinter and the past tragedy that befell them, life goes on for the people of Hawkins, Indiana. That fact conjures a sense of peace as you wander through, searching idly for Kerley— the road that leads to the trailer park. This is the place described as hosting the gate of hell? As you pass bare cornfields and sleepy suburban streets, Hawkins feels so far from it that your earlier fear seems suddenly silly.

You meander the town in your pastel blue Lincoln until you happen upon Kerley Street. By the time you finally reach the turnoff for Forest Hills Trailer Park, the black of night has fallen like a curtain over the vague rectangular structures that crowd beyond the gravel entrance. Your headlights swing and illuminate a slapdash sign that designates the land manager’s residence, and you’re relieved to see a vague glow seeping through the crack below the door and between the curtains, persistent despite the clear attempts to keep it concealed from the outside world. You park the car and hold onto the doorframe as you emerge onto gravel, which you waver over in your low heels until you reach the stairs at the base of the porch. There’s a cracked flowerpot on the bottom step, but instead of the husks of flowers you expect, it’s loaded with cigarette butts, decaying in layers of paper and used nicotine. 

You stare at the door for a moment before announcing yourself. You’re nervous to be confronted with the unfamiliar person beyond; foreboding clenches in your chest, but it can’t be helped. A rap of your knuckles conjures the man who’d tried so valiantly to hide that he was home. His shirt is dirty, his pants sag, and his shave isn’t close to even; he eyes you wearily as you stand on his stoop. “Locked out?” he asks dully, and you flounder a moment before replying, swallowing to wet your throat and hope your voice stays steady. 

“I don’t live here,” you say, “but… I’m lookin’ to. That is, I saw in the paper you had vacancies—” You shove your hand in your coat pocket and pull out the newspaper clipping, passing it over. The man surveys the ad perfunctorily, one bushy brow quirked. The toothpick between his teeth bobs as he plays with it, his eyes sliding to you as you ask hesitantly, “...Do you still have vacancies?” 

His chuckle comes so fast it’s startling. The sound is raspy, like he needs to clear his throat. “‘Course I have vacancies.” He pulls the toothpick from between his lips, flicking it heedlessly away. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

When you shake your head, he jerks his toward the doorway spilling light across the porch. “Come on, then. Let’s get this done.”

You forget his name almost as soon as he tells you, but your land manager seems nice enough. Brusque, sure, but harmless as you sign the papers and pay for the first month’s rent. He waives the deposit— literally waves your words away like irritating wings are fluttering near his ear— and explains, “Place is mostly unfurnished, but you got a bed at least.” 

You can’t do anything but stand there stock still as he tells you your house number— seven— and drops the key into your open palm. “Don’t bother callin’ me f’somethin’ breaks. I’m useless at plumbin’ and ‘lectrical. You’ll need to call someone in the profession.” You curl your fingers over cold metal, and the grooves of the key bite your palm as he wags a finger at you. “Y’lose your key, it’ll cost you a fiver to replace.” He waits until you’ve nodded enough to satisfy him, and then he sends you on your way, closing himself away again. The light leaking from the crevices is extinguished by the time you reach your car door.

You guide your car carefully along the gravel path, driving past darkened trailers, past a red dome made of bars and a picnic table, past a trailer with a caved-in roof you stare at as you pass. A great crack churned up the porch floorboards, and between them now sprout tall, dry, brittle grass made feeble by winter’s bite. There's a streetlight nearby, but it's broken; the moonlight that plays on the dilapidated structure makes you shiver. Still, there isn’t much time to react before you’re at your place. Your trailer is a carbon copy of the well-kept rectangular box beside it, except the other has a chain-link fenced-in yard at the front. A clothesline denotes the edge of your side yard from your neighbors’. 

As you cut the engine, the world goes quiet. You sit in the stillness, and for a moment, there’s just you, your car, and your new home beyond a scraggly dirt yard.

You think of the other places you’d called home before your temporary motel rooms. You think first of your childhood home, and your mouth fills with peaches, with the hollowness of piano keys and the rich dirt from under the wraparound porch. You think of that tall white house, where your delighted shrieks echoed through warm wood hallways as you ran out the back door toward the stables beyond. Your clumsy fingers had carved your name over your bedroom door in elementary scrawl. Pa’d been so angry when you did that, but he relented and ruffled your hair in the end, shaking his head. He always was too fond of you.

Then you think of the home you could call your own— not your parents’, but yours. Yours and Paul’s. Stately, proud, with more of a brick landing than a porch leading up to the dark oak door. Inside are gauzy curtains and rich wallpaper; plump pillows line the couches just so, and the servers display decorative crystal. As you remember, your mouth fills with powdered sugar and water lilies, the gloss of fine china and the silk of ruffled bed skirts. But there’s metal on the back of your tongue, the copper acrid and biting as it overwhelms the rest. You shudder a breath, breaking from your recollections to finally emerge from the car and face your newest home.

In the moonlight, you can see that it also has a porch, but it’s sagging. You mount its stairs, and they’re rickety, creaking under your heels. Inside, when the screen door cracks back into place behind you, the interior of number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park feels like a void of stillness. The light switch flickers erratically before coming to life when you nudge it with your fingertip as if it hasn’t been called to do its job for quite some time. A long narrow hallway directly across from you leads into darkness, with a living room on your right and a kitchen on your left. All of what you can see is empty aside from a thick layer of dust coating the window frames, which are cracked with dried paint, the drips of sloppy workmanship forever preserved in lacquer. There’s mildew growing at the corner of the wall in the living room, and you hesitate to explore it further, opting to head left instead.

At the threshold of the front door, you’d landed on a filthy, matted-down rug. You clack forward with hesitant steps as if afraid to disturb anything, as if this is someone else’s place, not yours. When you edge into the kitchen, cautiously pulling open the refrigerator door, the cold air leaking from inside is reassuring. But when it suddenly kicks and rattles as if sick or angry, the sound makes you tense and jerk away quickly. It’s empty in this room, too— every drawer and cabinet is barren when you tug them open, aside from the dried corpses of flies mounded in a strange pile on the linoleum in front of the kitchen sink. At least the land manager said there’s a bed. Vague unease begins to well in your chest; you hurry down that dark, narrow hallway, flicking the switch as you pass, but nothing changes. The light does not come on. In the back room, the bed is nothing more than the vague lump of a mattress, lonely on the floor. 

The screen door snaps closed behind you as you rush back down the rickety porch stairs. When faced with the choice, you elect to wrap yourself in your scratchy Kentucky blanket, your winter coat, and some extra socks to sleep in the Lincoln despite the bleak midwinter.

Because number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park trips off your tongue; it doesn’t taste like home.

The sun streams cheery light through the windshield, and you wake at just after six, mouth dry as cotton weeds. Your back and neck are sore, cricked from their position against the headrest all night, and the muscles spasm when you stir. You rub your bleary eyes clear, holding your palms against your lashes as if reluctant to remove them and see the state of your new home as it was last night. Eventually, you relent; in the light of day, you peek again at the worn trailer with its gray siding, faded and covered with moss at the concrete base, that rickety porch, and the dull brass knocker concealed behind the screen door… 

You take a moment to consider but can’t decide if it’s any better in the light of day.

With a handful of your stolen toiletries, you venture back inside, and the screen door makes you jump as it snaps closed while you’re standing closeby. Your heart hammers, blood rushing in your ears, and you chastise yourself lightly once it calms. I have to remember to lower the door closed, otherwise people’re gonna get mad with me making such a racket in the morning. 

A quick glance past that closed door you hadn’t explored yesterday reveals that the bathroom is in a bad state, so you avoid it aside from what’s necessary. You brush your teeth at the kitchen sink, setting the toiletries— tiny bottles and sachets of soap— in a carefully-laid line along the side, conscientiously avoiding the pile of flies near the toes of your kitten heels. With minty freshness on your breath, you feel finally awake, and it’s clear what your first order of business should be: getting this place spic and span. No use living in a pigsty, as mama would say.

You take a moment to survey the trailer more carefully, walking in circles around the living room, the kitchen, and the singular bedroom as you peek into nooks and crannies and compile a mental list of the supplies you’ll need. You move gingerly as if you still do not want to disturb this place, though it’s not quite as foreboding as it was last night. 

It’s just an empty box, after all.

You don’t bother unloading the rest of your meager belongings before driving into town for your cleaning supplies and other essentials: bedding and bath towels and cooking utensils and furniture to provide you with somewhere to sit and eat. It hits you then, as the ranches and yards subside into businesses and parking lots, how little you truly have. How much you’d relied on others before, how much you’d taken for granted.

Downtown Hawkins in the daytime is a bustle of quaint activity. The streets aren’t overly crowded because the town is not overly populated, but you can take your time perusing the shops you drive past. And you do— your eyes scan them almost desperately as you try to stamp down on the feeling rising inside that writhes in the pit of your stomach. A video store. An arcade. A laundromat. None of use to you right now, though the laundromat has you thinking of the dress you’re wearing, the way it pinches your arms and pulls tight around your stomach as you drive. You’d managed to ignore the feeling during your flight, but now—gasping and huffing on the comedown as you stop running, and with the enormity of your situation looming before you— the writhing is spreading from your stomach to your chest, pressing outward as if you’ll burst, and the wardrobe you’ve been wearing for months now is finally beginning to suffocate you.

Seeing the thrift store feels like a gust of fresh air has been breathed directly into your lungs, and you don’t even need to ponder it before parking and throwing the car door open to access the backseat. After all, there is no reason to endure any longer; no one is stopping you now. So you dump the contents of your two trash bags onto the Lincoln’s backseat and the remnants of your old life spill over onto the floor. Almost detachedly, you sort the contents into ‘keep’ and ‘sell’ piles; you keep your undergarments and pantyhose and shoes, and you stuff all the dresses— all their linen and gauze and luxurious cotton, all their structured hems and nipped waists and darted busts— into the trash bags to be sold.

If the employee behind the counter is surprised to see the quality of the items you’re selling, more suited to a department than a thrift store, he doesn’t show it. Calmly, you pull out each dress, laying the fabric out carefully before you slide it over the counter towards him. As the garments emerge from your trash bags, their associated occasions flash in your mind. The yellow gingham you’d often wear when visiting family. The pink peony was often seen in your kitchen, protected by an apron covered in flour. The blue linen, one of your old favorites, makes you think of Sunday mass. All get passed to the man on the other side of the counter, all but one that sticks in your memory, left laid against the bedspread back in Georgia. 

The man examines each dress and punches staccato numbers into a calculator with the eraser of his number two pencil until they’re all gone from you, and in their place is a wad of bills you can use to shop for a new wardrobe.

If the employee behind the counter finds it strange that you’ve sold your department store dresses to buy thrift store ones, he doesn’t show it.

Gathering your replacements doesn’t take long because you know exactly what you want. Your new wardrobe should be modest and comfortable, comprised of a practical assortment of casual dresses and cardigans, a couple of nicer frocks for your Sunday best, and some loungewear for the house, including a bathrobe that makes your cheeks burn when it slides across the counter toward that same employee from before. After making your purchases, you carry the plastic bag into the dressing room, slipping behind the velvet curtain and pulling one casual dress out at random.

You rip down the tiny zipper on the starchy dress you've been wearing since yesterday, and the release of pressure is bliss. Though the cotton of your new dress is a little scratchier than what you’d been wearing before, you don’t hesitate in kicking the old fabric aside before gazing at yourself in the mottled thrift store mirror. 

The new dress buttons up past your decolletage. It’s almost long enough to skim your ankles, and it is at least one size too big, maybe two. It looks more fitting for a forty-year-old than your twenty-one years; some might even call it frumpy. But it’s what you want.

Because when you think about the clothes you’d been wearing— think about how, over the last year, your breasts and hips and thighs and stomach had gradually broadened, softened, begun to press uncomfortably against the fabric even after your mother had let out the seams as far as they could go— frumpy doesn’t compare with what you’d experienced.

You remember the sympathy in Paul’s tawny brow as he stared down at you. ‘No, Buttercup, I’m sorry. Think of it as an incentive,’ he’d said kindly when you’d asked for an allowance to purchase bigger clothes. ‘I’m just trying to help you.’ You remember how the ladies in town could see the way the beautifully tailored dresses, once so flattering, now bulged and bunched around the heft of your changing body, especially around your midsection. And you knew, though they were always too polite to say it, that when you gathered with them after church or ran into them at the grocery store, they couldn’t help but glance at your tummy and wonder if you were pregnant. But you weren’t pregnant. You were just…

Fat.

The reflection in the mirror suddenly doesn’t feel like you. That’s not your soft jaw; those aren’t your round cheeks. Your dress wouldn’t balloon so far outward over your breasts and stomach, and your thighs wouldn’t rub together because that isn’t you. But those are your eyes, and your hair, and your lips and fingers. And when you twist to look at your backside, so does she; when you smooth your palms over your ample hips, she does too. So she must be you.

You just wish she wasn’t.

You pull your attention from your body and focus instead on your dress, trying to detach from that knowledge again. The important part is that this dress doesn’t restrict or cling or reveal any unsavory lumps and bumps, and that’s what you want. You pull on some woolen stockings and a loose cardigan since it is still January, and after sliding on your low heels once again, you leave the thrift store behind.

You can run from that dressing room— can slip back into your car, load the new plastic bag into the backseat and coax the engine to life— but you cannot run from your feelings. And seeing yourself in the mirror has left you hollow and wanting, exposing the void inside that begs to be filled in that familiar way, the way you’ve grown used to over the last year. Your kitchen at home may be bare, but from beyond your windshield, you can see what will help you fill it. There’s a bright spot down the road and across the way in the lot beside the general store.

Miss Daisy’s Diner.

As you leave your purchases behind in the car, your eyes glaze over the help wanted sign written in beautiful script in the diner window; you’re more focused on filling that hollow place inside you. And inside Miss Daisy’s Diner is more than enough to satisfy the ache.

There isn’t just the promise of good food waiting for you at Miss Daisy’s. There’s the scent of grease and salt on the air, sure, but there’s something else there too. Something that beckons you forward, light and almost ticklish, like the heat of panting breath, the softness of a furry ear dragging under your chin to the tip until it flicks off. Before you know it, you’ve taken two steps forward, and a waitress in a swish of skirts and a flick of her manicured nails has plucked a single menu from the stand.

“One?” she asks, chipper as you nod. “Booth or table?”

“Table,” you answer, and she leads you to one. 

She leaves you with the menu, but you don’t yet look at it, consumed by the crowded atmosphere around you. The restaurant seems almost suspended in time with its black and white tiled floor, the retro-patterned tabletops, the chrome, the beveled glass windows, the teal and white booths and chairs that squeak with vinyl when you adjust in your seat. The walls are loaded with pictures and posters, memorabilia of the 50s and 60s: Coca-Cola bottles, old cars, Elvis and Marilyn, novelty signs advertising products for cents on the dollar. The effect is charming, made even more so when you realize that each table, including yours, is decorated with a white daisy in a glass of water. Somehow, the interior of this restaurant feels jubilant and comforting, like the bright joy of Easter, even though it’s January. Maybe that has something to do with how full it is— though it’s around ten o’clock on a Thursday, the place is no less than three-quarters full.

“Hey there, dear. You decide what you want yet?”

The croak interrupts your reminiscing, and you startle upon seeing a different woman than the one who’d brought you here— older, with gray hair coiffed into a beehive and pink lipstick crackled on her lips. “Oh!” You are immediately repentant. “No, ma’am, I’m sorry. I haven’t looked yet.”

The woman snorts, but it’s all in good humor. “Ma’am,” she echoes you, though where yours was respectful, hers is slightly sardonic. “No need to go reminding me I’m old, dear.” You crackle with nerves, but she grins at you with slightly yellowed teeth. “I’ll come back when you’re ready. Just flag me down, all right?”

You manage a nod, nerves easing as she taps the table with her wrinkled hand and leaves you to it.

The menu is not overly vast, but it takes some time to decide what will fill that void you feel, what you’re really yearning for. In the end, you settle on a Reuben sandwich with french fries and a chocolate milkshake. Though all the waitresses are dressed the same here to fit the theme, you’re grateful for your waitress’s distinctive beehive as you catch her attention, peeking at the nametag she has pinned to the right of her collar when she arrives. ‘Sherry,’ it reads, and oddly, there’s a little doodle of a shamrock beside it which looks to be drawn on in permanent marker.

“Comin’ right up, sweetie,” she promises you.

“Thank you, m—” you swallow the ‘ma’am,’ and Sherry’s smile widens as she wags a finger at you.

“Watch it, you; I heard that,” she says, her voice a croaking tease. “Don’t you start.”

You giggle, and when she leaves you again, it isn’t just the promise of food that makes you feel better.

The sandwich comes quicker than you expected, considering how busy it is, and it's delicious: creamy Russian dressing, salty corned beef and mild Swiss sliced thin, piled together with tart sauerkraut. The outside of the bread is grilled crisp and not too greasy, and the fries are hot and crunchy, a perfect balance with the thick, sweet coldness of your milkshake. It’s perfect; you couldn’t have asked for more.

As you eat, you watch the waitresses flit about in their matching yellow dresses with white collars, aprons, and cuffs, gathering behind the bar counter when not visiting their tables or pushing through the swinging doors to the kitchen. You watch them laugh and chat with one another, and it pricks at something familiar inside you. It’s been years now, but you still remember what it feels like to flit from table to table, to smile and serve, to share in that camaraderie behind the bar, though the place where you’d done it was nothing like this. 

Once you’ve thoroughly cleaned your plate, Sherry stops by again just as the jukebox kicks on to play Baby I’m Yours by Barbara Louis.

“How was it?” she asks, and you tell her it was very good. “Any room for more?” She follows up, eyeing your empty plate, and there’s a sudden hot flash of shame, a moment where you think she might turn wolfish. But her tone and expression remain nothing but sincere, so it wanes. Still, you hedge on an answer, deliberating whether to accept the offer.

She notices your hesitation and perks her brows, coaxing, “We’ve got a mean pecan pie.” A little encouraging smile plays on her crackled lips. “Sounds like that might be right up your alley, judging by your accent.”

It is true— you love pecan pie. And that void was lessened by your meal but not quite filled. So you accept, and Sherry brings you the slice.

And you think maybe this is what does it— this slice of pecan pie. The crust all golden brown, the pecans placed so carefully on top, the filling gooey but not falling into a gelatinous heap upon the plate. Your sandwich had been so good, and your milkshake, too, and this, now— this just looks so good.

You take a bite of the mean pecan pie, and it is not good.

You chew slowly, nose scrunched, brow furrowed just slightly. It’s not… horrible. But it’s not good. Certainly not as good as the pecan pie at home.

Miss Daisy’s Diner is so inviting inside, suspended in time, straight out of the glossy world of dreams. The chrome is shiny, the teal booths pleasant, and each table is adorned with a single daisy. The doo-wop of the jukebox mixes with the hum of conversation; the waitresses in their yellow dresses laugh with patrons as they fill up their coffee mugs and emerge from those swinging doors with plates loaded with delicious food. But the pie isn’t delicious, and you would hazard a guess, as you crane your neck to peek at the display of cakes and muffins beneath the far end of the bar, that the rest of their baked goods are the same way: good-looking under the lights, but nothing compared to what you’re used to.

Nothing compared to what you can do.

'Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God.'

When Sherry stops by the table to ask if she can get you anything else, your reply comes swift and easy. “I saw the sign in your window. Are y’all still hiring?”

It’s a quick affair, becoming a waitress at Miss Daisy’s Diner. 

When you ask that question, Sherry’s brows flash, but she sits across from you right away, crossing her legs smartly as she asks you a series of quick questions. You used to work at the restaurant in a country club back home, and though it’s been a few years now, you know how to answer them all sufficiently. That kind of knowledge— the knowledge you gain from experience— never really leaves you. When you finish, she looks at you discerningly before shrugging. “Well, y’seem alright to me. Just wait here. I’ll get Willy.” She pauses half out of her chair as if a thought has just occurred to her. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Emma,” you tell her, and despite the croak of her lungs, your name flows like molasses off Sherry’s tongue when she repeats it back to you.

Willy is the owner of Miss Daisy’s Diner, and he looks nothing like the ‘Miss Daisy’ pictured on the menu. Where she appears crisp and plucky, Willy is doughy and lax. You learn that there is no real Miss Daisy, though Willy jokes, "All my chickadees here are Miss Daisy. That’s why they dress alike." He doesn’t even interview you after learning Sherry already talked to you; apparently, that’s good enough for him. Instead, he just rambles about scheduling, uniforms, and payroll, speaking in slow circles that loop back and around again until Sherry cuts him off.

“I’ll get her up to speed, Willy,” she says, and his face splits with a lazy smile. 

“Sher’ll get you trained up,” he concludes as if it was his idea.

He begins to turn from the table, and you pipe up before he can leave. “When can I start?” 

Willy shrugs lazily, looking towards his employee. “Tomorrow?” he offers, and Sherry concurs, and that is that.

When you leave Miss Daisy’s Diner, your Lincoln is parked down the street where you left it, the white plastic bag of your new clothes visible through the backseat window. When you get in, your pillow and blanket are beside you, reminding you of the lumpy mattress and the pile of dead flies that need to be tidied. Your original goal for the day still looms ahead.

But, God, you aren’t complaining. You swear it. Because Hawkins is a refuge, and you have a job, and the bleeding finally stopped this morning. And there’s security in the first chore you’ve decided to begin your new life with. You’re intimately acquainted with mopping, dusting, and scrubbing, having learned to clean well in the last three years. While you don’t particularly enjoy it, there’s comfort in making something dirty into something clean. By tomorrow, your trailer will no longer be a pigsty, and maybe you’ll sleep in your bed tonight. Tomorrow, you get to go back to Miss Daisy’s Diner, back to Sherry and the jukebox and the flowers on the tables, and maybe you’ll be laughing behind the bar this time.

‘For I know the thoughts that I think concerning you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you the end that you wait for.’

Thank you, Father.

In the few days following your first day in Hawkins, you learn many things. You learn that the daisies on the tables of Miss Daisy’s Diner are made of fabric and wire, and the water is dried glue. You learn that Willy— given name Wilbur— might own the place, but the girls run it. You learn that the coffee maker sometimes doesn’t spit out water unless you smack it hard and that you won’t get a shiny nametag to match the others until Willy orders one from a special shop, which may take a while. You learn that the yellow dresses and aprons might look cute, but they aren’t all that comfortable, though Sherry kindly accommodated your request for the largest size she could get. It's not quite as big as the dresses you'd picked for yourself, but she did her best.

Still, these cracks in the facade of Miss Daisy’s don’t make it any less charming to you. The pace is hectic, and though each restaurant has its own way of doing things, you fall back into that ebb and flow quickly with the help of all the girls, who don’t hesitate to welcome you into the herd. That’s another thing that helps— the waitresses are all kind and helpful, though more curious about you than you’d prefer, sniffing at your hair and shoes when you aren't looking. It becomes apparent very quickly that they’re all the same: goats who bleat at one another across the floor and nibble at the strings of one another’s aprons in friendly affection, yours included. You aren’t quite one of them, but they don’t seem to notice.

You can’t hide your accent, of course, so they know you're not from around here. There’s always that awareness in a small town— even your tables ask you about it. You remain vague about your past, reserved but polite with your coworkers and charming with your customers, treating them with hospitality just like mama raised you. The beatitudes guide your manner: meek and humble, righteous and merciful, pure of heart and generous. A peacemaker, bringing harmony to those around you. 

It’s almost enough to make you think you might have white wool after all, though you can’t quite shake the raven feathers that shudder when you return home to your nest with its barren sticks and its piles of stolen trinkets you gathered on your flight to Hawkins. That’s why you spend as much time as you can at work, soothed by the dulcet tones of the jukebox as you flit from table to bar to kitchen and back again until all begins to feel familiar and comforting.

Safe.

By the end of your first week, you’ve also grown accustomed to the back of the house. Even the sight of Harry, the line cook, begins to comfort you. He is large, broad-shouldered and thick, but his movements are measured and gentle, set with a pace that speaks assurance that things will get done when they get done. In fact, his movements are so predictable that every time you shuffle through the swinging doors into the kitchen at the start of your shift, you anticipate the repetitive sound of his thick bull hands scraping the spatula slow and even as he works the cooktop. 

So the sight that greets you now as you catch the door from Sherry is quite jarring. 

Before the cooktop stands a man who is both shorter and thinner than Harry but somehow far more imposing. He’s angular and jagged, frenetic in his movements: booted foot tapping tile, elbow jutting sharp as he jerks the spatula, a wild mess of curls shaking as his head bobs exaggeratedly. And the sound of the kitchen isn’t at all soothing in his presence. There’s some kind of tinny howling coming from him, some unholy noise that nearly makes you halt at the threshold of the swinging doors before you realize it’s coming from underneath his hair and not from him, exactly. You quickly spot the thin cord running down to the tape player clipped to his tight dark pants, though the handkerchief swaying at his hip— old and spilling loose threads, black and white and emblemed with eerie skulls— has your nerves kicking up again just as quickly.

Sherry’s voice is hoarse from smoke and age but, to your surprise, not filled with even a hint of the same nerves as she greets the man. “Afternoon, Ed,” she says, sounding almost fond as she shouts to be heard above the music. 

Almost instantly, the headphones are jerked down to hang around his neck, and when the man spins abruptly from the cooktop to face you both, your chest clenches again. His voice is brash and warm, mouth split wide to flash his eyeteeth as his gaze finds your coworker quickly. “Afternoon, Sher,” he says, mimicking her fond inflection, a teasing grin dimpling the corner of his plush pink lips. “How’s my best girl?”

Your eyes quickly dart from him to Sherry and then back, face frozen so as not to reveal your reaction: a mixture of wariness and confusion since he looks almost thirty years younger than her. Sherry just rolls her eyes and purses her lips, which are crackled with deep pink lipstick. “Yeah, yeah. We’re all your best girl, aren’t we, Eddie?” It’s said with long-suffering sarcasm like this exchange is akin to slipping on an old pair of shoes— worn in and comfortably molded to one’s foot. 

The man, Eddie, doesn’t reply, though his smile does widen. Sherry nods your way but addresses him. “This is the new girl. Be nice,” she warns, wagging a gnarled finger.

“Whaddya mean, Sher? I’m always nice.” Eddie huffs through his nose, showily stretching his arms above his head and holding his clothed elbows as his eyes slide to you. Yours dip to the dark stains beneath his pits, the evidence of his toil and sweat that begs the question of why he’d be wearing long sleeves if he’s that hot. “Hello, new girl,” he says lightly, and his voice hums like there’s a secret joke he’s holding back from laughing at.

The cock of his hip, the sharpness of his limbs, the narrowness of his waist where the apron is tied hastily, the stretch of his ribcage against the dirty long-sleeved shirt, the tilt of his lips— it hits you suddenly what he is, just as suddenly as you’d realized that Sherry and the girls are bleating goats and Harry is a gentle bull.

This man is a coyote.

Suddenly, that feeling of safety is threatened. What else could explain that rush of tingling awareness pricking up your neck when he acknowledges your presence, if not the fear that a predator is near?

Instinct drives a prey animal when confronted in such a way. You’ve seen it yourself back at home: hens clucking and skittering in the dirt when they sense a fox, horses swaying uneasily in their stalls when a wolf prowls the woods beyond the paddock. And like a prey animal, your body can either freeze or flee. It chooses the latter. 

You squeak out some semblance of a greeting— even fear can’t entirely overwhelm the graces you’ve been taught— and hurry around Sherry to duck into Willy’s office. You want to close the door, to wedge a physical barrier between yourself and those dark eyes and flashing white teeth, but you resist the urge knowing Sherry will be coming in right behind you, and the gesture is not only futile but potentially rude. 

You’re tying your apron when she enters, and she catches your eyes immediately when you look up. Sherry purses her lips at the sight of your flushed cheeks and wide eyes; she chuckles, but there’s an edge of sympathy. “Oh, come on now, dear," she consoles you. “Eddie might look some type of way, but he doesn’t bite.” Her wrinkled eyes soften as she regards you, the tease in her voice gentling as she adds, “He’s a good boy.”

You force a smile, but her assurances can’t dispel the goosebumps prickling along your flesh. They don’t calm your trembling fingers as they slip your notepad into your white apron, smoothing along scratchy cotton afterward as if attempting to press out the bulge it makes against the front of your body. Your body whispers danger and your mind does, too. And if the spirit guides the flesh, then you know you feel this way for a reason. 

Sherry’s platitudes are no match for instinct and belief.

After your initial spook, your shift progresses much the same as any other. You greet your tables, fetch them drinks, faithfully record their orders, deliver their plates, ask them if they need ketchup or hot sauce, chit-chat just a tad, drop the check, and bid them ‘have a good day now,’ parting with a smile. Your voice doesn’t even waver when you push open those double doors; your call of ‘corner’ is sweet and stable, less tremulous than how you began earlier this week. The only time fear squeezes your chest is when you must clip up your tickets. Because that means you’ll have to approach the coyote, draw near to his jagged elbows, those dark, angular legs, and the abundance of curls that cling damply to the edges of his pale jaw and conceal his expression from your view. At least facing Eddie’s back or side is considerably easier than his front; luckily, he’s so thoroughly occupied by the cooktop that he doesn’t acknowledge you before you scamper off. Your fear becomes a predictable wave: with each step toward him, your chest tightens, and with each step away, you feel the clench begin to ease. 

You’ve just swung returned to the floor, loose and nearly chipper, when Samantha hurries over, holding a loaded plate, her ponytail and yellow skirts swishing as she skids to a stop before you. “Emma! There you are.” She beams brightly, and the words huff out of her as if just the sight of you is a relief. It makes you feel warm inside, and that warmth blooms in the smile you answer her with before asking, 

“Is that mine?” 

You look down at the plate as she nods, noting that the steak has just barely been cut on the corner, not even all the way through. “It’s from table four. She wants it cooked a little more. More like medium-well,” she explains, and you take the plate without a thought.

“Sure thing,” you say, and it isn’t until you’ve pushed back through those swinging doors into the kitchen that you realize what this task will require.

Your throat dries as you approach Eddie, eyes darting over the white of his shirt, how the fabric has gone somewhat translucent where it sticks to the planes of his back. His shoulders roll as he stretches to the side to reach a hoagie roll without moving his feet, which still tap along with the rhythm coming from the headphones slung around his neck. The sound of howling has since subsided to resonant thumping and the faint melody of some screeching instrument, which grows clearer as you edge closer with your plate. 

Closer and closer still you draw until you can detect the faint scent of sour sweat, pungent smoke, and something earthy as the coyote turns his head back to the cooktop, still oblivious to your presence. You halt then, feet sticking as your clenched chest whispers that you’ve come close enough. Eddie continues to load chopped beef, peppers, and onions into the hoagie roll, and you hover some steps away until his chin happens to edge left, and he catches you in his peripheral.

His long eyelashes flick up as his gaze flashes to you, eyebrows jerking in mild acknowledgment, mouth soft and slack. The eye contact makes you hasty; you push out your voice and plate together, squeaking, “Can you cook this more? …Please?” You tack the pleasantry on, nudging your elbows forward as if urging him to take the plate as quickly as possible.

You want him to take the plate, but still, you must resist a flinch when his hand outstretches to receive it from you. His palm is broad, with callouses dotting along the meatiest sections, and his fingers are long and ruddy at the tips. Your breath hitches at the sight of his hand’s approach, but all Eddie does is grasp the plate. As soon as his fingers close around its edge, you snatch yours back toward the safety of your body. “Thank you,” you say, and you hazard a glance at his face.

A dimple forms on Eddie’s cheek as he grins, and his voice is warm and brash when he meets your eye and replies, “For you, sweetness? Anytime.”

And then he winks, a quick flash of those long lashes to conceal a sparkling brown iris. 

Such a small thing, really, to say and to do. Thrown just as casually as a smile for a stranger who holds the door for you, just a brief moment of banter between coworkers as they cross paths in the diner kitchen. 

But the swell of emotion Eddie’s words and wink conjures within you is not a small thing. You jerk away from him, a fierce spasm of your muscles to match the fist of fear that seizes you tightly and shakes you until you’re left trembling. The feeling is visible all over your body— in the tightening of your arms against your middle, the shrinking of your shoulders, the blanching of your face, the quiver of your lower lip, the widening of your wet eyes.

The sudden violence of your reaction clearly shocks him. Instantly, Eddie’s spine straightens, and his face falls. Those dark eyes go wide to match yours, confusion sinking into ruefulness as your back begins to bow— feet planted but spine arching, upper body inching back as if your only desire is to get away from him. All the warm brashness in his voice has deflated as he stutters, “Look, I– I was just— I’m—”

Had he gotten it out, would it have been an apology? An explanation? Would it have put you at ease, unclenched that feeling inside? Who’s to say. Because desperate to repair, to stop your backward flight, Eddie reaches out a hand toward you again. Soft, palm upturned, fingers slack. An entreaty to stay and let him fix things. Suddenly and acutely, your wrist aches at the approach of his palm; with that shock of pain, your freeze finally turns to flight.

In a burst of white and yellow, you skitter and spin toward the swinging doors, leaving your predator behind.

It’s a temporary balm, of course. You cannot avoid the coyote in the kitchen forever. After all, you have a steak to retrieve. This is your responsibility, and though the temptation to ask Samantha to fetch it for you is there, you know it would be wrong to give in to that impulse.

Out of the kitchen, in the front of the house, Miss Daisy’s Diner carries on as if nothing has happened. All is calm; all is bright. You hear the familiar clinking of utensils against ceramic, the swish of yellow skirts and the squeak of sneakers, the bleating of the girls mixed with the crackly doo-wop of the jukebox. Someone has put on Try Me by James Brown, and you whisper the words along with him as you shake off the tension like feathers ruffling to wick off water. ‘Try me,’ ‘hold me,’ ‘need you,’ you sing, the words repeating over and over like the lazy spin of a record on the turnstile. The slow beat eases you back into the rhythm of the floor as you steal precious minutes before you must return to the kitchen.

When you can delay it no longer, you edge back through those doors, breathing slowly to keep yourself from turning away as you anticipate the sight of his body, angular and jagged, coiled tight. But the slope of the coyote’s shoulders is low, and the frenetic swaying of his hips is still now. The howling has quieted, and the jerking of his spatula is slow, slow like Harry’s, which you’re used to. It helps to ease your cautious steps as you reach him, stopping a short distance away. You can see that the plate of your steak is prepared for you to retrieve it, resting on the counter just on the other side of him.

It doesn’t take as long for Eddie to notice you this time, and your chest threatens to clench when his chin turns your way. You try to push out a reminder of what you need. “C-can you—”

Eddie doesn’t make you ask. “Yeah,” he interrupts, “No problem.” 

The three words do not sound angry or sad; they do not sound like much of anything, really. His mouth does not open wide to say them. Instead, his white teeth hide behind his pink lips as he passes you the plate with no other words exchanged between you. And as soon as you receive it, Eddie turns his face away.

Each successive visit to the kitchen that afternoon proves the truth of the matter. Since that first encounter, the coyote’s tail has since been tucked between his legs. The points of his teeth have been filed, and with them, over the course of those hours, your fear of his bite finally begins to ease.

So why, then, does your wrist still ache? 

chapter two: I'll be seeing you is coming soon.

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@h-ness1944 - not taggable

[acearcane]

June of Doom, Day 20

"I can handle it." | Scrape | Panic Attack | Neglect

@juneofdoom

Word count: 2718 Fandom: The Umbrella Academy (TV) Content warnings: Brief passive suicidal ideation, language

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56801968

I Don't Know Why I Bite

Five woke with the taste of ash on his tongue.

He shot upright, narrowly avoiding braining himself on the underside of the top bunk. His breath came in short gasps, his body trembling violently. He curled his fingers into his scratchy blanket, his mind flying too fast to think.

Everytime he closed his eyes, the memories nipped at the back of his brain, carving fresh wounds into his mind.

Ash, settling across his shoulders like freshly fallen snow. Drifting into his eyes, biting and burning where it made contact. Coating the inside of his mouth, his tongue, and choking the back of his throat. Filling his lungs, until he couldn’t speak without coughing, blood splattering the hand he raised to his lips.

It was all he could see. All he could taste. All he could feel. The apocalypse had been a fire, the earth its fast-fading ember. Nothing left in the world, save himself and the endless sea of gray that crunched and shifted beneath his feet as he walked.

For you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

How long until he crumbled along with everything else he had known and loved?

Five rubbed anxious circles into his chest, desperately trying to slow the fluttering pace of his heart. His pulse surged in his eardrums, drowning out anything and everything, his vision flickering in the dim lightning of the room. He wasn’t there anymore; he had gotten out. He wasn’t there anymore; he was home, he was safe.

Or… however close to home he could be, after their last ill-planned attempt to escape the apocalypse.

Five fought the urge to cough, trying to reason with himself. He wasn’t choking. There wasn’t any smoke or ash. That taste, the one in the back of his throat… it was all in his head. His lungs were fine, mercifully replaced by the same accident that left him stranded in his younger body.

His heart rate began to slow, his breath evening out as the terror relinquished its claws from his chest. Five hugged his knees to his chest, letting the reality of his situation wash over him.

He was in a hotel-- Hotel Obsidian, if he was remembering correctly. One of Klaus’s old haunts. A predictably peculiar place, considering the brother that recommended it. Their home, the Academy… wasn’t gone, per say. Just under new management, ruled over by an angry batch of superhumans that called themselves ‘the Sparrow Academy’. The old man’s new pets, Five thought grimly. Good riddance; if he had to spend another second of his time trying to barter with that sardonic old meatbag, he might as well kill himself.

The apocalypse was over. They had escaped it once again. They were safe.

He wondered how long it would take for him to truly accept that.

Five kicked back the sheets, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The bunk above him creaked as Klaus rolled over in his sleep, murmuring something under his breath. Diego’s rattling snores rose from the futon where he had stretched himself out. And Luther… Five curled his lip. Whatever Luther had eaten for dinner clearly wasn’t agreeing with him.

The room suddenly felt suffocating, and not just because of the smell. It was too crowded, too hot. Five could hear his brothers, all breathing out of sync, and the sound made his skin prickle. He just needed a moment of fresh air. Sleep was out of the question anyway.

Grabbing his robe from where he’d draped it next to the bed, Five bundled up and made for the door. Careful not to wake his brothers, he eased the room door open and stepped out into the hall, his shoulders relaxing the moment the silence washed over him. Letting the door shut behind him, Five found that he could breathe easy again.

He paced down the hall, worrying with the sleeve of his bathrobe. His body still felt heavy with exhaustion, but his mind was moving too quickly to relax. He would’ve liked to sleep--Five couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a full night’s rest--but the idea of slipping back into that wasteland was enough to keep him moving.

He could almost forget it from time to time, all of those years spent trapped in the apocalypse. When the problems in front of him consumed his vision, or when the heavy weight of liquor muddied his thoughts, Five could almost ignore the ghost in his mind. Then he would try to slow down, try to rest--whether by choice or by the harsh reality of his body giving out--and the apocalypse would rear its ugly head again, trying to drag him back into the nightmare from which he had barely escaped.

Five shuddered, struck by a sudden wave of dizziness. He gripped the wall, his heart speeding up again as the acrid tang of ash wormed its way back into his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ride out the wave of panic that washed over him.

I can handle it, he thought to himself, his inner voice tinged with desperation. It’ll be over in a minute.

He needed a drink. Something to slow his mind. Maybe if he drank enough, the alcohol would lull him into dreamless sleep, although he wasn’t sure if the hangover the next morning would be worth it.

More than anything, Five missed Delores. He missed having someone to talk to, someone to help him rationalize the fear that threatened to choke him. His siblings wouldn’t understand; they were too naive, too emotional. They’d get worried and patronizing, and that was the last thing Five wanted.

No, he wanted Delores. He needed Delores. He shouldn’t have left her, two timelines ago. Now she was gone, and no amount of wishful thinking would bring her back. Once again, Five’s lack of foresight had screwed him over. For someone who could jump through time itself, he found that he could be painfully nearsighted.

Five sank to the floor, his head cradled in his hands. God, he was so tired. His teenage body was heavy with exhaustion, throbbing from scrapes and bruises sustained in their earlier fights. He didn’t have the stamina he used to, even if he did have the vitality of youth. But everytime he tried to close his eyes, even to blink, a burnt-out landscape would flash through his mind's eye.

“Five?”

The soft voice jarred him out of his thoughts, and Five nearly broke his neck when he whipped around to see who had spoken.

Viktor stood a few feet away, still dressed in the same clothes he had left the 1960s in. He looked about as exhausted as Five felt, his freshly-cut hair tangled and mussed, dark circles carving half-moons under his eyes. He was hesitating visibly, as if he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to approach. It was sweet, Five had to admit, but the cynical part of him griped that Viktor was old enough to know to take initiative.

When Five didn’t respond, Viktor pressed, “Couldn’t sleep?”

Five shook his head slowly. “No.”

His brother seemed to take that as an invitation to join him. Slumping against the wall at his side, Viktor admitted softly. “Yeah, me neither.” He looked so tortured, his brown eyes glassy and unfocused, that Five couldn’t help but feel concerned.

“Do you miss…” Five trailed off, desperately wracking his brain for the woman’s name, “...Sissy?” He had met Viktor’s lover a grand total of once, but he could tell the blonde woman had meant a lot to his brother.

Viktor winced, his face clouding over. “I do,” he said with a wry chuckle. “Which is stupid, because I know it was safer for her to stay in 1963, but…” he trailed off, tapping his fingers together anxiously. His eyes flicked to Five, and he asked, “Are you okay, though?”

What an odd question. Five shrugged. Of course he was okay; he and his family were finally some semblance of safe, and they had managed to leave the apocalypse in the 1960s. Five was the most okay he had been in decades.

So why didn’t it feel quite right?

“I’m fine,” he answered after a few tense moments, staring down at his hands. He could almost swear there was still blood crusted beneath his fingernails, a final trophy from the Board’s massacre. Five swallowed, suddenly nauseous.

“Are you sure?” Viktor pressed, scooting closer to him. “Five… if… if you want to talk about it, I…”

“I’m fine, Viktor,” Five repeated, his voice mercifully stronger this time. “I… I just had a nightmare. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Five,” Viktor repeated gently, “You know you don’t have to go it alone, right? You can talk to us. You can talk to me.”

“Talk about what?” Five laughed incredulously. “My nightmare? I’m not a child, Viktor. It was just a dream; I’ll get over it.”

Viktor was studying him thoughtfully; Five could see an idea forming in his brother’s mind, and he didn’t like it. Leaning forward, Viktor asked, “Have you ever thought about seeing someone? Like, a therapist?”

Something about this conversation felt uncomfortably familiar. Five could almost remember Viktor saying something similar, the night Five had jumped back to 2019. “What, in the two weeks since I got back?” he snapped. “No, it hasn’t crossed my mind. Can’t really say I had time for it, what with trying to stop the apocalypse and saving your sorry asses. Why do you ask?”

“Everything you went through…” Viktor furrowed his brow, searching for the right words. “You’ve been through a lot, and you’re carrying a lot with you. You know you don’t have to do that, right?  You don’t have to be miserable all the time.”

Five bristled. “If you’re trying to scold me for being an asshole-”

“I’m not!” Viktor cut him off, his voice tipping up defensively. “I promise I’m not. God, I’m too tired for this-” he paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I mean, if you’re hurting, you don’t have to keep hurting. It’s not weak to get help.”

Preposterous. That sounded immensely weak to Five. He had never had time for feelings, ironically enough. All they did was get in the way, slow him down. It was primitive to allow oneself to be controlled by their emotions. They were a distraction and nothing more. He could be at peace, whatever that meant, when he was dead.

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “I can see you disagreeing with me.”

“I’m not… necessarily,” Five hedged, unwilling to set his brother off again. Perhaps, if he kept nodding along, Viktor would grow tired of this therapist schtick and move on. Not quite his usual method of winning an argument, but he really wasn’t in the mood to keep fighting.

“One of the smartest moves someone can do is recognize when they need help. And really, all it does is make you a better person,” Viktor continued, scuffing his sneakers against the faded carpet. He cast Five a soft smile. “And I know you’re all about smart.”

The show of affection proved too much for Five’s already tender nerves. He shied away from his brother, equally compelled and repulsed by Viktor’s concern. Pressing his hands together, eager to shut down the conversation, Five told him, “Viktor, I appreciate it, I really do. But I honestly don’t have time for-”

“What scares you so much about needing other people?” Viktor interrupted, his gaze intensifying.

His heart rate quickening, Five hissed, “I’m not scared.”

And he wasn’t. He was being reasonable. The only person you could truly trust was yourself; Five had learned that lesson time and time again. Friends, family… They were all walking potential disappointments. They abandoned you, betrayed you, made idiotic calls that hurt you and everyone else you loved. No, Five was more than happy to rely on himself and himself only.

“Five,” Viktor’s voice softened. “That’s our dad talking in your head, telling you to bottle it all up. Stop taking his shitty advice and let yourself feel. Maybe you’ve got powers, but you’re still human.”

Five’s mental tirade hiccuped to a stop. He had the strange desire to laugh, which he smothered by burying his face in his hands again. God, was he human? Five wasn’t so sure sometimes. He had spent so long isolated from everyone and everything, including himself, that he almost felt like an alien when tossed back into ordinary life. Not to mention the blood staining his hands, staining his soul, the blood that he could never quite wash out…

And what had Viktor meant, bringing up their dad like that? Five had done everything in his power to be the opposite of Reginald; he had spat in the old man’s face time and time again, fighting back against his orders and his training. Of course, doing so had landed Five in the equivalent of hell for forty-five years…

Oh, god. Maybe he was more fucked up than he had thought.

Five hadn’t realized he was shaking until Viktor’s arms closed around him, oh-so gently. That urge to fight back, pull away, had completely evaporated. For once in his life, Five so desperately needed something to tether him back to reality. Still trembling, he leaned into his brother’s chest, his hands pressed against his pounding heart. Viktor’s arms were warm and heavy, their comforting weight dragging Five back to earth.

“Fuck,” Five breathed out shakily. His mouth tasted like ash again.

“You’re not alone, Five,” Viktor whispered, his chin bumping against the top of Five’s head. “You’re not alone.”

The warm prickling at the back of Five’s eyes was entirely unfamiliar, and it set off alarm bells all across his body. He carefully extracted himself from his brother’s arms, rubbing his hands across his knees to soothe himself. Turning his head away, Five forced the words, “Thank you,” between his lips.

“Yeah.” He could feel the weight of Viktor’s sad smile, boring into the back of his skull. “Of course. Any time, Five.”

“I… don’t want to talk to anyone,” Five murmured, still refusing to meet his brother’s gaze. “I might traumatize the shrink.”

Viktor gave a soft laugh. “You might actually have a point.”

Five allowed himself a small smile before turning back to face his brother. “But,” he continued, letting the word hang in the air, “I’ll try to stop being so much of a stubborn asshole.”

Viktor held up his hands in protest, a grin tugging at his lips. “Hey, your words, not mine.”

“You were thinking them.”

“I promise I wasn’t.”

Five leaned back against the faded wallpaper, waiting for the last of the panic to trickle out of his veins. It left him feeling exhausted and hollow… and in desperate need of a pick-me-up.

“I think I need a drink,” he announced, pushing himself to his feet. He wobbled there for a moment until his shaky legs remembered how to work.

Viktor gazed up at him, bemused. “At 4 am?”

“I think,” Five repeated, crossing his arms, “I need a drink.”

His brother narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “I know I should tell you no, but…” he trailed off, sticking out a hand. “Help me up.”

Five jerked Viktor his feet, patting his brother’s shoulder as he stepped away. “Let’s go get blackout drunk. I need it after that shitshow.” He started off down the hall, refusing to look behind him but secretly hoping that Viktor would follow.

His brother caught up to him a moment later, and Five willfully ignored the way his spirits lifted, just slightly. “What, me talking to you about your feelings?” Viktor teased, a warm grin on his face. “Or everything back in 1963?”

Five waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Yes.”

He hesitated, then added, “And Viktor… I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell the others about…” he trailed off, the thought of verbalizing what had just happened making him sick to his stomach. So what if he had trouble admitting weakness? His brothers and sister still didn’t need to know about every little nightmare or panic attack. It wasn’t that big of a deal, truly.

To Five’s relief, Viktor didn’t press it. “I won’t,” he promised simply.

“Good. Then let’s go get that drink.”

[miss-celestia13]

An Arsonist’s Anguish

Richy’s Lament - A Duskwood One Shot

A dark, angsty exploration into Richy’s character as he sets the stage for his death. There is no happy ending. Just some hope that another soul made it out of the mine as it burns. Crossposted on Ao3.

Trigger Warnings are below the line. Please check them.

TW: Suicide, Self Hatred, Hallucinations, and thoughts/descriptions of Death. Read at your own risk. I tried not to be too graphic, but you will know what’s happening.

Richy would never see the sun rise again.

The ghosts of all the beautiful things he killed to protect his secrets haunted his dragging, stumbling steps as he traversed the mine and ignored the cameras he installed. Gasoline poured and splashed from the canister he held as he wove through tunnels and gritted his teeth against the pain in his arm.

It was nothing compared to the emotional torture he felt inside. His thoughts were a tempest raging with the violence of a cyclone. Every destructive gust ripped through the fragile edifices of his grip on reality.

Within the labyrinth of his mind, self-loathing chewed on his soul like a pack of feral beasts tearing at the tender flesh of their fallen prey. Each bite drew forth burgundy rivers of desolation, self-condemnation, and unyielding fury. Blending with the physical aches until he couldn’t tell them apart

His arm throbbed as he ignored the yelling in his mind. Fucking Dan. Dan, who gave him a gun?! Oh, what an idiot! He scuppered all Richy’s plans and left him scrambling to end it before anyone else got hurt. Ensure nothing remains but ash.

Rivers of cold sweat streamed down his grey face as he held his injured arm over his stomach so he wouldn’t bang it into the rough wall. He wanted to punch the stone to take his mind off it. The bottle of pain meds he stole from his mother rattled in his pocket, but he couldn’t risk taking them yet.

His breathing roasted his throat, but his entire body shivered as though an icy glacier engulfed him. The persistent tremble in his body intensified with every labored step.

The combined weight of his physical and emotional agony was an anchor on his back, dragging his broken spirit beneath tumultuous waves, where the agony of drowning and being hammered from all sides echoed through the depths of himself.

It didn’t feel like any of it was unfair. The thirst was the worst thing. He kept smacking his lips together, attempting to inspire some moisture, but his tongue remained bone dry and coated in the remnants of bitter blood rust.

The blood he’d lost stained his skin and the stone as it dripped through the filthy dressing he tried and failed to use as a tourniquet. Everything felt like it happened to someone else. Something otherworldly piloted his body from the inside.

Like some demon possessed him, guiding him down depraved, treacherous paths, and the priest hadn’t arrived in time to exorcise him.

And he’d done it to himself. Every choice he’d made since kidnapping Hannah, it had felt like suicide in slow motion.

He marooned himself on an island surrounded by vipers of his own creation.

Now, the only option to set himself free was fire. It would hurt, he thought, and his stomach wrenched to the side, almost splitting in two as he dreaded it so strongly.

And death. There was a liberating freedom in death. A broken sob tore through his clenched teeth as he thought of Jessy, the emotions he harbored for her, and everything he had never deserved to have with her.

She was a shot of adrenaline after years of lethargy.

So many of his favorite memories revolved around her and their silly inside jokes. He’d used his closeness to her to torment and stalk her. Terrorized her and her friends. She would never forgive him. Her smiling face, her flaming hair, and desire for a life of adventure had made his miserable existence worth living.

She would forget him one day, but never forgive him. He was a coward. An idiot. He’d let them all believe a masked myth was chasing them.

The only masked freak after them was their own friend.

His megawatt smile, stupid jokes, and constant upbeat attitude despite the shitstorm life rained on him had been the heaviest disguise of his brief life. They’d all bought it.

Hook, line, and fucking sinker. None thought to check beneath that smile. Now, it had twisted and transformed into a permanent snarl. If they paid attention, they would have found the rot and ruin underneath his cheerful demeanor. None of his friends had stopped to think about just how stressed he was. How much he had to carry for his family and Hannah—screw her. She was party to his worst decision.

She caused it.

Her wanting to sacrifice herself, him, and Amy to clear her conscience, betrayal. Betrayal was a dagger Hannah concealed in a cloak of mutual trust and unspoken promises to take their secrets to the grave. That blade had appeared suddenly and without warning, piercing the walls of his shriveled heart.

Half of him wished he’d killed her while he’d had her under his control. End the threat, leave her body to decompose in the mine.

No one came here. He’d made sure of it. Everything might—well, it was too late now. She was safe in the hands of Alan Bloomgate. Hannah, perfect, beautiful fucking Hannah.

He hated her. He blamed Hannah. But it was Amy who he blamed the most. Richy blamed everyone but himself for too long. He knew that. And now he would pay the price for it.

He’d already staged his death. Now he just had to commit.

The cloying scent of gasoline infiltrated his nose, thickening in his raw throat, and the empty metal cannister fell from his weak fingers. The thunderous clanging as it bounced and came to a stop worsened the headache he’d had for the last few weeks.

It pounded in time with his thudding heart. Each pulse pushed yet more blood out of the wound in his heavy, aching arm. It tingled and sparked with fiery pain with every paranoid twitch as he glanced behind him, sure he heard footsteps chasing him down.

He gave himself a shake when only his shadow approached. It looked much bigger to him now. Sinister and spreading to encompass the entirety of him.

It had taken him over long ago, and at last, he accepted it. It was too late to beat it back. He’d embraced it. Its hug was gelid and dragged him down, down, down. The shadow had always been in him; his choices had brought it to life, and it was time to eliminate it so it wouldn’t harm anyone else.

If his last victim was to be himself, it would end on his terms.

His last words had been a confession and an apology. To Jessy, and his friends, to the unwitting stranger he’d dragged into this mess, and to himself. His conscience was far from clear, and his reckoning awaited him amongst the flames he would soon ignite.

The cave in which he’d chosen as his tomb would remain safe from the flames, but the poison smoke would choke him. An intangible noose, as he couldn’t bring himself to tie a rope. He shuffled inside and loosed a long breath that felt more like a death rattle.

His stinging eyes couldn’t penetrate the blackness encroaching him on all sides as he reached into his jacket pocket with his good hand, and pulled out the zippo lighter he’d stuffed inside days before. He’d always suspected.

Deep inside, Richy had expected that this was how it ended. The cold silver metal warmed a little in his clammy hand as his thumb stroked over the Garage’s logo and wished he had said goodbye to his parents before he gave himself to the fire.

It was best they learned with the world. His suicide letter would speak for him and he prayed it would ensure his family didn’t suffer for his actions.

Naïveté had always been his downfall.

Before he set his ultimate act into motion, Richy took his phone out of his jean pocket and flicked the flashlight on. The bright beam of white light assaulted his eyes and created a flurry of moving shadows. The skittering of tiny claws on loose stone racing away from him painted a cruel smirk on his mouth as he cast the light around the small cavern and found what he was looking for.

A grubby black backpack sat against the grey rock wall, covered in dirt, blood, and guilt as he scuttled over to it. He unzipped it and pulled out the almost empty bottle of water he’d been rationing for days.

After fishing the bottle of medication out of his pocket, he struggled to open them both, and cried out as his jerky movements irritated his wounded arm. It took five very long minutes to get the pills out. The light from his phone shuddered as he set it down to count the pills.

He’d chosen the strongest ones his mother had. One knocked her out for half a day, and he wanted to numb himself as much as he could before the smoke smothered or flames devoured him. They were heavy on his tongue as he tossed back a fistful of the chalky tablets and chased them down with the last of his precious water.

For a moment, they got lodged in his throat, his mouth flooded with saliva and his eyes prickled with fresh tears.

He couldn’t even kill himself right. Everything he did just failed in spectacular fashion.

He was a monster of his own making, and only he could slay it. He swallowed, compulsive and dry, ignoring the hot flashes creeping up his neck as the painkillers scraped down his throat and into his hollow stomach.

Richy dropped to his knees and crawled over to the wall, and slumped back onto it. Paper crinkled in his inside coat pocket as he shifted to get comfortable. He had about an hour before the full effects of the medication set in. He would light the fire once the gnawing, eroding ache in his chest and arm dulled.

Until then, he sat with his thoughts, his splintering sanity, and cursed himself. Cursed Duskwood and the predator the town had forced him to transfigure himself into.

The weight of hopelessness hung around Richy’s neck like a noose pulled tight, squeezing the light of life from his eyes.

It was a suffocating darkness that swallowed him whole, leaving nothing but the biting tang of despair on his tongue. Each breath felt like inhaling shards of broken glass, cutting deeper with every huffing exhale.

The silence that echoed in his soul was a relentless scream, a haunting, deafening reminder of the emptiness that consumed him.

“I should’ve told someone,” Richy said in a whisper.

The words bounced softly off the rock, a harmony of regret.

He twitched as it fell silent, mouth furling and eyes glazing over as he listened to the racket in his head.

All you had to do was hand yourself in. You could have avoided all of this.

What do you think will happen to your family? They’ll live happily ever after in the town you terrorized?

Do you honestly think your pathetic letter will save them?

The slippery voice of his own darkness broke into a baleful laugh. It made the hair in his nape rise and stand stiff. He shuddered, thrashing his head and gritting his teeth until they squeaked.

“I tried. I always tried. But I’m a failure. I’ve always been a failure. I can make it right. It’s the only way.” He muttered as the disembodied voice agreed.

Make it right? Ha! You think you can wash away the stain of your idiocy?

You’re tainted.

Forever marked by your wrong choices, Richy.

Redemption? You make me laugh.

Redemption is a fairytale, a delusion you’re desperately clinging to.

It is so far beyond your reach…

Richy’s voice was a growl as he said, “No, redemption isn’t my goal. I can’t undo the damage I’ve caused, but I can end it before anyone else gets hurt. I can make sure the world knows it was me.”

The derisive laughter of his demons chafed at his skull as if their talons were scratching their unspeakable names into the bone.

You’re a lost cause. A testament to all your failures.

Each step you take is a step closer to the abyss of self condemnation.

There’s no way out.

Your sacrifice won’t save your soul.

“I accept that!” Richy roared, spittle flying from his chapped lips as he panted like a wounded beast.

“My death might be the only way to atone for all I’ve done. I don’t care what comes after that. But my family won’t suffer because of me. Not any more.”

The voice in his head made a sound of agreement before it crooned his worst fears.

Yes, your death is the ultimate penance.

Your final act of contrition for the havoc you’ve so selfishly wrought.

Then again, have you considered the aftermath?

Your family will endure your actions. Long after you’re gone. Their suffering will echo until they, too, shuffle off the mortal coil.

Searing fiery agony ripped through Richy’s heart. It felt as though someone had taken a knife, heated it up over a fire until it glowed red hot, and then plunged it into his chest. The scent of burned flesh and molten iron filled his nose. The sensation felt so real to him.

His hand clawed at his jacket over his pounding heart, as if to pull the blade free, but his fingers met only dirty fabric.

“They won’t! They won’t! They won’t! I’ve made sure of it. This isn’t their burden to bear!” He yelled, voice laced with an anguish that made his body convulse as rivulets of salt descended his bared teeth.

Helplessness stole over him as his demons taunted and chuckled in a scornful manner.

You should have thought about that before you started donning the guise of an ancient legend.

Idiot.

Weak.

Pathetic!

Your existence is a festering wound that poisons all in your vicinity.

Embrace the fire.

Let it cleanse all the filth you’ve spread.

But just know, your family will bear the scars of your choices, as they’re carved into their souls for eternity.

Richy sobbed through the agonising sensation weaving through his internal organs. He felt as though someone was weaving his internal organs together with a blunt needle, and they had deliberately coated the thread in salt to prolong his suffering. The increasing pressure in his head demanded an outlet as well.

Everything ached, it bled, and it tore him apart. He was so tired. So tired of trying.

This mine, this town, and all it had demanded of him, he was done with it all. He wanted it to burn. His desire was for them all to suffer, just as he had for a decade. He hadn’t dug just one grave that night. No, there had been one accident and four graves waiting for them. They’d just seen theirs too late.

The forest had never forgotten them, though. It had been patient.

That night with Hannah and Amy, it had never ended. It was a living nightmare he had no way out of. Their deaths had simply waited for them to catch up, and even if Hannah could find it in her to exist after all he’d done, he knew she’d died alongside Jennifer and the rest of them.

Ghosts. That’s what they were. He saw it now. There was no point in trying to hold it off anymore.

It was as if the pressure in his head imploded with that thought.

He wasn’t fully aware of his surroundings as his mind fragmented and warped, and his tenuous hold on reality slipped from his grasp.

The cave dissolved in his vision. Something at the very core of himself disintegrated with it.

He was somewhere else. Somewhere he had long tried to forget.

It was ten years ago.

Amy was there. As was Hannah.

He held a muddied shovel. The surrounding forest smelled like home, but his blood had turned cold. Jennifer’s lifeless body lay broken and bloodied, the remnants of shock still painted across her lovely features.

Her hair lay in a sanguine halo around her head as Richy set down the shovel, and silently, the trio worked to lift the woman.

Hannah’s sobs blended with his labored breathing, sweat drip, drip, dripped down his sore neck. He’d wanted to report it to the police. Tried to convince them to do so anonymously. But Hannah, in her fright, had convinced him they’d be signing their death warrants.

His family would suffer. It was he who gave her the keys to a client’s car. It was due to be scrapped, yes, but that didn’t make it better. Everyone would boycott his dad’s Garage and now that mom was growing worse, the sickness in her invading her mind, he knew they needed that income more than ever.

All they could do was hide the body, agree never to speak of this night, and give the greatest performances of their lives to ensure no one ever suspected them once word of Jennifer’s vanishing spread through Duskwood. He felt like something inside him was dying.

His throat tightened, mouth flooding with saliva as the urge to vomit overtook his senses. Heat crawled through him as he swallowed a mouthful of acidic bile and looked heavenward as they shuffled to stand at the edge of the crudely dug grave.

The stars overhead mocked them as the foliage and freshly overturned earth disguised the metallic scent of spilled blood and their sour shared guilt.

“Are you sure you can live with this?” He asked as they hesitated to drop Jennifer into the ground.

Amy chewed on her bottom lip, blood staining her teeth she’d bitten so hard, and her leaking eyes wouldn’t settle on anything as she gave a single jerky nod. Richy’s stomach sank, but he turned his gaze to Hannah.

His friend’s grief mottled face would haunt him forever as she said, “What other choice do we have?”

That answer inspired zero confidence, but Richy accepted it as an affirmation, and said, “Okay, on three—1, 2, 3!”

With a slight swing and a wobble, they released their hold on Jennifer and all three screwed their eyes shut as she hit the bottom of the hole with a sickening crunch.

Amy fell to her knees, her shaking hands gripping the loose mud ringing the unmarked grave as she sobbed uncontrollably. Richy could hardly stand to watch her, and was glad when Hannah, who was crying freely herself, hauled her away.

He nodded once as Hannah and Amy embraced, clinging to one another, wordless apologies pouring from them both as Richy retrieved his shovel.

He felt like they were being watched. Paranoia snaked through his mind like a weed he knew would grow out of control. All he could do was start refilling the grave.

The soft sound of metal scooping up damp earth seemed to ring through the forest as he internally shut down. All his emotions, he forced them aside. He locked them in a cage made of lead and lined with explosives. Life would never be the same.

Life would be a method actors dream after this. He knew this would change them at a molecular level and none of them could breathe a word of it once they left this cursed forest.

Richy took the last deep breath he’d ever experience and watched expressionlessly as the earth rained down on Jennifer. The pattering noise reminded him of rain, of tears. Amy cried harder while he diligently worked to cover up their mistakes.

Hannah watched, her mouth open in a silent scream.

Wetness trickled down his cheeks as he slowly returned to the present.

Hannah’s face floated across his vision as the scene fully dissipated, and he found himself back in the cave. Stale air replaced the aroma of the night dark forest, and a thin haze hung over his eyes as a euphoric rush raced through his bloodstream.

He felt as if he was floating and drowning in a sea of deliriousness.

The medication had kicked in. His legs were leaden as his head lolled on his neck as if on a swivel, and there was an odd sensation in his nose, like the smell of a roaring fire, but none had been lit. The bullet wound in his arm still griped. Infection had set in, he thought.

Only death would cure it. The meds would ease his passing.

A synthetic fatigue draped him like a cloak as he blinked blearily at the dancing shadows creeping nearer. His mouth turned so dry his tongue curdled in his mouth, and his breathing grew shallower as the painkillers burned through the aches in his body. Not long now, his mosaic mind kept jumping between the past and present, footsteps and disembodied voices whispered so close and real that he answered one.

“I should have turned myself in, I know.”

“At least we agree on something. ”

A female said. His suddenly too heavy head swung around to find the source, his sluggish heart raced faster and faster as the voice sounded like Jessy’s.

“Jess? Remember the fish? The names I made up? If I could—No—I’m so fucking sorry...” He said. He spoke with a voice threaded with deepest despondency.

“The fish were just another lie. All of it was. Your life ended the night Jennifer did. Was any of it real after that? Anything you said, did you mean any of it?”

His shrunken heart broke irrevocably, the agony radiated through his chest, and filled him with a coldness that would soon embrace all of him.

“I didn’t mean—please—I’m ready to pay for it. No one else will hurt because of me.” He swore vehemently.

Jessy’s spectral laugh, derisive and humorless, taunted him.

“We will hurt. It won’t go away. Your actions caused wounds that will scar us forever. Death is your relief. Living with what you did to us is our grief. Goodbye, Richy.”

Richy cried silently as her voice faded and the full effects of the painkillers turned his bones to jelly. He had to light the fire before he passed out. A coffin was his only way out of this cursed place.

Bracing a hand on the knobby wall, he gradually rose to his feet as rock crumbled under his fingers, and rained to the dusty ground, sweat on his palm mixed with the dirt as he tottered toward the entrance. He thumbed the Zippo open as he panted, jaw clenched and eyes stinging with slaking tears.

Petrol permeated the air. He breathed it in as he flicked the lighter and swayed on weak knees as the tiny flame ignited. In the dim, damp recesses of the mine, shadows waltzed like specters as Richy, face obscured by the glow of the lighter and shadow, dropped the flame with a snap of his wrist into the pool of gasoline.

Flame surged away from him, hissing along in a serpentine trail until it morphed into a living beast starved and hungry for destruction. He stumbled back. The heat was a physical blow as it sucked out the oxygen, and he trembled like a newborn fawn as he dropped to his knees and stared and stared and stared.

Amidst the cavernous depths of the mine, the candescent light of the furious fire cast a macabre ballet of shadows upon the rough-hewn walls, a surreal tableau of light and darkness. Tendrils of flame licked and lapped at the stone, awakening ember-tinged echoes that wavered and flashed like phantoms in the subterranean gloom.

Billowing smoke, an ash ridden shroud, coiled sinuously through the labyrinthine passages. The evidence he had doused in gasoline would soon catch fire. Relief glittered through him at the thought. An acrid perfume of burning wood and charred earth mingled with the metallic scent of ancient minerals, an otherworldly aroma that lingered in his lungs and clung to all his senses.

There was no going back now. Every breath was slower than the last. It felt like he was inhaling lava as the heat singed the soft tissue and hair in his nose.

His weighty eyelids sat at half mast. The tunnel walls seemed to exhale, releasing murmurs of long buried secrets, as if the very mine itself sought to voice its resignation to the all-consuming blaze. Mirroring his own easing turmoil as he shut down the instinct to flee and welcomed the darkness speckling the edges of his vision.

His lungs were burning as he struggled for air, and it felt like there was a boulder sitting on his chest, keeping them from inflating and grinding his bones down.

The feeling went out of his legs as his hands turned to claws and raked down his neck, leaving scarlet trails of pain scoring his constricting throat.

His world flipped sideways as he collapsed and his head cracked off the rubble strewn ground, but he no longer felt any pain. The roar of the fire, the slowing beat of his heart, and the stones poking into his tear-streaked face were all he knew.

As Richy’s weary eyes teetered on the edge of closure for the last time, a bizarre scene unfolded within the tumult of his fading consciousness.

The nerves in his hands spasmed and his fingers twitched, filthy nails scratching at the dirt to distract himself as he resisted the urge to fight for his life.

No, it had to end like this. If Hell was real, it was best he got used to it.

Freezing panic blasted through him like a blizzard as his blurred eyes caught sight of something that didn’t belong.

Through the shimmering haze of smoke and heat, a figure emerged from a tunnel he hadn’t thought to include in his fiery last act. His heart tried to beat faster as fear spread its icy fingers through his body. The person appeared cloaked in a shivering orange glow and erratic shadows.

Masked and foreboding, the phantom figure raced away without noticing Richy. And lost in the fractured fabric of his perception, Richy could not see who or what it was. If it was a real person, they might’ve tried to drag him out. This would all be for naught. For once, his horrendous luck benefited him.

As it was, the panicked footsteps bolted away from him, barely heard over the howling fire, and vanished into the tumult of smoke.

He hoped they made it out. It hadn’t occurred to him he might take another’s life with him. Just another mistake. Another tally on his list of sins committed. His choices lay before him like an intricately woven tapestry, each thread a testament to the wrong turns and paths he tread, yielding a disturbing, wretched pattern he wished he could unravel and weave anew.

His trembling gaze soon faltered as the slithering smoke filled his lungs, gasping for air that no longer existed as he spluttered and coughed. With every shallow inhale, the world blurred and distorted. Black spots burst like maleficent fireworks in his eyes, shutting down his fleeting thoughts of crawling to safety.

A cacophony of wheezes and whines slipping from his open mouth faded into a distant echo, as his eyelids, heavy with surrender, fluttered closed. He gave himself over to the exhaustion eating him alive from the inside.

The world outside ceased to matter as an alleviating darkness enveloped his mind. His tiny exhales were little more than puffs of air. A whispered farewell to all those he was leaving behind.

Richy had fallen quiet, but the fire raged on, growing stronger as it feasted on wood, and hastily packed boxes, and the papers inside them. His legacy of ash and blood.

In the letter he left for his parents, he had assumed all guilt and taken the lion's share of the responsibility for Jennifer’s death, and his actions after. Hannah, he thought she had suffered enough, and whatever punishment she received, he didn’t want it to ruin her more. Death was his toll to pay, his lethal reputation would exist long after him and pay for the rest of it. He only hoped his parents could move on from this.

They wouldn’t see him again, not until the funeral. It was over. The corrosive effects of his choices had eaten away at everything good in him.

There was nothing left to salvage from his wreckage.

He tried. And he failed. This time, he finally succeeded in something. The complete demolition of him. A tear slipped through his lashes, warm and soft as it fell to the mucky ground.

It was the last. No more fell.

Death came quietly for him, as silent as a falling leaf drifting into a pile of its fallen friends. His chest stuttered as tentacles of smoke wreathed around him like funeral wrappings, falling as still as the rock he lay atop.

Death finally slayed Richy Rogers’ demons, and no one heard their screams.

——————

I have never been so nervous about something I’ve written. I hope that you—I can’t say enjoyed 🙈 but I hope your time wasn’t wasted. Thank you for reading, if you made it this far.

This is in no way meant to glamorise mental illness or anything like that. That is not my intention. I have been where Richy was in this story, I didn’t kidnap or help bury anyone, but I’ve dealt with depression/anxiety all my life. I’ve dealt with suicidal thoughts. There is nothing glamorous about it. This is just a fictional character study to explore his mind and emotions at the end of the game. If you are struggling, please reach out to anyone you trust. Or a stranger, if that works better. Share the burden. You don’t have to suffer alone. It can get better. I promise. I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t ❤️🫂

Thank you ❤️

And the “masked figure,” that was Jake from this story, The Ending You Deserve. Just a little Easter egg for anyone who read that 🤭❤️

[ashtonlc3]

Severitus/Sevitus Fic Rec

Thought I’d share my own personal fic list that I’ve complied over time featuring Snape and Harry developing some kind of father-son relationship, all the way through either bio-dad, adoption, guardian or mentorship. All of these fics are COMPLETE because after OME leaving me on the world’s biggest cliff hanger and losing the fic for many months because I’m an idiot, I have serious WIP trust issues. They’re also usually really long because I love angsty, slow-burn fics.

I started taking in-depth notes while I read through fics a while ago so that I would NEVER lose a favourite fic again (the title of one of my favs is in Latin, so I never remember what it’s called). And also because I have a terrible memory so remembering what happened in each fic is quite difficult for me. Assuming I know how to count there should be over 16 fics listed here.

I’ve also rated each fic out of 10 and added a couple of notes for each fic (I didn’t add any with a rating of 5 or lower cause these are meant to be recommendations not a reading log). I’ve put them in order of how much I liked them, 10 and 9s being my equivalent to an Outstanding, 8 and 7 an Exceeds Expectations and a 6 an Acceptable.

TW: As is usually the case with Severitus fics, ALL of these fics have some degree of child abuse in them, courtesy of the Dursleys (I mean it’s literally canon). The severity and type of abuse varies greatly across fics. Fics with highly graphic depictions of physical abuse will have an additional TW. (Also if I miss any TWs for fics feel free to let me know I’d be more than happy to add them).

< 70K

In Care Of By Fang’s Fawn 

Rating: 10/10 Word Count: 47K+

This fic is a MUST read for new and hardcore severitus fans alike. The characterisation is perfect, the plot is believable, the pacing is great, the writing quality is good and it's incredibly angsty.

TW graphic depictions of physical abuse

> 70K

O Mine Enemy By Kirby Lane

Rating: 10/10 Word Count: 373K+

You’ve probably already read this one because it is legendary in the Severitus genre and a staple for any fic list. In the event that you haven’t, you SHOULD read it ASAP. Starts summer of sixth year. 

TW addiction/substance abuse

Victus per Reproba Monumentum By firefly5151

Rating: 9/10  Word Count: 292K+ 

For a long time I didn’t read anything that had Sev as Harry’s bio dad, it felt implausible, OOC and just was not as good as the guardian/mentor trope. That is until I read this fic, and now the bio-dad trope is my favourite. This fic is the Snape of Severitus, there are a LOT of flaws but I love it anyway. The plot is a bit questionable, it has manipulativeDumbledore (which I don’t like in fics) and Ron and Hermione pretty much forget Harry exists. BUT the emotional journey is amazing, and really angsty. Starts during summer of 6th year.

The Subterfuge By Murai-Sakura

Rating: 9/10  Word Count: 304K+

This fic is on the newer side having been written in 2020. My first time reading this fic I had a few mixed feelings about it which made me reluctant to read it again despite really liking it. Reading it again for the second time I can’t understand what past Ash’s problem was because it was magnificent. Granted I remember it being darker than it actually is (it may have been due to me reading The Hunger Games in-between, who knows). I’m rambling, in short I think I liked this one a little more than A Year Like None Other. The plot is unique enough that the story doesn’t feel like your reading a rehash of every Severitus fic ever while still hitting the emotional points necessary for a satisfying fic. It’s definitely more mentor than father figure and is set during fifth year so watch out for Umbridge.

TW suicide attempt and graphic child abuse 

A Year Like None Other By aspeninthesunlight

Rating: 9/10  Word Count: 789K+

Another classic whose reputation speaks for its-self, written before HBP came out and is also insanely long. I’ve actually never read the sequals either because one was enough for me and it’s in Draco’s pov. It also has the added bonus of brother bonding between Draco and Harry. Set during 6th year. 

TW self harm and graphic torture

Perception is Everything By Kendra James

Rating: 8/10  Word Count: 165K+

This was one of the first few Severitus fics I ever read so it has a very special place in my heart despite the plot being a very standard Severitus setup. Set Christmas 6th year, Snape finds out about the Dursleys abuse when Harry gets sick over Christmas break.

You've forgotten who I am By CastlePheonix

Rating: 8/10  Word Count: 114K+

I’ve only read this one once so I’m taking past Ash’s word for it. Set during 5th year, a what if Snape actually hit Harry with the jar after the Pensieve incident. Harry gets temporary amnesia and spends some time in Spinner’s End with Snape. 

TW addiction/substance abuse

Whelp & Whelp II - The Wrath of Snape By jharad17

Rating: 7/10  Word Count: 75K+ & 80K+

The standard run down; the Dursleys are dicks, Sev finds out. This is pre-Hogwarts (7 years old) so you know Harry is going to be adorable and clingly. Vernon has Harry tied up in the yard like a dog.

Namesake Necklace By WiCeBa

Rating: 7/10  Word Count: 121K+

This fic is a little more recent I think. Set summer before the start of 5th year, Harry and Dudley are de-aged. This ones quite the adventure and Sirius is still alive so you know there’s gonna be a fight over Harry.

What I Must Ask You To Do By VeraRose19

Rating: 7/10  Word Count: 261K+

Set at the end of GOF and continues into 7th year. This story is not just a Severitus but also an exploration of the blossoming friendship and eventual  romance (the Sirius Black/Severus Snape is very minor and DOESN’T have any NSFW content, they don’t even kiss in the fic) between Severus and Sirius as they co-parent Harry together. The story is far fluffier than it is angsty and relies quite heavily on canon for plot whilst also taking out the adventure and death toll. It’s more a fluffy, canon, best case scenario than an angsty, slow-burn fic.

Emerald eyes By JadeSullivan

Rating: 7/10  Word Count: 120K+

I cannot remember this one at all so once again I’m taking past Ash’s word for it. This is set during 2nd year and does feature corporal punishment.

Prisoners By Whitetail

Rating: 7/10  Word Count: 119K+

Harry is de-aged to 4 and Sev has partial paralysis. So they stay at a little cottage by the sea. Hermione features quite heavily in this one, both her and Harry end up with Sev gaining guardianship of them.

To Recollect the Future By oliversnape

Rating: 7/10  Word Count: 71K+

When Harry is hit with the killing curse in DH Harry and Sev are sent back to first yeah. Harry and Sev pretty much spend the whole fic Horcrux hunting, its a fun bonding experience.

In plain sight & Close to the Chest By waitingondaisies

Rating: 7/10  Word Count: 93K+ & 37K+

This is always a fun one. Set during 6th year, Sev found out as a spy so Albus turns him into a 16 year old Gryffindor and gives him an embarrassing name. Seriously Albus, Alfonse “Eli” Hopkirk, really? 

Time Left Today By gzdacz

Rating: 7/10  Word Count: 84K+

Sev and Harry are on the run after Quirrell is killed by an 11 year old. The road trip is quite fun although I don’t really like the ending too much though.

The Trouble with Polyjuice By LilyEvansDouble 6/10

Rating: 6/10  Word Count: 120K+

2nd year. Features Snape as Harry’s biological father after the Polyjuice incident.

Summer of Bonding By Magica Draconia 6/10

Rating: 6/10  Word Count: 76K+

This one is set after PS as the Dursley never pick Harry up from Kings Cross so Harry stays with Snape. Snape collects horse figurines in this one and is very heavily featured in this story. So its a bit too niche for my liking but otherwise still a good read.

And that’s all I got. I’ll probably come back to this list (yeah cause I forgot to put in tags) and add more fics as I read them. (When I add new fics I’ll reblog this post with a change log so you don't need to read through the list again to figure out what’s been changed.) My TBR is usually just as long so ... to forever be continued.