#cart's word vomit

[cartoonpigeon]

destroya is such a trans song. to me

[noes-pillow]

EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING RIGHT FUCKING NOW AND WATCH THIS EDIT SO YOU CAN CRY WITH ME

@luvelynoe on tiktok, posted with permission

[woso-dreamzzz]

Allergies

Hardersson x Child!Reader

Jessie Fleming x Child!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: Jessie saves your life

You're riding around on Jessie's shoulders the day it happens.

You like Jessie a lot. She's super snuggly and warm and she always plays with you when she comes over. She's friends with Niamh and they both hang around with Zećira so you see them a lot.

After Zećira, Jessie's one of your favourite girls at Not-Wolfsburg. She likes to sit with you on the coach and you watch movies with her before she wraps you in blankets and naps.

Jessie's great and you love her a lot.

She's not as tall as all of the other girls but, together, you make a tall person so that's okay.

You're riding on her shoulders because Morsa's talking to Coach Emma and Momma's doing media. It's media day which means it's boring for you and Jessie's got a gap in her schedule so she's come over to where you're set up with girl-swan and girl-moose and now you're on her shoulders.

You're giggling and Jessie's pointing out what everybody's doing.

"There's Sam!" You say, pointing to where Sam's sitting with somebody and a plate of food.

Jessie carts you off towards her.

"Hi, Sam!" You chirp, reaching down to shake Sam's hand because sitting up so high on Jessie makes you feel all special and powerful.

Sam laughs.

She must have something on her hands because after she's pulled away, your skin feels all itchy and little red welts appear where she's touched you.

You scratch them as Jessie takes you off her shoulders.

"What's that?" You ask, pointing at Sam's paper plate.

"It's a kiwi," Sam says," Would you like to try it?"

"Never had a kiwi before," You say, thinking for a moment," Just a little bit please, Sam."

"You've got it."

She hands you a chunk and you pop it into your mouth.

You've got kiwi juice on your hand and it makes it go all red and itchy. It makes your throat go all itchy too.

"Don-Don't like it," You say. Your voice is all wheezy and choked up like your throat suddenly doesn't want to be open anymore. You try to cough but it doesn't work and tears appear in your eyes.

"J-Jessie!" You cry," Hurts!"

But your words barely make it out of your mouth and it's largely unintelligible.

Jessie and Sam are looking at you horrified as your face gets redder and redder and puffier and puffier.

You're panicking now and your tummy feels all bad, like you're about to throw up.

You think you do throw up. You're not too sure but you feel all woozy because your throat is all closed up and you can't breathe.

There's a clamour of voices around you and you drop like a bag of rocks.

Pernille watches it happen in slow motion. You get redder and redder and then you're down.

She leaves her interview without even making an excuse, sprinting towards you.

You've got vomit all over your top and your face is all swelled up and red. You're grasping at your throat, clawing at it so much that your little nails make deep red lines down your neck.

You're growing weaker though and you slump to the ground.

There are shrieks from everyone as you go down.

A crowd has formed, of players and media alike. Magda shoves through the crowd just as Jessie shoves her way out and Pernille kneels down to check your pulse.

It's hard to locate under all the swelling but it's there, weak and thready.

But it's there and that's all she can focus on.

"What happened?!" Magda demands, looking around wildly," What happened?!"

Pernille's desperately trying to find a way to help you.

You look terrible and your breathing is getting shallower and shallower. Someone (Pernille thinks Magda) gives her a napkin to mop up the vomit on your chin and she moves you onto your side so you don't choke.

Your eyes are swelled shut and you're making these terrible wheezing noises on every inhale.

"I don't know!" Sam is yelling," She ate some kiwi and completely swelled up! I didn't know she was allergic!"

"She's not allergic!" Magda snaps back before screaming out," Medic! Come on!"

Jessie fights her way through the crowd again and Pernille's watching in slow motion.

"Call an ambulance!" Jessie orders, more authoritative than Pernille's ever heard her. She rolls up your shorts and jams a big pen-like thing down into it.

The effects are almost instantaneous. Your face slowly begins to unswell and your breathing evens out. As you wake up, you immediately burst into tears, blubbering and whining out words that aren't even words.

"We still need to get her to the hospital," Jessie says, looking around wildly," It's my epipen. It's meant to be for adults. I don't know if kids have to have different ones."

Thoughts come rushing through Pernille's head at such a speed that she can't fully understand. She remains in this state even when the ambulance comes and everyone's loaded inside.

Media day has been cut short and Pernille knows that the rest of the team will be following in their cars.

"What...What did you mean, epipen?" Pernille manages to ask as she stands outside your hospital room after being kicked out so the doctors can work.

"Epipen," Jessi repeats," They're for allergies. It's like a shot of adrenaline or something."

"She's not allergic to anything," Magda says, speaking for the first time in a while. She's just staring at you through the window.

"My parents thought I wasn't allergic to anything until I went into anaphylaxis too," Jessie says quietly.

The doctor slips out of your room and shakes Magda and Pernille's hands.

"She's fine," Is the first thing he says, clearly very used to settling worried parents," Your friend did the right thing, giving her the epi. Usually, we'd see some bad effects with an adult dose on such a little girl but your daughter's allergies are severe enough that only an adult dose would have helped."

"And it's definitely allergies?" Magda asks.

"Definitely allergies," He confirms," You'll have to bring her back in a few weeks for proper allergy testing but you said it was a kiwi?"

"Yes," Jessie says," Kiwi."

"Then I'd keep her away from bananas and avocado too. They tend to be grouped together with allergies and latex too."

"But she's going to be okay?" Pernille says," She's going to be alright?"

"She's going to be just fine," The doctor assures her," Her reaction was pretty extreme so far as symptoms go but she's going to make a full recovery. I'm going to prescribe her some epipens for the future and all you need to do is make sure she keeps them on her at all times."

"Thank you."

They're all let into your room where you sit playing with the tube of your IV.

"Leave it alone," Magda says softly," How are you feeling?"

You make a face. "Sam's kiwi was a bad kiwi."

"I think all kiwis are bad for you, princesse," Magda says with a little laugh as she brushes her hand over your hair.

"Kiwis are blergh!" You declare sticking your tongue out. You turn to look at Momma. "When can we go home? Jessie said that we could play zoo."

"I think they want to keep you a few more hours," Momma replies," And then we can go home."

You sigh like this is a big inconvenience to you. "But then Jessie has to go home too," You say," And she said that she'd play zoo with me."

"We can play zoo here," Jessie says as she comes in," Sam and Erin dropped off your backpack. Have you go any zoo animals in here?"

You perk up. "I do! I do! Morsa, Momma, can we play zoo here?"

Magda smiles. "You can play zoo here but no jumping around. I want you to sit nice and pretty in your bed. And no playing with your IV!"

You sigh. "Fine."

[ja3yun]

The Sun That Always Burns | S.JY Finale

sim jaeyun x afab!reader

warnings: smut (mdni), oral (f rec.), pussy slapping, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, pet names, dirty talk, i think thats the main stuff, ynjake are so fucking cute so, fluff, reconnection.

wc: 8.7k

synopsis: you and jake's high school relationship blossomed into a romance filled with hope and promise. However, as time went on, jake's long-term expectations began to weigh heavily on you, who struggled to meet them. your paths eventually lead you in separate directions, each experiencing different aspects of life and ultimately moving on from your past love. unexpectedly, fate intervened and you both reunite after years apart. the reunion allows you to rediscover your feelings for each other but also forces you to navigate the complexities of your past and present.

a/n: it's officially over :( i just want to say thank you to everyone who read the series, left comments, and likes! i hope the ending was what you wanted it to be. see you for the sunghoon series!

masterlist

Irony is a funny thing. So is deja vu. As you sit on a train heading home you can’t help but take in your surroundings and laugh at how you have found yourself running away from Jaeyun once again. You find it harder to convince yourself this is the right choice this time, nonetheless. Eunseo is right, you can’t take Jaeyun from Yeoreum. It’s selfish for you to walk in, raise hell, and get your happily ever after, leaving a trail of destruction behind you. You have already caused so much pain and confusion. 

Parts of you know it isn’t your fault, you didn’t know he was going to be there getting married. You did, however, have the opportunity to come clean, to disappear into the wind once again and let them live their happy life, yet you didn’t. Why? 

Selfishness? Ignorance? Love.

It was all for love. You and Jaeyun’s souls are bound by a connection greater than anyone can fathom and as soon as they found their way back to one another you couldn’t stop them from stitching back together, from loving each other. That’s why it feels like dying as you let him go. Just like the first time.

Looking out the train window you see the outskirts of the city you once lived in. It had been a long time since you stepped foot back home and to say you were nervous would be a massive understatement. Pieces of you are scattered around the city, memories of you from a lifetime before. Recollections of your past started to fade the more you were in Pyeongchang, largely due to the fact that you didn’t speak a word of your past to anyone for 4 years. 

Your mind drifts to your mum and dad. Mr. Sim said they had a hard time and that upsets you. In a way, you wish you could go back in time and just tell them not to tell Jaeyun where you were so you could keep your relationship with your parents alight. You have a lot of regrets about that day. 

Stepping off the train you smell the same caramelised nuts from when you were a teenager.

__

When you walked up to the Son family house, it was big, like a mansion. Nothing like your childhood home you were briskly walking up to right now. Carting your bag up the driveway your mouth goes moist, like you’re going to vomit any minute. If you were being honest with yourself you would admit that the anxiety you’re feeling seeing your parents again was overwhelming. If you didn’t know your body you would genuinely believe you might die. 

Tentatively, you raise your hand to the bell, waiting to muster up the courage to press the button. “It’s just your parents, they won’t hate you.” Your voice is barely above a whisper as you convince yourself to push the button.

The ding-dong from the doorbell shoots fear straight through your chest. What if they slam the door in your face? What if they shout and scream at you? You feel like a kid again who is terrified of their parents scolding them for doing something naughty. Guess it doesn’t matter what age you are, 13 or 23, you’ll always be scared of your mum and dad.

A gust of wind hits your face as the door swings open. Your mum. Your beautiful mum. She was right in front of you and suddenly your throat closed and your tear ducts filled.

“Y-Y/N? Sweetheart?” Her mouth hangs open as she whispers out your name, scared that if she says it too loud you’ll vanish from her. You don’t move and neither does she. 

During this time you look at how she’s aged so gracefully, crow's feet that were slight are now deeper, her forehead is adorned with new wrinkles, and her laugh lines are starting to appear. Your mum didn’t just miss you growing up, you missed her growing up too.

The wind blows around you and it pulls you both out of your trance.

“Hi, mum.” You wave nervously, your voice cracking, “How ha-”

Pulling you into her she hugs you tight, her arms squeezing around your neck as she takes in your scent. She can’t believe her baby is right in front of her. There is an astronomical amount of comfort in her hug, but she might squeeze you to death if she grips on any longer. “Mum…too tight.” Laughing slightly as you shed a tear.

“Sorry, sorry, I just can’t,” Her eyes drag over you and suddenly that sweet and soft look turns harsh and you know exactly what is coming, “Where have you been, young lady? Do you know how many times I called the police to look for you? How much time I spent worrying? My hair has turned grey because of you!” 

You laugh and hug her again, “I missed you too, mum.” Her tense body from the scolding she gave you flutters away, this hug holding every apology and forgiveness in it.

Your dad walks up to the door and he sighs relief. He never did have much to say but as he hugs both his daughter and wife, he says enough. 

“Welcome home, honey.”

___

After what felt like hours of explaining everything to your mum and dad, you finally felt the exhaustion hit you. It was hard to blabber out everything that had happened in the past week never mind the past 4 years. When you spoke about Jaeyun they also told you about how it affected him. 

He was a mess according to them. Jaeyun was never home, looking around every motel, all your friends' houses, and hospitals, he even went to every train station with your picture begging people to tell him if they had seen you. It shattered your heart to know that you did that to him. He said he went searching but somehow hearing it in detail from your parents made it worse, like you were there living it with him. 

Yet, here you are, doing it again to him. You can’t even find peace in the fact that at least he has a life to continue with because deep routed within you, you selfishly need it to be you that he’s with. 

As you drag yourself up to your childhood bedroom you feel the depression you felt that clouded you 4 years ago. It’s heavy and you can’t even be bothered to lift your feet to the next step. Talking about it all just puts everything into a clear and concise perspective.

You can’t have him. 

Opening the door you are hit with a massive wave of nostalgia. Everything was exactly in the same place; your plushies, the clothes you threw out of your wardrobe as you packed, and the posters of Monsta X and Seventeen are plastered along the walls. Suddenly you’re 19 again.

You place your bag down on your desk chair and sigh, beginning to tidy up your surroundings. Now you’re older you understand why your mum was always infuriated with the mess of your room and how she cleaned it for you. You’ll thank her properly for all those times tomorrow.

Walking to the pile of clothes you had on the floor you trifle through them and laugh, your fashion sure hasn’t changed. You haven’t really changed all that much if you think about it. One piece of clothing in your peripheral vision catches your eye. A simple black stretch t-shirt with a Lacoste logo embroidered on the right side. It was his t-shirt. 

Your fingers instinctively reach for it, picking it up gently and bringing it to your nose. Somehow it still smells like him, like the him you had the pleasure of calling yours. Gripping it tight you bury your face into it, soaking his essence up. A memory of the last time you remember him wearing it projects in your head. 

He was coming back from football practice and stopped at your house to see you. You think about how pretty he looked that day with his baseball cap put on backward, a silver chain peeking from under this very t-shirt you’re holding. How could someone be so effortlessly beautiful? 

“Baby?” He said waltzing into your room, still high from a successful practice. You were lying on top of your bed with earphones in.

“Jaeyun!” You beamed and sat up a little as you took an earphone out, “thought you were going to Heeseung’s after practice?” 

“Nah, wasn’t feeling it. I’ve used up my social battery for today I think.” He takes the earphone from you and places it in his ear. 

Like muscle memory, you opened your legs and he lay between them, his head placed on your tummy, arms hugging around you so his palms are placed against your back. 

“Jaeyun, if your social battery is drained, why are you here?” You look down and remove his cap, raking your hand through his hair. His puppy eyes meet yours as he looks up, his chin poking your stomach.

“Babe you know you don’t count,” he plants a kiss on your stomach, “I can never get tired of you.”

Heartache is the only feeling you have right now. Everything was so simple back then and you had to ruin it. How many chances did you miss to lay with him like that because you were stupid enough to leave him? 

All the conversations from the last few days swirl in your mind.

‘I would have made long distance work.’ 

‘Baby, I love you’

‘They don’t want him to marry her.’

‘You’ll make the right choice’

’If those reasons don’t matter anymore, you should do what you think is best.’

‘He would leave my sister for you’

It was all too much and you only had yourself to blame. You can’t shake this heaviness in your chest, the only peace you’re finding is in the comfort of his old t-shirt. 

Slipping out of your clothes you forget about cleaning your room, too sad to focus. If you can’t even clear up your thoughts what chance do you have cleaning this mess up? You strip down to your panties before putting on his t-shirt. It fits the way it used to, it’s slightly baggy and ends just on the very top of your thighs. Something about your body being engulfed in something that’s his makes you tranquil. 

You pull your covers back and slink into bed, the sensation strangely foreign despite the years you slept here. As you get comfortable, Jaeyun’s t-shirt wafts, and it’s like he’s in bed with you.

You cry yourself to sleep and dream of a better reality. One with you in his arms. One where you are his.

___

A loud thump at the door jolts you from your slumber. Someone is pounding at the front door and the sudden rude wake-up makes your heart match the rapid bangs. 

Creeping downstairs to not make a sound, your eyes are scanning the lower ground floor for any sign of your parents, fuck, any sign of life at this point. Your dad always said not to answer the door if they ‘chap it like a copper’ so you’re very apprehensive. 

“Dad?” You whisper shout and another couple of hard knocks scare you again. This is it. You’re going to die. It’s karma for all your mistakes. 

It seems you’re the only one home and you stomp your feet like a bratty child trying to build the courage to open the door. “If I die tell Jooheon I loved him.” You say to no one in particular, just anyone that will head your plea.

Unlocking the door you slowly open it and have your eyes tight shut, ready for the worst. 

“Y/N…” 

That voice. His voice. 

You pry one of your eyes open to see if your ears are deceiving you. They aren’t.

“Jaeyun? W-what are you doing here?” You look around behind him in bewilderment and then back into your house searching for the time. “You’re getting married in like-” Whipping your head around you don’t get to finish your sentence.

“I’m not marrying her.”

Shock pulses through your veins. Guilt pours into your heart. This is your fault. 

Your water line was filling with tears at the thought of you ruining his new relationship, ruining his new life all because you were an idiot. You stayed too long, let yourselves get attached again. 

A scoff of disbelief leaves your mouth and you shake your head. “You can’t be serious?”

Looking into his eyes was the worst thing you could have done. He’s tired and drained, he’s looking at you like you hold the universe. Waves of all emotions crash onto you at once and you try to fight back the tears. 

“I’m so serious, baby.” He steps forward and you step back, “No, no, no, Y/N, don’t run from this. Did you think I wouldn’t come chasing after you this time? I love you, Y/N. I can’t live without you, not again.” 

Jaeyun spent the whole night driving, his first stop was at your flat in Pyeongchang. He begged Eunseo for the address and after a hard slap to his face, she gave him it. Jaeyun asked as a shot in the dark, expecting no result, but Eunseo saw the way he was frantically running around the house looking for you. She couldn’t see three broken hearts from this situation. When you weren’t at your flat there was only one place you would be. Here.

You shake your head full-on crying now and trying to get away from him but he yanks you back until your chest is pressed against his. His lips are dangerously close to your chapped ones. Sucking in your bottom lip you sob and look down, “Tell me you want us. Tell me you felt everything I felt this week.”

His words aren’t registering in your head. All you are thinking about is how this is exactly the situation you wanted to avoid back those years ago, Jaeyun giving up everything he has worked hard for, just for you. “You can’t do that. You can’t leave her.”

“If it meant I would have you back I would do anything. I’d break anyone’s heart to be able to hold yours again.” Jaeyun’s eyes are holding tears as his heart beats loudly in his chest and you feel it softly. Only soulmates can notice minute things like that. His words echo in your head and you sob loudly, covering your mouth. “I’ll ask you again, tell me you want this, us.” He’s begging for permission to love you again, to just be yours again.

Jaeyun’s feelings for you never left. When he went to Busan and attended Apollo College he was a shell of a person with only two emotions inside him longing and love, both just for you. 

“You started your new life for a reason, you gotta live it.” Despite your words trying to separate you both you find yourself practically melting into him, becoming one again. 

“Baby, please,” He kisses your forehead and feels you exhale in contentment at his lips laid upon you once again, “I might be living this life but if I don’t have you I’ll spend all of it failing to get over you, just like I have been.” Lips graze from your temple to your cheek, etching their way to your lips, brushing ever so slightly. “What you asked that night at the club, you meant it.”

Confusion sparks on your face, “huh?”

“When you asked me not to marry Yeoreum.”

Shock. 

You’re in complete shock. You didn’t say that, did you? There is no way did. Jaeyun sees the confusion written across your face. You really don’t remember. 

“I saw it in your eyes, in the way you kissed me, touched me. Y/N, it’s fate that you turned up.” Jaeyun’s lips are touching yours as he speaks, patiently waiting for you to give him the green light to devour you in a kiss. But you don’t.

There is so much to lose. Friendships, families, opportunities. Eunseo meant so much to you, if you take Jaeyun away from her sister you’ll lose her. But you’ll lose Jaeyun if you don’t take this chance. You’d be so selfish to say yes to him, to break Eunseo’s heart. To break Yeoreum’s heart. “What about Yeoreum? What about her?”

“I told her everything,” His big hand is holding the right side of your face now, “about us, about how I felt, that I think deep down we both knew we didn’t want this wedding. I wasn’t over you and Yeoreum wasn’t able to live with a husband that couldn’t be 100% hers. And she shouldn’t have to.”

“But you love her.” That’s what you had always thought.

“I loved that she was a distraction from you. When she and I met I was just hooking up with her,” There is pain on your face as he says those words and he rubs the apple of your cheek, “I know, I’m sorry baby, but you gotta hear me out.” He continues, “It was casual, she was good to me, patient. But no one was ever going to shine a light compared to you. One day she was just…my girlfriend.”

You shut your eyes. Honestly, you didn’t want to hear any of this. Of course, you knew she got to have him and touch him the way you used to, but when someone says it so brashly it makes your skin crawl. Especially when it was coming from his lips.

“I told her I wasn’t over you but she said she could help. After that…” Jaeyun continues to thumb your cheek, hoping it provides some comfort and reassurance. “I thought I fell in love with her. Really I did. I even asked her to marry me but I was just in love with the fact that she made me forget you, even for like a millisecond.” He rubs his nose with yours, sighing and closing his eyes, “Believe me, Princess, when I tell you I thought about you every single fucking minute of the day.” 

You did believe him because you did the exact same thing. Even in your dreams, he was always there. 

“Then when I turned around and saw you at the party on Tuesday,” He bites his lip and opens his eyes, almost rolling them at the thought of you in that dress, “Nothing was distracting me. I kissed her and suddenly all I could think of was you again. Your lips, how you made me feel. Fuck, Y/N, you’re the only one that ever let me just be me. How could I truly love someone that I can’t even be myself around.” 

The sobs in your chest rumble as you hold them in but it’s getting hard to breathe. “Shh, baby, relax.” He can feel you struggle for air and he wraps you tight in a hug, “Princess, I love you.”

As he feels your arms wrap around him and hears you crying, he guides you into the house and kicks the door shut to give you some privacy.

Crying hard into his chest he simply soothes you, gently caressing your back and kissing your hair. It’s all too much for you to process. 

One side of you feels guilty, he was happy with Yeoreum before you showed up. The wedding that was meant to take place today is canceled because of you.

The other side of you feels like it’s floating, finally free of a burden. You can love Jaeyun with all your heart because you have the opportunity to be his.

“Princess, look at me.” Jaeyun’s pointer finger lifts your chin, both your eyes meeting, glazed in water. “I’ve already called off the wedding, baby. Either you have me or you don’t. The decision is yours and I’ll respect it.” He smiles sadly, “but if you say no then I’m single and honestly I can’t bear to download a dating app. I refuse.” Jaeyun jokes to lighten the mood and you laugh loudly, masked in a sob. 

He’s right, there’s nothing really stopping you from being together now. You’re basically graduated, and so is he. He has a job in Busan which is like media hub central so you could easily find work. There is no reason to torture your souls anymore.

“Okay.”

“Huh?” Jaeyun’s eyes widen and dart over every detail on your face, waiting to hear what he wants to.

“I love you so much, Jaeyun.” It’s your turn to reach your hand to his cheek, your palm only covering a fraction of what he covers on yours. “I want to be yours. Forever.”

A second. It took one whole second before Jaeyun’s lips were devouring yours, those beautiful full pink lips pressed hard against your own. Not one thought left in any of your heads other than each other. 

You’re both desperate, clashing with one another. Jaeyun dips down and his hands slide down your ass to your thighs, picking you up so you are sitting on his hands, legs enfold around his waist. Not once did you stop kissing him. 

He carries you up the stairs, his feet moving instinctively and quickly to your bedroom like it was just yesterday. Jaeyun knew the scope of your house in every light and darkness with how many times he snuck in to fuck you late at night or had dinner with your family.

When he reaches the top step he bounces you up so you’re more secure on his waist but as your core presses down on his hardening cock he groans. He missed the way you felt and even this teaser was almost sending him over the edge, tempting him to just take you in the hallway.

Kissing Jaeyun felt like sunflowers blossoming in your stomach and out of your mouth, pouring sweetness and love into every smooch, every tongue flick. He rushes into your bedroom and almost falls over the mess. Fuck, you really should have cleaned your room.

Jaeyun’s hands grip you tighter to stop you from falling, “Sorry, Princess.” He places you down gently and goes right back to kissing you, his hands roaming the soft skin under your t-shirt. 

That’s when he notices what you’re wearing. His t-shirt. One he thought he lost when packing to leave for Busnan, but it was with you. Just like his heart. “I thought I lost this.” There’s a double connotation to his words. Yes, it was about the t-shirt, but it was also about you and your love. You look down and sheepishly grin.

“I found it when I came back here.” You say while his hands take the bottom of the t-shirt and rub it.

A smirk plastered on his face, “Damn,” he tuts, “Here I was having thoughts about you touching yourself wearing it while we weren’t together.” 

Oh, Jaeyun hasn’t changed one bit. Still horny, still obsessed with you. Playfully you roll your eyes. “Bold of you to assume I didn’t have another t-shirt of yours.” 

If a grown man could purr, he would have. Closing his eyes, he had to compose himself for a moment before he busted a nut right there and then. You use the moment to massage your hands up his torso and on his chest, rubbing your thumbs over his nipples. The purr turns into a whine as he grabs you tightly on your waist. “Fucking love you so much, Y/N.”

Jaeyun’s lips are back on yours with force as he pushes you onto the bed, his weight hovering over you. The heat emanating from both your bodies feels like the sun has been turned up by 100, his touches light up your skin, and his lips leave sunburnt kisses all over your neck. The way he’s desperately clutching your skin proves to you how much he missed you.

“I wanna fuck you in this t-shirt but shit, I gotta see all of you, baby.” Jaeyun pants in your ear. He’s like a dog on heat, just aching to have you, to consume every inch of you. His tongue runs down your neck until he reaches your collarbone but you need more than this.

While he’s kissing and biting the base of your neck he’s gripping at the t-shirt that’s covering his second favourite part of you and lifting it to uncover your tits. Jaeyun peels himself away from you for a second to admire your figure. God how he has missed your body - the softness of your skin, the way each of your boobs fall slightly to the side when you’re on your back like this, and how your nipples stand proudly. It’s mouth-watering.

“Sit up a bit for me, Princess,” Jaeyun says as he takes off your t-shirt and that’s when he sees the necklace again. He noticed you wearing it the whole week and it made him feel proud, like part of you always belonged to him. His pointer finger holds the chain away from your neck and his smile is beaming. “You never took it off? Like ever?”

“No. I couldn’t” You confess, looking down at it, the sun symbol shining as brightly as the first night he gave it to you. Jaeyun’s smile widened further if that was even possible. Something about you always being branded by him made him feel feral. You were always his and it made him feel guilty because literally yesterday he was getting prepared for his wedding to someone who wasn’t you.

You see his face change to a look you’ve not seen before, “Hey,” Your hand reaches for his face, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry. For ever being with someone else.” Your heart shatters. It’s not his fault, none of it is.

“Jaeyun you never have to apologise for trying to move on. I left you without a word, it’s only natural you would move on.”

“But I didn’t. I couldn’t move on.” His hands are massaging your tits as he speaks and it’s sending your brain into a frenzy. It’s been so long since he touched you so intimately yet so commonly. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to put into words the love I have for you.”

As his hands knead your breasts he feels your heart skip and it entices him to lean down and kiss you softly. The act between the two of you right now is so pure and raw. It’s meant to be. 

You kiss him back gently, your tongue slipping into his mouth. The taste of him is so delicious you can’t help but moan and your hands rake through his thick hair. Instinctively, your back arches and pushes into him, the motion causing your tits to mold further into his hands, and the flesh spills between his fingers. 

Jaeyun keeps one hand on your left tit while the other slips down past your waist, the pads of his fingers etching hearts into your skin just like that day in the car. The feeling of his gentle touch is making your stomach do cartwheels and your core aching to be touched. You rub your thighs together to create some friction that will help ease the neediness. He notices you wriggling and he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“Am I not going fast enough for you, Princess?” He smirks, his middle finger dips into your pants just enough to sit in the waistband. You’re throwing your head back, preparing yourself for him to touch you where you need him but instead all his motions stop, causing you to open your eyes and go back to looking at him.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“You seem to be pleasing yourself all on your own, baby,” Jaeyun’s eyes fall down to look at your legs rubbing together like they’re two sticks and you’re in the woods trying to start a fire, “Don’t want to interrupt you.” 

Oh, he is evil. It’s been 4 years since his hands have been on you and he still has the reserve within him to tease you. 

Jaeyun sits back and grabs your hand, placing it on his wrist. “Use it.”

“Use what?” You’re genuinely confused.

“My hand. Use it how you want. Tell me what you want since you seem to be so desperate and clearly I’m not doing it right.” His tone is unbothered but mocking. There’s a glint in his eye that’s almost challenging you. He’s so fucking hot.

Taking a harsher grip on his wrist, you open your legs and push his hand to cup your heat. He never let you take charge before so you’re apprehensive but you need to take your pennies before they disappear. 

His hand stays there doing nothing and you look at him expectantly. Why isn’t he doing anything? 

Putting your hand to ghost over his you push it down, his palm now pressed hard against your vagina yet he still doesn’t move. His head shakes as he pouts, “That all you want? Come on baby, I thought you were desperate. Hmm?” Somehow his voice is an octave lower and it elicits your pussy to drip through your pants and onto his palm. When Jaeyun feels it he smirks, licking his bottom lip. “Your bodies telling me everything, but you gotta use your words, Princess.” 

You’re feeling a little defiant, he’s too cocky in this situation and you want to take him down a peg or two. So you press the bottom of his palm to your clit and start to grind on it.

When Jaeyun carried you up the stairs not even 30 minutes ago you thought the sex would be sweet, full of confessions and whispered promises to never leave each other again considering the emotional rollercoaster you both went on this week. But you should have known better, that was never his style. 

The sensation of his rigid palm against your nub was sensational and you were gasping when it rubbed you a certain way. You could get off just by doing this but you needed more. More of him.

Jaeyun can see your internal conflict of whether or not to tell him what you want. He leans down, his breath tickling your ear as he speaks, “Princess,” he nips at your lobe, “give in?”

“N-no.” You’re trying to focus on the pleasure you’re feeling but your entrance is clenching around nothing like it’s talking to you and telling you it needs to be filled by something. Anything at all. Jaeyun. 

He tuts and sighs heavily, pulling back and watching you grind on his hand. “Since when didn’t you listen to me?” His middle finger suddenly rubs in between your folds, ghosting over your hole and you could cry with happiness but he stops as soon as he starts, “Want more of that?”

Nodding quickly you stare at him desperately, your hips never stopping the action that’s giving you satisfaction. “Tell me.” 

It was almost like he was asking you to beg him. 

And that is exactly what you do.

“Fuck, please Jaeyun, I need your fingers inside me.”

“There’s my good girl.” He kisses your temple and his once limp hand now gains its strength as it takes over. Finally.

Jaeyun doesn’t know how he’s restrained himself this long. If he wasn’t so in love with the way you act when he teases you he probably would have fucked you and made you cum 3 times already. But it’s the first time in so long since he’s had you like this, he was going to make sure he gave you everything he had. Showed you just how much he missed you.

After pulling your underwear down, two fingers breach your entrance and you throw yourself back onto the bed, gasping as you finally feel some sort of release. He thrusts them in slowly, gliding them in and out as he stretches you out in a way only he knows how. 

Right now Jaeyun didn’t want to think about how you’ve probably been touched by someone else but god does he love to have his ego boosted, so he asks the question, “You’re so tight, baby. All those other guys not fuck you right?”

You can’t believe he’s bringing this up right now. Of course he would surmise that you probably had sex. It has been 4 years and you weren’t going to go celibate your whole life. But to ask it while his fingers are fucking you open, curling into you like he was gesturing for your orgasm to come closer? He sure did pick his times. You know what he’s looking for, what he is looking the hear.

“No,” your voice was quiet, almost lost amongst the wet noises your pussy was making as Jaeyun picks up the pace, “No one fucked me like you do.”

“Because I’m the only one that can fuck you good. Isn’t that right?” His fingers start to scissor you open further causing you to lift your hips and bury the back of your head into the mattress. Jaeyun’s free hand lays flat across your lower abdomen and pushes your hips back down, the pressure only adding to your gratification. 

He was right though, not one other person ever fucked you as good as him. The way he would listen to your body was otherworldly, always giving you exactly what you craved. All those boys from college just looking for a quick fuck didn’t care about you or if you came. Not like Jaeyun who thought if he made you cum only twice it was a weak night.

“I only want you.” You confess his heart could flutter straight from his chest. Jaeyun had missed the way you would just casually say the prettiest things, especially when you were so fucked out like this. He smiles widely and kisses your tummy.

“And I only need you,” he replies, his lips still lingering under your navel. 

His thumb rubs your clit and you’re seeing stars, a coil erupting in your stomach. Jaeyun feels you cumming and goes harder with his fingers, thrusting them up at a rapid pace just the way you liked and putting pressure on your sensitive bud. “That’s it, Princess.” He talks you through it but you’re too far gone to hear a word he says, “So fucking beautiful cumming on my fingers like this. Such a good girl for me. I love you so much.” He says these cute but filthy words in between kisses he’s planting on your forehead. 

As you come down from your high you don’t get a chance to breathe as you feel your legs being pinned open and Jaeyun’s tongue is lapping up your cum. “J-Jaeyun give me a…give me a minute.” But he doesn’t let up, lost in your essence, drinking your cum like it’s the sweetest thing since honey. 

Your taste has been missed. Jaeyun almost forgot how addicting your pussy is. Messily he starts to lick and suck at your overstimulated nub, he’s eating you like a man starved and you can’t help but be brought close to release once again. 

His tongue dips into you, curling as he slurps up every trace of your last orgasm. Your fingers find his hair to grip on while you moan profanities into the warm air.

“Tug on it, Princess,” Jaeyun instructed and you did just that. Yanking his hair emanated a low groan from the boy between your legs, his hips humping the mattress to try and relieve the pressure in his trousers. If he didn’t make you cum again soon he would spill right into his boxers. That situation only happened once when it was his birthday and you wore those cute frilly pants that he loved. You let him eat you out with them still on, the fabric rubbing against his nose, and when you came all over his face he came in his boxers. 

Jaeyun’s eyes roll to the back of his head at the memory, only spurring him on to devour you even more in this moment. He feels your walls contracting around his tongue so he pulls out and puts his mouth to work back on your clit.

“S-shit, Jaeyun,” The grip you have on his hair tightens, “I’m gonna cum again.”

The smirk on his face didn’t match the butterflies in his chest. His cocky exterior was a mask for how much he was anticipating your release on his face, how he was so giddy with excitement that he got to soak you up, something he thought would never happen again.

“Let go, love. Give it to me.” He wanted to sound confident but he practically whined it, begging for your nectar. He was hungry for it, for you.

His words have you cumming again and the sound that erupts from your mouth has Jaeyun growling into your pussy. He was the one making you cry out in pleasure like that and he was confident no one else ever had. 

Your chest is heaving, pants echo in the room but Jaeyun is still between your legs, cleaning every last drop from you. 

“Jaeyun, please…” You go to shut your thighs but you can’t, his hands forcing them to stay open. He wasn’t done with you but you don’t know how much more you can take. “Baby, I’ve only got one more in me, max.” It’s embarrassing to admit it but you haven’t cum like this in so long, and you wanted to cum on his dick at least once today. 

His big eyes twinkle as he peaks his head up. “What?” He looked so cute you contemplate if you could really cum 2 more times.

Playing with his luscious now slightly damp hair you smile at him, “I can push for one more but I want it to be on your cock.” Almost like your words pulled him out of his trance he smiled, placing one last kiss on your clit before sitting up. 

“Remember you used to be able to cum like 6 times in one night?”

“Yes,” You roll your eyes and smile, “but that was when you had me trained. I’ve not cum more than once in, oh I don’t know, 4 years.” 

The arrogance radiating off him was so sexy. Jaeyun’s ego was the size of a hot air balloon as you disclose the information that he is in fact the only man who can make you feel good like this. 

His hand pets your pussy as he leans down again, “Don’t worry, I’ll train you back up in no time.” 

“Um, Jaeyun?” 

“Yeah?” His eyes meet yours waiting for you to continue.

“Did you just speak to my vagina?” 

There’s a silence and then laughter from both of you. Now that Jaeyun hears you acknowledge his actions out loud he realises how strange it must have looked. He brings his hand to scratch the back of his neck as his laugh gets louder.

“Yes?” He chuckles and places his hands on his hips in embarrassment, “Sorry.”

“Is that a new thing you picked up? Talking to genitals?” You shuffle up so you’re sitting straight, legs spread as wide as the smile on your face.

Jaeyun shrugs, “Sometimes it’s a very stimulating conversation.”

Your eyebrows raise, “Oh really? And what is my pussy saying to you now?”

Crawling towards you he smirks and his puppy-like eyes are blown out with love and lust, “It’s telling me that it needs to be fucked so good it’ll start barking.” You laugh again. He’s so silly and stupid. He’s your Jaeyun.

Once you both stop laughing you place your hand on his face, stroking your thumb on the squishy part of his cheeks. You both look at each other and instantly understand one another. The apologies, the pining, the need, the love. You could almost cry right there and then as his eyes whisper a soulful ‘I love you’, you can’t ever imagine living without him again.

“I love you so much, you know that right? You know I never stopped?” The hand that was on his face now wipes his mouth clean of your cum. Jaeyun wouldn’t have cared if your juices stayed there forever, at least he could taste you all the time.

“I know, Princess. I love you more than the moon and the stars.” Jaeyun’s bottom lip juts out and you take the opportunity to kiss it, sucking it a little and tasting yourself on him. 

Sitting on his knees he deepens the kiss, leaving you breathless. Your hands unbutton his trousers clumsily and he smiles into the kiss. “Want a hand?”

“Shut the fuck up,” You laugh, “I’m distracted.” Jaeyun beams and nuzzles your nose.

Standing up, Jaeyun pulls down his trousers and goes to follow it with his boxers but he swiftly turns around and heads for your drawer, looking to locate a condom. He pulls out the shiny blue packet and examines it, “Baby?” He twirls to you, the packet in between his middle and pointer finger, “You think these have an expiration date?” 

You watch him look thoroughly at the packet. If he didn’t look so cute right now you would be wondering how he can be so bright but so dumb at the same time. “Jaeyun, baby, did you not take sex ed?”

“Huh?” He’s puzzled.

“They lose effect over time? 3-5 years max? Ring any bells?” You’re trying to hold in a laugh as his eyebrows furrow together.

“When did we learn that?” He’s racking his brain for any recollection of the class, then i clicks his fingers and point to you, “Ah, Mrs. Lee. That was the class I made those little boat hats in.”

He was so proud of himself, every time he had the class he timed how many he could make within the hour.

“I think I still have the pink one you made me in here somewhere,” You scour the room to see if it was easily available. “Anyway, you don’t need it.”

“The boat hat?”

“No-” Oh my days he is unbelievable you think to yourself “No the condom you idiot!” You’re shaking your head in disbelief. He is truly so stupid. “You don’t have to use one, unless you want to, of course.” You let him decide what to do. However, you’re patience is wearing thin and you’re getting chilly due to you sitting on the bed naked.  

“Seriously?” Jaeyun never thought he would get to feel your raw pussy ever again. That one time you let him fuck you without a condom was the best thing he ever experienced. With Yeoreum he always wore a condom despite her protests most times. He just couldn’t risk it, being a dad so soon wasn’t worth it regardless of how good it would feel. That and he only wanted to have sex raw with you, no one else. “Are you on the pill?”

“I got a coil put in last year.” You shudder at the memory and pain. It was easily in the top 5 most uncomfortable moments you went through, but right now you’re glad you got it.

“Did you fuck guys without a condom?” His voice is hurt and his arms drop to his side, face frowning. Jaeyun didn’t want anyone else’s cock feeling your walls the way he did. It was his pleasure to have, not anyone else

You quickly shake your head sit up more alert than before, hands flying to your chest as if to swear on your heart. “Oh god no, baby. My periods got like, really really bad. I got the IUD because they said it would help.” How could he think that? You couldn’t do that to him.

Seeing him physically relax eases your own mind. “Okay, good. I was worried there for a second.”

“You never fucked Yeoreum without one?” Her name leaving your lips leaves a bitter feeling in your mouth and his ears. He mumbles a ‘no of course not' and throws the probably expired condom back into the drawer. 

Jaeyun walks towards you with a small smile on his face, relief evident. Now he can make love to you with full confidence that he is, and will be, the only man to ever truly feel you. He steps out of his boxers and you’re almost salivating at the sight, drool threatening to drip down your chin. You’ve missed it so much.

You reach your hand out but he slaps it away lightly. Protesting with a soft ‘hey’ you go to touch him again but it’s the same result.

“Princess, I love that you wanna gag around my cock but I need to be inside you, like, right now.” Your walls throb at his words. His effect on you and your body needs to be studied one of these days.

Before you know it, he’s pushing you to lay on your back, kissing all over your face and neck, each kiss meaning more than the last.

“You’re hearts beating,” You say quietly as he sucks on the sweet spot just under your ear.

“Yeah baby, kinda how I stay alive,” Feeling his smile on your neck as his tongue licks you gets you even wetter than before, if that was possible, “I didn’t miraculously turn into Edward Cullen.” 

“A girl can dream,” You joke. A slap across your pussy makes you yelp and open your eyes wide. “What was that for?”

Shrugging, Jaeyun smirks, “For thinking about another guy.”

“You brought him u-”

Slap.

The stinging on your pussy brings you to a halt. “Stop that!” 

Slap

You can’t deny how much it’s turning you on, the groan that slips from your lips plasters a smirk on Jaeyun’s face. “Be a good girl, yeah?” His hand goes back to your pussy to soothe the nipping.

Having sex like this again was invigorating for him, he missed this so much. He missed you. 

Replacing his hand with his dick he starts to collect your wettness on the tip of his cock. He looks into your eyes for permission to go and as soon as you nod he slips the head of his cock in. “Fuck.” 

The pace is slow as he takes in the feeling of your cunt hugging him so tight, fitting him like a glove. When he pulls back, the tip snags on your hole and he repeats this until your begging him for more. “Babe please, faster.” 

He speeds up, his hips driving into you as he bottoms out each time he lunges forward, his head pecking kisses to your cervix. He’s so deep in you, that the unfamiliar familiar feeling begins to overwhelm you. Jaeyun’s pubic bone is lightly hitting your overstimulated clit and it’s making you thrash under him. “Jae-Jaeyun please,” 

“What is it, baby?” The soft-spoken tone of his words is a juxtaposition to his relentless thrusts that are battering your cunt. 

“Close.” If it was any other time, you would be embarrassed at how fast you’re cumming again, but Jaeyun would understand. He does. 

Jaeyun spits on your folds and rubs it in, focusing on your clit to bring you over the edge. The sensations are too overwhelming, between his fingers roughly rubbing your bud and his cock bruising your walls, it’s all too much and you’re cumming for the third time that day. 

The squeeze of your walls nearly has Jaeyun spilling into you but he wants this to last a little longer. “That’s it, Princess. Cumming over my cock so well,” He kisses your forehead, “Such a perfectly good girl for me.” 

Jaeyun’s lips trail down your face to your neck to your tits, his mouth taking in your right nipple. “Fucking hell, Jaeyun.” He can’t hear you because he’s too busy sucking your tit and losing himself in consuming you. 

His hips are jackhammering into you and you can’t think straight, your mind is foggy, mouth wide open, eyes have rolled back, and hands aimlessly gripping at his back and arms. You haven’t been fucked like this in years, hell, you don’t think you and Jaeyun have ever had sex as good as this. 

Jaeyun mentally agrees with you as he starts to lose his rhythm but still gives you his all. His mouth leaves your nipple as he buries his head in the crook of your neck, “Fuck, Y/N, can’t hold back anymore.”

Despite his energy depleting, his thrusts are still sharp and his hands are holding you down by your hips, leaving you no option but to just lay there and take his powerful hits. Not that you minded, this is exactly how you like it.

You don’t truly believe it but you think you might cum again. To make sure you get there in time with him you reach down and rub yourself, mewling loudly in his ear at the feeling. 

Jaeyun’s head peaks up to look at you, “You gonna cum with me, Sweetheart?” The nickname isn’t used often but when he does whisper it, it’s your favourite one.

“Y-yes oh god yes.” 

Jaeyun kisses you hungrily as your words help him spill his seed into you, the white strings shooting straight into you and it mixes with your own release. You both chant each other's names along with some expletives, Jaeyun dropping in 2 ‘I love you’s’ just for added measure.

A few minutes later once you both had time to compose yourselves, Jaeyun falls to the side of you and stares at the ceiling. He was so content with everything in this moment. You are back in his arms, he’s just had the best sex of his life, and his heart finally feels like it’s beating with a purpose other than just living. It’s beating for you and that is the best feeling in the world.

“I love you, Jaeyun.” You turn your face to the side to look at him, eyes smiling softly. 

He takes your hand and lays a kiss on top of it. “I love you too, Y/N.” 

None of you have to say any more than that right now. It’s enough.

He sits up and inspects your body, some bruises were his fingers dug in too deep forming and he frowns. He didn’t mean to go so hard but quite frankly he wouldn’t take it back.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” Planting a kiss on your head he makes a b-line for downstairs, grabbing a glass of water and some paracetamol for you. 

When he comes back, you’re sitting up, leaning against the headboard with your eyes shut. You’re the perfect view. 

“Here, baby.” After handing you the water and pills he puts his boxers back on and gives you the black t-shirt from earlier. “Almost forgot we’re literally still at your parent's house.” His neck turns red.

“I don’t even know where they are?” You place the water on the windowsill next to your bed and pull the top over your head. Jaeyun hums and stays sitting at the edge of the bed with his head down. Gently your hand makes contact with his shoulder, “Babe? You okay?”

“You’re mine again, right?” He side eyes you because he’s too nervous to look directly at you, “Like, you’ll come to Busan with me and be my girl again?”

Your heart summersaults and you smile reassuringly. You couldn’t imagine ever being away from him again. You made that mistake the first time but never again, “I will. I’ll need to finish up Uni but that’s only a few months.” Grabbing his chin you turn him to you, “Then I’ll be home with you.”

Home. Your home.

“Marry me.” 

“What? Haven’t you had enough wedding drama for a while?”

“I’m serious!” He laughs and looks at the ceiling, thinking deeply, “Not right now, but when we’re settled. Be my wife?”

The only thing you can do is kiss him as confirmation, too overwhelmed by pure emotions to give him a verbal answer. This is truly all you’ve ever wanted.

He pulls back and smiles widely. “Wait here!” In the next few seconds, Jaeyun shoved his t-shirt on and pranced downstairs and out the front door. What is he doing? 

Hearing his car door open and shut you impatiently wait for him to come back. It doesn’t take long but why is it when you want them to hurry up time suddenly slows down. With his hands behind his back, he enters your bedroom once again. 

“Y/N L/N,” He coughs before he starts again, “I love you more than anything else in the whole world. You’re so stupid and annoying, and honestly, you’re mean.” 

Wow, you think, he’s such a charmer. 

“But you’re mine. My everything to be quite honest. I could have everything in the world and if you’re not by my side there really is no point in any of it.” He sits down beside you on the bed, hands still clasped behind him, “So, would you do me the great honour of marrying me in the distant, but please make it near, future?”

He moves his hands to the front of him and you tear up. Is it what you think it is?

Trembling, your hands take the white box and stare at it. It takes you a moment to gather up the courage to open it but when you do it’s like it opens a floodgate of tears as they ricochet down your cheeks.

The pinky ring he gave you the night before you left shines in front of you. He kept it all these years later. Jaeyun didn’t know why quite honestly because it only served as a hurtful memory. But as he sees you ogle at it, he realises it was exactly for this moment.

“My speech the first time was better I think.” Jaeyun jokes and you choke out a little sob. Taking the ring from the box he slips it onto your left pinky. It still fits perfectly. Just like you and Jaeyun. “So? Will you?”

“Yes.” Nodding your head and wiping your tears with your free hand you give him the answer he’s been waiting to hear his whole life, “I’ll marry you. Eventually.”

His forehead rests against yours. “I’m gonna love you forever.”

“Until the sun stops burning?”

“Until the sun stops burning."

[krirebr]

More Than This 3

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x f!reader, Steve Rogers & f!reader

Word Count: ~5.8k

Summary: Arranged marriages have always been used to solidify business deals among the ultra-wealthy. Your stepfather wants to be in business with Harlan Thrombey, so now it's your turn.

Warnings: Heavy angst, age difference, adult themes, institutional sexism, multiple references to vomit (but nothing graphic, I don't think), attempted sex that makes everyone sad - dubcon on both sides, explicit language, the slooowest burn - Warnings will be added as needed for subsequent parts. All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

A/N: Alright friends, here we go! Now we're really in it.

A gigantic thank you, as always, to @paperweight91 for reading so much of this and talking it all through with me, especially the last section, which I've been anxious about since I originally conceived of it ages ago. You're the best, Chelsea!

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. And if you need to come scream at me, that's ok too!

As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

You heard Ransom get up in the early hours of the morning and stumble into the bathroom to retch. You were glad he didn’t choke on his vomit, you guessed. You were still on the couch with the TV turned down low. You wondered if he’d come out and see what you were doing, but he just stumbled back to the bed when he was done. 

You didn’t hear him again for several more hours. In that time, you mostly watched TV, dozed a little, fucked around on your phone. Time passed slowly, but it still passed. Soon, the sun was coming up. You were moving across the country today. Your new life was starting whether you wanted it or not.

A few hours later you heard the beginnings of movement in the bedroom. You called down to room service and ordered two carafes of coffee, along with a few different breakfast options, ranging from light to extremely greasy. You didn’t know what his hangovers were like, what they required. But you knew that an especially moody Ransom wouldn’t do you any good. So, a peace offering of a sort. 

The food arrived before he’d shown his face. As you looked at the cart, you thought that while you were trying to start things as well as you could for your own good, it didn’t erase everything he’d done the day before, how he’d treated you. So you made no effort to be quiet as you laid out the food and got the coffee ready. You may have banged the metal covers together as noisily as you could. 

“What the fuck?” Ransom grumbled as he came stumbling out of the bedroom in just his boxer briefs. “Why is there noise?”

“Coffee,” you said, handing him the mug you’d filled. “I didn’t know how you take it.”

He took a sip and just grunted at you and then turned around and went back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

You busied yourself by getting your own coffee and munching on some toast. You still had no appetite but figured you should probably eat something. 

A few minutes later, he came back out with a now empty mug. He stopped and stared at you. “Am I still drunk or are you still wearing your wedding dress?”

You tried not to let your embarrassment show. “I couldn’t get it off by myself, so…” you trailed off and shrugged. 

He looked at you for another moment then nodded once. “Give me a minute,” he said, as he poured himself another cup. He drank it quickly, then briefly held his head in his hands. When he looked back up, he took a deep breath, then mumbled “OK.” He came up behind you and lightly touched your dress. “Is there a trick to it?” he asked as he ran a finger down the seam. 

“It’s a long line of hook-and-eyes, you know?”

He hummed and then started at the top. As he worked, he grumbled to himself, which made you feel a little better about not being able to get it off. You’d never stop being surprised by how gentle his hands were. It seemed to be in complete opposition to every other part of him. When he was about halfway down, his knuckles lightly grazed the bare skin of your back and a shudder ran through your whole body. “Sorry,” he said, softly. You just shook your head and didn’t say anything.

When he was done, he quickly took a step back. You held your dress to you, trying to preserve your modesty, even though you knew how silly that was. You just weren’t ready for him to see you, although you doubted that that mattered. “Thank you,” you whispered.

He nodded again, then “You mind if I take the first shower?”

You shook your head and he disappeared into the ensuite. 

About an hour and a half later, you sat with him in the back of a town car, on your way to the private airfield where one of his family’s planes awaited you. Neither of you said anything. Ransom was staring at something on his phone, while you put all your energy into trying not to have a panic attack. You had no idea what was waiting for you in Boston. You weren’t ready for this. You couldn’t do it.

As the car pulled up to the hangar, you were beyond relieved to see Steve already waiting there, Lola’s travel crate at his feet. The moment the car was parked and turned off, you lept out, not waiting for anyone to open the door for you. You bent down in front of Lola’s crate first and carefully stuck your fingers through the door. “Hi, baby, I missed you.” She kissed your fingers and then whined to be let out. “Not yet, honey,” you said softly. “You have to wait til we’re on the plane.”

You stood up and faced Steve, who was looking you over carefully. “How are you doing?” he asked seriously.

You shrugged and sighed. “Freaking out a little, I guess, but it’ll be fine.”

“And if it isn’t, you’ll call me,” he said, voice firm. “I don’t care where you are or what time it is, you call me. Ok?” You nodded. He opened his mouth to say more, but then the call of your name came from over your shoulder.

You turned to see Ransom standing between you and the jet. Your heart dropped. No, not yet. You needed more time. You needed to be able to actually say goodbye. You couldn’t– “I’ll be on the plane,” he said, voice still scratchy and tired, sunglasses firmly on, despite the overcast day. “Take your time.” He turned around and began walking up the stairs. 

You just stared after him for a moment, surprised. When you turned back to Steve, his lips were curled in disgust. But then the expression quickly changed to something much sadder. “I should have done more,” he said, “gotten you out of here, sent you away or something. I can’t–”

“Steve.” you interrupted. “Please stop. It’s no use now.” You couldn’t listen to any more of this. It had always been inevitable; it’d always been what you were for. Imagining anything else was useless. 

Neither of you said anything for a moment, then he looked around and asked, “Are Dad and Lydia on their way?” 

You tried to keep any hurt out of your expression when you said, “No, something important came up for Joseph and you know Mom has a hard time going anywhere by herself.” You ignored the cracks you heard in your own voice.

Steve’s brow furrowed in confusion and upset. “I would have picked her up,” he said. “Hell, I’ll go get her right now.” 

“I know,” you said sadly. “I told her that, but you know how she is.” You dropped your eyes, not able to look at the anger you knew you’d see on Steve’s face. You were angry too, you were, but mostly now you were just sad. And after thinking about it all night, you honestly weren’t sure how much anger she deserved. She’d been broken for a long time. It’d happened before you’d even known her, probably. It’d been unfair, maybe, to expect her to be strong for you now when she’d never been able to be that before.

Steve said your name and you looked up at him. “You don’t deserve this,” he said firmly. “I know I’ve said it before, but I really need you to understand it. None of this is what you deserve.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just nodded and muttered, “OK.” 

He sighed and shook his head, then pulled you into his arms. “I’m going to miss you so fucking much,” he said into your hair. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without having you just a few minutes away to annoy whenever I want.”

You huffed a laugh into his shoulder. “I’m going to miss you too,” you said. “So much. Even when you’re being so annoying.” The tears were starting now, you weren’t able to hold them back. You pulled back and briefly got a good enough look at Steve’s face to see that his eyes were wet, too, before he knelt in front of Lola’s crate.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “I’m going to miss you too. You take good care of your mom for me.” 

You couldn’t help the little sob that came out of you at that. Fuck. Steve had been stuck to your side since you were six years old. Through absolutely everything. He’d been the one person you could count on for as long as you could remember. And now you were being dragged away from him. 

He stood up and pulled you into another hug. “You’re so strong,” he whispered right in your ear. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

When he pulled back, you knew it was time to go, but you didn’t know how to pull yourself away. This all felt so final.

“Let me know when you land,” he said. “And when you get to the house. And just–” he sighed. “Everything. I want to know everything, ok?”

You nodded and tried to brush the tears from your eyes. “Yeah, ok,” you said, knowing you’d send him the exact amount of information that would keep him from worrying too much. You picked up the dog crate. You locked eyes with him one last time. “I love you.”

His voice was thick when he responded, “I love you too. I’m going to sit right here until you’ve taken off, ok? I’ll be right here.”

“You’re a good brother,” you said, as you slowly took your first step backward, toward the jet. 

“Yes. I am,” he said with a smile that was half cocky and half absolutely heartbreaking. 

With one last deep breath and an “OK,” that was mostly to yourself, you forced yourself to turn around and make your way to the stairs up to the jet. Once you were halfway up, you looked over your shoulder. Steve was leaning against his car. He gave you an encouraging smile and a small wave. You nodded and took the last few steps to board the plane.

A flight attendant was standing right there to greet you. “Welcome aboard, Mrs. Drysdale,” she said and you couldn’t help the way your mouth dropped open in shock. Mrs. Drysdale. That’s who you were now. You tried to pull yourself together and let her show you into the main cabin. It was mostly open, with a few plush seats and tables scattered around. Ransom was already in one, fully reclined with a sleep mask pulled over his eyes. He made no indication that he was awake, so you asked the attendant for a mask for yourself and a glass of water. As she went to fulfill your request, you opened Lola’s little cage and picked her up when she came out. She was nervous, shaking with her little tail tucked between her legs. “It’ll be ok,” you said softly, the tears threatening to stream down again. You took a deep breath and settled the both of you into a seat as far from Ransom as you could get in the small private jet. You gave Lola gentle pets until she sat down on your lap. “We’ll just take a nap,” you said, “and it’ll be over before we know it.”

“What the fuck is that?”

You woke with a start and pulled off your sleep mask. “Huh?” You sat up to see Ransom and Lola locked in a staredown. 

“What is that?”

“I told you that I had a dog,” you said, confused. 

“That!” Ransom yelled, pointing at Lola, “is not a dog. That’s a long-haired rat!”

“Hey!” you yelled back, just as Lola started retching. “Oh, baby, no!” You knelt down next to her just as she puked right at Ransom’s feet.

“What the shit?!” he cried out, jumping back. 

“She’s stressed, ok? It’s not like I can explain to her what a plane is or where we’re going!” You grabbed what was left of your water and the napkin the flight attendant had brought with the glass and tried to clean it up. “Shit,” you mumbled to yourself.

“What are you doing?” He stood over you with his hands on his hips.

“I’m cleaning it up so you don’t freak out, ok? It’ll be fine, just give me a minute.”

“Get up.”

“What?”

“You don’t need to do that. The crew probably has a steam cleaner or something. My dad uses this plane. I’m sure they’ve seen worse.” He walked to the front of the cabin and knocked on the divider. When the attendant came, Ransom quietly told her, “The dog got sick. I assume you have something to clean it up.” 

She nodded and quickly came out with a portable steam cleaner and made quick work of Lola’s mess. 

“Thank you,” you told her.

“No problem at all, Mrs. Drysdale,” she smiled and went back to the galley.

“Well, that’s a real mindfuck,” Ransom said as he flopped back into his seat. He glared down at Lola, “She gonna do that again?”

“I don’t know,” you said, gently picking her up and holding her close to try to comfort her.

He pulled his sleep mask down over his eyes. “Great, love being a rat-dog owner.”

“She isn’t your dog,” you said curtly. 

“Whatever. This hangover is still pounding against my skull. Wake me when we land.” 

When you landed in Boston, Ransom led you to where his vintage beamer was parked and you both squeezed into it. The slightly hysterical thought struck you that it wouldn’t be suitable at all once there was a baby to cart around. You pushed that thought away. No use getting ahead of yourself.

Ransom’s house was on the edge of the city, surrounded by more trees than you expected. From the outside, it was mostly glass. Very modern. It felt cold.

He parked the car and grabbed the few bags you both had with you. The rest of your things would be delivered the next day. He showed you inside without much pomp or circumstance, just walked in ahead of you, and left the door open.

The majority of the first floor seemed to be one large, open-plan room. It was sparsely decorated and the pieces that were there seemed to be lifted wholesale from the pages of an upscale furniture catalog. There was nothing of Ransom in this house. Not that you really knew him well enough to say, but you didn’t think there was any information to be gleaned from his living space either. It all felt very empty. It was not what you had expected.

You set Lola down on the hardwood floor and she immediately ran off to explore. You crossed your fingers that she wouldn’t get into anything, not able to forget Ransom’s threat that he’d make you get rid of her if she messed anything up. You glanced over at Ransom to gauge if he was upset that you’d let her roam on her own, but he wasn’t paying any attention, leafing through a pile of mail left on the kitchen island. 

He must have felt you watching him, because without looking up he said, “Bedroom’s upstairs. I’ll bring our things up later.”

You nodded even though he wasn’t looking at you. You grabbed your bag, not wanting to wait for him, and made your way up the staircase in the middle of the living room. Judging by how he’d treated you so far, you figured he planned to tuck you away in some guest room, out of his way except for when he needed you. It wasn’t unheard of in marriages like this, and you would honestly be grateful to have your own space. But as you looked through the rooms upstairs, you found a home gym, a study, and 2 storage rooms. There’d also been a bathroom and a few closets. The only room left had to be his, but you couldn’t imagine he’d want to share that with you. You very gingerly walked in and set your bag at the foot of the bed. You didn’t spend any more time there, afraid that you might be wrong.

When you went back downstairs, he was now rummaging through his fridge. “I put my bag in the bedroom upstairs,” you said to his back. 

He just grunted his assent, then came out with two glass containers in his hands. He plated them both and put one in the microwave. “I have a housekeeper that comes three times a week and usually prepares meals for the whole week. You can give her any food preferences you have.”

You nodded. “I enjoy cooking,” you said, your mother's advice to ‘keep him happy’ floating in your mind. “I can make dinner too, sometimes.”

He nodded and shrugged as he took the plate out of the microwave and placed it in front of you on the island. You took a seat on one of the stools. “If you want,” he said, “but I don’t expect it.” He put his own plate in the microwave.

“Do you have any other staff?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Not for the house, not right now.”

You understood the implication that the staff would grow as your family did. A nanny, a driver, a gardener maybe, if you moved to a house that required one.

It was the lack of a driver that made you nervous. You’d never gone without one at home. You also hadn’t seen a large garage on the property, so you guessed there weren’t any extra cars around. You felt stuck in this house already, shut in like he didn’t want you to leave.

When his food was heated, he sat beside you and you ate together in silence. The food was fine, you were sure, but you couldn’t taste it. Your mind was ahead of you, wondering what the rest of the night held. 

When you were done, Ransom loaded your dishes into the dishwasher and then said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m beat, so I’m just going straight to bed. Feel free to stay up if you want. I’m a heavy sleeper so you won’t wake me when you come in.”

“Oh,” you said, trying to hide your surprise. So he did intend for you to share his room. But apparently, just for sleeping. You were relieved. You were. The little voice in your head that wouldn’t stop whispering that he didn’t want you didn’t count. “I’m still three hours behind, so I might stay up a little longer.” Doing what, you had no idea. You didn’t have any of your things and you weren’t sure what was off-limits here yet. And you were exhausted, still hadn’t recovered from not sleeping the night before. But you just couldn’t deal with the awkwardness of going to bed at the same time as him.

“OK,” he said and then just stood there, looking surprisingly lost. After a couple of endless minutes, he just said, “Goodnight,” and finally went upstairs.

You grabbed your phone out of your handbag, unsurprised to see multiple messages from Steve, checking in on you. You sent him one back, assuring him that the flight had been fine, the drive to the house was fine, you were fine. You collected Lola from where she was curled up on a rug, quickly fed her and let her out, and then brought her and her crate upstairs. After a few minutes of internal debate, you decided to set her up in the gym, fairly certain that even in her crate, Ransom wouldn’t want her in his bedroom. It took a lot of coaxing to get her in. She was so used to sharing your bed. She whined when you closed the little grate and your heart broke. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered. “You’ll get used to it. It’ll be ok.”

You quietly went into the bedroom and Ransom was, indeed, already asleep, spread out on his stomach again, but luckily this time only taking up one side of the bed. He’d left the lamp on the opposite side on for you. You took your sleep clothes out of your bag and brought your toiletries into the ensuite, unpacking only what you’d need for the night. His things were all piled around one of the side-by-side sinks, but the other was clear for you. You went through your nightly routine quickly and then went back into the bedroom and very carefully climbed into bed. He didn’t stir. You turned off the lamp and settled at the edge of the bed. Your exhaustion took you quickly.

When you woke in the morning, Ransom was gone.

Your things were delivered a few hours after you woke. You started by trying to organize the boxes into the least obtrusive pile possible. You hoped that if they were tucked into a corner, he wouldn’t be too annoyed while you took your time going through them. You started with a few of the smaller boxes, unpacking the items into places you hoped they could go.

You took Lola for a walk around the neighborhood. It was sparsely populated, the houses spaced far apart. You didn’t run into any neighbors.

One of the walk-in closets in the bedroom had been cleared out for you, so you spent the afternoon unpacking all your clothes. By the time you were done, it was time for dinner. There was still no sign of Ransom.

You fed Lola and helped yourself to one of the meals in the fridge. You ate alone and after you cleaned up, you dug a book out of one of your boxes and settled on one of the not-very-comfortable couches with Lola to read. You didn’t know if she was allowed on the furniture – you were sure she wasn’t, actually – but Ransom wasn’t here to see it, so you couldn’t find it within yourself to care. 

As you were finishing the second chapter in your book, he walked through the front door. With how the house was set up, he had a clear view of you and Lola from the door. “Hi,” was all he said.

“Hi,” was all you could say back.

He just stood there for a moment and then took off his coat and shoes. “How was your day?” he asked, stiffly, as he came into the living room. 

“Fine,” you said. Then you realized he was actually attempting conversation and added, “My things came, so I got started unpacking.”

He nodded, “That’s good. Did you eat?”

“I did,” you said, hoping that was the right answer. “Can I get you some food?”

“No, I’m fine. I ate at the office.” Well, that answered where he’d been all day – his family’s publishing house.

He cleared his throat. “I’m going to go upstairs to unwind. Will you be heading up soon?” 

Oh. Right. It’d finally come. “Yeah,” you said, your mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll just get Lola settled and then join you.”

He looked down at your dog in your lap like he was noticing her for the first time. But he didn’t say anything, just nodded and walked upstairs.

You let Lola out the back door for just a couple minutes, then took her upstairs. It was even harder to get her into her crate this time, even after you buried treats in her blankets. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you cooed, once you finally had her locked in. “I promise it won’t always be this hard and scary. It’ll be ok.”

Ransom was waiting for you in his room, sitting in an armchair by the window. “We should talk,” he said quietly.

“Ok.” You perched on the edge of the bed and did your best to look him in the eye, even as your heart was racing. 

He took a deep breath and leaned forward. “We don’t–” he started, then another breath. “There’s nothing that we have to do tonight. I mean, we can certainly get the first time out of the way, if that’s what you want to do. But it doesn’t have to be now. We have time.”

You wanted to be relieved, but it just felt like delaying the inevitable. “We don’t, actually,” you said shaking your head. “We don’t have that much time. Especially if it takes a while. If there’s going to be an issue getting pregnant, on either side, I think the sooner we know the better. I don’t want to be blindsided by it when we only have a month left.”

“Ok,” he nodded. “That makes sense. Yeah, we can get it over with.”

You were proud of yourself for the way you didn’t wince at his phrasing, but it was a near thing. But was it really fair to be upset or hurt by that when it was how you were feeling too? You wanted to stop delaying it. You were ready to just know how it was going to be, what he would want. So yeah, maybe ‘get it over with’ wasn’t such a bad way to put it. 

He stood up and sighed, looking like he was bracing himself. “I do need to know, have you done this before?”

You swallowed. The question wasn’t unexpected but you weren’t sure how to answer it and didn’t know which answer he was looking for. You decided to be honest and hoped it would be ok. “Yes, I’ve had sex,” you said, quietly.

He let out a long exhale in relief. “Ok,” he said, “ok, that’s good.” 

You stood up, unsure of what to do. You just wanted to be on the other side of it. You suddenly thought of what you’d just told Lola. It wouldn’t always be this hard and scary. You would get used to it. You just had to get through this first time. And then you’d know how he was. Resolved now, you started taking off your shirt.

“Wait,” he said, breathed really. “Just wait.”

Your shirt was already halfway off, stuck on your arms above your head, so you shucked it the rest of the way and threw it on the floor, but didn’t do anything else.

He came over and stood so he was in your space. He brought his hand up to cup your face, his thumb on your cheekbone. And very slowly, he ducked his head to bring his lips to yours. There was something about it. The intimacy. Even with what you knew you were about to do with him. You just– A kiss was too much. You turned away. You couldn’t do it.

Instead, your hands went to unbutton your pants. You undid it slowly then bent over with your back to him to push them down your legs, sticking your ass out as much as you could. That was better than a kiss, right? You could make him want you.

You kicked your pants off and stood back up, looking over your shoulder to see him watching you. But his face was unreadable. You weren’t ready for him to touch you, so you said, “I can get myself ready for you,” hoping it came off coy, but you were afraid he’d be able to hear how your voice shook. For the briefest moment, you almost thought you saw something travel across his face. Disappointment, maybe. But it was gone too fast for you to be able to tell, and you were trying so hard to look away, anyway.

You got on the bed, lying on your back, sliding your panties off as seductively as you could. You closed your eyes tight and slowly moved one hand down your abdomen while the other started to play with your breast, cupping it, tweaking your nipple. As your other hand slipped between your thighs, you brought up your go-to fantasy. Nothing fancy or outlandish. Just a man standing over you, touching you, telling you how much he loved you, how much he loved your body. How he was going to ruin you, completely take you apart. You tried to focus on that as your fingers slowly made their way between your folds, as they made their way to your clit. But this room kept pulling you back to reality. You could hear Ransom taking his clothes off. You tried to ignore it. You were starting to get wet, slowly but surely, so you carefully pushed one finger inside yourself, trying so hard to focus on the man, his voice. You heard a bottle of lube flick open. No, no, you weren’t here, as you added another finger. You could hear Ransom’s hand on his cock now as your thumb continued to rub your clit. You opened your eyes despite yourself. Ransom was kneeling on the edge of the bed, stroking himself to hardness. It was the first time you’d seen him fully naked. He really was so beautiful. You sort of hated him for it. 

You closed your eyes again. You could do this. You scissored your fingers slowly, opening yourself up, a little whine escaping your lips, when suddenly, you felt a hand wrap around your ankle. You wanted to scream in frustration. It was no use. Your hands dropped down to your sides. You were ready enough. It wouldn’t hurt, it was fine. You blinked your eyes open again to find Ransom staring at your face, searching for something. You couldn’t begin to guess what. “I’m ready,” you said. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice soft, but gritty.

“Yeah, I’m good. How do you want me?”

He seemed almost startled by your question. “Uh, however you’re most comfortable.”

You nodded and flipped over onto your stomach, pulling your knees up toward your elbows and putting your ass in the air. This would be easiest if you didn’t have to look at him. If you could imagine someone else. Someone who loved you. Someone who wanted to be here. 

You heard the bottle of lube again and then felt him settle between your legs. One hand was on your ass and you presumed he was using the other to line himself up. You pushed your face into the pillow underneath you. You tried to bring the fantasy back as he slowly eased inside of you. He was big, but not so big it hurt. You breathed through it as he worked his way in with short, slow thrusts. He was being so gentle with you. You weren’t sure if you liked it. The hand on your ass moved to your hip, while the other snaked around to your stomach, softly stroking you there, then moved down over your pelvis, and then finally between your thighs to search for your clit. He found it quickly. But no matter how hard you closed your eyes, his fingers made it impossible for you to pretend that it was anyone else with you, anyone else touching you. Without thinking, you pushed his hand away and replaced it with your own. 

He was making little grunts and gasps behind you that you tried to ignore. You rubbed furious circles over your clit and tried to focus only on the fullness you felt. But then, that fullness started to lessen. The grunts behind you turned into a “Shit.” and then a “Fuck!” and suddenly, that fullness completely disappeared. You let out a little cry as he quickly pulled out of you. You turned around to catch a glimpse of his softening cock before he disappeared into the bathroom, the door slamming behind him. 

You lay on your back for just a moment, your mind trying to catch up, figure out what on earth had just happened. That voice that had been there this whole time, since that first meeting a month ago, came back with smug satisfaction. He doesn’t want you, it said, over and over. Your thighs were sticky, probably mostly from the lube. You didn’t think your wetness or his precome had been enough to make a mess out of you. You got up, desperate to not be naked anymore.  You grabbed a sleep shirt out of the closet you were using and slipped it on. You hugged yourself, standing in the middle of the room with no idea what to do. 

In the silence, with nothing else to focus on, you were suddenly aware of Lola crying across the hall. Fuck. Everything just kept getting worse.

Ransom came out of the bathroom and went straight to the bed. He stopped at the foot, seemingly surprised that you weren’t still in it. He looked up and found you on the other side of the room. 

“Is everything ok?” you asked quietly.

“It’s fine,” he said, voice sharp. You flinched and he sighed, then visibly tried to calm himself down. “It’s fine,” he said again, much softer this time. He held out a washcloth to you. “In case you need to clean yourself up.”

You took a few steps toward him so that you could grab it. “Thank you,” you said, as you quickly wiped between your legs, then went to finish cleaning up in the bathroom. 

When you came back out, he was back in bed, on his back, just staring at the ceiling. “What’s that noise?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s fine,” you hurried to answer. “It’s Lola, but she’s ok. She just isn’t used to sleeping alone. She’ll get used to it, eventually.” Your heart broke as you spoke, but you knew it couldn’t be avoided. 

“Where does she usually sleep?” he asked.

It took you a minute to answer, you were so surprised by the question. “Uh, with me,” you said.

“Then go get her,” he said, without looking at you. He hadn’t looked at you since you’d come out of the bathroom.

“Really?” you whispered.

“Yeah, if it stops her crying.”

You didn’t wait to be told again. You hurried across the hall and opened her crate, scooping her up into your arms. “I’m so sorry,” you cooed. “I’m so, so sorry. It’s going to be ok now.”

When you got back to the room, Ransom had turned off his light and turned over onto his side, facing the wall. You placed Lola on the bed and crawled in after her. As you turned off your own lamp, you whispered, “Thank you,” not sure if he was awake to hear it.

Tag list is open

@stargazingfangirl18 @drabblewithfrannybarnes @thezombieprostitute @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @bval-1 @km-ffluv @texmexdarling @ladyvenera @citronbun @rebeccapineapple @alexakeyloveloki @dancer3205 @i-can-do-this-all-dayy @thecrandle @lokislady82 @thedazzlingburglar @23skidoosteven @she-wolf09231982 @arbesa-mind @samfreakingwinchester @blackhawkfanatic @emerald-writes @identity2212 @have-another-doughnut @patzammit

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Little Warrior

Pairing: Sigtryggr Ivarsson (The Last Kingdom) x F!Reader Warnings: Canon typical violence and death, kidnapping, slight Stockholm syndrome, attempted sexual assault, sexual tension, coercion, corruption kink, talk of religious beliefs, female masturbation, loss of virginity, smut. Word count: 4.6k

Summary: When Sigtryggr and his men seize Winchester he takes a special interest in one of their captives (I have essentially yeeted Stiorra from the story and adapted the storyline of how her and Sigtryggr become an item to suit my own). Based on this request.

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

They come in the night. As Winchester sleeps, the Danes descend upon it.

She is woken by the blood curdling shouts and screams of the townspeople, accompanied by the acrid stench of smoke from nearby burning buildings.

Her heart lurches in her chest, panic causing bile to rise in her throat as she acts purely on instinct, scrambling from her bed and out of the house wearing just her nightdress. The only thought in her mind is that she doesn’t want to die trapped in her home as it’s burned to the ground.

Once she is outside, she watches wide eyed with horror at the destruction around her. Buildings are ablaze, people lay dead and dying upon the ground, the thick coppery scent of blood makes her want to vomit.

It’s only when the coolness of the night air begins to chill her skin that she realises just how perilous her situation is - a thin layer of cotton is all that separates her flesh from the horrors around her. She worries about what these Heathens will do to her if they see her in such a state of undress.

She trembles at the thought, dread gnawing at her insides. It’s too risky to go back inside, her only option is to hide. She takes her chances beneath an overturned farmer’s cart, crawling beneath the gap and cowering, waiting for the chaos around her to die down.

Clutching the cross around her neck, she sends up a silent prayer to God to keep her safe. Her destiny is in his hands now.

The aching in her joints for having been crouched for so long is beginning to become unbearable when the noise eventually quietens. She wonders if the Danes have left, if King Edward will return to rescue Winchester or if they have managed to capture it in his absence. Where are the Wessex guard?

She freezes when she hears the sound of approaching boots upon the ground, her heart hammers wildly against her ribcage when they come to a stop in front of the cart she’s hiding under.

“I can see your feet, Christian”, comes the voice of a man. He speaks softly and quietly, and it sends shivers down her spine.

Too paralyzed by fear to do anything, she remains as she is, her breaths coming quick and shallow, a rapidly dying hope in the back of her mind that he might give up and leave her alone. But there is no such luck.

“You will come out,” he commands, “or I will drag you out, the choice is yours.”

She clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle the frightened whimper that escapes her, attempting to force herself further back against the wooden confines of her misguided hiding place.

A large hand appears beneath the cart, reaching towards her before wrapping itself around her ankle.

She shrieks, thrashing against the hold it has on her as she’s dragged out. She lays wide eyed on the cold earth, her breathing erratic, as she looks with terror upon the Dane that towers above her prone form.

His long brown hair is wild and unkempt, half of it pulled back, and a ragged scar runs the length of the left side of his face. He regards her with mild amusement and she becomes aware again of her state of undress.

The thought that he might rape her sends her senses into overdrive, pure adrenaline driving her decision making. She knows she’s in no position to run, her only other option is to fight him, so as he crouches down towards her, she lunges upwards, slapping and scratching at his face and shoulders.

He is quick to overpower her, pulling her to her feet and twisting her arm behind her back.

“A fearsome little warrior, she is,” he chuckles, keeping her arm taut behind her as he gently urges her forward. 

He guides her towards the front steps of the King’s estate, where several people are kneeling before a group of Danes. As they draw closer she recognises a few of them; King Edward’s sons and a few of the Wessex guard.

She is certain she’ll be killed. The man presses on her shoulder, urging her to kneel beside the other captives. She takes up her position, the stone step is hard against her knees, and she is all too aware that she is the least valuable of everyone gathered there.

“Send them to where they keep their dead King,” the man says, looking at Edward’s children and then nodding towards the chapel.

“We need to send a message to Edward,” a dark haired, heavily pregnant woman says, as two of the Danish men pick up the boys and carry them off. “We must force him to yield Winchester to us.”

It makes her shudder to think that this woman will be a mother, when she is capable of such atrocities. 

“And what do you propose, Brida?” He responds.

Brida regards her with a look that makes her blood run cold. She has never seen anyone look at her as though she is worth less than nothing, her brown eyes are filled with utter contempt. “Send him her head,” she tells him, “it is more shocking to Christians when you are prepared to kill women and children alike.”

She gasps audibly, stricken by terror at the notion that they intend to behead her, until she feels his hand upon her shoulder.

“You will not touch her,” he says cooly, “slaughter the men, but she stays with me.”

“And what will you do with her?” Brida asks, raising an eyebrow.

“That is for me to decide,” he responds dismissively.

He makes a cut throat gesture at the Danes that flank Brida, then nods towards the kneeling guards, before pulling her back to her feet and directing her inside of the King’s estate.

She winces as she hears the sound of blades making thick, wet impact upon flesh, followed by dying screams of agony. Despite her shock and disgust, she cannot help the twinge of relief that lightens the feeling in her chest that that is not what destiny has in store for her, at least not yet.

The room that he brings her to is what she assumes is a study. It is filled with books, maps and writing materials, the space is occupied by a wooden writing desk, a chair and a settee.

As her eyes travel around the room, taking in her surroundings, she’s startled out of her reverie when her gaze settles back upon him. He is standing so close, silently observing her, his expression unreadable.

Once more she is reminded of how little she is wearing, and now that she is alone with him, fear of what he might do to her returns in earnest.

“S-stay back,” she stammers, backing away, eyes scanning the room for something, anything, that she can use as a weapon.

He smirks, unmoving, as he looks her over from head to toe. “Be calm, little warrior. Do you know who I am?”

Her face contorts in confusion. “No…”

He straightens, tilting his head slightly, clasping his arms behind his back. “I am Sigtryggr Ivarsson. I am a Dane. If I wish to hump a woman I do not need to do so by force.”

She softens slightly, fear does not grip her heart quite so icily as before. His name is meaningless to her, but she is relieved that he means her no harm.

Sigtryggr leans in, his breath tickling the shell of her ear. “But make no mistake, little warrior, I will have you, and you will beg me for it.”

She draws back quickly in disgust - not at his words, but at the reaction they elicit from her. The way warmth pools in her lower belly fills her with immense guilt. This man has invaded her home and killed people she knows, people she loves, she should despise him.

Swallowing thickly, unease prickling at her, she elects to change the subject. “What have you come here for?”

“To take what I am owed,” he says simply.

“And what is it you believe you’re owed?”

“Land. Your people drove me from mine,” he explains, anger lacing his tone, “your boy King will give back what he stole, or I shall keep Winchester and send him the heads of his children.”

She inhales shakily, feeling like she wants to cry. “A-and…how do I factor into all of that?”

He softens, shrugging slightly. “You don’t, but I can’t imagine your King will yield quickly, and it is always nice to have company. You are brave, for a Christian.”

“So I am your prisoner?”

“No, little warrior. You are free to leave any time you’d like, and take your chances with Brida.”

The implication is not lost on her. Her freedom is an illusion when the alternative is death. Sigtryggr is her only guarantee for safety.

“Shall we find something else for you to wear?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

She looks down at the thin material of her shift, seeing how dirty it is from having been crouched beneath the cart, dragged out and then forced to kneel on the steps of the estate. Her cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

“Yes, please,” she whispers.

He nods. “Wait here.”

Sigtryggr leaves her alone in the study, not bothering to lock the door behind him - a sign of his confidence that he knows she won’t try to escape.

He returns a few moments later with a white cotton shift that is similar to the one she is currently wearing, She assumes it belongs to Ælflæd, something he has found within a bedchamber.

“Where is the rest of it?” She asks.

“What do you mean? It’s the same as what you have on, and it’s clean,” he says simply.

“Yes, but this is meant to go under–” she sighs, “nevermind.”

She takes the shift from him and begins to change, noting the way that he turns from her, keeping his eyes fixed on the shelves of books that line the walls of the room. The small mark of respect makes her smile. She had not anticipated such manners from a Heathen.

He pulls a book from the shelf when she is finished, flipping through its pages. “Can you read?”

She nods and he hands the tome to her.

“Read to me.”

“Can you not read?” She asks with a raise of her eyebrow.

“I can,” he says with a smirk, “but where’s the fun in that?”

She sighs, settling into the chair in front of the writing desk, while Sigtryggr sits upon the settee a few feet away, and she reads to him.

Over the next few weeks their days are spent much like this. She reads aloud to him, though none of the books are particularly interesting, mostly religious texts and historical records of Wessex. She’s not convinced that he pays any particular attention to the words, but he seems to enjoy the sound of her voice.

They find a Hnefatafl board and Sigtryggr teaches her how to play. They while away hours strategising ways to remove each other's pieces from the board. He has a sharp mind, is calmer and more analytical than any other Dane she’s ever met. He bests her with his cunning multiple times, until she finally begins to get the hang of it and he begins to lose to her.

“Another game?” She asks. “How many have I won now?”

He shoots her a sideways glance, a faint smile upon his lips. “I am not keeping count.”

She giggles. She is beating him, but he does not seem to mind.

They sleep upon furs and blankets that Sigtryggr has brought down to the study and fashioned into a makeshift bed. Her stomach flutters at laying in such close proximity to him, but true to his word he never touches her. Shame blooms hotly in her chest as each of the days pass and she finds herself yearning for it.

He brings her food, and the hopelessness of the situation looms over her as with every meager meal the bread tastes more stale.

“Read to me, little warrior,” he requests, reclining on the settee, his forearm slung over his forehead.

She grouses, hunger pangs causing her stomach to rumble painfully. “I cannot concentrate,” she whispers.

“What is the matter?” He asks, sitting up to look at her.

“I am hungry. I’m always hungry.”

He nods, stepping towards her and offering her his share of the bread.

She looks from his outstretched hand to his face uncertainly. “What will you eat?”

“I will manage, and you will read to me,” he tells her, as she takes the offering and he settles back down.

She smiles to herself at the gesture, warmth spreading throughout her. So she eats, and she reads to him.

Sigtryggr disappears each day, leaving her alone in the study. She only leaves to bathe and to relieve herself, but she is perfectly happy to stay put and await his return, especially when she is all too aware of the alternative.

Each day when he returns he brings news of the continuing siege. King Edward and the Wessex guard surround the walls of Winchester, but will not attack as his sons are being kept captive in the chapel. They have yet to yield to Sigtryggr’s demands for land.

She fiddles with the cross around her neck, eyeing the Mjölnir that sits around his carefully. “Can there not be a peaceful resolution?”

"It is more difficult to live peacefully with enemies than to fight them,” he tells her.

“But we live peacefully,” she retorts.

“We are not enemies, little warrior.”

The sentiment makes her heart flutter, though there is the lingering question in the back of her mind; what are we?

He leaves her alone again as usual one morning and she busies herself poring over maps to pass the time.

She turns when she hears footsteps, expecting to see Sigtryggr but instead it is a man she does not recognise. He appears Saxon, so she cannot understand why the Danes have allowed him to move around the estate so freely.

The stench of ale upon him as he draws closer is nauseating. His eyes hold malicious intent as he advances towards her, and her blood runs cold at the sight.

She stands, backing away from him. “Whatever you are planning to do, please reconsider,” she pleads, “Sigtryggr will punish you if anything happens to me.”

“I have allied myself with the Danes,” he slurs, “but at what cost? They treat me like a dog, while Sigtryggr coddles you. Tell me, whore, is your cunt really that good? Perhaps I ought to find out for myself.”

She yelps as he lunges for her, grabbing her and pinning her against the desk. Fury flashes through her as she struggles against him, attempting to free herself from his hold.

“Whatever treatment they give you, you have brought upon yourself, traitor,” she spits.

Her head snaps to the side, a sharp sting spreads across her cheek as he strikes her.

She barely has time to adjust her focus before she feels him forcefully being pulled off of her.

“Eardwulf!” Sigtryggr snarls angrily. “Fucking coward!”

His fist makes impact with Eardwulf’s face knocking him to the ground, before he is dragged away.

She curls up on the furs, shaking as tears stream down her cheeks, waiting for her heart rate to calm. What could have happened to her if Sigtryggr had not returned when he did doesn’t bear thinking about.

She is unsure of how much time has passed when he returns.

“Are you alright?”

She turns towards the sound of his voice, gasping when she sees he’s covered in blood. Rushing towards him, she places her hands upon his face. “You are hurt…”

Softly he grasps her wrists, keeping her hands where they are. “This blood is not mine, and Eardwulf will not hurt you ever again.”

Her lips part in shock at the thought that he has killed for her, saved her life twice now. She studies his face, taking in the stormy blue of his eyes, the fullness of his lips.

She allows her gaze to linger there for just a moment too long, embarrassment making her hot, eager to distract herself. She traces a finger over the scar that runs the length of the left side of his face.

“How did this happen?”

“A man tried to take my eye during battle,” he explains softly, “so I took his life.”

“But you were hurt.”

“Injured, yes. Left with a scar, yes. But very much alive.”

“As am I, thanks to you.”

She drops her hands from his face and he steps away from her, pulling off his blood soaked light armour and clothing.

She feels her throat run dry at the sight of his bare torso, all lean, lithe battle hardened muscle, adorned with scars. She longs to trace her fingers over each of them.

Looking away, she feels ashamed for harbouring such thoughts and desperately tries to ignore the throbbing ache in her core.

As night falls and Sigtryggr lays asleep beside her, the feeling that lingers between her legs has yet to subside. It is maddening, robbing her of rest. Every time she closes her eyes the image of him stood bare chested before her enters her mind.

She has never touched herself before, it is impure to do so, yet she needs relief or she is sure she will go mad.

Sparing a glance in the darkness towards Sigtryggr, she makes sure his eyes are closed before reaching a tentative hand between her legs. She lets out a shaky sigh as her fingers make impact against the sensitive flesh.

She is not quite sure what she is supposed to do, but finds that a combination of rubbing the area and bucking softly against her hand feels most pleasurable, so continues to do that, holding her free hand over her mouth to muffle the sounds she makes.

There is a feeling that builds within her, a zenith that she feels she must press towards, so she continues in earnest, until finally she feels something within her release and her entire body shudders, a soft moan stifled against her lips as white hot pleasure rolls through her body.

Laying there afterwards she does her best to calm her breaths, feeling guilty for having done something so depraved.

She is startled by Sigtryggr’s voice beside her. “If only you’d beg, little warrior, I could do that for you.”

Her breath hitches and she quickly turns away from him. Not knowing what to say, she feigns sleep, clutching her cross and praying silently that he’ll forget.

She is grateful when he speaks of it no further, and life goes back to normal, or at least what normal is for them.

That is until a couple of weeks later when Brida storms her way into the study, clearly having grown impatient with the lack of progress being made.

“It has been more than thirty days since we captured Winchester, and your negotiations with the Saxon King are not working, Sigtryggr,” she glowers at him, “the time for talking is over. We are killing more captives.”

She does not miss the way that Brida’s eyes linger upon her as she says this, a shiver of fear causes her skin to break out into gooseflesh.

“I will choose who we execute, not you,” Sigtryggr tells her.

“You cannot protect this Saxon forever,” Brida retorts.

“Oh, but I can,” he says, placing himself protectively between her and Brida. “She is mine, and I will decide what happens to her.”

Brida scoffs, turning and leaving. Sigtryggr follows, leaving her alone to ponder the fact that he has once more saved her life.

When he comes back several hours later, he looks so tired. The expression he wears is one of defeat and she feels her heart ache for him.

“Read to me,” he says softly, sitting heavily upon the settee.

She regards him quietly, she wants to comfort him. She wants to comfort herself. She has grown weary of denying him.

Before she has time to think about what she’s doing, she crosses the room, and places herself upon his lap, her thighs astride his.

“What are you do–”

His words are cut off as she presses her lips to his eagerly, before pulling away. “I’m begging, Sigtryggr, please. I–”

He surges forward, kissing her again, his mouth possessing hers hungrily as he grasps her hips, lifting her as he stands to deposit her onto the makeshift bed upon the floor, his body caging hers in against the furs.

“I knew you’d give in, little warrior,” he whispers against her neck, kissing his way down her throat to her collarbone.

His fingers toy with the hem of the shift she wears, a silent plea for consent in his eyes as he looks at.

She swallows thickly and nods, nervousness and excitement fluttering ceaselessly in her stomach.

He pulls the garment over her head, throwing it to the side before sitting back on his haunches to admire her.

“Gods…you were worth the wait. So beautiful,” he whispers reverently.

She squirms beneath his gaze, turning her head away at the intimacy of the gesture, feeling shy and uncomfortable.

“Look at me,” he tells her softly. His fingers grasp her jaw, turning her face back to him.

Slowly he undresses, until he is as naked as she is. She feels the familiar ache between her thighs as she drinks in the sight of him, chiseled and battle hardened.

“Now we are equal,” he reassures her.

He reaches for the cross around her neck, toying with it between his fingers, before giving a quick, hard tug, causing the cord to give way. “What we are about to do is no business of your nailed god,” he tells her, tossing it to one side.

He kisses her once more, slower this time, their mouths saving the feel of the other’s against it. Trailing featherlight kisses down her body until he reaches her breasts, he wraps his lips around one of their hardened peaks, sucking gently.

The sensation causes her to moan, a pleasurable sensation shooting through her body, pooling into wet warmth between her legs as she arches against him. 

Sigtryggr repeats the motion on the opposite breast, before descending further down, leaving wet kisses in his wake.

She freezes up when he grips her thighs, placing them over his shoulders so that his face is level with her most intimate of parts.

“What…what are you doing?” She asks anxiously.

“I’m going to taste you,” he says matter of factly, making pointed eye contact.

“You cannot do that,” she protests weakly, “it is an unclean thing to do.”

He grins at her, shaking his head slightly. “Christian,” the word leaves his mouth as a half hearted insult, before he presses forward.

The first swipe of his tongue against her folds causes her to gasp, her hands burying themselves in his hair as he uses his grip on her thighs to pull her closer, his tongue moving against her firmer, deeper, faster.

A groan of satisfaction rumbles in his throat, the vibrations causing her insides to clench as she bucks against his face, chasing the edge of oblivion that his tongue is pressing her towards.

He sucks at her pearl, before laving his tongue over it and she cries out as she spasms against his mouth, ecstasy numbing all of her senses as he continues to lap at her.

Once she relaxes, he pulls away, sitting back between her legs, his chin slick with her juices. His fist runs over the length of his cock as he takes in her blissful state and her eyes widen as she sees the size of him.

He is thick, long and slightly curved. She has never looked upon anyone’s manhood before and she trembles as she wonders how it will possibly fit inside of her.

Sensing her trepidation, Sigtryggr caresses her cheek with his palm. “Relax, little warrior, I have prepared you well.”

He presses the head of himself against her entrance and she braces herself, but then he stops. Her eyes flit to his questioningly.

“Beg for it,” he whispers.

She whines, wanting to hide her face in furs that they lay upon.

“Beg,” he says again, more insistently.

“Please,” he pushes forward, aided by her arousal and release, “please,” he pushes forward again, more of her swallowing him up, accompanied by the sensation of stretching and the slightest of stings, “please,” he pushes forward once more, finally sheathed fully inside of her.

She realises as he settles on top of her, giving her a moment to get used to the feeling of him, that this was merely a means to distract her so that she wouldn’t focus on the possibility of it hurting and grow tense. She smiles, stroking the wild tresses of his dark hair. Always so cunning.

He withdraws his hips slowly, before carefully pushing forward again. He repeats the motion several times, watching her face carefully.

As her breathing quickens, her brow relaxing as her jaw begins to slacken, he increases his pace, hips snapping against hers faster and faster, their kisses frenzied as they pant into each other’s mouths.

She feels him throb inside of her, the sensation pushes her back towards the precipice she’d fallen over earlier, but before she reaches it he is pulling out, spilling pearlescent ropes of spend across her belly.

He wipes her clean with a blanket, discarding it before laying down beside her and pulling her into his arms. A satisfied ache settles within her, she feels she could fall asleep like this, but his voice lulls her back to full consciousness.

“I have released the King’s sons back to him,” he tells her quietly.

“What will happen now?”

“He is sending a warrior named Uhtred into Winchester to negotiate terms, if I accept those terms then my men and I will move on.”

Her heart sinks. She cannot bear the thought of him leaving, not now she knows what it’s like to be in his arms. “Oh,” is all she is able to muster, pressing tighter to him.

They fall into a quiet doze, until he gently squeezes her shoulder. “I must go and speak with Uhtred.”

She watches sadly, quietly, as he dresses. He leans down to kiss her before he leaves and she pushes her lips eagerly to his. If he is to abandon her then she will cling to every last moment until he does.

When Sigtryggr returns later, she is dressed in her shift again, though her cross remains discarded. She is seated by the window, staring listlessly out of it.

He carries a bundle of clothing in his arms and she looks at him curiously.

“To keep you warm,” he explains, deepening her confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“I have discussed terms with Uhtred and we have reached an agreement. I will leave Winchester, on the condition that you accompany me…not as my prisoner, but as my woman.”

She grins, running into his arms and wrapping her arms around his neck.

As they ride away from Winchester, side by side on horseback, she does not feel as though she is leaving her life behind. On the contrary, it has just begun.

[vampyrsm]

An Ode to Lost Love.

✞ — Synopsis: What was that quote about another's silence? “Be leery of silence. It doesn't mean you won the argument. Often, people are just busy reloading their guns.” Right. You should’ve seen this coming, really, it was a little stupid of you to believe he just forgot all about you.

✞ — Warnings: MDNI. Dark content, implied stockholm syndrome, mentions of murder, the reader receives death threats, yandere behaviour, violence, blood, injuries, asphyxiation, the reader is knocked unconscious, concussion, heavy manipulation, preying on the reader, dumbification, objectification, gaslighting, non-con, dubcon (but hardly, it's a very grey area), disassociation, minimal/no prep vaginal sex, burning/marking in detail, reader vomits once due to injuries, creampie, breeding kink, baby trapping, Dabi flipflops a lot between emotions.

✞ — Word Count: 7k

✞ — Notes: This is a Dabi x female!Reader. This is my first real dark content fic. If this is not your cup of tea, please do not interact. Please take care with the warnings, it's very much a dead dove: do not eat. Posted over on AO3 too for ease of reading. I definitely do not condone anything that has been written here, I'm also not romanticising noncon or any of the warnings. Thank you for taking the time to read it, remember to take care and enjoy :)

Living in the aftermath of someone's destruction was just as you would expect; chaotic, and lonesome. You had signed up for this all those years ago but you hadn’t expected it to turn out quite like this. You were never going to get used to the stares when someone recognised you in the store, or the smashed windows of the local youth who wanted to shame someone who was tricked with the promise of something more. 

Though you didn’t feel ashamed for what you had done, nor did you regret it – for the most part, anyway. Sure you had regretted keeping silent when you saw a man lose his life because of a simple mistake, you should’ve left when you realised that you were being lied to. That the man you had fallen in love with was not a misunderstood young man but rather a cruel and deceiving criminal. 

The man in question? Touya Todoroki – also most commonly known as Dabi.

You hated this part of town, it was… less than decent. Run down and filled with low-life criminals who were on the run or simply just wanted to live a somewhat normal life. The walls of the buildings you pass by are decaying, unrepaired from when heroes did decide to pay a visit to the neglected parts of the cities and towns they were supposed to serve and protect. 

What a fucking lie.

It’s not that you hated hero society, per se, but you also knew how disgusting some of the heroes still were. After everything Touya went through after he poured his heart out to you and the rest of the world – nothing fucking changed. Of course, it had pissed you off when they exhausted him to the point of near death before carting him off to Tartarus, they were sweeping him under the rug to be forgotten about. You attempted to reach out to the other members of the liberation but none of them wanted anything to do with you, you weren’t a villain. You were just attached to one.

The stairs up to your rundown apartment were practically crumbling with each step, you made sure to avoid the 8th step that was shattered entirely. When you first moved here, you thought it would only be for a short amount of time, just somewhere to lay low to avoid the probing questions of the heroes who wondered if you were compliant in any of Touya’s crimes. But the two-year timeframe you gave yourself quickly turned to three, then five, and now here you were eight years later. The apartment building looked the same as when you first moved in, the mysterious stain on the carpet leading to your apartment had never been removed and you’re pretty sure the world will end before it’s ever cleaned.

Your door opened with a creak, the old hinges were hanging on for dear life and you never worked up the nerve to ask the guy who let you live here to try and fix it. Of course, you would do it yourself, if it were not for the fear of breaking it entirely and having no door at all in such a shady neighbourhood. With a click of the door behind you, your entire body relaxes with a drop of your shoulders and you drop the keys in the chipped bowl by the front door.

Once free of your shoes, you trudge further into the apartment. Inside it was much nicer than outside, you had made sure to work hard to make yourself comfortable here. At first, you hesitated on decorating, the constant voice in the back of your head telling you that Dabi—Touya wouldn’t like it. But it became easier over time, as the claws he had sunk in your flesh had loosened with each passing day without him leering over you. Of course, he still lingered deep in your bones, scars like the ones he left on you would never truly go away.

You hadn’t realised you were quite so ‘damaged’ until after he was gone. When you were suddenly allowed to break the surface of the water Dabi had been holding you down beneath to see you squirm, it was jarring, to say the least. You struggled day to day wondering what to do with yourself, you had no one to direct your every move or to care for you the way he had. The first couple of years were the worst, a constant void in place of where your heart should be. You longed to have Dabi back, to card your fingers through soft snow-like hair, you missed his insufferable warmth. It had suffocated you at first until it became a comfort, something you needed to get through the day. 

The letters you sent back and forth with him had helped some, the smell of smoke and ash when you’d open a new letter from him would get you through the darkest of nights. He had always had a way with his words, not many would think that of Touya, he hadn’t finished school and he most definitely didn’t have the support through his teenage years but he had taught himself how to read and write. And he was very good at it, very fucking good.

With each letter, you could practically hear his voice, the syrupy low tone that would muddle your brain and numb your nerves. Those letters had started to grow more erratic, it morphed from the loving Touya you had been privileged to know in the safety of his bedroom into Dabi, a cruel villain who wanted you to suffer just as he had. He didn’t take it easy when you told him you were starting to question the legitimacy of your relationship with the scarred man. He grew unkind with his words, the I love you turning into I wish you were fucking dead at the end of each letter. 

He felt betrayed, you figured, everyone he had known had abandoned him and you were just the same as the rest of them. His final letter went into gruesome detail as to what he would do to you once he got out, how his hands may be made to burn but he would relish in watching the light leave your eye when he choked you to death. You didn’t need to read further to know he would’ve gone into detail about what he’d then do with your dead body. That was the last letter you had read, but they continued to come every fortnight like clockwork until they didn’t. You figured he might’ve gotten bored, or perhaps someone had taken him out on the inside. There wasn’t a shortage of people who would want Dabi dead.

The bag in your hand was heavy as you dropped it onto the counter of the tiny kitchen, the relief in your wrist was instantaneous and you could finally relax fully. Your eyes close for a brief moment, relishing in the quiet of the apartment with the distant sound of sirens from down on the street. It was good to be home, each trip was harder than the last with the fear of being recognised by heroes, or worse. With the safety of your home wrapping around you like a comforting blanket, you reopened your eyes to begin the trivial task of putting away the groceries. But as you step further into the kitchen, it’s as if your entire body is dunked into ice water.

There’s a letter. An open letter was pinned to the old wooden cupboard with one of the knives from the rack. You don’t need to get closer to know which letter it is, the paper is well-worn and the big hearts he had drawn at the bottom are enough of an indicator. It’s the one he sent you on your birthday. It was riddled with love confessions, how he missed you more than anything in the world and when he’d get out he promised your hand in marriage. A life you wanted but knew you’d never get with a man like Dabi.

You take a step back, hip bumping into the corner of the counter to startle you into action. You whip around, ready to run out of the apartment but instead, your path is cut off almost instantly. There’s a broad chest in front of you, wide shoulders and a head of snowy white hair that you would recognise in a crowd of a thousand people. When you meet his eyes, he’s sneering down at you with a heat in his eyes that you saw moments before he would burn someone alive.

“Hello, doll. Miss me?” His voice hasn’t changed in the eight years apart, it’s still got a timbre to it that you can feel deep in the pit of your stomach. He looks bigger, somehow, the muscles of his neck and shoulders look firmer. He had always loomed over you but now he seemed even taller, swallowing the room whole with just his aura alone. Dabi must be able to see the way you’re eyeing him up, not quite in the way you had in the past but rather in a way that makes him excited; you were thinking of running.

You’re horribly predictable, he realises as you dash to the other side of the kitchen to dart around the tiny kitchen island that really didn’t give you any sort of head start. You can hear him click his tongue, then huffing a sigh before there’s the loud squeak of his boots and the thump of his bounding footsteps as he chases after you. The apartment is small, you don’t have a whole lot of room to make your escape so you have to rush past him when he starts to corner you into the hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom. 

A big mistake, you realise. He’s always been quick, and lithe on his feet and it reminded you of when a snake would strike. Fast and precise. His hands grab at your ribcage, easily swiping you off your feet before you’re slammed against the closest wall with a bang of your head on the wall. The world swirls when you try to look at him, the blue of his eyes glowing with mirth at the fact you even tried to outrun him. You’ve never been able to do it before, so what made you think you could do it this time?

“Silly fucking bitch,” He snarls in your face, the heat coming from his hands alone makes you squirm uncomfortably, you can feel the sting of welts starting to form on your skin in the shape of his hands. “You thought you could hide from me, didn’t you? You really fucking thought I’d forget about you?” Your silence isn’t what he wanted, apparently, as he pulls you from the wall just to slam you against it once again before throwing you to the floor. The movement has your stomach churning, bile rising in your throat when your head impacts on the floor again. 

“I’d never forget about you, never.” His weight is heavy as he settles atop you, his thighs effectively pinning you beneath him before his hands descend onto your throat. His eyes are wide, manic, his lips parted in a twisted grin that makes him look more like the Devil himself. “Remember what I said to you? Hm? You remember the letters I sent?” You choke against his hands when he pushes harder, your fingers instinctively trying to come up and loosen his hold on you. “FUCKING ANSWER ME!” The spit of his words hits you in the face, but your entire head feels numb and fuzzy, your lips hurt – everything does.

“Y–” He leans in closer, sneering in your face and it does nothing to relieve the pressure on your throat. You’re going to die, he’s actually going to do it. “Yes!” you croak, hardly an audible word but Dabi hears it loud and clear. He holds eye contact as if he’s waiting for something, you’re not quite sure. Maybe he’s waiting for you to die, he had wanted to see the life drain from your eyes—

His hands come away from your throat, a too-hot hand latching on the underside of your jaw and his blunt nails dig into your cheeks. You suck in a harsh breath, choking on the sudden reintroduction of oxygen but you don’t get much longer to relish the fact you’re still alive. Dabi looms over you, the outline of his body blocks out the dingy yellow light overhead, giving him a grim outline that you have to squint at when you look up at him properly.

“Yeah? Then why’d you ignore me? Why’d you make me think you were fucking dead, or that you were busy getting fucked by some other guy like the whore that you are.” There’s a warning in his eye that prompts you to reply.

“I–I was scared!” you clear your throat uncomfortably, the confession coming from your mouth unwillingly but it was the hard truth. You were terrified of him and the things he had said to you, solely because you knew he would go through with it. If Dabi was anything, then he was a man of his word. His fingers curl harder into your jaw, forcing your mouth to open with the pressure. The look in his eye terrifies you, you can’t tell what he’s thinking with the way his eyes bounce back and forth between your own. He’s searching, you belatedly realise, searching to see if you’re telling the truth.

“Good,” he finally says, “You should be fucking scared.” He pulls your head from the floor just to smash it back against the floor in a blink of an eye. Everything falls into inky darkness.

There’s a distant sound of water running, but it sounds like it’s miles away. Your mind starts to slowly swirl back to life, the pain at the back of your head blossoming into something fierce that has a pained groan coming from your lips.

When you open your eyes, you’re no longer looking up at the ceiling of your hallway but rather at the ceiling fan in your bedroom, you’re not sure if it’s actually on or if your vision is still swimming. Nothing is quite adding up, how did you end up here? You were on the floor, and a ghost of something heavy atop of you had your mind jogging to try and catch up. But you weren’t always on the floor, something had put you there — no, someone had put you there. Dabi.

He’s not here, as far as you can tell, there’s no immediate warmth that comes with him when he steps into a room but there’s a distant smell of ash. He was still lurking. The shooting pain in the back of your head has your body jolting, muscles seizing up before they relax once the pain subsides just enough to let you breathe.

You were no idiot, you had hit your head a number of times, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you were teetering on the edge between life and death. Though that doesn’t deter you when your mind finally catches up with you, you have to get out of here. If he’s not here right now, then you have a chance to leave. This might be the last chance you have.

With a great effort that has your face screwing up, eyes clenched shut, you roll yourself onto your side until your face is stuffed into the soft cotton of your bed sheets that you huff against. Your entire body felt like it was being weighed down, your muscles screamed when you slowly got your arms beneath you to push yourself up enough to stare down at the bed. Instantly your eyes lock onto the patch of still-wet blood, the stain was massive and the sight of it had your stomach threatening to empty itself. Or maybe that was the concussion.

Your feet slip on the floor when you try to find your footing, your knees colliding with the floor with a muted thud that you hope Dabi doesn’t hear. The feeling of your jeans against the skin of your knees is relieving, you knew Dabi preferred for you to be … conscious, but you wouldn’t put it past him to want something regardless of whether you were awake or not. Slowly, you get up onto unsteady feet as if you had never walked a day in your life before. Your vision swims again when you stand up straight, it feels as if your head is ten times the size it is as it lolls back in threat of toppling you over again.

But just as you’re about to fall, there are hands catching you beneath your armpits and letting your head land against a shoulder – a bare one, but your mind doesn’t quite connect the dots just yet. “You really are pathetic, aren’t you? You can’t do anything without me, no wonder you panicked when I wasn’t here anymore…” Dabi drawls into your ear, but his voice sounds like it’s submerged in water. He breathes in a heavy exasperated sigh, his body jostling yours. “C’mon doll, let’s get you cleaned up. You made such a mess.”

There’s no room to argue, not that you would be able to form one with how your tongue tingles and your throat burns. Dabi is anything but graceful with the way he drags you towards the bathroom, uncaring for your feet that slip or bang against the corner of the shoddy old wooden door as you pass by.

There’s a bang of a door and you’re submerged in sticky warmth, the steam from the bathtub filling the room to the point where you can’t quite see more than a few inches in front of your face. With a shove and a push, you find your hands pressed into the slippy tile of your bathroom sink, your mind still too foggy to control your extremities and you find yourself pressed against the cool glass mirror.

You can feel Dabi’s eyes on you as he watches you struggle to get your bearings, your forehead pressed to the glass is soothing against the deafening thunderstorm in your head. His fingers are long when they wrap themselves carefully around your throat this time, pressing into the bruises you weren’t aware had already formed from his previous attack. Your head slumps back against his shoulders and you can just make out the glowing blue of his eyes as he stares right back at you, it always felt like he had the ability to stare into your soul.

“Look at you…” He coos, voice a soft contrast to the harsh voice from earlier. His spare hand cards through your hair, brushing past the gash on the back of your head that has you wincing. “My poor baby, you did this all to yourself.” Had you? You supposed he did have a point, you did ignore his letters, and you did try to run when he always told you to never do it. If you weren’t so stupid you might’ve avoided this, you shouldn’t have turned your back on him.

His burning fingers slide up from your throat until he grabs at your jaw once again, angling your head to stare at yourself directly in the mirror. Even through the thickness of the steam you can see you look on the verge of half-dead, there’s no life to your eyes, no usual glow to your skin. It’s horrifying to see yourself looking like a different person entirely. You were no longer you, but rather you were reduced back to the role of being Dabi’s plaything. Dabi hums deep in his throat as if he can hear the sluggish thoughts rolling around in your mind, hooking his chin over your shoulder.

“Look what you did to my baby, my doll. She’s all broken and for what? Because you forgot your place?” He clicks his tongue, chin withdrawing from your shoulder until he’s drawn back up to his full height and you can just make out the look on his face. His nostrils flared, lips drawing into a grim line and eyes half-lidded. “Maybe I should do you a favour, remind you of your place.” Dabi spins you on the spot, steadying your whirling head with both of his hands before he takes a careful step back and you can’t help but wonder if he plans on reminding you of your place by finally putting you out of your misery.

“Strip.”

What?

“Don’t make me do it for you, you won’t like it.” It’s a very clear warning, blaring sirens and red flags. You have to blink hard, will your mind to work with your trembling hands that attempt to grab at the bottom of your shirt. It feels like an eternity goes by until you’re dropping the shirt onto the floor with a wet plop, your eyebrows furrow at the sound but when you attempt to look down your vision swims again – “Useless.” Dabi grumbles before his warmth is pressed to your front, the smell of forest fire smoke choking you.

His fingers are quick and precise when they undo the buttons of your jeans before they’re shoved down your thighs, pooling at your ankles and Dabi is at least courteous enough to let you hold his forearms when you climb out of them until you’re left in just your underwear.

As if appraising a piece of art in a museum, Dabi lets his eyes slowly trail over flesh that he had seen an endless amount of times in the past. His head tilts slowly, regarding the swell of your breasts in the cup of your bra and the softness of your stomach, the way your hips pudge a little from the tight elastic of your plain underwear.

Still engulfing your personal space with his heat, he lets a hand slide up along your side, pressing dangerously into your ribs to hear the sharp inhale of when his fingers brush into bruised skin and muscle. Cerulean eyes level with your own when he inches around to the back of your bra, his fingers seemingly hardly move before the straps slip down your shoulders and the cups slacken on your chest. He plucks it from your body, letting it drop to the floor before his fingers trail back around to your front.

He keeps his head tilted, gaze redirected down to your chest and he can’t help but wet his tongue in anticipation. You had always been his most prized possession, the most beautiful, a masterpiece that was all for him. Those same too-hot fingers trail along the underside of your breasts, feeling the weight of them before groping one much too hard in one large palm. His fingers curl cruelly, squeezing as if it were a stress ball and all you could do was take it, your face crumpling in pain much to his delight.

“I trusted you, y’know.” He all but mumbles, gaze not lifting from the way your tit spills between his fingers when he gives another squeeze. “I thought it would always be me and you, against the world or whatever the fuck they say.” His thumb and index finger mercilessly pinch your nipple, tugging on it harshly to pull a pitiful cry from your mouth.

The sound has his eyes flicking up to yours, watching the way your lashes clump with unshed tears and how you’re not even attempting to stop the saliva dribbling from your lips. You really were so pathetic. Dabi chews on his scarred bottom lip for a moment, tossing over a thought in his mind but instead he opts to move his fingers to your neglected nipple, pulling and tugging until you’re a snivelling mess.

“‘M sorry!” You sob, the volume of your voice makes your head throb and the tears falling in fat streaks make your head feel heavier. “I’m sorry, Touya! Please, I–I didn’t know what to do without you.” The use of his name makes his eyebrow twitch, jaw clicking in place when he glares at you. It’s a low blow, to use his name like that and he knows you know that. He had always forbidden you from using that name unless you were given permission.

“Last warning, doll. I’m being nice here. You don’t get to use that name when you betrayed me.” His words have your mouth closing, bottom lip wobbling in an effort to keep yourself from openly crying in front of your tormentor. He would only ridicule you for it, tease you and see how far he could go before you broke apart from his words alone. Dabi doesn’t wait to pull down your panties next, the material dragging and scratching at your skin until they’re pooled at your feet along with everything else. “Turn around.”

And you do. You wordlessly turn, letting your hands brace on the sink once again before you meet your own gaze in the mirror. You somehow looked worse, the snot and saliva made you look quite like the snivelling petulant child that Dabi spoke to you like. There’s a clink of a belt before it hits the floor, the dropping of your heart into your stomach threatens to tip you over the edge.

A boot kicks your ankles apart, uncaring for the way you flinch at just how hard he kicks you. You’re perched over the sink, your stomach twitching every time it touches the cold porcelain. Dabi had only ever forced himself onto you a handful of times in the past, at the start of your “relationship”, he always soothed your tears and hushed your refusal with false promises hidden in between his sickly sweet words.

Over time the lines blurred between him forcing himself onto you and you willingly opening your legs for him when he asked for it. It pleased him to see you listening to him, and he became ‘softer’ if that was a possible word to describe a villain like him. Time spent with Dabi got easier when he was softer, it actually felt believable when he whispered into your ear at night how much he loved you, how much he appreciated you and how he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. It was hard to distinguish his lies and the truth when he looked at you like you hung the moon and stars.

A searing hot hand pressed to your bare ass has your mind jolting, bile rising momentarily in your throat until you lean into the coolness of the sink once again. Those same fingers that feel as if they had come from the depths of hell brush their way down over your sensitive skin until they find their way between your thighs. And much to your embarrassment, you’re wet. Biology was a cruel mean thing, your body was still hardwired to react to the man of your nightmares lest you want to face the consequences. Your bottom lip wobbles, thankful for the fact Dabi is preoccupied with his new discovery.

His laugh is loud and boisterous, almost manic with the way his eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re fucking wet. I knew it,” he breathes in hard, pushing his hips flush with your own and you can feel the twitch of his leaky cock between your cheeks. “I knew you missed me, I knew you still loved me. This pussy never lied to me, unlike someone.” His words sting, a jab directly into your heart.

He sounds hurt, upset that you’d actually try to lie and hide away from him. It has fresh tears pricking your eyes, how could you hurt someone like him? Someone who loved you so devotedly.

Long deft fingers prod and poke between your thighs, pulling your lips apart crudely to watch the strings of arousal snap and cling to your thighs. He’s still chuckling deep in his chest, elated with the newfound knowledge that you still want him in such a carnal way. He circles your clit in clumsy patterns, enough to have your thighs tensing up and hips arching into the pleasure you’re unwillingly receiving. But the thing about Dabi is—

He’s not a patient man.

The tip of his cock pierces your unprepared hole, the pain shoots from deep in your pelvis and ricochets up your spine until it tingles at the base of your skull. Your hands help brace yourself over the sink, your head drops down and you’re vaguely aware of the way your throat aches with a scream. His fingers find a home in hidden bruises, the sting of his metal staples heating against your skin is familiar. Dabi had always been big, thick and unforgiving with the piercings that he adorned. Each of the barbells digs into your velvety walls, his hips so flush with yours you’re not sure where you end and he begins anymore.

“Fuck, missed this too much. Thought I’d never get to feel your cunt wrapped around me again.” His words are vulgar, but they spark something to life in your brain. Something you hadn’t quite considered until now. Just how was he here? Last you heard Dabi was never getting out, he killed too many people and committed far too many crimes to just be let loose on the world again.

Though you never got to air the question, his hips drawback until they’re smacking back against your ass. The pace from there on out is brutal, the tip of his cock bullies itself into your clenching cunt until it hits against your cervix. Each tap feels like you’re being punched in the gut, your lips parted in a soundless scream.

The pain was too much, the ache in your head was getting steadily worse and the back-and-forth thrashing of your body was making you woozy. “D–Dabi…” You try to speak, the words slurred with the saliva that dribbles from your parted mouth and drips into the sink.

“What?” He snarls, grunting with the effort of how hard he’s fucking you.

“Hurts.” You reply with a gasp, his fingers instantly latching around your throat until you’re pulled up to face what you assume must be the Devil leering over your shoulder with the most disgruntled expression on his face. 

You can smell the burning of flesh before the pain registers, the sizzling hardly audible over the sound of his hips slapping against your abused rear. “Yeah? Maybe it’ll teach you a fucking lesson. Next time you think about trying to leave me, you’ll remember how much it hurt.”

His fingers squeeze tighter around your throat until you can’t breathe, the horrid stench of marred flesh the only thing flooding your system when you desperately try to suck in air. Then you’re falling forward, your forehead plummeting with force against the mirror and you think you hear it smashing over the deafening ring in your ears. It feels like your head is being held under a pillow, like someone has pressed two large hands over your ears and held you there. Your throat burns, for a lack of a better word. The flesh bubbles and hisses with a reminder of Dabi’s words.

You’re not quite sure how much time has passed until you work up the strength to lift your gaze to the now-smashed mirror. The first thing you notice is the blood trickling down from a gash on your forehead, trailing down along the bridge of your nose until it meets the plumpness of your lips – filling the cracks with a metallic taste. Then you see it, the burn, it’s gnarly.

The flesh is hardly recognisable as flesh, it looks like butchered meat. It’s blistered already, layers of the skin open for the world to see and the sight finally does tip you over the edge. The bile doesn’t burn quite as much as the 3rd-degree handprint on your throat as you spill the contents of your stomach into the sink.

Dabi groans in anger, snarling as he retches you away from the sink and throws you onto all fours on the floor. “Disgusting fucking whore,” There’s something wet pressed to your mouth, a sponge you realise, as it drags roughly against your mouth until he forces it into your mouth. The scouring pad scrapes along your tongue, replacing the taste of vomit with soap. “Always making me clean up your messes.” Then it’s gone as fast as it came, your body being shoved and pushed until your back is against the bathmat and you’re staring up at Dabi who seems to be kneeling already between your thighs.

He wastes no time once again in pressing himself back inside of you, the stretch this time nowhere near as painful but it reignites the old ache of when he first forced himself inside. Your heart aches when you stare up at him, silhouetted by the flickering dim light of the bathroom bulb. It makes the white of his hair glow, angelic your brain supplies, but he was anything but an angel. His hands grab at your thighs, forcing them back until they uncomfortably press into your chest. The angle makes it hard to breathe, the furious pace he sets is agonising.

But your body is betraying you once again, the lewd squelch of your pussy is giving you away. A deep dark and twisted part of you has missed this, missed him. Missed the way he would fuck you like it was his last day on earth, like he had something to prove. It has an involuntary whimper leaving your throat, and of course, Dabi perks up at the sound – whilst he didn’t care much if you were silent the entire time, he always enjoyed the cute noises you’d make for him and only him. His eyes find yours, and you’re sucked into the endless expanse of the blinding blue Hellfire.

Dabi has a new goal in mind now, to fuck you the way he knows you liked to be fucked. His hips roll a little more fluidly, finding the old rhythm from all those years ago that surely would have your eyes rolling into the back of your head and your lips parting to sing him the most beautiful of songs with your moans. You don't disappoint him either, not when his thumb joins the fray and rubs languid circles against your puffy clit. The initial contact and stimulation have your hips jerking, fighting against the hold he has on you but it’s futile; he has you pinned beneath him much like a wolf would with its prey.

“There she is,” he grins when your fluttering eyes meet his, that contempt and confusion you had held onto for so long being replaced with a glassy look in your eye that must be lust. “There’s my fucking girl. Missed you so much baby, missed your cute noises. Y’gonna give me more, right? It’s the right thing to do, after all, you did hurt my feelings.” He still looks angelic angled over you like this, the shadows of his face almost hiding the glinting staples and scars that cover most of his body now. You can’t help but nod at his words, it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?

Dabi groans at your assent, fucking into you somehow harder. The slap of his heavy balls against the rim of your ass is loud, the sticky sound of his hips meeting yours fuels your own impending orgasm.

Of course, Dabi knows it’s coming too, his thumb presses firmer against your clit and moves a little faster to edge you closer and closer whilst he drops his hips just enough to have the tip of his cock hitting that squishy spot that no one but him has been able to reach. 

You can’t help but gasp and squeal, your back arching off of the floor until it slams back down when your orgasm hits you like a train. It’s violent, shakes through your bones like an earthquake would through a building. Your toes curl uncomfortably in the air, your thighs twitch in an attempt to close them to bar the man still torturing your clit from causing you any more pleasurable pain.

“Enough,” you try and push his hand away but Dabi never listens, he bats your hand away with a harsh slap that has your skin tingling in pain. “You’re gonna take it, like the good girl I know you are.” 

“Can’t.” 

“Yes you can,” He grapples your still twitching thighs until they tighten around his waist and then he’s diving down to your face. His breath is hot against your face, the smell of cigarette ash suffocates you.

“I know you can. Now kiss me.” He demands, and the fear of not obeying his command in such a compromising position has you indulging him. Your lips press against his, you work hard to try and keep yourself dispassionate but it’s impossible when he does the thing with the tip of his tongue – drags it along your bottom lip so delicately until he pries you open, lets the smooth expanse of his tongue coax yours out until he can suck on it. 

The steadily rising heat of the kiss engulfs you, douses you in an indescribable warmth that you can’t help but lean into the familiarity of it. It’s intoxicating to let go of that fear, to detach yourself from the person you had become in the eight years of solitude and recede back into the one who was simply in love with a man who was willing to burn down the world at her feet. But you’ve never been allowed to live in the illusion you formulate to ignore the harsh reality of things, Dabi would never give you that luxury.

His lips part from yours with a wet smack, saliva coating your lips and he grins again. The staples in his cheeks almost look like they might split as he stares at you, splayed out with a faraway look in your eye when you stare up at him.

“Gonna cum inside this beautiful pussy,” he breathes, eyes coming to life when your eyes slowly start to refocus on him and the words he’s letting spill from his saccharine mouth. “Fill you up nice and good with my cum, get you pregnant so you can never fucking leave me.” 

What? Is that what he wanted? You squirm in an attempt to get away from him, but he keeps you uncomfortably pinned in a deep mating press whilst his cock bullies itself deeper – you hadn’t even noticed the way it was twitching so harshly in the depths of your pussy until now. He was too close, he was really going to do it—

“Oh fuck, yeah, squeeze me like that baby. I knew you wanted me to breed you.” You don’t, you don’t want to be trapped with his child. It’s the ultimate thing he would hold over your head until the end of time, you could never escape him if you gave birth to a child that had the same dangerous eyes as his. “Aw, doll, don’t cry. It’s okay, I won’t leave you to raise the brat on its own. I’ll be there, always.” You hadn’t even realised you were crying until he mentioned it.

The groan that rumbles deep in Dabi’s chest and vibrates up through his throat is something you would never, ever, forget. It was a sound that meant only one thing; he was about to cum. You feel the twitch before the first spurt of molten cum paints your insides. That burn of your insides is something you had grown accustomed to after the time spent with Dabi, he had said it was because of his quirk. Everything about him was just hotter.

He holds himself balls deep in your dripping cunt, uncaring at the shuddering sob that shakes your body at the realisation that he’s going to keep his promise of making sure you get pregnant. The thought has your eyes closing, your head far too sore to think about what might just happen if you were to get pregnant with Dabi’s child.

Your body is limp when he effortlessly picks you up eventually, tucking his hands under your armpits before your feet are placed in something cold and wet. Your body starts with a jolt, your skin pricking with gooseflesh before you’re forced to sit down in the bathtub. Just how much time had passed for the bath to grow cold?

A warm chest is pressed to your back, pulling you effortlessly between long defined legs and arms loop around you like a safety belt. Dabi holds you there, his fingers stroking delicately along the skin he had bruised and marred not too long ago. You could almost fall into the allusion of him being a lover, a man who was simply giving you the aftercare you need.

The bath bubbles around you with the raising temperature, his skin is too hot for you to be laid up against like this and you can feel the staples burning their way into your flesh but you can’t find the strength anymore to fight back. He pushes you forward slightly to reach for a washcloth, dipping it into the scorching water and slowly but carefully dragging it along your bloodied skin. He doesn't go near the wound on your throat.

It feels like no time has passed at all since he left you and now, those eight years apart squashed into nothing when he noses his way into your hair and breathes in.

“How did you find me?” You speak eventually, Dabi remains silent for a moment and that only makes you worry more. 

“I always knew where you were. You shouldn’t trust everyone you meet.” 

And if that wasn’t the truth.

[ciphykiss]

incubus >

blade x f!reader; nsfw, mdni somnophilia (does it count if its in a dream idk), slight dubcon, light “claiming” elements

You’re going to resign tomorrow.

This is what you tell yourself when the siren of your cell blares Jingyuan’s ringtone at 3 AM on a weekend, a mere two hours following your last shift at the general’s personal slammer (you’d applied for an administrative assistant position, dammit; you were supposed to be serving the slick bastard tea and going on lotus cake runs, not wiping prisoner spit off your cheek). In the beginning, you’d attempted to balm the degrading lifestyle with girthy checks, cruising into salons like clockwork every Friday with your hair up and eyes cucumber’d, lovely Foxian ladies attending to your nails and worn muscle (you’d try to ignore their comments about how you’d aged fifty years in half of one but just end up crying), flirted with the latest designer dresses, and found yourself zombie-clicking add to cart whenever you were on the verge of your bi-weekly meltdown.

No amount of flashy makeup, a piled vanity, and three grand miniskirts are convincing enough for Tingyun, however, and the Foxian would only glance over in pity as you threw yourself at your weekend prize in attempts to forget whatever near-death experience you’d suffered from grooming Jingyuan’s latest charge before their trial.

Your holidays always ended in one of two ways: the ambassador consoling you by observing her nails while you threw your guts up on a clubside of the red light district, remarking on how you should’ve just worked under Yukong like she’d told you to (it wasn’t your fault you’d been seduced by the sleeping general enough to delude yourself into thinking you’d had a shot at a postgraduate office romance), victim to you screeching obscenities of “that bastard” while vomiting a day’s meals (five shots of espresso, a chicken wing, and offbrand Lexapro). Then, you’d spy grime under your nails from previous altercation and wail louder, because you were wasting your prime in fucking prison cells.

It was either that, or being rudely interrupted at approximately five-thirty the next day (a holiday, mind you) to a string of texts that had bypassed warnings of “do not disturb” in favor of bitching about how a true friend wouldn’t let you sleep with a negative four. The true miracle was you not ending up on Tingyun’s blocklist (she’d added you indefinitely once until you’d bombarded the Sky-Faring Commissions with love letters begging their amicassador for “one more chance pls :’(( </3”).

“Why don’t you just quit,” Tingyun had asked on an average Sunday afternoon while stirring her margarita; the Foxian looked a picture-perfect beauty next to your rat-haired, hoodie-clad figure, makeup from last night melting off your face. 

You’d ceased licking hollandaise sauce off your upper lip to stare at her. And instead of arguing about how you’d likely never procure a salary as high as your current one (nothing was worth the cost of your youth and beauty), or how Jingyuan could, quite literally, ruin every one of your future job prospects if he deemed you necessary (you’d find a way to murder him; hell hath no fury like a woman scorned), you could only muster a single thought.

“Tingyun, you’re a genius.”

The paperwork (because he is the bastard, Jingyuan had purposefully orchestrated his resignation process to be thrice as lengthy as the average Luofunian businesses, complete with word-limit essays detailing the exact reason for departure and a five-year timeline on future posts) is stashed under a vase on your nightstand; you make a mental note to litter expletives along the margins to finalize the word count. With the shit he’d just pulled, the general would be in no position to even raise a brow.

“Where’s the newbie,” you grit, slamming your receiver and thumb print over the holographic lock of the Cloud Knight’s maximum security cells. Your companion, a Vidyadhara accountant-turned-night watch guard (because Jingyuan’s ever-growing penchant for tossing civil servants into the line of criminal apprehension remained steadfast even before your recruitment), sweats nervously, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Miss [Name],” Danyin stresses, wincing at the sight of weeks-old inmates clawing at his fabrics for scraps of food, money, and flesh; you ignore him, walking onwards with an air of pissed-offery not even the most seasoned of inmates would dare inflame; your hair hangs behind you, perfumed and damp from its midnight shower, face void of the traditional rouged eyes and thick liner you’d adopted since entering Jingyuan’s court. “If I may speak—”

“You may not.”

“—the general was adamant you meet with him first before apprehension of our newest inmate. He seems… quite ruffled.”

“As he should be, because the next time I see him, I’ll rip him a ne—”

“It is evident that this criminal is naught like the others, [Name], and this is the first time we’ve had to quarter anyone in Cloudford’s maximum security ce—”

You whirl around to face Danyin, eyes ablaze. The guard withers under the brunt of your glower.

“I will see to it my duties are performed,” you say evenly, “and then, I will clock out, return to bed, and enjoy the rest of my weekend with my cell muted. You can let that scoundrel know I will be unavailable for the next 48 hours.”

And with that, you jerk the handlebar of the deepest cell in Jingyuan’s fort shut, your last sight that of Danyin with his mouth hanging open.

The maximum security cells of Jingyuan’s prison are surprisingly less unkempt than the bustle of the commons; it is dark and smells distinctly of a new, unused apartment complex. There are neither guards nor cellkeepers, no windows to speak of; only a dark, winding hallway leading to your destination.

It’s the first time you’d been allotted clearance; originally, you’d presumed the general lacked faith in both your combat abilities and the unwavering loyalty shared by his retinue (both are correct), but now, you realize it’s simply due to a lack of occupants.

(And rightfully so, because you’re having a terrible time imagining what dangers would have Jingyuan paranoid.)

You stop in front of a glass cell; it is tempered, element, bullet, sound, and magic proof; you glance down at your wristwatch and realize it has lost its signal. A neon red “O” flashes on top of the door.

Hesitantly (because despite your lack of sleep and the fact that you’re moving on sole hatred), you touch the glass, peering into the darkness for any sign of movement (any sign of life).

There are none.

Chewing your bottom lip, you decide to adopt the usual “fuck it” mentality you’d been ailed with after more than a few double-digit near death encounters in these halls and press the pads of your fingers over the lock.

It churns, once, twice, thrice, before responding in a robotic monotone; “high-risk individual detected; please exercise caution.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave your hand. “Just get it over with.”

A pause. “Searching database; clearance confirmed. Please confirm entry command.”

You click your tongue. “I do.”

A soft, buzzing sound. “High-risk individual detected; please reaffirm entry command.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, yes!”

The algorithm grows silent. The cogs behind the seemingly innocuous doorway bluster for at least ten seconds, winding open in a rigid, clumsy gait.

Inside, it is darker still. It smells of the preserved glaze used all over the Luofu to seal unused buildings, and a hint of dust; metallic odors assail your nose. Your eyes adjust to the blackness, and you peer long enough to spy the end of a conversation table.

“...uh, hello?”

No response. Annoyed, you search the walls for the lightswitch—your hands dart blindly until it finds the lever.

Dim, blue hues glint off the corridor, bathing the cell in an ominous, funeral-morning light. Your eyes train to the end of the table, and there he sits—still, unmoving, a mane of raven hair cascading down his back, a flesh-and-bone composition of some western Dracula. He is unlike any other inmate you’d laid eyes on before, something incorrigible, clandestine about him; it’s as if he’s frozen in the intersection of immortality and death, one foot through the door, never fully on either side. Distinctly, it reminds you of some late-stage cases of mara-struck individuals that would eventually be sent for termination (the grim fate of all Xianzhou natives).

He is as strong as he is imposing, and nearly as tall as the general himself; this, you can ascertain by the muted rise of his chest, the cling of Xianzhounian fabric over battle-hardened muscle, and knees that hit the bottom of the table. 

He can kill you, you realize instantly; a part of you screams that he not only can, but will. It is a primitive fear, one you hadn’t thought you’d face in the closely-guarded Luofu ship, especially under the watchful eye of the Cloud Knight’s general; it’s enough for you to stop breathing, and render you frozen in your tracks.

You force yourself to exhale, dragging the chair on your end of the table back to situate yourself.

“Good evening,” you manage to utter, cringing at how it comes out a half-squeak; you bite your tongue, willing yourself to harden. A killer this man might’ve been (a professional one, if your screaming gut instinct had anything to say), you didn’t power through half a decade of amicassador training and Jingyuan’s bullshit to flail at the sight of a wanted criminal. “I’m [Name], associate-assistant of General Jingyuan of the Cloud Knights, acting director-in-command of Cloudford’s maximum security center; my duties include, but are not limited to, prerequisite questioning of inmates following admission, collection of bio-data, and basic care of inmates that are unable to groom oneself.” You spy the etherous shackles bound at the wrists of his gauze-covered hands. “Do you consent to the precursory collection of bio-data?”

No response. Not even the slightest tilt of a head, not a single hair moving out of place. A little paler, and you’d presume him dead. You chew the inside of your mouth.

“Would you be willing to provide your legal name? Planet of origin? Species?” Each question is followed by another inch of silence, widening the sea between you and the stranger; though you’re simply following protocol, you can’t help but shiver at the thought of offending Jingyuan’s newest specimen. “...that will conclude logistics. As per duty, and due to current physical restrictions, I am, by law, required to provide basic grooming; this will include a wipe-down of the face. You may vocalize any additional requests; if deemed appropriate by the Cloud Knight Codex, I will comply.”

Silence.

You decide you’d rather the world swallow you back into its womb and spit you back out so you might choose another path in life. Anything to prevent the development of that stupid crush on the scoundrel-general that had left you moon-eyed enough to brush off Tingyun’s recommendation of bannering under Yukong’s Sky-Faring Commission, where you’d entertain foreign investors and tryst with exotic artists instead of dancing with the stink of death every workday.

“...I’m going to touch you now,” you murmur, the scrape of your chair filling the cell. “Please excuse me.”

It’s like diving head-first into a guillotine; every live-wire nerve in you is shrilling for you to run, dignity and Jingyuan and the peace of the Luofu be damned. Leave the goddamn cell door open if you had to; anything to save your own skin. You don’t, of course; instead, you waver in front of the man, still a sitting statue, and tear open the sterile clothpack you’d pocketed.

Slowly, you kneel—and suddenly, you’re having to look up at him, all harsh lines and dark hair, and you thank the Aeons he’s blindfolded and you can’t see his eyes, because you know you wouldn’t have been able to perform any duty under the brunt of a killer’s stare.

He smells of incense and the bloodied scabbard of a sword. Specifically, the woodsmoke used in funerals. Hesitantly, you press the damp end of the satin to the stranger’s cheek.

The result is instantaneous, and you would’ve missed it had you hadn’t been seasoned by years of dealing with the most insidious of criminals; his mouth twitches, his nostrils flare; the actions are subtle, not at all assuming to the naked eye, and would, when performed by any other inmate, be brushed off as involuntary fidgeting;

But not this man, not death himself.

You nearly drop the cloth in alarm. But you don’t, and you try to look anywhere but him (because looking at him hurts as much as it would staring into the core of a non-artificial sun), climbing over the bridge of his nose, the flesh of his lips, the dip of his brows and the cuts of his hard, narrow jaw.

He is handsome.

The thought is both funny and terrifying; it helps you function, albeit more normally, though a part of you knows you shouldn’t find a national security threat anything more than appalling.

“Done,” you murmur, pulling back until you’re no longer drunk on the scent of orientals and woodsmoke. You pause, affirming just how pretty he is up close—a word you’d seldom use to describe men, and though he is absurdly handsome, there’s something flowery about the drape of his hair over his shoulder (another sign of danger, you now realize, as Xianzhounian warriors only cut their hair after defeat), the fullness of his mouth; like a carnivorous, night-flowering jasmine, you muse, blooming a scent so elusive it would only attract the most macabre of victims into its maw.

Aeons, the wanted criminal had you waxing poetry. Had your perpetual sleep deprivation toed its way to insanity?

“...do you require any further assistance?”

It shouldn’t shock you, it really shouldn’t; and yet, his response has the same effect as being struck with a killing blow from the general’s lightning lord itself;

“No,” he rasps, and the sound shoots right down to your core.

Fuck. Maybe you should’ve convinced your Foxian friend to take that old geezer up on his threeway offer last weekend, because it had clearly been too long since you’d gotten laid. For a wanted criminal you’d just laid eyes on to have such—

No. There’s no way. You make a mental note to ask Tingyun what self-care devices are trending and hide the pang in your nether regions with a shuffle of your thighs.

“Alright,” you squeak, scrambling to your feet—and protocol be damned, because there’s nothing in this godforsaken intergalactic universe that can stop you from crawl-dashing out the door as fast as your stupid work heels will carry you.

You need an intervention (an orgasm). Stat.

ꨄ︎

The Jingyuan that haunts you at dusk is as capable as the one you loathe during the day, thrice as inflamed, and so deliciously pliant. Your vision is obscured in the pewter-gray of his mane, teeth scraping the naked flesh of your shoulder, wet and warm and hard.

You dig your nails into the roots of his hair, as always, and yank. In response, he lets out a muffled groan—you imagine the sound reverberates under your skin like ripples along a lake, and feel his (your) hands dip below the hem of your dress. He would be careful, you think—considerate, despite his bastardry, barely bruising, just harsh enough to leave you wanting, just how you like it (or so you think).

“I hate you,” you gasp, to no one; Jingyuan chuckles, lips soft over the juncture of your throat.

“Me?” 

“You,” you moan, the rake of your nails along his back coaxing him into littering a thousand kisses over your neck. “I hate you, I hate you—you and your stupid hair and lackadaisical, know-it-all attitude, and—fuck, I deserve a raise!”

“You don’t sound as though you hate me,” he hums. “In fact, you sound… rather pleased.”

Of course the Jingyuan in your hallucinogen-inspired wet dream is as cocky as the one in flesh; you scowl, landing a good one across his left cheek. He laughs, then, which spurs you to lock your legs around his hips and push him into the plush of the many pillows of your dreamscape.

“Shut up,” you order, “and put that mouth of yours to use for once.”

He doesn’t need any further instigation; dream-Jingyuan (somehow just as insufferable, despite being the byproduct of YOUR imagination) grabs you by the thighs and splits you open like his last meal. You gasp, hips moving of their own accord—reality blurs with the walls of your dreamworld, your own fingers replaced with the general’s calloused ones, and you sway to build the peak of your climax to your heart’s desire, lips coaxed open by his tongue, clit brushing against the bridge of his nose.

It’s all too much, really; you don’t remember the last time you’d had a dream so vivid, despite having remedied your insomnia quite often with visions of taming the sleeping general. There’s a strange sense of liminality; the thick fog separates to make way for cracks that closely resemble your bedroom wall, silk sheets fading into the strewn blankets you’d received as a New Year’s gift.

And then, Jingyuan does something completely unscripted—he slides you off his face, throws your leg over his hip, and grinds into your core.

You let out a whimper, something small in the back of your mind screaming that this isn’t normal—that a fabrication shouldn’t be chasing after his own pleasure, that the teeth along your neck feel harsher, more volatile;

But you can’t be bothered to care, whining for more—because suddenly, his mouth isn’t enough, and you need him, you need to be filled—had your vision been less blurry, and had you been even a smidgen less wanton, you wouldn’t noticed the shock of white hair fade into ink, the bare chest replace itself with dark fabric, and the fog of your dreamscape turn to overhead skies and a bed crowned in a million spider lilies.

And then,

“Jingyuan?” The forbidden, familiar baritone husks into your ear, and Aeons, you’d never crumbled faster—your eyes split open, still hazy, glittering with unshed tears—of frustration, of want, of hatred, everything in between and more, and you feel yourself getting even wetter. “Of all men, him?”

“What’re ‘ou doing here?” You babble, incoherent; your arms are still wrapped around his neck, and slowly, the inmate you’d been acquainted with mere hours before rises, shrouding your world in a curtain of black hair.

He smells the same—incense and blood and rain. Great. Now you’re hallucinating scents.

“That won’t do,” he says, lowering his face; the fabric of his blindfold touches your forehead, and you’re not sure why, but the fact that you can’t truly see him is even more erotic than any fantasy you’d ever conjured up before.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you mumble, the last shreds of decency slipping away to the cloudsmoke of his perfume and the flush of his hardened body against yours. “This isn’t—mmm!”

His mouth is on yours, and it is nothing like any mirage store-bought fantasia can conjure up; he is nothing like the men you pick up at clubs, nothing like the teasing Jingyuan in your dreams. He is taking you, commanding your lips to part to make way for him; his tongue searches yours, feverish and so ravaging that it should have you fleeing the planet.

Then, he moves, and you feel the brush of something hard against your mound, near corporeal; the threads of rationality snap, and you’re arching, using your hooked leg as leverage to melt into the dream-criminal’s body, because now, a dream isn’t enough—you want to feel him, warmth and muscle and the cage of his arms, and become one; a mouth isn’t enough. Suddenly, nothing is enough.

He pulls away to latch onto your neck, and you cry at the loss.

“No,” you wail, hooking your remaining leg over his waist. Slender, moreso than Jingyuan’s. “Kiss me more—gimme more—I need—”

“Take it yourself,” he says, working on the welts now littering your collarbone in what an absurd part of you assumes is an attempt to replace any remnants of the dream-general. “Do you really think yourself deserving?”

Tears brim at the corners of your eyes. “So—so mean,”

You lay there for a minute more, frustrated and so stupidly wet, aching for his touch while he seems content to deliver his punishments in the form of mouthing along every inch of your throat and breasts.

“You demon,” you accuse, fisting his shirtsleeve pathetically. Your lips twitch into a frown when he continues to ignore you.

Take it yourself, huh?

And then, because it’s a dream and you would rather die than be left unsatisfied in your own un-reality, you grab the stranger by the face, part your lips open, and finish what he so rudely began.

A part of you expects a nightmarish turn—one where he lashes out to skewer your gut, or worse; instead, he indulges you, fingers steadying your hips as they attempt to grind into a rhythm.

“You’re in my dream, aren’t you?” You whisper, scattering pecks along his cheek—he is, after all, so pretty, too pretty not to dote on. “Take responsibility. Jingyuan would.”

It’s like smelting a firecracker; his mouth bends into an almost-scowl, and the grip on your hips turns bruising.

Bandaged fingers curl into your heat, building atop an existing pressure—your reaction is visceral. A gasp, then an involuntary swivel of your spine with the heels of your feet digging into the bed; and just as you think he’s going to build a staccato, his ministrations halt.

It’s devastating, and it has you wailing into the crook of his pale, unforgiving, not-quite-embrace; frustrated, you knock your fists against his chest. If it were reality, it would hurt you more than it hurt him.

“You bastard.”

“I could ruin you,” he haunts, an echo in your ear. “I could make it burn. You would dream of me in the waking world, cry for me in the dreaming. A slave to passion, day and night; hardly sleeping, hardly eating, merely breathing, finding relief only when I move inside you.”

His lips graze over your own.

“But I won’t.”

It’s a strange, humiliating experience, coming undone from a mere kiss; your heat throbs, neglected, still sobbing to be touched, be soothed, put at rest; but the way he holds you can be mistaken as loving, and the curl of his mouth against yours is almost kind; it’s like grasping at the shadow of a man that never existed.

And then, you wake up.

Your walls are sepia and no longer skies, there are no lilies at your feet. Your cheeks are tear-stained, and there’s a hand under your skirt, the other cupping your breast in poor mimicry of your dream demon.

Something red catches the mirror on your nightstand.

There, splintered across the previously unmarred expanse of your throat, lies a canopy of bruise-colored kisses.

[nico-di-genova]

Hi. Can I kindly request n°44 "If you die, I'm gonna kill you" for strollonso??? But it is Fernando talking to Lance. Thanks <3

Um, yes, absolutely you can. I raise you, Fernando is talking to Lance but Lance is definitely not talking back. 44. "If you die, i'm gonna kill you."

Fernando isn’t sure how they got here.

Mentally, he is still leaning over the edge of Lance’s car, discussing balance settings, with one arm propped on the halo, hand resting on the top of Lance’s helmet, and the other motioning at the wheel.

Mentally, Lance is still laughing at the lewd joke Fernando had made under his breath about control of the car. He can still hear the way Lance’s laughter had come out muffled by the helmet, already far away despite the fact that they were hardly separated by more than a foot.

He isn’t sure what he’s doing here, still in his race suit, nomex stiff with dry sweat, his hands crusted with dried blood. Lance’s blood, he thinks, he knows, but he isn’t really sure.

In his mind, he’s in the Aston Martin garage, watching Lance pull out first and crawl out of the pitlane with one last wave at Fernando as he went. Or maybe it was a middle finger, jokingly thrown and playfully received. Maybe there was no wave at all, maybe Fernando just wishes there was.

His brain can’t seem to catch up to the fact that Lance is lying unconscious in the hospital bed before him. It can’t even catch up to the crash that landed him here in the first place. It’s stuck on muffled laughter through polystyrene.

His hands shake, Fernando can’t stop the tremble.

“You need to change,” Lawrence remarks from where he sits across from Fernando. His suit jacket is thrown over the back of his chair, sleeves of his button-up pushed to his elbows. He holds his son’s hand, careful not to disturb the IV that’s been inserted into the vein there and drips a steady dose of morphine. There’s some of Lance’s blood smeared across his cheek, Fernando feels sick at the sight of it.

“You have his blood on your face.”

Lawrence winces, gives Fernando a once over.

“You have it everywhere.”

The tremble in Fernando’s hands worsens.

“Go. Clean up. I’ll stay with him.”

Fernando thinks about fighting, but he can’t even bring himself to look at Lance’s prone form in the bed, can’t even get past the crusting crimson under his own fingernails and the scent of smoke that seems to linger in the air. He isn’t doing much good. At least Lawrence can touch Lance.

He stumbles to the bathroom attached to the room blindly, washes his hands and face robotically with fingers that do not feel like his own. Watches the pink tinged water run down the drain until it runs clear and then stares at the porcelain until he can force his eyes upward.

The face that stares back at him in the mirror cannot be his own. In the harsh fluorescents his skin appears pale, the circles under his eyes stark. There’s a gash of red still smeared along the underside of his jaw.

Lance blindly reaching for him, trying to say his name around the blood in his mouth, his gloves stained crimson from where he’d tried to staunch the flow of the stuff from his body.

Fernando blinks, the ghost in the mirror blinks back. Through the thin wood of the bathroom door he can hear the steady beep of Lance’s heart monitor, it’s the only reason he doesn’t vomit.

‘You’re okay,’ he can hear himself saying to Lance, ‘you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.’

He tries to say it to the man in the mirror, but the words stick in his throat, along with the bile.

‘You like control, yes? Do not let this car fuck you, that is for me to do.’

Lance’s laughter plays on a loop in his head until he cannot distinguish it from the drone of a flatline, the roar of flames, the way he had screamed when they tore Lance away from him. Wild, primal, unthinkingly reaching for the man even as he was carted away by frantic hands and hurried chatter. Screaming until his voice was hoarse, until the gravel digging into his knees forced him back into his body.

Lance’s blood has soaked through his fireproofs, dried tacky on his skin with the sweat. He tries to pry it from his body like it will reveal something new and untainted underneath. Instead, he ends up on the cold tile with the fabric half over his head and his own tears choking him.

He isn’t sure how long he stays on the floor, only that when he comes out, shirtless and skin rubbed raw from cleaning the blood from his body, there is an Aston Martin sweatshirt waiting for him in his seat. Maybe from the rest of the team waiting in the lobby, maybe pulled from a swag bag someone in PR had been lugging with them. He doesn’t care, he pulls it on and is grateful that it smells like the factory and not gasoline.

“Thank you,” he mutters to Lawrence, who only musters a grunt in response.

The circles under his eyes are worse than Fernando’s, darker, heavier. His grip on Lance’s hand has grown tighter, like he’s trying to force his son back into consciousness by breaking his fingers.

“You next,” Fernando says, motioning at the death grip he’s keeping on Lance’s already bruised hand.

“No. No I- I can’t.”

“He is not waking up soon.”

It sounds harsh, mean, but Fernando only means it as the truth. He’d pulled Lance from the car, before the flames could get to him, seen the steering column pierced through the fabric of his suit and into his intestines. He’d weighed the cost of moving him against the cost of hoping the medics would get to him before the flames did and taken the road he though would let him keep Lance.

He isn’t sure he made the right call.

“I have to stay,” Lawrence states, like if he goes Lance will suddenly cease to be. Fernando knows the feeling. Or maybe it’s that he thinks Fernando will finish the job. As if he meant to push Lance off the track, send him flipping at top speed over the tire wall and into the concrete barrier that held the fence up. Like the blood on Fernando’s hands was something that was still there, something that would never be washed off.

“An accident, Lawrence.” He forces out, “It was an accident.”

“I know.”

“So go wash your fucking face, yes? Before your son wakes up to the sight of his own blood.”

Lawrence looks at him then, finally seeing him, eyes darkening with a hatred Fernando is almost grateful to see. It feels righteous, deserved. It is not the same look Lawrence had first given him when Fernando had signed that contract, lying through his teeth that he would play nice. That he would treat Lance with respect. But Fernando is not the same man who signed that paper.

“You were told to stay. Told not to fight,” Lawrence spits, and finally there is emotion in his voice instead of a dead emptiness.

Fernando remembers thinking fuck that, remember Lance demanding he lose the kiddy gloves, remember how he’d tried to slam on the breaks even at the expense of his own safety. It was a bitter taste of his own medicine, and somehow Lance was still the one in the hospital bed.

The worst crash in decades, he’d heard the news from a room across the hall. Fernando at the center of it all, again.

“I know.”

“Then why the fuck did you?!” Lawrence demands, voice growing, grip on Lance tightening. The heart monitor doesn’t spike, Lance doesn’t twitch.

Fernando finds he does not have an answer. That’s maybe the worst part of it. Lance bleeding out in the gravel all for the risk of P9. For measly points in a championship already lost and bragging rights only between the two of them that they would have wrestled out on the mattress later.

“I don’t know.”

“Stupid,” Lawrence spits.

Fernando doesn’t disagree.

“You want me to go?” He asks instead, because Lawrence is Lance’s father. He’s bandaged scrapped knees and wiped away tears and been there for birthday parties and graduations and the six year old who’d gotten into a kart for the first time. It’s him Lance should wake up to.

If he wakes up, the dark voice in the back of his mind whispers. Fernando tells it to go back to hell.

Lawrence’s jaw ticks with tension. He looks between Lance’s slack face and Fernando’s miserable one, weighs something between them that Fernando can’t see, maybe the cost of Lance’s body in Fernando’s arms. And then he sighs and shakes his head.

“No.”

Fernando breathes.

“No. You don’t have to- Jesus. Just- just stay here and sit with him, yeah?”

Fernando nods.

“I have to call his mother.”

She’d already been halfway to the airport when Lance had gone into surgery. By now she probably would have landed. Soon Fernando will have to give up his seat, wait it out with the rest of the team, pretend like he didn’t know what it sounded like when Lance snored in his sleep or how he looked with sunlight filtering across his face in the morning. Lawrence doesn’t have to gift him this moment alone, but he does, because they both know it’s what Lance would have wanted. He casts one last weary glance at the both of them from the doorway before sighing again and going into the hall.

Fernando stares at Lance’s hand for a moment, wrapped in gauze, index and middle finger splinted together because they’d been shattered by the force of the wheel breaking off in his grip. It takes him a moment to go any higher than that. He deliberately avoids looking at the rise and fall of Lance’s stomach beneath the sheets, knows the stitched together mess of skin and muscle and intestines are bound and wrapped there beneath the white linen like a macabre present.

There’s bruising along Lance’s neck, his chest, mottled and already dark against paper white skin. There’s the tube down his throat, because he’d flatlined in the airlift and they’d had to intubate him. Because he stopped breathing.

Fernando is thankful he hadn’t been allowed in the helicopter. He isn’t sure how he would have responded, isn’t sure how Lawrence stomached it.

There’s bruising around his eyes as well, swelling, pressure of the impact rattling him even with the helmet and the hans. Fernando tries to picture warm brown eyes, amber in the sunlight, crinkling with laughter and glinting with some sharp witted remark. But he closes his eyes and instead all he sees is Lance blinking up at him, already glassy and fading, pupils blown, brown swallowed by wide-eyed and frightened black.

‘You’re okay.’

Hesitantly, he hooks a finger around Lance’s pinkie, traces his thumb along the knuckle. It’s the only part of him that seems safe to touch.

When he opens his mouth, it is an apology that spills out, and then another, until Fernando is sobbing with the words ‘I’m sorry,’ dripping onto the sheets alongside his tears.

Lance does not respond.

“Please,” Fernando begs, the plea unfamiliar on his tongue, tasting of smoke and bile.

“Come back. Wake up. Please. Cariño, I’m sorry, please.”

Outside, through the sliver of a glass pane on the door, he can see Lawrence pacing the hall – phone pressed to his ear, eyebrows furrowed, lips twisted in frustration. It is shockingly similar to the way Lance looks when he’s in the media pen. Annoyance lacing with the overwhelmingly stifling need to get out, away, safe. Fernando thinks, twistedly, that at least he got his wish today. If any cameras come within the radius of the hospital he’s sure Lawrence would be serving them with papers for harassment, maybe would even go as far as to run them over with his car.

“Your father is a bastard,” he says, meaning it only as a compliment, in a way he knows only Lance would understand.

“I think he will force you from your beauty sleep if you do not wake soon, princess.”

He pauses like Lance will answer, or laugh, his only response is the continuing beeping of the heart monitor.

‘Substantial injuries,’ he can hear the doctor in his head, ‘Internal bleeding, swelling, pressure on his brain’ a laundry list of bad, bad and more bad.

‘He will wake up?’

‘There’s a possibility, yes. But also the potential that he doesn’t. It’s too early to say.’

Lance cannot breathe on his own yet, still needs the tube to do it for him. Fernando thinks they are wrong, thinks Lance would hate the feeling of the thing down his throat the same way he hates when clothes are too tight and people too loud.

He thinks of ripping it out.

Instead, he reaches out to brush his finger parallel to the butterfly stitches keeping Lance’s brow together and says, “If you die, I will kill you.”

In his head, Lance laughs.

“So you will not die.”

The heart monitor beeps, Lance doesn’t move, and Fernando waits. Mentally, he is in the Aston Martin garage.

Edit: Good news for those that like angst, there's a part 2 to this!

[cartoonpigeon]

some killjoy hcs/rambles :3

big fan of the HC that Ghoul has hearing loss like. look at that fella and tell me he has any sense of safety precautions

i also think he knows how to shoot his raygun and obviously has his explosives but if a fight ever becomes close range she just starts Biting

and that fucker can bite HARD he has dogshit dental heath (but that's pretty much a given if you live in the zones, i think) but his bite is so strong he often would rather use his teeth than scissors

also playing around (like. considering) with the hc of him being bigender? idk, thinking about that

cause i hc him as being raised in the zones + his crew died when he was young, i think he doesn't really have like. a strong idea of binary sex/gender/sexuality? like, i feel like labeling people is mostly a City concept, and killjoys just do whatever (although some killjoys do label themselves, it's just not an often occurrence)

SPEAKING OF THE CITY!!! i think Party and Kobra where both raised there and escaped together

Party realized they were NB and probably some flavor of queer when they were pretty young and tried to repress it at first, but that's obviously not health so it lead to them having really shit metal health/had a mental health crisis, but eventually they told Kobra and he tries to give them advice/ just be someone for Party to talk too

i also think they stopped talking their pills pretty young (like, i think Party stopped around puberty? so 10ish) and Kobra stopped a bit before Party came out to him (which is why he didn't report them and was able to help them)

Party's queerness is kinda what led to them leaving the city (i think there also may have been a confrontation with their parents that narrowed down their options to either running away or getting turned over for "reprogramming" but hey ho)

i think they would've met Jet Star and his crew pretty soon after them leaving the city, and they helped them to get to Dr. D

Jet couldn't convince the crew to let Party and Kobra stay any longer so they parted ways there

i actually don't have many Jet specific hcs other than that his eye patch is probably either due to an accident Ghoul caused or due to a clap with a drac

i think about a year after meeting Party & Kobra he leaves his own crew to go form his own/traverse the desert

which kinda leads to a general killjoy hc that they tend to be in crew with their families till they leave to form/find their own at around 15-20 (although some killjoys do stay in their original family crew)

there's probably zone-wide gatherings/parties where a tone of killjoys meet up to relax and have a good time

i flip flop between Party and Ghoul meeting at one of these and them meeting in some abandoned area while Party's doing a supply run

Ghoul speaks Afrikaans because i said so :3 (don't ask how it makes sense in canon - it doesn't really)

He reverts back to speaking it when angry/feeling very strong emotions (although it tends to be very choppy cause although speaking afrikaans is like his coping mechanism, he wasn't taught much of it by his family before they died)

I think she'd try to teach the other killjoys at some point cause it'd make communication easier, but Party's the only one who's remotely good at it cause they're the only other person in the group who can roll their r's

Party & Kobra r very shocked when they learn that other languages is a thing like. at all. cause growing up in the city they wouldn't have been taught that other languages r like. a thing ++ they would kinda also be taught at the same time that "everyone only speaking english is better cause then there's no error in communication ^_^" or something like that

idk whether or not i want Ghoul to be the reason they find this out… it'd definitely make for a good fic idea

like I said, I hc Ghoul as having bad dental health, but I think that also applies to Jet

Party and Kobra's good dental health is actually pretty unusual -- people tend to be able to tell they're from the city because of it

I also think they all have some kinda acne/acne scarring

for Party (and to a lesser extent, Kobra) it was a (bad) way to cope with the stress and anxiety of living in the city, and it became a habit that's still very hard for them to break

for Ghoul and Jet i think it's more a background thing they've never thought too hard on? like, oh there's red spots on my face now and some of them hurt? slay /pos

[joelswritingmistress]

You Scare Me, Professor: Chapter 53

Summary: The reader is taking graduate classes at a local university in the wooded upstate New York. She is drawn to her professor, Dr. Joel Miller, though she is also inherently aware that he has something dark about him that she can't quite put her finger on. As the reader's attraction grows deeper, she has to decide whether to endure the danger or run away as fast as possible. 

Pairing: Professor Joel Miller x f!reader 

My brain couldn’t accurately comprehend the reality of the situation. It was like a wall went up in my mind to protect me from the horrors that were happening before me. Amidst the paused chaos I somehow could hear Dr. Miller’s heavy breaths. They were deep and consistent, matching up with the heaving of his shoulders. And then I heard the numbers 9-1-1 being said in the background.

Will suddenly whipped around to face Carol, who held a phone to ear in her bloody hands. Chas lifted an arm, pointing in Will’s direction as he turned to charge in her direction. And then..

Bang!

That sound. I will never forget that sound. My hands moved to my ears and my breath was lost when Will stumbled forward and toppled over, half in the pool and half out. Watching blood fly into the air was like something out of a movie.

“The spa in the basement!” Carol shrieked into the phone and then it fell from her hand as she stared at Will - the man she loved, the man she was about to marry. It was utter heartbreak.

When Will moved, Dr. Miller suddenly breathed again. It was a gasping breathing, one I could tell he had been holding in.

Carol dropped to her knees beside her father, pressing both hands against the wound again. From then until the first responders arrived, nobody moved. It was as if someone had halted all of us.

Stretchers carted away Chas and Will. Police had Carol, Dr. Miller and me wrapped in blankets as they attempted to seek answers.

“Is my father okay?” Dr. Miller asked. “Where’s Mom? Carol where is she?”

Carol couldn’t speak. All the color had drained from her face and she just stared ahead, unable to respond to any of the officers’ questions.

“She’s in shock,” I heard one of them say.

“Carol.” Dr. Miller put a hand on her face and only her eyes moved to glance at him before a paramedic intervened and helped to escort her away from the scene.

He turned to me and we just stared blankly at one another. I couldn’t cry or scream or comprehend. But when Dr. Miller pulled me to him, my eyes closed and I melted against him.

“We have to get you to the hospital,” one of the officer’s said.

“I-I’m fine,” I choked out. And then I motioned to Dr. Miller, “Will drugged him. He couldn’t move.”

“I’m fine,” Dr. Miller said quietly.

“Come with us,” the officer said, and then added, “Please.”

Dr. Miller kept me close and we walked back through the salt caves. The smell would forever be ingrained in my mind and paired with this gut-wrenching night. I wanted to rewind. I wanted it all to be okay the way it felt just a few hours before. I wanted Carol and Will to be happy. I wanted Chas to be okay. But that was all gone now.

“Is my father dead?” Dr. Miller asked.

“He was shot in the shoulder,” the officer escorting us away from the pool area explained.

“Will tried to kill us,” I blurted out, though I knew they already had that information. “He drugged Joel. He shot Chas. He lured me down here at gunpoint.” After feeling like I could never speak again, word vomit began to parade out of my mouth in ways I was certain made me sound delirious. “He threw him in the pool. He killed all those girls at Woodbridge. He wasn’t who he said he was. He could’ve killed us. He tried to kill us. He ran after Carol.”

What was I blurting? I couldn’t keep up. My brain was in overdrive and I didn’t snap back to reality until I felt Dr. Miller’s hand came to rest on my cheek while the other began to brush back my hair.

“Joel.” I shook my head and my bottom lip trembled. I attempted to hold it in place with my teeth but it escaped and I began to cry. “Why did he do this? Your dad.. your sister..” I shook my head and he pulled me in close as I cried some more. And then my head snapped up and I whipped around to face the closest officer, “You can’t let him out. Will did this. He needs to go to jail. He can’t be near Carol.. or Chas. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

I didn’t realize I had grabbed the man’s arm until we both looked down and I immediately released him.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out, wiping my eyes with a trembling hand.

“He won’t be able to hurt you or anyone, anymore,” the officer assured me, placing a hand on my shoulder, “Okay?” His eyes met mine and in the moment, it was enough. It had to be.

“Is he dead?” Dr. Miller asked.

“Both men were shot in the shoulder area. I don’t know the extent of the injuries, but they missed the major organs and arteries. That’s all I know.”

We piled into the elevator and when we got to the main level, police tape secured a perimeter where medical personnel and law enforcement had taken over. A small crowd of patrons couldn’t help but rubberneck from the outskirts, creating their own scenarios of what had taken place in their minds.

“Carol.” Dr. Miller rushed to her when he saw her again, standing under the arm of the paramedic who had initially approached her.

The pair exchanged a long hug and I saw her eyes glisten for the first time. “What’s happening, Joel?” She sobbed.

“It’s over now,” her brother said back. “I’m so sorry, Carol. I didn’t want to shoot him.”

“I’m cursed,” she cried out. “My life is a curse.”

“You’re not cursed.”

“I am.” Carol continued to cry as she nodded to herself. “I am, I am, I am.”

“No.” Dr. Miller shook his head in response.

I couldn’t watch. I moved off to the side by a large pillar, away from the crowd, and buried my face in my hands. And I just cried. I cried and cried until my lungs hurt and I couldn’t keep up anymore.

Why? My quiet one-word thought manifested out loud. “Why? Why? Why?” I whispered the word to myself.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N).” Dr. Miller’s voice snapped my burning eyes open and he squatted before me. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. You never should’ve been involved in all this.”

“It’s not your fault,” I choked out. “It’s his fault. It’s not your fault.”

“Honey.” A woman’s voice made Joel whip around again and he rose to greet his mother, who held Carol’s hand.

“Mom.” Dr. Miller gasped her name and pulled her in for a hug.

“I knew,” she whispered. “I knew something was wrong.”

“I didn’t kill anybody,” he whispered back. “I didn’t kill him. I didn’t want to shoot him.” Dr. Miller looked to his sister now and tears fell from his eyes. “I couldn’t do that to you. I didn’t want to shoot him.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Carol assured him, shaking her head.

Frankie held Joel hard. “You’re okay. We’re all going to be okay.” Her eyes met mine as she looked over her son’s shoulder and she waved a hand for me to join them.

I rose to my feet and allowed Frankie to pull me into embrace with the rest of the family.

“We’re going to get through this together,” she whispered. “We always do.”

CLICK HERE FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER

@untamedheart81 @suttonspuds @cesspitoflove @michilandcof @grogusmum @morallyinept @akah565 @brittmb115 @magpiepills @poodlebae @gobaaby-blog-blog @mermaidgirl30 @mandojojo @shotgun-shelby @itscatrodriguez-thepearl @macaroni676 @smolbeanzzz @sarcasm-theotherwhitemeat @bandluvr97

[coffeedepressionsoup]

Somebody Does Love | MYG - He Falls First

Pairing - Yoongi x F!reader

Summary - "What is grief, if not love persevering?" Two people are in love but that is not enough because sometimes loving requires courage.

This is the one where Yoongi is a man with a crush, and Sammy is a diligent shipper. Part 4 of Somebody Does Love.

Series Masterlist

Genre - fluff, strangers to lovers, eventual smut and angst

Word count - 3.9k+

Warnings - lil swearing, drinking is injurious to health, smoking too (dk if that bit is in there), flustered Yoongi Pro Max

Ratings - 13+

Taglist: @majiiisstuff @starlighttaek8 @yoongrace @proudnoona

A/N - It would seem the word limit is me overcompensating for the long break. Hehehe. I have received so many positive and encouraging comments throughout this time, some anonymous, I wanted to write a slightly longer note to thank you all. On some of the worst days, your enthusiasm puts a smile on my face. Thank you, and take my warmest love.

Partially proofread. Basically word vomit. Written in three frenzied, sleepless nights. Please be kind. Like, reblog and comment to let me know what you think of this chapter. Also, feel free to DM me to be added to the taglist. That's all. Enjoy!

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

Sammy tries his best to keep a straight face as he looks at his friend of more than 8 years explaining why he decided to drop by his house - the third time in two weeks, which is more than the number of visits in the last two years, combined.

Min Yoongi, the friend in question here, allegedly found inspiration at a park earlier that day and had the beats for a new song in mind, for which Sammy was being requested to work on the lyrics. Could it have waited until the next day? Apparently not.

The urgency (of the creative variety, of course) is why the award-winning music producer was hunched over at Sammy’s living room sofa, having hijacked the latter’s laptop.

However, the explanation did not seem satisfactory to Sammy. I mean, obviously, there are some good beats that Yoongi presented in the short while that he was there. But that is not unbelievable. He has previously seen him finish a song in less than an hour.

Even the inspiration is not doubtful. Not in the least. Of course, he can believe in finding inspiration for a song at random places, at random times. Sammy himself had made a song about the annoyance shaving can be after a particularly annoying early morning schedule.

The urgency, however, is the fishy bit. Not that it’s too late in the night. It’s 10:27, Sammy checks his phone. It is not too late at all for his friends to get together for drinks or movies. But turning up at his house though? And Yoongi?

Sammy has had to often take in a drunk and dejected Jaehyeong at around midnight when he was going through a difficult breakup and would end up in his neighbourhood because the ex used to live close by. Dojoon and Yijeong would often come in unannounced for impromptu jamming sessions. Hajoon would drop by to cuddle Woolfie. You get the drift.

But the most Yoongi had done, in all their years of knowing each other, was call and ask if he was down for a drink and/or meal. If it was regarding work, a .wav file over chat. Never has he barged into his house, unannounced. What are the odds of that happening after 8 years of knowing one another? Thrice within 14 days? Sammy wondered.

The first time did indeed take him by surprise.

Sammy was getting out of the gym in his building and heading towards the elevators to climb back to his apartment. He had promised Y/N some of his signature japchae for dinner. She had been nagging him for it ever since she arrived in Seoul. The previous night at Hajoon’s place, he pinky swore that he would make it for dinner the next day. He was ordering all the ingredients he’d need to fulfill that promise. It was as he was going to add spinach to the cart that Yoongi’s caller ID floated on his screen.

“Hel-”

“Are you at home now?”

“Uh-yeah, wh-”

“Okay”

And the line disconnected.

Sammy had intended to call Yoongi back. But by the time, he got back to the apartment and freshened up, he heard the buzz of his doorbell. Expecting his grocery deliveries, Sammy was disappointed to find someone else at the door.

He was more surprised when he realised that someone was Yoongi, with the straps of a tan corduroy tote bag clutched in one of his hands. The two men stared at each other for a few quiet moments - one in confusion, the other in fluster. Meanwhile, Sammy’s groceries arrived and since they were at the door already, the two friends quickly emptied the items and returned the bag to the delivery person.

Once the door was shut, Yoongi held up the bag, saying, “I had some leftover food.”

Sammy nodded. Yoongi had made him food at times when he was sick, and even when he had locked himself in his apartment save the daily hour-long walks with Woolfie to finish his first solo album. This was not a new thing. And even then, the rapper did not announce “I made this for you.” It was always variations of “I made too much,” “I don’t want this anymore,” or sometimes just quietly shoved into the arms, without any explanations.

But what he wondered was why now. He was neither sick nor stressed. They did not even have an ongoing argument that needed to be smoothed over with pensive bribery or a crony bet that required settlement.

“What’d you make?” he asked, carrying the meat that arrived in the delivery alongside a few other boxes to the kitchen.

Yoongi followed with the remaining items in his arms and placed them all, including the bag he was carrying, on the granite-top kitchen island. “Just threw some stuff together,” he lied comfortably. Nobody had to know that he went shopping that noon and handpicked the ribeye fillets among other things.

Sammy smirked at the very vague and characteristically predictable response. “Want some beer?” He saw Yoongi’s head nodding in his peripheral vision as he dived into the fridge to fish out a couple of beer cans.

Stood across from each other, at the kitchen island, the two opened and tipped their cans in silence and took a swig each when Yoongi’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the caller ID and gestured to Sammy that he would take the call, who nodded back in acknowledgement.

Yoongi walked out of the kitchen with the beer in one hand and his phone held up to the ear in the other.

Sammy was making a mental checklist of the things he needed to soak, wash, peel etc. and in what order as he glanced over the ingredients laid out on the countertop in front of him. When his eyes fell on the tan corduroy bag placed there, curiosity caught up. He dragged it towards himself and brought out the casserole inside it. It was heavier than he anticipated.

He opened the lid to reveal a piping-hot pot full of japchae. His confused frown gave way to a knowing smirk within a couple of seconds when he joined the dots. He closed the lid and continued sipping on his beer as he checked the time on his phone and walked out into his living room.

Y/N will be home soon and things will get interesting, he thought.

Just as he plopped himself on the sofa and turned the TV on, Yoongi, who was perched up against one of the bookshelves, finished his call, shoved his phone in his back pocket and joined his friend.

By now, Woolfie had woken up from his evening nap and strolled out. He wagged his tail and shoved his snoot up Yoongi’s crotch, as he usually does, earning coos and cuddles from the man.

Sammy patted his dog on the back a couple of times from beside his friend, resulting in Woolfie withdrawing from the aforementioned crotch and sitting down in front of the couch, like the goodest (we know it is a valid superlative adjective for all dogs) ever boy that he was. Yoongi chuckled and continued showering pets on the husky till he heard his friend’s almost prosaic statement, made apparently to no one in particular.

“Y/N loves japchae.”

Yoongi tried his best to not react to the statement. He took another swig of his beer attempting to appear nonchalant. But chalant, he was. Of course, he knew Y/N loved japchae. She lamented missing the dish and reprimanded Sammy for a good part of two minutes the previous night for not making it. When Hobi suggested ordering the dish, she rejected the idea claiming she wanted the kind with slightly burnt garlic, the one that Sammy made once by mistake and has since and will forever have to make it that way for this adorable little friend of his.

However, Sammy would never describe Y/N as adorable or little. He would choose something along the lines of tenacious and talkative. Adorable and little were Yoongi’s interjections as he observed the japchae exchange unfold. Adorable because everything about Y/N seemed to warm his heart at that time - her voice, her hand gestures, her face, her anecdotes. And little because he often found himself wishing, throughout the night, to hold her close and safe, near him, like a little flower.

That morning, when they were leaving Hajoon's place, Yoongi remembered the smile she had as she waved her goodbyes. At one point, her eyes landed on him, and she said a simple, “See you around.”

He managed to smile back and nod in acknowledgement. He wished to no one in particular that the around would come sooner than later. Then his eyes fell on the jacket that was draped across her forearm. His jacket. His smile faded and anxiety crept back in.

Yoongi had attempted about twice through the night to will himself into owning up as the owner of the jacket. But he failed. Sometimes he drowned in her eyes, or the curve of her smile. At other times, his will just wasn't strong enough to face the mountain of curses and rebuttals he'd heard about his perceived self, or rather of his absence.

As he saw her drive away with Sammy, he decided what to do. He will cook one of her favourite dishes, directly own up for his fuckery and apologise, no conditions applied. Simple enough plan, one-third of which he seemed to have completed successfully. With his friend's single comment though, all his resolve started to fall apart.

This was too forward, wasn't it? Is he encroaching? In a space where he doesn't belong? Is he making this too easy? Too hard to deal with?

Sammy saw in glee as the top of his friend’s ears and cheeks turned a bashful red. He stopped at a channel playing “Tease Me” by Seo Inguk and paused.

Yoongi gulped down the last bit of beer in that can, crushed the sides a little and cleared his throat. “Everyone loves japchae. It is easy to make.”

“Is that why you made it?”

Yoongi turned to look at his friend and looked into his eyes. Fucker had caught on, had he not? He cursed internally but held his gaze, unfaltering.

“Yes.”

Sammy let out a laugh and did not implore more. If he teased some more, there may be actual smoke coming out of the poor man’s ears.

Before Yoongi could act annoyed about being inflicted with stupid, pointless questions, their attention was drawn by Woolfie’s gentle growling. The dog jumped up on all fours and pattered towards the front door of the duplex, wagging his tail.

Familiar enough action for Sammy, he continued surfing channels without reacting but glanced over at Yoongi ever so often.

Confused by the dog’s sudden departure, his face had a frown in the beginning which smoothened out and gave way to his mouth hanging open ever so slightly when he heard a familiar cooing voice.

Yoongi was not surprised by Y/N’s arrival, he was of course expecting it. He was however not ready for his heart to beat that fast at only her voice, even when sober. For some inexplicable reason, he stood up from the sofa.

He heard Y/N’s giggles from the corridor and when he finally saw her, he regretted standing up because he could feel his heels faltering a bit.

Y/N was half carrying, half dragging the 50-something pound Siberian Husky and muttering phrases like “Yes I missed you too bubba.” “Aww my little baby.” “I know I know.” “I love you so much.” into his fur, which was peppered by pleased grumbles and breathy sighs from the dog. He was quite happy having resigned his weight over to one of his favourite humans, not minding one bit for having his hind feet dragged leisurely across the carpeted floor because she was gone for a tad bit longer than he would have preferred. Fines would have to be paid.

Sammy’s anticipation was killing him but the sight of his child with one of his best friends endeared him a lot more. Grinning at the duo, he clicked a couple of pictures and walked towards one of the shelves.

“Come on big boy, time for your walk,” he called out as he picked out one of Woolfie’s favourite leads. The boy, snapping out of his baby mode, whoofed and ran towards his dad in earnest, earning a giggle from all the adults in the room.

Y/N could place all but one of those sounds. One from her, unmistakable. One from Sammy, who had managed to hook the lead on. She turned to see the source of the third giggle, whose face had now frozen into a taut smile.

Sammy’s voice emerged before the other two people could say anything. “Yoongi, Y/N. Y/N, Yoongi. Y’all remember each other right? From a few hours ago?”

“Yes, of course, hi,” Y/N said.

“Hi,” Yoongi whispered back.

Sammy stopped near the turn of the corridor and said, “Yoongi bought us japchae. He made too much.”

And with that he walked out of the door, laughing once he was out of earshot.

What he left behind was a red Yoongi, warm to the touch. The last thing he heard was, “Oh thank you so much! Hope you are staying for dinner.”

Sammy does not yet know the details of what transpired in the 35 minutes that he was gone. He apologised to Woolfie for cutting their walk short but his curiosity would not allow him to not observe the progress of what could become a legendary love story further down the line. He would even volunteer to write the foreward if a book was ever written on the matter.

Was he building castles in the air? Yes. But was it unfounded? No. Even with the japchae out of the equation, he saw his 33-year-old friend fluster like a teenager with a crush. He also had to stomach about 1:40 minutes of “Oh I thought he was haughty at first but he’s quite a good listener. Helps that he is cute,” from when they started driving back from Hajoon’s place, till Y/N left for work that morning. He liked to believe that he was a realist, but what is life really without the dystopian fantasies of romance we build in our silly little heads?

He had come back to the pair of his friends in the kitchen - Y/N straining out some noodles and adding them to a pan of sauce and Yoongi chopping spring onions, with Ash perched upon his shoulder, observing his skills like a diligent invigilator.

The tail end of the conversation that Sammy managed to catch was - “That is probably a smoother blend, but the aftertaste of Glenfiddich sits better with me,” Y/N said, to which Yoongi replied, “I agree. But you have to try Bowmore once. I might have a bit of the 15-year-old left, I can bring it over next time.”

Which had offered a very flexible segwue to the second visit that Yoongi made to Sammy’s place. Sunday night. As Y/N and Sammy were watching the match highlights of an earlier Arsenal vs Liverpool game, the bell rang.

Sammy was less surprised this time when he buzzed Yoongi in. He held up an unopened bottle of Bowmore 15 Scotch Whiskey this time instead of a tote bag. He walked in to see Y/N scream at the TV with half a chicken wing pointed at it with some of it still in her mouth, muffling the expletives.

When she saw Yoongi, she smiled a wide smile to greet him. He smiled back but when he saw the packets of chicken and beer cans strewn around, felt immediately like he was intruding. Intruding into quality time between two people. All because he could not stop thinking about one of these two people at all, and had also not mustered enough courage to exchange numbers with. He admonished himself internally endlessly for everything in the next couple of seconds of silence where he thought of what he could say.

He settled on, “I-uh told you about this,” held the bottle up again, “Thought I would drop it by.” He went up and placed the bottle on the lounge table.

“Are you not staying?” the question was immediate. Innocent enough but filled with a slight tone of disappointment that tugged at his heart.

“Yeah, what the fuck dude. You gotta have at least a couple of drinks with us.” Sammy patted him across the back. That encouraged him.

“Yeah. It’s only going to be fun when you have someone else who also enjoys and understands scotch,” Y/N said, ignoring the hurt Sammy displayed at the slight jab, adding, “Stay for a bit if you have nothing else lined up.” That convinced him.

“I did not mean to interrupt anything,” he said half matter-of-factly, half apologetically.

“We are eating fried chicken and watching a week-old football match. Trust me, you’re adding life to the party,” Y/N said as she scooted over to allow Yoongi enough space to sit by the lounge table, facing the TV.

Yoongi blushed and could feel his ears heat up as he sat down beside her. Y/N did not notice it but Sammy did. “It is true though, Sammy does not really enjoy anything other than a beer.”

“Well, fuck me that I like for my tongue to not burn out of existence,” Sammy grumbled as he brought over three glasses and ice.

A little more than half the bottle was finished that night between Y/N and Yoongi, who bonded quite seamlessly over teasing Sammy about giving up after a single peg, scotch in general and discussions over media’s ever-evolving role in influencing a person’s life choices on a day-to-day basis.

Although Sammy would have offered the sofa to Yoongi for the next few hours anyway, he stepped back when Y/N urged Yoongi to not drive back. He also exaggerated how tired he was with a couple of over-the-top yawns, which would have been suspicious if he was amongst sober company. He therefore hurried back to his bedroom and shut the door, allowing his friends the privacy he thought they probably sought.

He was partly right. Yoongi and Y/N had both wished to have met one-on-one but neither had the balls to ask the other first, caught up within webs of self-doubt and anxious ominosity in their heads. Even with Sammy having retired to his room, as they sat alone, only with each other for company, they did not dare go where their mind sometimes wandered to.

There had been occasional hand and shoulder brushes throughout the night that they managed to glance over. With Sammy gone, though, they became hyper-aware of their proximity. Y/N turned to look at Yoongi and when he did the same, they were one head tip away from a kiss. Theoretically.

He tracked as her eyes moved from his own and fell to his lips and then back.

Y/N could feel warmth wash over all her body. She also felt his warm breath sync with hers. His face was flush and his lips luscious, inviting.

She had thought about these lips often in the past few days. Not intentionally, but she caught herself with her mind wandering quite often. Him - his demeanour, his voice and his attitude pulled her in. If she was reading things right, there was an interest she could read as well. If making the japchae was not a loud enough argument for that school of thought, the glances and the smiles surely were. Since Sunday, there have been a tonne of those and the eyes never lie, right?

And those damned eyes. They seemed familiar but at the same time, she found new depths in them each time she focussed on them. She stared at those dark orbs for a while before tracking back down to his lips.

This man was too beautiful for Y/N to hold her sanity. But she had to try. He was who he was in the public eye, but he was also Sammy’s friend.

Sammy is one of the most important pieces in the stained glass panel of her life. And pursuing something like this with one of his friends and industry peers would intermingle things beyond a point of recovery.

She readjusted her posture with an audible sigh.

Yoongi drew in a sharp breath and looked down at his hands fiddling with a coaster on the floor. An apology sitting at the tip of his tongue. But before he could get it out he could hear Y/N say, “We’re drunk, aren’t we?”

He looked up to see a smile on her face. He would call it fond but there was something else in it. However, he could not stop smiling back. He nodded slightly and let out a huff of giggle. For a moment it felt like he was 16 again.

Y/N slapped her thighs and got up. “I will get you some covers,” and by the time Yoongi managed to drag his ass up onto the couch, she was back with a comforter and a throw blanket.

She held the folded items out to him, “‘s all I could find.” He muttered a thank you and when he went to grab them, his left palm grazed over hers, ever so slightly. But it was enough to spark him awake, out of whatever sleepy haze he was in a moment earlier.

He heard Y/N say “sleep well” on her way back to her room. He lay on his back staring at an empty spot on the ceiling, trying to replay images from earlier that evening and the last thought he remembered having was that he had to ask her out. Properly.

Yoongi woke up to a slight pinching sensation on his chest. He opened his eyes to see Ash making biscuits on his pecs. He nuzzled the kitten closer to his face and drifted off again for a couple of minutes before waking up to a strong waft of coffee that Sammy was brewing in the kitchen.

Y/N had left for work already. Yoongi left soon after coffee and a handful of muesli. He expected Sammy to tease him in some manner but was not met with anything other than what their normal mornings post a night-long drinking session sounded like.

Work kept him busy enough for the next couple of days. But not enough for him to completely ignore what he decided to do. Ask her out. Properly.

Which brings us all to today. Wednesday. Almost midnight. Yoongi was a little taken aback to learn Y/N was not in. But that minor flick of a longing he could not put a name to yet, immediately lit a few of his neurons alight and he had to get the beats and melody down before it slipped away.

Sammy, amused as he was, also impressed by the tune, brought out his trustee Fender CD60 to play around with.

Splayed across the living room floor, with a few beer cans, a couple of notebooks, a guitar and a laptop on each of their laps - that is how Y/N found the two men when she came in after her departmental dinner with a few of her university colleagues.

[tim-shii]

an aunt, a grandpa and a minecraft kid

a/n: finals are done and school is almost finished i can finally krill myself! *break shackles* anyways this is pure word vomit over a poor attempt at found family w the stellaron hunters :hides: AND HELLO :DD

[ work hours ] 

“stop sulking. time is ticking.” kafka’s voice echoes throughout the empty corridor once she felt your presence. her heels clack along the metal floor of the ship, only to stop when a projection appeared in front of her. you groaned at her words. “easy for you to say. i got held up by two trailblazers after leaving wolfie to go here. seriously, what am i? a stellaron hunter or an overpaid teensitter?” kafka lets out an amused sigh at your antics. 

“23:47:15 system time. very punctual, kafka.” a glitchy, robotic voice spoke, in which you rolled your eyes out. “can’t say the same for you, y/n.”

“i don’t answer to a child.” 

“you–”

“enough.” kafka’s voice was stern with a hint of mirth. “y/n, why don’t you.. entertain our guests from the astral express for a little while silverwolf and i look for the stellaron.” 

“i’m only gonna agree because the guy in green is cute.” you turned away with a wave. grinning ear to ear, already anticipating the little dance with the infamous cloud-piercer.

[ babysitting hours ] 

“kill me now.”

“i can’t do that. if i kill you, that means i’ll be left alone with them.” blade shrugs off your complaint, focusing completely on his phone as he answers a message from kafka. you look at him with judgment in your eyes. internally berating him for looking like a very suspicious criminal wearing a black beanie with black tinted glasses that he probably stole from one of the blind mice. 

it's one of the days where you guys don't have any work to do. you planned to just stay in bed and sleep the whole day but a certain gamer brat decided to drag you out of the comforts of your bed and instead make you stand watch over her while she plays a rigged game in an old arcade. seems like your plans are ruined now. clearly.

"but we've been here for nine hours! who even spends nine hours on a claw machine?!" you bang your head in the arcade machine beside him.

"kafka's right. you do sulk a lot." blade hums. 

"shut up, old man."

[ the doc is in ]

"greetings, patients. your beloved doctor has arrived." the trio collectively sigh as you enter the infirmary. 

they just got back from a mission. from what you heard, the mission was a success. however, with what you're seeing now, you'd conclude that the mission was a.. partial success. silverwolf has gashes all over her legs and arms. kafka is laying down, completely fatigued. and blade is bleeding, cuts all over his arms, probably from his own sword. 

"are you guys.. feeling better?" you mused with a light grin. you stifled a laugh when you heard blade groan from the left side of the room. you walked towards silverwolf first and started to patch her up. 

soft sighs and the whirs of the air conditioner were the only thing audible in the room. it was clear that all of them were tired. so as the greatest doctor ever, it is your duty to make sure they'll be able to rest easily and without any pain. 

[ the rich aunt and her favorite child ]

"how does this look?"

"... it looks the same as the last one."

if you think spending nine hours in an arcade with silverwolf is bad, clearly past you hasn't been informed of almost a twelve hour shopping spree with kafka. in general, it doesn't sound bad. i mean, a shopping spree with a very fashionable stellaron hunter? sounds like a dream. yeah, that was what you thought too. until twelve hours has passed and you're still in the coats section. 

"you have bad eyes, we should get that checked." kafka tuts, frowning at you with the coat still on her hold. you gape at her accusation. "it's the same black one. all coats you try on are black. how am i supposed to know the difference?"

"through the material of the coat." she walks away to the cashier, silently urging you to push the cart of coats on her wake.

"i'm not really a fabric person!"

likes and reblogs are appreciated! masterlist

[queerpumpkinnn]

TLC

1.7k words

Summary: Reader has to cancel a date due to period sickness, but Steve’s happy to keep them company anyway.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x reader, what stage they're at in the relationship is up for interpretation

Warnings: reader is on their period (but is written as gender neutral), graphic depictions of sickness and vomiting, reader cries a lot, singular mention of murder as a joke, mention of l*ve, use of pain meds, eating, let me know if there’s anything else!

While reading, I recommend you listen to dancin' round the kitchen in the refridgerator light - a Spotify playlist by me!

~

You don't remember the gnawing in your gut this morning.

You don't remember feeling like spilling your innards out and then falling into a yearlong sleep when you woke up, but here you were, curled up on the bathroom floor with your arms over your stomach.

A ding from your phone pulled you from your zombie-like state. You groaned and reached for your phone off the bathroom counter.

Steve: On my way soon, want me to pick anything up?

You sigh, chewing your lip.

You: I think I'm going to have to take a rain check, I'm sorry. Woke up feeling pretty sick.

Steve: Ouch. What's the diagnosis?

You: Having a uterus.

Your lip twitched weakly at your own humor, but it was swiftly wiped off by a wince, sharp pain pricking your side. A metaphorical smack on the back of your head from your uterus for talking smack about it.

Steve: I completely understand. Do you need anything?

You: Drugs and sleep.

A few minutes without a response told you the conversation was over. You leaned your head back against the wall only to find more comfort resting it in your arms.

A few minutes of silence passed, you relished it.

That is until the threat of bile tickled up your throat again.

. . .

"Dammit Robin, I know you're not actually busy."

Steve tossed his phone into the grocery cart. It was filled to the brim with various comfort items- stuffed animals, junk food Steve knew you liked, a heating pad.

He ran a hand through his hair, tapping his fingers rapidly on the cart handle. He almost slammed the cart into the aisle reaching for his vibrating phone at the bottom of the basket.

"Hey, uh, why do I have five missed calls from you Steven?"

"Because I need to know what kind of pads are normal pads."

A moment of silence followed by barking laughter came from the other line. Steve held the phone a little farther from his ear until he could no longer hear his friend's laughter. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh. Some of us are just late bloomers, Steve, it's normal."

The man in question rolled his eyes even though Robin wouldn't see it. She'd picture it anyways. "Ha ha. It's not for me, dipshit."

Another moment of silence.

And another.

"Ohhhhhhh." Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. "Gotcha. Send a picture of the aisle and I'll tell you which ones. Also, unless you know definitively, which I'm guessing you don't, probably best to get tampons too, just in case."

Steve furrowed his brows but didn't question it, ending the phone call with a “‘kay” under his breath, snapping a photo and sending it over.

Robin: Those are adult diapers

Steve: It says maximum hold??

Robin: Yes but that is a diaper Steven

Steve: Okay smartass then what am I looking for

Robin: Uh, pads

Steve threw his hands in the air, looking around for an employee.

“Excuse me? Where can I find feminine products?”

The employee was a teenager, a few years younger than him. She eyed his cart and nearly made heart eyes at him. “Aisle four, down to your left.”

“Thanks.” Steve yanked the cart, wheeling down towards the area. He assumed he was in the right spot when he saw a bunch of very girly packages with what looked like diapers on them.

Steve: What the hell are wings

Robin: LMAO

Robin: They stick to the underwear so the pad stays in place

Steve: So I should get ones with wings?

Robin: It depends person to person. Send me a pic of the aisle again

Steve: [Attatchment: 1 Image]

After a painfully long and headache-inducing conversation, Steve managed to get a decent collection of feminine products (as well as having switched out Tylenol for Midol at Robin’s insistence). Only thing left now was to get it to you.

. . .

As the evening progressed you weren't seeming to feel any better. Pain still racked your body and nausea still taunted you, the taste of vomit still stinging the back of your throat no matter how much water you drank (and struggled to keep down). You'd cried a few times out of frustration and exhaustion but the negative energy you'd expelled didn't take long to build up again. You'd retired to your bed long ago, the television playing something you weren't entirely paying attention to as the backs of your eyelids gradually became a more appealing view.

So understandably you were ready for murder when you heard the doorbell ring.

Heaving a long, rage-infused sigh, you pulled yourself out of your loving bed and trudged through the apartment towards the door.

Looking through the peephole with blurry eyes, you could barely make out the figure of Steve, whose arms were both weighed down with grocery bags.

You nearly sobbed at the sight, leaning your forehead against the door. You prayed the tears welling in your eyes and overwhelmed smile weren't as evident as they felt as you opened the door, but upon seeing his face closer you failed to hide them miserably.

Steve's face, once donning an encouraging smile, dropped in shock. "Whoa- hey, hey, what's wrong? Sweetheart, what is it?"

"You!" Was all you could muster.

The confusion on Steve's face only worsened. "Not you!" You panicked, putting your hands up. "You're just nice, and I'm a mess."

Steve's face melted back into a smile, laughing softly as he gently dropped the bags in his hands. "C'mere."

You waddled pathetically into Steve's outstretched arms, nuzzling your head into his chest and closing your eyes. One of his hands stroked down your back, the other rested on your head in his shoulder.

"It's okay, everything is going to be okay. Deep breaths. In..." Steve took a deep inhale. "And out..." he exhaled. You mimicked his actions, closing your eyes and listening to his heartbeat.

After a few moments of calmed silence, you brought your head out of the crook of his shoulder to look at him. "Thank you," you murmured.

"It's nothing. Come on, let's get you back in bed." Steve gave you a smile, and your heart melted instantaneously. Patting your back, the boy ushered you inside, picking up the bags and shutting the door behind him with his foot.

But before you could reach the hallway, an unmistakable, hideous feeling that had been simmering in your stomach became stronger, and you bolted for the bathroom.

Steve followed, panicked, finding you with your head in the toilet moments later. He sighed, coming up slowly behind you, putting a hand to your back to signal he was there before softly taking your hair and holding it away from your face.

Once you were done spluttering and gasping, you flushed and sat up a little, grimacing weakly at Steve.

He only responded with a sympathetic look. "I'll get you some water."

Once he had messily tucked your hair into your shirt, Steve stood, returning a minute later with a fresh glass that you gladly began sipping, throat slimy and stinging.

"Slow sips." Steve whispered.

When you finished, you handed him the cup, making a noise that sounded like a laugh but was actually miserable and exhausted and devoid of humor. "I'm so fucking tired."

Steve only watched you, nodding slightly.

"Everything hurts, and nothing is working. I've done everything the internet tells me and I'm still stuck sitting on the floor. Crying doesn't help, throwing up doesn't help, I can't sleep-" your sentence was interrupted by the lump in your throat. "And it's only the first day."

Steve had a pitying look on his face. He wanted to wrap you up in love and comfort and make everything better for you, but he knew that unfortunately his assistance could only help so much. He took your trembling hand in his, rubbing soft circles into the back of your palm.

You sniffled, looking down at your hands. "I'm sorry you're putting up with this, Steve. This is so charming of me, isn't it?"

"I've never been more in love." Your heart panged, primarily because he sounded entirely sincere.

You looked down quickly at your knees, which made Steve chuckle. "Are you ready to go back to bed or is there still more coming?"

You shook your head. "Bed."

Steve held out a hand to help you up, his movements always slow and gentle as he led you to bed.

"I'll be right back," he promised with a kiss to your hairline, and you silently questioned what he was doing- he had the sound in his voice he got when he had an idea.

The grocery bags he'd brought, that you'd long forgotten about, were hauled into your bedroom a moment later. Steve set them on the floor, tugging out item after item. A box of crackers, a bottle of medicine, a heating pad, a huge pink stuffed rabbit that, upon taking it in your arms, was weighted. You felt tears well up again.

When you gave a sniff, Steve looked over at you. "Oh, goodness." He crawled over towards you, pulling you into another sweet hug.

"I'm sorry." You said weakly, cheeks hurting from smiling. "I'm happy crying, I promise."

You felt Steve laugh softly against you. "I know, honey, I know. Do you want to put something on?"

You nodded, taking the remote. As you scrolled, you heard Steve moving things around the room, setting up pillows, plugging in the heating pad, and placing a pill and water on your nightstand.

"Your throne is ready, your highness." Steve said proudly, patting the pillows beside him. He'd long kicked his shoes off and made himself comfortable, legs crossed and arm stretched out over the space next to him he indicated was yours. You scooted over towards him with a giggle.

"Here, take this." Steve reached for the medicine on your nightstand and handed it to you. While you took it, Steve placed the heating pad over your lap, and then the weighted bear over it.

Steve gave your shoulder a loving pat. "Comfortable?"

You nodded. "Yeah, I am. Thanks again, Stevie."

Steve pressed a kiss to your temple. "You're very welcome."

And, unexpected to you, you actually found restful sleep that night.

~

Steve Harrington Masterlist

Stranger Things Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[middlingmay]

German!Gale AU Part 2

Part 2 of my headcanons for my German!Gale AU. We deal with language barriers, the resistance, and an opportunity for Gale.

So, now Gale has a fugitive American airman on his hands, and he's not quite sure what to do with it. But he knows, he can feel that this is finally his time to do something rather than enabling others. This is his chance to help someone. That need that always burned in his core to help others, that his dad regularly scolded and beat out of him whenever Gale couldn't quite keep it down in his presence? Well, it was back with a vengeance, and Gale didn't think he was ever going to be able to put it out.

And it's completely inappropriate. There are more important matters at hand, literally life or death, but when he unearths John from the hay cart and ushers him inside, Gale can't help but be bewildered by the sheer amount of hay that can get stuck inside dark curls.

"You look ridiculous," he says with the patchy English he knows. "Like der Löwenzahn."

And John might not know a lick of German beyond the basics the brass drilled into him, but he knows when he's being judged. And if he weren't in so much pain he might be of a mind to get pissy about it, but he can feel a whole hell of a lot now the adrenaline's wearing off.

He tries to scrub a hand through his hair but winces and curses and bites on his lip hard.

"Stay, no," Gale shakes his head and gestures with his hand and John gets the point. "Mein Vater..."

The idea of his father getting his hands on John, and the prize he would be for the Nazi's makes Gale want to vomit.

John gets it and tries to stand. "Got it. Thanks. Just point me to safety and I'll be on my way."

And Gale rolls his eyes because he'd heard American's were dramatic, but trying to embark on a solo expedition across enemy territory is a bit much.

So he pushed John back into his chair.

"Ich habe..." he gesticulates, searching for the words, "time. To fix." He points at John's face.

And so he does, all whilst trying to think of a plan - or a better one that the mad idea that occurred to him almost as soon as John showed up.

He gently cleans the blood of John's face, John who doesn't look away form him once even when Gale hits a particularly sore spot around his eye. And when he's done Gale notices that he's uncovered a wild amount of freckles and doesn't notice he's smiling.

When John asks why, Gale struggles to find the words. "You look, like himmel," Gale points up, meaning the sky. "At night. All spotty."

And John laughs barking, tearing his face from Gale's grip and grins at him. "Yeah, fuck you too."

And he gives John some warm water and a cloth and some privacy. He also fetches him some clothes, a white undershirt and a grey sweater and dark grey trousers, and Gale strives to ignore how well they fit him.

He makes a plan to dispose of John's soiled clothes, but when he goes to take John's jacket - a disgusting, perhaps-it-used-to-be-white, utterly terrible sheepskin thing, John snatches it off him and shoves it on over his fresh clothes.

Gale wrinkles his nose and looks at John like he's stupid and gestures at the patches signifying the US Air Force. And John might blush, but still refuses until Gale hands him a short black overcoat, too.

So Gale ushers them outside, and John manages to stay quiet until Gale gets into a beat up old car. John just leans down to the window.

"What's the plan, Buck?"

And Gale wants to tell him everything - about the resistance, about his father, about his need to do something - but he can't. Not here. So he says, "To keep you alive."

And that does the trick, until they start to get closer to town and John's leg bounces up and down until it's driving Gale crazy and he has to put his hand over to settle it, and miraculously, it does.

"I have friends," he says as he drives. "Der Widerstand, yes?"

No. John just looks at him confused.

"They... no Nazis, ja? They...make trouble for Nazis."

And John's face clears like the summer sky and he slumps back into his seat.

"Are you fucking tellin' me, that of all the farms I could have stumbled upon, I find one part of the goddamn resistance?!"

But Gale hushes him fiercely, paranoid, and corrects him. "Not farm. Not father. Just...me."

And John mutters something about crazy people and no appreciation for my lucky jacket, and follows on Gale's heel when he reaches their destination and deems it safe for them to get out the car.

It's only a few feet to the non-descript door, but they feel like the longest chasm John's had to cross.

A square hatch opens and Gale mutters a word and he's yanking Gale inside.

And a whole bunch of arguing follows and someone shoves Gale and John is up in that fucker's grill before he knows what he's about, and exhausted or not, he drops that sucker on his ass with a busted nose so fast, and the place is silent.

"Now I don't know what you're hollerin' about, but if someone wants to get me back to friendly territory, well. That'd be swell."

Gale gestures at him to take off the overcoat, and the other guys in the room see his air force sheepskin and it's like someone cuts a puppet's strings. Everyone relaxes and the guy on the floor looks embarrassed and if Gale kicks him a little as he walks past them, well. John wasn't gonna snitch.

So they come up with a plan to smuggle John out, and he notices Gale is getting further and further way from him, and John digs his heels in and the guy trying to lead him away jerks back.

"Where are you going?" John says to Gale. "He's coming with me."

And the blood rushes from Gale's face but everyone else seems ecstatic at the idea.

"I can't leave you here, Gale. Those Nazi's will figure out you helped me eventually. So just, come with me."

And Gale hears the others thrilled at having a source connected to the Allied forces: the help they could offer, the resources. And Gale trembles, thinking of all those times he'd thought of escaping his father, and all those times he really wanted to help people, and how he just couldn't, being stuck here.

But he didn't want to swap one prison for another.

"Your - Luftwaffe. They will prison me?"

And John looks angry at the idea and vows, "No they fucking won't," and Karl, the leader of their local resistance group, scribbles a note in the code he used that Gale didn't understand and thrust it into Gale's hand."

"Give this to the commanding officer. It will keep you safe."

And that evening, Gale finds himself in the back of a truck, tucked against American pilot John Egan's side, with no idea of what was ahead of him. He was terrified, and excited, and finally felt like he was where he was supposed to be.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

To Have & To Hold: Part 6

Fandom: Marvel - Moon Knight (Mafia AU)

Pairing: Marc Spector x F!Reader, Steven Grant x F!Reader, Jake Lockley x F!Reader

Summary: To ensure you’re always safe even after his passing, your father, a mob boss, makes you marry his right hand, Marc Spector. You don’t necessarily hate Marc, but you don’t get along either. Therefore, this marriage of convenience may be a bit difficult for you.

Series Masterlist

Nope. No. Hate this. You hate this so much. Your head feels like it ways more than your body. You groan as you slowly open your eyes.

"Welcome to the land of the living," you hear an all too familiar voice.

When you look to your right, you see Marc sitting on your bed, back resting against your headboard.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" you rasp out.

Marc smirks down at yo, "Good morning to you too, sunshine." He holds out water and some pills.

You groan as you sit up, pop the pills into your mouth and glug down the water. You wipe your mouth and hand the glass back to him, "You didn't answer my question."

"You had too many tequila shots. Yelena let me take you home and I stayed over just in case you might choke on your own vomit. Can't have you dying on me just yet."

You snort and lower yourself down again, "Gee, such a loving fiance."

Marc hums and slides off your bed, "You gonna be okay now?"

You wave him off, "Yeah. I'll be fine. Thanks," you grumble, pulling your duvet over you and snuggling into your bed. You'll just be in your blanket burrito for the day.

"Your dad said he wanted to have lunch with you today. Should I tell him you're not feeling well?"

You nod and respond, "Yes, please."

Marc chuckles, "Alright. Get some rest, Y/N." You throw up a thumbs up and Marc exits your room. You listen as he exits your house, the sound of his car driving off.

Your eyes flutter back closed as you go back to sleep.

_______________

It's late, but you really needed to get groceries. After sleeping the day away, you only had boxed macaroni and cheese to eat. You know you could've waited until tomorrow to go grocery shopping, but you'll be up for a while. Might as well get something done.

So now you're at a small 24 hour grocery mart. You grab a cart and begin going down each aisle, getting what you need.

Eggs, milk, cheese, coffee crea-Marc?

You're staring up at someone who looks exactly like Marc but isn't dressed like him.

"Marc?"

Without saying another word, the man runs the other direction and you're confused. You leave your cart and run after him, "Wait! Marc!" he turns into an aisle and you go the other way, immediately stopping him in his escape.

He gulps and gives an awkward wave, "Hello." Why does he have an accent?

"You're not Marc."

"Um, no. I'm Steven," the man says nervously.

"Are you Marc's twin or something?"

"Or something is more like it, yeah," Steven responds.

You pull out your phone and immediately dial Marc's number. A few seconds and suddenly there's a buzzing. Steven pulls out his, or, Marc's phone. You look at it to see your name staring back at you.

You end the call and look at him cautiously, "What the fuck is going on?"

Steven groans, rubbing his forehead and looking frustrated, "It's-I wouldn't say complicated, but I suppose it is. "

"Are you Marc Spector? Yes or no."

"Yes and no."

You throw your arms up in confusion, "What does that even mean?!"

Steven sighs, running a hand down his face, "Listen, I think we should have this conversation somewhere else. You can finish your shopping and we can go back to yours and I'll explain everything. I'll even stay with you so you know I won't run, yeah?"

You narrow your eyes at him, "Fine."

You quickly go around getting the last bit of things you need. You nod to the hand basket Steven was carrying, "I'll get yours too."

He shakes his head profusely, "Oh no. That's not nec-"

You pluck the basket from him and set his things onto the conveyor belt with your things, "Bag these ones separately, please."

"Sure," grumbles the cashier who looks like they'd like to be anywhere but here.

After paying, you two head to the car, putting your groceries in your trunk. The drive to your home was quiet, but you could feel the anxiety rolling off Steven.

He remains quiet until you two are inside and you're putting your groceries away, "I have DID!" he blurts out.

The statement makes you pause from putting the eggs away, "Dissociative Identity Disorder?"

He nods, he sits at the high top chair at your island counter, "Yeah, um, had it for a while."

You slowly nod, "Okay. So...is it just you and Marc or are there other..." you're not sure of the term. You know the term "personalities" is out dated.

"Alters. Other alters. There's three of us. Me, Marc, and Jake, who you probably won't see often. It's mainly Marc and I."

You finish putting your groceries away, processing the info you've just been told. You turn back to Steven and rest your elbows on the counter top, "How come I'm just meeting you now? You've worked for my father for years. Wait, does he know about this?"

"Trust me, we've had a few slip ups, that's actually how your dad found out about us. Put us in quite a predicament, but he still kept us on. Said as long as Marc could 'still get the job done'," he says the last bit with distaste.

You snort, "Not a fan of what Marc does?"

"I'm a pacifist. Would rather fight with words than fists. Ironic innit?"

You chuckle, "A little bit," you straighten up, "Do you want anything to drink?"

"Tea, if you have any?" you nod, turning your kettle on. You grab a mug and then a tea bag, placing it into the mug.

You look over your shoulder at Steven, "So do you only show up at night?"

"Sometimes. Believe it or not, but I used to be the one fronting more. Marc didn't really like the life we were living, I guess, so he took over. He is the host, after all," he looks crestfallen, "I miss having a normal life. No offense, but I'm not fond of what Marc and your dad get up to."

You sigh, "Trust me, I don't like it either. But, unfortunately, I was born into this life. I can't really escape it either. Guess we just have to make the best of things," you reach over and rest your hand on Marc's.

He gives you a nod, "Yeah. I mean, we're in this together now. Guess it won't be all bad with Marc marrying you."

A lightbulb went off in your head. Since Marc wasn't here per se, you take this opportunity to talk to about him, "Actually, I have a question regarding Marc."

"Alright."

"Does he even like me? I mean he said he cares about me, but I don't know if he's saying that just to appease me and my dad or what."

Steven knows that if he told you the truth, of how Marc truly feels about you, Marc would definitely kick his ass. So he'd go for half truths, "He cares for you, genuinely. He definitely understands how hard this must be on you, it's hard on him too for lots of other reasons I won't discuss because that's for him to tell ya. But he does like you, Y/N."

You let out a sigh, "That's-That's really great to hear. I was-I just didn't know-"

Steven puts his other hand on top of yours and pats it, "I know. I get ya. It's a right pickle you two are in, huh?"

You snort, "Understatement of the century." You pull back and straighten up, "Let me make your tea."

"Alright."

You turn around, taking the kettle and pouring the hot water into the mug, "Do you want cream and sugar?" Steven doesn't answer, "Steven?" you call his name and when you glance over your shoulder, he's staring ahead with a blank expression.

You fully turn and go over to him, "Steven?" you place a hand on his shoulder and he immediately grabs it.

Your eyes widen and he's looking up at you. He blinks and he looks confused, "Wha-Y/N?" It's Marc. He looks around and takes in his surroundings. He then shook his head, "Dammit, Steven."

"Don't blame him. We ran into each other at the store. He came home with me to explain everything."

Marc groans, running a hand down his face, "I told him I don't want him going out-"

"He was getting some groceries. Give him a break. He's trying to take care of you."

Marc is twiddling with his thumbs, his head hanging down, "I was gonna tell you...eventually."

You nod, "I know," you sigh, "You can stay here for the rest of the night, by the way."

"I shouldn't-"

"Marc, it's fine. You look tired and, honestly, I don't want to go back out. So rest. You can take my bed since I'll still be up for...who knows how long."

"Did you wake up at all during the day?"

You snort, "Here and there, to use the bathroom, or drink some water. Other than that, I've mainly slept the day away. And voila, the consequences of my actions, staying up for the rest of the night." you gesture him to follow you and he does.

You enter your bedroom, "You obviously been here before. So go ahead. Rest up," you turn to leave but he grabs you by the wrist.

"Can you stay? Just-Just until I fall back asleep?" he asks and he seems a bit ashamed for asking.

"Sure," you get into bed first and Marc follows you. You're not sure why but your rest your head on his chest. His arm wraps around you and with his other arm he reaches and turns off the lamp on your bedside.

You lay there in silence until you hear him snoring. You can't help but enjoy the feeling of laying beside him.