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shintin · 1 year

Text

Gunpowder Dreams

Chapter 7 (Diablo)

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

They didn't know a wounded man would show no mercy when they took the best thing he ever had away from him. What did they say? Don't poke the dragon if you can't take the heat; if you do, expect the flames.

Genre: explicit smut, toxic relation, romance, angst (Mafia au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, Alternative Universe/Modern Setting, no spoilers from manga and anime, dominate Vash the Stampede, sexual situations, dub-con, graphic violence, gore, angst, toxicity, gunplay, manhandling, cunnilingus + fellatio, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, too many smut scenes, emotional trauma, and etc.

Song Recommendation: Bill Withers - Ain't No Sunshine

Note: Beware, for this chapter delves into the realm of blood, gore, and dangerous behaviors.

Chapter Index - Next Chapter

Ninety-one days had passed since your arrival, each marking a change since reluctantly accepting Vash's offer of "friendship." Like within your confined existence, your cage had been expanded, granting you the limited freedom to venture beyond the walls of your room. Now, you could escape to the basement, where worn couches beckoned, accompanied by the flickering glow of an ancient CRT TV from a forgotten era. See? Fantastic! You were living in fairytales. Just like a fucking Disney princess. But a twisted one. Alas, the poisoned apple that would offer release remained out of reach, denied to you. No window to hell adorned this crypt-like domain, where your flowing locks could serve as a desperate escape route. Instead, you were left with the daunting task of perpetuating a charade, playing the role of a captive sleeping beauty trapped in the clutches of a formidable beast.

Too poetic, right? Fuck it!

And let's not forget about how you must be the most ungrateful bitch alive for complaining when your new bestie, Vash, occasionally graced you with his presence for a shared meal. Despite the gesture, conversations were superficial at best, revolving around banal topics like the weather or insipid inquiries about the quality of the food. Consequently, meals were typically consumed in silence unless Vash had a particular matter to discuss, leaving you with the role of a passive listener.

Because you had discovered that the majority of his sentences were intentionally crafted, and you made a firm commitment to yourself. You vowed not to allow him to deceive you anew with his clever words, determined to remain vigilant against his manipulative charm.

Charm, huh!

As the saying goes, you didn't provide him much in this fervently pursued friendship, yet he persisted regardless. Every time he visited, motherfucker arrived bearing gifts – be it a novel flavor of donuts, fresh garments, or a book intended to captivate your attention. You couldn't help but notice the intentional variety of genres in the books he presented. This left you with a sense that he was endeavoring to elicit a reaction from you in order to gain insight into your inner world.

But you would rather die than give him anything.

And then there were days like today's lunch, a departure from the norm; he appeared before you in a meticulously tailored black coat, exuding an air of opulence with its flawless texture and lustrous sheen. His ensemble was further enhanced by a black shirt and a crimson red vest adorned with regal patterns, resulting in a sleek and sophisticated appearance. However, despite this refined presentation, his silky black tie hung loosely around his neck, a visible symbol of his frustration. With a face etched with determination, he grappled with the delicate task of tying its knot, his fingers fumbling with the fabric as he attempted various techniques, all in vain. The scene was indeed amusing, as you found yourself engrossed in crafting origami ships out of folded napkins, observing his relentless struggle with a hint of lighthearted entertainment.

At times, he possessed a sweet, childlike quality. Although the thought of witnessing him inadvertently strangle himself brought some perverse entertainment, you learned from the guards that today marked the twins' birthday. Since when did monsters celebrate birthdays? With a resigned sigh, you let out a breath. Extending your hand, you retrieved the tie from him. Without uttering a word or offering commentary, he simply observed as you skillfully tied the knot on your knee before returning it to him. A seemingly perfect birthday gift, or so you hoped. Whatever! Fuck him!

Thank Gods he was silent today. He gazed at the tie momentarily, expressing gratitude before taking the plate full of origamis and bidding farewell with a smile, leaving the grand scene. Weird man!

After his footsteps had receded into silence, his subordinates diligently secured the door, taking utmost care as they locked it three times over.

It was probably before midnight when a sudden thump from above shattered the fragile tranquility of your restless sleep, wrenching you away from a state of hazy slumber that had enveloped your mind. As you blinked your eyes open, the closed door before you became the sole object of your attention, your gaze fixated on its faint outline while your mind struggled to process the startling sound.

Somehow, your heart raced ahead, the muscle beating rapidly within your chest, as a wave of unease caused the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end. With caution, you gradually sat upright and slipped out from under the comforting embrace of the covers.

Adrenaline was coursing through your system now, instantly jolting you awake. A cloud of unease rolled in the pit of your stomach, casting a shadow over your senses. With trembling limbs, you rose from your bed, a sudden chill enveloping you and causing your skin to ripple with goosebumps. Shivering involuntarily, you mustered the courage to slowly open the door, cringing at the piercing creak that echoed through the air.

The sound could have been anything. It could have been the clatter of the guards accidentally shattering a foolishly placed vase, or shit, even a couple of ghosts roughhousing. After all, considering the grim history of the house, which had witnessed countless brutal demises, such possibilities were not entirely far-fetched. Nevertheless, an indescribable intuition gnawed at your gut, forewarning that an impending calamity loomed on the horizon.

Were they mere thieves, opportunists daring to exploit the near emptiness of the house to pilfer its trove of antiques? If that were the case, where were the supposedly vigilant guards?

No, that couldn't be.

It stretched the bounds of coincidence to believe that strangers would intentionally target the abode of a notorious mafia boss for a mere burglary.

Shaking like a leaf, you adamantly resisted the urge to succumb to fear and let it trap you in this wretched room. Summoning your resolve, you swiftly toggled the switch in the basement, causing the feeble illumination from the few functioning lights to flicker to life. The staircase materialized before you, partially shrouded in darkness, playing tricks on your mind as it conjured phantom figures lurking just beyond the reach of the light. With measured steps, you cautiously advanced towards the stairs, and to your surprise, you discovered that the metallic door stood unlocked—

And then, some was behind you.

You knew this because the frigid contact of the gun pressed against the back of your head was an undeniable reality coursing chilling sensation down your spine.

"Raise your hands, and don't do anything hasty, girl."

A sense of time dilation took hold as the world around you appeared to decelerate. You felt immobilized, unable to move a muscle. The voice that reached your ears was distinct and didn't belong to Vash or anyone you had encountered thus far, leaving you hesitant and unable even to blink. Every fiber of your being urged you to yield as your instincts clamored for compliance. After all, it was clearly not a propitious moment for acting like a dumb bitch.

"Hey, Neon!" the unfamiliar voice bellowed, causing you to flinch involuntarily at the sheer volume. "Take a look at what those fuck up twins are hiding in the basement."

As you pressed your lips tightly together, a whirlwind of apprehension and anxiety churned within you. Beads of sweat formed on your forehead, their salty sting teasing the corners of your eyes as you fixated on the man descending the staircase, his attire shimmering in the dim light. He approached you, his steps deliberate and measured, until he stood before you, his eyes alight with a disgusting gleam. And with perfect clarity, you watched him slowly shake his head at you. Warning you not to do what you were about to do. You stared at the hard lines of his face, fear steadily trickling through your body at an alarming rate.

He harshly cupped your chin in his hand, his touch threatening to break your jaw. His voice resonated with a twisted sense of captivation as he declared, "We came to take those brothers shine away," his words dripping with morbid fascination. "And behold, what a flashy gem they unknowingly concealed within this box. Such a shame! Beings like you ought to be showcased for all to revel in."

This couldn't be real. This couldn't be real. This couldn't be real.

Yes! Of course! Your stupid fucking brain must be a bit too imaginative tonight, but aside from that, this was hardcore real. If these intruders had managed to advance this far, it stood to reason that the guards had met their demise as well. So this was going to be your almighty end? No fucking thank you.

Much like Vash's previous visit, it felt like walking through a portal to hell when he walked into this club. It was stifling in here, the air so full of depravity and sickness that it was a physical weight on his shoulders. Jesus fucking Christ. He felt like he needed a goddamn gas mask to shield himself from the repulsive atmosphere surrounding him.

Their birthday party was immersed in an aura of chaos, defined by its dark theme. The pulsating bass of the music enveloped the surroundings as if originating from within his chest, which he had never immensely grown accustomed to the deafening volume of such venues. Fuckers! Shut the shit down!

Girls gracefully danced around the crowd of drunk revelers, blending sensuality and artistry, captivating the onlookers. The air was saturated with the scent of alcohol, intermingling with the thumping beats that reverberated throughout the place.

Seated in the expansive main area, the layout unfolded before him as an open concept. The ambiance was dimly lit, casting an aura of foreboding. Unlike those in the shady strip clubs downtown, the black marble floors gleamed as brilliantly as his recently polished shoes. The walls, painted a deep shade of blood red, remained devoid of creepy artwork, but plenty of creeps had occupied the booths and tables surrounding the stage.

His gaze fixated on a woman twirling around the pole, humping it to the beat while money was thrown on the stage. Shifting in his seat, he leisurely stretched his arms across the back of the couch, his legs casually spread apart. He might be dead inside, but his desires were pretty alive. The influence of alcohol was unmistakable, evident in his slight swaying and the dulled state of his senses due to the intoxicating haze. Nevertheless, amid the clamor of the party, a subtle irritation flickered across his countenance, adding a touch of annoyance to his features.

This side of the club was filled with couches and tables. Men had lounged on the couches with women draped over their laps and rubbing their tits in their faces. A full bar was where several men sat, drinking glasses of alcohol. Probably fifty-thousand-dollar Scotch that tasted like ass. Then again, they probably enjoyed that taste since they thought their farts smelled like flowers.

Women in revealing attire roamed the room, circulating among the crowd, serving drinks and feigning laughter at the patrons' feeble attempts at humor. Merely ten feet from where Vash was seated, a woman stood beside a man, extending her bare arm as the asshole callously extinguished his lit cigar on her skin. Smoke hissed and curled from the contact, yet she didn't move an inch. In fact, she didn't even flinch.

Upon closer observation, Vash discerned a blank expression on the woman's face, mirroring the detachment exhibited by the pole dancer gyrating provocatively on the stage. The pungent scent of singed flesh permeated the vicinity, lingering in the air. To Vash's dismay, one dickhead even waved his hand in front of his nose dramatically as if it was her fault it smelled.

Her arm fell limply to her side as she remained motionless, her gaze glazed and distant. Vash's attention was drawn to the entirety of her arm, which bore a multitude of burn scars—some old, others fresh—each at varying stages of healing and plenty of fresh burns from tonight.

Cigarettes and burn scars.

You.

Your scars.

The music pumping through the speakers was everywhere, though not to the extent of drowning out his thoughts. Anger erupted within him, intensifying as he questioned why his mind, in such an environment, was fixated on you. Pain in the ass!

Once again, his gaze fell upon the girl. For sure, she had been drugged. So, for a moment, out of anger, he thought of getting up and burning the man's hand with a lighter, but he was no goddamn hero. Even he, himself, was not significantly different from those around him.

"Mr. Saverem, how can I help you?" a blonde woman asked, leaning on him till her nipples were almost in his mouth if he hadn't pulled his head away. She wore a plain, loose black top and a mini skirt, with nondescript heels and her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Standing positioned between Vash's legs, she awaited his response.

The familiar vacant expression adorned her face, signaling that she, like the others, had fallen prey to the effects of being drugged. It became evident to Vash that they were all victims of this manipulation, a taste that Kni seemed to favor. He questioned himself, wondering why he had even entertained the notion of anything different in this grim situation.

"Where's Kni?"

"Who?" the girl asked, her confusion evident as she straightened her posture slightly.

Vash contemplated shifting his leg, but upon noticing the girl's lack of response, he raised an eyebrow inquisitively. In a swift reaction, she promptly retreated, creating some distance between them. "Where is your master, Knives?"

"Oh," she said, as if newly remembering. "Your brother is in the VIP—" Before she could finish her sentence, Vash was on his feet, navigating his way through the throng of grinding couples, drunk girls getting molested, and obnoxious douchebags drenched in excessive cologne with a mountain of gel in their hair. For fuck's sake, one even parted his button-up to proudly show off the gold chain hanging over his hairy, overly tanned chest.

From both sides, unsettling gazes from men and women fixated upon him as the sound of bass-heavy music filled the air, originating from somewhere ahead. Determinedly, he made his way toward the hallway. This section boasted opulent gold-tiled flooring, foreboding black walls, and an obscenely extravagant chandelier. Men in suits, whose names he wished to erase from memory, greeted him with disconcerting smiles, still riding the high from raping a poor girl or boy. To him, they all appeared indistinguishably repugnant.

As he arrived at the VIP section, Vash noticed that the bass had mellowed in intensity. Positioned on a crescent-shaped couch, Kni sat with his legs spread apart while a bartender enthusiastically bounced up and down on his lap while his head was kicked back with his eyes closed. The bartender's skirt was hitched up, her thong pulled aside, leaving her pussy exposed, eating up Kni's cock all the way down. This wasn't new for Vash. He had seen worse.

The presence of white powders streaked across the glass table made it evident that Vash's twin was high on cocaine. Meanwhile, Kni's devoted dog, Legato, sat on the opposite side of the room, probably for the first time receiving treatment from a girl and only because Kni probably had paid for it. Vash arched a brow, unimpressed with how low Legato's girl had to bounce. Little dick! Luckily, his partners never had that issue.

Letting out a sigh, he retreated into the shadows, and it took him five minutes to get out of this godforsaken place until he reached the table where the girl with cigarette burn scars was seated.

"Gentlemen, my apologies, but this one is off-limits for tonight," Vash snarled, his eyes ablaze with fury. With a single glance, she recoiled and shrank into herself while the other men chuckled mockingly.

"Excellent choice, birthday boy," Ruth, one of Kni's men, mumbled, casting a hungry gaze upon her, akin to a famished person with a plate full of food after weeks of deprivation. "She's got a delicious pussy."

"How coincidental! I had the very same thought," Vash retorted directly to the man, who chuckled heartily, relishing the idea of a woman being objectified. The old fuck!

Vash firmly seized the woman's arm, yanking her close to his body and forcefully pulling her away. Though she didn't resist with great strength, the instinct of self-preservation gradually emerged, battling against the haze of drugs within her system. Nevertheless, she had long accepted her fate.

Upon reaching a secluded room, he shifted his focus towards her. To his astonishment, she had already descended to her knees, her eyes fixed upon him with a blend of sorrow and surrender.

She possessed a captivating beauty, with lustrous brown hair, enchanting grass-green eyes, and freckles adorning her nose. There was a quality about her that bore a slight resemblance to you, and immediately, he felt a burning urge to storm back outside and crush his fist in Ruth's face just for touching her.

"Get up," Vash stated firmly. She rose to her feet with unsteady movements, resembling a baby giraffe taking its tentative first steps. "I'm going to get you out of here," he assured her, determination evident in his voice.

A crease formed on her forehead, and her expression turned into a frown. "Sir—" she started to say, her voice conveying a sense of unease or apprehension.

"How would you feel about getting a fresh start in life, yeah?"

Her eyes widened as if the idea of breaking free from her current situation began to dissipate the haze of drugs clouding her gaze. However, a sense of wariness replaced her initial glimmer of hope, eventually giving way to resignation. Tears welled up at the corners of her eyes as she looked down, seemingly gathering herself. "I understand what that entails. I-I apologize. I am here to fulfill your desires, sir. Please, grant me the opportunity to bring you pleasure—"

"I have no intention of causing you harm or taking your life," Vash interjected firmly, emphasizing each word.

"But-but you're Vash Saverem."

The weight of her words slapped him hard, realizing the understandable skepticism the girl held towards his intentions. He couldn't blame her; he wouldn't trust a fuck up like himself. "I'm going to help you, but I need you to listen to exactly what I say."

She shifted uneasily on her feet, glancing up at him with nervousness, her head nodding vigorously. Vash swiftly retrieved his phone and dialed Livio's number, waiting for him to answer. With only a few words exchanged, Vash explained the dire situation at hand. It took fifteen minutes of coordination before a car was arranged to pick her up. During that time, the girl shared details about her family. She spoke of his father battling cancer. She revealed that she resorted to this line of work to cover the mounting medical expenses. However, she confessed her uncertainty about the worthiness of it all if it meant risking her life and the abrupt cessation of the additional income.

Never again would she have to bear the burden of caring for her family or endure the torment of cigarette burns, Vash promised.

As she approached the door, ready to enter the car, Vash grasped her wrist. A nondescript black sedan stood just two feet away, its door already swung open, beckoning her inside.

"Hey," he spoke calmly, causing her to freeze in her tracks. "I need you to promise me something," he continued. "Never discuss this matter with anyone, alright? I have the memory of an elephant, especially with faces. Understood?"

She would never see the wrong end of Vash's gun, even if she did tell, but it would make his life much more complicated if she knew that.

"Okay," she responded softly. "You're a very good man, Mr. Saverem." A solitary tear escaped her eye, which she quickly wiped away before nodding. Her brightened eyes shone with hope, and doing this shit was all worth it when he had her look at him like that. He still didn't consider himself a hero, but it was his birthday night, and he was allowed to do whatever fuck he wanted. None of anybody's business.

Stepping out of his vintage black cherry Mercury Cougar, Vash stretched his neck, his muscles taut with pent-up tension. Scanning his surroundings, he suddenly snapped out of a daze and realized the absence of doormen in front of the gate. Upon further scrutiny, he also noticed the guards at the entrance were nowhere to be seen. This felt off. The night had an unsettling aura, akin to being trapped in a metallic chamber, just waiting for the bullet to ricochet and hit him somewhere vital.

Couldn't this fucking night just end?

Vash proceeded cautiously through the back entrance. His movement abruptly stopped when he glanced to his left and spotted a pair of men clad in flashy attire—the notorious Bad Lad Gang members. Exhaling a sigh of relief, a slight burden lifted from his shoulders, confirming they weren't mercenaries. This meant there was a higher likelihood of you still being alive. Shaking his head, he retrieved his gun and screwed the silencer piece with precision.

However, his momentary relief evaporated when he overheard the words that escaped their vulgar mouths.

"Why are we wasting time?" one of the men inquired impatiently.

"That bitch refused to come with us. Who the hell would choose to stay in captivity instead of taking a chance at escape?" one of the men sneered. "I mean, we may not be saints, but we're still better than those Saverems. The van is already prepared for departure."

Vash's posture snapped into rigid attention, his body becoming as stiff as if cement had been injected into his spinal cord. The realization hit him like a sudden jolt—you had chosen not to go. Good girl.

"What if they return?" the man attempted to appease the situation.

"We've got our guys infiltrated into their birthday party. Big brother is all drugged up, surrounded by his crew, and the other is busy with a hostess in the back. Even if they do come back, Neon said he'll use her as leverage to secure our freedom and more money," the man explained confidently.

"But we don't even know who she is! She hasn't uttered a single word. How can we be certain that she's worth anything?" another man interjected.

"She must hold some significance if Diablo has her locked up. Neon is doing his best to coax her into talking. I hope he finishes soon because, judging by the brutal scars on Diablo's body, I definitely wouldn't want to cross paths with the younger Saverem," the man remarked with a shudder.

The first man casually waved his hand, dismissing his friend's very valid concerns. "He ended up with those scars because he was weak," he remarked callously.

Vash's laughter erupted soundlessly, his head thrown back and shoulders convulsing with mirth as he absorbed the twisted assumption made by the man. His laughter resonated through the confined space, intertwining with the eerie sounds that permeated the desolate house. The heads of the four men snapped towards him, their faces drained of color as if their worst nightmares had come to life. Soon enough, they would realize that he occupied the very throne of terror, and their nightmares would kneel before him, for he was a far greater abomination than any monster they could fathom.

Entering the room, Vash's grin broadened as he observed their instinctive recoil. Swiftly, before they could even reach for their weapons, Vash eliminated three of them. Dead. Easy peasy!

"Diablo—" the man who had previously exuded confidence began, his voice filled with unease and surprise.

"Do you want to know how old my scars are? Very old. They bear witness to battles against formidable adversaries. But let me enlighten you on who sprawled on the floor, their throats slit, and eye sockets hollowed out. It certainly wasn't me, you bastard," Vash retorted with a menacing edge.

The man attempted to dismiss Vash's story with a choked laugh. "Saverem, please, we weren't talking about you or your girl," he rasped out, his voice strained and broken.

His girl.

You? His girl? Huh!

"The worst mistake you could make is lying to me," Vash said, a flicker of anger seeping into his gaze as he advanced. Trespassing into his domain was one thing, but attempting to steal his precious asset was an entirely different offense. "Neon is your boss, right? Where is he?"

"Please—I have kids. Ple—"

Vash closed his eyes, exhaling a deep breath, and reopened them with a resolute gaze. " I'm not gonna repeat myself," he stated firmly, raising his gun to the man's forehead.

"B-B-Basement," the man stammered, his fear causing him to lose control. Vash couldn't help but find the man's demeanor pathetic, almost on the verge of peeing on his floor. What an ass!

"How many of you are inside?" Vash inquired, his hand delving into his pocket to count the bullets. Unsure it was disheartening to anticipate needing them even on his birthday or if he should find solace in having them for such an occasion, he embraced the latter. This was not a time for sadness. A sense of contentment washed over him, knowing his trusty, cold companions of metal bullets were beside him wherever he went.

"About twenty-five," the man replied. Not an insignificant number, but not particularly formidable either. With that, Vash wasted no time. He pulled the trigger, firing at the man, and without pausing to witness his collapse, he dashed through the doorway.

The crackling of parquet beneath his feet revealed his path leading towards the basement. The lifeless figure of the last person he had dispatched lay near the staircase, likely retaining some residual warmth. Vash shook his clenched fists, feeling the restlessness entwining his nerves into tight knots.

In the basement, Vash discovered a strategically positioned group of five armed men, three more on their six and four on their twelve. Cracking his neck, he savored the sensation of bones popping, finding solace in the release of tension and the subsequent relaxation of his shoulders. Fucking long night.

Taking down twelve men wouldn't pose a significant challenge for Vash as long as he executed his moves swiftly and stealthily. After cutting off the power, he knew disabling the guards surrounding the mansion would be easier. Finding a spot hidden in the shadows took two seconds, giving him the perfect shot angle. Their mistake was relying on their limited eyesight for intruders. His ability to hide in the shadows was what ultimately got them killed. They should have equipped themselves with night vision goggles. What fools! Maybe then he would have found a bit of entertainment in the encounter.

Slinking up to the door, he pressed his shoulder against the wall, ensuring his footsteps remained silent. With deftness, he turned the handle and smoothly slipped through the partially opened door, his body passing through the narrow gap. The metal door closed noiselessly behind him, bringing him one step closer to you.

The muffled screams of "NO" reached Vash's ears, the sound of your fights piercing his consciousness. White-hot rage blinded his vision; however, he knew better than to rush in recklessly or lose his fucking shit. No one could afford to succumb to their emotions in this situation; otherwise, you would never be rescued. It wasn't easy to maintain composure, though. These assholes had a way of bringing out the worst in him.

Keeping to the shadows, he made his way through the hallway; peering around the corner, he spotted you. The man who appeared to be the leader of this group of varmints had leaned in close to you, trapping your legs between his. The audacity! This was his spot!

Vash clenched his fists, the tension intensifying until his hands grew numb, and he drew his gun from its holster. He knew that once the first man fell, the remaining enemies would unleash a barrage of gunfire. That's why he needed to proceed with caution and quickness. While it was difficult to gauge how they would treat your safety, they might have valued their trump card's life above all else. However, some of these men were more concerned about self-preservation, which meant you could become an easy target for stray bullets.

As Vash had guessed, three men stood guard before him, blissfully unaware of his presence. Stupid fucks. He couldn't help but scoff at their ignorance. How could people be oblivious to the imminent danger lurking right under their noses? It baffled him to no end.

With precise movements, Vash dispatched all three men in quick succession. Their bodies collapsed to the ground while the remaining five men in the basement pit turned their heads in tandem, their faces morphing from surprise to alarm to anger in seconds. In a frantic scramble, they reached for their firearms. Meanwhile, Vash remained concealed behind the protective cover of the wall. Two men opened fire, forcing him to retreat and seek safer ground.

A bullet grazed the corner of the wall, narrowly missing Vash's face. Chunks of concrete scattered, stinging his eyes as the onslaught of bullets continued to zip around him. He grunted in response, reflexively massaging his eyelids to dispel the chaos and restore clarity to his vision.

Just as Vash readied himself for the next encounter, a man came charging around the corner, oblivious to his impending fate. Without hesitation, Vash swiftly killed him with a precisely aimed shot, leaving a neat hole between his brows. He was an ugly motherfucker, anyway. The world would do just fine without him. Before the lifeless body could crumple to the ground, Vash seized him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer. Despite the repugnant odor emanating from the rotting wound on the man's face, Vash used him as a shield, stepping out of the hallway and utilizing the dead man's body as a barrier against the bullets that continued to rain down upon him.

The lifeless body absorbed a few hits as Vash skillfully fired two single shots, taking down two more adversaries. With a calculated move, he stepped back into the hallway, pushing away the bloodied man, now riddled with bullets. The man's head made a sickening thud as it collided with the wooden floor. Vash had briefly used him as a shield for five seconds, but he knew he had been fortunate. It wasn't like the movies. Bullets could easily penetrate through bodies, making such tactics risky and unpredictable. Typically, Vash avoided using others as shields unless absolutely necessary, and even then, only for brief moments to gain a tactical advantage.

He reloaded his gun as a chorus of noises raised in the basement in the form of terrified screams and yells of panic from the men, ordering to "kill the puta."

With six men remaining, Vash could sense the panic crawling off them. The threat reverberated as one of them shouted, his voice echoing, "Come out with your hands raised and your gun on the floor, or I'll kill your bitch!"

Vash let out a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of the situation. Knowing they knew his weakness, he reluctantly complied with their demand. He dropped his gun onto the floor and emerged with his hands raised. The six men positioned themselves between him and you. The bitter knowledge that they were only doing so to ensure the bait wasn't damaged rather than giving a shit about hurting you burned hot in his chest. Despite the circumstances, he maintained a taunting smirk on his lips as he addressed them, "Come on, the fun was just starting." However, the lack of visibility prevented him from gauging your current state. The burning question lingered: Were you okay?

"Shut up!" the boss spat. He was a Latino man with an unconventional hairstyle adorned with tattoos that covered his entire body. He wore clothes that made him seem like he had raided a circus wardrobe. This must be Neon, the leader of the gang Vash had been hunting. It was a pleasure to meet you finally, dead man!

Neon's eyes were wide with fear, and based on the crack pipes scattering on the table behind him, Vash'd say most of them were high off their rockers. Not so good. Trigger-happy and fueled by their drug-induced state, they were unpredictable and prone to impulsive actions. And he got six of those happy fingers on triggers. "Who told you we are in your house?" Neon shouted, emphasizing his question with a wave of his gun.

Vash responded with a dry tone, "I felt your stench."

Neon raised his gun above his head and fired a shot, attempting to intimidate Vash. See? Trigger happy. However, Vash remained unfazed by the act, showing no signs of flinching or fear. Instead, he took the opportunity to carefully observe his surroundings. To his left, there was a table strewn with an assortment of items: guns, ashtrays, empty vodka bottles—his vodka bottles—and yet another crack pipe. Perfect.

"So, it seems you truly are the infamous arrogant Diablo," the man remarked, his finger caressing the trigger.

Vash maintained a composed demeanor as he inquired, "And you Neon?"

The man's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Vash could discern the traces of paranoia seeping into his eyes. It became apparent that Neon might not be as cooperative or helpful as Vash had initially anticipated. He was buzzing too hard. Neon responded with suspicion, "How do you know that? You following me?"

A wide, toothy grin spread across Vash's face. "It's what I excel at, after all," he replied. "Word on the street is that you're the big shot around here, running the show and all that." Neon shifted uncomfortably, a hint of pride flickering across his expression. It was as if he believed he was contributing something meaningful to the world, oblivious that his actions were centered around stealing valuable possessions while dressed like a clown. "I was actually hoping you could help me out, man."

"Yeah?" Neon patronized, his tone dripping with disdain. "You believe I'm going to lend you a hand? You must be out of your mind, Diablo." He fired another shot, this time deliberately close to Vash. Too close for comfort. Enough to feel the bullet's heat, yet he didn't flinch, and his calmness seemed to infuriate Neon even further.

Vash sighed. With Neon's current state of mind, he had to kill his ass down from his high. A swift assessment of the situation told him he had a mere two seconds before the rest of the men would open fire, regardless of what he said. With that limited timeframe in mind, he suddenly reached behind his back, retrieving his second gun and taking down one of the men to his left. The suddenness of his action caught the others off guard, buying him a small window of opportunity. Taking advantage of that momentary distraction, Vash flipped the table, causing the glass to shatter from the ashtrays and a gun to fall off the table, discharging a round and filling the room with shocked screams from the remaining men.

Fuck. If that bullet had ricocheted and landed just an inch closer to you, he would have willingly allowed himself to be stabbed rather than risk your safety. However, no cries of pain followed, so he took a deep breath, relieved but no less pissed at himself.

In perfect synchronization, a barrage of bullets pierced the thick, wooden table, punctuating the air with a loud sound. Fortunately, most projectiles failed to penetrate fully, a stroke of luck in Vash's favor. Returning fire was far too risky in this situation. Even the slightest exposure of his pinky toe would invite a hail of bullets, and he refused to jeopardize your well-being further by blindly firing back. He would only take shots when he had absolute certainty of their accuracy. For now, all he could do was wait, biding his time until the assailants emptied their clips.

Vash heard the rustling of clothing and muttered curses as they scrambled to reload. It took even less time for him to shoot the remaining four. The bullets had torn through the men's brains in rapid succession, causing their lifeless bodies to collapse simultaneously. However, he deliberately chose to spare Neon for the time being. He intended to deal with him later, in his own way.

Neon's mouth unleashed a torrent of curses, his colorful tirade spewing as he desperately searched for another weapon. He was nothing more than a whiny bitch trapped in a man's body, devoid of true courage. His face flushed with rage, filled with murderous intent as he fixed a fierce glare upon Vash. Now that he thought again, he had no time for these stupid games. Ignoring the look on Neon's face, Vash shot the thief in the head. Thieves had no home in heaven, remember?

And then he looked for you—the spitfire who would turn to a mush when he was around you. Between death and destruction, you had worn a smile on your lips, your eyes glistening with tears, your hair disheveled. Yet, there was an undeniable radiance within you, a precious light that warmed his heart and justified the violence he had unleashed to protect you.

In that moment, he couldn't help but question whether he was your savior or if you, with your enchanting smile, were the true source of his salvation. You embodied a majestic blessing, and he found himself addicted to the sheer joy that radiated within him each time you smiled in his presence.

Vash's face changed seasons as he reached you: the once rigid line of his mouth warmed into a bright smile. His eyes sparkled as he beamed at you, seemingly unfazed by the presence of lifeless bodies strewn about the surroundings.

Vash studied your eyes intently, his piercing blue gaze locked onto yours as if trying to read you for clues. But, the intensity of his scrutiny was often overwhelming, causing you to break the connection prematurely. In doing so, you felt a sense of disconnection, as if a vital tether had been momentarily severed, leaving you with a somewhat unsettled feeling.

"Get down—"

He tackled you to the ground just as the sound of gunshots filled the basement. His strong arms enveloped and pulled you close to his chest, his body shielding yours from the imminent danger. The rapid thumping of your heart drowned out Vash's voice as he leaned close and spoke into your ear, his words barely audible.

In a hushed whisper, Vash asked, "Are you all right?" as he held you even closer, seeking reassurance of your well-being. You attempted to nod in response, conveying your condition despite the tense situation. "Stay down," he said, his voice filled with urgency. "Don't move." His words were firm.

You had no intentions of doing otherwise, though you chose not to voice it to him.

The gunshots rang out, and you instinctively covered your ears tightly, seeking temporary respite from the ear-splitting noise. Then, abruptly, silence descended, leaving a void that was broken only by the sight of Vash dropping his gun and collapsing to the floor. With wide eyes, you turned to face him, witnessing him struggling to remain seated, his strength visibly waning.

As you took in the sight before you, your breath caught in your throat. Vash's head hung low, his neck limp, and his disheveled coat revealing an undone button. His dark shirt and crimson vest were soaked in blood, painting a grim tableau.

He had been shot, but when? Now? No. No. No.

You were too poor to afford the luxury of succumbing to hysteria. Instead, your focus shifted to finding a solution to staunch Vash's bleeding, yet fear held you back from approaching him. Your eyes scanned the surroundings, convinced Vash had ensured no remaining intruders were lurking nearby.

With caution, you gingerly maneuvered between Vash's legs, mindful of avoiding a direct gaze at the blood staining his hands. You consciously suppressed your imagination, refusing to let it overpower you in this critical moment. Not here. Not now.

Gathering your resolve, you called out to him, your voice filled with concern and uncertainty, "Vash...?"

Your hand instinctively went to his neck, seeking his pulse, and at that moment, Vash's head snapped up with a sudden burst of energy. His eyes found you. His face, remarkably, appeared largely unscathed, save for the visible signs of weariness etched upon it.

"I'm not dead yet, love," he whispered, his weary smile gracing his face as if he were beholding you with fresh eyes, appreciating your presence anew. "I'm glad it didn't hit you."

Tears welled up in your eyes instantaneously, and his words flooded your thoughts, rendering your mind a whirlwind of confusion. Your mouth opened, but nothing emerged as your limbs felt immobilized, and your wide eyes remained fixated on him, reflecting a combo of fear, concern, and an overwhelming flood of emotions.

"You're worried for me?" Vash said, his voice hoarse.

"Shut up!"

His hand reached out to tenderly caress your cheek. No gloves. His hand was bloodied. You knew it. But you couldn't care less. It was the hand of your savior, and that fact outweighed any concerns about its current state. His thumb left faint blood trails on your face, and in response, your muscles finally began to relax from their tense state. With a resolute grip, you clasped his wrist firmly with both hands, causing him to flinch momentarily. Undeterred, you held on even tighter, seeking to provide a sense of stability and support.

You had grown an unexpected soft spot for him, maybe because he was vulnerable, or perhaps it was because he had taken a bullet while selflessly protecting you, a level of care that had been absent from your life for far too long. It was a stark reminder of his compassion, something no one else had done in ages. You swallowed down your deep-seated hatred, at least for the moment, and mustered the strength to ask, "Tell me, what should I do?"

"Love," Vash murmured, his gaze unwaveringly fixed upon yours, his lips slightly parted. Within his turquoise-colored eyes resided a haunting pain that seemed to hold him captive. His dark lashes unveiled a complex blend of sorrow and beauty as he blinked, a sight that struck you with unexpected intensity. The profound emotions he conveyed through a mere glance caught you off guard, revealing an extraordinary depth of agony entrenched within his heart.

Your throat tightened, and with a gulp, you released his hand, redirecting your focus to pressing both of your hands firmly against his torso. The warmth of his blood seeped through your fingers, staining your skin with a crimson hue in mere moments. The onslaught of rushing blood in your ears intensified, drowning out other sounds as waves of tension threatened to consume you from inside.

In a quiet voice, you found yourself whispering words to him that emerged from the depths of your being, words you didn't even know were there. Wave after wave of stress slammed into you, and fuck...everything blurred as fresh tears welled up in your eyes. It felt like your chest was splitting wide open, like your heart was spilling alongside his blood.

As you lifted your head, your gaze met him, and to your surprise, you discovered him wearing a genuine smile that had blossomed upon his lips. One so warm that it cracked the shell of coldness.

"Thank you, but pressing your hands on it is not gonna work," he said, placing his palms on the floor and endeavoring to push himself up into an upright position against the couch. "I need to see the wound. Can you help me unbutton my vest and shirt?"

As he inhaled deeply, his head snapped back, causing his neck tattoos to stretch tautly. Cold droplets of sweat trickled down from the tattoos, tracing a path along the collar of his shirt. He swallowed, and the movement of his Adam's apple was evident as it bobbed up and down. The sheer simplicity of this primal act sent a chill coursing through your veins, causing every hair on your body to stand on end. It stirred something deep within you, a sensation that hinted at something amiss within yourself.

Focus!

He had no tie, so carefully, you began to undo his buttons, your fingers trembling slightly as you navigated the task. It was then that you caught yourself instinctively closing your eyes, a reflex to shield yourself from the vulnerability of the moment. However, you quickly blinked them open when you felt something brush against your eyelashes, realizing it was a fleeting touch from his fingers. Holy shit! You were dripping, burning, and melting all at once.

"We can't proceed with your eyes closed," he said with a small smile the size of Jupiter. Intrigued, you cautiously peeked at his features, taking in the exquisite craftsmanship of every detail. Each element seemed meticulously designed, from his perfectly sculpted nose and chin to his finely-shaped ears and eyebrows. His eyelashes possessed a captivating allure that any girl would envy, framing his eyes with a wealth of color and depth, capable of inspiring countless works of art. Moreover, his golden hair resembled the ripe, undulating fields of wheat, a sight you longed to relish, while his eyes were a canvas with infinite possibilities, beckoning you to paint a million vibrant pictures.

Your eyes traced the contour of his jaw, allowing your gaze to travel along the graceful curve of his neck until it reached the apex of his collarbone. There, you committed to memory the sculpted landscape of his throat, with its captivating interplay of hills and valleys, accentuated by the presence of intricate tattoos. The sheer perfection of—

Scars.

His skin was shredded with scars.

Blood rushed to your head so quickly that you began to feel faint. You felt sick. Like you might actually, truly upturn the contents of your stomach right now. You wanted to panic; you wanted to shake someone; you wanted to know how to understand the emotions choking you because you couldn't even imagine, couldn't even imagine, couldn't even imagine what he must've endured to carry such suffering on his skin.

His entire torso was a map of pain.

Thick and thin and uneven and terrible. Scars like roads that led to nowhere. They were gashes and ragged slices you couldn't understand, marks of torture you never expected. They were the only imperfections on his entire body, imperfections hidden away and hiding secrets of their own.

Then, a realization washed over you, not for the first time, that you had no idea who Vash really was. You tried to tell him something. You tried to choke out. You tried to say so many times and failed. You tried to find his eyes only to realize he'd been watching you study him. The pieces of his face were pressed into lines of emotion so deep you wondered what you must look like to him. He touched two fingers to your chin, tilted your face up just enough, and his touch was like an electric wire in water.

"It's not a pleasant sight for a woman," he murmured in a low tone, and it felt as if the entire universe froze in its tracks, spinning in the opposite direction. Yet, your gaze remained fixated on him, on the expanse of his upper body. You were struck by the sheer perfection that unfolded before you, captivated by his flawless appearance from the front. Strong, lean frame, toned and muscular without being bulky. He was fair without being pale and skin tinted with enough sunlight to look effortlessly healthy. The body of a perfect man.

What a lie appearances could be.

What a terrible, terrible lie.

His gaze fixated on you, his eyes akin to blue flames, burning with an intensity that refused to be extinguished. You couldn't tear your eyes away from him and his chest's rapid rise and fall.

"Would you mind?" he asked, gesturing towards his wound, his tone attempting to convey a casual demeanor that thinly veiled the underlying apprehension in his eyes. "I'm bleeding a bit here," he added, acknowledging the criticality of tending to his injury.

"Do your scars hurt?" you blurted out suddenly.

He met your gaze with eyes widened in surprise, and in a quiet tone, he confessed, "Help me take these things off." Of course, he wouldn't answer you.

In a barely audible whisper, you mustered the courage to ask, "Will you tell me where they came from?" The weight of the question made it difficult for you to maintain eye contact as curiosity and trepidation swirled within you.

He was silent for so long. Then, his voice, like a gentle tug on a leash, called your name, instantly capturing your attention. You lifted your head, compelled by his words. "Help me take off my coat and vest. I feel like I'm suffocating," he requested, his pale face contorted with pain.

You didn't push further. With a nod of understanding, you delicately held him, careful not to hurt him further. He didn't say a word about the pain, trying so hard to hide that he was having trouble breathing. He was wincing against the torture of it all but didn't whisper a complaint.

You drew him closer, bringing his head to rest against yours, his deep breaths brushing against your shoulder. You seized the fabric's edge without hesitation, ready to gently remove it from his arms. However, the minuscule motion seemed to inflict unbearable pain, prompting him to bury his face in the curve of your neck. There, he stifled another groan, his lips pressing firmly against your skin, seeking solace in his discomfort.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so—"

Feeling his hand tugging on your t-shirt, his grip tight and desperate, he implored in a calm voice near your ear, "Just take them off." You attempted to comply with his request, carefully removing the garments, mindful of the pain it may cause him. In response, his hands transformed into a firm embrace around your waist, his lips shifted to lightly press against your cheek, and his body pressed intimately against yours. Your senses became acutely aware of his touch.

He was touching you, touching you, touching you.

"Love—"

As his body pressed nearer, a wave of awareness swept through you, consuming your senses until nothing else mattered except the ethereal dandelions blowing wishes within your lungs. Suddenly, your eyes flew open, capturing a fleeting moment as he briefly licked his bottom lip. His tongue grazed your neck, and in that instant, something in your brain burst to life.

You gasped. You gasped. You gasped.

"I—"

"Love, please," his voice trembled with anxiety. "Just—" he pleaded, his lips pressed tightly against your skin. For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes, and droplets of sweat trickled down from his hairline, falling onto your shoulder blade. His fingers slowly traversed the sides of your body, their movement betraying his inner struggle to remain composed. And he held you. It felt unlike any embrace you had experienced before. It was as if you were a fragile glass urn containing his entire existence—precious, vital, and an inseparable part of him.

With a swift motion, you removed both his coat and vest, expecting some dramatic reaction. But he didn't scream. He didn't die. He didn't faint, but you did cry, you did choke, you did shake, shudder, splinter into teardrops. He leaned back against the couch, and you couldn't help but notice the pallor that had washed over his face. It was a sight that broke something deep within your heart. Seeing him in this vulnerable state pierced your defenses despite your lingering hatred towards him. You would have preferred to witness him succumb instantly, with that infuriating smirk on his face, rather than seeing those big, blue eyes staring at you like a lost fallen angel.

"Some of them are remnants of our childhood games," he uttered, his voice strained as he cleared his parched throat. The revelation left you frozen in a state of horror. "The scars, I mean," he clarified. Your mind raced, struggling to process the implications of his words. Vash averted his gaze, his eyes devoid of any discernible emotion, his face locked into a neutral expression. The silence hung heavy in the air, pregnant with unspoken questions.

"Knives whipped you?" you managed to rasp, your voice hoarse and filled with shock. The words tumbled out without permission.

"Cut."

"Oh my God," you gasped, instinctively covering your mouth in disbelief. Your gaze shifted towards the wall as you fought to regain your composure. Blinking rapidly, you wrestled with the pain and rage within you, struggling to contain the emotions threatening to consume you.

"I'm so sorry," you choked out.

You had to suppress the words that threatened to spill from your lips. His flawless countenance. His impeccable physique. His eyes were cold and exquisite, like frozen gemstones. Gods! His concealed exterior was as shattered as his hidden interior.

Overwhelmed by the intensity of your emotions, you found yourself speaking without reservation, assuring him, "Your scars are not repulsive. At least they weren't for me or… your Nick."

His gaze remained fixed upon you for a while, but then he shook his head, gathering his thoughts before speaking. "I'll apply pressure to my wound with this vest. Meanwhile, I need you to retrieve my coat," he instructed. "In the right pocket, you'll find my phone. Take it and make a call to Bradd. He's on speed dial #2. Remember, there's no cell reception in the basement. You have to go upstairs." He paused, swallowing hard, before resuming. "The car's switch is in my left pocket." He took a deep breath and continued, "Get out of here before anyone notices you leaving. Once you reach the main road, you'll be able to make your escape easily."

WHAT? WAS HE LETTING YOU GO? It wasn't like he could stop you now, but…

As if someone had suddenly poured icy water upon your head, you gazed at him, knowing he wouldn't meet your eyes, for he was not the type to bid farewells and wish you good luck. He was letting you go out of feeling guilty; likewise, you were not one to let such an opportunity slip away.

You mechanically nodded, and with a final glance devoid of words, you swiftly grabbed his coat and made a hasty retreat up the stairs, leaving behind a silent acknowledgment of your parting.

This was all you wanted. To be free. Right?

You followed through with your actions: You did call Bradd. You did retrieve the car switch. You did make your way to the front door. You did stand there. Your hand did reach out and grasp the doorknob. However, your feet remained rooted to the floor despite your intention to leave.

Because there was a man in the basement, wounded because of you. Because that man had been shot before. Because the body never gets used to pain. Because he knew, and yet, he willingly bore it for your sake. Because where did you want to go? To your father? To that man who didn't even bother with saving you? Where did you want to go when you had nowhere? Because you only realize the depth of your desire to stay when the doors are wide open.

Upon returning to the basement, you discovered him in a distressed state. His head tilted back, his hands clenched tightly, and his lips nearly devoid of color against the backdrop of darkness. It was evident that he struggled to maintain a firm grip on his wound, unable to apply enough pressure to stem the flow.

As the sound of your footsteps reached his ears, he lifted his head and directed his gaze towards the phone in your hand, followed by a glance at the car keys held in your other hand.

In a whisper stained with desperation and vulnerability, he asked, "Why did you come back?" His words hung in the air, hopes dying and flourishing in his eyes, his eyelashes like pearls forged from pain. It felt as though he was consuming your very essence, and you, in turn, became entangled, ensnared in his presence.

"Why..." you began, your voice catching on the first two attempts at inhalation. "Why are you looking at me like you've seen a ghost?"

"Because I might be hallucinating," he almost chuckled, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and it felt as if you could sprout a pair of wings and take flight. "You didn't want to leave?" he inquired, curious about your unexpected presence.

"What?" you blinked, suddenly sobered. "No! That's not what I meant. I just thought that no one should have to go through the experience of dying alone. And remember, you told me I would finally be free when you're gone. So why should I rush to leave?"

"Yeah, that promise," he sighed, his gaze drifting downward. "You're one of the worst liars I've ever encountered." Time seemed to stretch as you waited and waited and waited for him to continue. "You just made a call to save me," he stated, his voice tinged with amusement. His eyes traveled from your shoulder to your elbow, eventually landing on your wrist, fixated on the phone in your hand. In that suspended moment, disbelief held you captive, leaving you at a loss for words. "Why do you want to make everything challenging, love?"

"How can you be certain that I've called for help?" you questioned, your voice laced with genuine surprise as you tried to raise your eyebrow.

His gaze held you captive as if pinning you in place. The urgency in his eyes ignited a spark within your very bones. He bit his bottom lip, briefly averting his gaze before the words spilled forth. "Because I know you," he declared, and a flurry of hummingbirds seemed to flutter within your heart. His eyes carried a tenderness, and his smile had the power to unhinge your very joints. A bittersweet longing stirred within you as you wished he could be someone else, someone better, so you could taste his lips' sweetness.

No lips!

Don't think about his lips, idiot!

You forced yourself to fixate on his face, determined not to let your eyes dwell upon the devastation that marked his body. However, as countless seconds ticked by, you could not tear your gaze away from him.

"I can't believe you returned," he murmured, and deep down, you understood the reasons why you shouldn't have. It wasn't logical or practical. However, against all rationale, you disregarded those thoughts and chose to sit close to him.

"You know," you informed him, "Bradd mentioned that he thought you were still fucking that girl from the party. You were obviously having fun, so why did you come home? Didn't things work out for you two?" Despite your efforts to mask it, a trace of annoyance seeped into your tone.

Vash stared at you, a genuine smile gracing his face. "No need to be jealous," he reassured, his words piercing through you. "I'm here because I'd rather celebrate with my friend than be surrounded by strangers." You struggled to maintain composure, like keeping your organs from falling out, hoping the holes in your head weren't showing.

Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!

And bold because your hand instinctively reached out, gently brushing his hair away from his forehead. As you did, you noticed that his hair had grown slightly longer, a detail that had previously escaped your attention. The surprising softness of his blond locks, akin to melted chocolate, captivated you. It made you question why he bothered styling his hair in spikes when it looked so effortlessly appealing when left down. "Thank you for rescuing me," you expressed your gratitude, observing how he tensed his jaw and hesitated, opening and closing his lips.

Lowering your hand, you gently caressed his wrists, delicately tracing the tender skin with your fingertips, your touch grazing over the scars. This time, he didn't recoil; instead, he drew a fractured breath and closed his eyes. With a reassuring tone, you assured him, "You're going to be alright."

Like a wounded puppy, he made an effort to nod in acknowledgment.

Should you do something about his wound? Where was the first aid kit? He interjected as you contemplated retracting your touch, stopping you. "Don't," he said. "Your touch is the only thing keeping me from losing my sanity."

What? Why was he acting weird today? Was it because he was wounded?

You suppressed a shiver as a rush of warmth flooded your cheeks, coloring them with blush, and just for this moment, you dropped your bones and allowed him to hold you together. Luxurious was what this was.

Vash's cold, stained fingers enveloped yours, gripping them tightly, and the sheer delight that waved through you was so immense that it threatened to make you tremble. It felt as though your skin and bones had been yearning for his affection, and you didn't know how to pace yourself. You were like a starved child, attempting to satiate your hunger by devouring the richness of these moments, fearing that they would abruptly vanish, that you would wake up suddenly and realize you were a Cinderella who was still sweeping cinders for her stepmother. But then Vash's lips turned into a weary smile, and your worries put on a fancy dress and pretended to be something else for a while.

"How are you?" you inquired, your voice already betraying your unease, even though his grip on you was barely there. His laughter shook his body's shape, soft, rich, and indulgent. Yet, he remained silent in response to your question, and you knew he wouldn't. He was one of those who never talked about their pain.

His thumb delicately brushed against your hand, causing you to inhale sharply, your gaze instinctively shifting towards him. His eyes were telling you too much, so much that you had to look away because you were doubting whether they were real or merely figments of your imagination. Your skin, now hypersensitive, awakened with a pulsating vitality, humming with emotions so profound that it was almost indecent. You should have concealed these sensations but proved too potent to suppress. And deep down, you suspected he was aware of the effect he had on you—the electrifying jolt that surged through your being when his fingers grazed your skin, the proximity of his lips to your face, the searing heat of his body pressed against yours, all demanding your eyes to shut, your limbs to quiver, and your body to yield to the immense pressure.

You also observed the impact it had on him, the realization that he possessed such power over you. This must be his favorite torture. Something you were afraid would kill you.

"Have you got any tattoos?" he inquired, a smile gracing his lips as he reclined against the couch, his shirt stained with blood.

Well, this was undoubtedly a conversation you never anticipated having with Vash. "No," you responded, a touch of unease in your voice. "Besides, you've already seen me naked." For the last time, you allowed yourself to savor the sensation of his touch before consciously withdrawing your hand. You had to stop trying to convince yourself that he could be a fundamentally good person. Vash Saverem had committed unforgivable acts that should not be dismissed. You shouldn't have smiled at him. You shouldn't have even talked to him. And then you wanted to scream because you didn't think your brain could handle the split personality you seemed to be developing lately.

He studied his empty hands, a smile gracing his lips as he spoke, "I never looked at your back."

"Great," you responded, pausing briefly before continuing, "What about your tattoos? You like this maze-like design?"

His smile expanded, stretching across his face like a sunrise breaking through the clouds. Dimples reappeared, adding a touch of innocence to his countenance. A gentle shake of his head accompanied his words as he playfully challenged, "Why should I not?"

"I don't get it," you uttered, tilting your head in perplexity. "Are you trying to remind yourself of being trapped within a labyrinth?"

He shrugged slowly, momentarily glancing towards the empty space across the basement, before he tightened his grip on the vest, applying pressure to his wound. Despite your desire to offer assistance, you refrained. "How does one truly escape a maze," he mused, "when every exit merely leads to another entrance?"

A heavy silence enveloped the space between you. You said nothing. He said nothing. You took a few measured breaths, gathering your thoughts before finally responding. "That reasoning shouldn't serve as an excuse to stop making an effort," you asserted, while you couldn't quite fathom why you felt so nervous saying it out loud.

"Then why didn't you do it yourself, love?"

"I … have no idea what you're talking about."

"Why didn't you escape from the hell you were trapped in?"

"Wha— That's not an equivalent comparison!" Your words stumbled out, interrupted by a momentary pause as you grappled with your thoughts. "I never had the opportunity. I lacked the strength. It wasn't as if I remained there out of adoration," you clarified, your face burning with embarrassment, as if on cue, perpetually ready to be haunted by the shadows of your past, by the person you once were and continued to be. But it was strange. While one part of you struggled to be candid, another part felt comfortable talking to Vash. Safe. Familiar. Because he already knew everything about you. For he already held the knowledge of your entirety. There was no revelation about your history that would startle him, no actions of yours that would leave him aghast. This blond-haired man carried your secrets within his heart. And this realization, perhaps more than anything else, shook your very core and granted you a semblance of solace.

"Father," you persisted, the words escaping your lips as if propelled by an unseen force, your gaze fixed upon the floor, unable to break free. "he didn't let mom divorce him," you revealed, your voice filled with a mixture of anguish and resentment. "And when she needed him the most..." you faltered, abruptly halting your words, realizing the depth of what you were about to disclose, a secret too raw to expose further.

Horrified as you realized just how much you wanted to confide in him. In Vash. The very same terrible, terrible Vash who killed people before your eyes, who had wielded you as a plaything. It pained you to acknowledge that, despite everything, you felt a strange sense of safety in his presence. The honesty that flowed freely from your lips in his company ignited a self-directed hatred. You despised that, out of everyone in your life, Vash was the one person before whom you could lay bare your soul without fear of judgment.

The weight of protecting others from the haunting narrative of your father's existence had always burdened you. The fear of frightening your friends or divulging too much, for it might lead them to reconsider their trust in you, their affection for you, consumed your thoughts. Yet, with Vash, there was no need for pretenses. There were no hidden corners to shield. You longed to witness his reaction, to gain insight into his thoughts now that you had bared a glimpse of your personal history. But you couldn't make yourself face him. So you were rooted in place.

Time, it seemed to stand still. Vash remained motionless, not uttering a single word, not shifting an inch. The absence of a response only deepened the weight of humiliation that settled upon your shoulders.

Seconds flew by, swarming the room all at once, and you wanted to swat them all away; you wanted to catch them and shove them into your pockets just long enough to stop time.

At long last, he broke the silence, punctuating the stillness. "I understand," he said, his voice a gentle interruption that stirred you from your thoughts. Startled, you lifted your gaze, meeting his eyes. His head was slightly inclined, his golden locks cascading onto his forehead in delicate layers. And as your eyes intertwined, you found yourself captivated by the depth of his gaze. His eyes, an expanse of piercing blue, held a multitude of unspoken understandings within them.

"You do?" you asked.

"You're surprised."

"Then why subject me to this?" you questioned, gesturing towards the confining walls of the basement. "If you truly understand, why treat me like him?"

He shifted uneasily, displaying a hint of discomfort for the first time. "I offered you an opportunity to break free," he began, his voice laced with sincerity. "Yet, you chose to come back. It's not up to me anymore," he continued, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "You place excessive expectations upon me."

"Why not?" you asked.

A chuckle escaped him, carrying hints of amusement and weariness. He sighed, his gaze turning towards you, a smile forming at the corner of his eye. "You possess an insatiable curiosity," he remarked, his words gently teasing.

"I can't help it," you confessed. " You just seem so different now. Everything you say catches me off guard."

"How so?"

"I can't quite put my finger on it," you pondered aloud. "You're just … so calm. A little less crazy."

He laughed one of those silent laughs that shook his chest without making a sound and then groaned from pain. Your instinctive reaction was to reach his wound, your hands poised in hesitation, but you refrained from making contact. He noticed your intention, maintaining his smile in response. "My existence has been nothing but strife and ruin," he shared. "But right now," he glanced around, his eyes fixed on the wall, "removed from it all and so close to the precipice of death," he mused, "it feels like a damn paradise. I no longer have to be consumed by incessant thoughts or carry out obligations or engage with anyone or be anywhere," he expressed, a genuine contentment emanating from his words. "It's almost a form of luxury, in a way. Perhaps I should get shot more often," he added, his words drifting into the realm of introspection. As you studied him, truly studied his countenance in a way you had never dared before, you realized the profound chasm that separated you from comprehending the intricacies of his life.

He told you once that he would make different choices if he could go back in time. As you sat there, an epiphany struck you with resounding clarity. You realized the depth of his conviction, for you were just beginning to grasp the reality of his violent and disciplined existence. The true nature of his past remained a mystery to you, an enigma waiting to be unraveled. Yet, in that very moment, an unexpected yearning rooted within you. A yearning to peel back the layers, delve into the depths of his experiences, and truly comprehend his life's uncharted territory.

You observed his careful movements, the careful façade he crafted to appear unconcerned, relaxed. However, you perceived the underlying calculation behind each shift, each adjustment of his body. There was intent behind his actions, a purpose that fueled his every gesture. He remained in a perpetual state of vigilance, attentive to his surroundings. His ears were always attuned, his hands instinctively reaching out to touch the floor and the wall as if seeking reassurance. His gaze fixated on the door, scrutinizing its details—the outline, hinges, and handle. You couldn't help but notice the subtle tension rippled through him when you touched his self-inflicted scars. It was apparent he was always alert, perpetually on edge, prepared for battle, for immediate response.

It made you wonder if he'd ever known peace. Safety. If he had ever been able to sleep through the night. Suppose he'd ever been able to go anywhere without constantly looking over his own shoulder.

His hands remained tightly clasped over his wound, shielding it from further harm. As you observed him, your gaze shifted to his right forearm, and there it was—a black tattoo etched into his skin. A circle with intersecting straight lines formed a distinct pattern. It struck you with a profound realization that it had eluded your attention for far too long. Suddenly, fragments of memory flooded your mind, recalling brief glimpses of the tattoo's corners in previous encounters.

He caught you looking at his hands, quickly clenched his left fist, and covered it with his right. "Wha—"

"It's just a tattoo," he said. "It's nothing."

"Why are you hiding it if it's nothing?" You were already so much more curious than you were a moment ago, too eager for any opportunity to crack him open and figure out what on earth went on inside his head. "You're not going to tell me?"

He shook his head.

"Why not?"

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and proceeded to roll his neck, releasing the tension out of the lowest part, the part that just touched his upper back. You couldn't help but watch, couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to have someone massage the pain out of your body that way. His hands looked so strong.

As your train of thought wavered, on the verge of forgetting the previous conversation, he interjected with a revelation. "I've had this tattoo for nearly two years," he disclosed, his gaze briefly meeting yours before diverting away once more. "And I don't talk about it."

"Ever?"

"No."

"Oh." A bit of disappointment washed over you, and you instinctively bit down on your bottom lip.

He let out a sigh as he flexed and unflexed his fingers. His gaze fixated on his hands, palms facing downward, fingers splayed. With a hesitant motion, he slid his sleeve up, revealing his forearm, and slowly rotated his arm to offer you a glimpse of the tattoo, his facial expression betraying a subtle twitch of discomfort.

"Have you heard of the Eye of Michael?" he asked, his question serving as an unexpected segue into a different topic.

Misunderstanding the context of his question, you shook your head. "What's happened to his eye?"

Vash's intense gaze settled upon you for a full second, and then, unexpectedly, he erupted into strong, unrestrained gales of laughter—trying to rein it in and failing. You were suddenly uncomfortable and nervous in front of this strange man who laughed and had secret tattoos and scars and asked you about people's eyes.

"I wasn't trying to be funny," you told him.

Despite your discomfort, Vash's eyes retained a warm, smiling expression as he reassured you. "Don't worry," he began, his tone reassuring. "I didn't know much about it until Nick told me. Michael was one of God's Archangels, a defender of good against evil, protecting others. This tattoo represents my family. Anyone who bears this symbol is considered part of my kin, my blood and bone, and no one can touch them."

"What about Michael's evil twin? Even Lucifer can't touch your family?"

He probably caught the horrified look on your face. It's just a tattoo, love. No one can protect anyone from Lucifer. "

"Even you, the Diablo?" you questioned, frozen in place, wanting and not wanting to look away. Vash offered no immediate response. Every swallow was evident in his throat. You couldn't help but notice how his chest rose and fell with each exhale and inhale, and something in you compelled you to reach out, to touch his scars, to feel their texture beneath your fingertips. A blush crept across your hairline, betraying the intensity of your emotions, yet you found yourself unable to tear your gaze away from him.

You were so caught, so intrigued by the cut of his physique. Your attention was drawn to how his waist tapered into his hips, concealed beneath the fabric of his pants—a desire stirred within you, an intense longing to uncover the mysteries hidden beneath those barriers. To know him so thoroughly, so privately. You wanted to study the secrets tucked between his elbows and the whispers caught behind his knees. You wanted to follow the lines of his silhouette with your eyes and the tips of your fingers. You wanted to trace rivers and valleys along the uncharted territories of his body.

You found yourself taken aback by the intensity of your thoughts as they veered into a realm of desire and longing you hadn't anticipated. The desperate heat simmering in the pit of your stomach unsettled you, urging you to ignore its presence. Butterflies fluttered within your chest, their existence both enchanting and bewildering. An unspoken ache resonated deep within your core, a nameless yearning you were unwilling to name. Beautiful. He was so beautiful. You must be insane. Gods, where the fuck were you?

"I believe," he spoke, "that the bullet hasn't hit a vital organ. But with all the blood, I can't be sure."

"What?" Startled, you abruptly tore your gaze away from his lower half, desperately trying to keep your imagination from drawing in the details. Instead, you shifted your focus to his wound, making a conscious effort to acknowledge and address the actual situation at hand. As your eyes fell upon the injury, you managed to regain your composure, albeit momentarily. "Oh," you managed to utter, your voice betraying a touch of awkwardness. "Yes, I see it now." The fucking wound was located at the very bottom of his torso, very close to his v line. Yes. Very good. Yes. Sure. You thought you needed to lie down.

He discreetly covered his wound once more with his vest, and as you observed, you noticed that his pants button was left open, a casual and seemingly minor detail, but WHAT THE FUCK?

"I fucking hate suit pants," he grumbled, his annoyance evident. "I don't understand why we can't simply move around in comfortable, casual clothes," he remarked, questioning the necessity of formal garments.

"Who are you?" The question escaped your lips, fueled by confusion and disbelief. You didn't know this Vash. He seemed unfamiliar, a vivid departure from the Vash you had known. Was this asshole the same man who always wore tight clothes and now was talking about wearing comfortable ones? Did he have a concussion?

A self-assured smile graced his lips as he responded, "No one else needs to know."

"What do you mean?"

Confidently, he declared, "I know who I am. And that's all that matters to me."

After a brief silence, you frowned, your gaze shifting downwards towards the floor. A hint of wistfulness colored your words as you expressed, "It must be great to go through life with so much confidence."

"You exude confidence," he said. You're stubborn and resilient. So brave. So inhumanly beautiful. You could have everything." His words caught you off guard, drawing your attention back to him. Vash's gaze bore into you, his tone carrying a lot of admiration.

Don't blush. Don't blush. Don't blush. Don't blush. Don't blush.

A genuine laughter escaped you as you lifted your gaze, meeting his eyes directly. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm not interested in having everything. "

"That," he stated, shaking his head, "is something I will never understand." He attributed your perspective to fear, suggesting that your reluctance stemmed from a discomfort with the unknown. According to him, your concerns revolved around the possibility of causing harm to others, driven by the weight of perceived societal expectations and adherence to the rules you had been presented with. His gaze bore into you, filled with intensity. "I wish you wouldn't," he implored, his words carrying a sense of longing for you to break free from those constraints and embrace a different approach.

"I wish you'd stop expecting me to help you slaughter people."

He shrugged nonchalantly, his voice carrying a sense of matter-of-factness. "I never explicitly stated that it was a requirement for you," he responded. "However, it is an inherent part of this line of work, an inevitable occurrence along the way. In this business, killing is statistically implausible to evade."

"You're joking, right?"

"Definitely not."

"You can always avoid killing people, Vash. You avoid killing them by not doing this business."

A radiant grin adorned his face, seemingly unaffected by the previous conversation. His attention was elsewhere, captivated by a different sentiment. "I love it when you say my name," he said. "I don't even know why."

"Vash is your name," you pointed out. "I can call you Saverem."

His smile was wide, so vast. "God, I love that."

"Your name?"

"Especially when you say it."

"Vash? Or Saverem?"

His eyelids lowered, and he leaned back against the couch, revealing a pair of charming dimples. In that instant, the reality of the situation hit you like a jolt. Here you were, sitting together with Vash as if you had abundant time to spare. It was as if the outside world, with all its turmoil, ceased to exist within the confines of these walls. And yet, Vash's injured state served as a harsh reminder that he was bleeding before you, and the gravity of the situation weighed heavily on your mind.

You couldn't fathom how you kept allowing yourself to be distracted, and you promised to regain control over your thoughts and emotions. But just as you were about to speak, Vash interjected with a confession, "I'm sorry I ordered them to kidnap you."

Your mouth dropped shut, and your mind raced, resisting the weight of his confession. A torrent of questions raged within you, desperate for answers. "Why?" The floodgates of your emotions burst forth, urging you to understand the motives behind his unexpected revelations. Inwardly, you pleaded for your heart to quiet down, to cease its relentless clamor in the face of the unsettling truths that had been brought to light. "Why are you saying all of these?"

He spent far too long looking at you, leaving your question unanswered. He spoke with a heavy weight of remorse, barely above a whisper. "Every single day, I am sorry," he confessed, his words laden with a deep sense of sorrow. "I am sorry for believing that taking you captive would somehow serve as a solution. And then, for causing you pain when I believed I was acting in the right. I cannot apologize for who I am," he continued. "That part of me is already gone, already ruined. I gave up on myself a long time ago. But I am sorry for failing to understand you better. Everything I did was driven by a desire for revenge, to wield you as a weapon against that man. I pushed you too far, too hard, and did things to horrify and disgust you, and I did it all on purpose. Because that's how I was taught to steel myself against the terror in this world; that's how I was trained to fight back," he admitted, his gaze unwavering as he scrutinized you intently.

You tried so hard to recall all the justifications for harboring hatred towards him, desperately attempting to summon memories of the atrocious acts you had witnessed him commit. But you were tortured because you understood too much about what it was like to be tortured, to do things because you didn't know any better, to do things because you thought they were right, because you were never taught what was wrong. Because it was so hard to be kind to the world when all you'd ever felt was hatred. Because it was so hard to see goodness in the world when all you'd ever known was terror.

And you wanted to say something to him. Something profound and complete and memorable, but he already seemed to understand. Because he offered you a strange, unsteady smile that didn't reach his eyes but said so much

A sudden tightness gripped your heart, causing a jolt of panic to run through you. You'd almost begun to hyperventilate, and you realized, for the very first time, that the thought of Vash dead was anything but appealing to you. It filled you with horror, a sensation that struck your face, skull, and spine, knowing how much you cared about him. As well as the knowledge of his deep care for you.

You took a deep breath. Change the subject. Change the subject. Change the subject.

In a barely audible whisper, you found yourself uttering, "All those wounds are your brother's doing?" As you spoke, you observed a subtle draining of color from his face, mirroring the impact of your question. He looked away, tightly pressed his lips together, and instinctively placed his hands upon his wound. In a soft tone, you inquired, "Who hurt you like this?" You asked so quietly. Then you began to recognize the strange feeling you got just before you did something terrible. Like right now. Right now, you felt like you could kill someone for this.

"Love, please—"

"Where was your family during all of this?" you questioned, your voice a little sharper. "Why didn't your mother—"

"I'm a Mafia hitman, for fuck sake," Vash cuts you off, frustrated now. "IT IS NORMAL TO HAVE SCARS."

"No, it's not!"

He said nothing.

"These tattoos," you said to him, "are you hiding—"

"No," he said, though he said it quietly and cleared his throat. "I'm not ashamed of my scars!"

You blinked. "Then why are you—?"

"Why do you care?" he asks, looking away again. "Why are you suddenly so interested in my life?"

You didn't know, you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him you didn't know, but that was not true. For in that very moment, you felt it. You heard the symphony of the clicks, turns, and the echoing creaks of a million keys, unlocking a million doors in your mind. It was like you were finally allowing yourself to see what you thought and felt like you were discovering your long-hidden secrets for the very first time. And then you searched his eyes, surveyed his features for something you couldn't quite articulate. And you realized you didn't want to hate him anymore.

"I thought," you addressed him, "you wanted us to be friends." Your gaze fixated on the floor as you spoke. "If that's the case," you continued, "why can't you be honest? Why are you still trying to manipulate me? Why are you still trying to get me to fall for your tricks?"

"I have no idea," he responded, his gaze fixed upon you with a hint of uncertainty as if questioning the reality of your presence. "No idea what you're talking about."

"I don't even know how to communicate—"

"Why does it matter?" he questioned. "You seem to care so much about something that makes no difference in your life. It wouldn't," he said, "change your perception of me. You will still hate me. After all, that's what you said, isn't it? That you hate me?"

You drew your knees closer to your chest, directing your attention towards the stone beneath your feet. "I don't hate you."

Vash seemed to stop breathing.

"I don't know," you told him, "there are moments when I feel like I truly understand you. I genuinely do. However, just when I believe I have gained a true understanding of who you are, you manage to surprise me. And I never really know who you are or who you're going to be."

Raising your gaze, you met his eyes directly. "Nevertheless," you continued, "what I do know is that I no longer hate you. I've made sincere efforts to do so, believe me. Given the terrible, unforgivable acts you've committed against innocent people, including myself, it would be expected. But as I've come to learn more about you and witnessed the depths of your humanity, it has become increasingly difficult to cling to that hatred. Sadly, you are flawed and undeniably human."

His hair possessed a captivating golden hue while his eyes shimmered with a vivid blue brilliance. His voice was tortured when he spoke. "Are you implying," he said, "that you can accept my offer?"

"I-I don't know," you stammered, petrified by the sheer terror surrounding this possibility. "I'm just saying that I don't know." Pausing briefly, you took a deep breath to gather your thoughts. "I don't know," you confessed. "I don't know how to hate you anymore. Even though I want to, it's something I genuinely want, and I know I should, but I find myself unable to."

He looked away and smiled. The kind of smile that made you forget how to do everything but blink and blink. Perplexed, you couldn't fathom why your eyes refused to divert their attention elsewhere. Your heart, meanwhile, seemed to be losing its mind.

Almost absentmindedly, he touched his wrist, seemingly unaware of his actions. His fingers traced along his arm, gliding back and forth, until he suddenly became cognizant of where your eyes had gone and stopped.

"You sure about what you're saying?" He touched his wrist again.

You nodded.

Upon hearing his word, "Love," a profound stillness encapsulated your being, causing your breath to hitch momentarily. "I would greatly appreciate that," he continued, his voice conveying sincerity. "To have us getting to know each other right from the beginning." Another smile graced his face, radiating warmth and genuine desire. "Yes, I would truly like that," he affirmed.

The workings of your mind eluded your understanding. Perhaps it stemmed from the realization that he was broken, and you were naive enough to think you could fix him. Maybe it was because you saw your own reflection within him. Both of you had experienced abandonment, neglect, mistreatment, and abuse for circumstances beyond your control. In Vash, you saw a kindred spirit, someone who, like you, had been denied a fair shot at life. You thought about how everyone already hated him, how hating him was an accepted fact.

Again, you reminded yourself that Vash was a terrible person with no room for debate, doubt, or inquiry. The consensus had been reached: he was a loathsome human being who derived pleasure from violence, held an insatiable thirst for power, and reveled in the torment of others. But you wanted to know. You needed to know. You had to know if it was really that simple. Because what if, one fateful day, you were to stumble? What if you were to slip through the cracks, and no one extended a helping hand to retrieve you? What would become of you then?

So you met his eyes and took a deep breath.

But in an unexpected turn of events, the metallic door swung open, revealing the entrance of Lucifer, with his gray patterned suit, cold green eyes, and pale blond hair.

Hell was empty, and all devils were here tonight.

No one was speaking.

Surprisingly, the basement wasn't a terrible place to spend the cursed birthday night, despite the unsettling odor emanating from the assholes' lifeless bodies. It was relatively peaceful, but the approaching footsteps of his twin sibling served as an irritating accompaniment to an already nerve-wracking day.

God damn you, Bradd, for telling Kni!

"So," Vasg's maniac twin finally addressed him, curiosity lacing their words, "you chose to leave our gathering and return here?"

"I'm certain," Vash responded sarcastically, "I have the freedom to act as I please." There was a brief pause before he continued, "Does this disturb you in any way?"

"Regrettably, that is not the case; I thought you would rather spend your time with those selected girls," Kni replied, and his gaze swept over you, carefully observing you up and down, examining your bloodied outfit, your hair, your pale yet perfect face. Though Kni remained silent, Vash sensed his disapproval and, ultimately, his disappointment towards you. "But you chose this doormat," he finished his sentence.

Abruptly, you turned away, though not without Vash catching a glimpse of your tightly clenched fists at your sides. He could feel the anger emanating from you, and it pained him deeply. The way Kni toyed with your emotions stirred a fierce resentment within Vash, igniting an intense desire to inflict harm upon his brother, even if just a bullet to the leg, but he had to keep it cool.

"Why have you come here, Kni?" Vash inquired, drawing a deep breath and exerting more pressure on his wound as if to ground himself in the midst of the escalating tension.

Kni responded with a casual shrug, displaying the perfect nonchalance. "My plans are flexible," he remarked. "I heard you got shot and was genuinely curious to witness it firsthand." His gaze briefly shifted towards his twin. "Do brothers truly require a specific reason to meet?" And for a moment, the briefest moment, Vash sensed genuine pain behind his words —a sensation of being overlooked. It caught him off guard, surprising him with its presence. But just as quickly as it emerged, it vanished into thin air.

"In any case," Kni remarked, "Bradd should have arrived by now. After all, you contacted him before contacting me, assuming he would care for you more than I do. Yet here you are, clearly in need of medical assistance, and instead, you have this little whore by your side."

As your eyes locked with Vash, your visibly sorrowful gaze conveyed the anguish that resonated deeply with him. He would never reassure you or alleviate your worries in front of Kni, and it wasn't important since he suddenly seized Vash's arm with a firm grip and forcefully pulled him forward.

"What are you doing, Vash?" Kni's voice turned into a fierce, urgent whisper. "You abandoned me, only to end up getting shot—for what? For her? For Gasback's daughter?" His words dripped with disdain. "How incredibly foolish of you. And mark my words, this will not end well." Kni's eyes bore a warning, and instantly, Vash felt it—the unlocking of a long-held secret buried deep within his heart. A terrible sense of unease settled in the pit of Vash's stomach, accompanied by a nauseating feeling and a feeling of dread. And at last, he comprehended what he had been trying to deny: Kni wouldn't hesitate. No, he wouldn't.

Vash tightly pressed his lips together, his anger simmering dangerously close to shattering his composure. Yet, he remained resolute, knowing he had to maintain a semblance of civility for your sake. Meanwhile, Kni's grip on his arm intensified, exerting even more pressure. Their eyes locked in a tense gaze. Only Vash's determination to protect you prevented him from exacting physical retaliation, as he understood that inflicting harm upon Kni would be sufficient grounds for Kni to seek your demise.

"What has become of you?" Kni hissed into Vash's ear, his words laced with disappointment. "I had more faith in you. But this..." Kni trailed off, shaking his head in a gesture of sadness. "This is genuinely heart-wrenching."

Vash's fingers tensed, aching to curl into fists, and he was on the verge of offering a retort when you, who had been observing the exchange from afar, interjected, saying, "Let go of him."

Your voice had an undeniable sense of poise, an undercurrent of barely contained anger that seized Kni's attention. Startled, he released his grip on Vash's arm and swiftly turned to face you. "Your brother requires assistance," you spoke calmly but with an edge of reproach, "and yet here you stand, delivering grandiose speeches?"

Kni stared at you. "Excuse me?"

You stepped forward, suddenly looking terrifying. There was a fire in your eyes—a murderous stillness in your movements.

Kni's eyebrows shot up in surprise, his forehead creasing with astonishment. He blinked, momentarily taken aback, and then a hint of annoyance laced his response. "Ah, I wasn't aware you had been granted permission to speak," he retorted.

"I wasn't aware that I required your permission," you calmly replied, asserting yourself. "Especially considering that this is undeniably his dwelling." Though your hands might have trembled, you had managed to maintain a firm grip, a testament to your resilience and composure—clever girl, but dumb as hell.

Kni's smile widened, and he laughed out loud. And for the first time since he'd arrived, he actually looked sincere. His eyes crinkled with delight. "Little bug, you have a long tongue, and I have sharp knives," he addressed you. Better to say threatened you. "Vash, you've been given too much freedom, and she behaves like a stray dog. Where's her leash? Because your dear Bradd is not here yet, and we have to find a doctor for you since you killed the one we had—which I'm not even questioning—now she looks at me like she gonna bite me if I try to save you from bleeding."

Vash saw that you looked at him then, a question in your eyes. He wanted to smile at you. He wanted to scoop and carry you away, take you somewhere quiet, and lose himself. He was amazed that the timid girl, a little mouse beneath him, would just stand this brave before Kni. Braver than he had ever been. His thoughts should have surprised him, but he blamed the bullet for everything because somehow you looked so fuckable with his blood on your clothes and skin, and he had no shame admitting this to himself. It turned out to be fortunate that he had bled to the point of unconsciousness because, otherwise, in his healthy state, he wouldn't have known how to express his gratitude by making you moan his name with his dick shoved deeply in your throat.

Fuck!

He tried to hold on to it as long as he could without making things evident to Kni, but he thought his heart was still in a puddle somewhere on the floor. He was so stunned that it took him a moment to realize that not only had he stared at you the whole time, but he had also begun to remember what it felt like.

Hope.

The sensation, it was like tasting a drop of honey, witnessing a field of geraniums in full bloom during springtime. It felt like the refreshing touch of rain, a whispered promise of something beautiful, a sky devoid of clouds, and the flawless punctuation mark that gracefully concludes a sentence.

You.

You were…

"I won't be long," Vash said in a firm, cold tone. "Go back to your room and lock the door behind you." He hated himself for acting like this because he could see that you were about to smile, and suddenly your face transformed again. No. He couldn't do this to you.

While still sitting behind Nai, he slowly lowered his hand and crossed his bloody middle finger on his forefinger. His peace sign. And he saw that you saw it because you nodded, and the corner of your lips moved upward. There was a rush of emotion in your eyes. You knew pain. You were in pain, and he was the reason, yet you tried to help. And knowing this made his heart feel so full that he could hardly breathe. It lasted only a few seconds, but somehow, time slowed down long enough for him to gather the many details of this moment and place it among his favorite memories.

You could have left him alone and run away, but you didn't. You likely knew that he would never find that missing piece of belief if you let go. If he slipped today, he would be lost forever, with no one to return him. You didn't fix everything or solve any of his problems. But what mattered most was that you stayed.

He was suddenly grateful for being shot because it made him know that there was still something within him that others could perceive, something worth protecting and saving.

The veiled tapestry of the future held its secrets, concealing what lay ahead. Within the realm of prospective deliverance, his shadows may not have cast a shroud too dense to dim the flicker of redemption's promise.

Note: Apologies for the delayed update. Life has been quite a bitch lately.

Taglist: @julk4e - @lune010 - @beanibon - @emptybrain01 - @changingchances @awkwardchick87

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sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee · 1 year

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Riddlers with a s/o who really likes horror movies, old ones, news one, everything in between long as it's horror? Need to know who's ear I can talk off

"Riddlers and Horror Movies" Riddler party x Reader

Several of these riddlers share direct horror movie quirks with me have fun guessing which. Also listed favorite horror film(s).

TW: horror films, blood and gore descriptions, mentions of emotional self-harm

Gotham

He's the guy who is going to contradict and tell you every medical inaccuracy of the deaths and mechanics in the movies. Yes, of course there's suspension of disbelief but at some point things are just wrong.

Babe, that should be arterial blood but they're portraying venous blood consistency :(

If you don't mind him talking at length about how these things would actually go OR conversely how well the sfx portrayed real injuries, he is your horror movie buddy! None of it bothers him considering how many real life murder, suicide and accident victims he's had to perform autopsies on.

Cuddling with his gangly legs on the couch bundled up in a big blanket with you while the sounds of screams echo from the tv and fill the room. Huge smile. He especially old classics when you're in the mood. Black and white films and transatlantic accents... It sounds like a great night to him.

Favorite Horror Movies: Might be a surprise but he really loves "Freaks" from 1932. He will talk for a long time about how, even though many of the disabled actors were ostracized on set, the fact that they were present at all is significant. The ableist assholes get theirs in the end! He also has a lot of fondness for "Re-animator."

Btas

He's the one interested in the sfx rambles. What, you think he designed a video game and labyrinth for a theme park just because he's intelligent? He likes behind the scenes work. God help everyone if he and Scarecrow decided to get together to make a haunted house.

You ever see those huge animatronics in horror mazes, especially the huge end show pieces? That's where his interest goes.

Depending on how much you watch and express interest in that kind of thing, he genuinely might start making horror animatronics and programs. He has the know-how! His would be the realistic looking ones, especially for animals. Spooky but definitely based in forms you see in real life.

Well, beautiful, you might have helped him find a very profitable side gig. Everyone else might be sore at you for a while, though, given Edward scaring the fuck out of them with holograms and mechanics. Plus more team-ups with Scarecrow.

All this because you wanted to watch horror movies with him. His darling <3

Favorite horror movie: "The Thing" (1982) and while it's not his absolute favorite, he ends up enjoying "Willy's Wonderland" a lot for both the animatronics and video game nods.

60s

The old ones with little to no gore is fine! More modern hack and slashers might be a little too spooky for him :( definitely never show him "Hostel" or anything in that vein.

Truthfully, it's not the violence or the blood, he's seen that. It's the suffering that gets him. It all seems so pointless and needless. At least when he's attempting to cut batman into tiny pieces using a comically giant fan, there's a goal or point. In his mind, anyways.

Before dating you his idea of horror was "Dracula", "Frankenstein"... "The Ghost and Mr. Chicken".... Start with horror that has a more comedic or cheesy element- "Little Shop of Horrors" to "Tucker & Dale vs. Evil." "Creepshow" 1 and 2 from the 80s! If you ease him into it and don't go too extreme, he'll love watching horror movies with you.

Favorite Horror Movie: OKAY THIS IS CHEATING BECAUSE IT'S NOT A MOVIE BUT. He'd be a HUGE fan of the "Tales from the Crypt" show from the early 90s (that is almost impossible to find streaming rip my horror uncle The Cryptkeeper). Horror plus puns. He will always take a funny, morbid pun! Plus... man can appreciate a cackle. He also has several opinions about the original "Suspiria."

Zero Year

It has to have something of a decent story or he's not paying attention. Where is the BACKGROUND? Sidenote: if you get him into something like Bloodborne (I know, not a movie) with lots of lore, expect to not see him for a hot minute as he consumes all the information he can like a sponge.

He tends to favor psychological horror- Although, if it means spending time with you and gaining favor, he would watch most anything. Especially if there's the possibility of close physical affection... ANYWAYS. He's also the one who wants to watch a bunch of foreign language film horror such as "Les yeux sans visage" in original French.

Another thing is that he will watch things over and over and over again with you if you want. Part of it is the undiagnosed neurodivergency. Part of it is because you always catch new details when you watch things again. Him noticing something that you didn't and him getting to tell you and impressing you is a special kind of high. He will talk about movies for hours afterwards. "Jacob's Ladder" has been a several hours long dissection MULTIPLE TIMES.

Favorite Horror Movies: "Angel Heart" is his top all time favorite. If you haven't seen it, he will practically tie you up to watch it together- He also really enjoyed "The Lighthouse" and "Us."

Arkham

Similar to BTAS, he is also interested in the animatronics. His, however, would lean to body horror and sci-fi. Something about biology and machine blending together... it gets him kind of excited.

He will sit and work while watching you play something like Deadspace (sorry, a game again) for HOURS. Then he wants to watch the prequel movie with you. Also if you don't mind subtitles, he has this recommendation for "Tetsuo: The Iron Man" if you haven't seen it already. And if you haven't... You are in for an experience.

In short, this man is about the body horror. He likes other horror too, but that's his bread and butter. Sci-fi horror as well. Bonus when there is overlap. He's seen "Annihilation" at least twenty times and has the books dog-eared and rough from multiple reads somewhere in his belongings. Yes, they are ultimately different, but he's in love with the concept enough that to him he appreciates both.

He is going to scare you with animatronics he makes. Sometimes intentionally. Sometimes not. Have fun with that.

Favorite horror movies: Cronenberg period but he has a special fondness for "Videodrome" and "The Fly" (1986).

Telltale

Despite it being an excellent movie, he despises "Jacob's Ladder." It brings up too many unpleasant thoughts. Movies, especially horror, with medical experimentation are a trigger though he'll never say it out loud. You find this out as you discuss watching certain movies and see the connection between all of them.

That being said, the horror movies he likes have two themes: they have meaning/ a message or they involve transformation. The first is because anything too simple bores him. The second is totally absolutely NOT because of projection of his own trauma.

Show him "Get Out" and "Nope" and he gains a deep reverence for Jordan Peele as a writer and director. Intelligent, entertaining, and the perfect amount of horror mixed in. Kind of a fan, only you know, really.

80s version of "The Fly" makes him emotional and you probably only watch it once with him. He likes it a lot! Just... the slow transformation via a science accident is very relatable. Madness overtaking you.

Favorite horror movies: "An American Werewolf In London" it's a classic. Not to mention in his opinion one of the best transformation scenes in a movie.

2022/nashton

Ha... so here's the thing. He likes "Hostel" and movies like that with lots of violence and gore. He's even seen "Wolf Creek" and got some real excitement out of it. HOWEVER. Movies in that vein are a form of emotional self-harm for him. He likes them in the moment but they also usually trigger massive anxiety and depression episodes for him later on in the day/night.

Others like "Se7en" (I know it's a thriller not true horror), "Saw" and the like are usually okay. There's a distinctive difference that may only exist in his own mind, but the more you watch with him, the more you'll find out which movies are "safe" for him. Which is good! He does like horror movies, but as we know from the prequel comics, he's not always good at taking care of himself due to massive amounts of trauma.

He loves films that are gems that aren't super well known in the US when he can find them. Have you seen the Korean horror film "The Silenced"? No? You're in for a treat.

He likes movies that have a logic or puzzle to them. Complex mechanics and traps. A sick sense of justice dispensed.

Favorite horror movies: The "Saw" series. Also "The Collector." He sees the upside down shot with the reflective contacts and the spider allegories and his eyes dilate like a cat seeing it's favorite toy.

#riddler #btas riddler #gotham riddler #zero year riddler #60s riddler #arkham games riddler #telltale games riddler #2022 riddler #riddler x reader #foxwriting

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acradelius · 2 years

Text

Acradelius "Kinktober" (2022) Masterlist!

(posted from mobile, sorry for the weird format)

As stated above, this is my current Masterlist for this year's Kinktober writing event! Now, because this is my first year participating in Kinktober it's not going to be exactly like the usual Kinktober type of posts. Down below you can find the fandoms and characters that I'm going to be writing about, and then possibly what the story is going to be featuring or focused around. Some are to be determined, as I'm not sure what exactly to write about them. Suggestions are welcome!

(IMPORTANT - PLEASE READ!)

- For those who have noticed, I do have Offenderman from the Creepypasta fandom in this list. I DO NOT USE THE ORIGINAL CONCEPT OF OFFENDERMAN! The version of Offenderman that I use is from my own Marble Hornets/Creepypasta AU where he is a hopeless romantic, he's not in any way his original concept.

- Similar to the point above, The Operator from Marble Hornets is also on this list. I'm not necessarily using the original concept of it/him, more using my own version of him from my Marble Hornets/Creepypasta AU. In this case, yes it/he does resemble Slenderman, but The Operator is more of a parasitic mimic creature that's looking to manipulate and corrupt other beings in order to gain power.

#1 - (Love, Death + Robots) Alpha!Decker x Alpha!Sobieski x Omega!Reader - [Knotting, Mating]

#2 - (Creepypasta) Slenderman - [Spouse Brat Taming?]

#3 - (General) Demon - [TBD]

#4 - (Love, Death + Robots) Sui - [TBD]

#5 - (Creepypasta) Offender - [Simp, Worship]

#6 - (General) Orc - [Mutual Hookup]

#7 - (Far Cry 5) John Seed - [Confessions]

#8 - (Creepypasta) Lui/Sully - [Jealousy, Competition]

#9 - (Mass Effect) Thane Krios - [Cum Competition, Rivalry]

#10 - (SCP) SCP-106 - [TBD]

#11 - (Marble Hornets/Creepypasta AU) "The Operator" - [Corruption]

#12 - (Mass Effect) Urdnot Wrex - [Unrequited Love, Hookup]

#13 - (Dead Space) Regenerator -[Submission Through Overstimulation]

#14 - (SCP) SCP-035 - [Manipulation]

#15 - (Creepypasta) The Bloody Painter - [Love and Paint Birthday Sex]

#16 - (Predator) Yautja - [TBD]

#17 - (Resident Evil) Mr. X - [Sex Replacement]

#18 - (The Evil Within 2) Stefano Valentini - [Looping Sex/Orgasm, Overstimulation]

#19 - (Far Cry 5) Jacob Seed - [Breeding]

#20 - (Dead By Daylight) Oni - [TBD]

#21 - (Mass Effect) Javik - [Breeding, Species Preservation]

#22 - (Mass Effect) Grunt - [Congratulations Sex or "Glad You're Alive" Sex]

#23 - (SCP) SCP-049 - [TBD]

#24 - (Crypt TV) Look-See - [TBD]

#25 - (Far Cry 5) Eli Palmer - (Cucking)

#26 - (Creepypasta) Codi - [Experimental Drugs, Aphrodisiac]

#27 - (Resident Evil) Tyrant 008/013/016 - (Breeding Experiment, Gangbang)

#28 - (Far Cry 5) Joseph Seed - [Vanilla Sex, Praise, Religious Talk]

#29 - (Mass Effect) Garrus Vakarian - [Friends With Benefits, "Cheating"]

#30 - (Resident Evil or Dead By Daylight) Nemesis - [TBD]

#31 - (Mass Effect) Saren Arterius - [Indoctrination, Manipulation]

#acradelius talks #kinktober #lemon rating #x reader #mass effect #creepypasta #marble hornets #love death and robots #far cry 5 #scp #resident evil

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cryptmonsteruniverseimagines · 3 years

Note

Poly relationship btwn Looksee, Soot, and MC hc?

I have been neglecting this blog severely.

(Romantic) Look-See x Reader x Soot headcanons

TWs: minor spoilers for Look-See VS Soot

I definitely believe due to their respective career paths, Soot and Look-See’s paths are going to intersect at some point. One person isn’t supposed to have survived a bad rock-climbing accident, and they harbor guilt that they survived that they can’t let go of. But, of course, Soot and Look-See can be reasonable gents. Hell, in the creepypasta they were pitted against each other in, they teamed up to take out the narrator.

I feel like Look-See and Soot would end up playing "bad cop, good cop" respectively in the relationship. Look-See is obviously the more outgoing monster, so he'd be much more open to doing a lot more "date stuff". Soot is much more rigid and can’t just disguise himself with a wig and Groucho glasses, would probably need to be coaxed into doing some of the things that Look-See wants. Of course, the two get into spats, and you will need to break them up before things get physical.

One thing that they both agree on is that they both want to sleep with you. In your bed. In spite of not requiring sleep. It’s like extended snuggies for them. And when you all started dating, you probably didn’t have a bed big enough for the three of you. So what did Look-See do? Resort to grave robbery to help get you some more money! …yeah, that was not a good thing to do, so until you get enough cashiche to get a bed big enough for all three of you, your monster bfs sleep in shifts: Look-See one night, Soot the other. Hey — with this system going, you have monster protection every night. And in a world where you can literally be murdered in your sleep by a beastie at any time, they’ve helped you sleep more soundly than you ever have in your life.

Remember how I said Soot likes board games? He sis a big stickler for following the rules of the game and will not like it if someone tries to pull a fast one on him. Well, Look-See likes to cheat at board games, much like he likes to toy with his victims. Soot does not tolerate any of his nonsense. And that’s how a simple game like Candy Land gains the tense atmosphere of Monopoly. Oh, and Monopoly has been banned from the house after an unfortunate incident in which one of them got the fucking board lodged into the wall.

Look-See likes to spread his scent on you by snuggling you, wearing your jackets (the ones that fit him, anyway), and of course, laying on things that you like to sit/lay on. Soot, being a more civilized monster, does not do this as he doesn’t have those bestial impulses. He once walked in on Look-See rolling around in your bed and had no idea what he was looking at.

Soot is the one who’s out of the house the most, so he’s going to be glomped by both you and Look-See when he comes home. People are abounding death left and right, and his workaholic butt can’t put his job on hold for very long. Sometimes you and Look-See will have to hold Soot down on the couch and give him the snuggled he deprives himself of. Soot likes to pretend he doesn’t like it, but his nonexistent heart swells when he’s held by his partners.

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fandom-go-round · 3 years

Note

Could I get smut scenarios with The Mordeo and The Look-See? Female or afab reader if possible.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Apathy Towards Death, Sexual Situations, Fucking in Blood, Fucking Outdoors, Implied Reader Death, Descriptions of Graph Violence, Fucking to Death, Death After Fucking

The Look-See:

You don’t think this is what the note meant when it said ‘take a piece’. You don’t know for sure, of course, but based on the stories and recent parade of corpses, you can take a guess.

Should you feel guilty? Maybe. Maybe it’s wrong to feel this way and get pleasure from something that only causes pain. Maybe you’re already dead and this is some sort of twisted hell, being fucked in front of your dead friend like this. You should feel bad but you really, really don’t.

Sharp teeth sink into your neck and you wail, pushing your hips back towards the creature that’s got you pinned to the ground. It doesn’t speak, sinking its fingers deeper inside of you and scratching at your walls. It should hurt; nails that long shouldn’t be able to cause so much pleasure all at once.

You’re dripping between your thighs and all you can do is push closer, letting the other hand sink into your hip and hold you tighter. Your body is on fire and you feel like you’re going to be remade from the inside out. The coldness sinking into your bones doesn’t register, only the heat between your legs and the blood flowing down your chest.

You orgasm with a scream, back arching up and hitting nothing. The presence that was behind you in gone now, leaving you to twitch and curl onto the floor. It still feels like there are fingers inside of you, moving up your legs to your chest to your throat. When you open your eyes you see them, crouched in front of you with their never ending smile. They raise their hand and it’s covered in blood, drying onto the red gloves they wear. You swear you hear creaking, like old bones, before you close your eyes again. Oh well. This was worth it.

#crypt tv #crypt tv imagine #look see x reader #look see #ctv look see

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culebratia · 5 years

Note

Hello, dear. Thank you for answering my last ask, it was superb. I would like to reauest anither, if i may? How about the look-see, freddy, and ghostface (stu or billy or both) with a S/O who loves to annoy them with silly puns and meme references. I think it would be very funny, and with your talent it WILL be very funny. Thank you, hun. Bless your heart

Bless your heart also you beautiful human being 💖

STU MACHER

* he’ll love you for it! Stu has a thing for weird and surreal humour, stuff which most of his friends aren’t really into, so the fact that you’re into it too fucking seals the deal. You’re his dream girl.

* sometimes you both’ll start bets on class such as “how long will it take for Billy to blow” or “how many dirty jokes can your teacher understand”. It’ll usually either end with getting sent to the principal’s office without getting beaten up, or getting sent to the principal’s office after getting beaten up. The latter most plausible.

* at times, Stu will just send you random videos at like three o’clock in the morning, and while you would complain about it with other people, you just can’t be mad at this baby-faced man child. Look at him! He’s too sweet.

* “HEY BABE! LOOK AT THIS COOL MEME! ISN’T IT FUNNY?! HUH? WHAT DO YOU MEAN DON’T SCREAM AT YOU FROM ACROSS THE STREET? ISN’T THIS ANOTHER WAY OF COMMUNICATION?!”

FREDDY KRUEGER

* he doesn’t get the appeal to it all, but he’ll try and understand to get ‘in with the cool kids’. He’ll remember every reference and joke you’ll do for later use, even copying some trendy things he’s seen other people do over the years, and will try to impress you later on.

* you’re not impressed. You don’t want him to do it again. While you did think it was funny at first to watch a burned chicken nugget dab on them haters and quote random lines from the bee movie, now you just want to die from the many times he’s repeated it. Bad idea.

* he would only really get annoyed at your jokester personality if he was in a bad mood or if he lost a potential victim. But after a while, you’ve learnt to back away from him when he’s like that, it’s for the best honestly.

* “Hey doll, look at this! I’m hip with this kids now, haha! Wait, what do you mean I’m ‘not meant to eat tide pods’?”

THE LOOK-SEE

* he barely understands basic English, let alone the surreal shit you speak of nowadays. You’re going to have to dumb it down for him if you want him to understand why you keep talking about Obunga, because he honestly doesn’t know where all of this is coming from.

* sometimes when he’s finished his jobs, he’ll search through his victims house and will take back something he think you’ll like based on all of the things you’ve spoken about. So far, you have a ripped Knuckles plush, a jar of old pennies, and a hella lot of milk.. I think most of the memes are obvious. And while you don’t necessarily have a need for most of these things, especially the off milk, you don’t have the heart to throw them away.

* he gets upset that he’s unable to understand your enjoyment in these strange human subjects. He knows he likes eating, he likes toying with other humans, he likes your affection, but yet he doesn’t understand why you like things different to him. Are his preferences strange to you? Your preferences are strange to him.

* “*confused clicking noises*”

#fanfiction #horror #x reader #romance #movie #body horror #exophilia #stu macher x reader #stu macher #scream #freddy krueger x reader #freddy krueger #nightmare on elm street #the look see x reader #the look see #look see x reader #look see #crypttv #crypt tv

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zhongyeet-me-to-the-moon · 3 years

Note

Hello may i ask for a sce for jean, ganyu and ayaka got isekai'd to the modern world and got teleported in to the reader's room?

Peep me adding my face claims for what I think genshin people would look irl

Jean x !Reader, Ganyu x !reader, Ayaka x !reader

No pronouns mentioned

Type: bullet points

Genre: isekai au! fluff

The recent event quest suddenly has your main popping out of your phone and into the real world.

Jean - face claim - Either Florence Pugh or Perry Mattfeld

One minute she’s collecting an ancient item in an underground church for the Anemo archon, the next she's clutching your phone and hands in hers on your bed with you

Would jump out of bed and pull her sword on you

Freaking out a bit, getting a bearing of her surroundings, noting it’s a bedroom but not recognizing anything past bed and dresser and closet.

You stand up as well, putting your hands up in instant defeat, with phone still in hand. The game having crashed without your knowledge.

“Where is this?” She finally asks.

“Uh, [location]?”

She slowly re-sheaths her sword, “I’ve, never heard anywhere in Tvet with that name.”

“Right, about that---”

You run down everything that you can, offering tea and a seat in the dining room of your house/apartment.

When you reran the game, the event continued like normal, Jean grabbed the artifact, you have a fight scene with a bunch of treasure hoarders showing up, and then you go back to the church to secure the artifact down the the churches crypt like the holy lyre and that was it.

You guys guessed that if your could find the artifact here in the real world and touch it maybe that can get her home.

Till then you offered her housing and teaching her how the world worked.

God she’s so pretty and seeing her listen so carefully to everything you say, ugh her concentration face is so beautiful

The neatest roommate, especially since she considers herself an unwelcome guest.

Loves late night drives and hanging out near a river/ beach at night, enjoying the sounds of the city/town i the background mixed with the sound of the water.

Oh trust me love you’re welcome any day of the week.

She enjoys cooking with you and discovering what tv/music she likes in this world.

Loves the bachelor, and other drama romantic movies.

Loves musicals. I don’t make the rules.

I think she’s still privy to classical music not just cause she’s used to it but because she’s a simple lady, she knows what she likes.

She’s prone to cabin fever, she’s used to going out and watching her back out for hillichurls and thieves. And while thieves are still a thing it’s weird just paroozing around with so many people casual.

Loves zoo’s, seeing all the animals she can’t even imagine to see in mondasdt

I think what she likes most about this world is the cities and how tall everything is. Wanting to visit the closest big city near by.

When she finally does have to leave she kisses your cheek goodbye.

Ganyu - Face claim - Gloria Tang Sze-wing (G.E.M)

All of the adepti got put under a sleep curse by a certain flower pollen, Ganyu being the last.

Right as she passed out in the game, a sudden thud landed beside you on your bed as Ganyu’s body laid right next to you.

She didn’t wake up right away, and you were too in disbelief to fall asleep, just watching this pretty figure in your bed.

Ugh be still my heart.

She just wakes up like someone who forgot they’re at a sleep over, eyes barely open as she sits up, then freaking out when she realizes she isn’t in her bed.

“Uh, hi.” You try to get her attention, she quickly sits up straight, immediately going for a bow and arrow to her side she realizes isn’t there.

Then she just grabs her vision and starts trying to shoot an ice storm at you like her elemental burst.

It kind of works, though the magic apparently isn’t as strong in this world as it is in Genshin.

You basically just got ice cubes dumbed on you. Which, ow, but still not as bad.

You try to calm her down and sit down and explain the situation. Showing her the game she came from.

After she calms down she’s so embarrassed and apologizes.

You offer her a place to stay while you figure out how to get her home. The event continued by getting a rare plant in the world that did exist in this world. The problem was the plant had to be grown with your own hands, which in the game can take a couple of seconds with a hydro vision player. But in this world, growing plants take time.

Lowkey a clumsy roommate, forgets to do dishes, or doesn’t mop/sweep the floors right.

She tries so hard, and apologies again and again when you end up having to do it again.

Would like pop music and going to concerts (have to explain to her though that everything costs money here and you cant just walk up to a live venue like you can in Liyue)

Loves the fantasy genre, specifically all the disney and pixar movies, (yknow she’s a shrek fan don’t deny yourself this fact)

Also loves trying on clothes at stores, she doesn’t even care if you end up buying it for her she just likes trying on clothes with you. Even if it’s just trying on the clothes you already own in your house.

Has to wear a beanie or hood when she goes out of course to hide her horns but you can fix up outfits that go with that no problem.

I think what she loves most in this world is just how many flowers there are, even admiring simple front yard gardens. She might even take a flower arrangement/sculpting class (is that what it’s called where you make flowers look like things like flower bears? Yknow these things >>>)

She just really enjoys it all cause she’s not known as an adepti, she’s just Ganyu.

When the flower finally blooms she’d put it off on sniffing it, saying that you have things scheduled for tomorrow that she really doesn’t want to miss.

“We planned on going to the beach tomorrow Y/n, we should hold it off till then.”

But when it’s starting to get to the point you’re worried the flower will begin to wilt, she knew she had to go.

She cried, holding your hand as she sniffed the flower, going into a deep sleep once more and dissapearing.

Ayaka - face claim - Risa Oribe (LISA)

In the story event Ayaka was helping set up a concert her family was helping pay for. She offered to help set up because, well, it’s Ayaka.

A certain treasure hunter played a very specific riff on a string instrument and all of a sudden a portal opened and she fell in.

She fell and from a portal they appeared on your ceiling and right on top of your on your bed.

She apologized, blushing profusely, not even registering at first her surroundings.

“Um, I’m sorry, but where am I?”

You explain the situation as best you could. She takes it all in in slow stride.

This one is probably the easiest you can get to getting them home, especially if you play an instrument. It’s just a matter of playing the rest of the quest and hearing the correct riff to send her back and thatd be it.

It was Ayaka who asked to hold off on it.

Insert good girl meets the dark side cliche

Loves rock music and amusement parks. Especially the edgy early 2010′s music like Paramore or Falling in Reverse (loved this band when I was teen lol).

I’m so sorry if you hate rollar coasters she’s gonna love them.

Scary movies scare her but that doesn’t stop her from wanting to watch them, holding your arm and laughing nervously after screaming at a scary scene.

Her favorite thing is the different types of food, particularly desserts are in this world. Asking to go to all kinds of restaurants ranging from fast food to expensive restaurants you have to save up for.

Lazy roommate. I’m sorry she’s used to maids and people waiting on her she’s gonna forget to clean up.

Eventually though she will get home sick. She’ll try to hold so many items from this world in her hand to bring back with her. From a stuffed shiba for Thoma, chocolate for Ayato, a hair pin for the traveler, a book full of recopies for Kiminami Anna, so many books ranging from harry potter to Steven king, shakespear, even kids books like Clifford or warrior cats, and finally a scrapbook with all her memories with you.

She held your hand for a bit, excited to see her family again but was 100% going to miss the friendship she made with you. She kissed your hand then told you she was ready for it to begin.

#Jean x reader #Ganyu x reader #Ayaka x reader #Genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader

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prose-for-hire · 1 year

Text

Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble

(Part 2 to Toil and Trouble)

Pairing: Spike x Harris!reader

Request: I wanted to write a second part to this and I got few comments asking for a pt2 as well! This is the aftermath/relationship between reader and Spike after their date and the conversation that needed to be had with Xander.

As you had sensed, that date had been the first of many with Spike. It had been months since that evening where you had untied him and walked into the moonlight. If only life was like a movie, it could have stopped there. With the promise and hope of everything being okay.

Your twin, of course, couldn’t just let it rest. The tension had reached boiling point. In fact, you had been avoiding him for the past three months. That conversation you had promised him? You were never in the room long enough for him to even take a breath to start to speak.

Spike had found himself a crypt, had almost managed to help kill the slayer through Adam at the Initiative and had given you one of his rings to wear. He had turned to you, halfway through an episode of Passions and had actually managed to drag his eyes away and earnestly offered you the knotted silver band. It was a promise. You had never taken it off since.

You, although knowing Spike had been up to something, didn’t want to hear the finer details. So long as your brother wasn’t going to be hurt, you didn’t want to hear it. You just wanted to be close to Spike. Of course it would be nice to save the world and all that but, really, that ship had sailed and it was more your brother’s hobby than yours.

You were sat in his crypt, curled up on his sofa by his side. Your bodies bathed in candlelight, glowing in a silent contentment. All that could be heard was the distant buzzing of the tv. But that didn’t matter to you. Only he mattered. Your head rested on his shoulders as he wrapped an around you, pulling you in closer. The popcorn you had been sharing had long since been abandoned.

You pressed a few soft kisses against his neck, the near-silent sigh of pleasure you heard from Spike made you smile into the kisses. He used his hand to guide your head to face him, pressing your forehead against his. He savoured the moment closing his eyes at the contact, he could stay in this moment forever and be the happiest man alive.

You leaned in again, pressing your lips to his. He tasted like cigarette smoke and popcorn. He cupped your cheek in his hand, thumb caressing your cheekbone as he started to deepen the kiss, the way he always did. Knocking the breath from your body. He tilted your head back, thumb sliding to caress your neck with his strong hand, his lips hungrily-

The door to the crypt swung open with such force that it came off its hinges. You tensed and Spike pulled you in close to his side, willing to defend you against anything that came your way. He was fiercely protective and you knew he would lay down his life for you in a heartbeat (one of your heartbeats, of course).

“Can’t a vampire have one sodding moment to rest in peace with his love?”

It was your brother. Again. And his friends, Willow and Buffy. Buffy had a stake and a scary look on her face. The only real threat you had ever felt inside the crypt coming from those supposedly on the side of ‘good’.

Once, you may have sprang apart but you were too comfortable and really, you were an adult. Your brother would have to physically prize you apart if he wanted you to move away from Spike.

“Xander! What is your problem?! You’re dating a demon, I’m dating a vampire it’s not exactly much of a difference”

“Actually, love-”

“Not now, Spike!” You both said at the same time.

“I really bloody hate it when you do that” he muttered but surrendered at the look on your face. You just didn’t want him to say anything that could get a redwood in his chest. You really, really liked him.

“Anya’s different” He insisted, awarding him a glare from you.

“Oh my God, you’re such a bonehead! It’s exactly the same”

“Why don’t we all make with the calmness and take a deep-”

“No time or place for none of your spiritual-wicca bollocks now, Red” Spike warned, knowing you well by now. You didn’t like it when people told you what to do. Especially not the ‘morally superior’ group of your brothers friends.

You reached for Spike’s arm subconsciously and rubbed his arm slowly, showing him that you were right there with him. Thanking him for speaking up. You didn’t actually like arguing, you just didn’t like to back down either. Your brother didn’t exactly appreciate the display of affection, however.

“That’s it! You and me, pal, outside!” Xander said, putting his hands in a fist in a way that could only be described as a mockery of a fight.

“You and what army, Xander” You rolled your eyes. Nevertheless, Spike shrugged and walked outside, lighting up a cigarette as he went. Xander looked a little nervous but took a deep breath and followed him out.

You started to follow too, not wanting either of them to come to any harm but Buffy blocked your way. When you tried to move past, it felt like walking into a brick wall. She was incredibly strong despite her size.

“You’re, uh, strong” You offered lamely, stepping back from her.

“We should probably leave them to it”

“Did you ever think that I might be hurt when you all decided to keep this from me?” It was only because of your healthy curiosity that you had come across Buffy slaying and then researched it yourself. If you hadn’t, when you had first been faced with a vampire you may have not even had a stake on your person.

“We told Xander you should know, but we kinda didn’t wanna get in the middle of a twin-fight” Buffy explained, shuddering at the thought of the infamous twin fights she had witnessed between you and Xander. To you both, they weren’t all that serious usually but it appeared to be in front of others. This time had been different though.

“I’ve known you since I was a kid, Willow, where’s the loyalty?”

Willow opened her mouth and then closed it again, unsure how to speak. She had always been fond of you but she was best friends with Xander and she had never really forgiven you for spreading the news that she had cheated on Oz with your brother around school. You had only told one of your friends, you just happened to have been overheard.

Meanwhile, outside…

Xander had, in a surprise to everyone involved, punched Spike and held him against the wall of the crypt. Spike took it, choking out smoke in surprise but stood there and didn’t even defend himself. Only for you. He was love’s bitch, after all. He knew how upset you would be, even though he was an idiot, you loved your brother a lot.

“Leave them alone, this is mucho evil even for you! Stop acting like you like them”

“Be easier, wouldn’t it. If it were an act” Spike shrugged, dropping his smoke and grinding it under his boot, “I love them”

“Oh yeah, love without the actual, you know, lovin’ part”

Spike gave him a look, one that was one part unamused to two parts looking like he wanted to kill the man stood before him. Xander still had Spike’s shirt balled in his fist. He raised his other fist again, as if to land another punch when you ran out from the crypt and grabbed your brother’s hand.

“That’s enough!” You pulled your brother off him. Your annoyance threatening to boil over.

“You don’t need to do this, Y/n”

“Do what exactly, Xander?!”

“You proved your point, I should’ve told you about Buffy. But rise of the evil dead here is bad news”

“You’re such a hypocrite, xander! Anya is older and has statistically killed more people than Spike and yet you stand there all high and mighty acting like I need to be saved from myself. Well, I don’t. Spike is really good to me, perhaps if you gave him a chance…”

Xander scoffed but he knew you well. Sometimes more than you knew yourself. That look in your eyes, you were deeply upset. You just wanted to be close to your brother again, but you couldn’t even consider losing Spike. You were in love. Deeply.

Spike lit up a cigarette, stepping to your side and handing it to you before lighting up for himself. His mind was always on you, he was in tune with you. You never hid anything from him, you didn’t have to. You took a drag, trying to hide the visible shaking from your hand. This could go two ways. You and Xander could make up like you usually would or the rift could widen and Xander might turn his back on you. A wash of anxiety

“All I want is to look out for you” Xander admitted, looking at the floor. He took the fact he was a minute older than you seriously, assuming the ‘older brother’ role despite there being no real grounds (but that was an argument for another time).

“And you did that by letting me discover vampires by almost getting eaten by one in high school?” You asked pointedly.

“You never said…”

“Better be bloody dust” Spike muttered, jaw tensing at the idea of any vampire wrapping their jaws around you. You were his, if there was any biting to be done, he would of course do the honours.

“How many times have you almost been killed by a vampire, Xand? I’m guessing double figures. Can’t we just call it quits? Uh, I don’t wanna… lose you” You admitted quietly, rolling your own eyes this time. You and Xander didn’t usually do the whole feelings thing. You mostly used humour to cope with your dysfunctional family and just shared knowing looks when you both felt the same way about something.

“Hey! No way, you’re stuck with me. Like glue, the glue-iest” Xander launched at you, giving you a hug, wafting the smoke away and fake coughing as he did, though when he released you from his bone crushing hug, he couldn’t help but say, “But it-it’s Spike. He’s gross, Y/n”

“Yeah, I’ve definitely seen him lick his own nose blood” Buffy grimaced as she recounted it, joining them with Willow from within the crypt.

“He’s my boyfriend. No amount of nose blood or evil rants can change that.”

Willow and Buffy seemed to soften at this, as well as the adoring look that Spike gave you. Both knew what it was like to love people that others might not understand too. He truly did love you, he made a mental note to tell you properly as soon as you were alone. He just wished he hadn’t said it out loud for the first time to your brother rather than you.

“But-” Xander started again but Willow stood on his foot.

“Didn’t you say we would meet Riley at the Bronze at 11?” Willow changed the subject quickly. Buffy checked her watch and groaned, she had stood him up all week and I was already 11:30. Spike bit his tongue from saying ‘trouble in paradise’. Something you noticed and tried to hide your smile. You had both discussed Buffy’s love life at length.

“Why don’t you guys come? Merry merriment for all, right Xand?” Willow asked kindly, echoing Xander’s earlier phrasing.

“Oh, right, yeah, family bonding and all that” You offered, knowing more than anything that danger followed Buffy around and that Spike enjoyed picking a fight with any demons that you came across.

“Watch it” Spike murmured from your side. No matter how much he loved you, he didn’t love the idea of Xander being family. But he did nod his head to agree he would go.

As you and your strange group walked together through the streets, with Spike muttering something about charging the slayer for the damage done to his crypt’s door. Spike didn’t like your brother and he certainly didn’t like the slayer, but he liked you very much and he had decided he would have to live with seeing them a lot more often.

“Huh, maybe it runs in the family”

“What?”

“The demon-y magnetism” Willow laughed and Xander kicked a rock at her words but didn’t say anything. He was just getting you back, maybe he could live with you and Spike being together. Well, maybe he would give it three strikes and then he would try and bring up the idea of you leaving him again.

Spike rolled his eyes at Willow’s words but you smiled softly, leaning in to press a kiss against his pale cheek. You slid your hand into his and he squeezed tightly.

“I love you too, by the way” You whispered softly in his ear. You had heard him. He glowed, a smile spread across his face, you always loved it when he smiled. It lit up his entire face, brightening all of his features.

The moonlight caressed his face, his eyes glistening at your words. Leaning in, he pressed a kiss against your forehead as you trailed behind your brother and his friends. He would sit through this, for you. Because he loved you, more than he had ever loved another before.

#Spike x reader #spike btvs x reader #spike x you #spike imagine #spike btvs #spike #btvs x reader #btvs imagine #btvs x you #Buffy The Vampire Slayer #buffy the vampire slayer imagine #xander harris #gender neutral #gn reader #x reader #btvs

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angryinternetduck · 3 years

Text

Lucky

hello hello and welcome to halloween !!!! in august!!!! i know it's weird haha but here's about 6.7k words of harry styles x reader during halloween. featuring a "haunted house" and a cute cat with two names. also caramel apples. enjoy!

masterlist | ask

The house was haunted.

You were sure of it.

And yeah, you thought, looking up at the ginormous mansion looming above you, you were incredibly grateful that the house had fallen to you, but the whole thing was starting to feel like the beginning of a bad horror movie.

Some old relative had died - you weren’t close with them at all, and you felt a bit bad that the only feelings associated with their death were happiness at getting their property - and left you their estates. You’d moved in a few weeks ago, and now you were hearing things.

Things like scratching in the vents, and howling in the wind, and glasses mysteriously crashing to the floor of their own accord in other rooms. The floors always creaked at night, and so did the doors, which randomly swung open and closed.

You hadn’t really wanted to tell anybody about all of this or your suspicions, fearing you’d come off as a bit crazy. Of course, the few people you had told had just laughed and given you the It’s an old house - it’s settling bullshit.

Which you didn’t believe. At all.

What did that even mean, “the house is settling”? Settling for what? Settling down, like it was some middle aged guy who was about to have kids with his wife in the fifties? Or maybe it was settling down like it was angry, and had had a tantrum, and was just settling down into a calmer state. Not that that was any more comforting.

Now, as you struggled to get your key to turn in the lock, you wondered if you could sell the house or something. Everybody you’d asked for advice had told you to wait and fix it up, that you’d regret giving it up when you had four kids and a husband and needed space.

They’d also said it looked like shit so you’d get a crappy deal unless you fixed it up.

Then again, those were the same it’s settling people, so what did they know?

You sighed, finally getting the key to turn, and shoved your shoulder into the door. Making a mental note to oil the door - again - as it creaked, you shut it behind you with your foot before stepping into the living room and collapsing onto the couch.

The couch matched the house: gray, run down, and creaky. There were patches sewn in every so often, and it smelled like old lady perfume. It did the job, though, which was very convenient in the moment but didn’t exactly motivate you to buy a new one very quickly.

You’d turn on the TV, but there wasn’t one. Instead, you stared at the empty, ashy fireplace while you gathered the gumption to get up and off the couch. After a few seconds, you heard something - a little skittering sound in the walls - and frowned, pulling yourself up and towards the stairs.

It was probably just mice, but accompanied with everything else, you weren’t about to take any chances. The stairs, like every other part of the house, creaked as you walked upstairs. You’d almost gotten used to the floorboards around the corner creaking before you got to them, but it still spooked you a bit. When you glanced around the wall and there wasn’t anyone there, as usual, you got changed into comfortable clothes as quickly as you could.

Then you collapsed into the bed. After washing the sheets a few (ten) times, you’d gotten rid of the musty smell, and the huge victorian frame and feathery mattress had become your safe haven. The whole room had become your safe place, really - you’d cleaned and swept until it had somewhat resembled a nice bedroom and not a dusty old crypt.

Once you were there, safe in your room with your headphones on, the house didn’t seem all that bad. A huge window covered the wall right next to your bed, looking out onto rolling grassy fields like something out of a Jane Austen novel.

So you listened to music, imagining a dashing stranger saving you from a twisted angle.

Soon, you were asleep.

***

“Nobody will deliver this far!” you exclaimed, talking into your cell phone as you rooted through the drawers in front of you. “I’ve tried, like, six different places, and they all said it’s too far!” Your friend on the line sighed, and you heard her slurp noodles from the Chinese take out she was eating.

“Well,” she said, “that sucks.”

“Oh, gee, helpful,” you deadpanned.

“Listen, there has got to be someplace you can go,” she told you matter of factly. You frowned, digging through a cabinet. “Yeah, well” - you gasped, jumping a foot into the air as something brushed against your leg - “shit!”

You whipped around, brandishing the pan you’d just grabbed as a weapon. “What the -”

A cat.

There was a black cat, with the brightest green eyes you’d ever seen, looking up at you innocently. It meowed loudly, looping through your legs, and you sighed. “It’s a cat,” you explained to your friend.

“You got a cat?”

You scoffed, looking at it as it jumped up onto the counter. “No!” you replied. “No, I - Jesus, of course I didn’t get a fucking cat, I just… I just moved in!” There was a beat of silence, and then your friend said, “So… there’s a strange cat… in your house.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, hesitantly reaching out. It leaned into you, purring loudly, and you couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah,” you said again, laughing a bit. “Listen, listen,” you added, and you put the phone up to the cat.

“That’s cute,” your friend said when you brought the phone back to your ear, sounding a bit worried, “but, uh… does it have a tag, or something?” You shook your head, even though she couldn’t see you, and felt around the cat’s neck. Just fur. “Nope,” you replied.

“Are you gonna… keep it?”

You grinned, scratching its ears, and shrugged. “I dunno.”

***

You wanted to name the cat Lucky.

That night, as the crisp October wind howled outside, you didn’t hear any creaks. The house was practically silent, and you slept like a baby with the little creature curled at your feet. Plus, she - as you’d determined earlier - was black, and with the whole Unlucky Black Cats thing, “Lucky” seemed like a nice little joke.

She was gone the next morning, but you figured she was just somewhere around the house, so you went around calling, “Lucky!” as if she’d respond. It was almost two hours before you gave up, and convinced yourself it was just a fluke and you’d never see her again.

“She’s gone,” you said mournfully by way of greeting your friend as you made breakfast.

“Who?”

“Lucky!”

“Who?”

“The cat,” you sighed. “She’s gone. Wasn’t here this morning.”

“Oh,” your friend replied. “Well, maybe she found her owner!”

You pouted, sliding butter around your pan. “I thought I was her owner…”

“You cannot possibly be so attached to that thing after one night.”

“She’s lucky, though! I swear, the ghosts are afraid of her or something - I didn’t hear a single sound all night!” You could practically hear your friend roll her eyes. “A fluke. Or maybe - yeah, maybe luck. I’m sure you’ll be alright without her.”

“Maybe I should get a cat,” you mused.

Your friend sighed. “Oh, boy.”

***

She was lucky.

Lucky was lucky.

One hundred percent.

There was no doubt about it.

The floors creaked like crazy that night. After hearing it for the first time, peering fearfully into the pitch black hallway, you shut the door tight and huddled underneath the blankets. A terrifying cry accompanied the wind, one that gave you nightmares of women in long white dresses stumbling over the moor, and you woke up in a panic in the middle of the night when you heard something shatter downstairs.

It wasn’t exactly your proudest moment, but you stayed in bed, watching the clock and keeping under the covers and deciding you’d deal with it in the morning. It took forever for you to fall asleep, but once you did, thankfully, you were out until the morning.

Half asleep, you stumbled down the stairs at almost noon.

And there, Lucky was waiting for you.

She meowed at you indignantly, as if you were late, and you gasped, crouching down and scrunching her face between your hands. “Lucky!” you exclaimed. She meowed, and wiggled out of your grasp, and walked in circles around you, keeping her tail against your leg.

You were so relieved that you only got partially annoyed when she made you trip over yourself every two seconds while you cleaned up the broken mug and made breakfast. She was very talented at getting in the way, sitting in the perfect position to be as inconvenient as possible.

She wandered around when you started work, getting bored after twenty minutes of jumping onto your laptop and being pushed off, only to do it again, and again, and again. You lost sight of her but somehow weren’t too worried - if she came back the first time, she’d probably come back again, you reasoned.

Which she did!

Sometimes.

She became your companion as the weeks went on, coming every so often to bother you as adorably as possible before disappearing for a few hours again. Sometimes she’d come during the day, but you were always relieved when she came at night because, for some inexplicable reason, she really made the house quiet and let you sleep.

Sometimes you’d give her a little bit of milk, or whatever you had on you (after properly researching what was okay for cats, of course), but she never seemed very hungry, so you’d never really thought about buying actual cat food for her.

You thought about getting her a collar every so often, but between working on the house, normal work, and just… life, you never really got around to it. Plus, she always seemed to come back, so you didn’t think it was super necessary.

So Lucky hung around, and you got some work done, and everything was good.

***

You’d heard creaking. Lots of creaking. And the occasional mysteriously shattered glass. And the howling in the wind, and skittering in the walls, and the weird drafts, and the unexplained cat - all sorts of weird things.

But this was the first time you heard a voice.

A real, live, human voice.

Well, maybe not live.

You’d been cooking when you first heard it, and, in a panic, you’d grabbed a frying pan. Maybe frying pans were lucky, too; after all, one had been your “weapon” when Lucky had sneaked up on you. She was notably absent, Lucky, by the way, and you wished you had your good luck charm with you as you made your way to the basement, feeling only slightly like an idiot.

Maybe a very scared idiot.

The voice was coming from the basement, which you hadn’t exactly ventured into yet. The whole house had a bit of a creepy-basement vibe, so you weren’t quite enthusiastic to go into the actual basement, where you’d imagine the creepiness would be increased exponentially.

The voice sounded male. And British.

You pictured a British ghost - something old and ancient, judging by the rasp of the voice, although it did sound on the younger side… Maybe it had some sort of paranormal ancient youth. Maybe a sailor, who lived in the house hundreds of years ago, and died at sea… And now, he was back, to haunt you, because you’d… offended him… with your… redecorating?

The stairs were actually pretty quiet, you realized, creeping down them as quietly as you could with your frying pan and marveling at the lack of creaks. You stepped onto the floor, peering around the corner, and realized the ghost - or whatever - must have been outside since the back door was slightly ajar, blowing cool air onto your legs.

If you were being honest, you hadn’t even known that that door existed. A mini lightbulb went off in your head as you realized that was probably where Lucky had been getting in, and you wondered absently if you should get a lock or something for it.

Then your brows furrowed as you got closer and the voice became coherent.

“... you been? ‘ve been looking all over for you… Think you’re so clever, don’t you? Disturbing our nice neighbor like this… Got them to talk to you, did you? Oh, I’m sure, you charmer…” You heaved a breath, kicking open the door -

You brandished the frying pan, yelling, “Who -?!”

“Bloody hell!”

So, you realized then, it was a guy.

And not a ghost.

Very decidedly a guy, actually, from the way the pan hadn’t gone right through him but had rather clanged against his forearm as he threw it up to defend himself. His other hand, it should be noted, was holding a cat.

Specifically, Lucky.

You gasped, lowering your pan. “Oh, my god,” you breathed. “Oh, my god, I am so sorry - I thought you were -” You stopped as Lucky slipped out of the guy’s arms and weaved around your legs, purring louder than a motorboat.

“Hello, there,” the guy said, incredibly pleasant for someone who’d just gotten attacked with a frying pan. “Um - hi,” you replied hesitantly, holding the pan behind your back as if he’d forget about the whole thing if he couldn’t see it. “Hi, I’m - um, I’m sorry.”

“Hi, Sorry,” the guy joked, holding out his non-injured hand, “I’m Harry Styles. Your neighbor.”

Heat crept up your cheeks, shaking his hand as you corrected him with your name.

He repeated your name, smiling as it rolled off his tongue, and despite yourself, you felt a shiver running down your spine. He was good looking, this Harry guy. His eyes rivaled Lucky’s, bright green as he grinned at you. His hair looked a bit grown out, chestnut brown and curling slightly at his temples.

And he had dimples.

Very cute dimples.

And muscles, and -

There was a beat of silence, and you realized you were not so subtly checking him out, and even though you kind of realized he was doing the same to you, you felt your cheeks heat again. Harry cleared his throat, crouching down to pet Lucky as he said, “So, erm - I haven’t seen you around a lot.”

“Yeah,” you replied, laughing a bit sheepishly. “I’ve been… busy.”

Harry nodded, his gaze drifting around you to the messy basement. “I’m sure,” he said. “This place seems like a lot of work.” You shrugged, following his eyes and inspecting the dust and various junk cluttered throughout the room.

“Well, I have time…”

“But not for neighbors, hm?” Harry asked, a teasing smile on his lips.

“I’m… sorry,” you said again, putting your head in your hands for a second before looking back up. “I hadn’t even thought… I can’t even see your… Do you live, uh - close?” Harry nodded, gesturing vaguely out the back door. “Relatively, I suppose, although - you’re right, you can’t quite… see it… from here.”

“You’ll have to show me sometime,” you said impulsively, and Harry glanced at you, dimpling again. “Yeah,” he agreed, “reckon I will.” You smiled, suddenly unable to keep eye contact, and then let your gaze dart away after a second.

“And the, erm - the market,” Harry went on. “Haven’t seen you around there. Have you been?”

You shook your head, murmuring, “No,” and Harry tsked, shaking his head back at you, oozing disappointment. “Right, well, that’s just not right,” he said. “That we’ll have to go to sometime. ‘specially now that it’s autumn.” You nodded, and he stood up, dusting off his hands as Lucky came over to you for cuddles.

You expected him to say he was going to go, that he had work to do, or something, but instead, he asked, “Doing anything now?” and grinned, glancing down at the pan, still in your hand. “Besides attacking perfect strangers, of course.”

“I am… so sorry about that,” you said, again, laughing sheepishly, again.

“I’d say it’s fine,” Harry replied, “but, erm… It’s not.”

You felt your eyes widen. “What?”

“I think you’ll have to make it up to me, love,” he told you. You just raised a brow, and he grinned. “Maybe I’ll forgive you if you give me a ride to the market,” he said, and then you smiled. “Easy enough,” you replied, grabbing your keys from your pocket.

Harry dimpled and looked down at Lucky. “Right, then, Dee, let’s go, shall we?”

You frowned. “Dee?”

“Oh, right!” Harry exclaimed, bending down to scoop Lucky into his arms. “I think you’ve met, but this here is Demon. Dee for short.” You scoffed a laugh, shaking your head. “Demon?” you echoed incredulously.

Harry nodded, grinning ear to ear. “Yeah, look at this menace! What else would we call her?”

“You’re her owner?”

“Yup. Found her a few months ago, and she just… stuck.”

“Good at that, isn’t she?” you murmured, reaching out to scratch behind her ear.

“Has she bothered you?” Harry asked, looking sympathetic, and you nodded. “Oh, yes, all the time. In the most pleasant way possible, though, so I’m not too mad.” Harry laughed, letting her slip out of his arms and onto the ground.

She ambled out of the basement and into the grass, and, after exchanging a glance with Harry, you both followed her. “I’ve been calling her Lucky,” you told him, closing the door behind you. Harry glanced at you, hands in his pockets, and smiled. “Lucky?”

“Yeah. See, the house is -” You stopped, and Harry raised an eyebrow. “The house is what?” You laughed, a bit embarrassed, and then mumbled, “I think it’s haunted.” Harry nodded, understanding on his face. “Oh, yeah, it definitely is,” he agreed.

You laughed again. “That sure of it, are you?”

Harry rolled his eyes, a smile tugging on his lips, and nodded at Lucky. “That’s your ghost.”

“Lucky? How -?”

“She’s the one howling, and walking everywhere to make the floors creak, and knocking glasses off the tables,” Harry explained, and your jaw dropped, just a bit. “Oh, my god,” you said, as it all clicked into place. “That’s why - Well, see, I called her Lucky because the” - you put up air quotes - “‘ghost’ never seemed to be around when she was with me. Which I guess makes sense, since if she was with me, she wasn’t… anywhere else…”

“Yup.”

You frowned, glancing over at him. “So, wait - how did you know?”

“Same thing happened to me,” he replied with a shrug. “Was right convinced the place was haunted when I first moved in - was about to sell and everything. Couldn’t take replacing half the cupboard every two weeks. Then I caught her shattering one of my mugs. Then, I got a night light, and saw her lurking around and making a ruckus with the floorboards.”

“A night light,” you repeated, lightly smacking your forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Took me a few weeks, too,” Harry laughed. “You’d’ve gotten there eventually, don’t worry.”

“Sure hope so,” you murmured, smiling as Lucky jumped up onto your car and started to stretch out on the hood. You opened the driver’s side door and leaned against it as Harry gave Lucky a scratch behind her ears.

“Pesky little thing, she is,” Harry said. “Always does the same on my car, and I’m always tempted to just drive with her on top and see what happens.” You scoffed, shaking your head. “How could you?” Harry shrugged, grinning at you. “I’m sure she’d land on her feet.”

“Yeah, well, let’s not test that now,” you replied, gently scooping Lucky up and placing her on the grass, where she started to daintily lick a paw. Harry got into the passenger seat, and you asked him, “Where’s this market of yours?”

“Up the road,” Harry said vaguely.

You raised a brow, but he didn’t offer any more information.

So you just drove.

***

“Halloween,” Harry said, “is not fun.”

You gasped, scandalized, and exclaimed, “What?”

“It’s too stressful!” Harry groaned. “I never know what to wear! Especially to parties, bloody hell! Like, do you go for it? Full makeup, tons of tulle, a wig? Or don’t go for it? And if it’s really go for it, and you don’t go for it, it’s like, oh, well, too bad. Or if it’s a party, and you’re invited, like, the day of, and everybody’s going for it, and you’re like, oh, I can’t, can’t go, because I don’t have time to plan it, and -” He stopped, sighing, and shook his head. “It’s a whole ordeal.”

“Yeah, clearly,” you replied, biting back a grin.

You were pulling into a parking lot, and you could already see the hustle and bustle of the market. There were booths set up all along the street and around a little courtyard. People talked and chattered, exchanging money and trinkets and smiles and waves.

You both got out of the car and met at the front, taking a moment to admire the view.

“The caramel apples are the best,” Harry told you with a smile.

“Guess we’ll have to go there first.”

Harry nodded, and you started walking. You shoved your hands in your pockets, a bit cold in the autumn wind, as a comfortable silence fell over the two of you. It was only a few seconds before you were stopped, though, when an old man behind a table covered in small wooden carvings called, “Harry!”

“George!” Harry exclaimed, wrapping him in a hug.

“It’s good to see you,” George said cheerily, his gaze darting to you and back to Harry inquisitively. Harry smiled, introducing you as his neighbor. George grinned, shaking your hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said.

“Likewise,” you replied.

“You must be pretty special,” George said. “Don’t think I’ve ever met any other neighbors.”

“We share a cat,” Harry explained, and George’s brow raised.

Harry glanced at you, dimpling, and then said, “Nice talking with you, George. We should catch up later - we’re headed for Mara.” George nodded. “Good boy. You know what they say! The way to a woman’s heart is her stomach, eh?”

“Alrighty, then,” Harry said, gently leading you away. “Bye, George!”

“Bye, Harry! And nice to meet you, neighbor!”

You smiled, waving at him over your shoulder. “You too, George!”

“Swear he’s been running that booth since about 1804,” Harry murmured as you walked away. “‘ve known him all my life, and he’s always looked the same. Beginning to think he’s a vampire.” You grinned, nudging his shoulder. “He seems nice.”

“He is!” Harry agreed. “He is. Like a second father. Hey, here’s Mara.”

You came up to a cluster of booths that steamed and bubbled and swirled together to smell of a blend of spices, sugar, and caramel. One of the booths proudly proclaimed Mara’s Caramel Apples, and shiny golden apples dotted the table.

The woman behind the table - Mara, presumably - lit up when she caught sight of Harry. “Harry, darling!” she cooed, coming around her table to press kisses against each of Harry’s cheeks. “Hullo, Mara,” Harry replied.

“It’s so good to see you!” Mara exclaimed, pinching his cheeks. “You should come around more often, love, you need some meat on these bones of yours.” Harry nodded, gingerly pulling her hand off of him. “I’ll work on that,” he replied, glancing at you and looking amused, if not a bit embarrassed.

“You do that, Harry,” Mara said, stealing one more pinch and making Harry wince before she turned to you. “And who is this, then?” Mara tutted, shaking her head. “Haven’t forgotten your manners, have you?”

“Never, Mara,” Harry assured her, and introduced you.

“Lovely to meet you!” Mara said cheerfully, wrapping you in a hug.

“You too,” you responded.

“How long have you been together, then?” Mara asked, making your face heat as she walked back around the table and started stirring a pot of caramel. “Haven’t seen you around, dear.” Harry coughed, shaking his head, looking as embarrassed as you felt. “Nope, no, we’re not together,” he corrected her. “Just - erm, we’re neighbors.”

“Ah, neighbors,” Mara hummed.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, she moved in where the Carlsons were.”

“Oh, the Carlsons!” Mara said. “A tricky bunch, they were - I’m glad you’re there now.”

“Yeah, me too,” you replied, smiling slightly at Harry.

Mara wiped her hands off on a cloth and tucked it on a rack before carefully grabbing two pristine caramel apples. “Well,” she said, handing you both a stick, “here you are, dears. Enjoy, now! And come back soon, the both of you!”

Harry pulled out cash, but Mara waved him off. “Oh, nonsense, Harry, you know better than that,” Mara told him. “I’ll give you the family discount, as long as you both promise to come back on your next date.”

“Not a date, Mara,” Harry mumbled, flushing red, and Mara grinned. “Of course. My mistake. Your first date, then.” Your face felt about on fire, and Harry’s was red as a beet as he said, “Right, then, nice talking to you, Mara! Bye, now.” He walked away as she waved cheerily, and you followed him.

Harry looked at you apologetically. “She’s a bit, erm - concerned, as it were,” he said sheepishly. “Haven’t exactly…” He cleared his throat. “She thinks I’m a bit lacking in the romance department.” You raised a brow, and he somehow managed to get even redder.

“I mean! I mean, I’m - I’m not,” he added hurriedly, “I’m really not, ‘f course - but, erm - she thinks…” He sighed, stopping, and shrugged at you helplessly. “So you’re not?” you said, and Harry’s brows furrowed, confused.

“You’re not lacking in the romance department?” you clarified.

Harry frowned. “... No?”

“So… Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

A bit of the red faded from his cheeks. “Oh,” he said. “Well, then, yes. I suppose I’m lacking in the romance department right now. ‘s unusual, though, I’ll have you know. But, erm - how about you?” You shook your head, glancing away from him and around the fair. “Single as a Pringle,” you told him, and you liked to imagine seeing the hint of a smile on his face out of the corner of your eye.

“Gotcha,” Harry hummed. “Right, well, how’s the apple, then?”

You took a bite, savoring it as you crunched on it, and then nodded your approval. “Superb,” you said, and Harry grinned brightly. “Wonderful,” he replied. “‘m glad you like it. Might’ve been a deal breaker if not.”

“That important, huh?”

“Oh, the most important,” Harry said seriously.

You grinned, and Harry dimpled back.

There was a beat of silence, and then he said, “Right, then. Tell me something about yourself.”

“Like what?”

He shrugged, licking caramel off his lips. “Anything. Hopes, dreams, fears, favorite color…”

You hummed as you thought, and then told him the first thing that came to mind. He listened as you talked, looking genuinely interested in what you were saying. Butterflies erupted in your stomach every time you made him laugh, and when you flipped the spotlight to him, you found yourself completely lost in his words.

Something about his voice, and his humor, and the way he giggled everytime he made a stupid joke, made the butterflies linger. It was pleasant, though. It wasn’t alarming, or nerve wracking, or even remotely uncomfortable. You weren’t self conscious, or scared to mess up, or worried you’d say the wrong thing.

You were just… happy.

The fair, you realized, wasn’t nearly big enough.

You’d walk the whole world just to keep talking with him.

***

“That was a date,” your friend declared as soon as you finished telling her what had happened. You balanced your phone between your ear and shoulder and blew softly on your hot tea. “No,” you replied, “it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was!” she squealed. “I can’t believe he didn’t kiss you!” She huffed. “I can’t believe you didn’t kiss him!” You rolled your eyes, amused despite yourself, and insisted, “It really wasn’t a date. I was just… making up for slamming a metal pan into his arm.”

You heard her wince. “Yikes.”

You sighed, again, and took a sip of your tea. “He probably has a bruise.”

“Yeah, probably,” she snickered.

“Hey!”

She laughed, sounding way too amused at your misery. “Talk about a meet cute!”

“You are not helping,” you groaned, feeling yourself starting to laugh too anyway.

“Don’t worry,” she giggled, “he’ll think of you everytime he accidently puts pressure on it and screams in pain.” You scoffed indignantly and argued, “He will not scream in pain - it wasn’t that bad.” Your friend hummed skeptically. “I dunno about that… It was a pan, right?”

You took a sip of your tea, sighing heavily. “A tiny pan,” you mumbled into the lip of your mug, and then laughed when your friend started cracking up. “You gotta text me a picture of the bruise,” she gasped through her laughter.

“Okay, there’s no bruise.”

“Dude, it was a pan.”

“A tiny pan!”

That just set off another round of giggles, before finally, your friend relented. “Fine,” she said, “send me a picture of him, and the bruise will just be a bonus.” You agreed, and then said goodnight, and fell asleep with a smile on your face.

***

Your fingers did a dance over the screen of your phone, your lip between your teeth as you debated whether or not to send the text. Harry had given you his number the other day at the market, but you were getting a bit anxious about what to send.

The door really did need to be fixed, you told yourself, glancing down at your flirtatious-if-you-squinted text asking if he’d help you fix your basement door. Especially now, since it wouldn’t stay closed at all; you’d had to put a brick behind it to keep it shut, and even that kept sliding around. It was where Lucky had kept slipping in, you’d figured, and even though she was a pleasant enough intruder, you didn’t really want other less adorable trespassers coming through.

Finally, you took a breath, and sent it.

You stared at your screen for a few seconds as if he’d reply within the minute, and then threw your phone across your bed. Heaving a sigh, you pulled yourself away from your bed and towards the window, fidgeting with your fingers.

You lasted about ten seconds, and then grabbed your phone, and checked.

Nothing, of course, because you sent the text thirty seconds ago.

You groaned and belly flopped onto your bed.

***

Lucky came first.

She jumped up onto your bed and butted against you until you sat up and started petting her.

You pouted at her, smoothing your hand over her head. “Maybe I should’ve waited a few more days,” you murmured to her. “Maybe I made it obvious how desp- or, like, made it seem like I was too desperate.” You raised a brow, gazing down at her. “What about you, huh? Are you too desperate?”

Lucky purred and rolled over, stretching languidly.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” you laughed, sliding off your bed and heading for the kitchen.

You paused when you heard the doorbell ring, glancing at Lucky inquisitively like she’d tell you who it was. She gave you a slow blink, and then jumped up, and stretched, and meandered down the hallway. You followed her, almost tripping over her when she stopped suddenly in the middle of the staircase to lick a paw, and opened the door.

“So I sort of forgot any tools,” Harry greeted you. “Hope that’s not a problem.”

Your brows jumped. “I - of course it’s not a - I just thought -” You stopped, glancing down at your phone, which showed no new notifications, and no new texts. “Sorry,” you said, “I wasn’t expecting you so, um - soon.”

Harry laughed, a bit sheepishly, and ran a hand through his hair. “Right. Sorry. I was… on the way. I mean, not on the way here, but, like - driving past. Well, not driving past, but sort of - you know, in, erm - in the area. Sort of. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you assured him, feeling yourself smile. “I’m glad you’re here.” You stepped back to let him in. “I think it’s open right now, the door - there’s kind of a draft,” you lied. Harry nodded, glancing around the house. “Place looks nice,” he said, and you smiled again, following his gaze.

“Yeah,” you replied. “Yeah, I think so, too.”

“Was a bit dreary before,” Harry said softly, letting his hand lightly skim the bright throw blanket you’d put on the sofa as he passed. “Downright dull,” you agreed, and he glanced at you, a smile tugging up the corners of his lips. “Where’s this door, then?”

“Downstairs,” you answered, stepping forward to lead him around the corner and down the steps. “The basement’s a bit creepy,” you warned him, tugging on the light. “Haven’t quite gotten down here yet.”

“Noted,” Harry murmured.

“It’s back here,” you said, weaving around a few cardboard boxes to get to the door.

It was, in fact, open, which was purely coincidental but pretty convenient. “Cold,” you said simply, shrugging at him. “Yeah,” Harry replied, “cold.” You smiled, not sure why, and then stepped outside, inspecting it without a real purpose in mind.

He stepped out too, and you gently pushed the door shut.

The lock clicked, a beat of silence, and then it swung open with a creak.

“Might be the lock,” Harry said, bending down to look at the little bit of metal against the side.

Lucky appeared as he fiddled with the mechanism, weaving through his legs, and he gave her scritches as he pushed the lock in and out a few times. “Looks fine,” he started, and then stopped when Lucky plopped down on top of his foot.

“Don’t know how she expects us to do any work like this,” Harry said with a grin, and you laughed, crouching next to him to pet her too. “She’s moral support,” you replied, and Harry raised a brow. “The most bothersome moral support ever.”

You shrugged. “The cutest most bothersome moral support ever.”

“If you say so,” Harry said, gently sliding her off his foot. He slid his hand over the door to its other side, where the hinges were, and then his face lit up. “Right, I have an idea.” He turned to you, looking excited, and asked, “Have a hammer?”

“Uhhh… probably?” You looked around the basement, then pushed open a closet door where a tool box poked out, and handed him a hammer. He nodded, glancing at the hinge again. “Er - how about a screwdriver?”

You gave it to him, and then watched over his shoulder as he gently tapped the pin out of the hinge in the middle of the door. He put it on the floor, raising the hammer over it, and you raised a brow at him. He looked up at you, grinning, and you couldn’t find it in you to tell him to stop. “I have a plan,” he told you.

“Sure, Styles.”

He scoffed, sitting back on his heels. “You know, your lack of faith is a bit disheartening.”

“I think you’re just stalling because you have no idea what you’re doing.”

He smiled, a challenge in his eyes, and then sat forward and hammered the pin, right in the middle. It bent, just slightly, and then he held it up, looking satisfied. He slid it back into the hinge, tapped it down, and worked on getting the other one out.

Once he’d gotten a curve in that one, he put it back and got the next. You watched in skeptical silence as he put that one back… and then stood up and dusted off his hands. “There you have it,” he announced.

“There’s no way that’s gonna work,” you said.

Harry just stepped back and pushed the door shut.

The lock clicked, a beat of silence, and then -

It stuck.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, pulling it out to close it again. It stuck, again, and you looked up at him happily. “Oh, wow, I can’t believe that worked! How did you even know how to do that?” Harry shrugged, fiddling with the door. “These old houses are practically identical. My bedroom door had the same problem.”

“Well, lucky me.”

He glanced at you, and held your gaze, just for a second, with a smile on his lips, and then his cheeks dusted pink. You felt heat rise on your own cheeks, realizing in the back of your mind that the whole door endeavor took a lot less time than you’d expected and now he’d probably leave.

He walked inside, making a grand gesture of holding the door open for you. “C’mon, then,” he said as you walked through and wracked your brain for ideas on how to keep him with you, “I need a tour.” You grinned, wondering if he could read your mind, and then nodded. You paused at the edge of the basement door and turned around.

“So,” you said, “this is the basement.”

“Enlightening.”

“The land of boxes,” you told him, and he smiled before following you out and up the steps to the living room. This was where you’d done the most work, clearing out the old grey furniture and replacing it with bright new pieces.

You put your arm out, gesturing widely to the room and spinning around. “And here’s the living room.” Harry followed you, making a slow circle and inspecting it. “I like the art,” he said, his eyes on the paintings you’d put on the wall.

“Thanks,” you said. “Me too.”

“Have you seen the gallery in town?” Harry asked as he followed you towards the kitchen. You shook your head, leaning against the counter. “No, I haven’t,” you answered, giving him a smile. “You’ll have to take me.”

Then, ignoring the butterflies his returning smile gave you, you went on, “And here’s the kitchen.” Lucky jumped up onto the counter next to you, and you grinned, petting her. “It’s her favorite room in the house.”

“I’m sure,” Harry laughed. He scratched her behind her ears, then walked around the room, his fingers tracing lightly on the white wooden table you’d chosen for the center of the room. “I like this better,” he said. “The Carlsons’ made the room look a lot smaller than it was.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I agree… Was too big. Made it cramped.” Harry’s gaze went out the back windows, which were floor to ceiling and looked out on the small woods in the backyard. There was a beat of silence, and then you walked over to stand next to him. “Were you… in here a lot?”

Harry shook his head. “Not really. I think they invited me when I first moved in… but that’s sort of it.” You hummed in response, and then asked, “Were you close with, uh - with the Carlsons?” Harry shrugged. “Eh. Not really. Y’know. Neighbor stuff.”

You bit your lip, smiling slightly. “Didja take them to the fair?” Your smile widened as Harry glanced at you, dimpling, and shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “But we didn’t share a cat, so I think the rules are a bit different.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mhm,” Harry hummed, looking back outside. “Yeah, there’s a bit more…” He tilted his head back and forth, searching for the right word. “Intimacy,” he finally seemed to decide, giving you a smile that tugged his lips into an almost-smirk. “We’re co-parenting a little one, after all. There’s got to be some… dinners involved.”

“Ah, yes, dinners,” you echoed solemnly. “To discuss parenting techniques.”

Harry nodded. “You get it.”

“She’s a bit spoiled, you know,” you said, watching her jump from the counter onto the table and sprawl out on the wood. “So we should probably get on those dinners.” Harry grinned. “Oh, yeah?” he asked, and you nodded. “Yeah. Definitely. Like, as soon as possible.”

His face lit up. “As soon as possible? As in, tonight?”

“Yeah,” you replied, a slow smile growing on your face. “As in tonight.”

Harry grinned back at you. “It’s a date.”

***

okay i KNOW this is weird sldkfj but it'll all make sense soon <333 hope you enjoyed !!!!!

and if you're liking this whole wrong-season-for-the-holiday thing, have no fear because there's a christmas fic coming soon!!!

masterlist | ask

#lol. never too soon to start celebrating halloween am i right !!!!!#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles oneshot #harry styles x you #halloween #halloween in august

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winifredsandersonsbitch · 4 years

Text

“Compromise”

Spike x Summers! Reader

Warnings: language, make out scene, implied sex, nothing more than PG-13

Description: You hate bullies. Always have. You and Spike get into it when he continues joking about murdering your friends.

“Don’t go.”

You’re tangled up on the crypt’s couch after a long day of you studying and Spike trying to distract you from studying, but now your homework’s finished and it’s time for you to meet the gang at the Bronze.

“You could come with me,” you say, pushing him off of you lightly and standing up. Your notes and textbooks are littered across the floor from some unconventional study methods that took place earlier in the day, and you kneel to scoop them into your backpack.

Spike spreads out on the couch in the space you’ve left behind. “No thanks, love. I can barely keep myself from biting them now, even with the bloody chip. If Buffy and Riley make eyes at each other one more time in my presence, I might have to go for the jugular.”

It’s a small comment, no worse than some of the other things he’s said about them, but it rubs you the wrong way. It’s not so much that you thought he would stop hating your friends once you got together as you thought he would respect you enough to not hate them so loudly.

Your textbook thumps to the floor as you straighten, scowling. “Listen, I know you don’t like the Scoobies, but they’re my friends. You don’t have to come with me, but you can’t talk about them like that.”

Spike blinks at you. Then a slow grin slithers across his face. His fingers wrap around your wrist, drawing you toward his lap. “Hey, don’t be jealous. You know that if I got to bite anyone, you’d be my first—”

You yank out of his grip and pull on the straps of your backpack. “It’s not funny. Everyone else I’ve dated has gotten along fine with my friends. I mean, sure, they’ve noticed that Buffy gets into a lot of fights and Willow is into some darker stuff, but they would never try to isolate me from them. They’d make an effort, because they knew it was important to me.”

“Well, I’m not like everyone else you’ve dated, am I?” He gestures to the crypt, to his incisors. “The Slayer and I are natural enemies, in case you’ve forgotten. And by extension, her friends are my enemies, too.”

“And by extension,” you mimic, drawing your vowels out too much in a clumsy attempt at his accent. “So am I.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” Your hands are planted on your hips now. You still have to change clothes and drop your backpack off at the house, so you’re definitely going to be late, but this conversation has been building up for awhile. You’re glad, in a sort of angry spiteful way, that it’s finally out in the open. “Because Buffy, Dawn, and I are blood. You can’t separate us. And you wanting to, that’s not love. That’s possession.”

He sits up at that, and you backpedal, taking two steps toward the door. You’re not afraid of him, but you are afraid of what he’s going to say. Of how you’ll respond. Blood is rushing to your head, making you rash. Despite the cold of the mausoleum, you’re red hot.

“So now you don’t think I love you?”

The words hang between you, thickening the air with heat and tension. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms and you can see his veins pop slightly when his fist clenches. He’s trying to keep calm, but it’s a struggle for him. It reminds you of just how quickly the tables could turn if he ever gets the chip out.

“You treat me like a man,” he says, after a beat too long of silence. “And I’m not talking about the little bit. I’m talking about them.” He spits the word out like it’s poisonous, like he needs to get the taste it leaves out of his mouth.

“Maybe they’d be more likely to treat you like a man if you stopped being such a—”

No. You can’t go there. You won’t come back from it.

You suck in a deep breath, square your shoulders.

“I don’t want to fight,” you say, even though you really, really do. Both of you have been itching for it. Things have been almost domestic lately, which would be nice if you hadn’t spent the past few years always waiting for the other shoe to drop. You don’t know what to do with comfortable. Neither does he. “I’m going to go meet the others at the Bronze. I’ll see you later.”

“Fine.” He picks the remote off the coffee table and flicks the TV on, drowns out your footsteps with a crime show that opens with gunshots, makes you flinch.

Outside the crypt, you pull a stake from your bag and begin your walk home. You’re not worried about anything attacking you. You’re angry enough to hold your own. But you’re also not stupid, and it would suck if your night out was interrupted by another kidnapping. After you stop by the house to slip into something less comfortable, you go straight for the club.

The building is crowded with sweaty teenagers. The band on stage tonight is a good one and the music is so loud that you can hear it thrumming in your chest, taste it in your mouth. You dance your way through the throng to your friends’ table. Xander, Anya, Willow, Tara, and Dawn are squished around a formica top, laughing and drinking and having such a good time that your bad mood dissipates. You pull up a stool and Xander wraps an arm over your shoulder.

“We were starting to think you weren’t coming,” Xander says. He’s got a fruity cocktail in front of him that makes you smile.

“I got a little held up. I’m going to get a drink. Does anyone else want anything?”

“I’ll take a margarita,” Dawn says hopefully, and you narrow your eyes until she revises. “A coke would be good.”

“Uh huh.”

You drape your jacket over your stool and stand back up. On your way to the bar, you spot Buffy and Riley on the dance floor. They look a little stiff, but you’re proud of them for making an effort. Things between them have been tense ever since Faith slept with him.

Thinking of Faith makes your need for a drink extra strong. You throw back a shot at the bar and then get another to go, almost forgetting to grab Dawn’s soda. The bartender is flirty tonight. He’s cute, clean-cut. You’ve seen him around before, always hard at work, making people laugh with his jokes and getting them to open up. If you didn’t have Spike, you’d take the number he slides your way. As it is, you shake your head and smile.

“Sorry,” you say, and he seems to understand, going back to mixing drinks and chatting up customers. It’s nice, to have someone take your no at face-value for once.

When you get back to the table, you’re surprised to see Spike in your spot. Even though his discomforted expression verges on constipated, he’s carrying on a conversation with Xander. Well, they’re bickering, but you know for a fact that Spike could be a lot more cutting if he wanted to.

You slide Dawn’s coke across to her and flick Xander’s ear when he insults your boyfriend.

“Hey!” He clasps his hand to the reddened cartilage and Anya rubs his shoulder soothingly, although the corners of her lips twitch.

The aren’t any chairs left and the table isn’t all that big anyway, so you stay standing, watching Spike’s face intently when your sister launches into a story about a friend of a friend at school who swears the girls’ bathroom is haunted. He’s nodding in all the right places, interjecting with “bullshit!” and “bloody hell!” to egg her on. He’s laying it on a bit thick, really, but it warms you better than the alcohol.

Dawn’s eating it up, though. She’s not often the center of attention for anything mundane. It’s always about her being the key, never about her as a person. Xander’s rolling his eyes at Spike’s sudden rapt attention, but you think it’s sweet.

When Tara makes a joke that no one else gets, Spike booms with laughter. When Willow goes off on a tangent about her computer class, he almost nods his head off. Finally, the group dissolves as Xander and Anya sneak off to have sex and Willow and Tara twirl on the dance floor.

You stay with Dawn, unwilling to leave her on her own with Glory around. Spike keeps the conversation flowing, but his questions about school are clumsy and his small talk is bumbling. It’s endearing for awhile, how little he understands today’s education system, but you turn the topic to generalities when Dawn kicks you under the table. She respects Spike, in her own strange way, and she’ll be embarrassed if he knows how poorly she’s doing.

Then it’s all favorite movies and gossip and dirty jokes, keeping the conversation light even as you have to shout to be heard over the music. You don’t even tell him off when he details one of his old world murders to Dawn, figuring that she’ll hear—and see—worse in her lifetime.

When Buffy and Riley come back to the table for a breather, the awkwardness creeps back in. After Spike flounders for the fourth time while trying to find a safe ground to land on, with Buffy and Riley both giving him the stink eye, you drag him off to a more secluded spot under the stairs.

“I promise I wasn’t trying to offend Sargeant Square,” Spike says, holding up his hands. “I thought everyone liked to bitch about work. I didn’t know he had been demoted.”

Instead of answering, you rise up on your tiptoes and press a kiss to his mouth. His hands cup your cheeks automatically, but before he can pull you into something more heated, you lean back.

“I want to say thank you, before I forget,” you say. You wrap your arms around his waist, slip a hand into his back pocket teasingly. “And I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t do it for them.” His fingers trail down your neck, tangle briefly in your hair, squeeze your curves. Everyone’s too drunk to notice or care what you’re doing, so you allow it. “I still don’t like them.”

“That’s okay. We’ll work our way up to that.” He rolls his eyes, but he’s not in a bad mood, so you push your luck with a cheeky smile. “I can’t be your only friend.”

He scoffs. “I have lots of friends. You’ve just— you’ve never met them, because they’re dangerous.”

This strikes you as funny and you kiss him again, longer this time. Being here under the stairs, buzzed, wearing an outfit that’s maybe slightly too revealing, finding a slice of peace in the middle of a war, it’s all so good. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but you’re so happy. You need to tell him something, but you don’t know if you have the words to convey exactly what you want. You try anyway.

“The bartender hit on me earlier.”

Spike grins unexpectedly. His teeth seem very sharp. You’re worried he might have eaten the man somehow when you weren’t looking when he says, “I saw.”

“I want you to know I didn’t—” You’re not drunk, certainly not drunk from only two drinks even though they were Bronze strength, but it takes you a minute. “Guys like that used to be my type. But I didn’t even think about it. I only want you.”

“That’s the only reason why I didn’t kill him. That and the chip.”

“That’s not funny,” you say, but he’s holding you in his arms and smiling down at you like he’s going to swallow you whole and it is, a little, because for the first time you’re sure he doesn’t mean it. He trusts you. And you trust him.

But that doesn’t mean you don’t protest when he leaves to go buy you another drink.

#spike x reader #spike #btvs season 5 #btvs x reader #btvs #buffy season 5 #buffy the vampire slayer #buffyverse #fanfiction

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fallatyourfeet · 4 years

Text

A Northern Light - Part 34

Summary: A multi-chapter Got x Reader series.

Jon leaves for Dragonstone, leaving (YN) behind to recover and Lord Baelish takes advantage of his absence, taking the opportunity to befriend the soon to be queen.

Series Warning: The series will roughly follow the TV storyline, so it’s not always going to be smooth sailing for the reader. Series Pairings: Robb Stark x Reader, Jon Snow x Reader

Word count: 4179

Warnings: A bit of fluff... some angst maybe? If you squint.

You can find the series masterlist of ‘A Northern Light’ linked to the masterlist in my bio.

Please feel free to drop me a message, comment or ask, your feedback would be very much appreciated.

A/N: Sorry I’m a bit later than I expected to be with this guys. I ended up getting called in to work for most of last week, which completely stuffed up my whole writing schedule.

Jon exited the crypts, his hands clenched into fists at his side, his feet punishing the ground beneath him, reeling with disbelief that Littlefinger felt himself important enough to disrupt him while he paid respects to his father. And not just interrupt... he had the gall to expect thanks for the role he played in the battle against Ramsay Bolton. And while it was true, they all would have died without the aid of the Knights of the Vale, Jon wasn't stupid enough to believe Baelish did it for anything other then his own benefit, otherwise he would have joined his knights on the battlefield. But one quick glance at the self-made Lord's pretty clothes and immaculate presentation, Jon doubted that his smooth manicured hands had even picked up a long sword, let alone used one.

For the most part, their conversation was a one sided affair, Baelish did all the talking, while Jon tried his hardest to ignore him. His words were completely wasted on Jon, he was never going to like the man, whether his men saved them from Ramsay Bolton or not. Baelish was a clever little man, with clever little sentences and Jon didn't trust him one little bit. So when Baelish mentioned Sansa and how much he loved her, the conversation came to a very rapid end. Wrapping a single hand around his throat, Jon shoved Baelish against the wall, squeezing and choking, not even the slightest bit remorseful for the fear it evoked in the man's eyes. "Touch my sister... and I'll kill you myself." And Jon meant every word he said... But it also meant more. It was a little dig. A little dig to let Baelish know that unlike him, he was a man willing to do his own dirty work, not needing to send in other men to do his bidding.

Making his way across the courtyard, Jon noticed Ser Davos on his horse, ready and waiting to leave for their trip to Dragonstone. Giving the onion knight a strained smile, Jon noticed him gesture towards his horse as he spoke, "You have one more well wisher waiting to send you off."

There standing beside his horse holding it's reigns, was not the stable hand, it was (YN), rugged up as if she were caught in a blizzard, her complexion still pale and drawn. Giving her a soft and yet concerned smile, he made his way to her, rubbing his hands up and down her sides, the thick fur she was wrapped in making the whole gesture rather pointless, but nonetheless sweet. "What are you doing? It's too cold for you to be out here. Why do you think I came to say goodbye in your chamber?"

(YN) breathed in the cold air as she looked at Jon, noticing his features were somewhat strained... annoyed even, and just for a moment she thought she was the cause. However, her eyes were then drawn to the crypts, where Jon had exited in a huff just a few moments ago, only to see Lord Baelish make his way out, looking somewhat ruffled and foolish and she knew then, that it wasn't her. Curious to know what happened, she first answered his question before asking her own, "I know... but I wanted to see you off... and I'll be right here when you return." Tilting her head to the side, she watched Littlefinger eye her attentively, before quickly disappearing from sight, "I see Lord Baelish has tried and failed to work his charms on you."

Without meaning it, an amused sound escaped Jon's lips, shaking his head as he pulled her closer... this woman didn't miss a trick. Kissing her head, he brushed the snow from her hair, "Aye... he tried, but it didn't work." Then moving his head back to look at her, he ran his gloved thumb across her cheek, "Be careful of him... he wants something."

Jon didn't know if she meant it, but she looked to Sansa and nodded her head knowingly, "A man like him always wants something... He has big ambitions and no morals." Her gaze touched by a soft smile, flickered across to her brother, who stood by Sansa's side, and added, "Let Lord Baelish try to get his 'something,' he won't get far."

Jon's gaze followed hers, to see Angus talking away with Sansa, whatever he was saying seemingly amusing by the smile spread across her cheeks. A warm affection touched Jon's heart at the sight of his soon to be brother by law. Angus was a good, honest and honourable man, who clearly adored Sansa and if they happened to be betrothed by the time he arrived back from Dragonstone, he would not be at all surprised and certainly not disappointed. And (YN) was right... even though neither her or Jon had said so outright, they both knew they were talking about Sansa... and what Littlefinger stood to gain having the eldest daughter of Ned Stark at his side, would make him a dangerous man indeed. Even if his hands never did any of their own dirty work. But both of them knew, Angus would not let Baelish get too close... nor would (YN) for that matter. And besides all that, Sansa herself wasn't stupid, she knew what sort of man Lord Baelish was, she had been burnt by him before... on more than one occasion. She had grown so much since leaving Winterfell all those years ago, she had no choice but too. No longer was she that naive young girl who treated him just like her mother did, she was a woman, full grown and wise from the unspeakable things that had been forced upon her... and Jon felt confident that she would not fall for his scheming ways again.

With a kiss to her forehead, he spoke, answering her statement, "With you and your brother around, I don't think he will."

Moving her lips to his, (YN) kissed him, her voice teasing, "I'm more worried about you... I hear the Targaryen queen is quite beautiful and rather bewitching." With soft fingertips, she played at the edges of his beard, "You may arrive back here, her loyal subject."

Another amusing sound escaped Jon's lips, though this time it was more of a snort, unable to imagine anything more ridiculous. In a few weeks he would return and they would finally exchange vows... making her a queen once more... and in his eyes, the only queen worth following. And the freefolk... they already thought of her as queen... their own queen. Not just because of words from old folklore and legend, but because she was honest and smart and compassionate, not to mention a formidable spearwife who understood what the folklore asked of her, and yet she did not shy away... she was courageous. Cupping his palm around her cheek, he chuckled, though his expression was flush with tenderness, "I am already the loyal subject of another... soon to be queen."

(YN) pretended otherwise, but Jon could tell by the subtle down turn of her gaze, that his words embarrassed her, covering it up with an exaggerated curtsy, "I think you're forgetting that you are the King... My King... and I am the loyal subject."

Grapping the edges of her furs, Jon bundled them together, covering her exposed neck from the icy morning air, smiling with affection. Resting his cheek against her head, he wrapped her tight within his arms and breathed in the sweet scent of her hair. He was going to miss that smell, miss the feeling of her leaning into him, the way her fingertips gripped at his waist, how just the closeness of her brought warmth to every finger and toe, even on the coldest of days. Reluctantly, he relinquished their embrace, his hands now holding her gaze to his and with a gentle kiss he rested his forehead against hers, "When I return and we become husband and wife, we will be each others loyal subjects... we will be King and Queen side by side." Then leaning back, he gently grabbed her elbows through the mass of furs, speaking one last time before mounting his horse and making his way out the gates, his voice laced with soft authority. "But right now you need to get inside... before you end up back in the Maester's turret... I don't want anything to postpone making you my wife when I return."

(YN) ran her hands across her face and sighed, taking one listless step after the other, sick and tired of always feeling so exhaustingly tired. The small trip outside to farewell Jon had been draining. Never had an illness left her as weak as this one. The sickness itself was long gone, and yet her days were annoyingly plagued by a constant need to rest. Even compared to the time Inan and Meya found her moments from death at the edge of their small farm, the recovery didn't take quite as long as this. Bringing her to the conclusion that fevers were 'unfortunately' her thing.

All in all, she was lucky, having grown up without too many ailments. Yet every time she did fall ill, it was always a fever and for one reason or another her body did not cope well with them. But this one had been by far the worst, hating that it was holding her back from accompanying Jon to Dragonstone and forced the postponement of their nuptials. With another small sigh, she reluctantly resided to the fact that there was nothing much she could do about it, other than rest... in the hopes it would speed up her recovery. So upon entering the hall, it was her intention to sit quietly in the corner and warm herself up with a steaming pot of tea. Sitting there, she happily sipped away watching everyone as they went about their daily chores, and besides the occasional smile or greeting, she was left in peace, until the ever insidious Lord Baelish came striding through the door. And with another sigh, she glanced to the gods and quietly prayed... wishing that one day she would be surrounded only by those she could love and trust.

After the battle, she was both glad and relieved to see the retreating from of Melisandre leaving through the gates of Winterfell. Banished from the north for the unspeakable and barbaric murder of sweet Lady Shireen, who's young innocent life was taken in the cruellest possible way. Stolen by Melisandre and her precious beloved flames, all in the name of her 'Lord of Light.' But as (YN) gladly farewelled one foe, another jumped right into their place.

Almost gliding across the hall, Lord Baelish tried his best to make eye contact, (YN) trying her hardest to avoid it, just as she had with Melisandre. But the rare moments she couldn't avoid the red woman's piercing stare left her unsettled. Those piercing eyes were always searching her own for something... searching for answers... answers that she was somehow intrinsically tied to. And if there was a hearth or fire burning close by, it was both confronting and completely unnerving. To see those flames dance uncontrollably... spark and flare with every movement she made, left Melisandre's searching eyes rattled and (YN) disappearing from her sight. The whole thing bothered Jon too. Not that either of them really spoke about it, but (YN) knew, she could tell how his eyes would flicker anxiously between her, the flames and the red woman, his eyes filled with questions. Yet without even speaking the words, they both knew the answers lied somewhere within the old folklore of their wildlings friends. Their stories, their myths, her sword and what it did within her hands... was all intrinsically tied to the red woman's dancing flames.

Yet, the unease that Lord Baelish ignited in (YN) was altogether different. It had nothing to do with flames and fire or piercing eyes burdened by unanswered questions. Nor did it arise from any one god or religion. (YN) knew immediately... after a single moment in his presence, that he worked on behalf of no god, no religion... no single soul alive or departed... no one but himself. And there was no question in her mind that he sunk to all kinds of deplorable means to gain his desires.

With a quiet breath, she looked down at the cup in her hands pretending not to see him, but she knew her attempts to avoid his gaze were fruitless and before long he was making his way towards her, his smile thick and cunning. Always cunning. "Lady (YN)... It's wonderful to see you up and about." Gesturing to the seat opposite her, he spoke again, "May I?"

(YN) fought from rolling her eyes at the man who had interrupted her peace and quiet, wanting to say no to his request, but all those years of childhood etiquette lessons were too deeply ingrained. Without speaking, she simply answered with a nod of her head, her smile somewhat forced as he sat down in front of her. Ignoring her less than warm reception, Lord Baelish spoke again, "I trust you're feeling much better and I'm pleased to finally have the chance to formally introduce myself."

Unable to hide her clipped tone, she answered, "There's no need for introductions, Lord Baelish... I know who you are."

Studying her features, Petyr noted how unimpressed she was to see him, her back stiffening somewhat defensively, her words even less welcoming. After saving her and her betrothed from the much bigger and stronger Bolton forces, he had expected a much warmer welcome, but these Northerners were proving hard to impress. Yet, as he looked across the table to Lady (YN)... it was he, who was impressed. Of course she was beautiful, not one story describing her beauty did her justice. She was exceptional. And yet, she was much more than just a stunning face. Even though they had barely shared a word together, he could see it from a mile away. Lady (YN) was intelligent and perceptive, capable and courageous... and no doubt a queen long before Robb Stark was ever declared a king. Now her soon to be husband had just been declared King himself... and she would once again carry a title which truly befitted her.

Ever persistent, Littlefinger smiled as if she had been joking, "Yes, Just as I know of you, my lady... Your beauty and reputation precedes you... And it seems for once that the stories are true." Leaning back in his chair, he added, "You will make a fitting queen, just as I'm sure you were before." His flattery fell flat, her gaze unimpressed... or was it annoyed? He wasn't sure, so he tried his luck again, "It seems as though, great things happen to the men who win your favour."

Pushing her cup of tea to the middle of the table, she stood up, her eyes wide and yet her expression short of patience, their conversation coming to an end far soon than he intended. Taking a deep breath she ran her hands down the front of her dress, her eyes holding his firmly, "Let me assure you, Lord Baelish... My husband was a great man... but what happened to him was far from great." Standing to his feet, Littlefinger's chair scrapped loudly across the ground, realising his usual clever use of words had failed him, his statement unthinkingly tactless. Raising his hands before him, he began forming an awkward apology, but (YN) quickly silenced him... she was not quite finished with him yet. "I don't know exactly what it is that you want... and while I'm grateful for the aid your men provided... which obliges us to welcome you here... it does not mean that I am obliged like you." Picking up the hem of her skirt, she added one final thing before excusing herself from the table, "I do not trust you Lord Baelish, and I do not like you... so please, stop trying to win my favour... and Sansa's... You are only wasting our time and your breath."

Littlefinger watched as (YN) walked from the hall without so much as a backwards glance, her head held high and her shoulders straight, unsure whether he should be offended, aggravated or enthralled. The way she regained herself after he stupidly dismissed the death of her husband... The way she silenced him with one subtle look of warning, her voice balanced by equal parts of composure, distaste and honesty, left him quietly impressed. This was an honourable northern woman... but unlike her honourable husband, parents and father by law, she wasn't stupid enough to expect the same from everyone in return... And all of this raised one very important question... If he could not gain her favour... what was he to do with her?

"You are the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa... Jon wanted you to have your parents chambers... It's yours." Feeling much better now, (YN) sat with Sansa out in the Godswood, where it was peaceful and quiet and free from any disturbances. No word had arrived from Jon, though she doubted he would have arrived at Dragonstone yet. The very thought annoying her to no end. If Daenerys' letter had of arrived just a couple of weeks later, she would have been well enough to travel with him.

Lifting her eyes from her footprints on the ground, Sansa held (YN)'s gaze, and in a rare appearance rays of gentle winter sun streamed through the branches, landing softly upon her features. Yet, its warmth was lost. Carried away by the chill that was now a permanent feature of every passing day. She was such a beautiful woman, and really had taken well to her role as Lady of Winterfell, both of them doing a rather exceptional job leading in Jon's absence. With a small shake of her head, Sansa responded, "But Jon is King now... and soon you will be Queen... it should be your chamber... not mine."

Now it was (YN) shaking her head, "It doesn't matter in what room we sleep, Jon sees Winterfell as yours... whether he is king or not... Winterfell belongs to you."

Sansa's porcelain cheeks reddened, her eyes softening as her gaze travelled to her boots hiding the small smile that enveloped her lips. "I know he does... But if we somehow survive the Night King and Cersei and whatever it is that Daenerys wants, Mountainbreak will become my home."

(YN) only smiled in return. It was a complicated situation, one that would remain complicated for probably sometime. Winterfell was the ancestral home of the Starks, the wardens of the North and in times long past Kings and Queens too. And although Jon was King, he was not a Stark by name, making Sansa, Winterfell's custodian. But then there was Bran, whose fate was currently unknown. If gods willing, he lived... he would be the only trueborn son left, making him the rightful heir. Yes... it was really quite complicated, but (YN) paid it no heed as she took in Sansa's complexion, still pink and flustered.

It was all really quite sweet. Both Angus and Sansa were smitten with each other from the moment they met, however Angus had felt the need to give her some space. After her less than perfect experiences with love, he didn't want to rush her into anything, not that love ever had anything to do with her previous matches. But the space was simply not needed. Sansa immediately felt comfortable and safe within his company, if not a little flustered and shy and the way (YN) saw it, they had both been wasting valuable time tip toeing around their obvious feelings. Then out of the blue, just a few days earlier, after months of tip toeing and sweet awkward moments, Angus jumped right in, head first, and asked for her hand in marriage. All without a single moment of courting and the pair of them were both happier than she had ever seen them.

There was one person quite unhappy with the union though, and it didn't take much guessing who. Lord Baelish. In the past few days he tried every trick and scheme to advise Sansa against the match... namely the fact that a lady with a last name such as hers should pair with someone much more prestigious... or at the very least someone who held a wealth of land and forces. No doubt meaning a man not unlike himself. Sansa quite skilfully took it in her stride though, feigning ignorance to his less than subtle hints, simply stating, 'Such suitable matches have done me no favours in the past... I am in no hurry to try one again.' But as much as the self made lord tried to use his clever words and manipulative ways on Sansa, he never dared say a thing to Angus, in fact, he seemed rather intimidated by the Lord of Mountainbreak... scared even. Maybe it was the way he ominously glared at Petyr whenever they shared the same vicinity... but more than likely it had something to do with the forceful and rather one sided conversation the two men had about a week before the King left for Dragonstone.

It played out in much the same way as the conversation had down in the crypts with Jon. Angus bailed Petyr up against a wall in a quiet corner of the courtyard, his broad strong hand wrapped around the lords throat, pushing and squeezing it against the cold stone bricks. With all the air trapped in his chest, unable to escape, Petyr could do nothing more than wait for Angus to finish his threatening words and hope that he was still breathing at the end of it. "You're a clever man Lord Baelish... You knew what you were doing when you handed over Sansa to that Bolton monster... that makes you a monster too." Tightening his grip around his throat, Angus was not quite done, "If I see you speaking to her... or even looking at her... or my sister... you will not leave here alive."

With the mention of her childhood home, (YN) smiled softly, wishing she was there right now. What she wouldn't give to be riding with Jon to the heart tree, picking the fruit from it's surrounding trees or to be baking something in the Mountainbreak kitchens. Lost in thought, she was soon distracted by heavy boots crunching through the snow towards them. Lifting her gaze towards the sound, she saw her brother rushing towards them, his features urgent, excited and shocked all at once. Immediately, both women jumped to their feet, their questions spilling from their lips before Angus even reached them. Stopping before them, he was breathless, his eyes locked to Sansa's, "In the courtyard... it's your brother Bran, his back."

Sansa froze, her expression pale with shock, her voice a shaky whisper, "Are you sure?"

Having never met Bran before, Angus opened his arms before him, lifting his shoulders a little in a gesture that said he couldn't be sure, "I wouldn't know Sansa, but Lord Manderly believes it's him."

Lifting her skirt, Sansa began walking, each step a little faster than the one before. Holding her breath tight in her chest, she tried to supress the hope she felt bubbling to life around her body, not wanting to feel the debilitating defeat should it turn out not to be him. Flooding through the gates of the Godswood, Sansa came to an abrupt standstill, her eyes... her body, incapacitated at the sight of Bran sitting atop of a cart, his motionless legs covered in furs and a woman standing protectively beside him. Just a moment later, both (YN) and Angus were behind her, (YN)'s hand gently nudging her shoulder, "It's him... Sansa, it's Bran."

The sound of (YN)'s voice broke her from her stillness, her feet once again speeding up with every step, any faster and she would have been running. Stopping before Bran, she stared at him with quivering eyes and lips, barely able to believe he was there, too overwhelmed to register the detached emotion across his features or the monotone voice in which he spoke, "Hello Sansa."

Throwing herself forward, she enveloped him in a tight embrace, her emotion leaving her chest in ragged breaths, yet Bran did not reciprocate the gesture. (YN) could see the young boy she remembered was now fully grown... fully grown and completely changed. And not in the same way she had changed or his sister had changed... he was different in every way. Detached from his surroundings, yet somehow completely aware and knowing. Taking a single step towards the cart, (YN) smiled softly at the woman beside him, the movement enough to bring her to Bran's attention. For a long quiet moment he studied her face, his eyes holding no sentiment, his words strangely intuitive, leaving her silent. "(YN)... you look well... It's good to see you're feeling better."

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