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reidyoulikeabook · 3 years

Text

Invisible String

Ship: Fem! Reader x Spencer Reid

Warnings: None, this is just fluff.

Word count: 3.2k

Summary: You and Spencer Reid don’t know it, but you’ve almost met quite a few times. What happens when you do?

A/N: This is potentially a bit on the wrong side of the cheesy line, but I was listening to invisible string by Taylor Swift and couldn’t get this idea out of my head. Pls bare in mind I’m from the UK and my only understanding of the US college system is from Google searches, so pls be forgiving of any misunderstandings about that.

November 6th, 2007

Dr. Spencer Reid. As you sat, thumbing through the article he’d written about the formation of ionic compounds in a chemical whose name you could not for the life of you spell or pronounce, you couldn’t help but resent the man.

Sure, the paper was very well-written and as cohesive as possible given the complex subject matter. But Dr. Spencer Reid, whoever he was, was the current source of your resentment at selecting chemistry to make up your science credit. Highlighting the name of a substance you’d have to look up later, you sighed. It was getting late but you had to hand in a critical summary of the paper on Friday.

It didn’t help that Dr. Reid was: a) a triple doctorate holder by the age of 22, or b) that your chemistry lecturer was none other than his old chemistry lecturer from Caltech and practically glowed with pride whenever he got to bring him up.

You chew on the end of your pen, having now distracted yourself from the notes. Not that you were particularly focused anyway.

In another life, maybe you’d have been a budding chemist who could describe an ionic lattice off rote. In this one, however, you’d just have to settle for slogging through the list of chemical processes and hoping you understood it well enough to please Dr. Reid’s biggest fan.

***

April 16th, 2008

Spencer hated flaking on commitments. It caused him a great deal of anxiety, the feeling of disappointing someone. He didn’t have much choice in this circumstance though.

Diana had taken ill over the last weekend. Nothing serious, some stomach bug or other. She’d become severely dehydated though, and had been hospitalised as a precautionary measure. Truth be told, he might not have gone if she hadn’t caught him on the phone. He was already feeling guilty for not having visited since Christmas. He wrote her letters everyday, yet still felt like he was neglecting his duties as a son. Rubbing his hands over his face, he lets out a deep sigh. Then takes out his laptop, to send another email.

Dear. Dr Abraham

I sincerely apologise again for my last minute cancellation. Excluding any unforeseen circumstances, myself and SSA Hotchner will be available to present the lecture on May 12th.

Yours sincerely,

Dr. Spencer Reid.

***

May 12th, 2008

Considering this was your third year on campus, you sure were bad at finding your way around. In your defence, they were doing maintenance in one of the main buildings, meaning that lectures got shuffled around and relocated. You probably had a higher change of attending the right lecture by accident than on purpose.

It doesn’t help that you’re running a little late this morning. You rush into Room 203. A lot of the seats are taken, you have to meander your way past quite a few people until you end up sat almost directly in the middle. Only moments before the lecture starts.

“I’m SSA Hotchner, and this is SSA Reid. We’re members of the BAU which is based at FBI quarters in Quantico. Today, we’ll be talking to you about profiling.”

This is not your forensic linguistics lecture.

Panic hits you, hot in your gut. Scanning the room anxiously, you suddenly become conscious that you’re drawing attention to yourself when you feel the eyes of the man who is not SSA Hotchner on you. Fuck.

There’s no way for you to escape now, not without disturbing half the lecture hall.

So you sit back in your seat, resigning yourself to sit awkwardly in the lecture you’re not supposed to be in and hoping nobody notices.

But then, it’s really interesting, actually. The work that Dr. Reid does sounds similar to work you’ve done in forensic linguistics, analysing patterns of speech and minor phrase formations that can give things away about the perpetrator. By the end of the seminar, you’re sat leaning forward. Enraptured by almost every word coming out of their mouths.

It seems to be the general mood: everyone is enamoured. People are clammering to speak to them at the end. After a brief inner battle, myou decide that you should talk to them too.

What’s the harm?

You’ve decided that you’ll speak to Dr. Reid, since he seems to share more of a field focus. However, as you’re heading down, you spot him. Dr Adams, your chemistry lecturer from last year. Oh shit, it’s that Dr. Reid.

Speaking to SSA Hotchner will just have to do instead.

----

“I’ve been majoring in forensic linguistics and criminal psychology,” You tell him, “Do you think ... I mean, I know it’s a pretty exclusive team to get on to. But is that the kind of thing that could maybe get me there one day?”

Hotchner nods, “Forensic linguistics is something that comes in very useful in the investigative aspects of cases. The FBI is always looking for new angles and perspectives, those are both good subjects to study if you were thinking of signing up to the academy.”

"Thank you, Agent Hotchner,” You say, suddenly a little bashful as you notice the queue of people lingering behind you, “That was a really interesting lecture. It’s definitely something I’ll think about.”

“You should talk to Dr. Reid if you have a particular interest in the linguistic aspect of profiling. He’s more specialised in that area than I am. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to discuss any research you’re conducting at the moment and suggest materials that might be helpful in furthering your understanding of the area.”

“Thank you,” You smile, and he nods at you again.

Stepping away from Agent Hotchner, you look to your right. Dr. Reid is still engaged deeply in conversation with Dr. Adams. You glance at your watch. There was time before your next class, you supposed, so you could wait. It couldn’t hurt to find out more, could it? It wasn‘t like you were getting your hopes up or anything.

It’s then that you feel a pair of arms around your waist, a familiar scent of cologne.

“Hey!” You whip around to see your boyfriend, grinning widely.

“Hey,” You reply, “How’d you find me?”

“I was walking past when I saw you talking to that FBI agent. Seriously, FBI?” He asks, with a disapproving quirk of his eyebrow, “You want to grab a coffee before Psych?”

You want to say no. But he’s got his hand on the small of your back, leading you out of the room before you even get a chance to reply. You glance back over your shoulder, making eye contact with Dr. Reid for all of two seconds before you’re swept away.

“Seriously though babe, FBI?”

Unsurpisingly, you don’t mention your potential change in career path to him.

***

March 8th, 2009

“Come in,” Hotch calls. He looks up from the paperwork on his desk to see Spencer entering the room, clutching a report in his hand.

“That last case we were on. I was doing some more research, just for future reference about linguistic patterns. Have you read this?” He asks, sliding a copy of your paper across the desk.

Hotch gives it a cursary look over, nodding, “Yes. It’s interesting. She’s signed up as an NAT. I believe I actually spoke to her at one of our lectures last year.”

"Her work is really impressive for somebody whose only studied this at a master level.”

Hotch almost smiles, “Yes. That’s exactly why I’ve recommended to the bureau that she signs up for profiling classes. Her work shows a lot of promise. They’re sending over a copy of her completed thesis, if you’d like to read it.”

“Yeah, I’d like that, thank you,” Spencer says, struggling to conceal the smile playing on the corner of his lips.

“I’ll email it to you as soon as I receive it.”

Spencer nods, smiling properly to himself as he leaves the room. It wasn’t unusual, exactly, for him to share new research that was relevant to cases. It was important that they all kept themselves fresh and acquainted with new theories about the field. Hotch, however, didn’t miss the excited way Spencer had presented it to him. Talking about how impressive you were, as if to subtly hint. He thinks it’s quite typical, actually, that Spencer could take such an interest in someone he only knew via an essay.

Although Spencer’s response does get Hotch to send a follow-up email, inquiring about whether you’d agreed to the classes. If Spencer was this impressed with your work, it must be good.

***

June 1st, 2009

The Metro that morning is packed. It doesn’t help that you’ve not been living here long, and don’t exactly know the route from your flat to the station off by heart yet.

You'd also had to make a detour to the post office. Your, firmly ex, boyfriend had mailed over the last of your things. Really, it was good riddance. His hounding you about your choice in job had only worsened. The relationship had been hanging on by a thread long before you’d moved away last month. You were more than a little grateful that it was finally over, that you could draw a line under it all and focus on your career.

Unfortunately, that hadn’t stopped you having a little cry to yourself on the way over.

Rushing, you make it onto the Metro just as the doors are about to close, falling against the railing on the left side. You grip onto it for dear life.

On the other side of the carriage, Spencer notices someone hurrying for the train. He had been buried deep in the paper he's reading, but the bustle had pulled his attention. Your back is to him, and there’s a scarf at your feet. He wants to say something, to try and get your attention, but he can’t from where he is.

“Miss, I think you’ve dropped something,” The woman you’re standing in front of says, gesturing to the scarf pooled at your feet.

You meet her eyes, sniffling slightly, “Thank you.”

Spencer watches as you pick it up, back still to him. Crisis averted, he turns his attention back to what he's reading: the published copy of your thesis Hotch had emailed him last week.

***

September 2nd, 2009

"This is SSA ____, the newest member of our team. She’s recently graduated from the academy and has an excellent knowledge of linguistics that the bureau feels will be a great advantage to this team. She’s had her induction and now will be joining the team on a probationary basis. She’ll be spending a little time with each of you in between cases to make sure she forms well-rounded knowledge of all aspects of what we do.”

It’s a little overwhelming, having everybody’s eyes on you.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Emily is the first over, offering her hand for you to shake.

“You too, it’s really nice to meet all of you,” You say, shaking hands in turn with her, Morgan, Rossi, J.J, and Garcia.

“Hi,” Spencer calls from behind you.

You turn around to face him. You remember what Hotch had mentioned to you about him being a bit of a germaphobe, so you keep your hand by your side.

“Hi,” You say, “Dr. Reid, right?”

“You can call me Spencer,” He says, a little bashful, “I read your thesis, the study about you did about the construction of passive clauses as an indicator of guilt in adolescent offenders. It was fascinating.”

You feel yourself getting a little warm under his gaze, “Thank you. I'm surprised you’re even aware it existed.”

Hotch interrupts then, “Reid, do you want to sit with ____ while she goes over the case file? It’d be useful if you could go over how you’d go about constructing a linguistic profile.”

That’s how you end up spending much of your first day: with Spencer, huddled up over case files as he explains his profile-building process to you. Spencer’s an incredible teacher, you think. He explains his thought process without ever being condescending, leaving little gaps for you to answer.

You’re incredible, Spencer thinks. You seem to grasp exactly what he’s saying, filling in the gaps based on the clues that are actually in front of you, not letting yourself be guided too much by bias.

***

October 29th, 2009

Spencer loves everyone at the BAU. They’re all the family he never had, and he has relatively good friendships with all of them. Just, they aren’t quite the same as they are with you.

He struggles to put his finger on it, exactly. It’s a unique relationship. He shares very familial bonds with a lot of them: he and Morgan are brotherly, Rossi is fatherly, Garcia’s somewhat like an overexcited little sister.

The friendship he has with you is special. You always listen to him, even as he rambles on about inane things that anybody else would tell him to shut up about. In fact, sometimes about the exact things that they do tell him to shut up about. Just last week, he was rambling on about Star Trek when Morgan told him, not altogether unkindly, to “give it a rest, kid.”

“What was that you were saying?” You’d asked, sidling up to him, “I’ve never watched Star Trek but I thought the quote was beam me up Scotty.”

He’d looked at you, considering you for a moment, “You don’t have to-”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know Spence. You think I’d ask for a 15 minute lecture on Star Trek if I wasn’t interested in it?”

A warm feeling flooded his chest. The look on your face was so genuine, and you’d perched on the edge of his desk as he gesticulated, getting deep into the lore and how the misconception had come about. He still didn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, until he got to the end of his spiel. And then you asked him a question. You asked him a question to make sure you understood what he was talking about. You were listening the whole time, and you genuinely cared about the point he was making.

It's then that he realises, it was hard to pinpoint because it wasn’t friendship. He likes you. Shit.

***

November 2nd, 2009

You like everybody at the BAU. They’re all quite patient with you, really, happy to walk you through how they do things. Morgan’s taught you quite a bit about the tactical side of things already, and Rossi has been working with you on your interrogation techniques. Emily’s generally just a great mentor, always happy to listen and support however she can. She’s more experienced, but still relatively new to the team too, so you feel like there’s a certain understanding between you.

However, you’d definitely be lying if you said the person you hadn’t learnt the most from, or spent the most time with, was Spencer.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed by the rest of the team, either. You seemed to gravitate towards one another, forever sitting side-by-side on the plane. Sharing a line of thinking that usually led to devolved rambling, and scribbling, until you came up with something coherent.

It isn’t until November 2nd that you realise you have feelings for him.

You’re sitting at your desk, filling out a case report that Emily had promised to go over with you before she left for lunch.

“Hey,” Spencer’s familiar soothing voice comes, as he sidles up to you, “I got you something.”

Looking up, you notice the coffee cup in his right hand, “You are my caffeine lifesaver.”

He hands it to you, smiling a little nervously, “It’s actually not that.”

“Oh?”

His other hand is tucked behind his back, and he pulls it foward towards you, brandishing a red sweatshirt.

“I know you uh, left your red sweater behind at the hotel on the last case. And I know it was your favourite one, and I was shopping yesterday and I saw this and...” He trails off, embarassed, “It’s not the exact same, but it’s the same kind. I just thought you might like it.”

You swallow, hard, “Spencer that’s so sweet. C-Can I hug you?”

He nods. Standing up from your desk, you wrap your arms around his frame.

“That was so thoughtful.”

He squeezes you a little, really leaning into the hug, his face pressing against your shoulder. His tousled hair tickles your nose a little and you smile, clinging onto him, relishing in the feeling of safety and warmth.

It hits you then. When you realise you don’t want to let go. When you realise he makes you feel fuzzy. Loved. Cared for in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. Eventually, you have to let him go, and it’s in a daze that you return to your desk. You’re so concentrated on your overwhelming realisation, you don’t realise how reluctant he is to let you leave his embrace.

***

December 22nd, 2009

Driving Spencer home from the office was really just an excuse to get some time alone with him. You’d said something about the Metro being busy, one of the services being cancelled. He hadn’t factchecked you on that.

The BAU had tentative plans for boxing day, with the caveat being that no emergent cases arrived in the meantime. It was only really four days you wouldn’t see him, but that was longer than you’d ever gone without seeing him in all the time you’d known him. You worked together everyday, and it was unusual for you to go a full weekend without seeing each other. Recently, you’d got into the habit of going out for Sunday brunch together.

Pulling up outside his house, you hear him sigh.

“I know it’s only four days, but I’ll miss you.”

Smiling, you turn to him, “I’ll miss you too.”

Something in you changes then. He’s looking at you. You may be relatively new to profiling but you can see something behind his eyes, feel the charge of unsaid words electrifying the air.

“Can I hug you?” He asks.

“You can always hug me,” You reply, undoing your seatbelt and opening your arms for him.

He embraces you the way he always has: tightly. Like he doesn’t want to let go, couldn’t imagine ever letting you go. His face nuzzles to the crook of your neck, and then you feel his thumb brush your chin. Tilting your head down.

You exchange a look. His eyes flicker from your eyes, to your lips, and back. You nod your head, just slightly.

He kisses you then. Tender. You melt into one another, lips moving quickly as you drink one another in. Kissing each other breathless, your fingers intertwine in his hair and his hand comes up to cup your cheek. Nothing has ever felt so right.

***

June 10th, 2011

Neither of you have ever really believed in fate. It’s hard to - especially in your line of work - to want to interpret the workings of the universe as deliberate. Maybe you’d think a little differently though, if you knew about all the near-misses. All the times you could have met. But fate knew better. She waited until you were ready.

And as you exchange vows, promising each other your forever, you both know you couldn’t possibly deny that this was meant to be.

------

Taglists: @takeyourleap-of-faith @sassiest-politician

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#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #imagine spencer reid #criminal minds x you #imagine criminal minds #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagines #pls like this it took me so long

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kyberphilosopher · 3 years

Text

Amychesis

Word Count: 2898 Requested? No. Note: Should be read as the same reader from “Smile”.

Warnings: Sexual overtones, one particularly blurry but smutty bit, disturbing themes.

“Amychesis” (n.) (AM-i-KEE-sis) – The involuntary act of scratching or clawing your partner in the heat of passion.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

A hiss of pain slips from between your lips like a moan, but the way your body folds in on itself shows the true nature of the noise.

Your moist palm hits the ground, knee soon to follow. As your back curves over into a hunch, the pain begins again- a burning, sharp, sting over and over again. It’s as if you’d been whipped. Lashed. Chained down as you twist up and down in such a way that leaves your back aching. At the time, you’d thought only of how the pain would be worth it. Even how nice that pain felt. Though now you weren’t so sure.

Shit, your brain whispers. How are we supposed to bathe like this?

It doesn’t really matter, another part says. You have to. It’s been too long.

If you start falling into the same habit as your lover, you’ll never know the scent of relative cleanliness again. It’s time to bathe.

But your back. How could you have let him do this to you?

The water ahead of you hurtles from the faucet and down into the tub, splashing around like multiple waves slapping up and down. Churning over each other, making you think of how he’d described the ocean to you. Bouts of steam are emerging, almost so soft you can’t make it out. It’s rare that the water actually gets hot like this. It’s usually lukewarm, but almost never hot. But will this help, or worsen the wounds on your back?

Worsen. You can picture the soap seeping into your skin now. And then there was the way that you would have to twist around to reach those parts.

“Shit,” you hiss again.

Finally, you force your hand from the floor to clasp against the side of the tub. You’ve enough strength to pull yourself up somewhat, but not to a full standing position. There’s a few steps, pitter patters of your bare feet slapping on the wet floor, and then you’re rolling over the side and falling into the steam both with and without grace.

You hadn’t been wrong about your wounds. The stinging sensations intensify like it’s boiling. And though you know it’s for the best and will surely help fight off any chance of infection, you grit your teeth to keep from yelling out a string of curses.

As you reach the bottom of the tub, a soreness sparks through your body. It blooms through your skin from your ass, all the way up to your flaming spine, causing your lips to fall open briefly before being trapped under your teeth sharply.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The pain subsides somewhat, the only after more than thirty seconds at least. Boiling, heated water laps against your skin, the sting of nails washing away slowly but surely. It still hurts but it’s not so bad now, and you wonder if this is something you should bring up to him.

But then what would he say? Would he even say a thing at all? Or would he just stare at you with his still eyes, waiting on you to come around to the truth of it?

“I’m sorry,” he probably wouldn’t say. “But you looked like you were enjoying it.”

A shiver runs over your back despite the steam rising up around you. Your knees come against your chest as the water sloshes, arms wrapping around for a sense of security.

You were enjoying it. Regret now wouldn’t change the fact you knew it was worth it, and the memory on its own was enough to make your thighs vibrate and shake.

God damn it, Eren. You were right. You bastard.

As God’s impeccable timing proves true, the door to the washroom creaks open. You don’t move anything but your orbs, which flash momentarily with the orange glare from the light above. You see his shoes, hear them scuff against the floor a few times before you look back to the water.

Eren’s feet stop in front of the chamber pot. His knees bend until they’re totally in the sitting position in line with a long, wooden bench attached to the wall. There’s a little huff from the wood under his weight, but then the only noise is that of water droplets peeling away from your skin and popping against the surface below.

He’s looking at you- that you know for certain. Your profile, hair, the bend of your spine and the pink and red marks across it. Marks that remain his doing. He hadn’t said anything about it before, but now there seems to be nothing else on you to look at.

You scratched me. He scratched you. You can’t tell if it was on purpose or not, if he even enjoyed it. No- did you even enjoy it? You couldn’t have if you’re feeling this way now. But the way the hot water slips over the raw, thin gashes- the burns, the piercing glow in your ‘lovers’ eyes...

What’s wrong with you?

If you’re looking for comfort, Eren isn’t giving it to you. He’s silent. His eyes are silent, still. They glow in the warm candlelight that floods the room in a dull, emerald sheen. Strings of dark brown hair hang down in thin wisps- over his eyes and shoulders. It’s gotten so long compared to your cadet years. Eren’s changed. At one point, you found him a tad annoying. Now you wonder if you’d rather take annoyance over harmful sex.

You turn your eyes back to the water. Old dirt is peeling from your skin like dust in it, but the shine in the water doesn’t stop for a second.

One hand swishes around under the surface. Little tiny waves churn up and swim around on their own. For the splittest of seconds, you forget about the man in the room with the searing eyes. It doesn’t even feel like there’s anything wrong with your back, or your ass, or the fingerprints you’re just now registering on the soft insides of your thighs. And then you frown, because you remember.

Has Jaeger always been this rough with you? If so, how could you have blocked it out? Is something wrong with you? Or is something wrong with him? What if it’s both? What are both of you capable of?

Isn’t it worse if you liked it?

His fingers were hard. They were nimble and strong, and at first they went for your throat. One hand pushing you down and away by your hip, the other squeezing on either side of your neck. Alright. Standard. So at what point did those sharp, dirty nails start raking your skin up and down?

It was when Eren flipped you around. You crane your neck over your shoulder best you could to get a glimpse of his face. It was handsome, with his dark hair pulled back and his eyes squinting somewhat. For whatever reason, you could’ve sworn you saw the hot breath exit his mouth as if it were the winter.

There was so much going on in the next few seconds, there was no possible way you could’ve felt what he was doing. It wasn’t your fault.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

At first, it was not intentional.

While his pelvis snapped forward and down steeply, his hands wandered down your back. They ghosted along your spine quite a few times- up and down, wondering about all the spinal fluid inside. The thought made Eren go soft for an instant, which sparked embarrassment. The embarrassment sparked anger. His hips snapped harder again to overcompensate- though you hadn’t even realized what for. The only thing your partner heard from you was the choked, sharp breath of a quick pain.

His hand slips. A nail scrapes over your skin on the right of your back.

“Hmph.”

And then it starts. The blood rushes through your veins hotly. Your head feels full, hips feel full- everything feels full. Full, and hot, and angry. Everything inside you feels just like Eren Jaeger.

Wetness slips from between your lips and onto the rough fabric below you. Your shoulder blades are rolling back and forth, right foot twitching with every movement. In your ears, your heartbeat starts to beat through like a drum. It pounds against your chest, every so often lining up exactly with the force pumping in and out of you. Pumping against you.

His eyes widen. There could be more redness than this... this one, singular, narrow line. It’s beading slowly. Those tiny little... tiny little scarlet pearls. He’s seen them a million times before in titans and in people. But now, inside your tight form, he’s never wanted to see it more.

Eren lets both hands grip at your waist, forcing it down even further. You seem satisfied. Your eyes are rolling back without realizing it. You’re pushing against him while losing strength at the same time. Your skin is getting patchy with marks and sweat, and all the little moist spots on the mattress from your spit.

All ten nails drag down on your skin at the same time. Some deeper than others, quicker than others. He does it again with his left hand, higher on your back. Then with his right on the adjacent side. Eren can practically feel the burn from them himself, but you show no signs of pain whatsoever. Has he gone too hard and killed you? No, no. So long as spit is running out of your mouth, you’re alive.

Yes, you realize, staring down into the water. I liked it. I liked him clawing at me.

Your body tenses in realization.

I liked it when Eren hurt me with his hands.

“Does it hurt?”

Your eyes snap over to your partner. He hasn’t moved an inch- shoulders hunched over, thin hairs sprawled flowingly down his neck and collarbones. “The water?”

You turn back towards the murk. You liked it, yes. But something inside you tells you not to forgive him. And then you’re left wondering what there even is to forgive.

“Yes,” you tell him.

Silence.

“I could get an infection.”

That’s a true statement. You can’t reach your hands all the way around your side enough to clean those wounds.

“How would you get an infection from the hot water?”

Oh.

Eren wasn’t talking about your injuries at all. He wasn’t talking about those raspy, pink, red markings up and down your back. Trailing close to your ribs, little purple bruises in the shape of fingers. Yellow and green patches from... something he can’t name.

“I don’t know,” you decide to reply after a minute, so quiet and hoarse it strains your partner’s ear to try and hear. “It hurts.”

You love him, though. You’ve loved him for years. Even when he’d help you back in the kitchen fingering you to the point of choking, you loved him. When he sat with you, told you he’d seen how you’d come to die. But what he accomplished here wasn’t the same as giving you a hickey, or even an unintentional bruise. Eren meant to claw you. He knew how badly this water would sting at your skin after. And what about stretching your back to put on clothes? Sleeping in the position you like? Every little thing is going to make your nerves feel like they’re on fire now.

And all you have to say for it is that you liked it?

You hear a shuffling movement from beside you. You don’t dare look over. Feeling the air shift is enough for you to understand what’s going on.

Your lover leaves the room. The wooden door clicks closed behind him. He comes back in a few minutes.

The floorboards, moist from little specklings of water jumping up when you’d slipped in the tub, creak underneath his weight. It gets louder and louder, heavier and heavier until it stops right beside you.

If you look at him again... will you be sick?

You don’t get sick at all. You hold eye contact with your lover, and you’re relieved. Getting to see him, feel him, knowing he’s been coming all the way out here all for you. Looking into those muted emerald eyes now, in the yellow glow of the candles all around, you know whatever he’s feeling now is genuine, and when was the last time you were able to say that?

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

The water stings again against the scratches, the clawings. The soap feels like acid. Again, Eren’s hands are both rough and gentle at the same time. They trail up and down along your spine, over the marks he’d given you, now covered in soap and antibiotics that he smears all over. Occasionally, his right palm presses against your shoulder to hold it in place, meticulously cleaning at the harm he’d given you.

“Ow,” you mutter once, numbly.

“I won’t do this again,” you hear Eren speak from behind you. A ridiculous thing to say, considering the both of you are smart enough to understand that’s not even close to true.

Not only will Eren Jaeger do this- scratch at you during sex- again, he’ll do it faster. Deeper, more intensely. He knows you’ll not only get used to it, but soon you’ll need it. He could see it on your face right before he pushed it down into the dirty fabric on the bed. He could hear it when you’d let out that quiet little hiss of a moan getting into this very bath. Furthermore, he knows that you know.

“Why?” you ask, looking at his distorted reflected through the tiles you face. You see one of his eyes twitch in- what? Anger? Frustration? Pure uninterrupted love?

Eren decides to lie. “I’m going away soon.”

“You’ll be back.”

A stinging sensation spreads along your spine. Nerves in shock, exploding vertically and all at once. It feels hot, and then cold. And finally, within only a few seconds, your mouth still hanging open in unpreparedness, you feel something slow begin to run down your back.

Your lovers thumb creeps near the area. You feel it run over whatevers slipping down your skin like sweat would, then roll in messy circles. Five, six, seven laps so far. Then over to your left side, and all the way back to your right.

“I’ll be back,” Eren says, lowly.

He scratched you. He put his longest nail against your skin and pressed. It dragged right over your spine- not deep enough to do real damage, but enough to leave a scar. At once, blood surfaced like rose petals, racing down for the water. Now he stares at your back all covered in blood that he’s washed all over.

Facing away from him is you, who’s too embarrassed to let him know the action has made you suck your bottom lip in between your teeth. It’s like Eren’s marking you. And then, once it’s completely healed, there’s going to be a scar. You’ll have new skin over an old wound, and it’ll be like you can finally have him as a part of you until you die.

“Stay still.”

He watches the blood disappear in the water, making the red gash look pink and pale. “I love you,” he tells you. And even though it sounds as apathetic as everything else he’s said recently, you know it’s true.

“Love you too,” you whisper hoarsely.

When his fingers leave your skin completely, you twist around and put your hands over the side of the bath to watch him. Though he’s standing and fixing his shirt, Eren’s eyes are already on you, dancing with something you’ve seen before but never named. “You know I love you, don’t you?” you question.

“Yes.”

He takes a roll of gauze medical wraps from his pocket. It unravels in his rough, scarred palms. You watch him watch you, all while beginning to wrap it over his left eye rather calmly.

You look away, coming face to face with the now bloody water. “Do something to your leg too. You can use the crutch in the barn.”

“Thank you.”

When you look back to Eren, of course he’s beat you to it. Looking at you with only one eye which seems to glow dangerously, you’re satisfied to realize he’s gone back to not having a single clue what you’re thinking. Only in your moments of weakness is he able to be omniscient with you.

“I’ll free you,” Eren promises.

Of course you will, you think. All Eren’s ever talked about is freedom. Freeing you, freeing the world. Killing all his enemies over dinner and then sleeping right next to you like it was nothing. But as the dirty, now red water churns over the scratches- old and new-

you realize Eren has no intention of giving you true freedom.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

I don’t know why, but this is one of the most unsettling things I’ve ever written. But it’s also very sexual? I don’t understand what I’ve created here.

I didn’t proofread anything. Maybe I’ll go back if enough people like it and tweak it.

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watermelonlipstick · 3 years

Text

Dreams, Chapter 13

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

Title: Dreams, Chapter 13

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 1513

Summary: The reader has another dream with Dean, where he emphasizes how he feels in a variety of ways.

Warnings: angst, fluff, swearing, s l o w b u r n, this section has a little smut, oblique mention of suicide

The last lingering kids are leaving the other side of the playground as the golden hour streams through the trees, likely going home to their families for dinner and homework and whatever else normal kids do on fall afternoons like this. Sunlight seeps into your jeans even as the air has a touch of chill to it, and when you pump your legs the balance feels amazing.

“What’re you, trying to go all the way around?” Dean laughs, looking impossibly overgrown in worn shit kickers on a swing meant for children next to yours. You throw your head back to laugh, feeling the wind through your hair as you soar past him. When the chains start to jump a little you back off, letting your momentum wind all the way down until you’re swaying back and forth lazily together. You reach over and slip your index into a new hole in the knee of Dean’s jeans. He links his fingers into yours loosely, play-coy. “You always did love these, you little minx.”

“What can I say? I like as much of your skin as I can get.” You give him your best Dean Winchester wink and he bites his lip through a chuckle. For a long minute you sit just like that, feeling the warmth and calm soak into your pores. “What should I do, Dean?” you murmur.

He swipes his thumb across the back of your hand. “He needs time. It’s going to be okay, I swear. You know Sam he’s just—he’s in his head.”

You nod to yourself. “It’s that we’re happier, right? Is that how this works, how you can come be my Friendly Neighborhood Freddie Krueger, or whatever?”

“The way Cas explained it was ‘closer to true serenity and self-realization’ so whatever the hell that means. You are, though, right? Happier?”

Meeting his eyes made you feel even more relaxed, steady and reassured regardless of how bizarre it was to tell him, “Yeah, I really am. Dean, I—I miss you so bad it still sometimes feels like I’m going to puke. But yeah, I’m happier with Sam. I love him, baby.”

Dean’s gaze goes fuzzy with affection around the edges. “Well, he’s pretty damn lovable. Runs in the family, what can I say?” He kisses the back of your hand. “Good.”

“Good?”

“It’s not a trap, babe. You’re still my girl.”

“I love you.” It’s all you can say, all you can think, really. You watch his profile for a moment as he squints against the low afternoon sun, casting beautiful sunflower light over his freckles. “What happens if I don’t wake up?”

“Your subconscious will kick me out and you’ll wake up automatically. I don’t think you can really control it.”

“No, I mean, like, if I don’t wake up?”

Dean turns toward you, jaw set hard and nostrils flared. “That’s not fucking funny.”

He tries to pull his hand out of yours but you tighten your grip. “What’s the point though? If you’re, you know, okay, can’t we just—”

“No, we ‘can’t just,’” he scowls. “All the bullshit I’ve done over the years to keep you two alive, but fuck it, who cares? Let’s throw in the towel, really make the whole thing worth it.”

“I’m—Dean, it’s not that. I just don’t understand what we’re waiting for. It’s not like Sam and I are even hunting anymore, there’s no more ‘bigger purpose’ to our lives, why be separated—”

“The ‘bigger purpose’ is you fucking being alive. That’s the bigger purpose. Forget it, off the fucking table.”

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but it’s not really your call.”

Dean finally yanks hard enough to get his hand out of your grip and braces his elbows on his knees to hold his chin. The serious angles of his anger look out of place as he sways slightly, boots in the playground mulch where he sits on his swing. He looks back at you after taking a deep breath. “Kid, please. Just, please? I’m—that’s all I want, is you guys getting old, really getting out. I can’t have—I can’t have Sam’s whole life be only hunting, he deserves more than that.”

You scoff, half a derisive laugh. “Making his decisions from beyond the grave, that’s good, even for you.”

“Is it really that bad? All I’m asking you to do is wait. You’ll get here soon enough.”

“Yeah, it really is. It really is that fucking bad. And honestly, who are you to ask me that? You’re not here, Dean. How can you ask us to do it without you?”

“It’s not like you two are fucking here with me! Do you think I’m loving every minute of it, getting grapes fed to me by 1992 Pam Anderson all goddamn day? I’m alone. It’s heaven and I can, whatever, visit Bobby or our folks, get so blasted I can’t see and wake up with no hangover, but you two aren’t there. Do you get that? So I get some glimpses of you guys and I know you’re taking care of each other and I can fucking wait, because that’s the way things are supposed to be.”

He’s trying hard to keep his voice level but it’s coming out like a growl, and you know him, know from that clench of his jaw that he’s barely keeping it together, on this stupid swing set in this stupid gorgeous park, whose attached memory you can’t even recall.

“Hey,” you breathe, getting up out of your swing to stand in front of him, taking each of his hands and putting them around your hips as you slot one leg on either side of his waist and settle on his lap. This close you can practically count each of his eyelashes where they graze his cheekbones and you take one hand to tilt his face up to yours, your toes just barely grazing the ground behind him. “Okay. I’m sorry. Okay.” You curl forward into him, catching the plush of his lips and kissing Dean in apology. He snakes a hand into your hair, winding his fingers in it and kissing you back, and you feel the twinge of desperate frustration, meeting him there with everything you have, shifting all your weight onto his center of gravity and working as best you can to weld your body to his. Dean’s other hand slides to your lower back, under your shirt, the callused tips of his fingers digging into the skin and he’s just as hungry for you as you are for him, grabbing at his chest hard enough that you’re at risk of ripping his shirt, pink lines from your nails marking up Dean’s neck.

The hand in your hair tugs back, firm enough to be rough, and the noise you make is halfway between a moan and a whimper as he bites your neck, the sound hardening Dean through the denim under you and then he’s tearing at your shirt, not bothering with the obstacle of your jacket at all as he tries to shuck both off at once.

“We’re in a—Dean, we’re in a fucking playground,” you hiss, about two inches away from not caring.

“Babe, it’s a dream, we’re not really in a park,” he mutters along your jugular, the moist slick of spit turning ice cold in the fall air.

That’s all the permission you need and you lean back to let him rip, flicking open the metal of his belt buckle and button, unzipping his jeans. “Fuck—kid, careful with the zipper,” Dean grunts, diction poor as you bite his lower lip.

“I don’t want—to wake—up—before—" you murmur though fevered motion, licking and nipping along Dean’s jaw, and the realization gets Dean with the picture. He stands up fast, picking you up and crushing you into the metal pole of the swing set, practically shredding your jeans as his start to slump around his hips, worn plaid of his boxers covering the fast-thickening length of him and you turn to lean your chest against the pole, ready for him before he spins you hard.

“Need to see you,” he says, almost quiet and gentle as his hands are moving roughly against your body, and you see the touch of wetness at the base of his eyelashes while you try to stand on one leg and yank the other out of your pants as fast as you can.

It’s sloppy and goofy and unbelievably, gut-punchingly hot, wrapping your bare thigh around Dean’s hips as he shove-slides inside you, his hand protecting your skull from getting rammed into the metal. “I love you I love you I love you” you’re humming into the crook of his neck and Dean kisses you again, slowing down.

“I know, baby, I know,” he says, pace no longer frenzied but rhythmic and building.

You press a palm to his chest and Dean pauses for a beat, stretch of him buried to the hilt so perfect it’s almost distracting but you still have to ask, “When am I going to s—”

“Hopefully soon.”

And then he’s gone.

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 14

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request!

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whosjunglejim4322 · 3 years

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"You can't be mad at me forever, you know?"

Your attemps at begging for forgiveness are near petulant, due to the fact that Yukhei has been sulking for over forty five minutes. His long arms are still crossed over his chest as he blankly, and sullenly, stares at the laptop screen, broad lips pulled down at the corners.

"M'not mad." He grumbles through his pout and the sound would be barely audible, if it weren't for the fact that you've plopped yourself down next to him on the far right corner of the couch, poking at the naked bronze skin of his thighs that aren't covered by his silky basketball shorts.

It's a shame, really, how even when he's annoyed all you can manage to feel is pure elation welling in your belly and forcing a prideful smile to stretch across your face at the fact that this big, vexed boy is yours - and still very much so upset about you eating his last cup of noodles despite the fact that he insists he's not.

"I'll go first thing in the morning and get you some more, kay?" You know he's hyper aware of the fact that you're facing his profile, eyes glued onto the planes of his high cheekbones, the unforgiving ridge of his taut jaw. However, when your palm smooths over the bulb of his knee, he can't bring himself to jerk it away.

"Okay, yeah." It's not a mumble this time, and as much as he wants to feign irritability, his grumpiness is begins to wear extremely thin when you wrap your hands around the thick of his bicep, planting your cheek against his shoulder that's padded by the grey hoodie he's wearing.

"I was hungry," you explain for the sixth time, scooting forward in an attempt to further your closeness while your nose tickles the side of his throat. "I'll make it up to you I promiseeeee."

You tilt your chin, enough to where your mouth will reach his skin and you place a delicate kiss against the curve of his jaw, the skin soft and sensitive, there. You feel the contraction of his muscles against you as his body goes stiff, before relaxing, even more than before.

"I know what you're doing," His voice is gruff but you know it's because he's getting worked up, that's his spot and you're really not playing fair right now but he feels his belly tighten in a familiar way, and now it's a fight to keep up his angry facade.

And of course, to make matters worse, you place another kiss closer to his ear, right underneath with the pad of your tongue following after and now he's trying to steady his breathing while your hands wander past his navel and underneath the hem of his sweatshirt; fingers eager to feel the warmth of the silky skin that covers the taut area.

"C'mon, I forgive you okay just- I forgive you." He groans suddenly, throwing his head back in defeat, spreading his thighs almost instinctively. You're practically beaming.

"You forgave me a long time ago," you muse, the fingers of your free hand reaching up to gently grasp the haphazard, messy raven strands of his hair. "just needed to work you up a lil first, baby."

Suddenly, he's not so upset anymore.

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snarties · 3 years

Photo

rating: mature pairing: bakugou katsuki x gender-neutral reader word count: 8.2k warnings: swearing, violence, medical imagery note: crossposted to ao3 here

masterlist • next

summary:

A comet will only truly shine when passing by the Sun. After a mission for the Hero Public Safety Commission goes terribly wrong, you're taken in by Bakugou Katsuki, your former high school rival, to recover. However, when you’re forced to confront a brewing conflict between two sides of the Hero world head-on and fend off a criminal organization hellbent on slaughter, will you die out or burn bright? A Pro-Hero Bakugou x Pro-Hero Reader fic, featuring a reader with a slug Quirk. Reader is gender neutral/nonbinary but AFAB. All characters depicted are 18+.

Chapter One

It was raining.

It often rained on your missions. You've never been sure of why, but it did. That wasn’t a surprise to you.

Most of those missions didn’t involve you laying on the ground and bleeding out, that part was new. You can’t say this is how you foresaw your end to be. You’d hoped it’d be more peaceful, perhaps a bit warmer. You watched with bleary eyes as your bright, smashed phone screen next to your head blinked frantically with an onslaught of messages from your last known contact. A serene smile befell your face. You’d worried someone. You hoped he’d forgive you, in the end.

Your eyes closed.

You were surprised again to wake up not to the soothing, ethereal light of the afterlife, but to the obnoxious lights of a hospital room instead. You blinked several times, looking about in dull alarm. Was this a mistake? Was Heaven taunting you? Around the room, bundles of flowers and well-wishes spilled from every corner. Bouquets of all shapes and sizes, stuffed animals, and get-well-soon cards with words you couldn’t read from this distance. Your eyes settled on a figure sitting in an armchair towards the corner of your small room. The figure was slumped over like a ragdoll, a soft snore emanating from them.

You ached to call out to them, ask them if this was truly what the end looked like. You’d always thought it would be much more tranquil than the beeps of heart monitors and the gnawing pain in your side from where you’d been slashed.

“Where...?” you managed to rasp out. You heard the figure snort, then grunt before straightening up. After a pause, a low, masculine voice met your ears. It was astonishingly familiar.

“About damn time.”

⁠—

As it turns out, you hadn’t passed away and gone to the afterlife. According to Bakugou Katsuki, you’d almost died, and he’d carried your nearly lifeless and bleeding body to the closest hospital while you were unconscious. He’d explained all this once you’d awoken from what you understood to be several days of drug-induced slumber.

Now, the two of you sat in his fancy car, a carry-on bag at your side full of the meager toiletries you’d convinced the nurses to let you take. The orange and red glow of the underlights in his dashboard illuminated your feet as you stared downward at nothing.

“Oi, Snot-For-Brains, you alive over there?”

Bakugou’s brusque question brought your eyes up to meet his for the briefest of moments. You tilted your head, the medicine left in your system making it difficult to speak. You fought the all too familiar delay in time that seemed to grow by the second.

“Still here,” you offered softly, the corner of your lip quirking upwards into something akin to a smile.

“Good. I don’t need anyone dying on me in this car,” he answered before his eyes returned to the road ahead. "Just paid the damn thing off."

You smiled.

“I’ll try not... to.”

Besides the soft music from the radio, the car was quiet. It had turned dark before the hospital got all the paperwork finished in order to release you. You didn’t mind. The dark was where you thrived, after all. Where you’d almost died. The moon was peeking out from the clouds among the silhouettes of lighted buildings. It was barely noticeable past the streetlights that would pass, but you noticed it. Your eyes locked on the little semicircle, drawing strength from its willingness to shine. Bakugou broke your trance when he spoke again.

“What happened, slug?” was all he said.

“A lot. I’ll... tell you more when I... can,” you murmured. Bakugou accepted your answer more easily than you’d expected. He didn’t pry, his eyes turning back to the road after glancing at you a few times.

“Do you, uh, need anything special? A humidifier, or whatever?” he asked. The question made you chortle.

“No...” you smiled, lifting a hand to hide your mouth. “I’m not... that frail.”

“Tch, no kidding,” he agreed in a low voice. When he caught you looking at him oddly, he glared at the road. “I mean, you did just survive nearly getting cut in fucking half!” he sputtered. The smile behind your hand grew.

“I’ll... be okay,” you told him. “Look.” To make your point, you wiggled the two sets of antennae atop your head gifted to you by your Quirk. They were slower to respond than you’d like, but they moved to your command, with the smaller set twitching and the larger set pivoting like ears. Bakugou had glanced over in time to see you move each pair separately. You saw a shiver run up his spine.

“Creepy,” he muttered. The insult didn’t bother you much. You were used to hearing it. Having a slug Quirk wasn’t considered flashy or beautiful, but you knew the extent of your own capabilities. Your gaze lingered on his profile, outlined by the streetlights above. His jawline had filled out over the years, but there was still a hint of his former boyishness in his face.

You looked down at the broken phone in your lap. It barely maintained a charge, it was basically ruined, but you’d managed to message Mina Ashido. She was overjoyed to hear from you. You could tell she was holding in her questions about what had happened to reassure you. You’d asked a favor of her, and she’d obliged without any hesitation. You wondered if you’d ever be able to repay her for all her kindness over the years of your long friendship, the two of you had been attached at the hip since middle school. You loved her dearly, though had never said as much out loud. The lingering warmth the conversation brought you was enough for you to stay awake during the remainder of the car ride.

When you arrived at Bakugou’s apartment complex, you weren’t expecting squalor, but nor were you expecting the lavishness that assaulted you at every turn. The delicate organs peeking from your long hair were bombarded with new information. Your companion had earned his place in the hero world. Being the up-and-coming number 2 Pro was nothing to sneeze at. At the same time, you never pegged Bakugou for the rich living type. Some part of you was relieved when you came upon his actual apartment. A penthouse suite, but furnished sparsely and simply for a practical person. Much of the furnishings were black, but again, that could be expected considering who lived here.

As Bakugou swept you further into his place, you peered around. It was meticulously clean, of course, and the kitchen was weirdly enormous. Well, considering who it belonged to, maybe it wasn’t all that weird.

“You’re taking my bed. And I don’t wanna hear nothin’ smart about it,” he barked as he started moving around to pick up odds and ends. “You need more blankets, they're in the hallway closet. It's the second door to the left. Bathroom’s connected to the bedroom at the end of the hall. Now get your ass cleaned up and go to sleep. You’re a fuckin’ mess.”

Ah, so even his bedside manner was deplorable. Good to know you were in such capable hands.

You had to resist the overwhelming urge to roll your eyes. Though, you couldn’t deny you were weary. Your disastrous wound and the medicine they’d pumped you full of the past few days had taken an enormous toll on your body. Recovery hadn’t been easy. Not to mention the effect all the drugs had on your Gastropod Quirk.

The protective layer of mucus that normally covered your hair was watery, and threatening to stick to everything it touched. It felt as disgusting as it probably looked. Bakugou had already warned you back at the hospital not to get any of that “snot” on his things. The fact you felt like you were underwater didn’t help either. Your head hadn’t stopped swimming since you’d woken up properly for the first time in the hospital room. You usually liked the water, but not when it was all in your brain.

“Right,” you drawled, your dark eyes watching Bakugou in distant fascination as he swept some stray mail into a pile on the table next to the door. He either noticed your hesitation or got tired of it, because as soon as he finished, he took a hold of your shoulders and began to guide you toward his bedroom down the hallway.

“What the hell did I just say? You got more snot in your ears than usual or something?”

You shot him a glare that was promptly ignored.

“Look, just clean yourself up and if you’re hungry I’ll fuckin’ feed you, but then it’s bedtime. Got it?”

“Oh, is it... past your... bedtime?” you remarked. You were spun around with such force you thought you were going to pass out. Once the dizziness faded, your eyes locked with bright ruby hues.

“Listen here, slug. If I’m gonna play babysitter to your ass for who knows how long, then you go by my damn rules. Don’t make this more fucking difficult than it already is.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. You couldn't help but wonder what he meant by that, his choice of phrasing odd. However, even you knew when it was time to back down. You heaved a long-suffering sigh. You were too tired to pick his brain. Not only that, but you'd walk away with more questions than answers, that you were certain of.

“Your... flair for... drama... has not left you,” you mumbled. Bakugou’s grip on you tightened minutely, as if he were holding in the urge to blurt something obscene like he usually would. To your astonishment, he kept it together.

“Whatever. Go wash up, you smell like a wet dog that rolled in hell knows what.”

With that, his grip on you ceased. He sharply turned away from you, returning to the living room with a low huff. You tried shoving aside the strange feeling of missing those large, rough-hewn hands encompassing your lithe shoulders as you trudged to where he told you the bathroom would be.

Being alone in the bedroom of your former high school rival was an experience. Whether it was a good experience was up for debate, but at the moment all you could focus on was the door connected to the room that was slightly cracked open. Light was flooding out from it, signaling you to pull it open and reveal a spotlessly clean master bathroom. It had both a shower, and a tub.

How fortuitous for the man who can’t seem to get over calling you playground bully level insults. It was still a welcome sight, however, knowing you had private access to the entirety of the room until Bakugou would inevitably darken your door wanting to know if you’d finally passed on.

Without hesitation, you carefully peeled away your old clothing and bandages to reveal what you’d not been wanting to confront since you left the hospital. The whole reason you’d be holed up with your own personal nurse shark for the foreseeable future.

It was stitched with all the care in the world, an ugly blemish dyed with yellow iodine and old blood, staining your glossy tan skin with a sickly and unpleasant tinge. It split you from the top of your left hip upwards until the final end met the bottom of your sternum, spanning the whole width of your abdomen. You stared at it in the mirror for a long minute, absorbing every detail of it.

That criminal's blade had torn you asunder. Yet, here you stood in Katsuki Bakugou’s bathroom with breath still in your lungs.

By all rights, you shouldn’t be alive.

The thought echoed in your head, foggy and perpetual in the darkness of your mind. Onyx irises met each other in the mirror as you peered through pale bangs at yourself reflected inside the glass.

You looked like a ghost. And, truthfully, you should be one.

Eventually, your logic caught up with you to helpfully remind you that staring at your life-threatening injury in the mirror wouldn’t get you clean or fed.

Resigned, you padded toward the shower to start the water. It fell cold on the hand you held out to check the temperature. You had no doubts Bakugou probably liked his showers hotter than the devil’s teat, but you certainly did not. As soon as the water wasn’t cold enough to make you shiver, you shook the moisture from your hand to grab your bag. You plucked the sample-size shampoo bottle from the top of the pile inside and slithered under the waterfall.

You kept your mind empty as your body went through the motions of cleaning. You did, however, come back to reality long enough to watch the protective layer of mucus covering your hair slough off into the drain.

You hoped, somewhat bitterly, Bakugou had good plumbing. A new layer would form in its place, a stronger layer, protecting your hair properly instead of acting like a sticky hand fresh from the package at an arcade.

You sighed when you felt the appropriate amount of time had passed before your host would inevitably come looking for you. You were clean enough. You’d managed to wash away the sterile hospital scent and replace it with something lightly floral and refreshing. Your natural scent of wet leaves would make its return once you dried and rested, you imagined. A small comfort. The only good scent was your own.

Though, the strange sweetness permeating all of Bakugou’s home was becoming familiar to you. Albeit reluctantly.

I should give Bakugou more credit, you thought. He did save me from the clutches of death, and all.

Once you’d had enough of ogling your wound again in the mirror before wrapping it up, you came upon a dilemma. Dilemma being the mildest of words to describe the problem.

You had no clean clothes.

Mina had promised you in a text earlier in the day she’d drop by your apartment and grab you enough clothing to cover your, hopefully, short stay at Bakugou’s place and bring it to you. You’d agreed, stupidly perhaps, that she could do that tomorrow when she had a chance.

Your hand wiped over your face, a scowl affixed on your expression, and heaved a sigh. You’d have to borrow something from Bakugou.

Finding a towel big enough to wrap around your willowy figure wasn’t an issue at least. You steeled yourself for facing the owner of the house, taking in a deep, calming breath. Could things really get that much worse?

As it turned out, yes, because the moment you opened the door you were face-to-face with your gracious host who looked like he’d seen a ghost the minute he laid eyes on you.

“For fuck’s sake, where the hell are all your-!”

“Gone.”

He paused, his expression frozen in a contortion of both anger and ... embarrassment? You hadn’t seen that look on him very much in all your years of knowing each other, but he still wore it about as well as a fish wore pants. He reached up to run an agitated hand through the short, buzzed locks of his hair.

“Before you... lose your temper... be reminded I came with nothing but... the clothes the hospital so kindly let me... take. Mina... promised me she would bring more. Tomorrow,” you explained, painstakingly slow as you fought exhaustion, irritation, and pain to form coherent sentences. Bakugou stuttered out something under his breath that sounded strangely like an apology before shaking his head and tearing around his room to find something for you to wear.

“Right. Fine. Whatever. I’ll give you something of mine, but it’s mine, got it? I get it back whenever Racoon-Eyes brings you your own shit,” he grumbled as you watched him rifle through a drawer for something that was even close to small enough to fit you. “And try not to get any damn slime on it!”

An amused smile tugged at your lips. You leaned heavily on the door frame of the bathroom, eyes never leaving Bakugou as he finally pulled out a pair of shorts and an oversized black t-shirt from his dresser’s bottom drawer. As soon as he checked them over (for cleanliness, you assumed), he tossed them your way.

“Here. I don’t wanna hear any complaining about size. It ain’t my fault you’re a stick,” he said, pointing a finger at you with the usual scowl on his face. Compared to you, he’d beefed up in the time you’d spent apart. You noticed it whenever you caught the ripple of muscle through his toned arms.

“Me? Complain...?" You did your best to sound scandalized at the very idea. "You may... have bad manners... but I don’t,” you chided, clumsily catching the bundle in your arms.

You cursed the slip, because you heard Bakugou scoff instead of taking the bait. Were you so wrong for wanting some normalcy between the two of you? You’d traded barbs like cards back at U.A. but clearly Bakugou had other ideas at the moment. You didn’t catch the deepening of his scowl at the comment, too occupied with looking over the new clothing you held.

“Just get dressed, dammit,” he said before storming from the room. Well, at least some things never changed.

Once you were finally settled in fresh clothing, you sat at the edge of Bakugou’s huge bed, tying up your hair into a looping ponytail so that it would be out of your way. It would hopefully also prevent your hair’s natural slime coat from getting onto Bakugou’s clothing while it reformed.

How he slept in such a monstrosity was a mystery to you. The bed was easily three times the size of your own at home. Looking at it closer, it seemed it was fit more for someone like Hawks, whose quirk made it tough to fit in a normal bed. Not really an angry bachelor, as was Bakugou.

The thought of him sharing a bed with anyone but the covers was a funny thought to you. But it turned sour when you felt an odd pang of jealousy at the idea.

Had he shared a bed with anyone else in the five years you’d not seen each other? It would only be reasonable to expect as such. He may be gruff and have all the charm of a bulldog, but he had needs… or so you thought.

Right?

You shook the thought from your mind, bringing a hand up to hold onto your aching head. What had he mentioned earlier before marching you to his bedroom? Food? You hadn’t eaten a decent meal since before you were hospitalized, and that had been… Oh. That was several days ago, now. If your fuzzy memory served right, Bakugou was an... adequate cook. You hated admitting that much, but if he was offering to make you something, then you’d be a fool to turn it down.

Picking yourself up from the edge of the bed, you shuffled out of his bedroom and into the dim hallway leading out toward the main part of his penthouse.

“You ask... if I’m dead... yet you disappear like... a ghost?” you muttered to yourself as you saw not hide nor hair of him in the living room.

A cacophonous rattling of plates and a curse in the direction of the massive kitchen drew your attention. It seemed he was a step ahead of you on the matter of food.

You strolled to the kitchen’s ample island, sitting yourself in a bar seat as quietly as you could while you focused your gaze on Bakugou’s form hustling about the stove top. The drugs remaining inside your system were dulling your senses and your pain, so you hadn’t smelled the food before. However, now that you were close enough, the enticing scent of something light and hearty met you like an old friend. It reminded you again how long you had gone without food, evident by your stomach lightly rumbling.

At first, Bakugou didn’t acknowledge you directly. He must have realized you’d slipped in somewhere along the way though, because he addressed you as he stirred something on the stove without turning to you.

“Pinky told me you don’t eat meat,” he stated, his voice even and, surprisingly, calm. “I’m making vegetable curry. I’ll make sure your portion is up to your wimpy standards, so I don’t wanna hear nothin’ about how hot it is.”

You blinked. You hadn’t realized Bakugou had spoken with Mina at all, let alone about your diet.

When did that happen? While you were effectively dead to the world? How long had Bakugou been thinking about becoming your personal nurse? You suddenly had a lot of questions for your host.

Still, it was true, meat was near indigestible for you. Spicy food rarely agreed with you either, but you knew Bakugou liked everything as hot as his temper.

“I... see. That’s... uncharacteristically considerate... of you,” was all you could think to say.

"Hah?" Ah, there it was. "You really think I'd be such a selfish asshole after all this?" he growled, still not looking at you as he picked up fervor in beating the vegetable sauce in the pot instead.

"You do not... have a fantastic track record... of doing so, no," you pointed out. "You made... Kaminari cry... by giving him that... abominable ramen you enjoyed... in high school. And laughed."

Bakugou was quiet at that. When he did speak again, he stopped stirring.

"That shit was funny, and don't you try and act like you didn't laugh like the rest of the peanut gallery," he grunted. "And it wasn't 'abominable'," he mocked, "it was the only good, cheap ramen at that shitty school!"

The familiarity and comfort of his banter won a tiny smile from you as you rested your head against your arm. You watched as his movements slowed back to a more professional pace.

"Fair enough," you relented. Bakugou gave a hum of satisfaction.

“Drinks are in the ‘fridge. Get whatever you want,” he told you. You slipped off your chair, moving to the large, double-door refrigerator. It was filled with clearly fresh groceries, vegetables of all kinds spilling out from various places, and packages of what seemed to be seafood, and tofu. A shelf in the door was full of nothing but a plethora of hot sauces of every label and brand. You wrinkled your nose at the sight, trying to focus on finding the drinks. They were located in a plastic drawer at the bottom, but you merely selected a bottle of water that’d caught your eye before closing the fridge.

You stood for a moment, watching Bakugou at the stove. From here, you could see the steam rising from the pot of rice. You also saw that he had set aside a pan of curry from the main portion. Was that for you, or him? You couldn’t quite tell. You had apparently stared too long, because Bakugou turned his usual glower on you.

“What?” he barked. You clutched your water bottle to your chest, the cool plastic bleeding through your shirt.

“Nothing,” you replied. “You just... look at home among all the... pots and pans.”

“The hell? You tryin’ to say I belong in the kitchen?” he pointed the large utensil in his hand at you accusingly, a vein popping in his neck at the insinuation.

“Of course... not.” You held up your hands in surrender. “You’re the one who... always brags... about your cooking. You seem... comfortable... when you’re making food.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed at you as he tried to think of a reply, but when something simmered in front of him, he turned back to it with a disgruntled sound. When it was clear he wasn’t going to answer with anything more than a scowl in your direction, you decided to make your way back to your former seat at the island with drink in hand.

The kitchen grew quiet after that, barring the sounds of Bakugou working and the gentle bubbling of the curry. You’d noted that he didn't use an automatic rice cooker, he did it all himself. Impressive, but likely just another detail of his skills to boast about.

In the silence, you remembered the manners you'd boasted about earlier. Specifically, being thankful to your temperamental host. Despite his bedside manner needing improvement, he'd truly done a lot for you. More than you'd thought him capable of. You hated owing people, but there's comfort in the way Bakugou made it so you couldn't protest his "kindness" as he knew you might.

After some thought, you finally eke out the phrase that had been on the tip of your tongue since Bakugou had offered to take you in until you were healed enough to return home.

“Bakugou?” you asked tentatively. He stopped stirring the rice to turn around, pinning you with his usual wrathful stare as he obviously expected another snarky comment.

“Thank you,” you bowed your head to him with your hands clutched in your lap, eyes downcast. A faint blush dusted your cheeks, and of course it would. Your sensitive antennae gave the smallest twitch. You hoped that he understood you meant more than just the food. You didn’t see him turn back around, nor did you see the slight softening of his expression in reply to your gratitude. A beat passed before he answered.

“Yeah.”

⁠—

A plate of fresh, steaming curry with a side of rice was placed in front of you on the counter, along with a spoon. You raised your head to look at the cook and thank him, but he was already moving to sit across from you as he pulled a barstool to the other side of the island.

He set his plate down, bombarding your senses with the frankly offensive amount of spice he liked in his food. His curry was much more red than your own, which, by all rights, looked to be a tolerable level. You both mumbled a quiet thanks for the meal, then you picked up your spoon to start eating.

It was hot, but only in temperature. He’d managed to keep the spices to himself, it seemed. You found yourself smiling a bit at that. The taste was nice, but you still ate slowly. Bakugou didn’t play with his food, but you noticed him hesitating in taking a bite. You’d felt his eyes on you since the first spoonful. You put down your silverware.

“If you’re... expecting a review...” you started, a gentle, teasing lilt to your voice.

“Shut up and eat!” he bellowed, then began to wolf down his curry like a starved man. It drew a soft chuckle from you.

The dinner continued in the silent way that dinners do, the clinking of spoons against porcelain being the only noise that cut through it. You had other things on your mind besides him, all of which were beginning to surface with more clarity as the food helped the medicine in your system recede. You were drifting when you heard Bakugou clear his throat.

“I know you said you’d tell me when you can, but what the hell happened?”

You shifted in your seat. That was sooner than you’d thought it’d be.

“I was... caught infiltrating a... criminal organization. One of the other... members... lured me out on a fake errand... and left me to die,” you explained. You didn’t want to go too far into details about your work for the Hero Public Safety Commission, not right now.

“You’re a stealth operative for the HC, right? Racoon-Eyes mentioned it once or twice.” You could hear the barely contained anger threatening to spill out in his voice. It was clear he wanted to know more, but he shoved a spoonful of curry into his mouth instead.

“Yes.”

“And still holdin’ number 7? Can’t imagine the public knows a whole lot about you, though,” he snorted. “You’re better off that way, trust me.”

You stopped eating to cock your head, fixing him with curious eyes.

“You’re... number 2, right? Is the public so... bad?”

Bakugou huffed.

“Nah, but they’re nosy fuckers. The media ain’t much better. Worse, if anything.” There was a pointed note of disdain in his voice. It reminded you of something.

“Yes... They make... quite a big deal... of the fact Endeavor is still... active,” you said, lifting a spoonful to your mouth. You’re startled by the sound of Bakugou’s own spoon clattering against his nearly empty plate.

“Yeah, I know. That stubborn old bastard says I ain’t ready for it yet and won't even tell me why! It’s bullshit,” he snarled, crossing his arms over his chest and staring you down. “I don’t know what the hell his problem is, but I’m gettin’ real tired of it. He’s gonna be pushin’ 60, what’s the damn point?”

You blinked a few times at him, then put the bite you were holding into your mouth. You chewed slowly. It’s a long enough pause that Bakugou raises a fine brow at you questioningly.

“People are... stuck in their... ways,” you replied. Your answer didn’t seem to satisfy him. If anything, it appeared to anger him further.

“What about you? I don’t see or hear shit from you for five damn years, and then you text me outta nowhere for help? The fuck is that about, slug?” You froze. The irritation at having the conversation turned on you once more was enough to make the delicate stalks on your head twitch.

“The HC is... hellbent... on keeping me a secret. In case... you hadn’t noticed,” you stated coldly. “Besides... I knew... your and Red Riot’s... agency... patrolled that area. You were... my first thought.” Your brows knit together behind your curtain of hair, and you were thankful he couldn’t see it. The reply made him bark out a cruel-sounding laugh.

“But me? Why not fuckin’ Pinky or, hell, even the Tape-face?” he growled as he angrily took a bite of his food. “Ain’t like they don’t work for me.”

You bid yourself to calm down as you racked your brain for an answer. Why did you text Bakugou of all people? You found yourself slightly regretting the decision.

“I knew... you would be... the one to know... what I meant in my message,” you finally said. He grunted.

“Texting someone the word help with coordinates attached ain’t exactly as mysterious as you think it is, slug,” he said, shaking his head. “Where the hell was the Hero Commission anyway? Didn’t they send you with any damn backup? Couldn’t you see that whatever dumb villain did that to you was gonna snap?”

“It was... too dangerous to send... more operatives,” you explained. “I was... a good fit.” You left it at that, his other questions hanging in the air. He noticed, because he stood up from his seat abruptly to lean over the island, braced on his palms, to glare at you from above.

“A good fit? That’s a fuckin’ laugh! You were bleeding out in a shitty alleyway, and no one would’ve found your corpse if I didn’t get there in time! What the hell were those higher-up idiots thinking, putting you in that kinda situation all by yourself?”

You gritted your teeth, temper boiling up through your veins. It felt like ice coursing through you. You calmly placed your spoon down on your plate, your half-finished food turning to ashes in your mouth. You rose slowly from your seat, and it seemed Bakugou had finally caught onto the fact he’d angered you. He withdrew a bit, but his glare was still just as piercing.

“I live in the shadows, and... that's where I'll die,” you clenched your fists at your sides. “It must be... so nice, to not have to... worry about that," you replied to him, voice low and frigid. "If... it's such a big deal to you, why... did you... come for me? Why... go through all this... trouble?" You gestured widely to the meal, the apartment, and yourself, clothed in his spare wardrobe.

Your questioning leaves Bakugou looking stunned. He gave an owlish blink, his scowl wiped away temporarily as his lips hang open without retort. You can practically see the hamster wheel turning inside his head, complete with a furious-looking rodent.

You fought an oncoming wave of stress-induced dizziness and nausea. You brought a hand up to your head to steady yourself and squeezed your eyes shut to block out the increasingly incessant lights, wrapping the other arm protectively around your middle. You give one last glance to Bakugou's deepening frown.

“Thank you for... the food, Bakugou, but I think... I need to... rest.”

"Oi⁠—!"

With that, you turn and stalk off to the dark reaches of his bedroom, leaving Bakugou with only his thoughts and the dirty dishes.

⁠—

You hadn’t left Bakugou’s bedroom since you closed the door behind you. Normally, you’d have been polite enough to at least help with the dishes, but the whole ordeal had upset you enough that you couldn’t think of anything more than your own spinning head. As the calm of the darkness settled over you, you felt yourself regretting your words to the man. After all, he had helped you. Yes, you were in pain. Yes, Bakugou had likely overstepped. At the same time, you’d practically thrown his kindness back into his face and spat on it.

You physically cringed at the thought. It wouldn’t surprise you if he threw you out the next day. Better enjoy this ridiculously huge bed while it lasted, you sighed.

You were sprawled out atop the bed, not even bothering to get under the covers. It'd been a few hours at least since the dinner. Once the nausea had passed and your head no longer ached, you were left only with echoes of your fraught conversation to plague you. Needless to say, you hadn't gotten any sleep since you'd laid down.

It certainly wasn’t as if you wanted to die the way you almost did. However, Bakugou made it hard to understand why he’d do all this for you. To his credit, he’d never been an easy person to understand. You knew his temper, you knew his bluntness, and you knew from your years together at U.A. what drove him, considering he never shut up about being the number one. The memories made you smile, the smallest quirk of your lips. At the same time, there was a part of him that he was good at obscuring. He was a straightforward person, that much was certain, but there was a piece of his puzzle you’d never quite understood.

You sighed miserably, rolling onto your uninjured side as you stared out into the darkness of his room. How did he sleep in this bed? It felt so incredibly empty. Perhaps he liked the space. Knowing what you did about him, it wouldn’t come as a surprise to you. He seemed the type to toss and turn until his body finally gave over to slumber. How he maintained a strict bedtime was a mystery to you with your chronic insomnia coupled with horrendous paranoia.

You buried your nose into his comforter, immediately breathing in that strange and sweet scent that lingered in the air throughout his penthouse. You’d finally figured out what it was.

His Quirk.

You’d read, somewhere, long ago, that nitroglycerin gave off a distinctly sweet scent. Some likened it to caramel, but his smell wasn't nearly that pure. Likely because whatever caused his sweat to be explosive wasn’t pure nitroglycerin. Still, the composition was similar, right? It would make sense. You closed your eyes. It wasn’t all that different from the damp foliage smell that your slime created, though you much preferred that smell over his at the moment. His was merely a reminder of whose house you were in.

You reached up to rub your temple. You’d have to apologize to him. You weren’t sure if that’d save you from being swiftly booted from his door in the morning, but you had some faith that Mina would be willing to take you in.

Lost in your drifting thoughts, you snuggled against one of his pillows and were assaulted by his scent. And a memory. A memory?

In your second year at U.A., you and Bakugou had formally faced each other during a mock battle at the Sports Festival. You’d lost by a hair, mostly because it was warm that day, and you’d dehydrated from both the fight and Bakugou’s fiery explosions. It was a pitiful defeat, in your mind, even if you’d placed 3rd in the end. It was also the first time you’d ever caught a glimmer of the side of himself Bakugou hid so expertly.

You looked at the scar on your arm. It was one of the few you had, now counting the one that would likely form across your abdomen from the villain attack.

In the dark, it wasn’t difficult to see. A faded, bright patch of skin over your tan complexion. In many ways, it resembled a star streaking over the night sky. It was long, stretching in ragged lines over the back of your forearm and ended in a distinct shape on the back of your hand. It was formed when you took a point-blank blast from Bakugou in a poor attempt to block the only way you knew how in the heat of the moment. You thought you could take the impact of the blast to throw that force back at him with your rubbery body. Instead, you were sent sprawling with a bloody arm onto the concrete stage.

You remembered trying to get up, struggling to get to your knees, not realizing the extent of your injuries. You were determined to let him see what you could really do. To let everyone see what you could really do. It was almost funny to look back on when your mere existence was so clandestine nowadays.

He’d stopped you by placing a firm, hot palm over your back and pressing you down into the hard stone. You were sure he was going to blast you into the ground, then and there. You’d watched with glassy eyes as the surrounding crowd was awash with jeers and calls for the referee, Mr. Cementoss.

Bakugou didn’t throw all his weight onto you, nor did he blast you. He only said three words that you barely heard before you finally passed out from the pain and exhaustion of the match.

“You did fine.”

After that, you’d woken up in Recovery Girl’s office with Mr. Aizawa at your side to tell you not to push yourself so hard next time. He’d drawn your attention to your now bandaged arm, pointing out that it was going to scar. You’d begrudgingly accepted his advice about understanding your limits. Sometimes, the best trick in a hustler’s arsenal, you knew, is when you should fold.

That being said, you never had been sure how you ended up in the nurse’s office. Your brows furrowed at the thought. Back then, you had asked Aizawa if he’d taken you, but he’d just scratched his neck and told you that he was watching from the stands without any indication of who had taken you. You’d later learn from Mina that she’d rushed to the stage to offer to take you. You assumed all these years later she was the one to haul you there. However, with your antennae surrounded by Bakugou’s scent, you were remembering a different version of events.

You hadn’t entirely passed out after Bakugou had claimed his victory. You were conscious in flashes, mostly from the pain in your arm. You do remember hearing Mina’s desperate voice, but she wasn’t yelling at you. She was saying something to someone else.

“Let me do it! Please Bakugou, you hurt them enough already!”

“Shut up, Racoon-Eyes, and get outta my way!”

The feeling of being braced over a large, muscular shoulder as you were carried. The growl in his voice as you were berated for your damned recklessness.

The next time you heard anything, you were being laid out on a bed while Recovery Girl frantically worked in the background. She was scolding your carrier.

“I’m fine, old hag! Just take care of them.”

A door slammed, and all was quiet at last. You finally succumbed to fatigue at the sounds of bandages rustling and kissy noises. Mina hadn’t carried you to Recovery Girl that day.

Bakugou had.

You jolted up, letting out a seething hiss as your wound reminded you that it was very much still there. You slumped, looking out into the dark bedroom with a grimace. You glanced at the closed door leading out into the hallway.

Compelled, you scooted off the bed, coming to stand in front of the door. You opened it quietly and were greeted with nothing but darkness. The tentacles atop your head swiveled as they took in your environment, allowing you to navigate the pitch black with ease until the hall opened out into the living room.

The only sounds were the distant hum of the city, and a ticking from an analog clock somewhere in the background. The soft noise of someone breathing was coming from the large, leather sectional that Bakugou had, the dim light from his windows allowing you to make out a figure bundled in blankets atop it.

You approached on silent feet until you were standing next to your unconscious host. You felt your expression soften. He was far more peaceful at rest than any other time in his life, the angry lines in his face nonexistent as he snored quietly.

You hesitantly reached out, wondering if you should even bother until morning. You had no idea what time it was, you’d been laying in bed drifting in and out of consciousness but failing to fall asleep properly. Your hand hovered over his shoulder, but you pulled away when you heard him snort.

Red eyes fluttered open at the interrupted snore, unfocused, before they settled on you and grew wide. In an instant, Bakugou was on his feet, his hand wrapping around your slender wrist and crackling ominously. You braced, ready to accept your fate when he finally rasped out your name in question.

“Fucking Christ. You’re goddamn lucky I didn’t blow your hand off, Snot-for-Brains,” he growled, voice husky with sleep.

“I suppose... I would deserve it,” you countered softly.

“Hah? What the hell are you talking about?”

You tilted your head. Did he not remember your little tiff earlier? At the gesture, it clicked into place for him.

“Oh. The dinner thing,” he said. His eyes met yours for a brief moment, assessing. Then, he shook his head, his gaze drifting to the side. “Don’t fucking worry about it.”

This was when he noticed he was still holding onto your wrist. He withdrew his hand like he’d been burned, leaving you to rub the spot while checking for damage. Thankfully, the only thing that remained was a warm sensation. It was a remarkable bit of restraint on his part. Bakugou cleared his throat, but you spoke first.

“I’m sorry. About... all that. I really am... thankful for all you’re doing for me. I... also realize you’re not obligated to... do any of it,” you murmured, hanging your head as you set your eyes on the floor. You heard him huff.

“Well, duh. I wouldn’t be doin’ it if I didn’t want to,” he stated, his arms folding against his chest. “But from now on, try not to kill yourself. I’ve seen enough of your dumb, passed out ass to last me a damn lifetime.”

Again, another strange choice of words from him. You lifted your gaze, dark eyes narrowing at him in the dimness. He wasn’t looking at you, determined to keep his eyes on something to his right.

“I’ll try,” you replied, letting yourself relax. You could feel a wave of exhaustion washing over you. You were relieved. At least it didn’t seem like Bakugou was going to shove you out the door in the morning. “Did... you want your bed... back?”

Bakugou looked at you in disbelief.

“Hell no! Which one of us almost got gutted like a damn fish, huh? You take the bed, idiot,” he stated sternly.

“I hate it,” you said bluntly. “It’s far... too big... for one person.”

“Yeah, if that person weighs less than a paper sack soakin’ wet, like you,” he retorted. He let out a frustrated sigh, letting his arms drop to his sides. “I can’t believe I’m about to suggest this, but would it make your stupid ass feel better if I was there?” You were taken aback by the question. You stared at the ground, then him.

It wasn’t a stretch by any imagination to say you’d had less than a few purely friendly thoughts about Bakugou in the ensuing years you’ve known him. For as atrocious as his attitude was, he was attractive, well-built, and had a decently handsome face. In your mind, one would have to be blind not to see that much. The idea that he’d be in the same bed as you in the real world, however, was not one you’d ever thought you’d confront.

“I...” you stuttered, uncertain of exactly what to say. In the darkness, you thought you saw the beginnings of a flush in Bakugou’s neck and ears. You had to wipe away the immediate idea you had about how pretty it looked on him.

“Just answer the damn question!”

You swallowed.

“That... might help. Yes,” you managed. You fiddled with the hem of your borrowed shirt, not looking at Bakugou directly anymore. You tried to fight the heat rising to your cheeks, hoping the darkness would cover for you should you lose the battle.

“C’mon then, we ain’t got all night,” he commanded as he started making his way to the bedroom. You followed in a daze, unable to believe you were about to share a bed with Bakugou Katsuki. Sure, you’d had something of a crush on him in your later high school days despite the rivalry the two of you maintained, but that was years ago, for God’s sake. Some higher power was clearly getting a laugh from this, and you cursed their name in your head.

You hesitated at the doorway to the bedroom, watching as Bakugou turned over the covers.

“Did you even fucking sleep?” he grumbled, more to himself than you.

“Not... really,” you answered from the door frame. He whipped around to look at you, pinning you with ruby eyes of disbelief that nearly glowed in the darkness of the room.

“Shut up, and get in,” he pointed to the bed. You strolled past him, feeling his glower on you as you climbed into the plush cocoon of blankets with a creak of the mattress. This was indeed far more comfortable than laying atop all the covers, you’d give him that much.

As soon as you had arranged yourself on one side of the bed, Bakugou laid himself on the opposite side. You were forced to face him due to your injury. He didn’t cover himself completely with the sheets as he sprawled out on his back. He tucked his hand under the pillow beneath his head, eyes closing. You couldn’t help but notice it left an empty, enticing space against his side.

Before you realized what you were doing in the haze of your pain-addled and weary mind, you’d wormed your way closer to him. You tentatively reached out to place a hand on his chest. He was so warm beneath your palm, the feeling of his heartbeat against it reminded you he was very real.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growled without opening his eyes. You blinked your way back to reality, about to remove your hand when he let out a low huff.

“If you’re gonna do this shit, at least follow through,” he groused.

You had to hold back the incredulity in your expression, even if he wouldn't have seen it anyway. Too tired to argue, you could figure out the meaning of his words. You mustered your courage. Keeping your hand against his heart, you slid over until you were tucked against his side with your face buried to his black wife beater. He was practically a furnace, his warmth permeating from where the two of you met against each other. You fought the urge to peer up at him and gauge his expression, fearful of what you might find there. You focused your gaze on his chest instead.

“Relax, idiot. I don’t bite.”

You didn’t realize how tense you’d been. He let out a deep breath, and you could feel his body relaxing alongside yours.

“Are you finally good?” You could feel the rumble of his low voice against your cheek. You nod.

“Good, now go the fuck to sleep. Tomorrow, you're helping with the dishes."

"Fair... enough."

You yawned softly. With eyes closed, you focused on the sound of his breathing. You were all too aware of the rise and fall of his chest under your hand, the slight quickening of his heart when you’d sidled up to him. A tiny smile graced your lips. Feeling safer than you’d felt in a long time, you allowed the gift of slumber to claim you at last.

#bakugou katsuki #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #pro hero bakugou #bakugou x gender neutral reader #dynamight #my hero x reader #my hero fanfic #my hero academia #boku no hero x reader #boku no hero academia #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo x reader #katsuki x you #katsuki x reader #bakugou katuski x reader #no y/n here tho sorry i hate that thing #finally the proper banner!!!#sorry for the repost :')

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my-bated-breath · 4 years

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Rage, Compassion, and the Bridge in Between

An essay on Katara’s emotions

On the spectrum of human emotion, rage and compassion exist on opposite ends. After all, rage is harsh and violent while compassion is soothing and nurturing; rage is unforgiving while compassion is all-forgiving. As such, they run a parallel course to each other, one canceling out the other whenever they do meet.

At least, that’s what we expect. We expect anger and kindness to be separate entities, and our media reflects this - a character is either severe or gentle, and in the rare case that they’re both, the contrast between their ability to hurt and their ability to heal is treated as a dichotomy. Except the human condition is not that simple, and sometimes, there is a not-so-simple story that remembers that.

In Avatar: The Last Airbender, Katara embodies the human condition - or more specifically, she embodies the duality within it. Throughout the show, her tenderness and her wrath are balanced in a way that renders her one of the most well-written female characters in children’s animation, perhaps even in all of television. Because Katara’s anger and compassion do not simply split themselves into two identities. Instead, they coexist and coalesce into one. They drive each other; they feed into each other; they are two sides of the same coin.

But how can that be true when opposite traits are supposed to clash and counter each other’s effects?

There’s no denying that at times, Katara’s anger and compassion serve to show two different sides of her. We even see this within the very first episode:

(on left) Katara: No that's it! I'm done helping you! From now on, you're on your own!

(on right) Katara: He's alive! We have to help!

At first, Katara’s irritation towards Sokka is what causes her to accidentally waterbend the iceberg open, in which the transcript describes her movements as “agitated.” However, as soon as she sees Aang, this irritation is replaced by concern for “the boy in the iceberg.” Hence, within a few minutes, we see how Katara can be motivated by compassion and rage separately.

Still, just because her kindness and anger are shown to be separate in many scenes that this separation applies to every scenario. Although Katara’s two opposite traits are opposite, that does not mean they are always opposing. Instead, they can fuel each other - her rage can fuel her compassion, and her compassion can fuel her rage.

Let’s see how.

Part 1 - Katara’s Rage Fuels Her Compassion

Throughout the series, Katara shares her grief over her mother’s death as a way to sympathize with others. In “The Southern Air Temple,” “Imprisoned,” and “Jet,” Katara tells Aang, Haru, and Jet about the effect the Fire Nation raids had on her, which establishes some of the most emotionally-charged scenes in these episodes. She is at her most vulnerable during these moments, laying bare a deep-rooted trauma in order to reach out and connect with someone else.

Dialogue from The Southern Air Temple

Katara: Aang, before we get to the temple, I want to talk to you about the airbenders.

Aang: What about 'em?

Katara: Well, I just want you to be prepared for what you might see. The Fire Nation is ruthless. They killed my mother, and they could have done the same to your people.

Dialogue from Imprisoned

Haru: Yeah. Problem is... the only way I can feel close to my father now is when I practice my bending. He taught me everything I know.

Katara: See this necklace? My mother gave it to me.

Haru: It's beautiful.

Katara: I lost my mother in a Fire Nation raid. This necklace is all I have left of her.

Haru: It's not enough, is it?

Katara: No.

Dialogue from Jet

Jet: The Fire Nation killed my parents. I was only eight years old. That day changed me forever.

Katara: Sokka and I lost our mother to the Fire Nation.

Jet: I'm so sorry, Katara.

However, these moments seem to distinctly lack any hint of anger from Katara’s end, so it may seem irrelevant to mention them here - that is, until we remember Katara had mentioned her mother one more time. Trapped in the Crystal Catacombs with a former enemy, she once again says that the Fire Nation took her mother away from her - but this time not with sympathy. No, this time she is filled with rage.

Dialogue from The Crossroads of Destiny

Zuko: You don't know what you're talking about!

Katara: I don't? How dare you! You have no idea what this war has put me through! Me personally! The Fire Nation took my mother away from me.

As Katara sits down, tears forming in her eyes, it becomes clear that her grief has festered into bitterness and anger towards the Fire Nation. By now, her grief is her anger, and so it’s not just shared pain Katara is empathizing within all four of these scenarios - it’s also shared rage.

She is gentle with Aang because she knows the effects of loss (inducing the Avatar State); she is sympathetic with Haru because she knows what she would be driven to do to have her mother back (inciting a prison break by stirring the prisoners’ righteous anger); and she is moved by Jet’s dedication to the Freedom Fighters because she would fight for the Southern Water Tribe too (against the Fire Nation, although Jet’s rage blinds him in a way that Katara’s doesn’t).

Then, in the Crystal Catacombs, it’s Katara’s anger towards the Fire Nation that uncovers her hidden pain. Her vulnerability is what causes Zuko’s words (“That’s what we have in common”) to resonate with her so much, enough for her to offer to heal his scar.

Therefore, Katara’s relationship with anger and grief (whether it’s emotionally-driven similar to how Aang enters the Avatar state or self-righteous similar to her calling the earthbender prisoners to action) is the foundation for some of her most compassionate moments in the series.

Part 2 - Katara’s Compassion Fuels Her Rage

Just as some of her most sympathetic moments are rooted in understanding someone else’s rage, many of Katara’s harshest moments see her acting on the behalf of others’ pain and needs.

As the designated “mother” of the Gaang, the Gaang’s more silly and immature antics often aggravate her and cause her to reprimand them severely, a clash that features prominently in Katara and Toph’s relationship.

In “The Chase” and “The Runaway,” Katara shouts at Toph for lacking a sense of responsibility. However, her indignation does not simply stem from taking personal defense, but from wanting to safeguard the family she has found in the Gaang. Then, both these times, Toph learns the true motives behind Katara’s overbearing actions through a conversation with Iroh and Sokka, respectively.

Dialogue from The Chase

Toph: People see me and think I'm weak. They want to take care of me, but I can take care of myself, by myself.

Iroh: You sound like my nephew, always thinking you need to do things on your own, without anyone's support. There is nothing wrong with letting the people who love you help you.

When Toph talks with Iroh in “The Chase,” Iroh imparts some wisdom on finding mutual support in friendship, implying that Katara pushing responsibilities onto Toph is her way of solidifying and upholding the loving and supportive dynamic within the Gaang.

Dialogue from The Runaway

Sokka: I'm gonna tell you something crazy. I never told anyone this before, but honestly? I'm not sure I can remember what my mother looked like. It really seems like my whole life, Katara's been the one looking out for me. She's always been the one that's there. And now, when I try to remember my mom, Katara's is the only face I can picture.

Toph: The truth is sometimes Katara does act motherly, but that's not always a bad thing. She's compassionate and kind, and she actually cares about me. You know, the real me. That's more than my own mom.

As the dialogue states, “Katara’s been the one looking out for [them].” Hence, her mothering tendencies towards Toph in “The Runaway” are evoked by her wanting to avoid the danger that Toph’s high-profile scamming is beginning to place them in. In other words, she simply wants to protect her makeshift family because “she actually cares about [Toph and the rest of the Gaang]. You know, the real [them].”

Katara’s ability to empathize with others, to see past facades and prejudices, is one of her defining traits. Earlier, in the episode “The Painted Lady,” Katara manages to see beyond the people of Jang Hui’s Fire Nation background and recognize that above all else, they are suffering from war and poverty. Consequently, they are people who need her.

As such, even the notion of abandoning the people of Jang Hui (as suggested by Sokka) enrages her because Katara is someone who “will never, ever turn my back on people who need [her]!”

Still, Katara’s desire to fight for a village of strangers cannot compare to the lengths she would take to protect Aang.

Dialogue from The Western Air Temple

Katara: You might have everyone else here buying your… transformation, but you and I both know you've struggled with doing the right thing in the past. So let me tell you something, right now. You make one step backward, one slip-up, give me one reason to think you might hurt Aang, and you won't have to worry about your destiny anymore. Because I'll make sure your destiny ends ... right then and there. Permanently.

While Zuko was a bystander as Azula shot lightning at Aang, he was an active participant in his fight against Katara, whom, just moments ago, he shared an incredibly intimate moment with. But despite how Zuko betrayed Katara personally, it is the impact his betrayal had on Aang’s life (and death) that she focuses on. So even at her most threatening, Katara acts to protect someone else, Aang, the boy who is her friend and her family.

Together, all these instances reveal that Katara’s compassion is what grants her a protective instinct, and her protective instinct is what moves her to anger and violence.

Conclusion

Katara’s character provides invaluable insight into the relationship between compassion and rage, revealing how it is not simply black contrasting white, but a spread of grays and contradictions. After all, that is who Katara is. She is two sides of the same coin and the bridge in between.

Even more, that is the human condition - full of grays and contradictions, simultaneously negating and reciprocating, balancing and tipping the scales all at once. And perhaps human emotion, in all its breadth, cannot be contained to a two-dimensional spectrum where emotions can either be placed close together or on opposite ends - because humanity is of infinite dimensions, constructed from science, dictated by art. And yet, somehow it is a two-dimensional animated character who captures human complexity with such ease.

#atla #atla meta #katara #katara meta #my bated breath analyzes #my bated breath's posts #that's not to say that katara's anger cannot exist without compassion #nor her compassion without anger #but it's not mutually exclusive either #on a separate note i have more metas on katara written #so you can watch out for that #likes and reblogs are always appreciated #thank you all for reading!

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rex101111 · 3 years

Text

For a glass of Cactus Wine

Summary: Migelo does both his duties at the fete, one to the Empire, and the other to his kids.

Rating: T

Fandom: Final Fantasy XII

Well! Been a while since I wrote something substantial, but @sevi007 has been doing a live blog of this game, thus reminding me how much I love it, and so here’s a fic depicting the one missing scene in this game I really wanted to see, also to give Lizard dad the content he deserves. Enjoy!

Seeing Arcadian troops stomp in the halls of the Royal Palace made Migelo want to crawl right out of his hide. It’s been two years since those bastards in their tin plates stomped into his home and his city and still he could only barely keep his anger in check at how disrespectful the whole lot of them were.

Leaning on pillars built centuries past, wiping their feet on rugs that took months to weave, pointing and laughing like children at art that they would never understand the importance of. If he heard another one of these piss-drunk bureaucrats call one more thing in this palace “quaint” he’s going to use that same thing to break it over their heads.

Still, years of experience in burying his feelings and opinions about his costumers helped him plaster a smile on his snout. This was simply business, he was providing sundries and food for an event, like he’s done dozens and dozens of times over his long career.

“Watch that crate!” He yelled out to one of the servants, “it’s got wine in it, worth more than ten of your lifetimes! Handle it with a bit of care why don’t you?” The servant sheepishly apologized and asked for help from another servant as Migelo turned his gaze elsewhere, “dear girl, you’ll break your back like that!” He went to a maid and corrected her posture and how she held her tray of food, “there we go now, better?”

“Thanks Migelo.” The maid smiled gratefully, before her face turned sour, “these imperials get nasty when they’re drunk, they keep asking me to run back and forth for all sorts of nonsense.” She sighed harshly, “probably just want a peek up my skirt.”

“You let ol’ Migelo handle them, Meina.” He soothes, turning her to a different direction, “empty that tray and take a break for ten minutes, I’ll have someone else make sure they don’t notice you gone, yes?”

She went off with a smile and Migelo continued like that, his time cleaved cleanly between ordering servants this way and that soothing fraying nerves. This fete needed to go flawlessly, with the consul himself attending every hand on deck needed to give it their all and then some. If the pompous royal left this evening with a good opinion of his food, he might transfer said opinion to the rest of the city. If he did that, maybe his boys and girls could have more room to breathe.

He looked ruefully over the staff, some of the younger ones he’s known since they were children, helped them train for applying for work in the palace. Rabanastre was a small city, everyone knew everyone, and that only became stronger as the plague and the war ravaged the place. Seeing these kids, his kids, running around like cockatrices with their heads cut off for the sake of their invaders made a lick of fire burn in his gut, no matter how hard he tried to douse it.

Worse of all was that he knew he was delaying the inevitable, he had an invitation to answer soon, and the longer he ignored the worse things would get not only for himself, but everyone else living in Rabanastre.

He took a few long breathes, practiced his best servile smile in a nearby plate, pictured the smiling face of every single child under his care in his mind, and went off to sit at the right of the eldest living son of Emperor Gramis, Vayne Carudas Solidor.

The consul was deep in debate with the others sitting at his table, something about tax rates and territory dispute that went right over Migelo’s head, but as soon as the old bangaa drew close enough, as if he could hear his footsteps over the rancor of the room, Vayne stopped talking and turned his head to meet his gaze.

“Ah, Sir Migelo, so nice of you to finally join me.” He motioned for one of the nearby soldiers to pull back the chair at his right side, “please, sit.”

With practice ease, and complaining stomach, Migelo bowed in apology, “I hope you would forgive me, Lord Consul, I had so many things to fix and move, my responsibilities nearly made me forget your most gracious offer.”

“Think nothing of it good Sir,” Vayne waved off easily, “We should all wish to have your work ethic Migelo, so we could accomplish our own work half as well.” Vayne complimented him smoothly as Migelo finally sat, the others at the table nodding sycophantically, before beginning to pour the store owner a glass of red wine. “But, let me remind you that I asked of you to refer to me by my first name.”

Taking the glass with all the grace he could manage, Migelo bowed his head again with an outwardly warm smile, “ah, forgive this old lizard sir consul, I still feel ill at ease referring to one of your station so informally.” The other reason was the only people he called by name were his friends and his kids, and Vayne is not, would never be, either. “Perhaps I’ll manage that better,” he made a show of laughing from his belly, “with a bit of fine Arcadian wine in my system, eh?”

“Of course.” Vayne’s sharp eyes and sharper smile made Migelo feel as if he were strapped to a table, “please, indulge as you please, we have all night after all.”

Nodding, Migelo started to drain his glass, and had to fight his gag reflex with every gulp. Arcadian wine made you feel like someone was trying to prove something to you, too rich, too fruity, too damn much. Seeing the people around him gulp this stuff down was aggravating as it was confusing, you could stuff as many flowers into a bottle of Slaven piss as you wanted, it was still a drink of cold piss.

Decades of honing his poker face in the interest of more returning costumers made sure none of that disgust was visible on his face of course, to any casual observer Migelo savored every drop of the expensive Slaven piss, finishing his glass with a pleasured sigh. “Ahh, what an excellent, uh, flavor profile! So full of life and character!” He turned to the consul with a toothy grin, “How’s about you give me another to loosen my tongue?”

“You are a man of great taste, Sir Migelo.” Vayne complimented, smiling thinly as he filled the offered cup before filling his own. “I’ve heard Dalmascans do not have a high opinion of my home’s signature brew.”

“Bah.” Migelo scoffed easily, “children with no experience on their tongues Lord Consul, nothing to be offended by.” He internally grits his teeth, he heard some of the younger men voice some of their very loud opinions about Arcadian wine in a place where a couple of soldiers could hear them. It ended well for absolutely no one, and he was only glad to make sure his kids didn’t see or hear it. “We Dalmascans are very proud of our own drinks, I think you would see it would make sense to be a bit defensive.” He took another gulp, “pardon m’candor, of course.”

“Indeed.” Vayne nodded, finishing his own glass, “and you have a great many things to be proud of, I’ve heard a fair share of good things about Dalmascan cactus wine.” He looked at Migelo with a gaze that made his scales itch, “have you tried it before?”

He was almost insulted the man had to ask, “o’course I did lord consul!” He tried to be casual about it, but a bit of hometown pride seemed to seep in every other word, “Cactus Wine is easy to brew in large amounts, made from Cactoid fruit and the sands are absolutely littered with the little buggers, it’s what you order when you have something to celebrate or as a victory drink.” Migelo could go for an entire barrel of it right now. “It’s a…simple drink. Simple but hearty.”

Vayne nodded politely as the bangaa went on, before he took the bottle of his expensive wine and looked at it quietly, “…I suppose there hasn’t been much call for it, lately.”

Migelo nearly swallowed his tongue, for all his talk of taking in all of Dalmasca’s hatred onto himself, the consul seemed adept at choosing words to inspire said hatred. “Y-No, Lord Consul, not a lot to celebrate.” He quickly recovered, smiling again as he waved his glass about, “b-but fret not! Us Dalmascans find reason to celebrate no matter the weather! You’ll have your taste of cactus wine before long don’t you worry!”

“Why wait my friend?” Vayne said smoothly, Migelo barely exerting the restraint he needed to stop himself from cursing the consul out on considering himself something he is not, “I have found myself a few bottles for this grand occasion.”

Migelo was stopped short, he had double checked every scrap of food and drink meant for this fete, triple checking the alcohol in particular, and he was sure there wasn’t a drop of cactus wine in the whole palace, he figured the imperials wouldn’t want to touch the stuff. “Y-you did? F-from where lord consul?”

“From the palace cellars of course.” He replied, motioning with his hand to another maid, Kayta if Migelo remembers right, who held a very familiar clay jug in her hands. “If one kind of wine isn’t enough to call me friend, perhaps two would suffice.”

Migelo held Kayta’s conflicted gaze for a moment, before he turned to Vayne with a doubtful expression, “the cellars my lord? Those haven’t been disturbed since the war ended! Who knows what kind of vermin have found their way to the stores?”

“I had my men carefully inspect each bottle.” Vayne assured, which only made Migelo more ill thinking about what Imperial soldiers considered inspecting. “Please, do not be reticent, I find myself curious what a man of your expertise has to say about the difference between one wine and the other.”

Kayta poured Migelo a glass with a sorrowful expression, Migelo soothing the girl as best he could with a smile only she could see, and the bangaa took a long whiff of the drink, before slowly draining his glass.

Cactus wine was sweet, almost sweet enough you could give it to a child without them puffing their little face. Its taste was subtle, airy, doing nothing more than what a wine ought to do and made your face and belly warm. It was cheap drink, cheap enough that working folk could indulge in it without endangering their pay over-much.

It was Dalmasca to the last drop, warm and honest.

“So, sir Migelo?” Vayne inquired when the bangaa finished and had not said a word, “how is your home’s brew compared to mine?”

He was quiet for a few more moments before he turned to the consul, “I must admit to having a bias sir.” He put the glass back down on the table gently, reaching over to grab a grape nearby to soak some of the alcohol in his system, “I’ve been drinking cactus wine since I was a whelp, y’see, it’s a drink for the heart as much for the stomach nowadays.”

Vayne chuckled good naturedly, “well, now you have me curious.” He picked up his own glass and motioned for Kayta to fill it, the girl nearly tripping over herself to bow as she poured without spilling it on him. He took a careful sip…and stopped, an emotion Migelo could not name fliting across his face. “…it tastes…” The consul was quiet for a moment, the rest of the table perfectly silent to await his judgment, “…honest.”

Migelo released a breath he didn’t know he was holding, allowing himself the tiniest amount of pride as he looked at Vayne, “Dalmasca knows no other way, Lord Consul.”

“Pritas.” Vayne looked at one of the people sitting at the table, some peacock in a stuffy red shirt with a pencil moustache, “you should try it, I am certain people in Archades would flock to try this, exotic yet gentle on the tongue.”

Pritas hurriedly motioned for Kayta to pour him a glass, and no sooner than he had a drop of it he was nodding enthusiastically, “y-yes Lord Vayne! You are absolutely correct; everyone will want a bottle of this for any price!”

Migelo, despite his mood and the alcohol in his system, found himself smiling at the sound of it, feeling someone patting his shoulder. “Migelo, after the fete be sure to grant Pritas here the information for whoever you get your cactus wine from, they’ll find more business than ever.”

Migelo could picture the family of brewers in his head, nearly jumping for joy at the chance that fell into their laps, a contract to sell cactus wine halfway across Ivalice. He then imagined their faces when he told them to which half of Ivalice the wine would go. He imagines the shock, the outrage, the sorrow.

He imagines the table with one more chair then they needed, the extra gathering dust for two years now.

“Yes, Lord Consul.” He said as calmly as he could manage, looking into the face of a man whose night has gone exactly as he had planned, down to the last detail, painting a smiling on his snout. “Thank you for this opportunity, I’m sure they’ll see this as a chance to build their life back up to how it was…” He could feel his lips curling over his teeth. “…before the war, that is.”

Vayne’s face drew downwards slightly, an almost robotic motion, “yes, the war has devastated both sides long enough,” He squeezed the shoulder he was holding, in a move meant to be reassuring, “it is past time we helped each other back onto our feet.”

Vaan crying into his shoulder, cursing and yelling and screaming every curse he knew. Penelo holding him tightly as she sobbed. Fire in the sky, visible from his window.

His home, under siege and under iron boots.

Migelo bit his tongue, brought to mind every orphan he and Old Dalan have struggled to keep fed and working and warm, and managed an impossible smile, “yes…way past time…Lord Consul.”

Vayne shook his head with a fond smile, and poured Migelo another cup of Arcadian wine. Migelo drained it without tasting a drop.

(Not long after, barely an hour after, he sees his boy in chains and his girl crying for his freedom, and all the wine in his veins is cold and freezing.

As they dragged his boy away, as his girl fell into the arms of Kayta as she sobbed, Vayne Carudas Solidor came to him, smiled, and clapped his shoulder.)

#Final Fantasy 12 #Migelo #Stuff rex wrote #Cactus wine #Migelo has a hell of a time taking care of his kids

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xiaoderys · 4 years

Text

❝ Saturated Sunrise ❞ (l.dh, n.jm) I

DISCONTINUED

pairing: haechan x reader, jaemin x reader

genre: crack, fluff, angst, possible smut soulmate!au, college!au, social media!au mixed WITH narrative

warnings: swearing, slightly suggestive with possible smut in future chapters

word count: 2.5K

parts: prologue , character-profile, I

synopsis: you gradually lose your ability to see colors as you fall out of love with donghyuck

you were red and you liked me because I was blue. but you touched me and suddenly was a lilac sky. then you decided purple just wasn't for you.

You’ve always loved the rain, unlike your boyfriend who would squirm whenever a single drop touches his golden skin, but then again, who could blame him? he was like the sun; a ball of roaring fire that could never learn to love its polar opposite. But you on the other hand, could never hate it even if you tried, there was just something about it, maybe it’s the tranquility of it, the smell, the aesthetic or the fact that it brings you back to the very night you met Hyuck.

It’s quite funny really, you’d think these only happened in movies and tv shows yet there you were, soaking wet and walking side by side with a boy you barely knew under an umbrella that barely covered you both.

You sighed deeply while looking through the glass windows of the convenience store and up at the dark sky, the rain was pouring and you figured it won’t be stopping any time soon.

You didn’t have your umbrella with you but it was already past 10pm so after a few minutes of internally arguing with yourself, you got out of your seat, walked out and pulled your bag above your head to somehow shield yourself from the rain.

new instagram post from Donghyuck, 1 new text from mom, 6 new notifications from bible study

open? Yes / No

As you took your first few steps outside, you heard the bell ring from behind you, signaling that there was someone going in/out of the store.

You didn’t mind it at first but you heard someone yell “Hey, wait up!” no one else was around so you assumed the person was calling out for you and stopped in your tracks.

You turned around to look and just as you do, a car sped right in front of you which caused the rain water from the ground to be splashed all over you.

“Well, fuck” you exhale.

You lowered the bag covering your head as you were already soaking wet from head to toe and wiped your dripping face swearing to yourself that the universe hated you.

As soon as the car passed, the person on the other side of the road, jogged towards you and adjusted his umbrella over your head “What the hell were you thinking?”

You were quite confused as to why this person was suddenly scolding you so you just furrowed your brows at him.

“Walking home without an umbrella in this weather? Are you stupid?”

“Well what do you want me to do? spend the night at 7-eleven?” you didn’t mean to respond with sarcasm but you just got soaked with rain water and this guy who was nagging you while talking just called you stupid which did not help you and your anger issues.

“Better than ending up looking like a wet dog that just played in the mud but I think it’s a little too late for that” he said as he looked you up and down.

“Hey, it’s not my fault! that guy was driving like he’s in grand theft auto!”

“Well if you just stayed back in the store and waited for the storm to at least calm down a little bit then you wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place and I wouldn’t have had to leave my delicious cup of ramen in there all alone” he raised his brow acting as if he made a point.

“No one asked you to do that”

“No one asked me to be so unbelievably hot either but here I am”, you scoffed at his sudden cockiness but you’d rather eat your own arm than feed a man’s ego so you looked at him with a distasteful expression “Just go back to your ramen, I can handle myself”

“Lies. You’ll freeze to death before you could even get half-way home. Here, take this” he took off his jacket and handed it to you.

The cold wind mixed with rain and your wet clothes hit you like a truck bigger than your ego but your stubbornness still got the better of you “I-I don’t need it”

“you’re literally shivering like a little puppy”, he was right but are you going to admit to that? No.

“I bite into my ice cream without feeling a thing and sleep right in front of the air conditioner, I think I’ll be fine”

He poked his tongue in his cheek, showing his annoyance “Why do you have to be so difficult? you’d rather walk home freezing than put your pride aside for a second?” the angrier he got while scolding you, the more he talked in a pout so instead of scaring you into listening, you actually found it a little cute—

“Hey, are you listening?!” thunder struck all of a sudden which made you flinch and Donghyuck swore right then and there that you were the most adorable thing in existence.

After seeing you jump from the thunder, his expression softened and suddenly the rain was pouring heavier than before and you were shivering like crazy. He sighed, and put his jacket over your shoulders himself.

You were gonna take it off and give it back to him but he stopped you “if you take that off, I’ll kiss you” normally, you would love to challenge a bluff but you couldn’t take it anymore, it was so cold and you had no other choice, so you mumbled a quick “fine” and although it didn’t help much, you did feel a lot warmer.

He smiled at you, satisfied with your decision “Great, so where are we headed?”

“We?” you looked up at him confused

“mhmm, were you just expecting me to give you my umbrella and let you go home with my adidas track top?” he said with a ridiculing expression

“pretty much, yeah”

“This is my only umbrella and that jacket costs over a $60, I’m not letting you walk away with it just like that and besides, there are loads of creeps out here”

“$60 for a jacket this thin?” you held up the sides of the jacket wondering how a jacket so thin could cost more than your weeks worth of allowance.

“Yeah, it’s a bit off a rip-off, but that’s not the point, dummy. I’m your only option of getting home safe wether you like it or not”

“You don’t even know me, why do you care so much if something happens?“

“My gentleman nature is truly my biggest flaw-“ you rolled your eyes and turned around, ready to walk away but he held your shoulders back “ah ah, hold on! My mom would never forgive me if she found out I left a girl all alone to walk home in the rain”

You sighed “Fine but no talking, I’ve already used up all my social juice for the day” he nodded cutely and snuggled beside you.

You didn’t get the chance to think about it but he looked around your age and appeared to be a student as well, considering the fact that he wore a tracksuit and was carrying a backpack.

You tried to catch a glimpse of his face every now and then and you weren’t gonna lie, he definitely wasn’t bad looking.

Being a little shorter than him, it gave you the opportunity to study his side-profile; his jaw was quite defined and his features were really soft and he had these insanely fluffy cheeks oh- and you also noticed his plump lips that made it look like he was always pouting.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer” he said with a straight face, not even bothering to look in your direction.

“What?” you widened your eyes, blood rushing to your cheeks due to embarrassment.

“What? you think I haven’t noticed you staring at me for the past five minutes? you’re practically undressing me with your eyes” he playfully rolled his eyes.

You slapped his arm “No, I wasn’t! what’s wrong with you!”

He let out a chuckle, finding your annoyance and the way you turn red when embarrassed very amusing but you on the other hand just stayed with a pout and furrowed brows.

Donghyuck soon realized that you haven’t caught each other’s name yet “so what’s your name?”

“I thought I said no talking”

“Come on, small talk won’t hurt you”

I guess it’s better than walking in awkward silence “I’m y/n”

“Cute. I’m Donghyuck“ he smiled.

Since you were making small talk, you decided to ask about him more “if you don’t mind me asking, are you still a student?”

“A high school junior, yes, you?”

“Oh my god! same!” Donghyuck noticed how you got a little too excited over something so little but little did he know, that your childlike nature was just a sample of your many unforgettable qualities.

“Really? your height is making me think otherwise”

“Hey! My height is average!” you stopped and started to get defensive.

“And it’s not like you could talk, you’re not even that much taller!” that was a lie, he stood a good 7 inches taller than you making him the perfect height to give you forehead kisses.

“Okay mike wazowski, let’s keep it moving”

“Are you really trying to get me mad?!”

You looked so cute with your brows knit together and mouth forming a thin line that Donghyuck just couldn’t help but laugh “No offense but I literally feel like I’m being threatened by a cupcake”

“Do you want to fight?!” and just like that, Donghyuck found his new favorite hobby: annoying the living hell out of you.

“Pftt, what are you gonna do? eat my kneecaps?” he rolled his eyes.

“You know what, take your umbrella, I’m going home on my own!” You were ready to leave and he chuckled “Come onnnnn, I’m just kidding, it’s already-“ he checked his phone for the time “10:57 and I have to be home by midnight”

“Who are you? Cinderella?”

“Yeah but I’m much prettier and charming plus I have a mom who will eat me alive if I stay out too late so let’s get going”

“okay but you have to promise to stop teasing me”

“Alright. I’ll try” and with that you huffed continued with your walk home

You didn’t want to admit it but you really enjoyed Donghyuck’s company, there was just a natural sense of familiarity with him which made you feel at ease.

He would talk about the most random things but no matter what they were, he always found a way to put a smile on your face.

He even talked about his little puppy at home who probably misses him which made you feel bad because the puppy must be so sad right now and here you are, taking up too much of Donghyuck’s time.

You were both so into these conspiracy theories that you didn’t even notice that thirty minutes have passed and you were right in front of you house.

“Well, uhm, this is me” you smiled softly.

“Oh then I guess I’ll get going now” he responded, getting ready to go home.

“Wait uh- thanks for you know, walking me home and stuff.. I’m really sorry for being rude earlier” you looked at the ground, feeling ashamed of how you acted earlier when he was only trying to help.

He chuckled, ruffling your hair “It’s fine, I won’t exactly be very happy either if I got ground water splashed all over me while it’s 10 degrees outside, but you do owe me a cup of ramen”

“Oh come on, that probably only costed like a dollar or something” you whined

“3$ actually and it was a really delicious cup of ramen so I’m gonna have to get your number because I’m not letting this one slide” if Donghyuck was being honest, he couldn’t give two fucks about the ramen; normally, he’d be really mad about it but the fact that he can use it as an excuse to get your number, made up for it.

“fine” and that was how it all started.

Now, you could’ve called a cab that night or asked someone to come pick you up but you didn’t. Call it fate or your brain just wasn’t working at the time but you sure as hell know it happened for a reason because that’s what brought Hyuck to you.

There are forces in the universe that we don’t understand, measurable forces that can’t be explained but also can’t be denied and nobody gets it but maybe that’s what it was because right here, right now you’re with a distressed Donghyuck because you both forgot your umbrellas and have to take shade under an oak tree.

He hated the rain, he would squirm every time it hit his skin yet he still gave up his jacket to cover you. He continued to scold you because quite frankly, you stopping to pet every single stray animal you saw was the reason why you got caught in the middle of the rain anyway.

“You know, one of these days, one of those strays will bite or scratch you and you’re gonna get rabies” there he was again with his lips in a pout, annoyed by the continuous droplets of rain meeting his golden skin.

“Hmm maybe, but until then, I’m gonna stop to pet every single one I see because all of them deserve love and attention. You know, if it were up to me-“ he cut you off “You’re gonna adopt all the stray animals in the world and take care of them, I know. You literally never fail to mention that” you smiled at how he always seems to never listen to you yet he remembers the little things. But then you noticed that he was shivering “are you cold? do you want your jacket back?”

“no, I’m fine” he exhales.

You furrowed your brows and looked at him with worry and of course he noticed.

“Baby, I’m fine, I swear, all this sexual tension between us from being so close together is enough to keep me warm”

You playfully hit his arm and he chuckled “No, seriously, keep it, you need it more than me” oh, he hated it, he hated it so so much. He wanted to be anywhere with you but there but he wasn’t gonna admit to that and he didn’t want you to worry.

Youu started to talk in a pout, a habit you unconsciously picked up from your boyfriend whenever you were worried “but you’re shivering, can we at least share it?”

Donghyuck knows the jacket would never fit the both of you but he also knows that you’re not one to give up easily, it’s one of his most favorite things about you, except when you’re arguing or playing games because you’re both egotistical assholes yet you’re the only one who can put him in his place and the only one he sets his pride aside for.

You looked at him snuggled right beside you, trying his best to not let the rain touch you and despite the situation being unfavorable, right at this exact moment, everything just felt right and you know you were supposed to be here.

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mack3030 · 3 years

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I find it really telling that even after their “apology” (which was really weak and seemed more like barely admitting to their problems and sweeping it all under the rug), Anto still has the evidence up on his tumblr.

He can’t say “I don’t accept your apology because it sounds weak and fake and barely takes any real responsibility...” without sounding like a jerk to certain people. (Even if it’s true.)

There’s a difference between saying:

* Okay I finally admit I might have made a mesh that looks almost identical to yours and it might come across as copyright infringement oops sorry about that...and that it took so long to admit...

* I am deeply sorry to the communities I hurt. Not just those who play the sims, but the creators on secondlife whose work I directly stole and edited and claimed as my own. I was not right to deny the claims against me when I knew they were true. From now on I am going to hold myself to a higher standard and apologize to those who I have hurt.

See the thing that rings false about Sonya’s apology is the claim that they didn’t “steal” the mesh but copied it side by side. This rings hollow because of all of the evidence posted by Anto and others that literally shows how IDENTICAL the “Sonyasims” meshes are to the original meshes. Yes, there are some minor differences, but they are few and the similarities are way too uncanny for it to be copied.

In my profession I deal a lot with kids who “trace” artwork and pass it off as their own. One of the biggest red flags is the artwork being too similar to the original. Why? Because if you’re “eyeballing” the work and drawing (aka copying from a reference image) there will be enough noticeable differences for it to not look exactly like the original. Lines might not be as smooth or straight, proportions might be slightly off, details missed. A traced image, however, looks 95% or more like the original with only a few details missed most of the time.

And sonyasims work, based on the screenshots and video evidence compiled, looks like a traced work I’d get from one of my kiddos.

See, there IS a difference between taking someone’s work directly and tracing and using it as a reference for a new work (particularly if you are in the process of learning how to do an art form). Usually if you are not making serious money (I.E you only sell your eyeballed work to a few friends/family members that want one vs trying to make a “brand” and sell it professionally) you can (normally) get away with eyeballing work and not changing it too much. (While it might not be 100% in line with copyright, this is commonly done at the beginners/student level — ex: a student selling a work they did in class at an art show that was heavily derived from a reference image to a friend/teacher.)

But when you decide you want to be a “professional” artist, you have to be able to take a reference image and remix and change it enough that it is a new work in its own right. Copying a reference alone won’t cut it. You have to make it different enough that people can’t come after you for it thinking you lifted a good portion of it from another work in any form. Lots of professional artists have had issues with this, a recent case being Jake Parker, the founder of Inktober, who was accused of plagiarizing from another artist’s how to draw book.

Sonyasims cannot claim ignorance about where the inspiration for their mesh came from. They can’t claim they were only copying the meshes of Anto and others for practice or as cc for their own game. They blatantly put it on their patreon, and claimed that the edited mesh was their own. They tried to be a “professional” cc maker by taking the work of others, editing it a slight bit, and selling it as their own under their own “brand”.

When called out on it, they denied it until they were blue in the face, even throwing out wild suggestions on how they’d “prove” their innocence. All this did was make people more upset, because in light of all the evidence shared....sonyasims’ denials rang hollow.

So what can we ask ourselves and learn from this?:

1) How are we as a community going to deal with “creators” who are blatantly stealing meshes from other sites and creators? I’m not just talking secondlife, I’m also talking turbosquid, imvu, sketchfab, and other 3D sites and places where people take and/or buy meshes and then resell them as their own sims 4 content. As I’ve detailed in one of my past posts, many of these sites don’t actually allow you to sell their meshes for 3D worlds like the Sims 4. And many sims 4 creators don’t inform the original mesh creators about how their mesh is being resold.

How are we going to deal with this? Because this is a bigger problem than just Sonyasims. Many high profile CC creators are VERY guilty of fully converting entire sets from 3D modeling sites to “sell” as their cc content and the community turns a blind eye to it because we want pretty things for our game and don’t think about where they come from. It’s easier to just assume that person made them....even if they are amazingly able to “crank out” tons of surprisingly high quality content on the daily...(almost as if they didn’t have to mesh much at all...🤭).

2) What actions should be required of those who have violated the community’s trust? At what point will they be “forgiven”?

If Sonyasims wants to rebuild trust in the community they will have to show that they deserve it. They have two options. Either try to find more obscure meshes to steal that people won’t recognize, or actually mesh stuff themselves and show they are sorry for their actions. I hope they choose the second, but at what point does the community have to forgive someone who’s wronged it? I think of Savvysweet, who although a majority of the community loves and still supports even with the incident earlier this year, still gets hateful asks and comments from others. What should a simblr do when they’ve been proven to have wronged the Sims 4 CC community? What steps should they take to show true remorse?

3) What do we, as a community value? Do we value having “pretty stuff” in our games, regardless of how it got there and what creative individual’s rights are stepped on? Do we value having a system of paywalls and exclusives where only those who have more can access the creations of the creative community? Do we desire an open source and sharing community where creatives come together and learn and share resources freely while respecting each other? These are all important questions for us to ask as we continue to move forward from this. While this is not the first time a creator has been called out for stealing meshes, this is one that has gained a lot of attention. And while I agree that they deserve the negative attention and consequences that come with their actions, I also feel that if we as a community are going to publicly hold them accountable for it, we need to examine others who are doing the same thing. Because it’s up to us to decide what we want our creative space to look like, and feel like. So chew on these questions, ponder them. If you have an opinion on them, I’d love to know. They’re just questions to consider, because I sure don’t have an answer.

#sonyasims #paywalls suck #theft #copyright violations #oof #sims 4 cc #sims 4 maxis match #sims 4 alpha

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elzayer · 3 years

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𝐴𝑈 #2 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑇ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑀𝑢𝑠𝑘𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑟𝑠 || 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑃𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑛

Due to very daring antics, as well as being accused of practicing witchcraft and service to the Devil, Karina is once again caught, and then sentenced to death by hanging. She stands on a wooden platform with a noose around her neck. However, she was granted the right to have the last word before being hanged for the amusement of a crowd of rubbernecks.

“The final words of Carina Smyth...Quiet!” Smyth broke her voice and proudly straightened her back and snorted as the square fell into complete silence. “The final words of Carina Smyth...Good sirs, I'm not a witch but I forgive your common dim witlessness and feeble brains. In short, most of you have the mind of a goat.”

Among this crowd were two men dressed in musketeer uniforms. They were Athos and D'artagnan. Their road lay just across the square where the execution of the young woman of science took place.

Although both Musketeers were not fans of public executions, especially in relation to young and pretty maidens, this devil in a sky-blue dress was still able to keep both of them in place in order to find out what would happen to her next.

The young Gascon felt a surge of indignation from hearing the maiden's appeal to all those gathered at the site of her future death.

“No wonder she has fallen under the noose at such a young age.” The brown-haired man shook his head with a reproach, barely restrained his desire to get to that charming upstart and express everything he thinks about her manners.

But as soon as he took a step towards Smyth, the Athos’ hand immediately slowed him down. He watched the whole show incessantly.

“Don't tell me, Athos, that you have nothing against her words.”

“But I am more against about you to have a fatuous arguement with her. In the end you just put yourself in an even more ridiculous position.” The blonde exhaled softly and remained completely unperturbed.

However, his faintly perceptible smile hinted at his whole attitude to this parade of absurdity with a blue-eyed girl on the platform in the lead.

“But there’s no any noose around my neck, my friend ... But the Lord will be true for me if I say that this little devil is clearly too good to die like this. What do you think, Athos?” The Gascon's gaze became more piercing and even burning from inside, so he continued to watch Karina relentlessly.

“I’ll just say that she is clearly too smart and proud to die.” Meanwhile Athos was also staring at the brunette, but in his eyes there was a clear desire to understand this strange female. He seemed to try to catch the course of her very willful thoughts, and managed to involuntarily find in this something truly special and even alluring.

“Are you thinking about the same thing that I am?” D'artagnan stood on the right shoulder of Athos, looking at his profile with his smile, which clearly showed a desire to do something both terribly stupid and terribly right. His head was tilted slightly to the side in curiosity.

“I think that saving the life of this young lady will clearly not be superfluous.” Athos turned towards D'artagnan with a faint smile. As he received a nod from the brown-haired man as an agreement with his idea, both musketeers simultaneously slightly bared their swords and again looked at Karina from a distance.

#au #the three musketeers 1993 #the pirates of the caribbean #athos #d'artagnan #carina smyth

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naireides · 4 years

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you drew stars around my scars

katara learns the story behind zuko's scar; coaxed into writing this by @hooksandheroics aka my zutara screaming partner

zutara week day 6: affirm rated G | wc: 2.2k read on ao3 here

affirm /əˈfəːm/ offer (someone) emotional support or encouragement.

As with most things, it starts with Sokka.

“I got this one when I was a four and slipped on the ice, and I got this one when Katara was practicing with her water knives, and, oh! This one is from when we escaped from Ba Sing Se. It kinda looks like a koalaotter if you squint,” he says eagerly as he rolls up the hem of his pants to show off the slightly raised patch of skin on his shin.

“It does not look like a koalaotter,” Katara says with a roll of her eyes. “It’s just a scar .”

“That’s because you don’t have an artist’s eye,” he sniffs in disdain. “Aang, you see a koalaotter, right?”

He hesitates, looking between the siblings “Uh, well,” he fumbles, leaning to get a closer look of Sokka’s leg, “I guess if I squint --”

“Don’t mind them, Sokka, I think it looks like a koalaotter,” says Toph, where she leaned back against Appa’s side, flicking pebbles in the air.

He grins triumphantly. “See! I told you-- hey .” He glares at her as she starts to laugh.”I’ve got to stop falling for that.”

“You make it too easy,” she giggles before turning over onto her stomach. “I don’t have any cool scars.”

“How would you even know?”

“I just do, Twinkletoes,” she says, blowing a raspberry his way.

Aang looks sour for a second before he brightens and yanks his pants up over his knee. “One time in Omashu I was Bumi and I got this,” he says excitedly gesturing to the hypertrophic scar that graced his knee. “It looks like a map of the Fire Nation!”

Sokka leans in closer, trying to get a better look at it in the flickering light of the campfire. He strokes his chin and says, “Yeah, it actually kinda does.”

“Let me guess,” Katara says flatly, “You and Bumi had a slide accident, didn’t you?”

Aang’s responding sheepish laughter and the faint colour that rises to his cheeks tell her everything that she needs to know.

“What about you, Katara?” he asks, directing the attention to her instead of himself, “Do you have any cool scars?”

She shrugs. “No, not really.”

He pouts. “C’mon. Not even a little one?”

“Yeah Katara, not even a little one,” taunts Sokka, “You know, like when Gran-Gran taught you how to sew and you accidentally stitched your glove to your thigh.”

“Sokka!” she snaps, cheeks ablaze, while the others roar with laughter. “At least I know how to sew. You still ask Gran-Gran to darn your socks!”

It’s his turn to flush now, embarrassment creeping over him. “Zuko!” he calls out, eyes falling on the other boy who’s been surprisingly quiet this whole time. He’s sitting in the shadows, just out of their little fireside circle. “You’re up. Story time.”

His good eye widens as they all look towards him, waiting. “Uh,” he stutters for a moment before pulling the neckline of his shirt. “I have one on my shoulder that kind of looks like a fire lily?” He twists, giving them a glimpse of it for just a second before fixing his shirt to rights. “Azula pushed me into the turtle duck pond when I was ten.”

“Your sister is a psychopath,” Sokka says unimpressed.

“She’s not a psychopath,” he says, still awkward as he rubs the back of his neck, “Just… misunderstood.”

“If you say so.”

“I’m going to take a walk,” he says, abruptly standing up and stalking off into the night before anyone else can get a word in.

They all watch him leave but Katara’s eyes linger the longest, even as Toph changes the topic by saying, “What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten? I’ll go first! It was sand!”

They continue on with their usual fireside banter until they start yawning more than talking and then, one by one, they tuck in for the night, curling up in their sleeping bags as the fire dwindles to just embers.

Katara waits until Sokka’s sleepy mumbling trail off into snores before she unfurls herself and heads down the rocky pathway to the shore that Zuko had taken earlier.

She finds him there, standing on the still warm sand and staring out at the ocean, nothing but the faint glow of the moon to illuminate his profile. The moon tugs at something in her veins, calling her towards the water, but she ignores it in favour of padding across to where he stood in complete silence.

He doesn’t say anything as she comes to stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder. The heat radiating off of him is a nice contrast to the cool night’s air that swirls around them, laden heavy with salt and sea.

They stand there together, watch the waves lap against the shore, just far enough inland that the water barely brushes against their toes.

“Everyone’s gone to bed,” she says after a couple moments have passed.

When he doesn’t say anything in return, she shifts closer, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Hey. You should get some rest too.”

“I’m fine.”

She sighs inwardly before moving to step in front of his gaze and his head jerks back. “Look, Sokka didn’t mean anything by asking about-- he just lacks tact.”

There’s a faint quirk of his lips at the corners. “I think at this point Momo has more tact than your brother.”

“And you’d be right,” she murmurs in agreement. It’s then she realises how close they’re standing, the way she can make out every line and edge of his face in the watery moonlight. She hasn’t stood this close to him since their brief time in the crystal catacombs together.

The memory of their time together sparks something within her and Katara can’t help but let her eyes drift to his scar, the reddened, raised edges that cover his face from eyebrow to cheekbone.

She expects him to turn his head as he does whenever he catches anyone looking at the scar, but to her surprise, all he does is swallow thickly.

“I should have let you use the magic water when I had the chance huh.”

“Spirit water,” she corrects him, automatic, “To be honest, it’s probably a good thing I didn’t. I ended up using it to save Aang after Azula shot him with lightning.” She fixes him with a look. “She really is a psychopath.”

Zuko shrugs half-heartedly. “She’s still my sister.”

Katara worries her lip, hesitating for a moment before she brings her hand to rest on his cheek, feeling the bumpy, irregular surface of his skin beneath it. He winces at the contact but he still makes no move to turn away from her.

“I don’t know-- you never told me how you got this,” she says softly, her thumb rubbing at the edge where smooth skin gives way to scar tissue.

He seems shocked at that. “You mean you don’t know?” At the shake of her head, his mouth presses into a thin line. “It’s not exactly a great bedtime story.”

“I didn’t expect it to be,” she says, and then adds, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“It’s fine.” He flashes her a wry grin but there’s no humour behind it, just a long lasting sadness. “It was a spectacle in the Fire Nation. The Fire Lord duelling the crown prince in an agni kai.”

Katara stumbles back as the weight of his words hit her like a freight train. The hand she had on his cheek drops, coming to cover her mouth which had fallen open in shock.

“An agni kai? Your father did this to you?” she asks, her voice just barely above a whisper as she tries to even begin to comprehend just what Zuko might have gone through. Suddenly, his actions in the early days start to make sense.

“My uncle invited me to a war meeting. It was my first time there and they were discussing an invasion plan for the Earth Kingdom. A general proposed sacrificing an entire legion of new recruits-- children, barely sixteen-- and everyone just went along with it. They didn’t see anything wrong with that,” he explains, weariness dripping from every word and settling deep in her bones. “I spoke up. Said it was wrong to lead them to their deaths like that. But by speaking against the general, I spoke against my father and he didn’t appreciate that.”

“And he challenged you to an agni kai,” she finishes, horrified.

Zuko clenches his jaw and nods once before ducking his head. “I didn’t want to fight him. I begged him for forgiveness but my father saw it as a sign of weakness. So he burnt me and then banished me from the kingdom. The only way for me to return home was if I redeemed myself, redeemed my honour , by capturing the avatar,” he says, eyes flicking up to look at her from beneath his lashes.

It’s quiet for a long time, his words hanging heavy in the air. Katara feels hot and cold at the same time, the sickening chill of everything that Zuko had to go through leaking down her spin to mix with the bright, all consuming rage in her stomach. She doesn’t think she’s felt this much anger since she came face to face with Yon Rha.

Katara doesn’t realise that she’s shaking until he puts his hands on her shoulders, steadying her and the turbulent water she accidentally agitated in all of her emotion. The hems of their clothes are wet.

“Hey,” he murmurs, soft, stepping closer, into her space, “It’s okay.”

“It’s okay ?” She chokes out a laugh that sounds like fractured glass. “It’s certainly not okay.”

“I’ve made my peace with it,” he says, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into her biceps, “I thought that when he gave me the scar he took away my honour and that I had to find the avatar to regain it. But I don’t believe that anymore. I’m the only one who can get it back and by helping Aang restore order in the world… well, I like to think it’s a step in the right direction.”

She wants to laugh at how easy he says it, at how he truly believes that there’s still more making up that he needs to do before he can consider himself worthy again.

It’s that expression on his face-- half hope, half determination-- that melts the fight right out of her.

“Zuko,” she starts tenderly. Her hand finds its way back up to his cheek, brushing along the sharp line of his cheekbone, brushing over his scar. “You are the most honourable person I know of.”

She’s close enough that she can see the way his eyes widen at her declaration and the way his white-gold skin colours with a dull flush. His cheek is warm under her palm.

“All of this-- I hate that it happened to you, but you’re a good man. An honourable man. And I’m so glad to have you with us,” she tells him.

Out of everything, this is what gets him to look away, the praise she showers upon him, and Katara can’t help but grin.

She leans forward, closing the narrow strip of space between them, and brushes her lips against his cheek, soft, quick, perhaps too quick for both of them though they would never say it.

His smile is fond when she pulls back, the blush still swirling in his cheeks matching the new one that rises to hers when she meets his eyes. There’s a new warmth blazing in them as he looks down at her, and Katara feels herself colour further.

“Thank you, Katara,” he tells her, affection clinging to the simple words. He squeezes her arms once more before letting his hands drop to his sides. It leaves her strangely cold and she watches as he flexes his fingers, not looking at her again.

Tentatively, she reaches over, taking hold of his hand. It’s much larger than hers, pale with long delicate fingers, and surprisingly calloused for someone who’s a bender, and royalty on top of that. She supposes that it comes from years of training with his dao swords.

His eyes are questioning when she looks back up at him, and she offers a small smile in return.

“Come on,” she says, tangling her fingers in his as she leads him away from the shoreline. “Let’s get some rest.”

The weight of unsaid things linger between them as they slowly pick their way back up to the campsite, a quiet, sweet thing that blooms in the still air of the night. Neither of them say a word as they climb into their sleeping bags, but they lie next to each other, eyes roving across faces and drinking in the tiniest of details that are visible in the light of the dying embers.

Zuko drifts to sleep first and she finds herself looking at his scar again as sleep starts to consume her too. A reminder of his painful past, but hopefully a guiding light to shape his future.

As Katara finally succumbs to sleep, her last thought is that she hopes she’s part of that future with him too.

#zutara #zutara fanfiction #zutara week #atla #my writing #nai did a thing #i posted this on ao3 2 nights ago but forgot to post it here whoops

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heart-of-gold-outlaw · 4 years

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A Smile is Something to Be Cherished, Dear: an Arthur Morgan x Modern!Reader Fanfic

"If I have to chop one more piece of firewood," you say as you brandish your axe, "Imma start wearing flannel. Y'all can call me Lumber Jack. Or maybe Jack Lumber. Or Lack Jumber. Or--"

"For chrissakes," Micah snarls. He's sharpening his knife at a nearby table. "We get it, Y/N."

You shrug and bring the axe down hard, splitting a piece of wood clean in two with one swing. "I pretended it was your head."

To give him credit, Micah doesn't do or say much of anything in retalition. Instead, he just sighs, mutters to himself, and leaves. You're glad to see him go. Over the last few weeks, ever since Arthur found you in the Grizzlies, freezing and terrified, you've decided Micah Bell is your least favorite out of the bunch. Something about him just screams "psychopath." You're surprised that Dutch, for all his intelligence, can't see it.

You've only been with the Van Der Linde gang for a little while. Honestly, you're not too sure what to make of all them. Hosea seems nice enough, and Dutch treats you fair, which is all you can ask for. They may not be the most conventional people, but they're trying their best to do right by you. The whole thing makes your head spin. A few weeks ago, you were in your living room, screaming through a twelve-page essay due the next day. Now? Now you're a hundred and thirty-ish years in the past... and running with a bunch of outlaws at that.

Yeah. Not exactly the life you thought you'd live. But hey: at least you're not dead.

You finish chopping firewood and set the axe aside. Nobody really says for sure that you have to do chores, but you don't like feeling useless. And besides: everybody in the Van Der Linde gang does their part. Why should you be the only exception?

A few of the girls--Tilly, Karen, and Mary-Beth, if you've got their names down--lounge by one of the wagons when you approach. They look up and offer you what seem like genuine smiles. You give one of your own and plop yourself in the grass next to them.

"How're you holdin' up, Y/N?" The blonde one--Karen, you think--asks. "I know this all must be pretty strange."

"Yeah," Tilly murmurs. "We just wanna make sure you're doin' okay."

You blink, then immediately switch gears. They didn't catch you off-guard. Nosiree. "I'm okay." You shrug one shoulder. "Beats what I was doing back in my time."

Mary-Beth leans forward excitedly, and you briefly think she's going to grab your hand. You get ready to pull away, just in case.

"Must be quite the experience, time travel and all," she says, practically vibrating. "What's the future like, Y/N?"

"Mary-Beth," Karen admonishes with a roll of her eyes, "don't ask them that. Haven't they been through enough?"

"Oh lay off." Mary-Beth swats her away with a mischeivous grin. You can practically see the gears turning in her head. "I'm just askin' what everybody's thinkin'."

Your heart hammers in your chest as you think overtime about what to say. You're still not sure how this whole thing works, if there are things you shouldn't say, things that might prove catastrophic to the timeline and whatnot. Every science fiction movie you've ever seen suddenly plays in your head. And even though they all vary in success, one thing's clear: time is messy. Space-time is even messier. Travel through both? Might as well call it a goddamn hurricane.

Thankfully, Tilly notices your discomfort and gives Mary-Beth a hard look. "Y/N doesn't have to answer all your questions, y'know." She shifts into a glare. "Maybe give them some time to get used to everything first, okay?"

Bless Tilly Jackson, you decide. The only voice of reason in the bunch.

You're about to thank her, or maybe you're about to change the subject, when Uncle comes tearing up to your little group, that wild smile on his face you've learned means trouble. Still, when he mentions going to a small livestock town, you all but jump at the offer. You've been meaning to see what ordinary life looks like in the past. Maybe this is the perfect opportunity.

And no, you tagging along has nothing to do with the fact that Arthur's going to be there, too.

// // // // // //

The journey into Valentine is pretty uneventful, save for a broken wagon... and someone getting kicked to death by their own horse. The girls scream when they see it, and Uncle jumps a little. Even Arthur mutters a soft "shit" under his breath. You, though, just stare. It isn't the first dead body you've seen. Probably won't be the last, either, if you have to guess.

"God, I wish that were me," you find yourself saying, thinking of the internet back in your time, of the dark humor, and how it's used as a coping mechanism.

Five heads immediately swivel your way. Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen stare at you with their mouths agape, while Uncle watches you like you've grown a third arm out of your chest. Arthur eyes you with a look you can't read, and you briefly wonder what's wrong. Then, it hits you like a sledgehammer and you internally groan.

Right, you think. Generational gaps.

"I'm joking," you explain. "It's how we cope in my time."

Luckily, Arthur chooses that moment to urge the horses forward, and the wagon starts toward Valentine again. The incident quickly fades, and the girls are soon buzzing with excitement. You can't help but feel a little anxious. Adjusting to the Van Der Linde gang has been tough; you don't want to be overwhelmed by everything once you get into town. With that in mind, you decide to stick close to Arthur. Just since he found you, that's all. It's the familiarity, you tell yourself. Nothing else.

Valentine isn't the most glamorous of places, but it's not too shabby, either. Immediately, you're in awe. A frontier town. An actual frontier town in the 1890's. The history nerd in you threatens to explode as you pass by the shops, the saloon, and the stables. Arthur stops the wagon in a little clearing just after the general store. You barely notice.

"Alright," he says, low and firm. "Remember: keep a low profile, but try an' find some leads. No trouble now, ya hear?"

The girls murmur various replies, then hop out of the wagon, dashing off like little dogs to sniff out something interesting. You watch them go, then look back to Arthur, silently waiting for him to send you off on your own. He watches you for a moment, as if debating with himself, before he sighs and starts shoving Uncle out of the wagon.

"Go make yourself useful, old man."

Uncle grumbles something under his breath, but ultimately does as he's told. After a few seconds, he disappears into the general store. You're left alone with Arthur. Not that you particularly mind. It's better than any alternative you can think of. As you climb to the ground, legs cramped from the ride, you take a moment to look around. The town isn't really anything special. Oddly enough, you think of the time your best friend dragged you to a rodeo in the middle of Wyoming. Valentine looks something similar to that.

"Holding up okay?" Arthur says, startling you out of your thoughts. You can't help but jump a little when you turn around and find him right behind you. He gives you a look, then sighs and motions toward the stables with his head. "C'mon."

He starts off in their direction. You practically have to jog to keep up with him, but you don't really care about that. Honestly, the thrill of being in a different place (and the past at that) is enough to make you forgive just about anything.

"What d'ya think we'll find?" You ask, almost bouncing up and down with excitement. "Are we gonna--" You break off and lower your voice. "Are we gonna steal some horses?"

Arthur glances down at you and huffs out a laugh... well, half of one, for that matter. "You ain't stealin' anything for a while, Y/N."

"Oh." You don't even try to hide your disappointment. "No horses, then?"

He shakes his head, laughing again when you pout. Briefly, you think of sticking out your foot and tripping him, but something tells you that wouldn't end well. You don't want a six-foot-something, pissed off outlaw chasing you around... especially when he's your ride home.

The two of you reach the stables, and Arthur holds the door for you. You skip past him, stopping dead when you catch sight of the rows and rows of stalls. The horses are absolutely beautiful. Almost instantly, your eyes zero in on a Appaloosa gelding, and before you know what you're doing, you're walking over and gently touching the tip of his nose. He whinnies softly, nuzzling your hand a few seconds later. And as you stare at him, absently stroking the side of his face, you realize Arthur's moved to stand beside you.

"I think he likes me," you say. You brush the horse's mane back from his forehead. "Always wanted a horse."

The corners of Arthur's lips twitch, but he doesn't smile. Instead, he looks at the stall--at the price--and shakes his head.

"Maybe next time, Y/N." He gently steers you away. "Why don't you check on Uncle, make sure he ain't dead. I'll finish up here."

You sigh and head out of the stables, narrowly missing a pile of horse manure. A quick peek at the general store reveals Uncle's passed out cold in the front. You shake your head with a small grin. At least you don't have to worry about him causing any trouble.

As you start to head toward him, you catch sight of Tilly. You can tell by the look on her face that something's wrong, awfully wrong, and almost on cue, an angry-looking man grabs her arm and hauls her toward an alley. You feel your breath hitch. Still, you're practically running their way before you can stop and think about a better approach. You have no ideas, no plan other than go go go. Not that it matters. From what it looks like, Tilly needs somebody there--right now.

You round the corner and see her pressed against the wall, the angry man's face close to hers. Neither one of them seems to know you're there. Good. Taking those blessed extra seconds, you spy a rock on the ground and quickly pick it up. It's decent in size. Won't kill a man, but it'll hurt like hell. That's all you need.

With aim that's really more luck than skill, you hurl the rock at the man with all the force you can muster. It strikes him square on the side of the head. Solid. A great hit. He stumbles to the side a little as Tilly's wild, frightened eyes find yours. Something about them makes you more brazen than before, and you take a few steps toward the man, hands clenched into fists.

"Back off," you hiss. "Now."

The man, who unfortunately looks like he's recovered from his shock, glares at you. Then, before you can even track him, he's barreling toward you, grabbing your shoulders and pinning you against the side of the alley. You feel the breath leave your lungs in one big gust.

"You made a helluva mistake," he snarls, putrid breath wafting over your face.

You gag and try to get a knee or a leg or something up to hit him, but there's no use. He's got you trapped. Dimly, you're aware that Tilly's gone, and you have a brief moment of triumph. Smart girl. The last thing you need is for her to get hurt, too.

"My entire life's a mistake," you gasp out between gulps for air. "... Why don't you add this to the list?"

Whether that was the right thing to say or not, you'll never know. In the next few seconds, just as you're certain the guy's reeling his fist back for a punch, his weight's suddenly gone and you're slumping to the ground. You can hear shouting, cursing, and words you really don't want to repeat. And through it all--one thing is constant.

Arthur's here.

Several seconds later (or maybe it's minutes; you honestly lose track of time), strong, warm hands are hauling you upright. They're also surprisingly gentle. Calloused and slightly bloody, but gentle.

"Easy, Y/N," Arthur soothes when your breathing becomes frantic. "You're alright."

Somehow, you find the courage to look up at him. He's watching you, concern in his eyes, and you hate that you're the cause of it. Still, you've never been more glad to see him.

"I thought he was gonna kill me," you find yourself saying. Then--you start to laugh. Hysterical, unstoppable chortles that come from no rational part of your mind. "Oh man, I looked the Devil in the eye and walked backwards into hell, didn't I?"

Arthur frowns, then glances around. You're suddenly aware that a crowd's gathering... and that it's probably a good idea to get the hell out of town.

"C'mon," he says, carefully leading you back to the wagon. "I think that's enough excitement for one day."

Finally got around to writing my Arthur Morgan x Modern!Reader multi-chapter fic. Y’know... the one I promised ages and ages ago. Hope ya enjoyed! I’ll also be posting this to AO3 under the username Nopride4531, so if ya wanna leave a comment or a kudos, feel free!

Likes, reblogs, and comments are much appreciated! Take care y’all!

Next Chapter: Lionheart

Inspired Playlist Track: Panic! At the Disco -- “High Hopes”

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #modern!reader #arthur morgan x modern!reader #arthur morgan x reader #2nd person pov #hurt/comfort #fic #my writing #rdr2 fic #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #cowboys #outlaws #yeehaw

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mcfreakin-bxtch · 4 years

Text

I Got You

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Reader

Warnings: Blood, mild violence, fluff

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: So I decided to make this three parts to sorta make up for the short last one. I am working on all of my requests and I plan on going back and forth between them and my originals. My requests are still open!

Hurt // Beginnings

“Just be careful, alright?”

Y/N nodded, giving his arm a comforting squeeze. “It’s gonna be alright, Din. I can handle it.”

Din nodded, but he was still tense. This was the first job since she started where it was her taking the reins and going solo. He was too noticeable for the job; they’d be able to pick him as soon as he walked in. They had to keep a low profile, and so Y/N devised a plan to lure their man out, who would no doubt be at the local cantina drinking himself to death.

“He’s probably going to be too drunk to comprehend what’s going on anyway. Besides, you’ll be outside waiting for me,” she assured him. “If you hear or see anything, you’ll be right there with me.”

He knew it was supposed to be soothing, but he wasn’t finding any solace in her words. Y/N felt this and sighed.

“Listen, you need to calm down. It’s not good for either of us,” she gently reminded him. “Gotta keep a clear head here.”

Din sighed, grabbing her hand to place against his chest plate; right over his heart. She leaned up on the tip of her toes to press her forehead against his, closing her eyes and taking in the coolness of the beskar.

“I’ll be okay,” she promised.

…

Y/N wished she could’ve kept that promise.

It was all going so well until a there was a gun fight. Turns out, the man had made a lot of enemies on the way, and there were plenty eager to set whatever debt or deal they had with him with violence.

“Hello sweet thing,” the man stuttered. He wasn’t near blackout drunk yet, but he certainly was on his way.

Y/N didn’t need their tether to practically feel Din grit his teeth through the coms. She shuffled, making sure the red dress she wore was still just as alluring as Din confirmed it would be much to his chagrin.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Din defended. “Because I do with all my heart and soul. It’s just I get… protective I guess I should say. I’m not afraid of you leaving me or not being able to fight. I know you’re capable on your own, but even I can’t win all the fights.”

The frustration was prominent from him, coursing through her body on full edge, even making her body just as tense as the mans before her.

“I understand,” she said. “I do. I worry about you too, you know.”

She held him in her arms that night – he was practically asleep on top of her, but his weight in that moment was reassuring, warm – and kissed him awake with small little kisses around his face in the dark until he chuckled at her ministrations.

And Din would be clenching his fists until they burrowed through those gloves and drew blood if he saw the way the man laid his hand on her bare knee with a sloppy coy smile.

“H- how about w-we get out of here?” The man stumbled.

Play it cool.

She willed herself (Din) to calm down before putting on the best seductive smile she could produce. “Sure, handsome.”

“Not with my bounty you won’t.”

The hunter sat in the far, dark corner of the bar, glaring at them.

“And don’t even think of reaching for that gun little girl,” the man scorned once he saw her hand twitch.

Knowing Din, he was probably circling around to get him from behind. All’s she had to do was buy them some time.

“Look,” she started. “How about we make a deal?”

The hunter smiled. “Sorry miss, gotta trust you first. And so far, you’re not very convincing.”

She heard the shot just before she saw him, but the hunter appeared to not go down without a fight, his trigger finger automatically pushing on reflex.

Din felt it before he heard her cry out. The sharp pain coursed through his upper thigh, the burning sensation enough to almost bring him to his knees. The shot to the man was swift, as quick as the moment happened.

“Kriff,” she groaned, clutching her thigh. “That’s gonna leave a scar.”

He rushed over to her, ripping a part of his cape to tie over the wound. He grabbed the bounty before he could make a run for it, aiming his blaster at him with a vengeance.

“Don’t move,” he snarled at him. He turned to Y/N.

“We gotta go now,” he growled. “Are you okay to walk?”

She grunted, nodding her head. He swung her arm over her shoulder and wrapped his arm around her waist, the other grasping his blaster so tightly she was sure he would break it.

“Look, I’m sorry about what happened to you,” the man tried reasoning with them. “I’ll make it to you. To the both of you, I promise!”

They didn’t say anything as they found a speeder, Din helping her delicately swing over. The trip back to the Razor Crest wasn’t long, and the man knew better than to fight his way out; he’d be dead the moment he tried.

The first thing Din did once Y/N was stabilized was put their bounty in carbonite, giving him a particularly hard shove before he froze. He then helped her to the edge of their cot where the Child was sleeping and set off to look for the kit; she had to guide him to it with her finger he was so frantic.

“You already lost a lot of blood,” his voice trembled. “But this spray and shot should do.”

Y/N yelped at the sting of the needle in her leg; it made his leg twitch as well at the sensation. He gave her a quiet apology, wrapping her wound up with such gentle precision for a man as rough and ruthless as he could be. Sometimes it made her feel special, that she was one of the only people who got to experience that side of him.

His hands hung limply on either side of her hips, head low. The Child, who was thankfully still asleep behind them, sighed in his sleep.

“I’m - .”

“I know.”

His voice was gruff, tense. She sighed, grabbing his hand in hers and intertwining their fingers. He looked at this and visibly relaxed, only a little, but it was a start.

“That could’ve gone better,” she finally joked.

There was a chocked huff, which she took as a stifled chuckle. It made her smile.

“Y/N.”

“Yeah?”

“I want to take my helmet off.”

She frowned but nodded her head and tried to back up so he could close the hatch, but he stopped her, mindful of her leg.

“That’s not,” he was struggling, gnawing at his lip. “I… I want… I want you to take it off.”

She gasped, mouth agape as she took in what he just said. She could feel his growing nervousness, but also the relief at the thought of him being open to her like this. It was stronger than any fear or doubts they’ve ever experienced, and it made her hurt nearly burst.

“A-are you sure?” She stammered. “I mean… your creed. I couldn’t ask you to do something you’re not comfortable with.”

This time he didn’t try to hold in his laughter, patting her uninjured leg. “I wouldn’t ask if I was. I want this. I want you to see me.”

He gulped, shifting on his knees between her legs. She didn’t think she ever saw him this skittish before.

“I could’ve lost you today. And it made me realize that this life… any life really, is short. It can end at any moment and I would never forgive myself for denying this from us.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he quickly interjected. “And I’m absolutely positive this is what I want. You’re my soulmate, Y/N. The love of my life. And I’m ready to take the next step with you. If you are, of course.”

Y/N’s heart was pounding in her chest, but in a good way. She grinned widely, and that grin prompted him to lead her wrists to the cheeks of his helmet, his own hands falling after he was sure she wasn’t going to move.

“Go ahead,” Din whispered.

Her hands felt cool and clammy as she held her breathe, slowly lifting the helmet over his head. His eyes closed instinctively, too afraid to see her reaction. It had been so long since another living thing had seen his face, and the fear that she wouldn’t like what she would see tried to cloud his mind; Y/N wouldn’t let it.

“Wow,” she exhaled. He was everything she ever dreamed of, but better. Her fingers traced his face delicately, outlining his plump lips, the stubble on his cheeks, crooked nose and closed eyes. His breath ghosted over her palms, making her shiver in a delicious way. “Din, baby. Please open your eyes.”

He couldn’t deny that soft adoration in her gentle demand and opened them slowly. It was everything he ever imagined, seeing her without the helmet’s filters. Her eyes twinkled as they met his dark brown ones, and if it were possible her grin would’ve stretched even more.

“You’re beautiful.”

Din kissed her, swallowing her surprised gasp and cupping her face gently. Her hands ran over his wavy hair, twirling a few strands of it in between her fingers. It felt divine, the bare touch of her skin against his, and he found his body shaking from the sensory overload of it.

They only pulled away for air, both panting with their foreheads pressed together. They sat like that for a few blissful moments with her playing with the strands of hair at the back of his neck – she didn’t miss the way it made him quiver – before kissing the tip of his nose.

“We need to cut your hair soon.”

Tags: @scarlett-berserker, @justlovetoreadfics, @lil-baby27, @mando-vibes, @beepbeepyabitch, @that-void-witch, @im-the-music-whore, @certifiedhunter, @outlawers, @hejahockey, @okaydacre, @lemongrove, @appreciating-chase-brody, @iwontforgettheapplepie, @mybabyboytony, @olyamoriarty, @pcrushinnerd, @elusive-ivory, @dizzydazed, @bluejeancntrygrl, @our-mrlangdon, @parody-the-emi, @evalynanne, @purplewaterbird, @angel-hunter-winchester, @tedpicklez, @pascalisthepunkest, @coffeeandtodd, @blunt-cake-yes

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #pedro pascal #din djarin #din djarin x reader #soulmates #soulmate au #fanfic #the mandalorian fanfic #star wars #the child

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