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dyaz-stories · 21 days

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JUJUTSU BOYS + PDA

how the jjk boys are when you're in public with them

including: gojo, nanami, choso, yuuji, megumi, maki

word count: 3.6k (500-600 words for one character)

cw: intended as canon compliant, established relationships, fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, kissing, public demonstrations of affection, can't think of anything else tbh

a/n: been reading some fics in this format so wanted to try my hand at it again. it's been years since I wrote short pieces like that, so I hope you'll enjoy them!

GOJO

Gojo has no concept of personal space, and that is something you had to get used to since you started dating — if anything, since before you started dating. Even when the two of you were at a more flirtatious stage, he’d always be leaning towards you to talk to you, face inches away from yours, hands on your hips if he needed to move past you, arm casually around you if you were sitting next to each other. It was all the better if it flustered you.

None of this has changed, except that he’s much more extra about it now. Holding your hand while walking? Nah, that’s boring. He’ll have his arm around your shoulders, even if it’s not convenient given the height difference. He’ll also try to put his hand in the back pocket of your jeans, pout if you tell him not to do it. If you’re waiting in line with him, he has both of his arms around you, is resting his chin on top of your head, and wants nothing more than for you to lean back into his chest, relaxing into his embrace. You can both be doing totally unrelated things — you’re reading and he’s checking his phone — but you’re slotted against each other, and that’s how it is ideally for you.

You’re waiting for him to show up to your date when you feel yourself surrounded by familiar arms, and then his cheek is pressing against yours as he surveys the book you’re holding in your hands.

“Whatch’ya reading?” he asks, breath warm against your cheek.

“Just doing some research on emerging curses,” you say with a shrug as you close it and put it in your bag. “So, did you want to check out that new bakery?”

He hums in reply, and you wait for him to move so you can start walking.

He doesn’t.

“…do you plan on letting go of me?” you ask after a while, turning your head to look at him.

He pouts at you, inches away from your face.

“I haven’t even gotten a kiss yet…”

“We’re in public, Satoru,” you say, feeling your face heating up.

“So? Let ‘em stare. They might as well, if you ask me.”

You want to roll your eyes — one day, you’ll have to talk about that exhibitionist streak of his — but in the meantime, you just have to crane your neck a little to peck his lips. They’re soft, as always, and he follows greedily when you pull away, his hand coming up to tilt your chin up gently as he presses more kisses on the corner of your lips, then on your cheek.

“You’re impossible,” you say, badly hiding your laughter. “Let’s go, or we won’t make it to closing time. You’re late, by the way.”

He lets out a heartbroken sigh, but finally frees you, keeping his arm around your shoulders as the two of you start walking towards the bakery. He keeps his strides short, so you don’t have to run to keep up with him, instead allowing you to keep a comfortable pace.

“Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m just too good at my job, they can never get enough of me.”

“Aw, poor darling,” you say. You grab his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, and bring it to your lips to press a kiss on the back.

He lets out a cough that doesn’t do much to disguise the fact that he’s getting flustered, and you grin, satisfied. Two can play that game.

Fortunately, neither Satoru nor you have any intention of forfeiting any time soon.

NANAMI

Nanami is a private man. There is no reason for the whole world to know his business, and he doesn’t feel the need to put his relationship on display for everyone to see. His softness for you is still plain to see in how gentle his voice gets when he speaks to you, in how carefully he chooses his words, in how fond his eyes are when he listens to you tell him about your day. He knows you like him holding your hand, though, so he’ll indulge you, especially when you’re walking by his side through crowded streets.

That is for practical reasons, of course. First, it just wouldn’t do to lose sight of you. Second, people tend to steer clear of him, his serious expression and his broad frame, and that means they realize quickly to steer clear of you. It has nothing to do with how soft your hand is in his, or how the way you use your thumb to stroke his skin sends shivers down his back.

“That’s a lovely restaurant,” you comment, eyes drinking in the elegant decor while Nanami is examining the menu.

“It had excellent reviews,” he answers, not going into details as to the great lengths he’d gone to in order to ensure that this date was as perfect as humanly possible.

“I’ve been in the neighborhood so many times, and I had no idea this was here,” you say. The place is very small, only a handful of tables, all of them now filled. You’re sharing an alcove with Nanami, creating some distance with other customers.

“There aren’t many tables available, so they don’t advertise much,” he explains as he sets the menu down. “But they’re known for their excellent cuisine.”

You give him a smile, then lean closer to him to kiss him on the cheek. Your lips linger just a little too long, and then you move them close to his ear, which is already turning quite red.

“Thank you for planning all that,” you say sweetly. “It looks wonderful.”

He clears his throat when you pull away, avoiding your eyes.

“Of course,” he answers, voice wavering imperceptibly. “Anything for you.”

And you know he means it, too.

Under the table, his hand finds your leg, large palm easily covering your knee while calloused fingers carefully rub your calf. You bite your lip, welcome the warmth that spreads in your body. You know Kento well enough to be sure that that’s as far as he’ll go, that he wouldn’t dare to do anything more in such a public setting, and that makes you enjoy the intimacy of the gesture all the more.

Later that night, while the two of you are walking out, his jacket is around your shoulder at his insistence — “It’s cold outside” — and he’s getting ready to call a taxi.

“Kento?”

He lowers the phone to look at you, and you push yourself on your tiptoe, hand closing around his tie to pull him down towards you.

It’s late at night, he tells himself. There’s no one around, he tells himself. That’s why he closes his eyes and allows himself to melt into the kiss, regretting it when you pull away too soon and catching himself before he grabs you by the hips to get you closer to him.

“I had a great evening,” you say. “Should we take this to somewhere more private?”

How much more merciless can you get?

“Certainly,” he says. “Just give me a second.”

There is nothing he can deny you.

CHOSO

Choso cannot wrap his head around what he can and cannot do around you. The rules for what is proper, what is acceptable, have shifted so much since he was last around, and he would die before he embarrassed you — or worse, before he did something that would make you push him away. He knows that you wouldn’t, and yet the fear is like a weight that tugs on his heart every time he thinks about it. He walks by your side, glancing at your hand that’s freely hanging between the two of you, and though he brushes his knuckles against yours, he just cannot bring himself to do it. It’s to the point where it’s the only thing he’s thinking about — and he just can’t do it.

Then you see something that catches your eye and you grab his hand and pull him with you in that direction, and he thinks his heart could just fall out of his chest. You make it look so easy, so natural, being with him coming as easy to you as breathing, and he couldn’t possibly ask for more. It takes him many other tries, many other dates, before he can take your hand in his. When he does, you glance down in surprise, then grin at him, and kiss his knuckles softly — and he’s so happy he could die.

“So,” you say, sitting on the park bench, knee pressed against his while you’re leaning into him to show him your phone, your hair tickling his neck, “that’s the movies they have on tonight. Think we should call Yuuji to ask him what to watch?”

“Hm,” Choso says, not really focusing on anything you’re talking about, not when you’re this close to him, “isn’t— isn’t that the one franchise he’s always talking about?”

You burst out laughing, then rest your head on his shoulder.

“No offense, babe, but there is no one in the world I’d go see a Human Earthworm movie for. Even if this one is supposed to have romance in it,” you shudder at the thought, “I’d like to go see something actually. You know. Watchable.”

Choso’s mind is going in overdrive. You’re so close, and he knows he should have gotten used to this by now. He isn’t usually like this, but some passers-by are looking — not necessarily being judgmental, though there was an old lady earlier who scoffed and shook her head, but… looking.

“Then I don’t know if Yuuji is going to be much help,” he manages to say as you keep scrolling on the cinema’s website.

“That’s fair,” you sigh, standing up from the bench, and even if he can now think again, he misses your warmth and your smell right away. “Well, maybe we drop the movie and just go get something to eat, what do you say?

“Sounds good,” he answers, standing up after you.

Hesitantly, almost clumsily, he reaches for your hand, fingertips brushing against your thigh as he does, then tightens his grip around your palm, ensuring that it wouldn’t slip away from you. You give him a fond smile, then take a step to get closer to him, and kiss him gently. His breath hitches, and his eyes dart around the mostly empty park.

“T-there’s people around,” he says quietly, and he hates that you step back to look around.

“Oh, sorry,” you say, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—”

He takes your hand to pull you with him, and you follow him through the grass as he finds a more secluded spot, behind a tree.

“There,” he says, and you chuckle at how satisfied with himself he sounds.

“Oh Choso,” you coo, leaning against the tree while you grab his shirt to pull him down towards you. His mouth is warm, eager, and his cheeks remain a fierce shade of red as he kisses you back insistently.

You would have missed the beginning of the movie anyway.

YUUJI

The thing about Yuuji is that any type of public demonstration of affection feels so natural coming from him. It’s almost never meant to be suggestive, it’s not something he thinks through, it’s just something he does. You’ll be sitting with Nobara when he appears, and he just puts his arm around you while talking to her, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You’re walking with him when he lifts his head up like he’s forgotten something, and what he forgot was to hold your hand, silly him.

If you walk by him while he’s sitting, he’ll grab your hips to pull you in his laps, fingers rubbing circles on the skin of your arms, absent-mindedly playing with your fingers as he holds your hand. After all, why wouldn’t he? He doesn’t even realize that it flusters you, and it just feels so natural for him to show his affection like that. He’ll look at you with stars in his eyes while you speak, not seeming to realize that his face is so close to him while you’re sitting in his lap.

No one pays attention to it anymore. You arrive just as Nobara is starting the movie — she’s putting on an action movie, thank you very much, even if Gojo just bought the collector edition of Human Earthworm 4 for Yuuji, with the director’s cut — and with all the students crammed in the room, including Panda, who’s taking most of the space on the couch, there’s nowhere left for you to sit.

“Come here,” Yuuji says cheerfully, waving you towards the armchair where he’s found his spot, “it’s about to start.”

You glance around the room for a reaction, but no one is paying you any mind. You walk over to him, perching yourself on one of the arms, legs over his. He doesn’t seem puzzled by it, just puts an arm around your waist casually.

Of course, you end up still sitting in his lap eventually, just slipping in it at some point in the movie. Can you be blamed? He’s warm and comfortable, and he wraps both arms around you so he can tuck his chin in the crook of your shoulder, nose brushing against your cheek when he turns his head. Not that he seems to notice how it makes your pulse quickens, eyes focused on the movie.

“What are the themes even supposed to be,” he mutters under his breath, eyebrows knitting together in annoyance.

“’Military good’?” you suggest quietly as a guy gets blown up on screen.

“The first half of the movie was about military bad,” he protests. “They can’t just act like that never existed.”

“Would you two shut up,” Nobara shouts from her spot, “or Maki will come beat you up!”

The two of you pipe down, knowing the threat is very serious and not one to take lightly.

When the movie ends, everyone gets up, stretching, but you’ve gotten comfortable against Yuuji’s chest, and you don’t feel like doing that just yet.

“That was terrible,” Yuuji comments, and you let out a brief laugh. Gojo has somehow made a cinephile out of him, and you love how worked up he gets over that stuff.

“Yeah, we should have been watching Human Earthworm 4 instead,” you say.

“Exact— oh, you’re making fun of him.”

You giggle, then tilt your head to kiss him. For a second, he freezes, eyes going wide. Kissing is the one thing he rarely initiates — but when you do, you get to see his gaze soften, before his whole body goes soft. His hold on your waist tightens — and then a pillow thrown with impressive precision hits him, and only him, on the ear.

“Not in public,” Maki shouts from all the way into the kitchen.

“Hey,” your boyfriend protests, “I’m not the one who—”

“You’re such a traitor,” you gasp, struggling to pull yourself free from his arms — but it’s no use against his strength, and he refuses to let go.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. “Now, where were we?”

You might have been at fault for the first pillow, but that second one is all on him, as far as you’re concerned.

MEGUMI

Megumi is a private guy. He can be affectionate in public, but there is a side of him that he only wants you to see. He especially doesn’t want any of your nosy friends, or worse, his adoptive dad to see how he can be around you. They would never stop teasing him after, and he doesn’t think he could live with that.

Or that they could live with that. Because he’d kill them.

It does annoy him that he’s supposed to deny himself because of them. If it was up to him, he’d spend most of his time alone with you, preferably in a small house in the middle of a forest with no one around, no curses, no sorcerers, no nothing. That, sadly, isn’t an option though, so he has to find his own way to do things.

“Don’t move,” he says sternly. “You have something on your face.”

You roll your eyes, but tilt your head up towards him, as he carefully runs his thumb under your eye, then over your cheek, blowing on it once it’s done.

“What was it?” you ask.

“Just an eyelash,” he says with a shrug. “You’re good now.”

You study him, waiting for him to give something away, but he doesn’t, just staring at you with the same expression he always wears.

“Should we get going?” he asks. “I thought we were supposed to catch a movie.”

“Sure,” you relent. “We should get moving.”

The streets are quite full at this time of the day, and you have to step aside frequently to let people pass, sometimes losing sight of Megumi. Eventually, with a sigh, he grabs your hand, pulling you with him as he walks, sending murderous glares to anyone who stays in his path.

“You’re going to get lost at this rate,” he mutters as he pulls you with him.

“I mean, worst case scenario we meet back at the theater,” you say, and you grin at the offended look he gives you. He notices it, but doesn’t answer, a light pink dusting his cheek as he glances away.

He hates the idea of being away from you on a day that’s supposed to be about the two of you — but since he refuses to say the quiet part out loud, you get to tease him all you want.

To be fair to him, having Megumi as your scary guard dog does make it much easier and much faster to reach the theater. He gives you a pointed look when you get there, and, to your regret, lets go of your hand quickly, though his touch lingers there a second longer than necessary.

“Should we get a couple seat?” you ask innocently as you approach the register.

Megumi glares at you once more while you give him a sweet smile.

“It’s better that way, right?” he says, clearing his throat. “Otherwise strangers might have to share one.”

“Sure,” you nod, not even bothering to hide your grin. “It’s just more practical, right?”

“Right,” he says stiffly.

Even once you are in the couple seat, he keeps a thoroughly appropriate distance from you, one that you might find a little hurtful if, at the end of the commercials, he didn’t fake a yawn to put his arm around you, in the least smooth way known to man.

“You know you can just do it,” you say quietly as the lights turn off, resting your head on his shoulder. “You don’t have to go through all that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbles.

Reaching for his face, you tilt his head towards you, and push yourself to meet his lips for a sweet, soft kiss. For the first time since you’ve stepped foot outside, his whole body relaxes into yours, and he stops trying to pretend.

“You had something on your lips,” you whisper when you pull away.

He snorts, then quickly goes back in to steal one more kiss from you before the movie starts.

“Liar,” he says.

As if he’s one to talk.

MAKI

Maki isn’t a demonstrative person as a general rule. She does compliment you without hesitation, words falling from her mouth so genuinely that it never fails to fluster you, but physical demonstrations of affection don’t come easy to her, maybe because she received so little of it as a kid. She does it sporadically, and she does very much enjoy teasing you, loves knowing that she can get those reactions out of you.

It’s the more spontaneous gestures that get to you though. She’ll kiss your forehead after a battle that left you bruised, a way of comforting you. She’ll pat your head after you managed to pull an impressive move during training. On one occasion, when you got injured, she carried you in your arms to Shoko, demanding that you be taken care of right this instant. She’d been the one to get flustered after that, hiding her face in her hand in embarrassment when it was brought up later on.

It might not come easy to her, but she does love it when you do it — when you show her your love in that way.

“You’re late,” she scolds you when you reach her for one of your dates, needing to take a second to catch your breath because you’ve been running since getting out of the subway.

“Sorry,” you say between deep breaths, “there was an emergency.”

Worry flashes on her face immediately.

“A curse? Were you hurt?”

She reaches for you, tilting your face towards her as she examines it, then study your body to make sure you weren’t injured. You let her, surprised at first, then endeared.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she frowns once she realizes how soft your gaze has become.

You grin, then push yourself closer to kiss her. You don’t care that you’re in public, and though it wouldn’t have occurred to her to do it, neither does she. The kiss is sweet, gentle. I’m alive, you’re alive, it says. No need for more.

“See?” you ask cheerfully. “All good. Now, I’m pretty sure you were going to buy me dinner…”

She clicks her tongue, but she’s grinning. It’s nice to see her so at ease, so relaxed. It’s a side of her you’d never see within the walls of Jujutsu High, nor on a mission. You’re the only one that can bring it out of her, and man do you love it.

“I’m buying? Again?”

“I did almost just die.”

“Nice try, but you told me you were fine.”

“I’m fine now,” you insist, “but…”

“Well, I was disowned by my family, so I don’t have money. You’re buying.”

The two of you keep bickering, but, as you walk, you reach for her hand. She pulls away at first, years and years of reflexes kicking in instinctively, and once she realizes what you were doing, she’s the one who takes your hand in hers. She holds it delicately, careful not to break it — to be fair, her strength would probably allow her that.

It’s so sweet and light, being out there with you like that. So normal. She hopes it never ends.

You squeeze her hand, and she lets you guide her across the street, content with just following, knowing that she can trust you to fill in her shortcomings in the relationship, like she does it for yours.

The sky is grey, the forecast said it might run later tonight — Maki’s planned an umbrella, she’s sure you didn’t think of it — but as far as she’s concerned, the day is as beautiful as it could possibly be.

this is my first time writing for... pretty much everyone here except gojo lol. i hope you enjoyed it and that the characterization wasn't too off, but any feedback is welcome! if you want to support me and my writing, please reblog/leave a comment or send me an ask, i'd love to chat! i'll see you later for some more jjk writing ^-^

you can find my gojo x reader work here

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 5 months

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PREY

PAIRING: Hunter!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Werewolf!Reader

SYNOPSIS: There’s blood on your hands again.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

WARNINGS: Intense gore, body horror, death, mutilation, weapons, firearms, knives, intended harm, violence, blood, descriptions of wounds, angst, fluff, protective!Simon, religious mentions, period time standards for men/women (1700s), etc.

A/N: The first of my reverse AUs is finally here! Enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The tale of the Werewolf extends back to around 2100 BC. It was written in The Epic of Gilgamesh, scored into a clay tablet by hands long buried—a corpse forever still in the earth so deep, the bones have yet to be found by greedy eyes. Perhaps the oldest surviving story in human history, and there is still a passage that bleeds into stories hundreds of thousands of years later.

In such, Gilgamesh, a man on the search for immortality, rejects a woman for the reason of turning her previous husband into a wolf.

“You have loved the shepherd of the flock; he made meal-cake for you day after day, he killed kids for your sake. You struck and turned him into a wolf, now his own herd-boys chase him away, his own hounds worry his flanks…”

And then, the tales spread, changed, through history and through spoken words of caution. Like water trickling from a well, down the shape of the wooden bucket delving deeper and deeper into a pit of age—of caution.

“The Beast of Gévaudan. Man-eater.” Through France

“He has a wolf-head, you know? Tall thing—short brown hair all over him.” Through Scotland

“Beware the man that changes shape under the full moon.” England.

Now, in the late seventeenth century, it all comes to a head. Even the people in 2100 BC knew that someone who changes into a wolf, or some bastard-like imitation of one, was very much real; it is very much an affliction that overtakes sense and reason. A curse.

Transferable down to the saliva of one entering your bloodstream.

You must never get within the beast’s sights.

—

There’s blood on your hands again.

Hunched over, your body quivers, and the bareness of your flesh in the moonlight is of little concern to you—trapped in a fetal position while the chilled wind howls.

Howls.

“Get out of my head.” Your fingers grasp at your scalp, pulling; ripping. A sob jaggedly slashes your throat open. “Please,” you rattle in a fast breath, the grass snapping as you writhe. “Get out of my head.”

It had happened once more, and you can’t remember any of it.

The forest is deathly still. No birds sing their songs—no breeze moves the long grass, patches trampled down around you as if a beast had staggered into the small clearing you’re lying in. Maybe it had. There are shadows that listen to your quiet panic, the low whines and gasping quivers of your throat; from behind the trees that speak in the way that only they could. The deep night creeps into you, and the moonlight bathing your flesh doesn’t push back the terror in your bloodstream.

Your body burns like you’ve broken every bone twice over, and judging by the blood stuck in between every line and dip of your skin, to anyone walking past, the analogy could be very real. Fingers flexing and bending, you try to force out the venom inside of your head with desperation befitting a dying dog, spine visible out of the skin of your back as you sob all the harder.

You tried to stop it—you had; you always do. But, just like every month when the full moon mocks you with its silver-hued face, it never works.

It never works.

Your eyes stare at nothing as you lay here, in this place of grass, blood, and bile, of corruption as deep as a vile sin of flesh. It came over you like a wave, fingers trapping your throat and bearing it to the caress of fangs. There were different names for it here, miles from your village and the terrified eyes that search the tree line; names coming from the hunters and their black deeds.

Shapeshifter.

Demon spawn.

Werewolf.

“I can’t take it anymore,” you shove the side of your head into the ground, pushing the torn earth away from the cuts of long claws. Tears flood the dirt until it’s wet and muddy, pushing the crimson stains on your skin away in long streaks. “It hurts, God, please, it hurts.”

The sound of your hysterics rises and falls in the stillness—the inactivity of fearful birds and beasts wondering if your fangs would rip from your gums and your claws would tear from your fingertips. Fur along your body the color of which leads to stories of their own spreading far and wide.

The White Wolf. The Specter of St. Francis’ Village. A hound from Hell.

More pale than snow, and sharper seen than a knife or blade through the black trees. Even if the memories of your shifts were fuzzy at best, there were flashes of those who’d seen your gargantuan form from the confines of their stone-cut homes. Those wide eyes. Yelling—screaming; sprays of blood as heads were separated from bodies—

“Stop!” You scream, your legs kicking out as your toes scrape the grass. “It’s not me! It’s not!”

There’s a call of alarm from deep within the woods, the flash of torches and bellow of hunting dogs. They’re running you down, you’d forgotten that in the depths of your breaking mind and body, and by the time your elongated limbs had set themselves back into a more human-like appearance, your spine cracking at every vertebrae, it had slipped your thoughts entirely. It always took you a long time to understand what had happened after…everything.

But even now, the shouts of the hunt are pointless to the visceral breaking of your consciousness, stuck between leaving bloodlust and knowledge of horror. There’s flesh in your teeth, and you wail before your fingers drag down your face, cupping over your ears. In the back of your skull, the panting of dogged breath echoes; running, blood, blood, blood. It’s a dance of fangs, of pale fur, staining every inch and flooding the back of your mouth. Drinking it down like water.

Flesh—lovely, disgusting, flesh rent and torn to the bone with smacking gums belonging to a square snout.

Who had you killed this time?

By the time the dogs had tracked your scent to your curled body, it was already too late.

“Here!” Male voices shift in and out on the backs of crows, hard and cruel. “It’s here!”

“Get the dogs on it!”

“It’s not me,” you mutter incessantly, not truly understanding what you’re saying as hounds burst through the bushes, all snapping teeth and slobbering tongues your eyes widen in an instant. Panting, your jaw clenches; long whines move your throat.

“What…?” Blinking quickly, the dogs surround you—having to be at least ten of them on their nimble legs and thin tails. Everything is distant to you; separated. A knife could be driven through your heart, and you wouldn’t even realize it until minutes later, bleeding out on the grass.

The hounds are afraid of you.

They dart forward and balk back, your scent driving them up a wall until rabid slobber drips from their maws. Torchlight pulls through the trees—quicker now, running. Fangs nick your shoulder and you yell, shoving up to your backside as the world swirls, shuffling away as the dogs snarl. Their eyes are red-huen. Drunk off fear and order.

Your head darts and shifts, blood dripping off your chin to travel down the flesh of your stomach and navel—so much crimson that the whites of your eyes are violent under the moon. Hands slipping over the wet grass, your face pulls and slackens in delirious confusion as you try to stand but fail. You cry out in sharp pain, and the dogs go wild in their kill circle, nearly attacking one another in anticipation.

You glance down and see the black crossbow bolt sticking out of your thigh.

The scent of wolfsbane in the air only then becomes clear to you, and the realization is slow. Wolfsbane—you’d been told about it by the village priest. It makes beasts of the night dumb and weak; minds unclear.

In a moment of clarity, the reason behind your incurable hysteria becomes clear.

Lungs heaving and eyes far-off, the hunting party bursts through to where you stay, and you look up in animalistic fear. Figures dip and slip into one another, faces becoming demons as the visages melt into twos and threes. You yell out, sniffling and sobbing, trying to back up until the hounds grapple onto your shoulder and rip a chuck out of your arm. Screaming, your hand moves back, shoving at its snout before hands staple themselves to your wrist.

“No!” You wail, injured leg dragging as you’re forced back into a heavy chest. Hot breath fans against your neck as multiple grips pull and touch you—shackling you down with rope and chains. Your throat screams itself raw, kicking and struggling futility. “Let go!”

You’re too weak—too drugged off wolfsbane and blood loss. Rotting teeth move across the canvas of a smeared painting, you can’t focus beyond the riot of your heart inside of your ribs.

Grubby hands snap under your chin, digging into your flesh as you cry, not able to move as the restraints are tightened. A silver muzzle is slapped over your jaw. Dark eyes shimmer as you rage—aggravating the bolt wound until fresh blood forms a puddle on the ground, which the dogs lick their lips at.

“Look at that,” a low, lust-filled voice eases out, and hands around your body tightening as you squirm, head spinning. Silver and wolfsbane. Your eyes snap to fight the sudden flood of fuzzy heaviness in your body. “Pretty little Hell-Beast, eh? Almost seems a bit strange to have the Spector be her. Think that hunter shot the right bitch?”

“Course,” another grunt, a hand grabs the top of your head, jerking it up as your head lulls along with the force. You can barely focus on the words being said. “He isn’t a fuckin’ twat. Killed a werewolf in the next village over, too. Heard he skinned the fucker and took its head for his mantlepiece—just like the vampire skull he wears.” A pause. The dogs are still barking—echoing out in the trees. You can’t feel your legs. “Isn’t that right, Hunter?!”

A shout is sent into trees as your panic breeds with the drug, eyelids drooping as your head is snapped and moved by your hair. Your buggy eyes don’t focus on the man until he steps into the torchlight, the crowd parting for him as the metal of your chains drags and clinks together.

It’s as if the very blackness of night takes human form.

The man, the Hunter, is tall—very tall. He looms like an aloof animal over most of the others here with his dark boots and his black hood, and yet, under the fabric, there is no whisper of his face.

Only the upper visage of a pure white skull, and two long, needle-pointed teeth where canines should be.

“Ghost,” one of the men laughs, groping at your bleeding thigh before you shriek, muffled from behind the muzzle, and weakly kicked out. “Good shot, Mate. Right in the meat of the thing. Gave a good trail for the hounds.”

Ghost blinks slowly, grunting under his breath as the large crossbow in his hands is shifted. He stays silent as your visible pulse hurries on as if you were a rabbit and not a wolf, watching from under the cover of his hood. The darkness of his clothes is blue in the moon—silver buttons down the length of a loose shirt and pants stuffed into boots. The hood is attached to a jacket, which itself extends down to his knees and sways lightly with every shift. The silent resting of weapons and tools is not lost to anyone.

Belt of filled vials and large knives; a firearm over his back, and two pistols hidden on either thigh. That crossbow was still in his hands.

Brown eyes openly dig into your soul, dead as a corpse, and your voice whines as your thigh is finally released with a laugh. Your vision blacks and comes back a moment later as you try to breathe from behind the muzzle, gasping. That skull on his face…you don’t like it. It scares you.

And the Hunter only continues to watch numbly as his wide shoulders stay stationary.

“Get the cage!” Someone roars, and you flinch, shrinking until a dog with short fur comes and nips at your ankles, the man holding you grinning sharply as you sob and shake.

“C’mon—expected more of a fight from you, Spector. Getting bullied by dogs, now? Ain’t that a twist of fate, then. Bet this devil’s whore can’t even walk with all that wolfsbane in ‘er, eh?”

A grumble of chuckles as the rattle of metal is in the distance. You grow more fearful, mind flashing to a burning stake and the trials you’d seen in village after village. No—no they can’t put you in a cage; they can’t put you on trial.

They’re going to make it hurt.

“Say we try it out.” A shadow comes closer and grabs you by the arm, ruthlessly shoving you to the ground. You cry out as your spine meets the earth, arms and legs kept under chains that tangle and screech in their metallic way. The rope that holds the muzzle pulls against your neck until you can’t breathe except in ragged wheezes.

“Go on,” they taunt, some holding back the rampaging dogs just to watch you flail and shimmy. Your face grows hot as you struggle to sit up—shaking so violently you can’t focus on anything but the quiver. “Put on a show for us, Beasty!”

Death would be better than this.

Tears hit the ground as the cage is finally brought into view, the men all groaning and annoyed that you hadn’t even attempted a forced shift or a desperate run into the trees.

Ghost’s fingers, you notice from the side of your blurring eye, tighten minutely around the body of his weapon. You do not doubt that he’s wondering if it would be easier to just put a bolt through your eye right now.

“Get it loaded up,” the Hunter’s voice is accented and gravel-like. As if rotting wood is being peeled back and scraped along gravel, he stares at you for a long moment and then glances at the dogs. “And get those fucking mutts under control.”

“Which one?” Is the low-blow joke, and the ruckus of loud amusement that follows makes you want to die.

It’s not your fault, how do you tell them that? It’s not your fault.

Your throat bobs in an attempt to speak, but you can’t move your jaw from behind the restraint of your face—held tight to you as the men come back over and grapple for you again. The priest was right, wolfsbane makes werewolves sluggish.

You can do nothing as you’re ruthlessly dropped into a silver cage, borrowed, no doubt, from the Vatican itself, and christened with holy water. But it was a funny thing, really, and the dark humor wasn’t lost to you even like this. There was nothing godly about this contraption.

Locked in, you shove yourself immediately into a corner and hunch over, grasping at your thigh as the bolt still leaks fluid in a long trail over the ground. The pain is so great in your head, that the physical agony is little—a bullet wound to a sliver.

Your temple slams into the metal, smacking into it as your eyes shove themselves closed.

Head hurts—hurts. I can’t think. Can’t think. It’s humming, my skull is breaking open.

Bile pools in the back of your throat, but the muzzle keeps it in, leaving you gagging as the cage is lifted with a grunt and carried by long poles; back to St. Francis' Village, no doubt, but you can’t…focus.

“Think you might ‘ave given her too much, then, Hunter,” one calls, slapping Ghost on the shoulder as the crowd follows after the panicking quarry. The large man only gives him a look from the side of his eye and the villager pulls away immediately, awkwardly chuckling before hurrying off after the others.

Brown eyes watch your bare body hunch and spasm, pupils wide as you’re carted off.

He’d been generous with the wolfsbane, truth be told. He’d expected you to be…Ghost’s dark brows pull in from behind his grim mask…he’d expected you to be different.

Humming under his breath, the Hunter watches the torches disappear into the trees and lets his gaze linger on you.

There was something…off.

Blinking, he turns, eyes studying the place where they’d found you with sharp attention that misses nothing—not even the birds that come back to settle into the trees again. Large boots shift through the grass, and as he’s re-settling the crossbow in his hands, his eyes find something glinting.

Watching, Ghost takes another step and brings his body to the item in the grass, hidden, before he kneels. Digging with large digits, the Hunter’s hands loop through the chain of a necklace, dragging it through the torn earth until he can gaze at it fully under the light of the moon.

Blinking in slight surprise, Ghost finds the body of a silver bullet hanging from the confines of a leather strap. Brown eyes shifting to look over his shoulder, the man listens to the cheers and merriment of the hunting party mutely. A simmering understanding brews in his gut. It’s only one that you could know from years of experience doing just as he had—hunting and being hunted in turn with a knowledge of all things dark and unholy.

It could never be easy, could it?

A low grunt later, the man sighs out a deep, “Fucking hell,” and moves to slowly stand, slinking back into the darkness.

—

They kept you in the cage and set it on display in the middle of town for days.

Shivering now from the cold more than the wolfsbane, you stay collapsed into yourself as people come past to poke and prod at you—even sticking knives into the slits of the cage and digging them into you like an animal until your flesh was marked and brutalized.

You don’t remember what it’s like to not be bloody.

The bolt wound was festering; infected. You dare not touch it, because the pain only makes you want to vomit, and if you do, you’ll most likely suffocate on your own bile before the trial ever happens.

Yet, on the fourth night of this, as your eyelids flutter and your body grows weaker, a shadow comes to visit.

“You weren’t born one.” It isn’t a question, but the sudden voice makes you startle.

Eyes locking onto Ghosts’, your mind flies with fear—thinking that perhaps there’s more abuse that you’ll be put through. But no…the man has no weapons on him tonight. Only a long knife at his belt. The mask stays.

You stare, unable to speak as your fingers twitch.

Grunting, Ghost’s head tilts, gaze moving up and down as you curl in tighter around yourself. A cold breeze rips through the square, and your eyes clench closed with breaking will. When you open them again, the Hunter is kneeling by the cage, and holding up something in his hand loosely.

“You going to behave if I take that muzzle off?” You nearly gasped at the hanging image of your necklace—a silver bullet on a leather strap; that dark and heavy thing usually kept around your neck. A reminder.

After a moment of wide-eyed staring, you nod quickly to his question, a desperate, pleading thing without the need to utter words. Please, you want to scream at him, take it off.

Ghost’s eyes are as dark as a mound of dirt, sharply intelligent and filled with an unflinching reality. He doesn’t care what you are, and he won’t until you speak to him and let him judge your character far before any courtroom can. The man knows what a lie is better than any priest.

“Good,” he says curtly, accent far more deep as he thinks, re-capturing the bullet in his palm and standing before he shuffles it into his pocket.

You can’t help the anxiety as Ghost moves forward, loping to the side of the cage with the side of his eyes on you incessantly. It’s obvious how his other hand lays limp on the hilt of his blade that, with only one wrong move, you’d feel the chill of the edge with no time at all.

But the temptation of getting this muzzle off was too good to ruin, and so, you stay as still as you’re able as crows call in the distance and the deadness of the town leaks into your blood.

Ghost moves his free hand and orders, blankly, “Closer.”

You hesitate, body tight before you drag your face closer to the bars, angling it parallel with the metal so the tight bind on the back can be taken up. The fear can be smelt the second your eyes have to break contact with his with the turn of your head—neither of you trusts the other.

Ghost hums under his breath at the sight of your broken body coming farther into the open light of the moon, the whites of your eyes all the more visible from under the slathering of blood and tears. He hadn’t been absent to witness the abuse you’d been put through, even if the coin from his successful hunt was feeding him at the inn, a small window allowed the tight view of your torment at the hands of the people you’d once lived around.

But the reality was that you’d killed people—scores of them—and yet the worst part of it was that he wasn’t sure if you even knew that.

It took four nights for him to break his only rule: never get involved after the job’s done.

But the hunch he had was too important to ignore.

Large fingers latch onto the knot at the base of your skull through the cage itself, Ghost grunting at the sight ahead of him. The rope had been gradually chafing over your flesh, peeling back hair and skin until only the bloody meat was left—Simon had to wonder if the people of this village even wanted you alive for the trial or not at this rate. You’d be dead by tomorrow if that infected bolt at your thigh wasn’t taken care of.

Despite himself, a part of his chest tightens at the sight of the thing sticking out of your leg, dripping a yellowish puss. It had been a good shot, and he had overcoated the bolt in wolfsbane.

Ghost hadn’t expected you to be so susceptible to it—most werewolves only got slower, but you…you seemed to have a stronger reaction. He files that fact away and tilts his masked face to the side.

Grasping at his blade, the sound of a knife being slipped out of a sheath makes you startle, jerking your head back and shoving away even as your muffed whine of pain falls out. Ghost momentarily readies himself for an attack, but the way you force your mangled body to the opposite corner has him grumbling out a hard, “Easy.”

The Hunter raises the blade, watching you with unblinking eyes. Your body shakes; panting. It was like calming a feral dog.

“You want the thing off or not? Have to cut it.” Once more, the man rises and walks over, boots almost silent over the small raised platform the cage had been set on like a trophy, you inside are comparable to the golden coins that greedy eyes touch and run their dirty hands over.

Your mind is a troubled thing as you watch this Hunter and his crude knife come closer, kneeling again, and motioning with two fingers to shift your head.

“Out ‘ere,” Ghost says, brown eyes not letting you guess anything about his true motives. “Don’t have time to fuck around. Guards’ll make a round soon and I’d rather not get caught wide-eyed.”

Your brows pull in, hands clenching and unclenching in your lap as goosebumps travel the length of every limb. You were tired—hungry and thirsty; there were open wounds that burned with infection and ones that were crusted over with dirt and grime. You can’t feel your toes, and the tips of your fingers have long since gone numb.

The thought of getting this muzzle off was like the promise of heaven being dangled in front of your nose. Your hesitation this time is far longer than the first, moonlight glinting off the visible blade in Ghost’s hand as he stares. That mask holds death.

The hood is gone from him—only that pale bone left and sewn into dark, dark, fabric. The sharpness of the teeth leaves your throat bobbing in a nervous swallow as your head carefully shifts to rest on the bars. Bending, you present the knot once more and try not to focus on the way Ghost’s attention is fully on your expanding lungs; the pulse that is seen through the meat of your neck.

But he says nothing before his fingers once more grasp the rope and the tip of the knife slips up. You don’t even feel it before the sudden slackening of the muzzle, and then the thing slips from your face before it slaps the bottom of the cage with a dull thump.

The first thing you do is vomit.

Spine pulling in, your body jerks as the bile that had been in the back of your throat rockets out, restrained hands slapping the ground as the acidic concoction leaks from between your torn lips. Face on fire, you choke and retch for what seems like minutes before you can finally breathe in the damp air—the innate shame and disgust rolling through as you cough raggedly.

It’s only after you’d forgotten the man kneeling outside that he seems to remind you of his presence with a grumble.

“Breathe. It’s no use if you can’t speak to me.”

A weak, quivering glare comes across your eyes, saliva dripping off your chin as your tongue moves to lick at your lips. But the brown gaze is as immovable as stone. Finding it pointless, your hands come up and delicately touch the base of your skull, only making you flinch when the fresh blood pools down and over your neck, licking at your shoulders. Tiny droplets fall to hit the metal one at a time.

Ghost’s fingers twitch as he puts the knife away.

“Who bit you?” You stare at him, hands falling before your wrists rub at the aggravated skin of your jaw. He shifts his head, voice slow but heavy. “Speak.”

“...I’m not a dog,” your voice is scratchy, hoarse. You send a small glance his way, mouth open and nostrils flaring in an attempt to bring in the oxygen you’d been lacking.

“Really?” A hidden eyebrow is slowly raised. “Hell, coulda fooled me.”

“Damn you,” you whisper, not meeting his gaze as you shuffle back. The crossbow bolt catches on one of the cage’s bars and you bite on your lip to stop the shrill yell that threatens to exit. Head moving, you lightly slam your skull into the wall in pain.

Breath hitched, you clench your trembling jaw tight.

“Speak or don’t,” Ghost grunts, and he makes a move to stand. “Your funeral.”

A spark of fear stabs you as he begins to shift, and you can’t explain why. Perhaps it was because it was the first conversation you can remember having lately that wasn’t one-sided or on the edge of a blade.

“W-wait,” you stutter, blinking through the blood. The Hunter doesn’t slow, and then he’s on his feet and fixing the gloves over his fingers, flexing his hands before his foot begins to pivot—

“Please, don’t go,” your voice is thin and pleading, echoing through the street. “I’ll answer your questions, any of them you want,” the sentence cracks through a dry throat, tears welling. “Please, don’t leave me here alone.”

Ghost had half of his body turned away before it went rigid; the side of his dead eyes flash to you, swirling with specs of moonlit silver. A hunter and a werewolf lock gazes, great beasts respectively brought together in seconds that seep into slow minutes of delicate need.

Knowledge and company. Understanding and a horrible fellowship.

The Hunter’s eyes twitch in their ever-narrow resting place, glancing away before he mutely moves back to where he was before.

He wastes no time.

“Who bloody bit you?”

You stifle a pathetic sigh of great relief, taking company with a man who had shot you not days before. Yet the ability to speak and be heard was a commodity that was dimming each and every day.

“It was already fully turned,” you speak quickly, tongue tripping. “A big wolf—a gray one with eyes like the sky.”

Ghost glares to the side. Gray? There were no contracts for gray werewolves with blue eyes in the area. Only you—only Specter. The next question is just as stiff.

“When?”

“Three years ago,” your lips move. “Only three years, I promise.” Brown eyes narrow slowly, fingers tapping the fabric of his pants once before he makes a noise in the back of his throat. Ghost’s jaw clenches, mind working through the hoops that need to be jumped.

To you, the questions might seem pointless, but to a hunter, they were important—very important. Werewolves who are born afflicted with this moon-drunkenness are different from those turned by a bite. Not only are shifts from turned werewolves more violent, more deadly, but they rarely know their own actions from that of the frenzy under their skin; those that are born as such are rarely out of control, unlike your faction.

The only question now was if Ghost could condemn you to death when it was obvious your human form was entirely different and you had no semblance of an idea of what was going on. Was it even his problem to care about? Even looking at you now, the man blinked away from cuts and inflicted injuries—the muzzle on the ground.

The blood and the bolt.

He’d known it had been a foolish play to bring all of those townsfolk with him on this hunt but he needed their knowledge of the terrain; he hadn’t passed through St. Francis’ before. At the time, Ghost hadn’t been averse to assistance as long as he got the job done in his own fashion: capture or kill, the contract had stated. Rarely was he known for capture.

Maybe, deep down, he’d known something was already wrong about this.

“Show me it,” the Hunter grunts, staring you down, a deep anticipation growing in his bones. He had to make sure you weren’t lying.

You lick your lips, face pulling with every twitch and sway of your form. The black at the edges of your vision was coming back, and you blinked quickly, chains dragging before you shifted your back with a quivering breath. The punctures were difficult to see through all of the gore, but Ghost made do as he grabbed at the waterskin at his waist and the rag hanging from his belt.

Flooding the fabric in the lukewarm water, he hums out a firm, “Don’t move. Cleanin’ it,” before you feel the press of the rag to your back.

Gasping lightly, you almost jerk away before the sensation becomes a nearly welcomed one—the drag and slight scrape of rough material. Your averted eyes dip lower, staring at nothing as your heart momentarily slows to a normal pace. Ghost cleans the areas where the swell of scar tissue is the most obvious, and, one by one, the violent groves spread out like a slash of paint over canvas. Along the left side of your waist, the blood gives way to a dented ‘v’ shape of healed punctures. Deep, dragging; a point to where your side was almost ripped away before it broke off swiftly.

Ghost’s dark eyes fight the need to widen, and that hidden blankness stays.

A great gray wolf with blue eyes…

His mask tilts, head shifting as his gaze moves slowly. Gloved fingers twitch to touch them, moving in an almost examining way that befits a surgeon and not a decapitator. Your breath is held in the back of your throat, but you sag nearly entirely into the bars of the cage, growing more unsteady by the second.

The scent of infection is so strong it makes your head burn, and you’re overtaken by it as Ghost’s presence suddenly disappears.

You don’t know if it’s minutes or hours before you understand that you’re alone again, but when your limp neck finally turns to wonder where your silent captor is, you are greeted with nothing but moonlight. Blinking through the sludge behind your eyes, the sinking in your gut was stark and sudden—like a knife dragging itself from gullet to navel.

But all you offer is a light whine as more blood moves to cover the places where Ghost’s rag had just cleaned. You were scared of him, no doubt. A hunter through and through down to the vampiric skull on his face and the shroud of death at every inch of his form.

He’d shot you and drugged you with wolfsbane. Found your necklace.

So why had he talked to you?

Your head is too muddled for this, too delicate. Like the crimson under your nails, it dries and flakes off of your brain as the lack of distraction breeds stored agony. There wasn’t anything left to focus on besides the upcoming trial, your death, and the pain that doesn’t let you sleep except for now, on the brink of not rest but unconsciousness.

And at the sound of a key being slotted into the silver of your cage’s door, only then does your body slump with the weight of doom.

You don’t even feel the hand that grasps at your ankle.

—

The sway of the horse makes your teeth clatter with every clop of hooves.

Your conscience mostly comes and goes, only staying in thin seconds where you feel the press of clean bandages on your afflicted flesh and the tipping of warm broth into your mouth. Grass under your head.

Blankets being shuffled over your clothed body when you shiver.

When you’re finally able to speak, when the horse is moving along and hands keep your back stuck to a strong chest, it’s a low, garbled, “Ow.”

Ghost barely blinks down to your head as it slumps to the gait of his horse, glancing before his attention returns to the thin forest trail ahead of him. You’d made noises in your sleep often enough—this was no different except for the fact he felt your shoulders flex.

Slowing the horse with a pull on the reins, the dappled mare settles to a walk.

“You up, then?” Ghost hums, his hand around your waist tightening as you groan under your breath. “Good. Thought I was dragging a corpse—would have wasted my bandages.”

Your eyes shudder as they open into the light, having to focus on moving them before the sting of the sun makes them water. But you do, and then the confusion outweighs the numb stinging of tended wounds.

Head shifting, you look behind you slowly with wide eyes as the horse under both of you snorts.

Brown eyes watch you before a dark brow twitches upward. “What is it?”

You just blink, mouth slightly open.

“Where…am I?”

“Forest.” Ghost states matter-of-factly.

If you had the energy to glare, you would have. Seeing that nothing will get the man into a proper conversation—he was a brick wall even now—you look down at yourself and land on the scarred forearm that keeps you secure on the saddle. Ghost’s gloves were still on, but the sleeve of his dark shirt had ridden back to his upper forearm, and in the wake of pale skin, you find the black ink of all manner of warfare.

Werewolf skulls; vampire fangs and fire. The slash of inkish chains with skeletons.

Your lips thin, your senses slowly becoming your friend again as you stare at the snarling face of a needle-hewn wolf. Eyes tightening as the horse moves to the left, your body follows the reactive action before Ghost’s pressure tightens once more, visibly veins behind the pale flesh. You move on, seeing the thin tunic and pants over your body—feeling under that, the bind of wrappings with the scents of mashed yarrow leaves in the fabric.

They’d been re-applied recently, too.

“Stay still unless you want to re-open them,” Ghost utters, eyes scanning the trees for unseen threats. It was midday by now, the sun high above the trees watching the both of you on your trek to seemingly nowhere. “We’re far enough away, but I want more distance before I take the time to close them fully.”

“The trial,” your arm moves up, fingers grazing the side of your nose before it falls back down. Ghost can feel the air heat with unease. “The…the cage?”

“Trial was two days ago,” he draws, thighs shifting over the saddle. “Give or take.”

The confession isn’t as shocking now that you have woken up here, but the lack of remembrance on your part of that time startles you. It’s a blank slate—just like the aftermath of your shifts. You don’t like not knowing.

The next question comes out with a haggard cough, sweat dripping off your nose. “Why?”

“You’re going to tell me ‘bout the werewolf that made you,” the Hunter grunts. “And you can’t speak if you’re lit up like a pig on a spit. Took you the night we met in the square.”

Through it all, Ghost barely looks at you—always his attention keeps to the trees and the shadows that linger; seeming to listen. He knows more than anyone that they do.

The horse continues on, your pain surfaces again, and with a shuddering breath, you fall into a fitful sleep once more. The arm around your body tightens, and the warmth it lends is accented when Ghost’s shifting gaze glances at the top of your head. He wears an expression he can’t name yet.

When the throws of fever pull their curtains back for the last time, it shows you the slats of the attic above your head, wood polished and clean as the heat of fire moves over your body. Pulling a large inhalation of air into your lungs, you blink softly as if clearing away cobwebs with a broom—willing sense to return in the few seconds it had flown away.

The furs are warm.

In the village, you weren’t anyone of standing. A simple woman—unwed, and, thus, unimportant due to the era the world sees itself in. It wasn’t all bad…namely, it hid your affliction far longer than you could have hoped it did. You had a small piece of family land passed down to you on the edge of the village, and that was where you stayed. Nothing fancy; a hearth, a large, single-room property with a garden and a well. You were known to keep sheep, a fact that had caused perhaps a few hysterical chuckling fits when, every full moon, one or two went missing, but it gave you the ability to accumulate money and, more importantly, an alibi.

Who would suspect a werewolf to own sheep?

But this home already had a more detached feel to it—something removed. The air was sterile, somehow. Groaning, your face tightens before you rise to the palms of your hands, muscles quivering to keep the strength your stubbornness gives to them. Half-vertical, you turn and study the area.

Square, the four walls are stone with mortar and clay to keep the rounded blobs together. You’re on the ground floor, a staircase to the far right while the bed is stuck into the left corner; a nightstand sitting void of all except a single chamber-wick holding an unused candle. A sturdy table with one wooden chair, a stone fireplace set into the same wall the headboard is level with, and a large oak door.

There are runes written on it.

You can’t make sense of what they mean, but when you see them, your tiny-pupiled eyes slip to the rest, all placed at windows or near some point of entry—unassuming things until you realize why they were red in color.

Your shoulders tighten, and whatever bit of magic moves through your skin lets your nose pull to the scent of human blood.

You clear your throat and look away, licking your lips with a dry tongue. Moving your toes under the two bear furs that rest at your abdomen, you notice the lack of earth-shattering pain that accompanies it, and, shifting a hesitant hand, you grab the edge and push it back a bit farther.

Bandages with perfect ties meet you, void of any crimson staining.

Truth be told, you expected more of a Hunter’s home—skulls; trophies. The town always spoke of burnt bodies strung up on crosses that mark the property of those in this profession, a ward and a sign of grim hope. Vampires mostly, wasting away in the brutal sun. Others as well. Werewolf fur and witch bones shoved in blessed boxes.

This place is almost normal, you think, thighs shifting over the dip of the bed as your finger runs the white wrappings where the bolt should be. Your mind dares not go to how he got the thing out of you, and at the stretch of sutures, you take your curious grip off of it entirely.

Looking around once more, your brows furrowed tightly.

Where was the man? The hunter responsible for your current predicament? Ghost. With his vampire skull mask and his black attire—a hellhound with dark ink and intentions. More importantly…

Why were you still alive?

Your memories come back slowly as you stand, bare feet moving to the floor as the tunic over your upper half falls to your knees at the verticality of your spine. They creak a bit, the bones, at the ability to stand fully upwards and not be impaired by bars of silver. A strength seeps through you slowly.

In the deafening silence, you clear your throat tinily and lightly itch at the clean flesh at the back of your neck where the muzzle sat; rubbed raw now scabbed and healing with the spread of natural oil balms. Taking in a slow breath, you step forward with a heavy limp and watch the door, glancing at locked trunks and cupboards, eyes blinking. Your muscles ached, but the sting only served as a way to remind you that you were still here—living. Few in your position were granted second chances.

You’re about to study the runes at the door when you’re called to with the creak of the stairs in your left ear.

“Wouldn’t recommend it.” Your head snaps over, blinking quickly.

Ghost carries the leather holders of his twin pistols in one hand, the bodies of the weapons in them hanging as he comes to ground level one step at a time. Brown eyes glance over through the confines of his skeletal face-covering as he walks to the table, placing down the items.

“Keeps the spirits out—smudge ‘em and the house gets haunted,” he grunts. “Rather not bleed myself again to get the runes copied.”

You stare in mild shock, sound sparking from the back of your throat. “...Right.”

Side-eyeing the markings, you shiver and step back from the door, silent as Ghost seems to focus on his task at hand—looking over his weapons.

Large hands running the metal and wood, the pistols in his grip shift as the drying light of the day streams in through the curtains of the windows. He touches them intimately, knowing every grove and dip until he tilts one and rubs away a slash of dirt from the barrel with his bare thumb.

You quickly turn awkward, looking down at yourself and the bareness of your lower legs. It wasn’t lost to you that the man was the reason you were in this situation in the first place.

“You shot me,” you grumble—not unlike someone who had a knife to their throat.

“Affirmative,” Ghost says nonchalantly. You get a slow, blank glance and nothing more.

“Have you drugged me?” You ask, heart speeding up. There wasn’t anywhere to go—not without an escape plan and with Ghost in front of you.

“Wolfsbane?” The Hunter shifts his thighs, boots moving over the hardwood. “Negative. Not yet.”

“Yet?” An attitude seeps in, lips thinning.

Ghost sighs under his breath, slipping the pistols back into their holsters. “Forgetting about how we met, Love?”

“No,” you huff. “Not really.”

“Perfect.” Eyelids pull down slightly. “Don’t.” Ghost nods his head to the table's chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sit.”

“I told you I’m not a—” A sharp, numb look makes your snappy reply stall itself, and you stand there for more than a minute before you find the pointlessness of this.

You limp forward and sit in the chair.

Looping your arms around your waist, you glare to the side as your skin crawls at the unblinking eyes that stare. Ghost rolls his shoulders, tilting his head.

“What do you know about the werewolf that bit you beyond appearance?”

“Nothing,” you chuckle hopelessly, moving a finger in confusion. “I…I don’t know why you’re asking me about it—it’s not like I had a conversation with him.”

The Hunter blinks at your sudden confidence, unable to separate your form now from the one in the cage; blubbering ceaselessly in a grassy clearing. But lesser pains always bring out someone's true colors. As long as you told him what he needed to know.

Ghost explains with a sheen of dull annoyance. “Every turned werewolf holds a connection to the one that bit them. It’s pack mentality.” At your blank look, his brows pull in, the mask shifting. “You telling me you’ve never come back into contact?”

“...No?” Your lips dip. “For three years I’ve been by myself with this.”

Brown digs into your face, a small sheen of confusion slipping in to tighten them, around his biceps, Ghost’s fingers twitch.

You lick your lips, speaking up in the impending silence. “I don’t remember anything after I turn. Is that normal?”

“For you?” He mutters, still not taking his eyes off of you. “Yes.”

“I’m not going to pretend like I know what’s going to happen,” you shrug. “But at the very least I want to try and understand why I’m like this.” You open and close your mouth for a moment. “Before you kill me, anyways.”

“If I wanted you dead,” Ghost grunts through a half-amused tilt of his head. He doesn’t beat around the bush. “...You would be.”

“‘Capture or kill,’” you huff. You’d seen the flyers; heard from word of mouth. “Right.” You sigh. “They’ll track you down, you know. They’re not going to just let you take me.”

“They won’t make it through the forest. Bastards would get lost on the trail.” The Hunter moves until he can grasp the waterskin from the counter, dragging it over with his hand. He tosses it to the main table in your direction after he comes back over, and you hesitantly reach forward and pull the top off. Ghost changes the subject back to his studies of your condition closely. Dark eyes slip down your front as your lips part to take up the liquid. “Before your shift, tell me what you see.”

Your throat bobs as you drink the water, thirsty as it soothes your dry mouth. You hum, but the inquiry makes your hair rise. Your arm wipes at your mouth as you lower the waterskin, a small thankfulness in your heart. “It’s less of what I see and more of what I hear and smell—blood; metal. River water. I…” Your chest tightens. “I feel my bones breaking and I hear howling mixing with whispers.”

“Whispers?” Ghost leans, eyes alighting with dim interest. “What’re they saying?”

“I try to block it out,” you whisper, not exactly answering. “Makes it go faster.”

A long nothingness ensues.

The impending night grows deeper, and then Ghost finally speaks again after you begin to shift with unease. He nods firmly, tilting his head as if it’s already been decided.

“Next full moon, you’re going to listen to them.”

Your horrified face snaps up. It’s a moment of stuttering before you force out a heavy, “What? No!”

He’s already turned, moving back over to the stairs and placing one foot on the steps.

“Ghost!” You yell, face devoid of blood.

He side-eyes you. “Go back to bed. You’re dead on your feet.”

And then the same man who shot you in the thigh with little remorse disappears into the attic.

—

The Hunter was a strange beast.

The days the two of you spent together were mostly silent—left with tight stares and tense shoulders. Clipped sentences.

Ghost, for what it was worth, gave you space in this small house; as much as you could get. He kept himself up above while you stayed on ground level keeping yourself occupied. You’d gotten spare trousers and socks, a jacket, and the bed was practically yours with how your scent rolled off of it now. Yet, you had never been permitted to go outside.

You’d seen the land from the windows—careful of the runes, of course, and it wasn’t anything… ghastly. A vegetable garden, a single-stall stable with a dappled mare, and a beaten-down trail out the front.

No livestock.

No bodies.

It was only when you had become ever more curious about your lupine curse that you braved the stairs to the attic—one week into the impromptu stay. It’s funny due to the fact that Ghost had never said that you couldn’t go up there sooner.

You stand now in the flat room with a sloping roof and find the man making bullets. It’s a long table, parallel to the walls in the center of the room; dark and covered in all manner of books and tomes. Grimoires tied up and locked. Racks of weapons with markings and blessings tied to sheets of ribbon…it was something you’d never seen before.

Studying it now, the contents were a dark fascination.

Ghost fiddles with his silver shell, mixing in gunpowder into the hollowness. He doesn’t speak until you do, but he knows you’re there.

“Tell me more about werewolves,” you speak through the air, and he waits before answering. “The ones who are born with it.”

“Rare,” Ghost comments, and you’re stuck by how willing he is to tell you about this. He puts down his bullet and picks up another. “Harder to find, even harder to kill. Unlike you, they know what goes on when they’re running ‘round. Fuckin’ nightmare to pick up the pieces—bloodbath.” You thin your lips. “Not all of ‘em are murderous, but they’re unpredictable. Can’t help but make packs.”

“Instinct,” you murmur, coming a bit closer. Ghost pauses, looking at you before huffing in the form of a gruff ‘yes.’ Your wondering continues. “But why am I alone then?”

“That’s the question,” the hunter says slowly. “Need to figure out why.” Brown eyes slowly move to you. “‘Fore more people end up dead. Or turned.”

“Can I,” you stop at the table, standing opposite the man. “Can I turn people, too?”

“No,” is all you’re given. Ghost’s eyes glint. “And I’d rather you didn’t bite on me to try.”

Your face heats.

Your attention focuses for a while on how he works—prepares for something unseen. He’d said he’d kept you alive to help him find the one who bit you, but he’d also cleaned your infected injuries, bandaged you, and fed you. Kept you warm. Safe. It was far more than could be said about your village.

However, it was strange how Ghost’s stark muteness was something that you found in the darker hours, a small comfort. When the moon was coming in from the windows, and you hid from its rays as if being stalked down, he once found you sleeping under the bed on the floor because of it.

He never said anything, just offered you a silent hand and helped you back out with a slow blink and a tilt of his head.

There was a distrust, obviously, but there was also an unspoken nearness. No one would make any sense of it—you couldn’t either. It was like a wolf and a raven; something built on hesitence but necessity. You didn’t like Ghost’s mask or his brutalist profession of shooting his wolfsbane-coated bolts, and he didn’t like that once a month you turned into a rampaging werewolf.

Comparable things, really.

But even here, in this workshop in his attic, you saw the need for this—for hunters. If you couldn’t stop yourself, there came a time when you had to be stopped. Truth be told, you expected it to be a quick and final end. Maybe that was just a foolish hope.

A silver bullet would have always been your final song, you believed. Perhaps the very one that had once swung from around your neck; the one you’d never taken off until now.

But then, perhaps that would have been your own brutalist profession.

“Thank you,” you nod. Ghost pauses, fingers stained with gunpowder. He blinks at the bullet in his hand as you continue. “I know you don’t care about anything beyond your work, but if you hadn’t gotten me out of that cage they would have burned me alive. Skinned me.” Your tongue pokes out of the side of your mouth. “I don’t know, but it wouldn’t have been kind. Job or not…thank you for getting me out of there.”

“I shot you,” he utters, voice gravel. Ghost seemed confused.

Your lips flick. “I never said I forgave you for that part.”

A smooth chuckle wafts out over the attic and your own softly mirrors. Your head tilts somewhat quizzically. “But, about that…did you mean to put so much wolfsbane on it?”

Ghost shakes his head, grumbling. A small sense of honesty leaks out. “...Expected you to be bigger.”

You blink, and then, a few seconds later, a loud snort echoes like a ringing bell.

The Hunter's unimpressed look only leads you to find him all the more enjoyable. “Shut it. Fuckin’ hell.”

A hand is waved from your party, dismissing the harsh snap. “Sorry, sorry.” You puff out amused air. “Spector not up to your expectations?”

Ghost nearly rolls his eyes, trying to focus on the task at hand. He didn’t mind your company, at the very least he knew he needed to keep an eye on you for any potentially forced shifts or hostile attitude. What he hadn’t expected was to find you so…different from your muzzled counterpart, your shared physical inhabitant.

He could almost call you endearing if he wasn’t so numb to the sight and scent of reality.

“Sightings were far between,” Ghost grunts. “Here-say. I took an educated guess—better to put something like you out of commission than drag my way out of a forest without legs.”

“No apology?” You try, tilting your head.

“None,” is the drawn response. “I don’t have regrets. You’re alive.”

Your fingers touch the outside of one of his journals, tracing the bumps and grooves of age and wear. You hum, but don’t reply. Most of your pains have been pushed back now, even if you still weren’t up to full strength. Food and rest helped, but the anxiety that perpetuated only lengthened the healing process.

When you can’t trust even yourself under the drunkenness of the moon, it only makes your fear of the sun worse. Everything made you afraid—most of all your mind; most of all, the future.

“Why do you want to find the werewolf that turned me?” You have to speak this, have to push. Your curiosity demands it.

Ghost puts the bullet down and grabs a rag from his belt, mask turning to look your way as he brushes off his hands. He pauses, looming with that gargantuan height—natural intimidation in the span of his chest and the trunk that makes up his front. You find yourself in his shadow as he rubs at his fingers with the rag, taking it away and slotting it back into his belt a moment later.

The man’s heat leaks into your body as he blinks over, glancing your form up and down in a single look; keeping a respectful distance but still making his attentions known.

He stares. “If it keeps biting people, there won’t be any villages left to take up contracts from.”

“Money?” You frown.

“Principle,” Ghost counters, chest rising and falling steadily. “There needs to be a middle ground. Too many feral werewolves, too few people. Cut off the head.”

“Ominous,” your form turns to his, itching at the back of your head again—the scabbing skin. “If what you said was true, how do you know the thing isn’t already dead? If it hasn’t tried to get to me, what was the point of making me?”

“Because you hadn’t left St. Francis’ by the time I put a bolt in you.” Ghost grumbles, rubbing a hand on his bicep, itching above the fabric of his tunic. He stretches with a grunt—and you see his shirt ride up and the pale skin underneath. You gawk for a moment at the length of scars and brutal muscle.

“Charming,” you dryly utter, stuttering in a brief second of pulling back your senses, but the Hunter continues on, ignoring you.

“That was where you were turned—your territory. You stayed because your leader is still close by waiting.” Legs shift, and all of a sudden, a body is over you, hands are on the base of your skull, pushing your own away as brown eyes dig into the injury you pick at.

Your breath hitches, tensing for a second as your spine straightens. You watch widely from the corner of your eye as Ghost runs a careful hand over the flesh. He puffs a breath, chest moving in a grunt that is both commonplace and expected, yet the brush of his chest to your shoulder is not.

You restrain a shiver, nostrils moving to the overwhelming swell of leather and gunpowder. Bone fragments; the tang of whiskey.

His skin as he runs a thumb over the edge of your wound.

“It’ll start cracking.” Ghost utters, and through his fabric, you feel the brush of speech. “Have to apply more balm. Stop messing with it unless you want stitches soon.”

It takes a moment more of his surgical study and a small clearing of your throat before you can speak. Your mind changes the subject for you.

“So…if my bite can’t turn anyone,” you breathe, nearly sagging as Ghost’s fingers catch in your hair, shifting it under his attention to get a better look. He listens, you know. He wasn’t good at talking, but he always listened. “Why did they muzzle me?”

For a brief instance, you think you feel the Hunter’s fingers jerk a tiny amount—some reactionary muscle twitch that leads your body to still.

Ghost can’t say why he did that, though perhaps it was the sudden flash of the injuries that he’d wrapped on the road back to his property that went over his eyelids. Or the cage—your pleading face aching for whatever small sliver of brutish company you can get.

The silver bullet that he still had in his pocket, attached to that leather cord. He knew the purpose; the intent. Just as he knew the scrape of scabbing under his fingertips.

“Control,” he grumbles, and it’s all he’ll say.

Your burning face is somewhat down-turned, letting him do as he must, study what he can. He hadn’t made any moves to endanger you, and besides the upcoming full moon, there was nothing here that screamed imminent danger. Danger as a general, yes, of course. You were a werewolf in a hunter’s home—it would always be…your eyes flutter when his fingertips drag over your scalp…it would always be danger….dangerous.

Ghost doesn’t think you notice it, but your eyes are drooping.

He watches after the slight shock wears off, a tiny smirk flickering the hidden skin of his lips after he realizes the reason. If you had a tail, he’d assume it would be moving in a soft arch by now.

The man was mildly amused at that, and before he moved away fully, he had to stop himself from uttering a sarcastic, ‘like that, then?’

He had to remind himself not to get attached to whatever…this was. He was using you as bait, as some key to his problem. Not a companion. The distance here had to be firm and heavy-handed.

“The balm is down in my packs,” he grunts, leaving just as his name implied before you had the chance to gather your bearings and the lack of caressing heat. You startle back to the attic room, eyes wide and face loose before Ghost’s retreating footsteps echo on the stairs. “Don’t bloody use it all, then.”

The front door opens and closes with a pull of weighted wood.

—

“I can’t do this,” you mutter, pacing alone in the middle of the night down in the living room

The full moon was tomorrow.

“I can’t do it,” you itch at the back of your head, peeling at the nearly healed flesh harshly. Your nails dig into the soft tissue, drilling like a knife. A bead of blood slips around your fingers, but it doesn't stop you.

It’s late—late enough to know that Ghost should be asleep by now. For days, the paranoia, just like always, builds until you are nearly as mute as your Hunter. No more curiously searching his attic; no more questions about his job or how he got into this business. Brown eyes had been lingering more as the days went by, this strange companionship growing. You knew, in his own way, he was…worried.

So silent, even he had been getting noticeably uneasy. Shifting legs and quick glances. Nights where you hid under the bed from the moon until lunch came around, Ghost speaking as easily as he could to try and coax you out to no avail. You, a feral dog with white-rimmed eyes.

At supper, only hours before this panicked pacing, you had told something to Ghost that made him double-take.

“If I can’t stop it…I need you to shoot me. In the head.”

He’d never answered, but his eyes seemed to get ever-sharper as the hours continued on. More tense. Ansty.

But…that was his job, wasn’t it?

“Can’t do it,” you murmur. Blood slips down your wrist. “It isn’t right—”

“Spector?” Ghost’s voice had become so familiar to you that the only thing that made your heart skyrocket was the sudden call of it. Your gasp is sharp from behind a panted breath, hand flinching away from the crater you were steadily digging in your skull. A long string of blood trails into the air as your fingers jerk away, and it’s only then that you notice the deep pangs of pain.

Your eyes shudder for a second as Ghost’s form makes it to ground level. He comes over slowly, attention staying on the way the moonlight makes the crimson stains glint from the dripping line seeping into the sleeve of your tunic. He blinks, and you both stand.

The man’s skeletal adornment was missing, though the fabric under remained. A loose sleep shirt and pants, stained by the rays of night.

“Let me see,” he sighs under his breath, a tiny rasp telling of the sleep he’d been awoken from.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you utter. He doesn’t seem to care, grabbing your wrist and pulling the limb away as his body takes up presence behind you.

“Was already awake,” Ghost grunts, eyes narrowing in hidden worry. You calm down a bit at that, one less problem to worry yourself about.

The Hunter, quietly, leaves for a second and grabs his pouch near the door. With a muffled command, he nods to the bed until you’re backing up and hitting the back of your knees off of it, sitting.

Ghost lights the candle on the nightstand and opens his belongings with stiff glances your way. He noticeably doesn’t ask why you’ve harmed yourself like this.

“I can’t,” you say it like a plea for help. “Ghost, I can’t do it again.”

Hands fiddle with clean bandages and take out his waterskin. The man douses a rag with the liquid and comes over, shifting onto the bed and lightly turning you so your back is to him—legs half hanging off.

The hard press of cold water makes your breath hitch, and you bite your lip.

“It hurts,” you push out. Ghost knows you’re not talking about the newly opened wound.

“Breathe,” he says to you, seeing the way your sides expand with heavy lungs. Brown eyes flutter from the push of his large hand to the warmth of your shaking flesh. “Tell me about your home, yeah? Heard you lived in your own place.”

The question makes you double-take.

He’s asking me that? Here? Now? Hours away from perhaps another catastrophe?

Yet, you can’t help the slippage of your tongue as Ghost’s fingers rub into your scalp. The rag is lessened, and, soon, the material is rubbed gently over the sore itch of weeping skin. You fight a whimper and reply with an addled mind.

“It…it’s quiet. Calm. I always keep the candles going because I don’t like the dark.” Ghost works quietly and quickly.

“There,” he grunts, glancing at the flickering light of the candle he lit. He’d have to remember that. “And?”

“I kept sheep.”

He pauses, and, without meaning to, a soft scoff bounces off the confines of his chest. It catches your attention far better than a bullet could. Ghost shifts a needle and thread out of his gathering of items, taking away his limbs only for the short while it takes him to loop the two together.

“How many?” The masked man asks, amusement gone just as quickly as it had come.

“Only a handful,” you whisper. Your mouth opens and closes, glancing over your shoulder as the candle-light spills out over the room; casting shadows over Ghost’s face, catching on his long eyelashes. Those browns of his glint like tree trunks covered in dew.

“Please,” your words are muffled. Eyes wide and fearful, there isn’t anything that can console you on this. “You need to kill me.”

There was a dichotomy to you—a violent thing. You didn’t want to die, no, you feared it heavily, more than the moon, but the truth was that you couldn’t keep going through this. The unknowing. The breaking bones, the blinding pain. The understanding that nothing that you do can stop it.

“It hurts, Ghost,” your breath stutters. “More than taking off a limb, more than slicing yourself open and ripping out your intestines—it burns more than the light of the moon.”

The Hunter listens through all of it. He sits, he stares, and he hides the brimming sense of concern behind his dead eyes.

With a pulling of his eyebrows, Ghost’s free hand moves upwards and grabs your chin. Freezing, you study this phenomenon from over your shoulder, face on fire with eyes wide to the pale skin visible to your view. You hadn’t realized until now, but this was the most you’d seen of the man’s face.

You could make out the point of his crooked nose—the strength of his jaw under the form-fitting fabric. Cheekbones and the heaviness of his brows. Wisps of hair. He had eyes like a cat, you had to admit; something sly about them despite the numbness that seemed to extend bone-deep.

But his hands had been kind to you.

Firmly, Ghost’s fingers run your flesh, and he blinks softly before a low sound echoes in his throat. He pushes carefully on your jaw and shifts your head back forward so he can help you. When he lets go, your heart quivers in your breast

“I’m ‘ere,” he mutters, and you feel the first stitch enter the thin flesh of your head. You take down deep breaths, focusing on the scrape of his fingertips and not the point of the needle. Ghost can understand the fear of it—of pain. It’s instinct. He tilts his head and pushes out, “I can only ask for one full moon from you, yeah? No more. I just need one.”

“And if I can’t find the werewolf?” Your voice vibrates with emotion, staring down at your hands as Ghost’s chest brushes your spine. The scent of him was addling your brain; the rub and slide of his hands.

The Hunter’s jaw clenches softly. “...Then I let you go.”

It wasn’t what you were expecting, but anything from the time you’d gotten a bolt through the thigh was unknown territory, and, like a dog without a leash, you’d run into it. Your brows furrow, blood oozing down your neck before Ghost’s grip shifts to place the rag back again, swiping away firmly.

“Go?” He nods, but you can’t see it. “But what about the hunt?”

“I can manage.” The stitching pauses. The air is broken up nearly a full minute later. “You’re not evil.” Before they start up again as if nothing was uttered aloud.

The confession makes the sting in the back of your eyes start up again—a strong thing of confusion and vulnerability. Ghost continues his task, pulling together your skin one suture at a time until the injury is fully closed; clean.

“Chin,” he lowly states, and you allow him to tap your jaw, shifting it up so the wrappings can loop above your ear and over your forehead—securing them.

Even far after the blood has seeped through, the two of you stay.

—

Come morning, you already feel wrong.

Your body stays in bed, shaking—sweating. A large pain flairs in your chest over and over like a pulsing well in the earth, skin twitching with the spread of blood. Ghost sits beside the bed all the while, having dragged over his chair. He leans back into it, one arm over the side, hanging with the thing ever so often moving to rub at the back of his neck.

You don’t think he’s moved since he brought it over last night; since he got another candle to stick into the holder—push back the dark. To watch, to study, or just to stave off your rising anxiety is another question.

It’s only after the fourth time you try to rip at the stitches at the base of your skull that he finally grabs your hand and holds it silently. Now, his thumb moves over your knuckles—his gloves back on.

At noon, he tries to suggest eating.

“Hungry?” Ghost asks.

“No,” you say instantly, sweat dripping over your temple, your body partially buried under blankets. “No, I’ll just throw it up.”

Brown eyes glint. “Just one bite?”

Your mouth is already salivating—thoughts of wet flesh and blood in the forefront until you whine and shove your face into the pillow; panting heavily.

Whispers dance in the shell of your ears.

I’m here.

“Go away,” you whisper quickly to them.

Ghost pauses, hesitating. After a moment, his thighs tense with the action of movement, thinking you’re speaking to him. Something swirls in his chest, but he starts to stand nonetheless.

Your eyes widen.

“No!” Both of your hands latch onto the Hunter’s wrist, fear a needle stuck in your gaze. “No, not you. Stay, please.”

A silver cage covered in blood slides across Ghost’s slightly shocked look, but he only licks at the corner of his mouth and slowly leans back once more.

“Not going anywhere,” he says, accent dipping. “Tell me what you’re hearing, yeah?”

His hand slips back into yours, and he presses into your pulse softly, counting. The sun continues across the sky.

“I don’t like how it sounds,” you say, shaking your head. “It’s wrong.”

“Focus,” Ghost breathes, looming closer. His grip squeezes once. “It can’t hurt you.”

You shiver, eyes tightly closed as tears burn the back of your nose. “It’s howling.”

A suddenly gloveless hand spreads up your cheek, resting there and pushing back the sweat that pools. It’s calloused—scarred. You whine, head spinning.

I’m waiting.

Find me.

“I don’t want to,” you utter under your breath, words an amalgamation of slurring gasps.

“Spector,” Ghost calls, head moving closer. “Eh.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” your hurried panic is similar to a mind overdosing on wolfsbane. “Gotta go away—gotta get out—”

“Spec!” The Hunter’s quick bark makes your eyes pop open, and you lock instantly with brown orbs.

They’re tight, unblinking just as always. They offer just a few moments of clarity.

Ghost holds your head still while the rest of you shivers with cold sweats, you can hear the blood inside of his veins; his heart pumping. The scent of his skin was addicting to the point of memorization on the airwaves. You watch, gulping down breaths as your throat bobs.

Eyes dart you up and down, fingers spreading out to offer what little comfort he can. The man wonders if he’s completely in over his head.

Ghost pulls his face-covering up to his nose, and your heart skips beats at the sight of ravaged skin and stubble, scars spreading out like your own. Long ones, short ones, burn marks, and hyperpigmentation. He wasn’t pretty, but he was real.

Oh, he was real.

His grip on you strengthens until all you can focus on is him.

Ghost blinks, and you see his lips move. The gravel of his voice was never more clear. “Fucking hell, keep that head on, okay? Nothing’s going to happen as long as I’m here. I’ve got you.” He sighs out a low breath, thumb running your undereye as the small dribbles of tears begin to sneak out. Ghost murmurs. “I’ve bloody got you, alright? Let it happen—we can figure it out.”

He’d grown fond of you over the course of a month. You were curious; not pushingly so. Honest. Good. You’d been dealt a bitter hand, and damn him if his stone heart wasn’t stretched thin at the raw fear on your face. This wasn’t your fault, but he needed to find who turned you and stop them before it got any more out of control than it already was. If more unstable werewolves went running through the woods, there wouldn’t be anyone left in the territory alive.

“When you turn,” Ghost says as clearly as he’s able. “Go. Don’t fight it. I’ll find you.”

“Promise?” You ask, a weak flicker coming to your lips—eyes vulnerable.

Ghost nods once, and it’s all you need. “I’ll find you,” he repeats. “Doubt me?”

“No,” you ease, clearing your throat. “But…one more thing?”

“Anything,” the Hunter instantly says.

“Just don’t shoot me in the thigh again.”

When the claws start protruding from your nailbeds hours later, you’re bolting to the door with only one last glance at the Hunter and his half-pulled-up mask. Booted feet hitting the wood as he stands, he lets you go even as his thighs tense in a need to run after you. Patience was his beast to tame, but it seemed to have left him in the form of a woman disappearing into the tree line.

There is companionship in broken things.

Your body slips into the forest just as the creak of your bones begins to shift and bend. You fall into a heap, hearing the gargling of marrow under your skin like a call to sea. An urge grows to infect you; a feral need to run and hide. Biting back a shrill scream, a hoarse yell escapes instead—flesh rippling as your mouth opens, fangs breaking the supple mushiness of your gums as blood floods like a river.

Find me.

“Ghost,” you whisper, hands snapping to your head. “Ghost, please.”

Your bullet, you want your silver bullet.

A rabid scream rips from your throat, and back in the house, Ghost’s hands tighten into fists as he glares at the open door. He growls under his breath, eyes tightening in a certain type of anger that brews in his gut. The nights your shuffling woke his light slumber were more common than when you hadn’t, and every utterance was clearly heard to his ears. It had become a curse to him—how you’d met.

A regret was seeping in, a care, and now, as he forces himself to back up and head into the attic, Ghost clenches his jaw tightly. So unaffected by the horror of monsters, he was now at a loss of sense for this growth of feelings.

He wasn’t dull, he knew that some of the contracts he took marked him as a tool and not a person of stable mind. He’d done things he wasn’t proud of, and he would continue to do them for no other reason than they were the orders he was given.

But you had broken a piece of that off of him, somehow, someway, your face had seared itself into his retinas—speared him at the brutality that your community had treated you with. The muzzle. It was cruel, and while Ghost was precisely that, there was a limit.

He did his job, and that was that. Anything after wasn’t his problem.

You became his job, and the one who turned you was an add-on. Maybe if he justified it to himself, he could understand his actions better.

But he was already sprinting to grab his gear when the first howl shattered the night.

—

A white beast prowls the forest.

It stands on two legs, but it isn’t human—isn’t natural. It’s taller than a grown man is; snout pulled back in a soundless snarl that puts dogs to shame with rows of teeth so sharp, they look like pale knives. Its feet—large, splayed—soundlessly skate the ground until clawed fingers slam to the earth.

A nose inhales the scent above the dirt, tongue lulling as a shaggy tail lays limp behind a curved spine. In between the erect ears, under the thick skull of the werewolf, the rolling bumps of a brain spark. A pull.

Find me.

Your eyes are tiny black dots—and they blink once before you rise once more. A great growl moves inside of your chest, the large collection of hair around your neck standing on end.

I’m waiting.

But there’s something that keeps you here—standing in the grass as the moon shines atop your head, your fur nearly glowing even with the stain of bloody injuries. The remains of clothes are about a meter away; only strips of what was.

Your gaze looks over your shoulder, and your gargantuan frame lumbers backward until you can stoop to them—nose once more sniffing with your arms reaching.

Your fingers twitch, blackened claws digging through the ground as a near purr echoes in your throat. The scythe-like additions card across the strips.

Gunpowder.

Leather.

Whiskey.

Something you can’t quite name, but feel drawn to despite the tightening noose at your throat. There was something there you can’t focus on…something that you need.

Your drooling jaws snap, saliva coating the fangs until they drip off one at a time to stain the grass. Body shifting, your head lowers until your wolf-ish visage rubs against the fabric, licking at the sides of your gums as delicate grumbles slip out of your mouth.

A far-off howl leaves your frame freezing.

Eyes slipping back into the feral-inhumanity of a wild animal, your body jolts up, gaze to the forest trees and the rustling of bushes. The swell of rain on the clouds is in the back of your nose, and the previous attraction to the ripped clothes is lost as simply as it had come.

You were being summoned.

Ears twitching, the entirety of your body refuses to move to the sound; tensed and ready to spring on anything that moves if only to let off the spike of anger at the lack of control. The pull grows stronger, and it feels like something is trying to drag you away into the wilds.

This was the sensation you were always trying to fight—the one that led to the aggression; the hunt. You knew that if you followed that howl, whatever was left of your human sense would be gone entirely before you could stop it.

Yet, this time, there’s a nagging need to find the owner, and you can’t remember why.

Your large head tilts, feet spaced as the curve of your spine grows more aggressive—hunching forward as you snarl at nothing, claws shaking as your fur is more bristly than sleek.

Like pure white spikes.

In the back of your head, a thin sliver of a memory slips in. Fingers on the back of your head, caressing calluses and dark, dark, eyes. Clean bandages and gentle touches.

I’ll find you.

If the side of your vision picked up the shadow shifting from far off into the trees, your curled lip never turned that way. If your nose twitched to the heavy weight of a man’s sweat, it never shifted to point as a mutt would to the rustling bush.

Your body bolts after the resounding echo of a wolf’s howl, and it’s no later that Ghost slips after your clawed prints to follow.

—

Crossbow in hand, the hunter’s mask gleams in the darkness, his pale eyes twinkling. Bending down, he glazes at the long pushing tracks of your form—seeing the spray of dirt to the side and the broken branches. Ghost blinks, shoulders tense before he swiftly stands and continues on. The firearms at his thighs lightly rattle, and the bolts in his crossbow are already laced with wolfsbane; silver tips smelt a week ago.

He passes a river with only a single glance at the tossed rocks from the bed, sloshing through the water as the bottoms of his pants get weighed down. Ghost’s mind is on one thing only: make sure this plan won’t get you killed.

The bolts aren’t for you—the silver bullets aren’t for you.

He grunts under his breath, the dark woods casting phantoms over the ground. The Hunter’s legs shift through tall grass, and he carries himself with the ingrained confidence a man of his station requires. If he were anything less than a monster himself, he would have died ages ago. Ghost shoots and lets others come up with the questions, but he could never be called dumb.

Seeing what fast glimpse he had of your shifted form after the last time, he was struck by how erratic it acted. Snapping head, twitching ears, and roving eyes. If he didn’t know any better, Ghost would have called it rabid.

Yet, your actions with his borrowed shirt were…body-stilling, to say the least about it. It had made his gut swirl.

“Give me a trail,” Ghost utters to himself, brown eyes still picking up the dash you’d taken. His agile feet splash through a puddle, the beginnings of raindrops hitting his head.

The man grabs at his hood and pulls it up stiffly, frowning under his mask.

Rain would wash away the tracks.

“C’mon, Love,” he grinds out, body hunched. “Leavin’ me to do the dirty work, eh?”

It’s too quiet—even a collection of minutes later of hard hiking, the trees barely move. There aren’t any birds; no animals beyond the black bodies of crows in the far-up branches, waiting, watching with obsidian eyes that don’t blink.

Ghost isn’t off-put, but the length of his strides gets far tinier, carefully stepping over twigs and rocks like a soldier at war. Then again, he was at war. And if he was caught unawares, there wouldn’t be a bullet to pull out of his side, but, instead, a chunk missing.

His ears were almost ringing from how hard he was focusing.

Brown eyes shift from one area to another, and then, suddenly as if a deer, he freezes.

Ghost’s body winds up, fingers twitching from the stark trigger discipline of his crossbow downward instantaneously. No one but him can explain what just happened, but he knows when he has to listen instead of act. Stuck in a clearing not unlike the place he’s first met you, his feet rest shoulder width apart and his eyes stare blankly into the trees ahead.

Your tracks end here.

From behind him, just as the large raindrops slap the side of his bone-ed visage, the small crack of a twig makes his ears twitch.

A low snarl sets his hair on end.

Looking over his shoulder, Ghost is met with the same color that he’d become so accustomed to in a full month completely blacked out. Void. Lifeless to anything besides rage and bloodlust.

Your white fur was infected with dirt, blood, and leaves—a mosaic of ferality ingrained into your body; pale fangs snapping. The beast slips through the treeline, slapping a veined hand into the soggy earth.

Ghost only watches, eyes a mystery.

His finger shifts over the trigger, and for the first time in his life, he hesitates.

The man looks into your glinting orbs, the dripping saliva on your lulling tongue as your esophagus pants for breath. One hesitation, he always knew, would mean death. One mess-up.

You’d asked him to end it, he shouldn’t feel remorse, guilt, perhaps—he was still human, despite his appearance, but remorse was deeper. It left wounds that were harder to lick clean again.

…So why isn’t he sending a bolt into your forehead?

Ghost remembers the times he’d found you under the bed, your shaking, and the way you hadn’t allowed him to change your bandages the first few weeks you’d stayed with him; didn’t want him to touch you. The nightmares and the small smile you’d gain when he’d spew his dark, sarcastic words as if this was a joke. How you’d always thank him under your breath for the food he’d give you, hunted by his own hand.

A silver cage. Crimson blood. The sight of your pleading eyes when you’d told him to shoot you.

Maybe the two of you were far more alike than he’d dare to admit. And he currently won’t, not even on his deathbed. Not even now.

Ghost watches, and he waits.

He can’t do it.

Your body slinks closer, stalking with the sound of anger, nearly rib-shaking in its volume. Ghost’s jaw clenches, and his body shifts to face yours head-on. At the sight of the crossbow, your snarl turns into an air-biting rage, saliva flying through the rain.

“Spector,” he keeps his voice low, even. The sight he’d seen as you smelled his clothes had to mean something. Ghost tilts his head, moving out a hand from the side of his weapon in an appeasement gesture. “I’m not going to shoot you. We have a job to complete…get those fangs away.”

He wonders if ordering you around will even work. You had told him before—you’re not a mutt. Ghost agrees. No mutt was the size of a fucking boulder.

The werewolf’s claws drag—goring the mud as if a pig to tear apart.

“Spector,” the Hunter tries again. But something’s different about his tone; he drops it, letting it pull on a softer string. “I’m here to end this. We’re here to end this.” He blinks and lowers the crossbow completely. “Breathe. The night can’t last forever.” A breeze whips the trees. “I made you a promise.”

There’s a second, he thinks, where he can see something shift in your gaze, pupils slightly widening above the deluge that wets down your fur into a sopping mess that hangs off muscle.

“That’s a girl,” Ghost grunts, taking a small step closer. “Never told you,” he utters, eyes locked with yours. He sees your nose twitch minutely. “But if we get this right, Spec, there’ll be no more painful shifts, hear me?”

Your dog-ish mouth is closed, hanging off every word as Ghost comes even closer.

“I kill this bastard,” the hunter breathes, gloved hand still outstretched, nearing closer to the near-silver of your form. “The moon’ll have no claim on you. She’ll let you off the leash, Little Wolf. You get to decide when it happens.”

He thinks he has you now, back to some state of recognition in the addled brain that tries to see him as prey; as competition. Ghost’s fingers are close enough to almost touch you, but just before he can brush his gloves over your wet fur, your mouth opens in a display of untamed challenge. Your growl is enough to make the man unconsciously reach for his pistol, and in the time it takes him to realize the fault of it, you’ve already rampaged forward with an unhinged jaw.

Ghost’s eyes widen, taking a quick step back.

Your legs push off, and you shove the hunter out of the way just before the fangs of an immense beast can clamp down on him, your own finding the shoulder of gray, thick fur.

Fighting as wolves do, Ghost only needs a moment to recover and get to his feet, though the sight in front of him can rival any that he’d seen before. His crossbow clatters a few feet away, sending the bolt off into the trees with a metallic ‘twang’.

The two werewolves roll around the pouring clearing, snapping teeth and rending claws drawing blood that’s deep enough to swim in to the green grass. White and gray meld together—blue eyes like a knife to Ghost’s chest when he takes it in from between the sound of tearing fur.

“Bloody fucking…” the man trails, staggering as his palms slap to the pistols at his side. He blinks, shouting in more of a bark than even a dog could imitate. “Spector!”

The wolves pull and rip the other to shreds, flesh torn and limbs grasping for purchase. Bodies are slammed to the ground before getting tossed to the side, fangs flashing in the moonlight. Ghost watches crimson stain your fur a pinkish-red.

He can’t get a good shot.

The werewolf that turned you sinks its claws into your sides, dragging them downwards as you yowl, eyes tiny with aggression before your jaws connect with its snout, biting down with more force than a horse’s hooves. The monster screams—a garbed thing of fangs and saliva.

Just as easily as it called you here to it, as it stalked your Hunter, it bashes your body back into the earth and takes you by the scruff of your neck. Eyes wide in that lupine way, you lock on Ghost’s profile before your body is lifted, and tossed away violently.

Spine slamming into a tree, you hear the cracking and bending of your bones in your ears just after you hear the sharp shout from the man in the clearing, body dropping to a heap into the grass and mud. Angled head flopping back and forth, black infests the edges of your vision, coughing up blood that seeps from between your gums and slips down the back of your esophagus. Fur and flesh are stuck at the base of your throat.

Whining, your limbs drag and pull futility, eyes flooded over with crimson and fogged by rain. A great roar worries the air, sending long shivers over your spine as you try to rise to your limbs, a five-fingered hand slamming you back down.

Just before the fangs can clamp your throat, two great booms burst through the forest.

The wolf atop you reels back, great bellow escaping its throat when you can finally drag your head to look over. This beast was clawing at its chest, shaking its large head in an arch to try and dispel the shock of having two silver bullets entering its back—the gray head snapped around to Ghost, who held his twin pistols aloft with eyes burning with anger from behind his mask. An avatar of vengeance; a bringer of death.

The orbs inside of your sockets widened, nose twitching wildly as you bleat a quick warning bark.

Blue-Eyes rises, body far larger than yours would ever grow to be—on two feet more powerful looking than a bricklayer many years into his craft; tall enough to reach to the sides of black-shingled homes and pull itself up. Ghost takes one look and growls under his breath, knowing there would be no time to reload the weapons in his hands.

So he drops them and pulls slowly at the cruel blade in his belt until the gleam winks in the low light like a curved smile. Setting it in his hands, the small flicker of a sharp smirk on his lips is lost to you.

Yet, there isn’t a chance for some brawl between two beasts—there’s only the flash of pale fur and the final crunch of a body hitting the ground.

You bury your fangs into the wolf’s neck; the one responsible for all of your pain and torment spanning years of isolation. You feel the body seize as it drops, the last remnants of a dying brain trying to fight the inevitable nothingness that ensues, and, you only hold on the harder, the bloodlust seeping back in with every drop of life pooling into your locked jaw.

Your throat releases tiny growls of pleasure, biting a bit to make sure there wasn’t a sliver of a chance that something living was walking away from this scene.

Ghost pauses, and in the back of his head, he knows he should stop you. Brown eyes see the animalistic sheen of enjoyment at a fresh kill, the way you pull at the flesh until chucks peel away from a gurgling wolf. Even when the thing is long dead and the rain still slaps the earth, you barely let go until you get a hold of the meat and tear with a backward jerk of your snout.

“Love,” the Hunter sheathes his knife, taking a step forward. The blood was pooling under your body. How many of those were treatable? He had to know. “Let me see what’s—”

The eyes that lock on him are not yours.

Up to your ears, the entirety of your face was awash with the stain of life, dripping off the whiskers at your cheeks; your chin.

Before he can utter another word, he finds himself on his back with a snapping snout right in front of his face, two dead eyes staring deeply into his own. Ghost sucks down a quick breath, hand snapping to the large wrist shoving down on his chest.

He pants out, gravel accent far more deep than it was before.

“Easy, Spector. Easy. Eh—focus on me.” Your tongue licks at your fangs, body shaking. Ghost pushes out, “That’s it, then. It’s over, yeah? You did it; let's pack it up and head back home.” He grunts. “Recon even dogs get cold in weather like this—the bed’s waiting. Get a nice fire going.”

Ghost sees your face move closer, and his hand minutely shifts to the vial of wolfsbane on his belt. It wouldn’t kill you, but it could put you out of commission until your body shifted back into its proper form. He could carry you back—that wouldn’t be a problem at all.

But he was worried about your injuries. Even now the droplets of blood roll off of you faster than the water can.

Too much.

Brown eyes crease, darting a look down.

“Fuck,” he growls, seeing the carnage and the open meat. “Sweetheart, we need to get you checked out—you need to listen to me. Can you do that?”

He can see the conflict; the internal fight.

Your mouth moves with fast pants, claws stuttering over his gear futilely. You blink rapidly, shaking your large head in fast increments with small snarls.

“C’mon,” Ghost says slowly, fingers looping the vial. “Keep listening. Know my voice is utter shite, but only you can tell me it.”

Your head drops to his chest just as the wolfsbane is popped open, and, for whatever reason, Ghost pauses. He waits.

You take a long inhale of his gear—of the leather and the gunpowder, and just before the Hunter can dump the vial over your skin, the long blackish claw on your finger loops the bottom portion of the fabric under his bone attachment.

The man’s breath hitches as you let it rest along his nose bridge…holding it there as you drag your head upwards as if it were an impossible chore. Your mouth dribbles out gore to his cheeks, but the Hunter stares upwards into your eyes as they soften in a lupine way.

Inexplicably, you let out a bone-rattling sigh and slump into oblivion.

—

Come morning, you sleep under the spread of large fur blankets—clean bandages over your bare frame as the man has tended to you for hours. He mutters for you to slip your arms into a spare shirt after he finds your eyes open, not uncomfortable by your nakedness, though he wants you yourself to be at ease.

His brown eyes are creased, and you can’t remember what you’ve done.

You comply with small grunts and moans; more sore and cut up than you can recall ever feeling as a large tunic is slipped over your head by scarred hands.

Gunpowder.

“What did I—?”

“You finished the job,” he says, sparing you a glance as he shifts back with his eyes averting themselves from your visible legs. The sun seeps in through the windows. “It’s morning.”

You blink slowly, and the man eases you back down into the furs.

“I’m tired,” your voice yawns out—weak and brittle like the hope you’d had that this plan of his would work. Eyes half-closed, they blink at the hunter with a soft kind of care that you can’t remember showing before. Whatever pain medicine he’d given you, it was working. The underlying itch was still as strong as ever, though.

“Tired is good,” Ghost nods slowly, standing still until he crosses his arms and sets his feet. He’s in a fresh shirt and pants. There’s blood under his fingernails; traces smeared over his flesh. “Means you accomplished something.”

“Don’t think that’s entirely true,” you breathe. A pause. “...Why is your mask like that?”

It was half pulled up—showing off his lower jaw and the stubble. The scars that you already have memorized. Ghost shrugs, blinking those dead eyes of his.

“Ah,” he grumbles. “Forgot. Here.”

He reaches up and slips the thing off in one motion. Your loose brain takes a moment to realize the entire face you’re staring into, but the second it does, the image is engraved into your mind forever. You make a noise in the back of your throat.

“Better, Little Wolf?”

“W—” Your lips stutter, new sutures pulling tight. “Why would you…?”

“Hungry?” Ghost asks, quickly changing the subject. “Know you like that venison that I caught.”

“No,” you breathe. “No, I’m not…I’m tired, Ghost. My head hurts.”

A hand sweeps over your forehead, staying as you sag into it with a hum and a fluttering of your eyes.

“Bloodloss,” the Hunter murmurs. “Normal. Go back to sleep; take however long you need. I’ll be here.”

The bond between the two of you has strengthened to that of a silver rope.

“Stay,” you plead under your breath, already slipping back into nothingness with no promise to wake up again soon. “Hold me, Ghost?”

“Simon,” he grunts to only himself, knowing that the words are lost to you. Perhaps that makes him all the more eager to share it with you when you’re better. “Stay still.”

It wasn’t like you could protest.

The broad man slips in, shifting the furs until you’re covered back up and your forehead is to his chest—keeping himself closest to the door where the runes still sit in their bloody glory. If he listened hard enough, he could even hear them humming him a tune.

No song was better to him than the one of your breath at this very moment. Alive. Moving. There were many times in the night that he thought...hm.

“Better, then?” The dry tease slips out.

A kiss to the side of his mouth is what he gets in answer, and he doesn't say a peep more until he knows you’re back in the clutches of a dream—a good one, he knows, because he watches your expressions like a loyal guard dog would.

Ghost, Simon, rests his lips on the top of your head, and in a delicate murmur, eases, “You did good, Love.”

There was much to do, but for now, all he had to do was hold you a little bit tighter and let his stone heart beat a little bit faster.

TAGS:

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kettlefire · 8 months

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Booo-merang Trouble DP x DC Idea

Okay but leeching off the idea that Jason gives off an ecto-signature, and I probably saw a post about this somewhere. I just for the love of me can't find it. If anyone knows it, please link it so I can credit!:

Jason isn't even on patrol, he's visiting the manor. His chilling, eating away at lunch. He doesn't come to the manor often, but he always needs a dose of his crazy family every once in a while. There's no way he'd stay away from Alred's cookies for long.

Then boom, something shatters the window behind him. On instinct, Jason moves. Taking cover and trying to get a sight of the situation. Of the perceived attack. However, before Jason could do much a heavy object rams into his chest before landing on the ground before him. It doesn't really hurt, nothing compared to his prior injuries.

A boomerang. A glowing green and silver boomerang laid on the ground before him. Jason's a million and one ways confused as he stared at the device. His hands carefully picking it up, and looking over the softly beeping device.

Jason thinks maybe it's a bomb, but something in his gut says otherwise. He can think of a million different things it could be. Maybe one of the rogues got a hold of their DNA, and it tracked them. Maybe it's going to expel a gas any moment, an attack on the Waynes rather than their vigilante personas.

Except it's none of that. The beeping stops and suddenly a robotic voice sounds from the boomerang.

"Ghost located, prepare for your end ghoul."

Jason tenses once again at the clear threat in those words. His gaze scans around the kitchen, still crouched behind the kitchen counter. Except nothing happens.

Except for a voice ringing out from the boomerang once again. This time, this time it's not a robot. It's a clear record of a young woman speaking. Her voice filled with fear, concern, and urgency.

"Okay, this should work right? You know what, that doesn't matter. No one but you should have a signature. Beside's Tucker thinks he set this up to go to you only. So Danny, you should be hearing this..."

Jason only finds himself more confused. The urgency in this girl's voice was enough to keep his nerves on edge. It sounded important, but Jason had no clue who these people are. Who these names could be refering to.

"Danny... Things here aren't doing to good. Look, I know why you left. You have every reason to. What mom and dad did... It's unforgivable and I don't expect you to come back. But, thing is..."

There's a lull in the recording. The distant sound of soft chatting. If Jason strained his ears, he could somewhat pick of the sound of another woman and man.

"Everyone thinks Phantom is dead. Which I would think is a good thing, but it's not. Danny, the GIW is on a rampage now that you aren't here. Mom and dad are on their side..."

Jason made the conclusion that the speaker was this Danny's sister. The message was intended for him, yet it somehow landed in Jason's lap.

"They have everyone locked up in the school... Radars to see if anyone has a signature, and if they do... They separate them from everyone else."

Jason's brows furrowed, finally pulling himself to a stand. He placed the boomerang on the kitchen counter. Leaning forward as he took in the words.

"We don't know what they are doing. Sam, Tucker, and Valerie... We're all hiding. We'll have the highest signatures, and... Listen Danny..."

Jason had a growing pit in his gut. He knew something wasn't right. These people were in danger. It didn't matter he didn't know about what, or who the GIW was, but these people needed help.

"... We need you. We need Phantom, baby bro. I'm sorry, I know you're still recovering. We can handle things here, but please. Please tell me you're still alive, you're in Gotham right? Tell me you're safe, and you're healing and still kicking Danny."

Jason swallowed, placing his hands flat on the kitchen counter. He needed to get this down to the cave. Have the computer tracked where it came from. But Jason couldn't move, not at the sound of pure desperation in this woman's voice.

"I just need to know you at least made it out of this nightmare. I don't care how you do it, just please let me know things are okay... They have... They have Vlad, Danny. Things are complicated, and I hate to put this on you... But Amity needs Phantom..."

The recorded suddenly broke into static, but Jason thinks he got enough of what he needed. Amity. The place these people were was called Amity. It gave him a lead, something for them to work with.

"Da... We... Help... They..."

Jason could hear the woman's voice breaking through the static. He gripped the boomerang, turning on his heels and heading towards the cave.

"Sam... Mom... Tech... I..."

Every broken word only fueled Jason's own urgency. Jason felt a strange urge, a connection. Something that told him he had to help. They needed to help. The boomerang found him, and that had to mean something.

"... I love you, Danny..."

Those four words were the clearest compared to rhe rest of it. It made Jason's heart seize, and he took a breath. He was going to help.

It didn't matter if Jason didn't know these people. If they weren't from Gotham. This was important, and something told Jason he needed to find this Danny.

Danny would be the only one that would know that to do. If Jason manages to rewind the recording, he was certain Bruce would be equally on board.

That voice, the emotions that dripped from it. It gave the sense that this wasn't just life or death. This was a world ending problem.

And Jason would be damned if he ignored it.

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loonylupinblack3 · 1 month

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Period Trouble

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Reader

Warnings: swearing, nothing else i think?

Summary: you wake up with your period and are forced to go on a mission with Logan of all people

Word count: 2.4k

A/N: literally obsessed with this man rn so ofc i had to write about him. also wolverine has enhanced senses including smell but its like…. barely shown in the movies so i had to search it up to be sure, and some part of me still doubts it but for the purposes of this fic he does have it

You woke up with a groan, immediately curling into a ball. You were early. You were early and you hadn’t emotionally or physically prepared for having your period today, yet the world seemed ready to punish you, burdening you with an early cycle.

You checked the time, cursing every god and deity you knew when you realised you were supposed to have woken up half an hour ago. Wincing, you got up, your body screaming at the movement. Already your stomach was aching, the ghosts of cramps to come caressing your body.

There was knocking at your door, quiet yet firm. You already knew it was Storm on the other side of the door, no doubt in search of a reason why you failed to get up on time. It was going to be a long day.

You yelled out to Storm, promising to be out in five minutes, and got up, groggily looking for your clothes. When you’d tamed your hair and brushed your teeth, you exited your room to find Storm waiting on the other side, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.

She took one look at you and sighed. “What are you wearing?”

You looked down perplexed. “....my clothes?”

She raised her eyebrow. “You’re on a mission today, remember?”

Fuck. You nearly let out a whine. You were not in the mood to go skulking around doing Xavier’s bidding when you had a constant throbbing pain assaulting your stomach, unreasonable mood swings, and exhaustion weighing you down.

Storm sent you a questioning look. “You up for this?”

The mission was nothing big. Professor X needed you to collect some sort of rare herb that had recently been shipped into the nearest city, something he needed to complete a super secret experiment you weren’t privy to. He’d just asked for help and you’d volunteered.

Oh how you regretted that decision now.

“Yeah I’m fine,” you muttered. “Let me just get changed real quick.”

Getting into your previously decided upon outfit, a plain inconspicuous one intended to blend in, you left your room again, this time with no complaint from Storm. Your stomach gave an uncomfortable clench and you sighed, making a mental note to find some nurofen before leaving for the mission.

“Why aren’t you in your outfit?” you asked, just realising Storm wasn’t wearing what you two had agreed upon yesterday.

She winced slightly. “Can’t go. Filling in for some classes.”

Your face soured but you tried not to hold it against her. Storm loved her students, and given the choice of helping them or Xavier with a low level mission, she’d obviously choose her kids. You couldn’t blame her exactly, but it meant you’d have to go on this mission alone, while not impossible by any means it would make it slightly more difficult.

You sighed. “That’s okay. I can go alone.”

When Storm winced even more your eyes narrowed in suspicion, following her with caution. “Storm…..”

She sighed guiltily. “Xavier didn’t want you to go alone. The herb’s too valuable.”

You tilted your head slightly as you entered the house’s foyer. “So who am I going with then?”

Storm’s eyes darted ahead, and you followed her gaze to find Logan Howlett leaning against the wall, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He smirked at you, “you’re looking at him sweetheart.”

You resisted the urge to groan, instead sending Storm a dirty look. You didn’t necessarily dislike Logan, but he was a lot to deal with, and you were already tired from your day that had barely begun.

You couldn’t say all that with Logan standing there however, so you muttered a, “lovely,” and walked past the man to the garage.

He followed you silently, no quip or smart ass comment which was strange for him. You’d just entered the garage, heading towards one of the cars, when you glanced back at him and found Logan stopped in the doorway, staring at you with a frown on his face. Or rather, a deeper frown than usual.

“What is it?” you asked him, standing at the hood of the car.

Logan’s eyes roved your body, searching for something. “You’re injured.”

It was your turn to frown. “What? No I’m not.”

He took a step forward, almost as if he was planning on looking for your alleged injury himself. “Don’t bullshit me Y/n, I can smell your blood.”

You made a face. “What are you talking about…..” you trailed off when you realised it, perhaps the most mortifying moment in your life.

Logan could smell your period blood. He thought you were bleeding from an injury.

You cleared your throat, feeling your cheeks heat up. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

He scoffed, walking towards you until you were face to face. You tried to step back and felt the hood of the car against your legs. “I can smell the fucking blood seeping out of you Y/n. I wouldn’t call that fine.”

You gritted your teeth to stop yourself from snapping at him. “I can assure you, I am not injured.”

You moved to walk past him but he caught your wrist, forcing you back into your position pressed against the car. “If you think I am going on this mission with you while you’re wounded, you’re out of your mind.”

“I’m not-”

“Do you think I’m an idiot darl? Is that why you’re denying being hurt while I can literally smell it on you-”

You cut him off. “I’m on my period, Logan.”

He paused, staring at you with an indecipherable expression on his face. You waited for him to speak, feeling embarrassed and furious about it. Why should you be embarrassed of your period? He was the one who was pushing you, prodding you, forcing you to tell him the source of the bleeding. If your answer made him uncomfortable, that wasn’t your fault nor your concern.

Eventually he spoke. “Alright then. Get in the car. I’m driving.”

You scowled at him. “Says who?”

He didn’t even bother looking at you, already in the driver’s seat. “Says me.”

You sighed but didn’t argue further, silently getting into the passenger seat. Logan started the car, reversing it out of the garage and driving down the long winding driveway till you got to the street.

“It’s an hour's drive to the city, give or take,” you told Logan, setting the GPS up on the car.

Logan barely glanced at it, eyes on the road, a firm grip on the steering wheel. He didn’t even respond to you. You sighed and turned away, looking out the window as the scenery passed you in flashes.

As the drive continued, you noticed Logan sending you glances every now and then. If you really focused on them, you’d almost say they seemed worried, concerned even, but they were always too quick for you to tell for certain. You were too preoccupied with your cramps that had started up anyway, and the lack of nurofen you’d forgotten to grab.

Finally, you arrived at the city, driving into the hustle and bustle of the crowded area. Logan’s hand tightened on the steering wheel, obviously not a fan of the traffic the city provided. You watched the stream of people through the window as Logan looked for a space to park, muttering under his breath.

You were mildly entertained at the amount of road rage he had, cursing every car that wasn’t at least 10 metres over the speed limit. His jaw was clenched, hand fisting the steering wheel, yet he still looked at you here and there, like you were actually wounded.

When he eventually found a parking spot the two of you got out of the car and you looked at the address Xavier gave you.

“Should be somewhere along this street,” you murmured, eyes flicking from the piece of paper to the busy street.

Logan moved behind you, so close you could feel your back against his chest, and looked at the paper in your hand. He let out a grunt and moved past you, walking forwards. You frowned and hurried your pace, not wanting to lose him amidst the crowd of people.

Luck was certainly not your side, because soon enough you’d lost him, unable to see his black leather jacket in the throng of people. You hesitated, wondering if you should look for him or just go straight to the address, when you felt an arm around your waist.

“Stay close to me,” Logan murmured into your war, his voice gravelly. “Don’t wanna lose you again.”

You glanced at him as he continued walking, not moving his arm from your waist. “How’d you find me?”

He gave you a smirk. “Followed the smell of blood.”

Again you felt your cheeks heat but you glared at him defiantly, refusing to be embarrassed. He smirked at you, flashing his teeth, as you arrived in front of the address, a plain building home to some sort of florist.

Logan finally took his hand from your waist, walking to the door with you trailing behind him. A bell gave a little jingle as you entered, and you were immediately assaulted with the smell of flowers. Different sorts of plants took up every corner of the room and Logan’s face soured as he looked around, obviously not pleased with the environment.

An old woman sat behind a desk, watering a plant with a mini watering can. You walked up to her, Logan hot on your heels. When you stopped in front of the desk Logan was so close behind you you could actually feel his chest against your back.

“Mrs May?” you asked.

The old woman looked at you with a smile, her eyes crinkling. “That’s me. What can I help you two lovebirds with? Bouquet of roses? Lilies?”

You opened your mouth, surprised, and tried to find something to say. Being mistaken for a couple shouldn’t have affected you so much, especially while on a mission, but you were flustered and could still feel Logan’s chest right against your back, his warmth almost dizzying.

“We’re not here for flowers unfortunately,” Logan spoke, saving you. Except why didn’t he specify you weren’t a couple? Did that not matter to him, what some old lady thought, or did he enjoy the idea of being thought of as your boyfriend?

Oh god. What were you thinking? Stupid period hormones.

The old lady looked at you two curiously. “Then how can I help you?”

There was a pointed silence and you realised Logan was waiting for you to speak. You cleared your throat and spoke the random sequence of words Xavier had you memorise, that would inform Mrs May just what type of buyers you were.

The woman’s eyes lit up with recognition and she nodded her head slowly. “Ah, yes, let me just go to the storage room quickly, I’ll be back….”

Mrs May tottered around the desk and through a side door, half hidden behind the multitude of plants covering the area, leaving you alone with Logan.

You took a step away from him and turned around to look at him, finding him staring at you with a frown on his face.

You frowned back at him. “What’s up with you today?”

He raised his eyebrows at you. “What is up with me? I don’t know if you’ve noticed Darl but you haven’t exactly been up to par yourself.”

You rolled your eyes at his words. “That’s not what I meant, and besides, I’m on my period.”

Logan stared at you, arms crossed. “What did ya mean then?”

“You’ve been acting strange. Less talkative and annoying like usual.”

Logan snorted. “Ever the lady.”

“I’m serious. What’s up with you?”

Logan sighed and took a step forward until he was towering over you and you had to crane your head up to look at him. “You are what’s up. I can constantly smell you bleeding, and I can’t get it out of my mind that it means you’re hurt. You’re driving me crazy sweetheart.”

Well…. That certainly wasn’t what you were expecting. Logan smirked down at you as if he knew that, and enjoyed surprising you. You cleared your throat as your eyes darted to the floor. “Well, that’s hardly my fault.”

Logan chuckled. “Not your fault no, but it is your doing whether you mean to or not.”

You swallowed, looking back up at him. “Well…. Don’t you constantly smell when people are on their periods?”

“It’s different with you. Smelling your blood just drives me crazy, plain and simple. Can’t get the instinct out of my head that blood means injury.”

The way Logan was admitting all of this, with such calm, made you think he’d been wanting to say this for a while. The unspoken confession was there, and it was up to you to decide what to do with it.

“I’m glad you care,” was what you landed on, unsure of what else to say.

Logan chuckled again, one hand snaking to your waist. “I do a lot more than care, Y/n.”

You smiled softly, looking up at him. With his other hand he brushed your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The sound of a door closing brought you out of your little bubble and you took a step back, Logan reluctantly letting go of your waist.

Mrs May, either not having seen you two or graciously deciding to ignore it, passed you a package, informing you the herb and all information involving it was inside, and to handle it with care. You nodded and thanked the old woman before exiting the building, Logan again right on your heels.

As soon as the shop’s door closed behind you Logan’s hand was back around your waist. “Not losing you this time.”

You tried not to smile, though internally you were grinning like a maniac, and let Logan lead the two of you back to the car. You didn’t even get to argue your case of driving this time, Logan already in the driver’s seat. You sighed and got into the passenger seat, resigning yourself to another hour of silence as Logan started driving, when you felt his hand on your thigh.

You looked at him but he didn’t say anything, just gave it a light squeeze as he kept his eyes on the road. You looked away, grinning. So maybe the world didn’t have it out for you after all.

#wolverine #logan howlett #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #xmen #x-men #xmen movie #xmen movies #x men movies #marvel #hugh jackman #james logan howlett #james howlett #x men #xavier #charles xavier

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multiversediaries · 1 year

Text

cups of wine

klaus mikaelson x reader

summary: you had just found out of elijah’s affair, and klaus was right there to comfort you.

warnings: small angst, soft klaus, mentions of cheating

"i believe you've had enough, dear." you heard niklaus say once again, trying to take away the cup of wine off your hands. you furrowed your eyebrows in annoyance, moving the cup to your red lips once again. you lost count of how many cups of wine you’ve drank, you just knew it wasn’t enough.

klaus sighed as he looked worriedly and pitifully at you. truth is, you were cheated on. by elijah. you had just found out. your eyes watered as you remember what you had seen earlier in the day.

you let out a relaxed breath, while you stepped foot into your shared house with the original vampire. work had been rough today, so you wanted nothing more than to kiss and be pampered by your boyfriend. you walked up the stairs, up to your room, your confusion increasing as you heard muffled sounds coming from your bedroom. did he have anyone over?

your heart broke as you heard her voice, well, her moans. hayley. you shook your head in denial behind the closed door. there was no way this was happening. maybe she was hurt and elijah was helping her. there was no way! your boyfriend loved you. he did. he reminded you everyday and he had never given you any reason to doubt him. he would never. right?

your heart was shattered into a million pieces when you opened the door to your bedroom. there they were. lost in your velvet sheets, their bodies tangled with one another's. you felt the air getting thinner, you couldn't breathe. you tried your hardest to catch your breath, as hot tears ran down your cheeks. your attempts at catching your breath must have been loud, because the two lovers seemed to stopped their passionate sex, startled by your presence.

"y/n!" said your boyfriend, standing up from the bed, a blanket now wrapped around his waist. you couldn't look at him, you shook your head, turning around on your heel and walking down the stairs. you ignored his calls, while he ran after you. you didn't care what he had to say. you grabbed your things, ignoring his every word, it was like he no longer existed to you.

you had told him before. that cheating was something you could never forgive. he knew there was no going back if he ever cheated on you. and here he is. with your eyes blurred with endless tears, you took off the necklace he had gifted you, not wanting to own anything that belonged to him, and placed it down on the kitchen counter.

"won't you let me explain, please?" elijah begged, but you ignored him yet again. you were done. he bit his lip anxiously, whilst he watched you break right in front of his eyes. he watched the tears that wouldn't stop falling from your eyes, your quivering lips and shaking hands.

"we're over." was the only thing you said to elijah, before you left.

you laughed sadly, remembering how pathetic you must have looked. klaus sighed, watching your every action. everyone already knew what had happened. klaus has always been your best friend, imagine his anger when he found out what his brother had done to you. imagine the rage he felt when he found out that the woman he loved was hurting, and because of his relative.

"that's enough, y/n. you've had too much already." klaus said, his hand reaching towards your cup, but you shook your head, taking the last sip of your now empty glass.

"your brother cheated on me, nik. what do you expect me to do?" you asked, your speech slurred. you were definitely tipsy, but it seemed like even the alcohol couldn't numb your pain. you raised your hand suddenly, intending to order another cup of wine, before klaus stopped you.

"no, love. i'm taking you home." klaus said, his hand wrapping around your waist, helping you stand. you shook your head, as you refuted. you needed more. it wasn't enough. you still hurt, you needed more. "come on." klaus said lovingly, walking you out of the mystic grill.

"no! 'm not drunk!" you attempted to say, hiccups interrupting you. klaus leaned you against a wall, for support, as he looked for his car keys in his pockets. "just one more." you begged, raising up one finger infront of klaus' face. he shook his head, and you pouted. klaus grabbed his keys, and wrapped his hand around you once again.

"let's go.” he said softly, while he gently walked you towards his car. you looked at him, as you attempted to walk, stumbling your way through, your legs getting tangled various times. “easy there, love.” klaus said gently, as he continued to help you walk.

klaus was handsome. so beautifully handsome. you couldn’t help but stare at him. god, he was so breathtakingly gorgeous. you couldn’t believe you had never actually noticed his immense beauty. you stopped walking out of no where, earning a confused look from the hybrid.

"you're- handsome." you confessed, smiling sweetly at him. klaus almost melted. he chuckled a bit.

"i know, love. now, let's keep going" klaus replied, a big smirk on his face, grabbing your arm once again, before you shook him off.

"no-why- why didn't i go for you?" you mumbled, loud enough for him to hear. klaus stopped dead in his tracks, widen eyes looking at you. "you'd never... hurt me." you said, dropping your head in both tiredness and in defeat. klaus frowned at your words. because you were right. he would never.

"let me get you home, alright, dear?" klaus spoke up yet again, trying to find your eyes. his heart sank as he heard a sob leaving your lips. you broke down entirely infront of the deadly hybrid, your hand gripping your chest.

"hurts." you tried saying, your slurred speech making it hard for the hybrid to understand you. you cried. loud, desperate sobs filling the sidewalk you both stood on. klaus cursed his brother for making you feel this way, wrapping you into his strong arms, his warmth bringing you the comfort you so desperately needed. he didn’t say a word, just gave you the space to cry it out, to let it out for once. after a few minutes of crying, you looked up at him. your chin rested on his strong chest, tears still running down your wet cheeks as you spoke up.

“help me hurt him back.” you said, hiccups and sobs making it difficult for you to speak. klaus’ thumbs dried your wet cheeks, hearing your every word, wanting nothing more than to help you and make you feel better at last.

“kiss me…” you begged, your hands tightening around his waist. klaus looked at you shocked by your request.

“love..”

“please?” you begged yet again, more tears leaving your eyes, and causing klaus’ heart to tighten again. his thumbs continued to dry your tears, or at least try to.

“i can’t do that, y/n.” klaus replied, his voice full of pity. he adored you. he was sure you were the love of his life. but he couldn’t have you when you were like this. he wouldn’t kiss you just for revenge. you frowned, shaking your head, your hands grabbing his shirt and making a fist out of them.

“please— nothing will hurt him more than this.” you managed to say, closing your eyes, feeling the delicate touches on your cheeks by klaus. you heard him sigh deeply, his hand now placing strands of your hair behind his ear.

“why don’t we get you home?” klaus added, his hands now running to your shoulders. your head dropped yet again, before klaus lead you towards his car. he helped you into his passenger seat, adjusting your seat belt, and soon drove you home.

it was a silent ride most of the time. all there could be heard would be your cries. klaus was tensed, not knowing what to do to make you feel better. comforting people wasn’t his strongest suit, but he wanted to help you. he just didn’t know how to. soon enough, the car came to a stop. you looked outside the window, finding your house. you had arrived. you took a deep breath, your head now on the head rest, exhausted from all the crying and hurt you had to endure today.

“i just—” you started, earning a look from klaus. “don’t understand. i— i was good to him.” you said, looking at klaus. “really! i was loving, i treated him with respect, i loved him, i— i was good!” you said, as if trying to convince klaus. klaus nodded along, because he knew.

“why wasn’t i good enough?” you asked, a sad chuckle leaving your lips, your hands drying your eyes. “what did i do wrong?” you asked, your voice breaking mid sentence. klaus soon grabbed your face into his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks gently.

“nothing, love. you did absolutely nothing wrong.” klaus replied, his eyes saddening at the sight of a broken you. “you are and will always be good enough.” klaus said softly.

“then why…? why did elijah— why did he…?” you tried asking, but the lump in your throat didn’t allow you to finish, as you broke down yet again, tears were wiped away yet again by the hybrid, as he shook his head.

“because he is idiotic, darling. he’s an imbecile for even thinking of the possibility of ever loving anyone else but you.” klaus said softly, his eyes staring directly into yours. one of his hands patted your head gently. “don’t shed more tears for him, i beg. he’s undeserving of them.”

you swallowed your tears and nodded your head slowly, earning a kind smile from klaus. you tried reciprocating his smile, yet only offered him a frown. klaus sighed softly, his head tilting gently.

“i shall make it my cause, that they never know a moment of happiness in their entire life.” klaus said sternly, yet sweetly to you. “i will make them suffer in ways that their idiotic, spoiled minds can never even come close to imagining.” klaus continued. you shook your head immediately. you didn’t want anything to happen to them. you just never wanted to be associated with them ever again, never have to see them again. but that was impossible and you knew it.

“please, don’t— it’s okay.” you pleaded, shaking your head. klaus let out a deep breath, as he listened to you. “i’m okay.” you faked a smile, one that klaus didn’t buy. you sighed. “i deserved this.” you said sadly, your words lighting up a fire in klaus’ heart.

“you what?” klaus asked, angered by your comment.

“i probably deserved this. i mean, of course all i did for him wasn’t enough! how could it be? how could i be?— how could i even ask for love? how dared i believe i could actually be happy?” you continued, sadly chuckling. “how could i actually believe someone like elijah could ever loved me? i must have been insane.” you laughed, the back of your hands wiping away your falling tears. klaus bit his lip in anger.

“do you actually believe that, y/n?” klaus asked, his hands still resting on your soft cheeks. you nodded, whilst offering him a small, heartbreaking smile.

klaus felt his heart sank. he couldn’t allow this. he could not allow the love of his life to degrade herself this much. he couldn’t stand it. his eyes had watered as he heard you speak so low of yourself. you weren’t allowed to.

slowly but surely, klaus placed his soft lips on top of yours, kissing you in the most sweeter and kinder way possible. you were taken back by his actions, but kissed him back regardless. his lips were sweet, and so incredibly soft. klaus kissed you gently, offering you place to pull away from his kiss, yet you never did. the kiss was somewhat short, but filled with so much love and affection, that you could feel it in your bones.

“please don’t speak so ill of the woman i love. i will not allow it.” klaus whispered, you felt his breath by your lips. you opened your eyes to stare into his gorgeous hazel eyes. you opened your mouth to speak, yet klaus spoke before you.

“why don’t you get some rest, love? we may talk again in the morning if you desire to.” klaus said, talking off his seat belt and soon helping you out of the car. you were star struck, absolutely speechless by what had just happened. but you only knew one thing.

klaus mikaelson loved you.

#tvd #the originals #the vampire diaries #klaus mikaelson #niklaus mikaelson #klaus mikaelson x y/n #klaus mikealson x reader #klaus mikaleson imagine #klaus mikaelson angst #klaus mikaelson masterlist

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sturnsslut · 2 months

Text

sleepover - chris sturniolo

a/n : not much but leave suggestions, i’ll write almost anything + lowercase intended !!

warnings - dom!chris x sub!reader , pet names, teasing, swearing, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, slight choking, sneaky

——————————————————————————

‘ i feel you inside , no better feeling ‘

me and nick sturniolo had been best friends for almost 4 years now , and i had the BIGGEST crush on his brother , chris. of course i would never tell him , but i had a feeling he already sorta knew . ever since i told nick about my crush on chris , he has been teasing me NON STOP about it for almost 2 years. and he's always feeding into my delusions , even tho im trying to get over him.

anyway nick is constantly telling me how chris is always asking when im coming over next, how he's always talking about me , how he's starring at me when im not looking, things like that.

i don't believe any of it, but i wish. anyways i was bored, and it was Saturday so i thought i could call nick to have him come over so we could hangout , because if i saw chris, this whole " getting over him " thing would go right back to stage one. i got out my phone and pulled up nicks contact to invite him to come over , because ill be damned if all a bitch does is watch netflix alone on a saturday night.

iMessage

twin 💗 - nick

me - (you obv) 😭

NICKKK

i miss you sm

can you come over pls

i wanna hangout

twin 💗

TWIN I MISS YOUUU

I would but matt isn't here

so there isn't anyone to drive me

you can come over here thoooo

fuck. i tossed my phone to the side and let out a loud sigh , why can't anything work out in my favor ?? i picked up my phone and texted back nick.

well maybe you should get a license 😒

IM JUST KIDDINGGGG

twin 💗

Shut up bitch

you don't have one either

now come onnn

you can see ur man 😱

i hate you

im omw

twin 💗

😘

i texted my older brother and asked him if he could take me to nicks, which i didn't want to because he was at work and i didnt wanna wait but, oh well. he said he'd take me and so about an hour later he came home and told me he was waiting outside.

i threw on whatever, not really caring considering the fact i thought i was going to be in nicks room the entire time i was there. i put on blue plaid pajama pants and a black crop top with an oversized grey jacket, and some random slippers.

i packed my bag and ran outside, thanking him for the ride. a few minutes later i was at the sturniolos house.

i knocked on the door expecting nick, but of fucking course , it was chris.

" um hey." i said awkwardly, looking down at him.

"hey pretty. nicks in his room" he replied and opened the door further for me to walk in. i brushed past him and accidentally got a little too close. like i touched his dick type of too close.

i heard him groan silently as i walked past, making my way to nicks room.

fast forward a few hours , me and nick were watching a movie when he passed out.

i was gonna go and hangout with matt, but then i remembered he still wasn't back yet from wherever the fuck he was at, so with nothing else to do, i just decided to go to sleep right alongside nick.

i remember randomly waking up around 2AM for no reason but feeling hungry, so i made my way to the kitchen and got a freezer meal or wtv tf

i heat it up in the microwave and while i'm waiting , i decide to just get comfortable and lean on the counter while i scroll on my phone.

i'm about to shut off my phone when i hear something "nick?" i whisper shouted because i was slightly startled by the noise

there was no answer , i just shrug my shoulders and continue scrolling on my phone, when i suddenly feel two warm hands on my waist.

i jumped but not enough to move, i turn around to chris with his hands resting on my waist , looking at me with an indescribable look.

"what..are you doing?" i said flustered, turning my head to look at him , but again not enough to move our bodies any further apart.

"nothing..just can't sleep." he replied

god , his sleepy voice was literally going to make me bust.

" okay.." i say confused and go back to scrolling on my phone. i feel him rest his head on shoulder

" what are you watching "

" just t.." my voice trailed off as i realized i could feel that he had a big ass boner, and he was wearing only sweatpants

i struggled to get my words out because of the situation i was in, so i just ignored the question.

i felt him smirk and her closer to me, him getting more hard the closer he gets, with his hands still on my waist.

"what..you like the way this feels mama?" he says slipping his hands down into the front of my pants, but not fully.

“i.." i could barley speak due to the uncontrollable amount of flips my stomach was doing

"use your words ma." he says getting closer to me, his boner now fully on my ass

i'm gonna bust was literally my thought process. i was nervous, but of course im gonna do what he tells to.

"yea.." i say now slightly arching my back

he turns me to face him, so now im leaning against the counter and facing chris.

he takes one of his hands and guides it up to my face, "do you really."

"yeah" i let out a breathy moan and he smirks leaning closer to me, holy shit. no way this is happening.

he kisses me and i kiss him, he moves his hand down to my neck as we make out, the kiss turns into a sloppy make out, and he picks me up and i wrap my legs around him, he sets me on the counter so im perfectly aligned with his waist, as we're still making out

he starts leaving kisses on my neck and i grab his hair as he does so, leaving a trail of hickeys.

“ fuck " i slightly whisper , this felt so good.

he stopped for a moment before placing one hand on my waist and the other in my pants

" you ready ?" i nodded desperately, not being able to use my words because of how badly i needed him.

he stuck two fingers inside of me and i grabbed onto the back of his shirt in pleasure

" damn ma your so wet ..all for me? how long have you been waiting for this mama "

i nodded, physically not being able to speak because of how good his fingers felt inside me.

“ use your words. how long. " he demanded , grabbing my chin making me look him in the eyes

i paused, not wanting to me too loud. " damn ma, you like how i touch you that much you can't speak ?"

" t..two years " i struggled to push out those simple words. this man knew what he was doing with his hands.

" come on baby, if you were horny you could've told me. i would've helped you with ease. " he said, stopping for a second

" i didn't think you were into me. " i admitted

" really? i thought it was obvious. everytime you came over to see nick i would get hard just looking at you..i've been waiting for this moment a while to ma. "

he moved his fingers in and out of me again without warning, and i moaned a little too loud.

"watch your volume pretty girl..i'd hate for me to have to stop cause you couldn't control yourself "

i nodded agreeably, and trust me when i listened. i'd waited for this moment almost 2 years , i wasn't gonna let anything ruin it.

his fingers continued to move in and out of me at a rapid pace for another 2 minutes , and i felt myself start to get close

"chris...i'm close" that's when he took his fingers out of me and i caught my breath for a moment.

he took his dick out of his pants and it sprung out instantly. when i looked down, my jaw dropped.

he was easily a good 9 inches, and that was just a guess. i'm so screwed.

he stroked himself and laughed when he saw the look of surprise on my face. " what ? all your other little boyfriends had a small cock ?" he teased

i pulled my pants down further so chris had easier access. he got closer, until our noses were basically touching. "you ready ma" i nodded eagerly , because of how close we were, i felt his cock literally in between my thighs. " yes, yes i am just please fuck me " he smirked and put one of his hands on my waist , the other holding his dick. "you sure?" he asked me again, me giving the same answer.

and with that, he shoved in only 7 inches , just to see if i could take him or not. i gasped but covered my mouth because i remember what he said about keeping quiet.

" good girl " he smirked at me again, then shoving the entire 9 inches in me. i put my hands under his shirt, leaving scratches all down his back

" fuck mama..your so tight" he said pausing in between sentences

i could barley speak, but i wanted more. i managed to get two words out , "faster..please" i begged

" more already? alright ma..."

he thrusted in and out of me even faster than before, about a minute goes by before i felt that knot build up in my stomach.

" chris.." i paused before my next sentence, remembering that i had to be quiet "im close."

“ not yet pretty girl.. please- mmm fuck you feel so good. "

i giggled slightly, before telling him how we should switch positions if he didn't want me to finish so soon.

" you got it mama. " and with that, he took me off of the counter and set me down, bending me over the counter instead.

he grabs my hips and lines me up, " you ready? you know i just gotta ask" he asks

i could feel his tip touching me, he was definitely teasing. well if he wants to tease..i can do it to.

"hm not yet..i need to catch my breath" i teased and move my waist slightly, feeling his tip against me

" how bout now?" he asks eagerly

"i don't know .." i answer, he's like a needy child , how cute

" mama please ..i need you so bad. "

" im ready " and with that he slams his entire 9 inch dick inside of me , going faster than before

" you think it's funny for you to tease me ? is it because you know you take me so well ?"

his sleepy voice..fuck.

" fuck..sorry" i say , i couldn't even think cause he was fucking me so good.

he grabbed my neck from behind and thrusted faster , that's when i knew i was close.

" chris , i cant ..im gonna-" im cut off by my release , letting it all go , and man i came hard.

“i’m almost there ma...in or out"

i mean, i was on the pill. " in , cum inside me please."

" mm..you got it pretty " he releases , and i feel his warm cum inside me , best feeling ever btw.

now we're both just leaning against the counter , heavy breathing, sweaty, looking at each other " you took me so good mama."

this man was really tryna make me nut for a 2nd time huh..i grabbed the food id forgotten about out of the microwave and made my way back to nicks room.

" goodnight chris. " i say with a smirk " goodnight ma." he says smirking back at me

a/n: umm !! don’t know if i like this but i have something coming soon for the matt girlies 🤗

#chris sturniolo #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #sturniolos #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #smut #christopher sturniolo #x reader #sneaky #chris x reader #chris sturniolo x reader #smut writing #Spotify

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punkpandapatrixk · 2 months

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💝Valentine & White Day Love Transmission ♦︎ Timeless Pick A Card

In Japan and Korea, Valentine's is when femmes give gifts to hommes; and exactly a month after that, on March 14th, the hommes return that Love with white (preferably) gifts that are expected to be at least three times the value/price of whatever gifts they’d received from the femmes😏

Traditionally it’s kinda like that. Hmmm… isn’t it obvious the celebration has never had quite any meaning in a country such as Japan and that the festivity is nothing more than a heavily-commercialised youth-tradition focused on the pursuit of shallow material desires?🤮

But…I guess it’s OK; because it’s cute anyway🥴

Within the context of this reading, the Valentine and White Day Love Transmission imparts the perfect synchrony of the Love shared by the Divines Feminine and Masculine. It is when affection is given and returned in Love and everything becomes beautiful and worth living for~💝

SONG: Space Orphans by Aoba Ichiko

MOVIE: Peter Pan (2003)

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☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 1 – Don’t give up just yet; I’m on my way!

8 of Cups Rx, 4 of Pentacles Rx, Knight of Cups Rx

Darling, are you on the precipice of giving up on me?! Do NOT settle for someone—ANYONE—who’s NOT me! OMG, babe! I’m coming! Divine Timing is just being a bitch but I’m on my way to you!🦎Well, the thing is…we both have this annoying thing called a spiritual transformation… Until that’s happened—and nearly completely—we can’t be together just yet. But wait, I promise you it’s all worth it in the end🎁

I mean, why wouldn’t you wait for someone like me? I’m romantic; kind and sweet; I AM RICH; and I will always be there to protect you—I intend to always be your confidant and best friend🥰I will never betray you in any way. I’m your best friend who will skip right next to you on our way to beat up a bitch; figuratively, babe—I’m not really the type of person who gets violent LOL

What I do mean is, I want to give you a Life in which you cease to worry about small things. I want it to be that when you’re with me you no longer worry about a lack of means, a lack of warmth, or a lack of security. You’re somebody who deserves to be loved and to be very happy; and I want to give it all to you. And that’s why it’s important for me to become the best version of myself first😝

I’ve got to admit I’ve not always been the nicest, goodest person to have walked on Earth. I’m changing my ways, you know. I’m growing up; I’m developing; I’ve now been awakened and I’m still working on me, so that when I finally meet you, I will not disappoint you. Because I will never want to be a reason you stopped believing in the good of people😤I intend to be the complete opposite of that.

Fall in love with me, my dear. Fall in love with Life again when you meet me. Life is an adventure and finding me has got to be the greatest story ever told. I’ll tell you all of my crazyass stories when we meet. And I’m longing to hear you talk of your losses and triumphs. We’ll both gaze at the stars and wonder how they aligned to have us meet in this lifetime. I will be so grateful.

You know, generally speaking, I’m somewhat of an extrovert and I socialise well and I think quite positively about people. Maybe you will worry that I’m a playa of sort but right now, let me promise you this one thing: I’M NOT! I’m friendly, my love, but it doesn’t mean I wanna fuck somebody who’s not you. I dunno, I kinda have the handsome face of a smooth operator but on the inside, I’m really NOT!😩I’m really quite romantic and I believe in true love.

And honestly, at this point in my Life, I know you’re out there being all destined for me. You’re all I want. I’m on my way. So don’t you settle for any low-quality slob. Get ready, baby~ KNOCK KNOCK~🪄🚪

A LIFE WITH YOU, MY LOVE🔻❤️

Priestesses of Purity & Divination

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Pile 2 – Everybody finds Love in the end; you included~

Ace of Cups Rx, 7 of Cups Rx, 4 of Wands

My Dear, I know Life has not treated you too kindly and your heart’s been broken too many times. It’s been pretty much like that for me, too! I’ve lived a very lonesome existence, wondering where my people are. Wondering if I’ll ever find Love in this lifetime. I know now that those whose hearts are tender find it harder to truly connect with someone. We’re not BROKEN! No, we’re not! The ‘problem’ with us is that we crave soul-deep connections~ And damn, that’s rare, indeed🍀

You know what I’m doing right now? I’m single as a pringle. I’m not opening my heart to anybody. My colleagues all think I’m crazy, offbeat, and even difficult, just because I ain’t settling. Tch, I’m the only one noticing all of their subpar relationships, and some of them are not even the slightest bit happy with the partnership they’ve got. I don’t want that. For fuck’s sake I DON’T want that, ever! I’ve always had this strange, inexplicable feeling, that people are supposed to marry whom they love.

I want LOVE. I crave that shit so bad I dunno what I’m gonna do with myself🙈

One thing I know for sure though: if I’m not with you, you who are just like me, everything in the world is pointless. There is only calm in my world when I’m thinking of you. I don’t even know who you are; but I get optimistic every time I indulge in thoughts of finding you. I… fantasise a lot…?🌈Do you ever think about me? Does your heart bloom with a peculiar kind of softness when you touch upon my consciousness?💫

I am out here in this Star System. Dream of me. Want me more. And believe that we can manifest each other through resonance. We are so much closer than you fear us to be, my Dear. You have to believe in me. The Stars have begun to align and Earth’s temperature is nearing just right🍵Our time is here :D When dreams become Reality and all that’s ever been sad turn to glory, what would you do?

I know what you’re gonna do: you’re going to be married to me😝We’re going to start a new chapter of our lives together and be very happy and abundant. I’m gonna help you prove everybody who’s ever hurt you, gaslit you into believing that you’re hard to love very, very wrong😒All of that gas, when I light the match, is gonna burn their entire house down!🔥

OK, I’m a bit crazy, but anyway—

You do know that good people always find Love in the end, right? That’s just how it always is in fairy tales. You know fairy tales are more real than any of Hollywood’s propaganda, right?🐵Right??🙊I love you. I have loved you for what feels like an eternity. Return to me now. Come home to me, my Love. I am You; you are Me. We’re going to turn everything back to balance; we’re gonna create Heaven on Earth; a harmonious Life of you and me; so have faith in us~🎎

A LIFE WITH YOU, MY LOVE🔻💙

Priestesses of Integrity & Solitude

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☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 3 – You are someone’s Dream Come True; you ever thought about that??

9 of Cups, 2 of Cups, King of Cups

You, are someone’s Wish Fulfilment; you ever thought about that? No, of course not; you only thought about yourself and how lacking you are as a person blablabla😡Don’t you know there’s a little someone walking this Earth who’d be SO glad to have you in their Life? Yup, that someone is ME😏You are a treasure of a gal/boy and if you’ve been surrounded by fools who can’t see that, it’s because you’re meant to travel the world and meet me~!

Have a change of scenery; you aren’t meant to thrive and live and die on the land you were born. When you cross borders and seas and realms, you’ll meet people of other cultures and points of view who are going to be more appreciative of the good you’ve been mocked(?) for🥰I promise you, babe~ You are where you are (or were) only because it was part of your Soul’s contract to learn about contrasts.

When all’s said and done, you’re going to be THE most interesting person anybody could listen to!🍿I, for one, could listen to you aaalll week long if you ever want to HAHAHA

My heart right now is like half-full, babe; I’m still waiting for you to appear in my Life. You probably won’t like hearing this because you’re independent, and you’re strong, and rebellious, but… I want you to be mine!🌹I don’t mean that I wish to suffocate you, no, it’s not like that at all… What I mean is, I wish to be the only one who could make you happy, for that would make me feel special🌞

I know I’m silly, I’m sorry~🥰I want to bring stability and certainty into your Life; that much I can say with clarity, for surely, you and I, we’re going to be pouring into each other’s Cups. We’re gonna be the kind of couple who can read each other’s minds and burst out laughing when we see something only we find funny without even exchanging words😂All of that, because of shared empathy~

Honestly, I couldn't care less for all the treasures in the world; I only want you around. Maybe that makes me a romanticist? Hm, that word doesn’t quite encompass all the feelings I have for you. All the things I wish to share with you. All that I’d do for you. What I know is that this is no mere romance; I LOVE you, you know? It goes so much deeper than that🌊

I’m mature, nurturing and caring. Find me, my Love. I’ll nurse you back to health—spiritually and everythingally; I’ll be the reason your faith in Humanity is restored. Actually, it doesn’t even matter; I just want you to trust in me, see yourself through my eyes, see how wonderful of a being you are. I want you to trust in yourself. You’re so fucking special. You’re MY very special kind of Wish Fulfilment☃️

A LIFE WITH YOU, MY LOVE🔻💗

Priestesses of Love & Healing

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☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

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sinnomel · 8 months

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Absolutely Peachy

Pairing: Gale x f!Tav

Summary: Tav and Gale's conversation after Elminster's visit goes great. Slight angst but it ends cute imo.

A/N: First post breaking my very long writing hiatus to write about Gale because there aren't enough fics. Let me know if you'd like more one shots cause I think the world needs more Gale ( ´ ▿ ` ) - Sin

There was nothing in this world that could’ve prepared Tav for the surprise encounter with Elminster. She was hoping that she could meet the esteemed wizard under happier circumstances, perhaps when this damned tadpole was out from between her eyes, attempting to command the helm that is her brain.

The wise old man was jolly at first, introducing himself to the rest of the group, reprimanding Gale for his lack of decorum and grace. Tav thought nothing of it, inviting the elder to their camp, despite Gale’s scowl, awaiting for Elminster’s true reason for appearing before them in the shadow lands.

However, after the food and wine, Elminster’s visage seemed less friendly, less warm. His words were cold, concise, and fatal. Gale was to gain Mystra’s forgiveness on one condition - he was to essentially explode, destroying the curse within him and everything in a large surrounding area. It could rid them of the Absolute, of course. It could bring death to a lot of people if he decided to do this in or near Baldur’s Gate. Usually, this would be a decision that the group would push past, finding the cure for the tadpoles being their priority as the clock was ticking on them becoming mindflayers. However, this revelation had Tav’s heart sinking to the ground below her.

Tav had become particularly close to Gale, finding her feeling solidified after spending time with him in between camping and the battlefield. A complete accident on her part. There was something charming about the man’s rants, how his eyes lit up explaining the Weave, talking about his cat and how he would spend his days rummaging through the literature that covered the walls of his tower in Waterdeep. Tav never intended to fall for Gale, yet here she was.

It was clear as day what her thoughts on the matter were, as Gale had asked if everything was alright once Elminster and everyone else had retired to their respective tents and bedrolls. Tav was beside herself, “Am I alright? Absolutely peachy Gale.” Gale’s eyes held a hint of sadness as she continued. “I’m definitely alright. I’m wonderful knowing that Mystra herself has offered you forgiveness but only under the guise of the afterlife,” she spat. “Tav. I understand your frustration. Trust me, I too am frustrated with Mystra. But I can no longer satiate the hunger of the Orb that rests inside of me. There is nothing that I can do. This is my fate,” he explained, his hand twitching, as if involuntarily reaching out for her hand but stopping himself because she’s upset. He can only assume that his touch would only lead to more anger and hurt. If only he knew how much Tav yearned for his touch, how much she would fantasize it under the stars, sometimes without her knowing how she got to that topic of thinking.

“Since when have we ever listened to fate?” Tav asked, her gaze off towards the right where the water seemed to stand still and the only sound accompanying them was the soft crackle of the makeshift fire off towards the center of camp. “We have tadpoles that threaten our very existence. Every hour that passes, we teeter on the brink of becoming mind flayers. How long have we traveled together and not a single tentacle has sprouted?” she asked. Tav was breathing heavy, the conversation weighing on her physically. She couldn’t comprehend why he was giving in to this demand - his life was on the line and would he so easily throw it away? However, in that instance, Tav realized that this is coming from a selfish place. In this moment, Tav realized that the reason she was so uncharacteristically upset about Gale throwing his life away for the sake of Mystra’s forgiveness and to satiate the Orb maintaining its nest in his chest is because she has grown to love the wizard of Waterdeep.

Perhaps her eyes had given Gale indication that she had realized something, as he asked “Tav, what’s-“ “Do not ask me what is wrong Gale. I fear I realized something a bit too late. I do not wish to talk about it right now…it isn’t appropriate.” “Is it about me?” He intercepted.

Tav stumbled and said nothing. Her gaze was now on the dirt ground, her heart pounding out of her rib cage. She was silent for a beat, but Gale was patient. If she was willing to speak, he was more than willing to listen - it would be ironic if she listened to his rambling and he couldn’t do the same. Tav, despite just saying that she didn’t wish to speak on the matter, could not stop herself.

“I’m acting out of emotion rather than logic, Gale,” Tav started. Her eyes slowly made her way up to his own brown ones, making this conversation harder. She could feel her heart changing rhythm upon meeting his gaze, how her body yearned to be held in his embrace in this moment, how she craved a chaste kiss.

Gale seemed to put two and two together, or rather, what he thought was two and two.

“I know this seems very obscene and I may never be granted forgiveness. Trust me, I don’t wish to die. But Mystra wants to rid the world of the Absolute. My demise might very well be the only thing that could stop-“

“I love you.”

Gale was taken aback and fell silent, completely off guard by the three sweet words he would often dream of hearing from Tav’s lips. Perhaps he had imagined it? He dared ask, hoping his imagination, or the amalgamation of his heart beating so thunderously in his chest wouldn’t disrupt the orb.

“Pardon?” Gale asked, his eyebrows furrowed as he took a step toward her. “I love you Gale. I don’t want you to succumb to that entitled goddess for my own selfish reasons,” Tav started, unable to stop her words from coming out. If not now, she felt, when? Who knew when Gale would just decide to commit to Mystra’s possible false promises.

“There is always another way. We’ve constantly found alternatives to problems. Please…don’t go through with this. Do you not wish to live?” the appointed leader of the group asked the man before her. She could feel the warm accumulation of tears threatening to pour over the edge of her tear ducts, the shakiness of her breath not helping her.

Gale was speechless. He didn’t know what to do. He always painted this picture of how he wanted to profess his love to Tav - a beautiful sunset in Waterdeep whilst both of them spent the hours in his tower, two glasses of wine served out for them and Tara, his cat in his company, along with the countless books he seems to have. The piano would play songs from their travels to incite conversation of nostalgia, how they felt in those moments, laughing about their perilous travels. And when the sun hit the golden hour, the sky would be adorned with pink, orange and purple clouds, he would place his forehead on hers, his gaze focused on her soft lips and utter…

“I love you.”

But they were here, in this camp, the conditions of his profession of love not met. Perhaps this was how it was supposed to be because he wouldn’t make it back to Waterdeep. Perhaps he won't live past a couple nights from now.

“Gale…Say something,” Tav said, her voice cracking, two tears escaping their captivity, trailing down her cheeks. Gale couldn’t think of any words. Instead he chose to react, slowly closing the space between them. His hands made their way up to her cheeks, softly wiping away the stray tears. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was torn. He very badly wanted to rid himself of the Orb and obtain Mystra’s forgiveness, but on the other, he had Tav, who had seemingly loved him unconditionally. None of his magic was necessary to woo her. Not his history of being a prodigy of magic, not his mastery of spells, not his conduction of the weave. Just him.

Gale couldn’t help but close the space between himself and Tav, placing a soft kiss upon her lips. In this moment, he forgot all about Mystra and her empty promises, the orb, all of it. All that occupied his mind was Tav and how soft her lips felt against his own. He pulled away, staying close.

“I love you too.”

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #gale x tav #gale bg3 #gale x reader #bg3 fanfiction #gale dekarios x reader #baldurs gate 3 x reader #Tav

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sleepyangelkami · 2 months

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so sorry you've been having a poor experience recently, i totally get it and i'm hoping to see you back in future, you're my favorite ellie author <3 sending love!

DON'T BE SHY e.williams

☆ WORD COUNT - 1.1K

ELLIE WILLIAMS X FEM!READER

☆ SUMMARY - for as long as you've known, you'd always been shy, off put to any social setting. however, it's come the time in your relationship that you have to branch out and meet all the people ellie always talks about, shy or not.

☆ WARNINGS - pda, shy!reader, reader obviously has social anxiety though it's not explicitly said, mentions of dadish joel to ellie, petnames, intended lower case, nothing i write is ever proofread 🩷

if ellie had to describe you in one word, she'd have to go with the word 'flower'.

that's what you were. as delicate as they come. you would hum so softly and then turn pink when you'd been caught. you were always very much out of the way, making sure you were never deemed as overstaying your welcome or overstepping in any way really. and ellie on the other hand, she was nothing if not that large piece of grass in everyone's way.

you always told ellie that she was wrong.

she was well loved in jackson, whether or not she was inserting herself places that she did not belong. you didn't mind, in fact, you were right next to her, getting strung along the entire way. yet you never opened your mouth to complain.

because how could you? you'd be a fool to complain about anything while in the arms of ellie williams.

you and ellie's relationship was the most open yet private relationship in the entire town.

everyone knew you were dating, and i mean everyone. and yet, nobody knew anything that went on behind the closed doors of your home. that was partially your fault, always shying away and stating that you liked to keep things private for there was no reason for anyone to be in your business.

ellie would have stood on the tallest building of the entire town and yelled until her lungs went raw how much she loved you dearly, if you'd asked her to.

but she knew those kind of things didn't come easy to you.

when joel met you, he swore you were a mouse in disguise of a human. you stood sort of awkwardly, practically hiding behind ellie in any way that you could, fumbling with your hands and only speaking when it was damn near necessary. and when you did speak, the words came out quiet, sort of hushed.

"so, uh." joel cleared his throat, eyes scanning his own house as if to think of questions to ask you. his eyes landed on the desk that he kept the shotgun hidden in. "do you... work?"

he sounded unlike any parent you've ever heard before. he wasn't the type of parent to grill you, question what you do and how you do it, wonder if you can even do it right. he was simply making conversation.

and though you could see that there was no judgement in his eyes, you still felt yourself practically cowering away. "I garden." you mumble, caught by surprise when he questioned a louder "huh?" not hearing you behind your frail voice.

"she said she gardens." ellie spoke for you, giving joel a sort of look. "what? are you deaf?"

joel could only stare at ellie in bewilderment. there was no way she'd heard you so clearly? he couldn't hear you any more than he heard a flower sway on the grass.

joel soon learned to watch your lips as they move and strain his ears as hard as he could. it took a little getting used to but as he grew more comfortable around you and you doing the same, you too began making changes. you didn't hide behind ellie so much and you spoke at a normal volume. well, as normal as you could.

now, you sat stranded at the tipsy bison.

ellie liked to drink now and again which was why there sat a glass in front of her filled with whiskey. you sat at her side, fumbling with your fingers as she downed the glass without so much as flinching.

you always wondered how on earth she could do that.

you glanced away, soon finding the feeling of her fingers wrapping around yours. your head turned back to her, worry swirling in your eyes. "don't be shy." she spoke, practically cooing in your face. "they're really nice, i promise."

"okay." you breathed out though your nerves didn't calm. you really hoped ellie was right about these people.

"you'll be fine." she mumbled, pressing a kiss to your head. "my brave girl."

ellie had been with you for what felt like forever and yet you'd never had the courage to meet her friends, especially not the infamous dina and jesse that the whole town always fussed about. you were nervous, scared even and when ellie's hand came down on yours, you couldn't help but feel your face inevitably heat up.

the two came in not too long after that. and to your disbelief, they truly were all they were cranked up to be.

jesse joked a lot which made you much more comfortable and dina put him in his place when any joke got a little overboard which only made you feel all the more safe.

however, the feeling of ellie's hand sat on your upper thigh had your face and body feeling all tingly inside. you wondered if the others were judging you, you really hoped they weren't.

you were speaking, ellie's fingers dancing on your thigh making your words come out a little lower. "sorry, didn't catch that last part." dina spoke, her eyes sort of wide. you could tell she was listening and that she truly was interested.

as much as you tried, you couldn't stop the way your eyes flickered towards ellie. "gotta speak up, baby." giving your thigh a little squeeze. "they can't hear you."

you cleared your throat, face pink as you did what you were told, speaking up so they could hear you better.

ellie stayed by your side for the entire thing, fingers dancing around your thigh and hands gently tracing your waist. you knew how much the girl loved physical touch and she knew how much you loved it too. whether or not you were shy, it calmed you. sure, you were worried about pda and people seeing but there was much comfort in the way her hands danced around you, holding you close.

you waited until the two left to go get another drink from the bar before sighing, puffing out all the air from behind your cheeks.

all the nerves finally let loose as you realised it was all going according to plan. they liked you, or so it seemed and nobody had said anything mean. that's all you could have hoped for.

feeling the strain on your head from all your worrying, you found yourself pushing your face into ellie's chest, finally relaxing. "see? everything's fine. you did so good." her fingers moving towards your hair, petting you as if you were an animal.

"they're really nice." you spoke, trying to ignore your hot face from her praise.

"yeah." she nodded. "they are."

you turned your face up at her, giving her the smallest of smiles. her beautiful girl. "you should have let me meet them sooner." you joked.

main masterlist/ellie's masterlist

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gotham-daydreams · 8 months

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I was wondering why didn’t Alfred do anything earlier, like before reader left and stuff

He did try! Though that may be communicated in a later part, I'll describe it more here.

As the reader was growing up, he did try to inform the Batfam (mostly Bruce) of events that were coming up, and that the reader will be participating in, but nothing much seemed to work. He did also try giving the posters to various members of the Batfam as well, but again- that didn't work out too well either. Though it is why he kept them at first, but that would slowly delve into something else.

For their first few birthdays he did try to remind the Batfam (again, most Bruce) that "hey, y'know this kid you have yet to acknowledge that's now part of the family? Yeah, they're birthday is coming up/is today. At least make an effort to show up and give them something nice, or at the very least wish them a happy birthday. Thanks :)" Though considering what happens in "Not Here", one can imagine that it was very effective, and didn't not work at all.

However! Out of everyone, Alfred did end up spending the most time with the reader, and was easily the most involved in their life. He was there when everone else wasn't, and even if he couldn't physically be there- he had his ways of knowing what the reader was up to anyway. So with all of this, he became yandere the earliest.

At some point he stopped his efforts simply out of his own greed. He wanted to spend time with the reader and be that caring figure that they could always turn to. He wanted to know the secrets that they shared with only the closest people to them. Alfred, above all else, wanted to be their family- and since he has the opportunity, why not be their only family? The only person that the reader will ever see and recognize as their family, and if he was lucky (and he very much was in this case), maybe even their father.

I feel like it is also important to mention that, once again, turning the whole family yandere wasn't intended on Alfred's part when he does set them up to be worried enough to look for the reader. His only plan and intention was to get the Batfam to worry and feel guilty, and turn that guilt into a desire to find you for one reason or another. Them becoming yanderes was just a side effect of that effort, but not necessarily an unwelcome one.

I mention it because Alfred has already been yandere for the reader for quite some time now. He's willing to bend the wills of the rest of the Batfam to get the reader back into the Manor, just because of what I mentioned before with communication. Alfred still wants to have a connection with the reader, and he still wants to talk with them- and only lets them go because he assumes that he will still get that, even if the reader isn't in the manor anymore. Which, while he isn't wrong, it still isn't in the way he had hoped.

So, because of that, he essentially sends out the Batfam after the reader because he wants to have a solid for of communication with them. He wants to speak to them and be able to reply- not this one-sided nonsense that he's had to deal with for months. And most of all- he wants to see them again. He misses them. So what better way to do that then to bring them home?

To which, all of this boils down to Alfred just becoming incredibly selfish at some point, one way or another. He did try at some point, but eventually stopped because of his own want to be the only person that the reader would ever recognize as family. His own greed and selfishness got in the way of his efforts, and now it's driven him to this point; sending out the Batfam on a manhunt for the reader, simply because he misses them and didn't get what he wanted.

I hope this answered your question!!

#talking daydreams #yandere batfam #platonic yandere batfam #gn reader #yandere alfred

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hotheadedhero · 2 months

Text

In Unrequited Love - Part 2

AN: When I say that writing this part had me feral, I don't mean it lightly. This part ended up being over 2000 words, blimmin heck. It had me losing sleep, losing sanity, and my grasp on reality and going insane. All in good ways of course! It got angstier than I originally intended but, man, I'm a sucker for it. I think you guys are too ;)

Part 1 - Part 3

Warning: angst for reader's lacking self-preservation, silly dummy, but Donnie is also a dumb-dumb, so you're as bad as each other really.

Donatello x Reader

Every explanation you can come up with to try and disregard your feelings for the tallest of the turtle brothers has only been met with more anguish. First, you theorised it to be some kind of miscommunication with your emotions, that you had merely misread a deep level of friendship as a new crush. Then, you tried to reason with yourself that it was a rebound - a re-focussing of such feelings onto someone else who likes spending time with you. Neither holds enough weight to get out of this funk, however. You’re chain-bound.

Then begged the question: what are you to do about it? Realistically, what can you do about it? Not once have you had the courage to even try and say something to Casey, so what makes you think this is any different? If anything, it’s worse. Not only because Donatello is so helplessly in love with April, but because you are so much more hopelessly in love with him. Even the way you used to feel about Jones wasn’t this overwhelming.

You hate it. You hate it so damn much and, yet, you can’t stop yourself from spending most of your free time in that forsaken laboratory. There’s a saying that keeps coming to mind whenever you find yourself aiding him with inventions and experiments: fool me once, shame on you - fool me twice, shame on me. You certainly feel the fool and more so after a particular incident. A word used candidly but it felt like an incident at the time. The details are foggy but you believe it had something to do with the daughter of The Foot - Karai - and a new robotic toy of hers. Donnie had come in and saved the day, earning a kiss on the cheek from his crush by the end of it. To say that it stung is an understatement.

Nothing appeared to change after that day other than the joy your new infatuation must have been riding on since. You hadn’t even taken note of how it’s affected you. You don’t take notice of it at all. Yes, you still regularly visit the lab but less so to help out. As of late, it is you who is being helped. A habit which has become the norm where the purple-clad turtle finds himself patching you up. Almost every time you see him, there’s a new bump, bruise, or scratch that needs tending to and every time he does what he can to make it better.

Today is no different. If anything, it has to be the worst of your afflictions that he’s seen to date. The first few times were viewed in mild hilarity but he’s not finding these frequenting successions of being your first aider funny anymore. He currently has you sat in his desk chair, knelt down and worriedly looking over your ankle. The pigment of your skin is only slightly discoloured but it’s clear from the way you hobbled in a few moments ago that it can’t handle much weight right now. Carefully, he holds a cold compress against the affected area, earning a jolted hiss from your person. He winces himself and mutters a quiet apology. Some silence follows until he decides he needs to know exactly what you did to warrant such a bad injury.

“What happened this time?” he asks as he continues to inspect the contusion, making sure nothing is broken beneath.

“I just slipped whilst I was coming down the ladder,” you admit casually. “Think there’s been some rain recently, so it’s my own fault for not wearing grippier shoes.”

Your answer is marginally concerning for two reasons: it hasn’t rained for at least a few days now and he’s seen the way you work - how careful you are when you’re helping him with mechanics or measuring various chemicals. This isn’t like you. Retrospectively, he hasn’t known you long but he likes to think you’ve hung out enough for him to discern that you aren’t typically this clumsy. He’s even detected a drop in your mood. You don’t crack out as many jokes with him, nor have you spoken much about Casey. The band of his mask creases over his furrowing brows and he slowly looks up at you.

“Is everything okay?” he inquires carefully, mindful of the potentially sensitive question. “You seem… out of sorts lately. If it’s something to do with Casey-”

“It’s not Casey,” you interrupt, rather abruptly he notices. Sighing, you quickly attempt to correct yourself and slump into the seat. “I dunno. It might be. I think I’m just done with all the love stuff at this point.”

You end on a bitter cadence, one that has Donatello sinking. His heart breaks knowing that yours has been taken away and trampled on by this mess. It well and truly hurts him to see you this way, to hear that you’re energy has been depleted because of this. Then, like a jab to the gut, it all comes to fruition. The ugly canvas decorated with the hard, cold facts paints this horrifying image before his mind: your physical pain is a manifestation of that from within. Whether it’s intentional or not, it’s still an alarming prospect. Swallowing past the nausea permeating and rising into his throat, he takes a moment to reflect on how best to help you. He doesn’t want to be the one to tell you that you should keep pursuing that ragged hockey puck-lover but he also doesn’t want to see you in such disarray. He can’t bear the thought that you might get hurt worse than this.

With a steadying breath, he takes your hands in his own and smiles up at you sympathetically. “Don’t say that. You never know. There’s still time for things to change in your favour.”

If only he knew how much that gaze of his torments you; how his hands make yours burn cold. You silently beg of him to not look at you with such warmhearted affection, that the very thing he believes to have ruptured your heart is not Casey but is him. Part of you wishes that you could get angry and blame this on him for being so sweet, funny, and an overall joy to be around but that wouldn’t be fair. The reality is that you can’t blame anyone, not even yourself. Feelings can’t be forced nor can they be changed. Your eyes drop to the two sets of hands that rest on your lap, knowing you can’t stand to stare into those puppy-dog maroons much longer.

Unenthused, you hum, “Guess so. Seems like you’re a little more on the hopeful side after that kiss on the cheek, huh?”

He glances away with an awkward smile. Everyone may assume that his head must have exploded when that happened and it would have done were it not for a certain change of circumstance. April kissing his cheek was ironically what led to him realising he loves you. At first, he was entirely confused. Why didn’t he get that round of butterflies? The heart palpitations? There wasn’t even a wild glee that he would have expected with something that monumental happening. Maybe there wasn’t supposed to be. He would have to look into it, he thought, and test it to figure out what was going on. An experiment that didn’t even make it to the drawing board.

No more than an hour later, Donnie’s tending to a burn on your arm after you spilt boiling coffee on yourself; the first domino to fall in this onset of injuries he would serve medical attention to. Seeing you hurt struck something fierce within him. He had this sudden urgency to protect you, care for you, and look after you. Then, followed a quick daydream of holding you in his arms, close to his body and safe from any and all extraneous variables that could threaten you. It flashed before his eyes with such volatile ammunition he almost stumbled over the dressing work he had been so carefully wrapping around your forearm. That’s when he realised and, boy, he couldn’t look you straight in the eye for the remainder of that day.

Perhaps, in a way then, your words ring true. He likes to believe he’s more hopeful. He likes to think he stands a better chance with you with how often you hang out and how well you get along. That’s why he doesn’t want you to give up on love. Regardless of where your sights are set, if you’re done with love, that’s his chance gone completely. He wants to keep that hope alive in you as well. Even if it’s for someone else, he doesn’t want you to be devoid of that sensation. It can hurt but it’s still a beautiful experience in his eyes.

Realising your smaller fingers are still overlapped in his, he blushes - a blush you assume to be the result of your conversation. He finally withdraws his grasp lest he risks you experiencing the backlash of his suddenly clammy palms. It’s about time that he secures your ankle in a bandage, anyway.

Ignoring your question altogether, he laughs nervously and clears his throat. “Well, the good news is that nothing is broken. Most of the fall was taken by your ligaments, though, so you won’t be able to walk properly for a few days. My recommendation is you rest at home in the meantime.”

You toss your head back into the chair and groan out lethargically, “If only I could replace it with a robotic one, hm?” Along with your overly attached, love-sick heart. “Would make things easier.”

“As long as you know to come here for repairs. Robotic limbs need just as much care and attention as organic ones.”

Glancing away, your lips turn up at the sides bashfully. There’s a smile. A genuine smile. He’s been waiting all day - a few days - to see one of those. What a dork. You can only hope your ankle does a fast job of getting better. At least that means no school for a few days but it’s still a bother. Simultaneously, that means no visits to the lair until you’re healed up. The thought is upsetting but you can’t help thinking it might do you some good; a bit of distance to calm the erratic, painful ache of the suffering muscle that sits behind your ribcage. Distance and distraction. On the topic of distractions, a particular object of interest has caught your eye from across the room: a small, rectangular mound hidden beneath a thin layer of cloth.

“Hey, what’ve you got under this?”

You don’t even wait for an answer, opting to propel yourself over to his desk with your good foot. The office chair glides along the floor and, before he can stop you, you’re already pulling the tarp from this mystery item. For someone who’s just injured their ankle, you’re annoyingly quick to feed curiosity’s temptation. Your snoopiness would reveal a narrow box, that which you open too, further revealing a slim sliver of chain with a charm sitting comfortably in the centre of it. Said charm is a purple turtle and you don’t have to think hard to figure out that this is a gift for a certain red-head. It’s magnificently crafted if not a little corny but you can commend his boldness.

“I’m sure April will like it,” you say sweetly enough that it masks the disdain bubbling in your throat. With a quiet sigh, you return the necklace to its resting place, fingertips brushing over the top of the box. “If she doesn’t, though, I… think it’s beautiful.”

Truthfully, that’s the only appraisal he’s looking for, especially seeing as he’s made it for you. He should take the opportunity whilst he’s riding on that high. You like it. He should just say that it’s for you. Get it out there and proclaim his feelings if not at least allude to them but the melancholy behind your eyes chokes him out of trying. It’s not the right time. Your heart is fragile - far too fragile to be here any longer, you’ve decided.

“Thanks again for helping out,” you mumble, swallowing past a lump whilst you attempt to stand. “Better make a start on resting, huh?”

Quickly, he holds an arm out in case you need to grab onto it, face scrunched and brows raised from the middle. “H-Hey, wait! Can I at least walk you back home? That manhole cover is gonna be a struggle let alone the ladder to get to it.”

Cursing the kindness of this tall terrapin would be cruel but he just makes it so darn difficult to not fall more victim to your feelings. You would love nothing more than to take his offer. Wholehandedly, you would within a quarter of a second. There’s just one teeny tiny problem, however.

“I appreciate the offer, Donnie, but it’s still daytime,” you remind him.

In his overzealousness, he had missed that fact. A seemingly obvious detail that he wouldn’t typically forget were he not so worried about you. He is not letting you go back to the surface alone in your current condition - both the physical and mental. Wishing to be human isn’t a naturally occurring thought but it’s currently a prevalent desire. How is he meant to ensure a safe trip home if he can’t go topside? Just as begins formulating a plan, a certain dark-apparelled miscreant passes the lab. Donnie can’t believe he’s actually going to do this but it seems like the only option.

“Casey.” He raises a hand dilatorily to catch the teenager’s attention. “Any chance you could escort (Y/n) home?”

Casey takes one look at your wrapped ankle and throws out two finger guns with a wink. “Jones is on the case.”

He understood the assignment quickly enough at least. Hooray for him. Donatello is prompt to smile when you cast him an estranged glance. You reckon he’s trying to wingman you, which is almost hilarious. If only he knew. Your “escort” temporarily donates you his hockey stick as a makeshift crutch and places a hand between your shoulder blades as extra leverage whilst walking you out. Donnie may have been lying to himself before. He doesn’t want you to be devoid of love but he doesn’t want your love to be directed elsewhere like he had initially tried to come to terms with. It should be him. He wants it so badly to be him. Pitifully, he watches you leave, hearing Casey remark something along the lines of “you’re in safe hands” before the two of you are out of earshot. Such friendly, flirtatious comments from your prior crush would have had you in a tizzy but, weirdly, you find comfort in them. It’s a short moment of silence for your incessant pining.

Now, all there is to do is hope that your forced rest isn’t met with bedridden wallowing for the oncoming days.

I know the first kiss on the cheek moment doesn't really fit with how it goes in the show but that's the point of fanfiction, is it not? :P Hope you enjoyed! I'm gonna lie down now, holy jeebus

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt 2012 #donatello #donnie #2012 donnie #tmnt x reader #x reader #donatello x reader #angst #part 2 #casey jones #april o'neil

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writefightandflightclub · 1 year

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Blorbo thought of the day #1

More: Steven Grant x GN! reader

Author’s note: Wanted to start doing a “Blorbo thought of the day” thing. Idea is that I will share a snippet of one of the many blorbo scenarios which pop into my head on the daily, but which I don’t have time to develop into a full fic. Sometimes it will be smut, sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, sometimes… a surprise? And I don’t mean literally every day, but whenever I can! This one turned into more of a smutty blurb, but I intend for others to be much shorter snippets, bits of dialogue, headcanons etc..

Who better to start with than Steven?

Steven is a gentle lover; until he isn’t. (In which you gag on Steven’s cock and it sends him FERAL.)

NSFW/18+ Minors interacting will be blocked.

Steven Grant is a gentle lover.

Until he isn’t.

You are on your knees for him as he stands in front of you. Hadn’t even managed to strip off his work clothes yet before you were stripping them for him. Undoing his belt, and peeling away his trousers and boxers. Pushing his back up against the thick wooden beam of his attic room and taking him eagerly into your mouth.

He’s soft. Careful. Always. Let’s you take the lead.

Tonight is no exception.

Steven rests his hand gingerly on the crown of your head as you suck him - nothing but a gentle, reassuring weight. His long eyelashes flutter as he flits his gaze over you; the angel -divine being- making him feel so good.

You didn’t care who came through the door, you’d said. Whether it was him or Marc or Jake - you were getting down on your knees. Had been thinking about it all day.

But you’d told him, when he walked through the door, that you’d been glad it was him.

He’s still not used to this. To being wanted. To how good your mouth feels wrapped around him. Being buried in you.

Steven is a gentle lover. Makes a point of it. Never wants to hurt you. Push you. Take anything you don’t want to give. Has never even considered getting rough with you.

But tonight, he can’t help but think about what it would be like… just to take a little more.

Maybe because he’s had a stressful day at the museum. Maybe because he’s been thinking about coming home to you all day too and relieving his frustrations.

Whatever the reason, Steven can’t help but think about it; because he knows that the others are rougher with you, sometimes. That they don’t treat you like you’re about to break - like he does.

What were the words he’d heard?

Jake: soft dom. Marc: service top. Him: vanilla, submissive.

And so, he can’t help but think about it, because if they’d arrived tonight instead of him, wouldn’t this all be different?

The thought of that, combined with the feel of your velvet lips and the welcoming, warm wet cave of your mouth makes Steven so hard he can see stars blur the edge of his vision. Makes him grow over eager as you work your pretty mouth on him, bucking his hips and driving his length enthusiastically home, deeper into the cave of you. His hand gripping the back of your head just a little tighter than usual in his desperation to come undone.

He didn’t mean to. Didn’t mean to translate this desire from out of his head into the real world. You didn’t expect it.

It takes you a little by surprise.

Enough, to make you gag on Steven’s cock, just for a second; until you are surging off of him, eyelashes wet as you blink away the instant, spiking surge of tears.

Steven means to say something. He really does. Feels awful. Means to say “sorry, love, I’m so sorry”.

To soothe you. To do something.

But he… doesn’t.

Because…. Fuck.

He liked it.

A lot.

To his great relief, you seem unphased too, your lips curling up into a little smile before you curl them once again around his girth.

You continue: still gentle, still soft. Still in control. Setting your own pace.

Except this time Steven is inwardly going feral.

The thought of you gagging on him again. The thought of you surging off of him because he’s too big. The noises you made. The feeling of your throat convulsing around his cock. Even the tears in your eyes and the thought that you want him so much you’ll try so valiantly to take him all.

He’s panting. It’s awoken something in him. He’s throwing his head back against the beam. Eyes are screwing shut. His teeth are biting into his lower lip. His fingers are curling into your hair and - oh God. It feels divinely good but he wants…

Oh God.

He wants to push you down on him until you heave with the swell of him and he’s resisting the urge and you’re sucking him so deep and he can’t take it because he wants -needs to- bury himself even deeper.

Needs more and he’s aching for it.

“-Steven,” you purr, looking up at him, lips plumped and glistening with spit and god. “If you don’t want to make me gag on you again, you can always just ask. I can tell you liked it.”

He opens his eyes. Looks down at you on your knees. His mouth dropped open in surprise, and his legs nervy and trembling. A wracked, disbelieving moan spools from his chest, his cock almost bursting at the thought of it. Of making you choke on him. “W-would you d-do that for me, love?”

Your eyes glint with mischief. With want. “Steven.” You kiss the swollen head of his cock, swirling your tongue around the contours of him until he twitches, nearly spilling himself right then. “I’d do anything for you.”

He releases a shaky breath.

Steven is a gentle lover; until he isn’t.

Until he fists his hand in your hair and drives you down on his shaft, losing all composure as he hears you, feels you, sees you gagging on his size, your hands pressed calmly to his bared thighs as he holds you there and you let him.

And, as he does you fold the flat of your tongue around him. Let him take you, fill you, fuck into the circle of you, your throat resisting; gagging on him.

Steven can’t take it.

Didn’t know he would like this. Never would have guessed.

But within moments, he is emitting a ragged moan. He is pulsing his hot release down your throat. Giving you everything, as you eagerly take it. Swallow him down, until he’s drained; empty. Your hands smoothing up and down his shuddering thighs. Your tongue cleaning every last drop of mess from him. Humming against his softening shaft.

“Was that good, baby?”

He thinks he might black out. Can’t speak.

Can’t speak; until he can. “Love. C-Can we do it again?”

Your mouth curls into a smile; before you wrap it all the way around him.

When it comes to you, Steven can never get enough. He always want more.

At the same time though, you’re more than enough for him.

You’re everything, and he’s so happy he was the one to walk through the door.

#steven grant x reader #blorbo totd

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melinoelliones · 8 months

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Vincent had a long days work ahead, files and documents covered his desk from top to bottom. However, he had just called you to his office, what could he need from a maid?

MINORS DNI/AGELESS BLOGS DNI/ANTI DC DNI/18+

Kinktober 2023 Masterlist

Warnings: Slight manipulation, choking, affairs, blowjob, cursing, teasing, crying, lust, one night stand? fem reader

1.7k words

This is so rushed i’m sorry Black Butler fans!!!

“Are you just going to stand there? I called you down here for a reason, now come” he demanded, not even lifting his eyes off of the stack of documents on his desk. “Oh, sorry, yes master” you shuddered, jumping out of your trance and making your way over to his side, not forgetting to bow, “Why are you acting so shy and modest all of a sudden, this wasn’t the side you showed me the other night now was it”.

Your master, Earl Vincent Phantomhive had thrown the party of all parties a couple days before for all the elites, one thing may have led to another which ended in you sleeping with him. It was not what you had intended to do, you were his maid afterall, if anyone was to find out it would be a disaster. Why would he bring it up now? Especially considering after it happened he had said to keep it between you both.

“W~What are you talking abo~ ah” you shrieked ever so slightly as you felt a hand between your thighs, riding up your dress, “stop being so loud she’ll hear you, but back to why I called you here, will you be ever so kind as to help your master relieve some of this stress” Vincent asked as nonchalantly as could be, again eyes never leaving the papers.

“How would you like me to do that? I could get Tanaka to maybe make you some tea, let me go get hi~” “you know that's not what I want” he looked up at you, pushing his chair out from under his desk to grip onto your dress as you attempted to walk away. “But I’m just a maid”, “a maid who’s almost begging for me to touch them? How foolish do you think I am exactly?” he laughed, your eyes widening as his eyes turnt to you for the first time today.

“Ever since that night I’ve noticed you avoiding me, claiming to be unwell and taking days off yet you seemed perfectly fine to me when you were getting off to me in your quarters. Or did you think I wouldn’t know?” he crooked his head, wondering how you would dare to respond to those accusations. As you attempted to think of a lie he cut you off, “even now your dress has less petticoats, I can practically see your entire body, this was what you wanted no?”.

You couldn’t even deny it, this was a fantasy you had had for a while but you hadn’t expected it to play out like this. Not with him in control of the situation anyway, but you were not going to let it slip away that easily.

“A lady mustn't reveal all her secrets, my lord” you smiled, taking a step between the desk and chair before moving to your knees under it. “That's what I wanted to see” he smirked, freeing his cock from his trousers. A small gasp leaving your lips as he took it out, the night you spent together was nothing but a blur so you hadn’t remembered him being as big as he was.

As you took his piece in your hands you were met with a slight groan from him, letting you know how pent up he was, which was perfect for you of course. You gently moved it towards you, molding it in your palm as it grew with each movement.

“Show me what you’ve been so desperate to do.” Vincent grinned peering at you under the desk, “yes, my lord” you nodded, placing your fingers on the cusp of his cock, pressing tightly as you stuck your tongue out letting a drop of your saliva cover his tip. “But why must we rush, you like to tease do you not?” you jested, watching his thighs tense up.

Whilst you kneaded his aching piece in your fingertips he huffed, unsure of how you would steer the situation, “only one of us is in the position to do the teasing, you are still just a common whore that so happens to be my wife's maid”. Your body responded for you, tightening as he chuckled “Oh, does that turn you on?” he smirked.

Without another word you skimmed your tongue along his girthy shaft before parting your lips attempting to take his entire length in your mouth, your warm breath adding to the lingering burn in his stomach, “A~Atta girl, you got it”.

You bobbed your head up and down taking as much as you could, your saliva mixing with his precum engulfing his cock in a wet heat. “Fuuuck, full of surpr~rises are we”, he asked as his hand slid to your hollowed cheek, caressing it before bringing it to the back of your head, a slight pressure being added. His body turnt back to simultaneously finish his work on the desk whilst his fingers curled around your tied up hair.

You hadn’t expected the Earl to be so forward with you, not when you knew his wife could be almost anywhere in the manor, either way it was turning you on little by little. Your heated cheeks along with the large ache between your thighs almost taking over your body as you squeezed them together, allowing yourself that bit of pleasure.

Vincent's groans became sloppy and incoherent as your tongue slid across the slit in his piece before taking it back in, humming to allow it to slip back down your throat, the vibrations adding to the overwhelming closeness he was feeling. You slid a hand between the folds of your skirt, “f~fuck” you cried out against his cock as you ran your fingers across your sopping underwear, the friction from the fabric against your swollen clit sending you into a spiral. If only you could see the sloppy handwriting you were causing the Earl to have.

As the scene was at its peak you heard the door creek open, both of you freezing almost instantly, “Goodmorning my love, have you seen that girl anywhere?”. Although you could only hear the woman, you knew exactly who it was, Vincent gave you the fiercest of expressions before lifting his head to his wife, “Who are you referring to my dear?” he asked, acting oblivious.

“That maid you hired for me, I remember her saying she felt a bit under the weather so I wanted to see if she would like to take a stroll with me down to the river, the fresh air could do her some good I think” Rachel beamed, completely unaware of the scene just on the other side of the desk. Your body ran cold as she spoke, Rachel was the sweetest and most patient of women and always treated you almost like an equal yet here you were, sucking off her husband.

“Oh is that r~right”, “darling, are you alright?” “YES, yes I’m fine, don’t step any closer” he commanded, his body folding over the papers on his desk at your actions. The guilt of the situation had weirdly given you a boost, it was almost as if you liked this. In the middle of the conversation you had run your hand down his cock, toying with his balls.

“I think she’s c~closer than you t~think” he hissed, pushing your head further into him as you choked out, his crown hitting the back of your throat constantly as tears ran down your face. “Oh, okay dear thank you, I will speak to you once you’ve finished up those papers” she curtsied, pulling up the door to continue her search.

His eyes widened as he lent back in his chair, before he could even say another word you felt him shudder, and as if on cue he released, you could feel it cascade down your throat coating it completely, his breath hitching as you continued to deepthroat him, holding whatever remained in your mouth. “W~Well I didn’t e~expect this”, you could hear his subtle whines as the overstim started to consume him, the delirium swirling inside him as the suction intensified.

“G~od you’re fucking amazing, now cmon and show me the mess you’ve made”, his voice bellowed, watching you slow down, using your tongue to take in the elixir of cum and saliva encasing his cock cleaning him up. You could almost feel his member throbbing as Vincent used your hair to pull you off his cock. You gazed at him alluringly, tear stained cheeks on display as the trail of liquids from his shaft and the sides of your lips broke, allowing you to show him your tongue.

“Perfect, now swallow” he ordered, pulling you up from the ground to your feet, his piece still on display as you took it all down. “You have no shame do you, tears down your cheeks yet you didn’t seem to slow down as my wife spoke. She would be so disappointed in you right now” he sighed sarcastically, using his thumb to wipe the corners of your lips, your pathetic face almost laughable.

“Well? Why are you still in my presence, your ladyship is looking for you is she not?” The stern Earl scoffed, your body not even sure of how to react. “Oh, um, yes, my lord” you stuttered, slowly edging towards the side of the desk, his blank stare burnt into your mind as you turnt to face the door. Had this all meant nothing?

As you went to push off the desk you felt a presence, “How amusing” he cooed in your ear as you stomach hit the desks face, his body hovering above your back. “Taking our time are we? Well, what should I do with you now” he growled, a hand inching your skirt up as he nibbled your neck. His bare cock pressed up against your lower half, you needed him badly.

Watching your pitiful attempt at leaving was almost comical to the Earl, but he had never intended for you to leave so soon, not when he knew you were a whore with no morals. He was more than ready to make use of his wifes little expedition, your body was his for the taking and you were more than eager to give it to him. He would not stop until all his stress was gone.

#vincent phantomhive #Vincent Phantomhive x Reader #Vincent Phantomhive smut #black butler #black butler x reader #black butler smut #kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji smut #kuroshitsuji x reader #kuroshitsuji x reader smut #Vincent Phantomhive x reader smut #black butler x reader smut #melinoelkinktober23 #kinktober 2023 #kinktober #meli noel work's

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lightlycareless · 6 months

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Okay but.. what if Satoru is her ex and now she is with Naoya because she was cheated on👉👈

IS THIS FOR THE HIGHSCHOOL AU? CAUSE IF IT IS I LOVE YOU AND THANK YOU FOR FEEDING MY ADDICTION.

Anyways, this add a whole new layer of complexity to Y/N and Naoya's relationship. I was toying with the idea of Y/N already having a boyfriend, or more like a crush, but tHIS omg....

So I rewrote this like 3-4 times, and at first I was like I don’t want to be angsty, but then I thought well, if Y/N was cheated on then it can’t be anything but angsty, because it’s a huge breach of trust, you know?

And thus, everything else occurred. I think I might've gotten carried away and I'm not sure if this is what you wanted.... but hey, it's what came to me :') I hope you like it nonetheless!

warnings: mentions of cheating, people being jerks, insecurities, that kind of stuff. it's sad at first, but I like to think it gets sweet at the end.

Let’s set up the bases: the one that would take the first step in terms of seeking a relationship with the other would be Naoya—since cheating was involved, Satoru is/must’ve been a jerk (well, he is known for being insufferable, but still)

Once that’s set…

The first time you stepped into Naoya’s life would be through the sprouting rumors of Satoru’s “love life.”

Nothing that he’d be able to keep a secret due to his popularity, if anything many thought it was surprising this hadn’t come out far earlier, but now that it was out, many of his “admirers” could do nothing but gossip about it. Amongst them, Naoya.

Naoya wasn’t necessarily the same type of admirer as the others—not… that infatuated. But he still wanted to be around him, since he considered Satoru to be on the same level as him, the same… social circle, per say. And because he thought himself to be somewhat remotely similar, he also needed to keep up with whatever he did.

So, when he heard that he used to a have a girlfriend, it was… well, shocking to say the least. And not because anyone thought he couldn’t get a partner, of course not, but rather, because he actually settled down for once.

And because that meant Satoru had gotten a girlfriend first before him, and that was… upsetting, to say the least.

But pushing that aside, he quickly became determined in finding out who was the “lucky” girl that managed to capture Satoru’s attention, enough for him to consider her for a formal relationship, and of course, why it ended.

Because of Satoru’s reputation, and the fact that he was single yet again, many began to assume that the reason why they broke up was because she didn’t “satisfy” him adequately.

That she was probably “boring” or couldn’t comply with his “extravagant” lifestyle. The girls sure were having the time of their life imagining how they’d be better suited for him, essentially allowing him a life of debauchery, while the boys were more inclined into meeting the one that managed to “catch” him.

Thus, Naoya’s search for Satoru’s ex-girlfriend begins.

He has a notion, something to begin with: for sure pretty, because let’s be real, Naoya doesn’t know anyone that would date someone they didn’t consider absolutely stunning. She just must be.

From there, someone that matches his prestige, meaning, rich; unless he decided to go a completely different route and choose someone a bit more… humble, but he doesn’t think so. Naoya knows how the game goes, old money must be preserved, and others outside of that social circle tended to not blend in, so he doesn’t believe Satoru would’ve bothered.

But anyways, Naoya would find soon enough; all that he needed to do is ask around, maybe even nag Satoru a bit so he’d tell himself… to confirm the horrible image she had thanks to the sour opinions’ others began to have of his ex-girlfriend, Naoya intending to do the same once uncovering her identity…

Until he finally saw her.

She’d been right under his nose all this time, a somewhat quiet yet giddy girl from another class, one year younger than him, who’d occasionally be teased by his seniors for the sole reason of being “overprotected” by her siblings, also students at the school, or were anyway, one of them already graduated.

A girl named Y/N, whom upon getting a better look at her… found her to be incredibly cute.

And the vivid contrast of what he believed.

He couldn’t believe it.

Naoya truly couldn’t believe his eyes. He always thought that if Satoru had broken up with her was because she… well, because she was a bit mundane, right? That had to be. There was no synergy, no good reason for him to stick around…

But the reality had been so much different. You—you were someone that he could only consider captivating given the way he couldn’t get his eyes off you. And because he always considered himself to be somewhat in Satoru’s level, meaning that they’d have similar tastes and what not…

Naoya couldn’t fathom why he’d ever leave you.

For what little he’d seen of you, Naoya could easily disclose you were someone alluring.

So, Naoya decides to go forward with his plan, in the sense of approaching you to get to know you better. However, with a small change: not to divulge on you negatively, but rather, because he genuinely wants to do so…

And the surprise he receives is far bigger than he could’ve ever imagined; he hoped to find (yet again) something that would make you unlikeable, something to justify Satoru’s decision, maybe an annoying mannerism, a nasty habit, or just— anything, really.

But all that he finds… is things that pull him further and further into you. And soon, not only did he find you likeable, but also, wishing for something more… intimate between the two.

Starting by wanting to spend most, if not all, of his time with you. Getting to hear your voice talking about no particular topic—and it didn’t matter how, either. It could be a phone call, or in person—he just wanted to be the focus of your attention.

Or getting to see your face too. To see so first thing in the morning, or last thing at night, sounds amazing to him. Seek you out at soon as his classes are done, eat lunch together, (maybe even let you feed him? No, at least not in public) or do homework together. Since he’s already taken your classes, he’s more than happy to help you out, if it meant you’d praise him as sweetly as you’ve always done.

The thought is enough to make him blush—and with this, it’s clear that Naoya wants you to be his, and solely his.

Even if his skepticism about Satoru and his decision to dump you went on, it didn’t matter.

You were incredible, you are incredible. The girl of his dreams…. And if Satoru couldn’t see that, then he was a fool!

It was set then, he’d make you his girlfriend, treat you like no other has, and the two will be happy together, hopefully forever!

Or so… that’s what he wished would happen. Because his plans would only come to a screeching halt when you’d reject his sentiments, with a saddened face that more than portraying sorrow, displayed disappointment, gently shaking your head as you murmur.

“I’m sorry, but… I can’t”

And so, that’s how Naoya’s dreams would come to cease, with an abrupt rejection that left him hollow, voice of a heart, as he saw you further and further walking away from him, until you were no longer there, absent for the coming days.

But even when he was given more than enough reason to no longer seek you, Naoya couldn’t keep his mind off you. And every second of the day, whether at school or at home, all that he kept wondering was why you’d rejected him.

Why had you taken such a decision, and without even looking like you were considering it?

Had it been something he’d done? Did someone tell you something unsavory about him? If that’s the case, he can fix that. He can easily explain whatever it was, deal with whoever had done such a thing, so you’d talk to him again!

But… more than devastated by your rejection, he was deeply, incredibly infuriated.

Because rejection wasn’t something that Naoya took easily. For someone as egocentric as him, this was not something he could ever overcome as an unfortunate but common occurrence and just move on.

And with the previous notions he had of you through Satoru’s “friends” … those sentiments just grew bigger and bigger.

Thus, it wouldn’t take long before he approached you once more, but this time, with intentions of demanding to know why you had rejected him in the first place—all with a look on his face that made you flinch, never thinking him capable of such… harsh reaction.

But even after being suitably spooked, and consistently insisted on by Naoya, you eventually respond, at least with what you could muster so as to not appear any more vulnerable with him.

“Because I don’t want to.” You murmur, looking down to the floor. Naoya frowns.

“There must be a reason. There must be an actual reason as to why you don’t want to—it can’t be just because of that.”

“It is.” You reiterate. “That’s all.”

“I don’t believe it.” He insists. “You always have something to say! Now you’re telling me you don’t?”

You frown, if his actions weren’t hurtful enough, his words now offended you.

“If you’re going to keep making fun of me, you can leave”

“Keep?” he asks. “What do you mean keep? If anything, you’d be the one making fun of me!”

“Don’t act like you don’t know… it’s the whole reason why you’re here, isn’t?” you say, now looking up to him and revealing the now sorrowful look of your reddening, watery eyes. Naoya is slightly taken aback by the sight, his heart slightly twinging with pain. “To make a fool of me again, right?”

“Where did you even get that ide—"

“Just answer one question—just one” You interrupt, voice trembling before swallowing, as if to ease the nerves growing inside you. “Are you friends with Satoru?”

He blinks, taken aback by your query, but he does not answer.

“Answer me, Naoya!” You challenged “Do you get along with him, yes or no?!”

…

“Yes.”

“I fucking knew it.” You breathe, clenching your hands. “I knew it—I knew it.”

“What are you—”

“Drop the act, Naoya! I’ve seen right through you!”

“What act? What are you—what are you even talking about, Y/N?”

“What all his friends do!” you gasp. “What they’ve been doing the moment they found out I used to date Satoru!”

“What do they… do…?” Naoya murmurs slowly. “What does that even have to do with my feelings for—”

“It has to do everything.” You gasp. “It has to do with everything!”

You thought you’d be able to get away from the horrible experience your rupture with Satoru had brought you; those nasty, dark sentiments that completely engulfed your heart, leaving you nothing but a shell of the person you were, if not worse.

All because Satoru had committed the worst transgression he could’ve done at that moment, something so horrible and painful for someone as young and naïve as you:

He cheated on you.

When it happened, it felt as if your heart was being pierced with a thousand needles, twisted and pulled apart, before breaking up in a thousand pieces, settling in your chest to constantly inundate your mind, before drowning your voice with nothing but cries and tears.

And no matter how much you tried to move past this painful incident, think about anything else, your mind always brought you back to the horrible sight of Satoru being in the arms of someone else—and each time it just hurt worse.

Because after all was said and done, you truly cared for him. Far than just care for him, genuinely thought him to be your… other half, the love of your life. The man you’d end up marrying in the future!

Could you be blamed? He was your first serious relationship, and he had been the one to make a move at first… believing it was the start of your own love story, just as you’ve seen repeated over and over in the world around you.

But it wasn’t, and now, you’re here, left behind, in solitude, to pick up the pieces of your broken heart.

Your family would try to comfort you by telling you that this was just a one-time incident, that it was not your fault as you began to believe, that this was his decision, his fault, and that there was nothing wrong with you. Nothing at all.

Reaffirming that love still exists, even though it seemed almost impossible to think of at that moment, because after all, you had your mom and dad as an example—and most importantly, that pain will pass, you just have to give it time.

And perhaps because they insisted so much, or because you were always the hopeless romantic, you ended up trying your best to move on to a new day, think that the future had something better planned for you, that this was only a small stumble on the way, nothing more…

So, you began. One day at a time, surrounding yourself with your friends and family, people that had your wellbeing in mind; And it seemed to work, you began to feel a bit better, start expecting a better outcome for the coming days…

Until you met someone that began to show interest in you, far more than just a friend that is, and seemed to demonstrate so with his actions. He was charming, to say the least, funny, got along with everyone else, but was also very attentive to you, always making you feel special.

You didn’t want to think much of it at first, the scars in your heart reminding you to do so… but your poor heart began to think that maybe your parents were right in saying that “someone better always comes along.” That first comes the storm, and then… peace.

At last, it was finally your turn. It was finally the moment to meet the love of your life, the one that would make the rest of your days whole, and stop feeling lonely, as you’ve always felt.

Only to be proved wrong when you went on searching through his phone by accident after hearing it ring and ring, and he was away.

You thought it an emergency, the only reason why you’d ever do such thing… but the moment you did, you damned ever considering it such, for why he was being pestered over the phone wasn’t because his family needed him, or maybe some overdue project his teammates desperately needed to finish—it’s because he was disclosing all that he was doing with you with someone else, with a group… and making fun of it.

No—not making fun of the things he was doing.

Making fun of you.

Of the apparently silly ways you’d react, the stupid things you liked—but most importantly, wondering why Satoru ever considered you to be his girlfriend, when it was obvious with this past evidence, that you were nothing of the like. If anything, you got cheated on because you deserved it.

Because a boring girl like you probably deserved it.

And this shattered whatever was left of your poor heart, further secluding yourself from those outside of your social circle, quick to interject anyone that you’d sense had other intentions with you, hoping to save yourself from the pain—

Until Naoya came along.

There was something about him that immediately caught your attention, something you’ve never felt before, not even those jerks that attempted to befriend you—maybe it was his unusual hair color, the cool piercings on his ear, or simply because you found him handsome—that you couldn’t keep your eyes off him for too long. A fascination that worsened when you began to know him.

At first you thought he approached you because he noticed you staring at him, which caused you to be very, very tense when he began walking over to you; but thankfully, it didn’t seem to be nothing of the like, instead, he apparently just wanted you to help him move something from the nearby classroom onto another, and any other things that might pop up on the way.

It was slow, the way Naoya would interact with you when doing so, almost as if hesitant; but it wouldn’t take long before he became a bit more assertive with his actions, to the point where you decided to ignore your warnings and begin to open up to him, sharing the things you liked, and finding out that the two harbored many similarities than what you initially perceived… certainly far bigger than what you had with those that had come before.

With Naoya, he didn’t seem to judge you—didn’t look at you as if you’d grown a second head or was simply following your lead to pursue dubious intentions. No. He was listening to you and was sharing his own with an interest you couldn’t consider anything less than genuine.

You didn’t want to admit it easily, didn’t want to betray your hard-set motivation in keeping away… but there was something about Naoya that made it impossible, and while debating whether to pursue this feeling or not, you decided to rely on your friends for advice—albeit deep inside, you were looking for their blessing.

But instead of receiving the words you wanted to hear, those pushing you to follow your heart, you got a crude, cold reality check that quickly reminded you that your heartache had yet to end, and if anything, Satoru’s friends had just gotten more creative.

Satoru had no direct correlation with what was happening to you, for during your time is when you came to realize that someone with his status and power was bound attract lots of attention, and certainly… followers, whom ready to dissect every little aspect of his life—you included.

But was it really that hard to tell them to stop? To leave you alone? That even when you were the one that ended things, he was the one that wronged you, thus, you’ve already gone through enough?

Of course, that was something that fate wouldn’t grant you so easily, if ever. To be constantly reminded of a mistake you did in your youth, for now, in the shape of the young man standing before you.

“I know the game; I’ve been a player for far too long.” You say. “And I don’t want to keep going at it if all I’m going to be is a loser.”

There’s a sadness in your voice that immediately deepens the growing pain in Naoya’s heart, and soon, all the anger and disappointment he had towards you is quickly discarded, replaced by worry.

Just… what happened between the two?

“What happened Y/N?” he begins. “What happened with you and Satoru?”

“Don’t act like you don’t—” you begin to snap.

“I don’t” Naoya interjects, shaking his head. “I really, genuinely don’t know.”

And whether by the look of his eye, or the softness in his voice, you take it as him being honest. Maybe your personal life wasn’t as divulged as you thought it was.

Well, he ought to know now or later, so why not cut the chase?

This might as well be your moment to set the record straight, if it even mattered at that point.

“Satoru cheated on me” you begin, having to say so out loud still makes your heart clench, especially since the last time you ever uttered those words when was the wound was still fresh. “I… found him with someone else one day, when he was supposed to be doing something else…

I broke up with him soon after that and kept my distance, for my sake. But then, someone started to spread rumors about what happened, twisting the story to their liking, but always portraying me as the bad one. The one that deserved to be cheated on, because the “great Gojo Satoru” could never do wrong. And if he did, it’s because of a very valid reason.”

“What?” Naoya breathes, blinking as if that were to pull him back to reality.

Did he hear you right?

All this time, you— you were the one that—

“What do you mean cheated—”

“You didn’t strike me as someone who wouldn’t know what that means.” You frown.

“No, I know what cheating is.” He responds. “What I can’t believe is—”

“That he dated me? Yes, I know. I’ve heard it a thousand times befo—"

“No. That’s not it.” Naoya shakes his head. “I can’t believe that he—"

That he cheated on you.

That Satoru would cheat with the most perfect, beautiful, funny, supportive, caring girl he’s ever met in his life? Do that to the girl Naoya has been unknowingly dreaming of for all his life, and now had the pleasure of meeting?

How could someone so vile as Satoru not understand the blessings you represented?

Well, that was a bit hypocritical of Naoya to say at first, since he too was a very difficult person at times… careless to the privileges his status had brought, even more with the people around him.

But now that he met you, he could finally see the error in his way. The… fault in the ideology he carried.

Because he could never find himself, not anymore, harming the one person he’d ever felt such strong feelings for.

Now he knew why mothers were so overprotective of their children, why partners would go above and beyond to ensure that the other is safe, loved, protected…

He never felt that sentiment before, never understood why people were so… sappy, cringy with others.

Until he met you.

Until he met you, did he understand why they’d do so in the first place, and it felt almost silly that he ever thought otherwise, when now all that he wants to do is be with you, give you the whole world, bring you down the stars, if it meant you’d be happy again.

And to think he even justified the nasty things people were saying about you.

He’s even ashamed to have ever belonged to their side.

“My feelings for you are true.” Is what Naoya would come to say. “Since the moment I saw you, I’ve always felt this… attraction to you; but when I finally got to know you better, the person you truly are, is when I knew that what I felt for you was much more than finding you pretty.”

“Naoya—” you sob, tears now falling down your cheeks, raising your hands to wipe them equally fast as they began to appear. “That’s not—Don’t take me for a fool—!”

“If you don’t believe me.” He begins, taking a step closer to you and attempting to grab one of your hands, you swat him away. “Then let me prove it to you.”

“I don’t want you to do any—”

“However long it takes, whatever I need to do” he insists, finally taking hold of your wrist. “I’ll show you how much you mean to me.”

Naoya then carefully raises one of his hands to your face, gently swiping away one of your tears as you remained there, speechless, but sad. He didn’t know where this uncharacteristic softness came from — certainly never have done so in his life with anyone else— only that it felt right to do so.

And you… you wouldn’t have allowed such thing if you didn’t harbor any kind of sentiments from him to begin with, his words giving you hope for something you’ve long thought lost… but because you were in such emotional turmoil of disbelief, you didn’t find it in yourself to make a decision at that moment, or allowing him to be near you like this, opting to free yourself out of Naoya’s grasp, quickly turning around and leaving him on the spot.

It was undeniable that you didn’t expect him to go through with his words, initially believing them to be nothing but a joke, something to get you to lower your guard, and if he did, it wouldn’t last beyond a few days….

But Naoya would soon prove himself to be a man of his word when the 8th day came along and had gifted you for the consecutive time your favorite brand of mochi, the one you recalled telling him one time, if you ever did—to the point were you had to give some away because you didn’t believe you’d ever get to finish them!

Followed by a plushie of your favorite videogame, each day a different one, any that he could find, enough to fill boxes and boxes with them, making you consider opening your own store and reselling them…

Culminating in buying you the newest release of said franchise, which you’ve been saving up for weeks now, spending nothing of your allowance just for a chance to get it, but now that Naoya had taken care of that, what were you going to do with that money?

Well, whatever it was that you thought, Naoya would find out eventually, and take care of it, moving you back to the start.

But while these actions were… alluring by their own, they were nothing compared to what he did last.

Naoya would be underestimating his feelings if he didn’t voice just how infuriated he truly was to hear that first, Satoru had cheated on you, and secondly, that his so called “friends” had been pestering you about it—no, not pestering you, tormenting you. Picking at you as if you were the novelty hobby, the prime instigator, when it had been the other way around, and you were only smart to call quits!

He couldn’t see the same people he used to involve himself with without feeling disdain for them, especially those he knew had only gone above and beyond to make a miserable, laughingstock out of you.

And as the always determined man to take matter into his own hands, it didn’t take long for you to se the consequences of it.

It’s what finally pushed you to talk to him, after all.

“Y/N, good morning.” He says, a soft smile on his face upon seeing you approach him. Like a lost puppy, he couldn’t help himself from beaming with excitement when seeing your familiar, cute, adorable face looking at him after days of silence. “How are you—”

“…You had something to do with that, didn’t you?” you ask, straight to the point. Your bluntness surprised Naoya, but he can’t say he wasn’t expecting this at one point, hoped it would, really.

“With what?” He asks, there were many things he had planned for you, but he didn’t want to be the one to reveal them. Naoya wished to keep the element of surprise for as long as possible.

“You know exactly what. It’s… with them” and Naoya does his best to grin proudly.

“Did something happen?” he asks instead, feigning ignorance.

No.

Nothing bad, at least; completely unexpected… yet welcomed, because it gave you both things your heart always wanted, but never voiced in fear of being hurt.

“… the ones that made fun of me, they… apologized to me.” You begin, the first of your closures.

And it was only obvious that they would, for as soon as Naoya found out the responsible ones of your growing pain, he made sure to find them and give them a hard-earned lesson through… unconventional matters, nothing that could be traced to him, of course.

You could only guess what it had been due to the frightened look on their faces when they sought your forgiveness, as well as the bruises on their arms…

Which you didn’t necessarily agree with, but at the same time, you couldn’t deny the obvious: the impact that Naoya’s actions have caused on your life, starting from his appearance to his insistence, and now, this.

“Really?” He asks. “That’s good, it’s the bare minimum…”

“I don’t need to be a detective to know you had something to do with it” You respond, and he just shrugs, still putting up the ignorant act. But if anything, that just gave away his involvement.

“But… why?”

You knew the answer, but perhaps you needed to hear it with your own ears.

The second of your closures.

“I told you, didn’t I?” he responds. “I wanted to show you how much you truly mean to me…”

Before looking away, cheeks red upon noticing your intent stare at him, instead of running away.

“But, I mean—yeah, what they did was wrong. As I said, it’s the bare minimum!” he coughs. “You didn’t deserve to be treated like that, not when you weren’t the one at fault.”

And at the culmination of his words, his actions, and now, your feelings—you can’t help but cry, tears falling down your cheeks as you let out a quiet sob.

But your tears weren’t of sadness, or disappointment, no. They were far from that.

They were of happiness, for the realization that you finally obtained what you’ve longed for in your life, what your heart always dreamed of since the moment you had conscience: to find the man that would do anything for you; prove you such… cherish you….

“I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—cry.” You’d say, laughing nervously as you do your best to wipe away the falling tears. “It’s the 2nd time you’ve seen me do this, and we’re not even that close—”

“What difference does it make, if you’re going to be my girlfriend either way?” He attempts to joke, lighten up the mood so as to get you to stop crying, but when you don’t respond is when he notes he might’ve greatly miscalculated the moment, feeling nothing but a jerk. “I—forget what I said, I shouldn’t—

“I…I’ll have to think about it.” You begin softly through sniffles. “It all depends on where we go on our first date.”

His heart soars for you.

“I know a place that might push you into considering it.” He teases, and for the first time, of many to come, he makes you blush.

“…We shall see, then.” You chuckle, continuing to wipe some of the tears off your face, until Naoya wins you to it by swiping them with his thumb. The gesture, alongside his closeness, further flusters you, but makes you feel good, nonetheless.

If being with him means you’d get this kind of attention, this kind of care, and the promise that your feelings will be reciprocated….

Then you wouldn’t mind giving love a second chance.

#ask #naoya zenin #naoya zen'in #naoya x reader #naoya zenin x reader #naoya zenin x you #jjk naoya #naoya zen'in x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x you #prompt series: jujutsu kaisen

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