Hello! I’m 19 and have little experience with writing fanfics on tumblr but as a old Wattpad writer, I have too many ideas of my husbandos that I can’t help but write it down! Enjoy!
Warnings: Billy fantasizing about the reader,body shamming, Destruction of personal property, male solo (aka Billy touching himself to the thought of the reader )
A/n: Part 3 will have smut / female receiving oral, if ya'll want it
The next time he saw you, it was in the library.
It wasn’t intentional—at least, that’s what he told himself. He wasn’t exactly the book type, but detention had landed him there after he mouthed off in Mr. Harmon’s class again. Typical shit. What wasn’t typical was you—tucked into the farthest corner by the windows, cross-legged on the carpet with a stack of books beside you, as you tugged your cardigan sleeves over your hands.
You didn’t notice him.That irritated him more than he expected.
Billy had been noticed his whole life—for better or worse. People stared. Whispered. Girls giggled. Guys glared. But you? You were in your own world. A little crease between your brows as you turned a page, your lips mouthing the words as you read. There was a highlighter tucked behind your ear and a thermos beside your backpack that probably had tea in it. Because of course it did.
And it shouldn’t have made his palms itch.
It shouldn’t have made him shift in his seat, adjust himself under the table as he stared at you through the bookshelf.
But it did.
You were the kind of girl no one paid attention to unless they needed help with homework. The kind guys like him ignored. Which, Billy realized now, was their mistake.
Because he saw you.
He saw the way your sweater stretched across your chest when you lent forward. The way your skirt tugged across your thick thighs when you adjusted your position. How flushed your cheeks got when someone complimented you—he remembered now, vaguely, someone from band class had said your shoes were cute and you practically tripped over your own thank you.
You were adorable.
And he wanted you.
Billy didn’t know why this felt different. Normally, girls were a game—fun to chase, easy to forget. But something about your quiet, smart, curvy little self made his chest tighten and his cock throb at the same damn time.
So when you stood up and walked to the front desk—still not sparing him a glance—he stood too.
He didn’t make a scene. Not yet. But he walked by close enough that your scent hit him. Vanilla and something floral. Soft. Sweet. Just like you.
You looked up. Finally.
Your eyes met his.
You blinked.
He smirked.
And when your face grew warm and when you immediately looked away, he bit back a groan and kept walking.
'Oh yeah', he thought, tongue dragging along the inside of his cheek. 'She’s gonna look at me like that again. Over and over.'
By the end of the week, Billy had a new routine.
He started showing up early to school—something no one ever thought they’d see. He lingered near your locker. Made sure he was at whatever vending machine she used. Walked past your study hall window just slow enough for you to notice. Always smirking. Always watching.
He didn’t speak to you yet.
Not really.
But he’d make you wait for it. Build it up. Make you wonder.
Because when Billy Hargrove wanted something, he didn’t just take it.
He made it crave him first.
And from the way your eyes flitted to him and then away like you were guilty of something? Like your breath caught just a little?
Yeah.
You were almost there and then he happened.
Jason Carver.
Jason Carver was a prick.
Everyone knew it—rich boy attitude, that smug grin, always running his mouth like he owned the damn school. And when it came to girls, he was worse. Especially ones who didn’t fit his perfect little cheerleader mold. The ones who were shy. Smart. Soft around the edges. The ones he thought were “easy targets.”
Which is why he started in on you.
It started with little comments in the hallway.
“Careful, nerd herd incoming,” Jason would snicker to his friends when you passed by, hugging your books tighter to your chest.
Or worse—when he caught you dropping something.
“Damn, earthquake or just her thighs?”
Billy had heard that one. From behind you, no less. You hadn’t even flinched—just ducked your head like you were used to it.
That pissed Billy the fuck off.
He knew how to spot cruelty wrapped in a smile. Knew the type that needed a lesson in pain.
And Jason? He was asking for it.
But Billy didn’t do warnings.
He did payback.
That night, Jason’s Camaro sat parked right outside his perfect little suburban home. Pristine. Polished. White paint gleaming under the glow of the porch light like it was proud of itself.
Billy pulled up a few blocks away, boots hitting the pavement with slow, deliberate steps. Smoke curling from his lips as he crushed a cigarette under his heel, pulling a pocketknife from his leather jacket like it was second nature.
No hesitation.
No second thoughts.
Just a slow, deep drag of breath as he crouched down and slashed the tires one by one, the hiss of escaping air sweet as a fucking lullaby.
Then came the fun part.
He stood, eyes gleaming, and ran the tip of his key down the length of the driver’s side door with all the force he could manage. Screeeeech.
He carved one word, nice and deep:
PIG.
Then—just to add a little signature—he flicked the butt of his second cigarette into the open hood vent.
Wasn’t enough to start a fire. But it would reek.
He stepped back, admiring his work with a smirk before turning on his heel, leather jacket whipping behind him as he walked off into the shadows.
The next morning, the whole school was buzzing.
Jason stormed into the parking lot red-faced, screaming bloody murder. “Some psycho keyed my car! Slashed my tires!” he shouted, shoving one of the underclassmen who had gotten too close.
No one had proof.
But Billy?
He showed up late that day, sauntering past Jason with a smirk on his lips and murder in his eyes.
And when he saw you down the hall—soft sweater, shy glance, avoiding everyone’s eyes—he leaned close enough as he passed to murmur just loud enough for you alone:
“No one fucks with what’s mine.”
You blinked up at him, startled.
And Billy? He gave you a wink and walked away like nothing happened, the scent of smoke and leather trailing behind him—leaving your heart racing and Jason Carver with four flat tires and a bruised ego that would never recover.
The next few days were a blur as it finally rolled into Summer, he hadn't expected you to turn up at the pool.
Nor did he expect you to look down right sinful.
It wasn’t supposed to hit him that hard.
You'd been sitting by Hawkins community pool with your legs in the water, laughing nervously at something one of you friends said, adjusting the oversized towel wrapped around your waist like you wanted to disappear into it. But it was too late.
Billy had seen you.
Not just a glance—really seen you
The way that black swimsuit clung to your curves like it was made just for you. The soft swell of your tits just barely covered by the scoop neck. The way your plush thighs pressed together when you sat. That little stretch mark peeking out near your hip when you shifted. Things you'd probably tried to hide. But Billy?
He couldn’t look away.
His drink had gone warm in his hand. His jaw tight. And the second you looked his way—eyes wide, shy, startled like you weren't used to being watched—he felt it. A punch of heat low in his gut.
He left the party ten minutes later.
Now he was in his room, door locked, lights low, that same towel-wrapped image of you burned into the backs of his eyelids.
Billy lay back on his bed, one hand already tugging his belt open, breathing shallow, cock hard and aching beneath his jeans. He wasn’t gentle. He never was.
But this?
This was different.
He let out a low groan as he pulled himself free, already leaking, already picturing you sitting by the pool—wet skin glistening, legs shifting like you were trying to be modest.
Fuck.
His grip tightened, slow at first, dragging his hand over his length as he exhaled through clenched teeth. His mind filled in the blanks. How you'd feel under him. How your breath would hitch when he touched you. How your soft thighs would tremble when he spread them.
You'd be shy about it, he knew. Would probably try to cover up.
But he’d whisper to you. Rough and low.
“No, baby. Let me see you. You’re fuckin’ perfect.”
His pace picked up. His hips jerked up off the mattress slightly as he imagined peeling that towel away, revealing everything you tried to hide. Holding you still while he buried his face between you thighs. Making you sob his name while you clutched his hair.
“Jesus…” he growled, jaw tightening, sweat beading on his brow as he pumped harder, faster, fucking into his fist like he could feel you around him.
You'd be warm. Tight. Fucking soaking.
His name would fall from your lips in that breathy voice of yours, that sweet little whimper that would drive him insane.
“Billy…”
That did it.
He came with a low, guttural groan, hot and messy across his stomach, hips stuttering as he rode it out, the image of you etched into the haze of his mind.
He lay there for a moment, chest heaving, skin flushed.
And then he laughed, just once—low and breathless.
Because now?
He was obsessed.
And the next time he saw you?
He wouldn’t just be watching, he was going to let you know how he feels.
You're a feral SS-class Esper with no off switch. He's an anxious shut-in SS-class Guide just trying to game in peace. Through lies, HR nightmares, dramatic near-deaths, and one candy ring proposal, you accidentally become soulmates. Government benefits may or may not be involved.
Series Masterlist
Life, in its infinite wisdom, had decided to take a sharp left turn off the highway of normalcy and drive screaming into the wormhole of cosmic horror.
One day you’re just a person trying to buy goat milk, and the next, the sky rips open like a microwaved burrito, belching out monsters that look like someone tried to 3D print your worst nightmare with a spaghetti code of malice and slime. Scientists call them "Gate manifestations." Everyone else calls them "oh no no no NO—"
But humanity, being the scrappy little infestation it is, adapted. Not by solving the actual problem (of course not, that would require shutting up billionaires and redirecting global funds from "missile measuring contests"), but by evolving. Or rather, mutating—suddenly a percentage of the population started exhibiting terrifying, physics-optional powers.
These people are called Espers—a sanitized title that really just means "Congratulations! You are now licensed to punch interdimensional horrors in the face and traumatize yourself in the process."
Now, if the Espers were just laser-wielding sad little soldiers, that would be one thing. But no, their powers came with a side effect: unmanageable psychic noise. Think psychic radiation plus the emotional intensity of a sleep-deprived theatre kid on their third espresso shot.
This is where Guides came in. Not to lead anyone (the name is misleading, like “boneless chicken wings” in Ohio), but to stabilize Espers before they exploded into a Category Five Meltdown and leveled half a city block because someone forgot to restock the vending machine.
Guides don’t just talk you down—they shove their psychic aura into your brain like a weighted blanket made of competence and condescension. They are therapists, emotional janitors, and living surge protectors. Some are kind. Some are terrifying. Some, unfortunately, are hot.
So now the world runs on a system: gates appear, Espers go in and fight, Guides catch them when they fall out twitching and covered in monster goo. Rinse. Repeat. Cry. Go to therapy if you’re lucky. Take a nap if you’re not. Don’t die. (Please. HR paperwork is a nightmare.)
And if you’re very unlucky—like catastrophically, cosmically doomed—you fall in love with your Guide.
But that’s not your fault. That’s life now, baby.
You’re an Esper. A good one, actually. Or you were. You were ranked S-Class and living the dream: minimum paperwork, maximum destruction, and you had a Guide who made you drink tea and pretend your trauma was a garden to be tended. You even humored him and tried to visualize your “inner zen koi pond” until the koi started screaming back. Good times.
But then came The Incident.
Now, to be fair, the gate had looked normal. It wasn’t your fault it turned out to be a Class Alpha Instability Spiral—whatever the hell that means; you don't read the reports, you're just the explosion part of the team.
It also wasn’t your fault the emotional stress made you unlock a new tier of Esper abilities mid-battle. And it definitely wasn’t your fault that you accidentally bent the laws of physics so hard that five square kilometers of space-time decided to just... sit this one out.
But sure, blame the walking psychic warhead. Classic.
Congratulations! You're now SS-Class. The extra “S” stands for “Somebody please help.” Your previous Guide has politely resigned, citing “irreconcilable sanity differences.” HR gave you a pamphlet called So You’ve Accidentally Become a Government Weapon, and you were told your new classification required a compatibility reassignment.
Soul-sorting algorithms that spat out exactly one name. One room number. One very troubling lack of further details. Because while every other high-ranking Guide had reviews, commentary, threat assessments—your new match had... whispers.
"Doesn't take anyone."
"Turned down a whole squad of Espers."
So naturally, you knocked on the door.
Then knocked again.
And on the third knock, after contemplating whether this was some elaborate prank designed to push you into spontaneous combustion, you heard it: a whispered, "Come in," like the voice of someone who’d been emotionally concussed by mere social interaction.
The office was dark. Not ominous-dark, more... someone-didn’t-want-to-pay-the-electric-bill dark. The curtains were drawn. The monitor light was the only glow in the room, and behind it was a figure so slouched, so cocooned in hoodie and existential dread, you almost mistook him for a sentient couch cushion.
Idia Shroud.
SS-Class Guide. The Anti-Social Sorcerer. The Mothman of Mental Stability.
He looked up at you like you were the ghost of an unpaid internship and visibly recoiled.
"Hi," you said, very brightly, like this wasn’t clearly a mistake and the man before you hadn’t just contemplated leaping through the window to escape human contact.
He blinked. Slowly. "You're the SS?"
“Apparently,” you replied, sitting down calmly and very much not vibrating with barely-leashed doom energy. You folded your hands in your lap like someone who hadn’t just melted part of the training center during compatibility testing. “And you're going to be my Guide.”
That clearly short-circuited something in his brain because he made a strangled wheeze that sounded like a laptop dying.
So, obviously, the next logical step was pretending to be emotionally stable.
“Yes, I’ve been told I have excellent boundaries,” you said, lying through your teeth. “I meditate. I go to therapy. I drink water.”
Your nose might have twitched at the last one. Idia squinted.
“I’ve... seen your incident reports.”
Ah. Well. Time to double down.
“And yet,” you said, flashing a smile that could win awards for Most Suspicious Aura, “the test matched us. Fate, right?”
Idia looked at you like fate had personally wronged him.
You maintained eye contact. Calm. Cool. Collected. Just another emotionally well-regulated citizen of the world, absolutely not about to snap and launch a fireball into a vending machine if it ate your coins again.
And to your surprise, after a long, tense silence and a muttered line that sounded suspiciously like, “If I ignore it, maybe it'll leave,” he didn’t kick you out.
He just sighed. Opened a drawer. Pulled out your file like it physically hurt him.
And so it began.
You and the man who looked like a sleep-deprived curse word.
Esper and Guide.
Chaos and more chaos.
Willing participant and deeply unwilling participant.
Honestly, this was going to go great.
Idia sits next to you like someone forced him into a live-action horror movie adaptation of his worst social nightmares. He perches at the very edge of the couch, knees turned sharply away from you, shoulders hunched like he’s expecting to spontaneously combust just from proximity. He’s sweating. Actively. You can hear it.
He doesn't look at you—doesn’t dare to. Eye contact might trigger some kind of emotional subroutine he’s buried under six years of anime quotes and avoidance. So instead, he glares at the floor like it owes him money and says in the driest, most pained voice you've ever heard:
“…I’m going to initiate touch now.”
You blink. “Cool. I won’t bite.”
“Statistically, there’s still a 17% chance.”
Before you can ask how he got that number, he reaches over—very gingerly—and clasps your hand like it’s a ticking time bomb. It’s the least affectionate, most clinical hand-hold imaginable. And yet—
Your brain goes silent. Completely. All the psychic noise, the static, the ghost of that one Gate entity that’s been whispering “eat drywall” for three weeks straight—gone. You breathe out, deeply, for what feels like the first time in months.
“Oh,” you say, blinking slowly. “That’s… good. That’s really good.”
Meanwhile, Idia has gone stiff as a corpse. He looks at you, then at your hand, then back at you like you’ve just transformed into a philosophical dilemma.
“How are you alive?” he asks, genuinely horrified. “You’re… you’re an unstable esper. Your baseline resonance is like an overcooked spaghetti noodle wrapped around a hand grenade. You should be fried. You should be paste. What the hell have you been doing for guidance?”
You shrug. “My last guide made me listen to podcasts. And sometimes put a warm towel on my neck.”
Idia just stares at you in disbelief. “A warm towel?! A warm towel?! That’s like trying to fight a house fire with herbal tea!”
You grin at him, relaxed in a way you haven’t been since your promotion. “Hey. I’m adaptable.”
Then you wink.
He jerks his hand back like you just slapped him with a legally binding marriage proposal. “Okay, what does that mean?! Are you flirting? Threatening me? Both?!”
You stretch luxuriously on his couch, now absolutely high on the absence of psychic distress. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Guide boy?”
He looks at you like he’s re-evaluating every decision that led him to this moment—including being born.
You close your eyes, content, while Idia frantically Googles “how to tell if your newly assigned Esper is insane.”
You don’t need to see him to know he’s panicking.
But you feel better than you have in weeks.
You exit the Gate with all the dignity of a baby deer on roller skates. Technically alive, mostly upright, and riding the high of “I didn’t die today” like it’s a stimulant. There’s smoke rising from your gloves, your hair’s doing a very bold interpretation of ‘windblown,’ and you’re about three seconds from either vomiting or adopting nihilism as a full-time lifestyle.
And then—you spot him.
Your Guide.
Idia Shroud.
He’s lurking in the far corner of the clearing, half-shielded by a vending machine and what looks like pure, unfiltered spite. His hood’s up, his glowstick hair is practically vibrating, and he’s watching the post-Gate Espers like a cornered Victorian orphan who’s about to throw hands over the last piece of bread.
One comes within five feet of him and he physically recoils, clutching his comms tablet like it’s a crucifix. You're ninety percent sure he hissed.
So naturally, you make a beeline for him.
“Hi honey, I’m home,” you chirp, still crackling with energy like a downed power line.
He jolts like you just poured emotional commitment down his spine.
“Oh my GOD,” he mutters, dragging you by the sleeve like you’re radioactive (which, in fairness, you might be). “What took you so long?! I was standing here surrounded by—by unregulated feelings and eye contact and—oh my god, one of them tried to hug me.”
You let him pull you behind a barrier, where he sits you down with the dramatic flair of someone absolutely done with his entire existence. He doesn’t even wait—just snatches your hand and starts stabilizing you like he’s diffusing a bomb, holding on like letting go might summon the apocalypse.
Instant, blessed silence.
Your brain, which had been screaming like a dial-up modem on fire, goes quiet. Your chest unknots. You remember that oxygen exists and taking it in is actually encouraged. You sigh, blissed out, while Idia makes a face like he just stuck his hand in radioactive soup.
“I know it was, like, a gate collapse or whatever,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the skyline like he’s begging some higher power for patience. “But maybe next time don’t take so long to get out? You were in there for seventy minutes. I counted. Every second was emotionally damaging.”
You grin, eyes still hazy. “Aw. You missed me.”
“I panicked,” he snaps. “There’s a difference. I had a backup plan. It was called ‘run.’”
You lean toward him with a smug little hum. “You care.”
“I don’t care,” he says immediately, voice cracking like a damaged violin string. “I just don’t want you getting so emotionally unhinged you come back here all weepy and soulbond-seeking and—” he gestures vaguely. “Clingy.”
“I’m not clingy,” you say, still not letting go of his hand.
“You’re currently latched onto me like a trauma koala,” he deadpans.
You wink. “So you do care.”
Idia looks at you like he’s actively calculating how many regulations he can violate before someone notices. His expression lands somewhere between “why me” and “I should’ve become a dental assistant.”
But he doesn’t let go.
In fact, he shifts slightly so you can lean against him more comfortably. Not that he says anything about it. No. That would imply emotional maturity and gross things like “communication.”
Instead, he mutters, “You smell like space lightning and poor decisions.”
You beam at him. “Thanks. It’s my natural musk.”
And despite everything—despite the chaos, the imminent paperwork, and the looming threat of another Esper trying to trauma-bond with him—Idia doesn’t move away.
You’d like to think it’s because of your immense charm.
He’ll tell himself it’s just because it’s the most efficient way to keep you from frying your nervous system.
But deep down—deep down—he’s already doomed, and you both know it.
Congratulations. You’ve adopted a reclusive Guide with the emotional range of a scared wet cat.
And he cares.
Desperately.
You were having a very productive day doing absolutely nothing.
Flat on your bed, hoodie pulled over your face, limbs at the exact angle of maximum immobility, you were experiencing true stillness. The kind of stillness monks meditate decades to achieve. You hadn’t moved in hours. If someone were to enter your apartment right now, they’d probably mistake you for a corpse, but with worse fashion sense.
And then your phone rang.
You ignored it. Of course you did. Whoever it was could wait. You were on a spiritual journey to become one with your mattress. But it rang again. And again. And then came the messages. Ping. Ping. Pingpingpingping—
With the groan of someone who’s known true peace and been dragged back to hell, you reached for the phone.
[Guidia]: B-Class pest in hallway. Halp. He's monologuing.
[Guidia]: SOS. EMERGENCY. COME NOW. I’M NOT KIDDING.
[Guidia]: HE'S OUTSIDE MY OFFICE. HE HAS A CLIPBOARD.
[Guidia]: I’M HIDING BEHIND MY ROLLING CHAIR.
[Guidia]: IF YOU DON’T COME I’M FAKING MY OWN DEATH.
You stared at the messages. Debated pretending you didn’t see them. Debated harder. Lost.
Twenty minutes later, you're standing in front of the office building, internally mourning the loss of your free day and dressed like a walking stress nap with an energy drink in hand. You shuffle into the building, make your way to the guide floor, and as soon as you turn the corner—
There he is.
A junior Esper. Knocking on Idia’s door with the determined rhythm of someone trying to summon either a guide or God himself.
You slow down, then stop completely a few feet away, watching the scene with mild interest and the deadpan curiosity of someone who’s just been pulled out of bed to witness this madness.
He looks fresh out of training. Blue hair perfectly combed, posture painfully upright, shoes that don’t have a single scuff on them. He’s also got that nervous, earnest vibe that screams “will fill out extra paperwork if asked.”
You raise an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”
He turns, a bit startled, then gives you a hopeful little smile.
“I’m here to meet Guide Shroud,” he says. “I heard he’s an SS-Rank and that he has only one Esper on his schedule, so I came to ask if he’d consider guiding me!”
You blink slowly. “You’re…?”
“B-Class!” he says proudly. “But I’ve been training hard. My instructors say I’ve got potential!”
You resist the urge to say “uh-huh” and pat him on the head. It is bold, you’ll give him that. You’d admire it more if you weren’t already picturing Idia foaming at the mouth behind the door.
Before you can respond, the door opens a crack—and a pale hand shoots out, grabs your wrist, and yanks you inside like you’re being abducted.
The door slams shut behind you. You spin and there’s Idia, crouched behind his desk, wide-eyed and absolutely vibrating with panic.
“WHY is he still out there,” he hisses.
You shrug. “He’s got dreams?”
“I SAW THE CLIPBOARD.”
“What’s on the clipboard, Idia.”
“I DON’T KNOW. GOALS? AMBITIONS? A LIST OF ICEBREAKER QUESTIONS?”
You give him a flat look. “So you dragged me out of bed—on my day off—because a baby Esper wanted to talk to you?”
“Did you SEE him?! He’s wearing a BUTTON-UP. He brought a PEN.”
“And your solution is what? Hide in your office until he dies of old age?”
“YES,” he says, without shame.
You sigh, long and dramatic. “Fiiiine.”
“You’ll get rid of him?”
“Yes.”
“WITHOUT making a mess?”
“No promises.”
You step out of the office, roll your shoulders, and walk up to the junior Esper with your best tired-but-stern government-employee face.
“Hey,” you say. “Guide Shroud can’t take you.”
His face falls. “Oh. Why not?”
“He’s bonded.”
“Oh.” He looks down, disappointed. “Wait—bonded? Like, permanently?”
“Yep.”
“…To who?”
You tilt your head and flash a smile. “Me.”
A beat passes.
“Oh,” he says again, eyes wide. “I—I didn’t know. That’s amazing. Congratulations! You two must have a really powerful connection.”
You nod solemnly. “We do. He definitely doesn’t hide under the desk every time I sneeze.”
“I hope someday I get to experience something like that,” he says, eyes shining.
You pat his shoulder like the elder cryptid you are. “Maybe. But for now, go back to your training. Don’t skip on the cardio. Gates love people who skip cardio.”
He scurries off with a polite bow and a visible resolve to become the best version of himself.
You reenter the office. Idia’s peeking from behind his chair like a horror movie extra.
“Gone?”
“Gone.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you’re soul-bonded to me and emotionally unavailable.”
Idia goes still. Then slowly slinks out of hiding and collapses into his chair like a dying star.
“I can’t believe you just lied to a government-registered Esper,” he mutters.
“I can believe I did it to get my day off back.”
“…Fair.”
You yawn, stretch, and head for the door. “Anyway, congrats on our fake bond. I expect fake anniversary gifts.”
“I'm gonna submit a fake complaint to HR.”
“Romantic.”
Idia glares.
You blow him a kiss and leave.
You realize just how feral Espers are for high-grade Guides when one tries to poach yours in broad daylight, in public, with the social grace of a raccoon trying to steal your fries at a bus stop.
You’ve just finished a gate run, which—if you ignore the part where you took on three more phantoms than assigned, broke your regulator, and got launched through a wall—went rather well. Minor details, honestly.
Idia, however, is not ignoring any of that. He is, in fact, still cataloging your crimes in a tired monotone that suggests he’s preparing a very long, very strongly worded complaint for HR. Possibly engraved on stone tablets.
“You absolute menace,” he mutters, slumped against the wall beside you. “You promised—promised—you wouldn’t go after the untagged ones unless backup arrived, and what did you do? You ran at it. With a stick. A stick.”
“It was a long stick,” you say helpfully, grinning as you lean a little more of your weight against him, fully aware he’s too drained to push you off.
“I had to leave my desk, you tyrant,” he hisses. “Do you know what it’s like being forced to cross a city-wide barrier while wearing socks with holes in them?! My soul is chafing.”
You laugh, and the sound is light and easy, the kind that says this is all routine for you now—him grumbling, you ignoring, the two of you attached at the hand like mismatched puzzle pieces that somehow just work.
It’s been nearly a year since you first met, and though Idia still resembles flight response in human form, he doesn’t flinch when you touch him anymore. He doesn’t hide behind walls of screens and sarcastic muttering. These days, he’ll even look you in the eye if he’s feeling particularly emotionally reckless.
And today, you’re halfway draped against his side, gripping his hand like it’s your personal grounding wire, while he complains about your irresponsibility with the dulled, weary cadence of someone who has long accepted his fate.
Everything is calm. Peaceful. Slightly sweaty, but serene.
Until it happens.
You feel it first—a disturbance in the air, a sort of psychic shift like a mosquito entering your periphery. And then a hand—not yours—wraps around Idia’s other hand.
You both freeze.
You turn your head slowly, like a haunted doll in a horror movie, and lock eyes with the offending Esper: a stranger, grinning with the unnerving intensity of someone who’s never once respected personal space in their life.
Their grip is firm. Their eyes are gleaming. You get the immediate and unshakable impression that they brush their teeth with motivational speeches and do pushups while listening to alpha wave affirmations.
“Hey,” they say brightly. “I felt your energy from across the lot. You’re an SS-ranked Guide, right? I need a sync. This is urgent.”
You blink. They just walked up. Grabbed his hand. Started a conversation. Like you’re not right there. Like you’re not holding his hand already.
Idia makes a noise. A terrible, high-pitched, panicked noise that sounds like a dying computer fan combined with a stress wheeze. His grip on your hand turns into a death clamp so intense you briefly lose sensation in your fingers.
You can feel his aura spiking erratically, his hair going from blue-flame to fire-hazard, his whole body broadcasting something between fight and flight but mostly error404.human.exe has stopped responding.
The other Esper keeps smiling.
So naturally, your half-dead, gate-fried, emotionally responsible brain decides to handle the situation with grace, poise, and logic.
“That’s my bonded Guide, how dare you?” you say loudly, voice ringing across the field like you’ve just declared war at a royal banquet.
The Esper blinks. “Wait—bonded?”
You stare them down with the weight of a thousand lies and the calm of someone who has absolutely no plan but is fully committed to whatever this is now. “Yes. Bonded. Anchored. Spiritually entangled. Aether-twined in the eyes of the Bureau and every known deity.”
The Esper takes a step back. “Oh. I—I didn’t realize, you weren’t listed—”
“It’s private. Sacred. We don’t believe in paperwork,” you say solemnly, as if this is an ancient vow passed down from your ancestors and not something you just made up to avoid watching Idia break down like a damsel in the middle of a syncing field.
“I—I’m sorry,” they stammer, already backing away like you’ve slapped them with a restraining order made of pure energy. “I didn’t mean to—good luck with your, um. Bond.”
And then they run. They actually run. Kick up dust and everything.
You turn back to Idia, who’s frozen in place like his entire reality has blue-screened.
“What,” he croaks, “the hell was that?”
“A problem solved,” you say, settling back into your lean like nothing happened. “You’re welcome.”
“You told them we were bonded. In public. Do you have any idea what you just—? That’s a federal registration. There’s ceremonies. There are retreats. I’m going to start getting targeted ads for matching sync robes!”
You shrug, resting your head on his shoulder with the peacefulness of someone who knows, with every fiber of their being, that they have zero intention of fixing this. “Eh. If the ad algorithm knows something before you do, maybe it’s just fate.”
“You’re the worst,” he whispers, deeply and with feeling.
And yet, his grip doesn’t loosen. Even with both your hands clasped like that, even after the emotional equivalent of a car alarm going off in his soul, he keeps holding on.
So really, you figure everything’s fine.
After one little white lie (okay, two), things spiraled faster than you expected. Who knew that telling two different Espers that you and Idia were bonded would spread like someone set the office gossip group chat on fire and dumped rocket fuel on it?
Now you’re both sitting in HR.
The room is sterile in that special, soul-draining way that only HR offices can achieve—walls too white, chairs too plastic, a single wilting plant in the corner that’s seen more existential dread than most therapists.
You’re slouched in your seat, one leg bouncing like a ticking bomb, while Idia sits stiffly beside you, arms folded, looking like he wants to sink through the floor.
He's glaring at you with the intensity of a thousand blue suns. You can feel the judgment radiating off him like he's trying to guilt-force an apology through sheer mental anguish.
"Look," you mutter, nudging his boot with yours. "It’s not that bad."
"You told people we were bonded,” he hisses under his breath. “Twice. You turned it into an office-wide feature presentation. They sent us an official celebration cake, do you understand how terrifying that?”
You grin. “People love love.”
“I’m allergic to attention,” he snaps. “Do you know how many people tried to make eye contact with me this morning?”
“I made your life more efficient. Think about it—if we just roll with it, you never have to guide another Esper again. No more weirdos grabbing your hand in public. No more field calls. No more small talk.”
Idia pauses. You can see the moment he processes it. He goes very, very still, like a prey animal realizing the trap is actually a very comfy bed with Wi-Fi.
“…If I say we’re bonded, you're the only Esper I’ll ever have to guide,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he’s consulting an invisible divine entity. “I could work from home forever. No more missions. No more rando Espers breathing at me. I could build an AI version of myself for you to sync with. I wouldn’t even need to be conscious.”
“There you go!” you whisper, triumphant. “Fake it till we make it. Just smile, nod, and look like you tolerate me.”
“I don’t know how to smile on command.”
“Perfect. That’s our natural chemistry.”
Before he can spiral further, the HR door opens and a clipboard-toting, tired-eyed official waves you both in.
You sit. Idia sits like he’s never sat before. The HR guy folds his hands and gives you both that “I don’t get paid enough for this” expression all HR personnel master within the first week of their job.
“So,” he says. “You’re claiming a bond. You understand that means your sync scores, mission pairings, and emotional resonance charts are now considered federal data.”
“Absolutely,” you say confidently.
“Nope,” Idia says at the same time.
The HR guy pauses. “Right. Let’s just verify a few details.” He flips through the clipboard. “When did you begin your relationship?”
A silence. You shoot him a quick look and whisper, “Why would we sync in the cafeteria—”
“I was thinking of lunch!” he hisses back.
HR guy clears his throat loudly.
“Okay,” he says, clearly fighting for patience. “Can you describe the moment you knew you were psychically compatible?”
You nod solemnly. “He touched my hand during decompression and I felt peace.”
“...When I almost blacked out from terror on field 206” Idia mutters.
You both blink at each other. There’s a horrible, choking silence.
The HR guy just sets down his pen, pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs like he’s about to file for retirement. “Are you sure this is a real bond?”
Panic grips you like a sudden gust of wind. You think, fast. There’s only one thing left to do, one final act of desperation.
You rise from your chair.
Idia blinks. “What are you—oh no.”
You drop to one knee. “Oh yes.”
You pull out a ring. It’s a candy ring, the one you were saving in your jacket pocket for a sugar crash emergency. It sparkles like cheap sugar-coated destiny.
“Idia Shroud,” you say, with all the theatrical sincerity of a soap opera star in a season finale. “From the moment we synced, I knew you were the only socially avoidant, high-strung disaster I wanted to illegally claim government benefits with.”
Idia makes a noise that’s one part static feedback, one part soul exiting the body.
“Will you continue this extremely bureaucratically convenient charade with me?” you say, offering the candy ring with reverence. “For the tax write-offs and the peace of never having to talk to anyone else ever again?”
The HR guy is stunned. Mouth open. Not blinking. Probably buffering.
Idia stares at the ring. Then at you. Then at the HR guy. Then at the ring again.
“…I hate you,” he whispers, but lifts his hand anyway. “It better be lemon flavor or I walk.”
You slide the ring onto his finger like this is a fairy tale gone deeply, deeply off script.
HR makes a note. “...Right. Well. You’ll receive your bonding paperwork in three to five business days.”
And just like that, the meeting is over.
You and Idia walk out in silence, side by side, your new “engagement” ring glinting like the chaos it truly represents.
“...I hope you choke on candy,” he mutters.
“You love me.”
“No one will believe we’re bonded.”
“Oh, honey,” you grin, linking your arm through his. “They already do.”
These days, you and Idia have reached what scientists might call a stable orbit, and what HR calls a “gross misuse of company time and space.” But whatever. That’s between you, Idia, and the slowly dying office fern neither of you have watered in months.
You don’t bother him too much anymore—which is to say, you only rearrange his collectible figurines once a week now instead of every time you enter his office. And in return, he no longer looks at you like you’re an invasive species he’d like to report to pest control. Progress.
Sometimes, your days are quiet. Idia’s hunched over in his gaming chair, absolutely violating some poor boss monster on screen while whispering insults under his breath like, “Die, you HP-bloated RNG hellbeast,” and you’re sprawled face-first across the couch like a very emotionally fulfilled potato.
You’ve made a perfect depression nest out of spare jackets, your limbs dangling off the side like you’ve been freshly thrown there by fate itself.
You should be working. Technically. But Idia’s the one who put the “Do Not Disturb Unless You’re On Fire” sign on the door, so really, you’re just honoring the sanctity of that promise.
Other times, you swing by with takeout—because you both forgot to eat lunch, and if left alone, Idia will subsist off instant noodles and spite. You shove a container into his hand and collapse next to him on the couch, your thigh pressed against his as he awkwardly elbows you for space but doesn’t actually move away. Not that you’re keeping score.
(You are. You're absolutely keeping score.)
"Okay," he says, opening his container. "So this season's adaptation is garbage—they cut the backstory arc, the budget tanked, and the studio didn’t even animate the hair properly, it’s criminal. But the original light novel? Peak fiction. High literary art. Shakespeare is in shambles.”
You nod sagely as you munch on your fries. You don’t know what the hell he’s talking about—something about time loops and cursed bloodlines and a vampire love interest who’s actually a sentient program??—but you listen anyway.
Not because you care about the plot.
But because he talks with his whole soul, voice quickening, eyes gleaming like he’s just rolled a nat 20 on the Charisma check against social anxiety. He flails with one hand, gesturing wildly with his chopsticks like a tiny conductor of chaos, while his other hand never leaves yours.
And sometimes, in those moments—when he’s mid-rant, flushed with nerd rage, and you’re half-listening, half-dozing, fingers tangled with his—you catch yourself looking at him a little too long.
You catch the sparkle in his eyes, the way his shoulders drop around you, the way he stops stuttering when he gets excited and trusts you to listen even if you don’t understand.
And it takes every single molecule of willpower in your rapidly melting brain not to say anything.
Not to say how much you like these moments. Not to say how much you like him.
Because, sure, you’re fake-bonded. Pretending. Faking it for HR and for peace and quiet and to stop weird Espers from flirting with your favorite (and only) antisocial Guide.
But maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t mind if it weren’t pretend at all.
Despite being a somewhat unmotivated little gremlin who once filed a formal complaint about being asked to show up to a meeting before noon, you have a bad habit of pushing yourself too far when it came to gates.
Not for glory. Not for stats. Not even for the sweet, sweet serotonin of a job well done. No, you did it because you’d seen what happened when gates breached—when help came too late, when the wrong Esper got caught in the crossfire, when someone broke apart in a way no guide could patch back together.
You remembered one of your old friends, a Guide with the sunniest smile and a laugh that always rang louder than anyone else’s. Until one day it didn’t. They’d walked out of a particularly bad gate in stunned silence, hands shaking, mouth opening and closing like they wanted to say something—anything—but couldn’t. They handed in their resignation the next day.
So yeah. Maybe you were lazy about laundry and paperwork and showing up on time. But when it came to gates, you didn’t play around.
You fought like hell to make sure no one else had to go through what your friend did. You fought out of bounds. You fought monsters that weren’t yours. You fought so Idia never had to wear that hollow, too-still expression you remembered from that day.
And today?
Today was bad.
A sudden gate, not enough backup, and you were the highest-ranked Esper present. Which meant it fell on you.
You lasted twelve hours in there. Twelve hours of back-to-back fights, suppressing, clearing, burning through your stamina like your life—and everyone else’s—depended on it.
By the time the gate sealed and spat you out, you were barely standing. The world tilted hard to the left, your vision turned into that weird static-y filter they use in horror movies right before someone dies, and your stomach made a noise that might’ve been a scream. You took one step before your knees gave out.
You didn’t hit the ground.
Because suddenly, there were hands on you—arms catching you just before you collapsed, dragging you out of the danger zone with a surprisingly solid grip for someone whose most strenuous physical activity was switching charging cables.
You didn’t even need to see him to know who it was.
Idia. Your Guide. Your terribly anxious, semi-voluntarily associated handler, whose voice was sharp with panic as he dragged you to the safe zone and sat you down with all the gentleness of a malfunctioning robot.
“Oh my god—oh my god, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to die? Is this your new thing? Is this a hobby now?!”
You tried to respond but only managed a weak groan and a half-choke that might’ve been, “I’m fine,” or “I’m dying,” honestly it was 50/50.
He pressed his hands against your temples and started guiding immediately, energy steady and practiced. You felt the tightness in your chest start to ease, your pulse gradually slowing, your lungs actually filling up for once instead of fluttering like a dying balloon.
It was kind of nice. You hadn’t realized how close to blacking out you were until the static started fading. And then—
SMACK.
“OW—!”
“Shut up,” Idia hissed, yanking his hand back after slapping your shoulder hard enough to knock your soul a little looser. “You—you absolute fool of an Esper, you think I have time to be picking your half-dead corpse up off the ground like this?! I have three games on cooldown and a raid to prepare for next week and a life, you inconsiderate idiot!”
You opened one eye. “Wow, you’re yelling so much. Are you worried about me or just mad your stream got interrupted?”
“I’m both,” he snapped, color rising fast in his cheeks. “This—this can’t happen again. If you do this again, I’m gone. I’ll walk. I’ll— I’ll turn off my communicator. I’ll delete my file. I’ll fake my death. I will abandon you.”
You hummed, barely keeping your head upright. “You’d never.”
“I would.” His voice cracked like glass under pressure. “Don’t—don’t you dare test me. I mean it. I don’t want to… I don’t want to see you like that. Not again.”
You blinked at him slowly, the weight of exhaustion settling back into your limbs now that the adrenaline had burned out. And maybe it was the guiding haze, or maybe it was just him, but you let yourself rest.
Just for a little.
Because despite the dramatics and the hissy fit and the aggressively uncoordinated yelling, you knew what that panic meant. You knew what his hands trembling over yours meant.
And if your Guide was threatening to fake his own death for you, well… wasn’t that kind of romantic?
You took a few days off after The Incident™, otherwise known as You Being A Reckless Maniac Who Nearly Died On The Job While Your Guide Watched In Real-Time. The official report called it “extreme physical exertion in a high-risk environment.” You called it “a regular workday.”
But now, by some miracle of medical leave and your supervisor’s desperate plea for you to “please just stop doing this to us,” you were free.
And what did you do with your precious, well-earned downtime?
You healed your soul.
Which, for the record, looked a lot like wearing the same hoodie for three days, eating spicy chips with reckless abandon, and watching a reality show so unhinged it had to be imported from three countries over and aired exclusively at 3 a.m. due to moral concerns.
It was everything you wanted. Stupid people making stupid choices while you lived vicariously from the safety of your couch.
You were mid-cringe—some poor contestant had just confessed their love to the wrong twin—when someone knocked on your door.
You paused the TV and blinked. You weren’t expecting anyone. Delivery? Nah, you hadn’t even ordered anything today. Maybe the neighbors—
You opened the door and froze.
Idia stood there. Hoodie too big. Hair slightly frizzed as usual. One hand holding a plastic bag that looked like it could house a small cow, the other awkwardly dragging a suitcase. A suitcase.
You stared at him.
He stared at you.
Then, without saying a single word, he walked right in. No greeting, no explanation, just brushed past you like he’d done it a hundred times before and knew exactly where he was going.
He set the bag down with a thunk, the suitcase with a thud, plugged a drive into your media player with all the confidence of someone who had practiced this, and loaded up an anime you didn’t even recognize—something with neon colors, probably three timelines, and a cast of beautiful characters with extremely tragic backstories.
Then he turned to you.
And stared.
Not a single word. Just pointedly stared until you sighed, flopped back down on the couch, and scooted over to make room for him.
He joined you immediately. Threw a blanket over the both of you with the elegance of a man conducting a sacred ritual. Pulled your hand into his and laced your fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Still didn’t say anything.
You glanced at him. “So… are you living here now?”
No answer.
“Did you bring me snacks at least?”
He reached into the bag with his free hand, pulled out your favorite candy, and passed it to you without looking.
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re really committing to the whole silent anime protagonist thing, huh?”
He finally opened his mouth.
“Shut up. The sad backstory part is about to start.”
And that was that.
Apparently, your healing arc had a guest star now. One with a suitcase, great taste in melodrama, and a grip on your hand that never loosened.
You wake up with a distinct sense that something’s wrong.
Not life-or-death wrong. Not “gate-breach-imminent” wrong. More like “you-fell-asleep-in-a-position-that-defies-basic-anatomy” kind of wrong.
Your limbs are a mess. There’s a hoodie-clad arm loosely wrapped around your waist. Your face is very much pressed into someone’s collarbone. Someone who is radiating body heat like a human furnace. And you, like the enlightened creature you are, sniff before you register what your eyes are seeing.
Wait.
Wait.
You blink blearily, and that’s when you realize: the human furnace is Idia Shroud.
You’re practically draped over him. Your leg is slung over his hips like you own him. His fingers are curled gently in your shirt like you’re his last tether to life. It’s less “sleepover” and more “Netflix and accidental marriage.”
And just as you situation begins to settle in, he stirs.
You freeze.
He opens his eyes.
And then—it happens.
He makes a sound. A terrible, wretched sound. Like a dying Roomba. Or a haunted fax machine possessed by a demon with asthma.
Then he squints down at you, eyes wild with confusion and betrayal.
And with a trembling breath, he whispers, “…I hate you.”
You blink. “What.”
“I hate you,” he repeats, louder this time, like you’re hard of hearing and he’s your dramatic high school ex. “I hate you. This is all your fault.”
You squint. “Did the genre shift? Are we friends to enemies now? Or, like, lovers to enemies to something worse?”
He sits up with you still partially on him and gestures dramatically at the tangled blankets like he’s presenting evidence in court. “Look at this. Look at what you’ve done to me. I used to be a recluse. I used to avoid human interaction. I had peace. Quiet. I had ten hours of gaming time per day.”
“You still have that,” you point out. “You just make me sit in the room now and pass you snacks.”
“Exactly!” he snaps. “I started liking it! I started looking forward to your dumb commentary during boss fights! I started… craving your presence like some kind of socially-adjusted moron!”
You stare.
He rants on, wild-haired and red-faced and approximately one and a half steps from throwing himself out a window. “You fake proposed to get out of HR trouble! And then you stole my hoodie! And you keep showing up in my space and making it better and more tolerable and I hate you for it!”
Your mouth twitches. “You sure this isn’t just a confession disguised as slander?”
He glares at you. “Don’t flatter yourself. I am merely experiencing symptoms of long-term emotional contamination. Also known as affection. A known virus."
You’re laughing now, arms still loosely wrapped around him. “So you like me.”
“I can’t believe I fell for you,” he groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “Of all the people in this world, I had to fall for the unhinged disaster gremlin who pretended we were bonded because it was ‘funny.’”
“You asked me to keep the lie going!”
“Because you said we were soulmates in front of an HR rep with a clipboard!”
You grin. “Okay, but was I wrong?”
He makes a noise that sounds like a tea kettle having an emotional breakdown.
Then he slumps like he’s aged thirty years in three seconds and mutters, “Just reject me already so I can go die in some cold, dark corner of a server room.”
You kiss him.
It’s soft and simple and smug. Mostly because he’s still glaring at you and now he’s also short-circuiting. His ears go bright pink.
You smile against his lips and ask, “So. You wanna make the fake bond real?”
He glares harder. “You’re the worst.”
And then he kisses you again like he’s never been more offended to be in love in his entire life.
Idia hated that he was a high-class Guide.
It was like being the rare shiny Pokémon everyone wanted to catch, except instead of admiration, it came with a nonstop barrage of overcaffeinated Espers trying to hold his hand without warning and HR emails that read like increasingly desperate dating profiles: “This one is only mildly feral! Just give it a shot :)”
He didn’t want to “give it a shot.” He wanted to crawl into his anime pillow fort and watch seventeen episodes of Mecha Scream Force: Ultimate Uncut Directors’ Deluxe Edgelord Edition in peace.
And then your file landed in his inbox.
Subject: SS– BATTLE-LEVEL ESPER.
NOTES: Known anomaly. Exhibits unpredictable energy flux due to post-gate mutation. Possibly cursed.
Re: Sync pair recommendation – IDIA SHROUD. Good luck.
[Attached: a video of you almost biting into a monster’s neck mid-fight]
Idia stared at it for a full minute. Then he closed the file, reopened it, and checked the name. His name.
“Whyyyy me?” he whispered to the heavens, even though he was indoors and had blackout curtains drawn so tightly it looked like the void itself lived there.
Clearly, he’d wronged someone in a past life. Probably a whole list of someones.
When you walked into his office, he expected chaos. He expected explosions. He expected you to tackle him to the ground screaming “LET ME ABSORB YOUR AURA” or something equally traumatic.
Instead?
You looked at him, grinned like this was a lunch break, and approached him.
Then you stuck your hand out like you were offering him a pen.
“Yo. You guiding or nah?”
Idia blinked. The sheer normalcy hit him like a truck.
You just kept smiling, not even a glimmer of feral gate trauma in your eyes, and said, “Wanna do the hand thing or are you one of those forehead touchers?”
Idia was so caught off guard he actually stuttered, “J-just hands is fine.”
“Neat,” you said, and took his hand like it was no big deal. Like you hadn’t allegedly suplexed a gate beast using only your pinky. Like you didn’t have a file thicker than some light novels.
And… that was it.
You let him guide you. No whining. No dramatic speeches. No weird vibes. Just sync.
When it was over, you looked at him and said, “Wanna grab noodles?” and then skipped off to bother a vending machine.
Idia stood there for several minutes, buffering like a corrupted cutscene.
You weren’t loud. You weren’t clingy. You didn’t even try to oversync. And your handshake? A solid 8.5/10. Firm, but not emotionally traumatizing.
He texted Ortho:
“I think I found a non-feral one. Do you think they’re a spy.”
Ortho replied:
“Or maybe they’re just not like the others.”
“Bro do NOT fall in love.”
Idia stared at your file again that night. He looked at the chaos reports, the combat records, the notes scribbled in red pen by HR.
And then he thought about your stupid little grin and how you didn’t even complain when he made you wait twenty minutes while he charged his noise-canceling headphones.
Maybe—just maybe—you weren’t going to ruin his life.
Yet.
The first time Idia waited outside a gate for you, he genuinely thought, How bad could it be?
Spoiler: it was bad.
He was standing there with his coat flapping awkwardly in the breeze, hunched like a socially anxious gargoyle, trying to blend into the concrete.
But alas—there was no blending in when you were wearing a neon SS-rank Guide badge that practically screamed, “HELLO! I’m high value and emotionally unavailable for syncing, please invade my personal space immediately!”
Espers began swarming.
Like moths. No. Like moths with abs.
“Yo, you synced up with anyone?” said one particularly muscular guy who was chewing gum with the intensity of someone trying to seduce through molar power.
“Wanna test compatibility?” offered another, already reaching out like this was some kind of handshake.
“I could use a cool-headed Guide like you,” purred a woman who looked like she bench-pressed trucks in her downtime.
Idia, for his part, simply froze. Not because he was considering it. No. He was buffering. His brain was lagging so hard it was displaying the mental equivalent of the spinning beach ball of doom. Why were they all so close? Why was that one flexing?
He wanted to vanish. He wanted to dissolve into the sidewalk. He wanted you to COME OUT OF THE GATE ALREADY.
And then, like some kind of disaster-themed magical girl, you stumbled out of the gate with your jacket halfway falling off your shoulder, a smear of monster goo on your cheek, and your smile crooked from adrenaline.
You blinked at the scene. Idia surrounded by sparkle-eyed Espers. And you? You grinned like a menace and called, “Aww, were you being courted while I was gone?”
He immediately flushed three shades of cherry blossom pink and hissed, “W-would it kill you to come out faster?! I almost got bond-napped!”
You just laughed, clapped him on the shoulder (with the force of a medium earthquake), and said, “Don’t worry, Shiny Badge. I’ll be faster next time.”
And shockingly… you were.
Next gate, you practically threw yourself out as soon as the rift closed, stumbling directly into Idia like you were being ejected from a monster meat blender.
He squeaked. You beamed. And every other Esper in a ten-foot radius suddenly looked like they’d just found out their crush was married.
“You happy now?” you asked, trying to wipe blood off your face with a wet napkin. “Did I make it in time to preserve your purity?”
“I am never wearing that badge again,” Idia muttered, clinging to your arm like you were his emotional support chaos.
But secretly?
He was just a little happy you’d listened.
A few months into this partnership—not that Idia was counting (he totally was, he had a spreadsheet tracking your interactions and categorized emotional events, but that’s beside the point)—he was enjoying what he considered peak compatibility.
You didn’t ask invasive questions. You brought snacks. And most importantly, you didn’t try to poke at his psyche with metaphorical chopsticks like all the other Espers seemed to enjoy doing.
So when a baby B-class Esper showed up outside his office and refused to leave, he had one reaction.
Panic.
He were earnest. Bright-eyed. Starstruck. Speaking through the office door in a tone that suggested he was auditioning for a sports anime.
“I just believe it’s my destiny to be guided by the best! And the system says you have many open slots!”
Idia, crumpled in his gamer chair like a depressed shrimp, texted you in the most pathetic SOS syntax he could manage.
SOS. B-Class pest in hallway. Halp. They’re monologuing.
To his relief and eternal confusion, you actually showed up. On your day off. Dressed in sweatpants and judgment, hair a mess, holding an energy drink in one hand and existential dread in the other.
He thought—great, you’d flex your seniority, threaten the rookie with HR, maybe gently suggest they find a less traumatized Guide.
But no.
You looked at the Esper, and said, “Sorry. He’s bonded. To me. Permanently.”
The B-class Esper’s eyes widened with sparkling heartbreak. “O-oh. I didn’t… I didn’t see a bond registration?”
You didn’t even blink. “It’s private. For, uh… spiritual reasons.”
The kid left with a sniffle and a salute—a salute, like they’d just witnessed a great romantic tragedy.
And you?
You slurped your energy drink and said, “You’re welcome. You owe me dinosaur nuggets.”
And Idia, poor Idia, just sat there in the background with his hands halfway to his face, mumbling, “I’m gonna fling you out the window. Then I’m gonna follow.”
He just curled up in his chair, stared at the ceiling, and began calculating how long he could fake his own death before HR caught on.
And the worst part?
The lie worked too well.
Idia had survived a lot of things in life.
He’d survived MMORPG guild drama. The Y/N self-insert fic someone wrote about him that got 80,000 kudos and a spin-off comic. That fic someone wrote about him marrying Malleus in a pasta-themed AU that still somehow had an 8k comment thread.
But this?
This was unforgivable.
He was in HR. Again. With you. And no one had even punched a hole in the wall this time. This was all preemptive HR. Preventative HR.
The worst kind of HR, because it meant someone somewhere thought he might be a problem. Him! A problem! As if he didn’t already take up negative space in most social situations!
And you—you, the original source of his misfortune—you were just sitting beside him like you hadn’t just committed the equivalent of marriage fraud by loudly claiming, in front of at least seven witnesses and a vending machine, that the two of you were bonded.
Permanently. Irrevocably. Like a pair of idiot soulmates who'd stumbled out of a romcom written by an unpaid intern.
As if the “we’re bonded, teehee” debacle with the B-class Esper wasn’t enough to shave a year off Idia’s already stress-shortened life, it had happened again.
Some random esper held his hand post-gate when you were both still high on adrenaline and trauma, and instead of, Idia didn’t know, punching them or using your words like a normal person, you just went “excuse me, that’s my bonded Guide, how dare you,” like you were a jealous ex.
That was the moment the rumors really took off.
And now here you were. Both of you. In HR.
Because HR had questions. Many questions. And neither of you had done the bare minimum, which was maybe talking about what fake answers you should give in advance. Like you didn’t even rehearse. Not a single shared Google Doc. No coordinated lies. Just vibes.
So when the HR guy (who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on the planet, including the bottom of a sulfur pit) asked, “When did the bond occur?” you said October 3rd and Idia, with absolute confidence and zero hesitation, said March 22nd.
There was a pause.
Not a silence. A pause. The kind that echoes through generations.
“And where did it happen?” the man asked again, in the voice of someone whose therapist was going to be hearing about this in excruciating detail later.
You, smiling: “Field 17.”
Idia, barely restraining a grimace: “The Cafeteria.”
Another silence. This one more like an oncoming freight train.
“Do you at least know each other’s middle names?”
Idia blinked. “They have a middle name?”
You, helpfully: “His is ‘Trouble.’”
The HR guy looked like he aged six years in that moment. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed deeply, and began massaging his temples in slow, pained circles like a man who had seen the abyss and wished it had swallowed him.
And then.
Then you moved.
Idia saw it happen in slow motion. You stood up. Reached into your hoodie pocket. And pulled out something shiny and crinkly. Something artificial. Something glowing with malevolent intent.
A Ring Pop.
A goddamn Ring Pop.
“Don’t do it,” Idia whispered, “I swear to everything, if you—”
You dropped to one knee in the middle of the HR office like you were auditioning for a live-action soap opera.
“From the moment we synced,” you said, voice loud, clear, and completely free of shame, “I knew you were the only socially avoidant, high-strung disaster I wanted to illegally claim government benefits with.”
ILLEGALLY.
CLAIM.
GOVERNMENT BENEFITS.
In front of HR.
Idia's soul left his body. Again. He was nothing but a faint outline of smoke and anxiety in the shape of a man.
The HR guy did not react. He simply stared into space like he had become untethered from time and reality. Somewhere in the distance, someone’s computer pinged. A bird hit the window. The printer made a noise like it was trying to weep.
Idia looked at the Ring Pop. It better not be raspberry flavored. The worst possible option. The flavor of betrayal and poor decisions.
“If it’s not lemon, I walk,” he muttered, even as he extended his hand like the fool he was.
You beamed like you’d just won a reality show. Slipped the candy ring onto his finger with great ceremony. He stared down at it, sticky sugar starting to melt onto his knuckles, and wondered what series of decisions had led him to this moment.
You leaned close as you walked out of the office and whispered, “We’re truly fraudulently bonded now. I hope you’re happy.”
“I’m the opposite of happy,” Idia hissed. “I am… anti-happy. I am negativity incarnate. We are legally entangled. We have created an HR file. I’m going to have to explain this to Ortho.”
You smirked.
“Tell him it was a shotgun wedding. He’ll love it.”
You didn’t let go of his hand.
And—God help him—he didn’t let go of yours either.
It definitely got worse before it got better.
Ortho, for one, did not let him live it down. Not for a second. There was a party. A full-on celebratory bash. With banners. One of which read “Congrats on Your Emergency Government Sanctioned Soul Marriage!” in Comic Sans.
Idia had tried to crawl into the floor. The floor, unfortunately, remained solid. He was forced to attend the party in body, if not spirit.
Ortho had even made a slideshow, complete with sparkly transitions and lo-fi music, documenting “every known moment of you two being disgustingly bonded.”
There was cake. The cake said “Congrats, You Played Yourself.” It tasted like guilt.
But… after the glitter and humiliation settled… things became weirdly good.
You didn’t treat him differently. That was the weird part. You still flopped dramatically across his office couch like you’d just fought a battle with gravity and lost.
You still made horrendous snacking noises and tried to convince him to watch cursed reality TV. You still made offhanded jokes during his games that were so sharp and stupid that he had to pause the cutscene and stare into the screen like it was a black void of disbelief.
He never laughed—obviously—but his shoulders shook a little sometimes. Just from rage. Definitely.
Sometimes, you brought him takeout. Unprompted. Just dropped it on his desk like a raccoon delivering tribute and started poking through your own container.
You always let him talk about whatever show had emotionally ruined him that week. You even listened. Like, actually listened. Nodded at the plot twists. Called the villain a loser. Asked about the fan theories. Like what he said mattered.
And sometimes, when you were too distracted counting shrimp in your fried rice, brows furrowed like you were solving a shrimp-based tax puzzle, Idia would stare at you.
Not in a creepy way. Just in a very... intense... anime-protagonist-moment kind of way. Like if someone added a wind filter and dramatic music, it would be a whole romantic B-plot arc.
He’d stare and think: Please don’t change. Please don’t leave. Please let this be real, even if it’s dumb. Even if it’s fake government paperwork and Ring Pops and nonsense. Please let this nonsense stay mine.
And then you’d look up mid-chew, mouth full, and say something like, “Do you think shrimp ever get existential crises about tempura?”
He’d immediately look away, ears red, heart a mess.
Idia was outside. He’d been outside for twelve hours. That was twelve hours of sunlight exposure, twelve hours of people trying to talk to him, twelve hours of not knowing if you were dead or just being dramatic. Which, okay, to be fair, the line between the two was thin when it came to you.
He paced. He vibrated. He glared at anyone who so much as breathed in his direction. Someone tried to hand him a water bottle and he hissed like a wet cat.
Every five minutes, he checked his comms, even though he wasn’t cleared for internal updates. SS-ranked Guide my ass, he thought bitterly, hands twitching. Can’t even get an accurate live feed on the one maniac I’m synced to.
He told himself—repeatedly—that he was only mad because he had to wait outside for twelve whole hours. That it was purely logical rage. That the sun had permanently crisped his skin and fried his nerves and this was just normal vitamin-D-overload fury.
He was a filthy liar and he knew it.
He was anxious. He was anxious because you were in there alone. Well, not alone—technically there were other Espers—but they were all juniors. Babies. Snot-nosed kids who couldn’t fight their way out of a tutorial level.
You were the highest rank inside. Which meant you would push yourself. Which meant he had to sit there for twelve hours imagining every possible worst-case scenario his very creative and extremely deranged brain could come up with.
So when you finally stumbled out—filthy, bleeding, and doing your best impression of a half-dead Muppet—Idia didn’t even think. He caught you before you hit the ground, arms wrapping around you like instinct.
You were half-conscious, mumbling something about how the last monster looked like your elementary school English teacher, and Idia just about blacked out.
He dragged you to the side with the strength of pure panic and adrenaline. You were barely upright, clinging to him like a sleep-deprived spider monkey, and he was guiding you with shaky hands and a full-body tremble of what the hell, what the actual hell, what is wrong with you.
And then—he slapped your shoulder.
Hard.
Harder than someone with his spaghetti-noodle limbs had any right to.
“Are you out of your mind?!” he snapped, voice cracking. “Do you have a single functioning brain cell?! Were you trying to die in there? Is that it? Were you like, ‘Wow, you know what would be awesome today? Ruining my lungs and my Guide’s entire life in one go’—was that the plan?!”
You wheezed a laugh and gave a thumbs up.
He smacked you again.
“You can’t do that again,” he said, quietly this time, guiding aura flaring warm and sharp around his hands. “You can’t. If this happens again, I swear, I’m done. I’ll walk. I’ll turn in my license. I’ll go live in the woods and talk to raccoons. I’ll abandon you. I’m serious.”
You blinked at him, eyes bleary. “That’s dramatic.”
“So are you!” he snapped, and ran another guiding pulse through your body, scowling.
You slumped into him, letting the energy steady your limbs, and mumbled something about him being overprotective.
He told you to shut up.
You smiled.
He didn’t mean it about leaving.
But you didn’t need to know that.
You took a few days off after the gate incident. Not that Idia was keeping track. Not that he had an entire spreadsheet titled “Gate Trauma Recovery: Dumb Gremlin Edition” with daily updates on your recovery status that he absolutely did not check every thirty minutes.
But okay, maybe he was spiraling a little.
Because no matter how many games he played or anime episodes he queued up, he couldn’t get the image out of his head—you, bruised and burned and half-conscious, slumping into his arms like you were seconds away from not existing anymore.
It lived rent-free in his head. It had set up a cozy studio apartment in his cerebral cortex and was not paying utilities.
So, naturally, like any emotionally repressed SS-rank Guide with the common sense of a decorative rock, he packed a suitcase.
In went his portable gaming setup. His backup backup controller. Six different cords for reasons known only to the universe. Two sets of headphones. His lucky gamer hoodie. A USB fan (essential). And then a bag of snacks roughly the size of 6 corgis, filled with everything from neon sour gummies to obscure off-brand Pocky flavors.
Then, in a fit of either romance or psychosis (jury’s out), he showed up at your front door.
You opened it mid–reality show binge, wearing pajama pants with some loud pattern that made his eyes hurt. He stood there, suitcase in one hand, snack bag in the other, looking like a socially anxious door-to-door apocalypse salesman.
Neither of you spoke.
Because what was he supposed to say?
“Hi, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way your breathing was shallow and your skin was cold and I panicked so hard I packed my whole life into a bag like we’re running away from a zombie uprising and now I’m here because not seeing you for three days makes me feel like I’m gonna hurl?”
Absolutely not. He would rather eat drywall. He would rather die.
So instead, he walked in silently like a weirdo, set his stuff down like it was totally normal, and plugged in his drive into your media player like this was just a casual day.
You, either out of kindness or shared delusion, didn’t question it.
You just moved things over on the couch to make room and handed him the blanket. Like this was normal. Like he hadn’t just barged in with a small suitcase of emotional instability and bad coping mechanisms.
He put on a new anime. One he’d been saving. One he hadn’t planned on watching until you could roll your eyes and make your dumb little commentary at the plot holes.
You leaned against him, not saying a word.
And he held your hand like you hadn't absolutely blown up his entire emotional firewall. Like he hadn’t nearly lost you. Like this wasn’t already his favorite memory.
He didn’t say a word the whole episode.
But his fingers stayed curled around yours like a promise he was too much of a coward to say out loud.
Idia woke up with a full-grown human person draped across his body like a weighted blanket with boundary issues.
His brain booted up slowly—first registering the dull ache in his spine from sleeping on your disaster of a couch, then the soft warmth of your face smushed into his shoulder, and finally the fact that your entire existence was currently entangled with his like some kind of romcom final episode cuddle position.
He did not survive twelve hours of panicked gate-waiting, emotional damage, and spontaneous suitcase-packing for this.
Actually, no. That was a lie. He absolutely did. And if anyone dared to move you right now he would bite.
But unfortunately for him—and also, somehow, for you—he had the emotional self-control of a feral raccoon near a garbage can of feelings. So when you stirred a little and blinked sleepily at him, he opened his mouth and said the first thing that slithered out of his traitorous brain.
“I hate you.”
Your eyes focused slowly. “...Huh?”
“I hate you,” he repeated, voice cracking like a cursed record. “I hate the way you act like it’s totally normal to almost die in my arms and then go eat egg tarts like it’s no big deal. I hate that you lie to HR like it’s your full-time job. I hate that you keep doing stupid dangerous things and now I can’t function unless I know you’re alive and breathing and not about to faceplant into death.”
You blinked. Then—as if you weren’t being confessed to in what could only be described as a monologue from a melodramatic anime villain—you grinned.
“You sure this isn’t just a confession disguised as slander?”
“I—!” Idia made a noise so high-pitched only dogs could hear it. “I can’t believe I fell for you. Out of everyone. I fell for a chaotic war goblin who proposes with candy rings and lies to government officials like it’s foreplay.”
You were still grinning.
“Okay,” you said, ridiculously chipper for someone in a horizontal cuddle chokehold. “So do you wanna actually permanently bond and make it official or are we just going to keep emotionally edging each other until one of us passes out?”
Idia stared at you like you’d just offered him the keys to the universe and then spit directly on his soul.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Short-circuited a little.
Then, quietly—so quietly you almost missed it—he said, “...Only if you still have that candy ring.”
You beamed. “I always carry the candy ring.”
He looked like he wanted to crawl under the couch and die from happiness. Instead, he pulled you closer and mumbled against your forehead:
“You are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Then he kissed you again like he never wanted to let you go.
You and Idia actually end up permanently bonded.
Legally. Emotionally. Spiritually. Psychically. All of the above.
You signed the forms (well, you dramatically slammed them onto the HR desk and said, “Guess we’re actually married now, huh?” while Idia tried to phase through the wall from secondhand embarrassment), synced up your brain waves or whatever, and boom—done.
And honestly? It doesn’t feel like fireworks. Or fate. Or some dramatic crescendo of music and soulmates.
It feels like wearing your favorite hoodie.
It feels like sleep.
It feels like finally putting your phone on Do Not Disturb and flopping face-first onto your guide.
Gates still suck. They still open at 3 a.m. when you're already two bites into a reheated burrito. They still spit out eldritch horrors that look like tax fraud made flesh. And yeah—you still fight recklessly. You're still you.
But now there’s a pause before you push too hard. Now there’s a voice—his voice—filling your head mid-fight going, “Hey, I don’t mean to backseat or anything, but MAYBE don’t solo the three-headed acid wolf?”
And you listen. Mostly. Sometimes. At least you try.
Because you remember what it was like, the way his hands shook the first time he caught you after a gate—your blood on his shirt, your laugh too weak, your legs folding like bad origami. You remember the way he smacked you while guiding, voice cracking, saying, “Don’t you ever do that again or I’m uninstalling myself from this entire dimension.”
So you ease up. A little. For him.
Life is still a mess. You're still a mess. Idia is a different flavor of mess, like the kind that alphabetizes their video game collection but forgets to eat lunch.
But it’s your mess now.
Sometimes, you watch terrible reality shows together and he pretends not to care but makes offhanded, emotionally devastating comments about character arcs. Sometimes, he lets you nap on his shoulder as he games and blushes violently if you drool on him.
Sometimes, he just sits next to you with your pinkies intertwined and doesn’t say a word—but you feel it anyway. That weird quiet peace. That “please don’t ever go into a gate without telling me again” kind of love.
And sometimes, when the world isn’t ending and your head isn’t splitting and the shrimp-to-rice ratio is finally correct, you kiss his cheek mid-battle and he yells, “This is emotional sabotage during a DPS rotation!” but he doesn’t pull away.
Life is chaos. But hey, at least now it’s your chaos. And you’ve got a socially anxious gremlin who chose you—every unhinged, exhausting part of you—on purpose.
My mom can easily be very mean when she does but Ilya least there’s still one thing she makes sure to stick by.
She always helps me when I need it.
She’ll make fun of my interests in fashion like bohemian or goth, but she has helped me get out of a parking lot when my truck wasn’t working and she was sick at the time.
She’ll make me feel like I can’t do anything right but will still ask me for assistance when she needs it and won’t be mad if I can’t because of work or school.
And now she may not understand a lot of what I want to do but she has helped with one big thing…..
She got me a account to use for word document so now I can continue to finally do the Prince Nuada series :3
⸻being billy's best friend, who he's in love with, would include:
· ꒰a/n꒱: fem!reader | gif
The day you meet Billy is his first day at Hawkins High.
You're assigned as his cute lil' tour guide, who's supposed to show him around the school—making sure he knows his ins & outs, & has all his ducks in a row before leaving him to his own devices.
He doesn't pay much attention to what you're saying, however. He's far more focused on watching your backside sway as you flit from classroom to classroom, and veer around various corners, babbling and pointing things out, which you deem to be of interest, all the while.
You're a sweet, studious little thing, he gauges right away. If you weren't, the principal wouldn't have specially picked you for the job of metaphorically holding his hand as he catches his bearings from the absolute sense of whiplash this podunk town has given him.
He's been here only a handful of days, & already he despises it. But, as he observes you with a smirk, he thinks there might be a couple things worth paying notice to.
"So," you chirp while turning back to him with a swaying skirt. "Do you have any questions so far?"
Billy trails his eyes along your feminine form, drinking in even the most minute of details. He takes a small step forward, while you remain rooted, and he presses a callused palm to the painted brick wall behind you while gazing at your flushed face from beneath hooded lids, framed by long, dark lashes. "Mhm. Just a couple," he says while idly chewing his gum.
You blink up at him. "Fire away."
He gives a light shrug, then tenderly runs the back of his index finger down the soft skin of your arm. "Just wonderin' what you all do for fun around here, doll."
You grant him a smile which radiates warmth. He then wonders if you're this personable to everyone, or if his sexual allure is to thank for having such a pleasant time at your side this sunny Monday morning.
"Well, there's a few things. During the summer, most people go to Hawkin's Pool. There's also the Starcourt Mall for shopping, and it has a small movie theater on the third floor. Speaking of movies, we also have a drive-in that's about twenty minutes from here, as well as Hawkin's Video for rentals. Oh, and the Hawkin's Arcade, as well as a roller-rink. The latter-most is my personal favorite."
The more you drone on, the more his interests wane. This place really is a lackluster shithole.
The hell is an arcade in comparison to the goddamn ocean, anyway? Sometimes, if he concentrates hard enough, he can still feel soft grains of buttery-brown sand sifting between his toes, and the incandescence of the sun's rays soaking into his pores as he stands on the damp shore before wading into gentle, lapping waves.
But each time he opens his eyes, it's always to a rude awakening of a small town full of morons and cow shit.
"You like the rink, huh?" he inquires, trying to glean a scrap of information about your personal interests to better suit his flirtatious ways when he inevitably makes a pass at you.
You nod enthusiastically, causing his pink lips to twitch in amusement. Bubbly, he muses. Adorable.
"Well," he begins while smoothly tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. "Maybe we can make that our first date. Say," he bobs his head from side-to-side. "Friday night?"
Your eyes bloom wide and he grants you a wolfish smile, thinking he has you.
"You just got here," you blurt out, prompting a snort from his wide, freckled nose.
"Well," he says with a salacious lick of his lips, which leaves them glistening beneath fluorescent overhead bulbs. "Just thought maybe you wouldn't want to stop being my own personal tour-guide with just the school. Maybe we could take our own private trip around town, too."
He comes even closer, ready to strike. "I've got my own car. A Chevy Camaro. Ever been in one?"
You chew your lip for a moment, and he grants you the time to mull it over, knowing you'll cave. They all do. Being Billy Hargrove means always getting what he wants. When it comes to attractive women, at least.
He thinks this, until you turn and begin heading down the hall once more, expecting him to follow behind like a lost, obedient puppy. "Your fifth period class is this way."
Meanwhile, Billy remains where he is, staring after you, quickly cooling, while wondering what the hell just happened.
Billy quickly deems you a challenge meant to be overcome & conquered.
You're precocious & exuberant—sometimes annoyingly-so—but he also finds it endearing.
Not that a dark storm cloud such as he would ever admit to thinking as much.
Honestly, you seem so oblivious to his carnal interests in you that he begins to wonder if maybe you're just into chicks instead.
Billy leans a broad shoulder against the locker beside your own while studying you. "So, what is it, then? I don't have the right equipment for you?"
You glance to him with a raised brow, curious as to what he's talking about. "Hm?"
He leans in, enveloping you in his signature scent of pungent tobacco, sharp mint chewing gum, and oaky cologne. You find it a bit dizzying. "You batting for the other team?" he explains slowly with a creased brow.
You flush. "No."
"So you like guys?" he presses.
You turn back to your locker and step onto the base of it so that you can reach a purple notebook on the top shelf. "Yes."
He frowns in indignation. "So it's just me that doesn't do it for you?"
You blanche and slam the top of your head off of the metal bar above you before stumbling down while clutching at your injured scalp with your free hand. "Ow..."
He smirks. "Need me to kiss it and make it better, baby?"
You brush your shoulder against the door to your locker, shutting it securely. "We could just try being friends, y'know? Just because we're each of the opposite sex doesn't inherently mean something more has to develop."
He raises a well-groomed brow. "I don't do friends, sweetheart."
You cock your head to the side. "How come?"
He comes up short when he finds himself lacking for a halfway-decent answer that isn't too intimate, thus leaving him open to mockery. Not that he really thinks you that sort of girl.
Because I don't do attachment, is the reply which floats to the forefront of his mind, but he can't speak such a sentiment aloud.
"I know what I'm after. Hanging out at the arcade ain't it."
You smile. A gesture which is meant to put him at ease, but the look in your willful eyes says otherwise—like that he shouldn't have opened this can of worms in the first place. "We don't have to go to the arcade. We could just drive around town, go to the park, or—"
He barks a laugh. "So we can have a sweet little picnic together? Sure sounds like a date to me."
"Not if we don't label it as one. Context is important, y'know?" you insist.
He feels adrift right now. You actually want to be his friend. He hasn't had that yet. Not here, at least. Not for...a long while, really, if he's being truthful.
He's developed quite the adept hand at not only keeping people at arm's-length, but willing them away at any given moment when he senses that they're verging into delicate territory he refuses to allow them permittance to. Such as into his heart, or the house he lives in. Or matters of his childhood.
It's easier to maintain the particular crafted image he's designed of himself that way—if he remains an enigma. Besides, chicks like mystery.
Except you, apparently. Pain in his ass that you are, even if you don't mean to be.
But this is you opening a door for him, and inviting him into your life, while simultaneously asking to be a part of his. Does he really want to reject the offer you've extended?
Does he want to keep being alone?
He decides that he can always renege later if he comes to regret this—just blow up in your face in a fit of anger, thus pushing you out, and away, for good.
"Fine. But I'm not doing some damn picnic."
You beam up at him, and he wants nothing more than to lay one on you.
He knows then that keeping his anger under wraps isn't going to be a source of concern with you, but wrestling control of something else which lies just below the belt will.
Billy Hargrove is absolutely fuckin' pussy-whipped.
And he's not even getting any, is the worst part.
The two of you have spent an innumerable amount of time together the last few weeks.
All because being with you is so intoxicating.
Because you're so goddamn nice to him—sweet, even. Just not on him, unfortunately.
He still makes passes at you every now and again, but you usually just brush it off or give him a look which says, quite plainly 'I know what you're doing, William Hargrove, and it's not going to work'.
He doesn't give up, though.
He ain't no quitter.
Nevertheless, he looks forward to seeing you.
Every. Single. Day.
He put an end to you needing to take the bus that first evening, after the discussion at your locker where he tentatively agreed to be your friend.
He'd caught sight of your dress disappearing through a crowd of obnoxious kids.
So, he followed along, wanting to stake a public claim.
Not that you saw it as that, innocent thing that you are.
Just as you were heading up the steps of the rumbling yellow bus which would drive you away, he gripped your hand in his and pulled, sending you tumbling backward into his chest as he hauled you—his strong fingers laced between your own—across the lot and to his car.
He didn't open the door for you, though.
Nor did he understand why he'd been so damn eager to race out the front entrance of the school in search of you in the first place.
Maybe because for the first time in a long time, he felt happy or excited about something—anything. Excited that...someone finally wants him around.
That a girl does. For more than just sex; his body.
And so he's been practically glued to your fuckin' side since then.
The first handful of days, he tried to keep a healthy distance, figuring you'd either finally give in to his irresistible charisma, or you'd grow bored of spending time with him because he's not something you're used to. After all, you already have a life here. Garnering familiarity with a stranger takes effort. Especially him.
Instead, however, you've given him your undivided attention.
He walks you to each of your classes, sits with you at lunch—playfully stealing items off your tray, but always nonchalantly & inconspicuously easing his own between the two of you, so as to ensure that you have enough to eat.
He drives you to and from school—even bothering to wait for you by the passenger door of the Camaro some mornings—golden curls hanging over his forehead as he pops your door open for you and shuts it gently behind you.
The two of you develop a sort of routine.
You educate yourselves on the other's mannerisms and habits.
"Knock it off."
Your lip twitches as you press the window down button again.
"Keep it up and I'll pull over right now."
Zzzzzip goes the window, inviting a tepid breeze in.
Billy sighs exasperatedly while shifting gears. "I should bend you over the hood of the car and spank you until your ass is raw for the way you're gettin' under my skin right now."
The window is then returned to its previous state of being submerged within the top seal, and Billy fills to the brim with disappointment.
Sometimes, he thinks you do shit just to be a tease; to rile him.
Like the Friday evening he came inside your house with you after school so you could change before you dragged him to the roller-rink.
You'd told him you'd just be a minute, but he had opted for being naughty instead when he snuck inside your room and silently watched you strip.
He hadn't anticipated that you would be changing everything, however, until you hooked your thumbs under the waistband of your panties and they pooled around your feet on the vacuumed carpeted floor.
When you turned to head for your dresser to retrieve a fresh pair, you had shrieked in terror at the sight of him watching you before falling backwards into your closet, sending a cascade of sweaters and dresses down upon you.
He'd meant to make you aware of his presence, but once you were nearly naked, the words got caught in his throat.
But your display had been unexpectedly hilarious—like something out of a damn comedy movie—so he began to laugh. Full on cackling and snorting. He even blew a snot bubble as he doubled over onto the floor.
Initially, you were fuming as you emerged from your makeshift pile of polyester and cotton—looking like a pissed-off kitten—until you saw how happy he was.
And you softened in an instant.
He never laughs. And all his smiles seem so empty all too often. So, to see the rare sight of him filled with joy...it filled you with love and blooming warmth between your breasts.
As you crawled toward him—still pantyless—his guffawing turned, instead, into an occasional chuckle.
He dragged you between his legs, then shrugged off his jacket, draping it over your bare shoulders before kissing your forehead and apologizing for spying.
Even if he by no means tried to seem genuine about it. Because he wasn't.
Having the knowledge that he was the first and only man to have seen you like that changed something within him.
He became...far more protective after that day.
Possessive, even.
Billy flops back onto your bed while gazing up at your gauzy white canopy, and he reminiscences on the first time you invited him in with a smile.
You'd cheerily shown him around the house while holding his hand—he appreciates how soft and smooth your skin is in comparison to his own—pointing out favorite knick-knacks and such here and there, before explaining how your dad recently remodeled the bathroom across from your room, and how you tried, quite poorly, to help by nearly knocking over a bucket of paint while dancing to pop music on the radio.
It had sounded like something you would've done.
And then you'd led him into your bedroom, thus causing his heart to lodge itself in his throat at the vision of the appealing downy bed found in the middle of it, piled high with pillows, and shoved against the wall to the right.
As he stared, and wrapped his mind around just how girly and cleanly and organized you are, you gushed about all your decorations and how you just adored one of your records, simply because it's pink and heart-shaped.
He had wanted to kiss you so fucking badly that day. Had wanted to lie you back on your bed, after slowly undressing you, before teaching you everything he could about the pleasure that can be had from a female body.
He's already aware just how overly-sensitive your own is.
He discovered as much one Saturday while tickling you relentlessly on the floor until you were breathless and giddy with giggles. He only ceased when you began to keen, begging him to stop before you wet yourself.
Finally, you emerge from your closet—he had promised he wouldn't watch this time—while holding up two different dresses.
"Which one?"
This is what he had meant about you being a tease.
You're clad in only panties and a sheer bra, which has everything practically on display between its decorative lace pattern.
He swallows thickly while feeling an erection swelling in his jeans.
"You tell me 'just friends', then stand in front of me like that," he hisses from a sense of building frustration.
You blink ignorantly, then glance down, as if you've forgotten the fact that you're not wearing any clothes. "Woops."
He crosses his arms with a frown. "I'm supposed to fuckin' buy that?"
You lift your head again. "You've already seen everything, anyway. And I've changed in front of girlfriends before. You're my best friend now, so—"
"I am?" he interrupts, taken aback.
You nod—the dresses bouncing in your grip. "Yes. We spend all our time together. Do you not...consider me yours?" you ask apprehensively.
He stands while shaking his head lightly, but not in reply to your question. Rather, more in a 'what am I going to do with you?' sort of way. He fingers the hem of a dark blue dress with little white flowers printed across the material.
"You know I'm not gay, right? I don't give a shit about fashion." His heated gaze bores into your own. "You could go naked for all I care."
You roll your eyes.
"Actually, scratch that," he says, continuing. "Because the only one who gets to see that much of you is me."
You open your mouth to reply, until he takes the blue dress from you, letting the hanger dangle from his finger. "This one."
Billy spends nearly all of his time at your house now.
Initially, his dad was up his ass about where he was taking off to all the time.
Billy had feared he'd get himself locked up if his old man even attempted at keeping the two of you apart.
It's like you're a piece of him now. The one he hadn't known he'd been missing, until you fell squarely into place in his directionless life.
As such, he refuses to let anything come between the pair of you.
When he informed him that it was a friend that he was donating all his time to, Neil had cut him deep by sneering 'What friend? Last I checked, boy, hardly anybody wants you around."
His words always hurt so much worse than his fists.
"Shouldn't be a problem that I'm away from home more often now, then. Should it?"
Neil had stalked closer, causing Billy to shrink into himself like a frightened little boy.
"What friend?" he'd spat.
"A girl from school."
"Another one of your fuckin' whores you keep on the side, huh?"
For the first time since he was young, Billy stood at full height, finally seeing just how many inches he has on him. He puffed out his chest and stared him down before stepping forward, and forward, and forward, Neil being the one to stare at him in fear.
"Don't you ever fucking call her that again."
Billy has been reticent in disclosing his home life to you.
Partly because he’s so envious of your own.
That you and your parents are the proper definition of a ‘nuclear family’.
Your mother is just as kind as you—he comes to quickly see where you inherited your temperament from—while the both of you are, without quarrel, your dad’s whole world.
Hell, your old man even helps Billy change his oil once.
Not that he actually needed the help—he’s done it numerous times on his own—but it had been…much appreciated, nonetheless.
He always looks forward to being home with you.
Billy emerges from the bathroom—your dad really did do a great remodeling job on it, while you and your mother’s feminine touches can be noticed right down to the bar of soap he just used—to hear you rummaging around in the kitchen.
Billy clears the corner, then leans against the entryway to the sun-drenched room you stand in, watching with a sense of relaxation as you place a nonstick pan on the stove-top. You glance to him then while fixing your hair into a ponytail. “Are you hungry, baby?”
His heart fuckin’ stops.
No one has called him that since…
Since…
That simple pet name alone is enough to nearly bring him to tears.
His ocean-blue eyes sting with them, but he forces them back, along with the lump in his throat.
To make it somehow worse, you didn’t even say it in a flirtatious way.
It was just…in a…hell, in a sugar-sweet maternal way.
Finally, Billy nods shyly. “I could eat.”
You open the fridge then. “Is grilled cheese okay?”
He smiles slightly while vibrating from nerves. “Sounds perfect.”
You begin doing it more: referring to him by terms of endearment.
At first, he wonders if you’re finally flirting back.
But, terrified that if he makes any sort of comment about it, you’ll permanently cease this new behavior, he keeps his mouth shut.
He gets antsy when it gets to being awhile between you referring to him as ‘baby’, ‘sweetie’, ‘sweetheart’, etc, however.
Honestly, he can get down-right cranky about it.
Like some spoiled snot-nosed little brat who’s not getting his way.
But when you ask him why he’s being moody, he never lets on the real reason.
He typically just makes up easy-to-swallow bullshit excuses.
You turn the dial for the radio down before turning toward Billy with furrowed brows.
He braces for a barrage of questions: Is he feeling okay? Is he hungry? Does he need something? Did you do something which upset him (as if you could ever)?
But even your mini-inquisitions make him feel better all on their own; a sign that you care. That you worry after him.
“Are you sure that you’re okay, baby?”
His lip twitches and he fills with a small sense of satisfaction.
“Just fine, doll,” he replies coolly while loosening his grip on the steering wheel and unclenching his jaw. Even his taught shoulders sag.
“So,” Billy says while capturing one of your checker pieces. “Guess who’s trying out for the basketball team at school next week?”
Your head shoots up. “Really?” you ask with excited astonishment.
“Mhm,” he hums, trying to play it off with a casual shrug. “Wanted to know if my little good-luck charm would come and sit on the bleachers so I have a better chance of making the team.”
He lifts his head while pinning you in-place from beneath his lashes. “If I get drafted, I could give you one of my extra jerseys to wear to all our games.”
Because you’re the only one I can count on coming, he thinks, but absolutely does not say.
You stare at him for a moment—you can certainly be a bit of a space-cadet sometimes; not that he doesn’t find it charming when he catches you occasionally gazing across the room at nothing while he presumes elevator music is playing in your head—and then you launch yourself across the board game between the two of you while tackling him down onto your fluffy pink rug, sending checker pieces scattering across the carpet.
You pepper his face with tiny kisses and a luxuriant smile forms upon his lips at the affection you’re granting him without reserve.
You’ve never been one to hold back when it comes to showering him with love and kindness.
Finally, you pull back while smoothing tangled curls from his forehead. “I’m so proud of you for putting yourself out there, sweetie.”
He slides his hands down your waist. “You’ll come then?”
You press your forehead to his. “Of course.”
You reassured him numerous times that whether he’s chosen or not, you’re immeasurably proud of him.
But he wants this. Not necessarily because he’s hyper-passionate about the sport itself, but because without surfing…lifting weights only does so much to keep his body in-shape and his mind focused.
Because when he allows it to drift, it’s always to thoughts of inevitably losing you.
Do you still not want more? Do you not…feel what he does when you’re alone together?
He’s tried to force some sort of emotive reaction from you in varying ways as of recent, to see if this…feeling is truly one-sided.
Like inviting you over one afternoon—an extreme rarity that he opts for his house instead of yours—and popping a movie in the VHS player before suddenly ‘getting bored’ twenty minutes in and deciding to lift weights right in front of you instead. While shirtless, no less.
Billy flexes his abs while putting on quite the show…that you’re not even lending your attention to.
“Thinkin’ I should up how much I’m lifting,” Billy grunts while curling a steel bar toward his slick chest.
You turn your head in his direction and stare at him with mild interest. “Oh?”
He bites his lower lip while assuring his stance—hoping he looks like a delectable piece of eye-candy. “Seventy just doesn’t give me much of a challenge anymore. Maybe I should go for ninety.”
“You could look at yard sales.”
He settles the weight back on his bench press. “Huh?”
“For new weights. I think people sometimes sell them at yard sales. Garage sales, too. Or—oh! Maybe an estate—”
He steps over to you then, closing the space between you as his wide form comes suffocatingly close. He leans down with his biceps bulging on either side of you. “You can be a real airhead sometimes, y’know?”
You glower at him. “That was mean. I was trying to be helpful.”
He smirks and a droplet of sweat slides off his chest to instead soak into your top. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing. Think it’s kinda cute, actually.”
He gives you a peck on the lips before returning to his toilsome hobby, leaving you flabbergasted at you and Billy having had your first kiss.
You flush more often when you’re around him now.
So, too, does he give you more pecks on the lips.
But still, nothing more seems to grow between you.
Even during tryouts, he shows off. It feels like his mind is split in half—one portion focuses on the ball he’s dribbling across the gleaming, polished court, while the other hopes you’re impressed by his physique as he seamlessly dodges his opposing classmates.
But when he allows himself a split-second to look at you, you’re on the edge of your seat—practically breathless from anticipation—with eyes only for him.
And once he makes the final winning throw, you nearly trip over yourself as you bound down the reverberating metal steps of the gym’s bleachers to instead throw yourself against his damp chest, and he lifts you into the air.
He tries to kiss you with the knowledge of just how many pairs of eyes are watching, but he’s jilted when you pull away.
Getting tired of wooing you with nothing to show for it, he opts for a more…assholish route.
He hooks up with a girl from school.
And he hates the entire evening he spends with her in his bed.
He can’t get her out the door fast enough.
The clarity that hits him once he finishes in his condom is blinding.
Only one girl revs his engine now.
Nevertheless, he wants to evoke a sense of jealousy from you.
“Sorry about last Friday. Me and Vicki hooked up, so I was busy.”
“Oh.”
He glances to you, watching as you stir soggy cereal around a little plastic bowl.
“That’s it? We’re best friends. Think I’m at least due a high five for nailin’ her finally.”
You gather your untouched breakfast and suddenly stand. “I’m going to throw this away.”
Billy watches as you walk sullenly across the cafeteria.
What if he went to far?
You’re hurt. He can tell.
But it doesn’t engulf him with thrilling fulfillment. Instead, he feels like dogshit.
You don’t even return to the table once you’ve disposed of your uneaten food. Instead, you make your way out and across the hall to the girl’s restroom.
He waits for you at your locker.
And when you reach it…you’ve been crying.
He can tell.
He really fucked up.
But y’know what? It pisses him off a little, too. You getting all emotional—trying to guilt-trip him when you were the one who made it clear that you desire nothing more than friendship between you.
“You not like her, or something?” he presses while crossing his arms defensively.
“I’m happy for you, Billy.” A beat of silence. “I’ll get your jersey back to you tomorrow.”
His hackles stand on-end. “What?”
You pop your locker open then. You haven’t looked at him once all morning.
“So you can give it to Vicki to wear. I’ll…keep my distance. I know some girls can… People…
They don’t always like it when their partner has a friend of the opposite sex. I wouldn’t want to get in the way.”
He’s such a fucking moron.
He always does this. Always ruins everything. Give him something good and he won’t stop until he’s destroyed it—turned it to shit.
“We’re not…” he grasps for words, feeling like the rope which binds the two of you together is slowly fraying and that the last fibers are about to snap, causing him to lose the only thing he has left.
Again.
“We’re not going together. We just…screwed. That’s it. I don’t want anything else from her.”
You close your locker then while shaking your head. “No wonder why I refuse to date in high school.” you look at him then with red-rimmed, glassy eyes, and a sharp jolt of pain shoots straight through his chest. “You’re all after one thing.”
That’s why.
Why you’ve not asked for more.
You think… You think that he’d use you up and toss you aside, too.
Not that it’s right that he did as much to Vicki, as well as a parade of other chicks.
But…he didn’t love any of them.
He never has.
Until…
Until you.
Final class of the day: Math. Which is Billy’s favorite, but your least.
He’s helped you with your arithmetic many times, and had been quite pleased to see your grades much-improved before long, all thanks to his aid.
Halfway through the worksheet you’re all completing together, the teacher calls you to the front of the class to solve an equation.
On your way there, however, the boy seated in front of Billy snorts. “I’m surprised Little-Miss-Airhead can even solve how to get her locker open.”
Billy’s rage rears its ugly head, and he grabs the back of the shitstain’s shirt in his fist while jerking him backward, forcing the front legs of his desk off the floor. “Call her that again,” he growls lowly from between clenched teeth. “And I’ll beat your ass behind the bleachers once the final bell rings until you’re coughing up a mouthful of teeth.”
He releases him then, sending the prick sputtering for air.
Your eyes briefly meet with Billy’s, and you give him a small, solemn smile. Thank you.
Billy is ready to crawl out of his skin on the way home, but he knows he needs to say something.
He has to fix what he’s nearly broken.
He’d rather die than lose you.
“The jersey is yours. I gave it to you for a reason. Besides, with…Vicki…” he trails off and grips the wheel impossibly tighter.
Meanwhile, you remain eerily silent, willing him to continue.
“It wasn’t even fuckin’ enjoyable, alright? I couldn’t get her out the door fast enough afterward. And, yeah, maybe I used her for sex. As if plenty of chicks haven’t done the same to me in the past. But she’s not some victim of a broken heart. We both had our reasons for screwin’ each other.”
You remain still while watching trees and street signs flit by the window you gaze out of. “Can’t imagine what those would be.”
“To make another jealous.”
You turn cautiously toward him then, not wanting to make the thought-process which just went through your mind blaringly obvious. “W-who?”
He shrugs. “For her, her ex.”
“And…you?” you ask while nervously fidgeting with your tinkling charm bracelet.
He glances to you with an arched brow. “You really gotta ask?”
You blink with wide eyes.
He returns to the road ahead. “Guess it worked.”
By that weekend, everything is back to normal between the two of you.
Well, ‘normal’ is a relative term.
Because your dynamic has most-assuredly shifted.
Like during breakfast or lunch, when Billy sits next to you, he’s begun testing the waters by sliding a callused hand up your naked thigh, to just above the hem of your skirt.
Neither of you make any pertaining comment to how the aforementioned limb trembles as he stares into your eyes with a wavering look about him—just waiting to be told to get his paws off.
You’ve also started giving each other fleeting pecks on the lips before you get out of his car when he drops you off.
You occasionally hold hands in the halls at school as well, and Billy glares daggers at any facet of the male population who dares to look at you too long for his liking.
The pair of you can’t help yourselves before long from toeing the invisible line that’s slowly eroding away, leaving no boundaries to be crossed, because they no longer exist.
Like when you emerge from the shower one Friday after school, ready to change into something more comfortable so the two of you can watch a movie together on the living room couch.
And you drop the item on your bedroom floor, letting Billy take his fill of your naked body.
You’re quivering from nerves—of course you’re self-conscious; terrified he’ll be disgusted. Until he pads over, takes your hand in his, and forces you to cup his erection.
“See what you fuckin’ do to me?” he breathes before retrieving a pair of panties from your dresser and kneeling to slide them up your bare legs.
He does grin with amusement when he goes to find you a shirt, only to find one of his own stuffed into your pajama drawer, however.
You’re laid back on the couch, while Rocky plays quietly on the box TV that’s but a handful of feet away.
Meanwhile, Billy is sprawled across the sofa as well, but he’s resting wholly on top of you. His lean frame presses against your body, radiating heat across every inch of your exposed skin.
You continue your ministrations of massaging his scalp—as his head is currently resting between your breasts—while your other hand rubs small, soothing circles along the middle of his back, beneath his shirt.
The movie is only halfway through when he begins to snore.
And you can’t help but smile in contentment at the fact that he feels at-ease enough to fall asleep in your arms.
You close your eyes then, too, while brimming with giddiness at this intimate moment.
When you wake, it’s to Billy’s head shoved beneath your shirt and him suckling at one of your nipples.
“Billy! What’re you doing?”
He doesn’t retort. Instead, he merely trails his wide, wet tongue along your horripilated skin, cresting the valley between your breasts before bestowing his undivided attention upon your opposite nipple.
You whine while arching your back and wiggling your hips, and Billy merely slides a hand under your shorts while grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing.
“Ah! Billy—”
“Tryin’ to concentrate,” he mumbles before lapping at your right breast again.
You lie there, and your eyes flutter closed as warmth blooms between your thighs and wetness begins to seep from between your legs.
With you trapped beneath his heavy weight, however, there’s little-to-nothing you can do to relieve the growing pressure which is forming in your panties, due to him.
The same can’t be said for Billy, however.
Eventually, he pushes your shirt up and above your head before situating it behind your neck so you can each have a full, unperturbed view of one another.
And once you do, he takes your left breast in one hand while slipping his opposite in his pants so that he can slowly stroke his throbbing erection.
You swallow thickly, finding that your mouth has suddenly gone dry.
“You know how many times I’ve jacked off to the thought of you?” he rasps.
Your skin is flushed and your eyes are glassy, while your ears are lightly ringing, but a moment later to do you finally shake your head after having ingested what he’s asked you.
“Too many,” he states before diving down and capturing your lips with his own.
Each time he strokes himself, his knuckles brush against your pulsating cunt.
You whimper in frustration against his lips and his exploring tongue that slips along your own with deft experience, while lifting your hips, wanting to grind against him—against anything so as to gain a modicum of friction to relieve your swollen clit.
Finally, he eases his pants down, then shoves his hand inside his briefs again while situating the tip of his cock against the front of them.
“This what you want, baby?” he asks between breathless pants.
You nod enthusiastically. Yes, it is.
He releases himself then, only to hook his index fingers under the waistband of your shorts.
His darkened eyes meet yours, you nod, and then he pulls them down and off your body in one fell swoop before dropping them onto the floor.
“Spread your legs for me, sweetheart,” he coos, and you promptly do as you’re told.
He runs his thumb through your slick folds while cursing under his breath. “So fuckin’ pretty.”
His eyes flit to yours. “Anybody ever told you how pretty this pussy is, baby?”
You shake your head.
He smirks. “Course not. ‘Cuz I’m the first. Gonna be the only,” he murmurs before easing a single finger inside you.
You gasp while throwing your head back, then cross your arms to tug the shirt you’re wearing the rest of the way off.
And once it’s no longer of consequence, you’re entirely bare before him, leaving your body at his complete disposal to pleasure and tend to the sexual needs of.
Billy begins to so. So achingly slowly does he pump that single finger in and out of your red-hot heat while only occasionally swiping the pad of his thumb along your twitching clit.
Tears brim in your eyes from frustration, but it only makes him impossibly harder.
“Not gonna let you cum anytime soon, sweetheart. Not until I’ve decided you’re good and ready to.”
You whimper his name while your walls pulse around his thick digit.
And then he eases in a second one.
“So tight, angel. So fuckin’ wet and pretty and perfect.”
“Sqeeuze my fingers, baby. There you go. Good girl.”
“Oh, I know, honey. I know how good it feels. Shh.”
“That’s it, sweetie, just let your pussy do all the work. Your body knows what it needs. What to do.”
“Such a good girl for me, huh?”
Finally, once Billy’s hand is absolutely covered in your slick, he removes his fingers from inside you, and just as you feel ready to burst into tears from the loss of something to clench around, he begins to stroke his swollen erection, using your own arousal as a natural lubricant.
He lays his body atop yours once more, and you spread your legs wide before throwing them each over his hips.
Through his briefs, he presses his weeping tip firmly against your pussy and you gasp in satisfaction while turning your head to the side and he begins to nibble on the sensitive skin of your neck with his lips and teeth.
He slides the bulbous head up to your clit, then back down, and you shudder in pleasure.
He plants small, wet kisses up to your ear before moaning into it, saying so many dirty, and wonderful things to you.
“You like my cock, baby girl?”
You nod while sliding your fingers into his soft curls.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “I thought so.”
“Take your time, baby. Just relax and enjoy yourself.”
“You’re fuckin’ dripping for me.”
“Wanna slide my cock in that needy little hole so bad.”
“I’d fill you up until you’re stretched to your limits. Make you feel so goddamn good while I have my way with you.”
“Cum so fucking deep inside. Let you squeeze out every last drop until my balls are empty.”
“C’mon, baby. Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”
Your hips undulate against him and you’re no longer even trying to contain the ridiculous mewling sounds which escape your lips or get caught in your throat.
All you can concentrate on is the feel of him. How impossibly warm you are all over.
His hard, erect member prodding against your entrance and teasing your clit repeatedly.
Between the two of you, the front of his briefs are absolutely soaked through now; your fluids mixing together.
Billy’s tongue is practically fucking your mouth, willing you to take advantage of everything he has to give you tonight.
Finally, he returns his fingers to being inside of you—but three this time, which slide in so easily.
He curls them upwards and gently massages a hidden ledge between your legs.
You arch your back and he takes a taught nipple into his mouth while scraping his teeth carefully along the pink tip.
“S—so…close,” you stutter as your body trembles.
He licks a searing path down to your navel. “I know, baby. But not like this.”
Your eyes pop open just in time to take notice that his head is now between your legs.
“Gotta have you coming another way,” he says with a wink before he swipes his tongue through your folds and begins to suck on your clit.
You tangle your fingers in his hair, no longer thinking straight.
Billy positions your legs over either of his shoulders while burrowing the tip of his tongue inside of you.
You turn slightly toward the right, wanting more attention on your clit.
And then he hits it just right and you squeal his name, begging him—“right there!”
He groans into you before grabbing either of your hips and pulling you down toward him.
His eyes flutter closed as he loses himself to it—to you.
You whimper and whine and gasp, all while he remains concentrated on the task at-hand.
And then that pressure begins to build.
You curl your toes, arch your back, tighten your muscles.
Billy becomes practically animalistic with need when he clocks what’s about to happen.
He’s moaning and groaning against your weeping entrance, unable to help himself.
He feels like he’s about to fucking cum all over his briefs just from pleasing you alone.
Something which has certainly never happened before.
Finally, you reach your crescendo and you say his name in a garble of letters between other words which only half make sense as you begin to fall.
And once you’ve calmed, Billy gives your cunt one last kiss before crawling onto the couch again beside you and pulling your naked body flush against his own as you begin to shake.
He tugs a blanket from the back of it while wrapping you in it, and then his arms around you while you cry softly.
“I love you,” he whispers while tenderly kissing your forehead. “I love you.”
You’re each inseparable from the other from that night forward.
He calls you every evening to tell you goodnight and that he loves you.
You always say it back. Sometimes, with a teary voice, which, in-turn, makes him an emotional mess as well.
He’s happier than he’s ever been.
And he doesn’t even try to hide it.
So Neil does what he can to destroy his own child’s joy.
He gets physical one night.
Something about Billy forgetting to take the garbage out on the right day, and how he’s always drinking up all his beer.
Once Neil has gone to bed, Billy tears out of the driveway headed in one specific direction.
It’s almost midnight when you hear a soft rapping at your bedroom window.
You’re initially frightened and think to get your parents up.
You’re grateful that you didn’t opt for doing as much when you see that it’s just Billy, however.
But…something is wrong.
He’s…he’s crying.
He climbs in through your window and collapses into your arms in a heap of tears and apologies, and the explanation for his sorry state comes out in a nonstop barrage of words.
Everything comes spilling out.
From his childhood, to his mother leaving, to his being forcibly moved here with a new family he wants no part in being a member of, and being threatened near-daily by his father.
You hold him close while stroking his curls and giving him soft, comforting kisses on his damp cheeks, ensuring him over and over again that everything he is saying about himself is absolutely not true.
He is not stupid.
Not worthless.
Not a waste of space.
Not a piece of shit.
Not a bad son.
Not a bad person.
Not a weak, pathetic excuse for a man.
And no, you are not going fucking anywhere. He is your life now. Period.
And he most certainly does not deserve the things which have happened to and been inflicted upon him.
“Baby, I am so sorry,” you say, choking back a broken sob. “I’m so sorry she left you behind. That he has done this to you.”
He curls around you and you cradle his head in your hands. “So, so sorry, sweetie.”
Eventually, you coax him into bed with you. He strips down, then climbs in next to you and buries his face between your breasts while quietly sobbing.
All you can think to do is hold firmly to him as he lets it out. As you repeat soothing words and grant him comforting, maternal gestures.
And then Billy tells you the truth.
“I don’t just…see you as my girlfriend or best friend now.”
You remain silent while you press a handful of kisses to the crown of his head. “Tell me, baby.”
“You’re—” he stops, swallows down the bile rising in his throat, then takes the plunge. “Sometimes…you feel like… The way you treat me… Like the mom I lost.”
You begin to sob again while repeating how much you dearly love him, and how happy that makes you to hear. You assure him that he has always been, and will always be, safe with you.
The next morning, you’re each worn thin, but Billy kisses you anyway.
Trails his hands along your body.
Slips a gentle hand between your thighs.
You don’t need words for this.
For what you’re each saying with your eyes alone: it’s time.
You nod toward your bedside table, and he slides open the top drawer, and then his brows furrow at the small collection of prophylactics he finds inside.
You rest a dainty hand upon his chest. “For you.”
It’s slow, and tender, and you each weep slow, quiet tears at this last piece falling into place in your relationship.
Billy glides his hands up your back while you gaze down into his eyes with absolute adoration and commitment.
You rock your hips slowly against his; his erection positioned firmly inside of you, where it belongs.
Where he does.
You had read about this position in Cosmopolitan once—lotus flower? A beautiful name for a beautiful way to make love, you think.
You cup the back of his head while softly pressing your lips to his. And then you smile. “I’ve always thought your curls were so adorable.”
He actually blushes.
So you kiss his pink-hued cheeks.
Billy swallows down the lump in his throat.
“I love you,” you begin while cupping his cheek. “William Hargrove. Do you understand me?”
He nods, and you watch as tears brim in his ocean-blue eyes.
“I will never love another man. Only you. You are my world. My everything.”
He rests his cheek between your naked breasts, and you hold him there, where he listens to your pounding heart.
“I’m so glad we found each other. That you came here. But one day, when it’s right, we’ll go back. Together.”
His cock twitches.
“You are everything I could’ve ever wanted. Beautiful, kind, selfless, loving, strong, and so, so smart.”
He moans while guiding your hips with his hands.
“You’re perfect. We’re perfect for each other.”
He groans, and his cock strains where it’s lodged inside you.
“I’m yours, Billy. Forever and ever. Maybe the stories are true,” you whisper while leaning back just enough to look into his eyes again, and you swipe tears from his cheeks with the pads of your thumbs. “I found my prince charming.”
Billy tangles his fingers in your hair then and forces your lips down upon his own as he finally climaxes.
Shortly before graduation does Billy present you with a ring which once belonged to another woman he had once loved.
Though, in a different way.
He’s shaking, and he stumbles over his words, while practically gasping for breath.
He pours his heart and soul into the proposal he’s making to you.
You get down on both your knees as well, and wrap your arms around him while granting him kiss after kiss after kiss. “Yes, of course I’ll be your wife. I don’t ever want to be anything else.”
Your parents are so glad for you.
Even if the news of your faraway move brings them both to tears.
But they knew this day was coming: their little girl growing up, finding love, and moving away to discover her own life somewhere else.
Your mom clutches you to her as Billy stands at the passenger-side of the Camaro, waiting for when you’re ready.
Ready…to let go of this: your childhood home and the town that raised you… You need only look at your future husband to know it’s a fair trade, though. Besides, you’ll both come back to visit once you’re completely settled.
Your father shakes Billy’s hand, then pulls him into a bear hug. And you watch them both battle against brimming tears as he forces Billy to promise him that if things don’t work out, that he’ll call him immediately, and he’ll get you both back home, and you’ll all figure things out together. To not be ashamed if California doesn’t go as planned—that this is a huge step, not to be taken lightly.
Billy merely nods, mutters a ‘yes, sir’, then quietly tells him: “I’ll be glad to get a new father once I’ve married your daughter.”
Finally, once goodbyes have come to a close, you jump off the front porch steps and into Billy’s arms while squealing with excitement.
You watch from the passenger seat, while holding tightly to your fiancé, as your parents grow smaller in the rearview.
But you know, as you look upon the man next to you, that everything is just as it should be.
Parts I have noticed in the recent Ava’s demon updates part 1:
(Spoilers for anyone who hasn’t seen the latest update since I’m mentioning the previous updates and the latest updates)
I kinda like this entire panel that shows where each host is sitting at and the way that they’re sitting because you can usually tell how a person is by the way they act at another person’s house:
In this panel, for example, Ava and Gil are the only two that are sitting up straight with their legs together that is usually indicated to be very polite and proper. While Maggie and Odin are more relaxed and not exactly being improper, but they seem to be lounging more than just sitting specially Odin because I do not know what is going on with his legs, is he like that tall compared to the other hosts?
I love how we’re also learning a bit more about Erios’ backstory from these new humanoids! I also love how equally accepting that they are that just because that they are hunted by Titan, they seem to be the type that would be of importance to the story because of how accepting they were to help them hide. 
Odin Arrow it’s OK. You’re not a weirdo to me!!! 💕💕💕💕💕 but I just love seeing his expressions in the comic and how he’s the type to usually stay quiet and listen instead of giving attention to himself. He’s so smart💕💕
This definitely proves that Erios’ “demon” causes them a lot of trouble, not just by themselves, but with others around. They are practically similar alongside with Ava because both of their demons have caused major impact in their life by ruing their image and their relationships with others. This could be because of how someone either said the author or a theory that Erios’ and Ava’s demon are close friends so I probably explains their similar but yet different behaviors.
1) it’s 2 AM where I am so gonna try to make this quick: I love that no matter what, Emris feels no guilt or pity for Erios because of all the suffering that they are going through while they are being raised in a more safer and financially stable housing compared to the rest down below.
2) they are probably my most favorite character in this comic due to their personal feelings and opinions towards Titan and Nimis. 
Weird theory, but since they are mentioning about how one can only become a Prismate unless they pass a test to see if they are compatible to probably birth the next heir, since it has been theorized that Maggie could possibly become a love interest to Erios, would that mean that Maggie might go through a similar situation where she either was caught or detained and is forced to do the test either because 1) Erios might end up liking Maggie when they see her or 2) Only doing so, so she doesn't get put into jail?
Honestly, I think that sounds a bit more accurate but we will see I guess.
btw I was wondering why Maggie’s expression looked familiar until I forgot:
I am sorely convinced that because that Maggie and Ava were raised in the exact same area and we’re considered childhood friends, that they have similar personalities or similar behaviors that we just don’t recognize yet unless I’m the slow one and somebody already figured it out.
content. virginity loss (laios), fluff. a metric ton of it. there's also emotional crying so. watch out.
reader's past/experiences/looks are not mentioned. I wrote this as more as an immersive means of sex with Laios, so physical and mental feelings are the main point. reader has a pussy (for the sake of writing) but this fic is still pretty gender neutral. If you are not a vagina haver/enjoyer/whatever you can gloss over it w/o much issue.
words like pretty/beautiful/etc. are used but in reference to reader AND Laios. gender equality or whatever.
author's note. This fic is one of my aforementioned stretch goals from my fundraiser for Palestine! So yay, thanks so much everyone for funding it!
word count. 6.7k+ (I went too hard on this.)
Like my writing? Toss a dono to the Palestine Children's Relief Fund and join the Fic Raffle! (I will kiss u fully on the mouth).
“Laios…are you even into sex?”
It’s a question he never really saw coming, but now, five months into your relationship, it’s hitting him like a train. You’re looking at him with genuine curiosity, no judgment. It’s simply a question.
“Well…um…”
The blonde has to take a moment to compose himself before answering the question. Despite his closeness to you, discussion of such intimate topics does still escape him.
“I can’t say I’m not interested.” He speaks, now finding his hands much more interesting to stare at than your gaze. “I’ve never really considered how to approach the topic.”
“But you’re interested?” You lean forward a bit. “Do you want to have sex with me?” Usually, you wouldn’t think to be so bold. But conversations with Laios require a certain amount of directness. You don’t want to leave anything up to interpretation.
Laios’s cheeks begin to turn pink. He looks to you now, and it’s obvious the action requires a vast amount of courage from the man.
“I do. I’m…very attracted to you.” He admits.
It’s reassuring to hear him say it out loud. It’s been a long while since you’ve been lusting after him. Spending so much time without acting on it, you weren’t sure if you could take it much longer.
“Good.” You smile to yourself, before continuing. “So…are we going to do anything about it, or…?”
The last sentence is said more in a teasing manner. You’re hoping to break the tension between you and Laios a tad. However, he doesn’t seem especially moved. His gaze leaves you once more.
“I’ve…I’ve never…” He hesitates. “You’d be my first.”
That revelation has you shocked…at least, sort of. Laios is handsome and well-built, but he’s awfully busy. You weren’t surprised to be his first steady relationship, but to be his first time…? Not even a quick romp when he was in the military? Or moving with the caravan? That’s…surprising. But not totally uninvited.
“So you’re a virgin.”
Laios looks ashamed when you say it out loud. He knows that an average man of his age should have a plethora of experience under his belt.
“It’s not that I haven’t wanted to. I’ve never really had a chance.”
Laios’s face burns. It’s embarrassing to speak the truth. You must be disappointed to be with a man like him. A man, psh, if he can even call himself such…
Before his mind can continue its self-deprecating spiral, your voice cuts through the strife.
“I’d be honored to change that, if you’d let me.”
You keep your tone and demeanor sincere. You accentuate this feeling by placing your hand on his knee, reassuringly giving it a squeeze.
Laios looks shocked. Yet…happy. He’s happy. Of course. He should’ve expected this reaction from you. Why was he nervous in the first place? You’re wonderful.
“You want to…copulate with me?”
You snicker. Leave it to Laios to make things abruptly technical. Despite his interest, he’s clearly not fully comfortable with this situation just yet.
“Yes, Laios. I do in fact want to copulate with you. Very much so.”
And many more times after that, you think. But you’d keep that to yourself for now.
“Wow.” The blush on his face deepens. Laios stares at you for a few moments, before smiling.
“Then I’d be honored to have you as well.”
So here you are. After a few days of planning (mainly to ensure Laios’s comfort and preparation), you’re laid across his bed with him at your side.
The both of you took care to really set the mood. Falin’s not home, for one (thankfully she planned on spending this evening with Marcille), and Laios’s room looks a lot more inviting with the couple of candles lit up. It’s romantic yet comfortable. The perfect scenario for what’s bound to ensue.
You gently stroke the fabric of Laios’s nightshirt as you lay beside him. The two of you have been in this scenario multiple times before—often before an intense cuddle session or the occasional make out. This time the feeling was…new, even to you. The atmosphere is tense.
“You okay?”
Laios looks at you. His pale skin is tinged in a rose hue, despite you two not even getting started yet.
“I’m nervous.” He admits. “I mean, I’ve never done this before.”
“I know that. You don’t have to be nervous. I don’t have any expectations, so, you don’t need to worry. I just want to spend time with you.” You press a gentle kiss to his cheek. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want—“
“I want to!” Laios interjects. He looks almost startled as you by his own enthusiasm, then coughs awkwardly. “I want to be with you. In this way. I’ve thought about it a lot, actually.”
Now that piques your interest. He’s been thinking about you? You can work with this.
“You’ve thought about me?” Your fingers start to trail down his shirt, from his chest to his midriff. “What kind of thoughts, Laios?”
The man tenses, but quickly shakes it off. You notice his breathing pick up.
“Thoughts…of us. What this would be like…” Laios shifts a bit, his eyes follow your fingers as they dive under his shirt.
“Mhm…” You urge him to continue. “Mind if I take this off?”
Laios shakes his head. His night shirt comes off as easy as ever. You’ve seen him shirtless quite a few times, but the sight never gets old. You take a few moments to admire the pleasant softness of his upper body, before looking to him again.
“Go on.”
You work on unbuttoning your top as he speaks.
“I was wondering…” Laios’s train of thought seems to stall as you remove your shirt. His wide, golden eyes drink you in before he snaps himself back to reality. “How you’d feel. The noises you’d make,, I still can’t believe you want to do this with me.”
You roll your eyes internally. If only he could see himself through your eyes. He’d know if anything, he’s doing you an utmost favor by letting you deflower him.
“I can’t imagine who I’d rather be doing this with right now than you.” You lean to chastely kiss his cheek, before moving down his jaw. “You’re absurdly handsome.” Simply kissing his warm skin makes your stomach tie in knots. Gods, you want him inside you.
Laios’s breath hitches. A breathy moan parts the silence before he speaks again.
“You really think so?”
“I know so.”
Soft lips trail down his chest, then linger over the space near his heart. When you press your ear to his skin, you can hear the rhythmic thumps pounding against his ribcage. It makes you smile.
“You don’t have to be nervous, Lai. We can stop at any time. I won’t be mad.” You punctuate your sentence with a kiss to his heart.
Laios smiles, comforted by the gesture.
“I know. I want—well, I’ve wanted. To do this, though. For a while.”
He sits up a little to better see your face. You return his smile, then get back to work.
Laios gently starts to stroke your hair as you kiss down his body. His soft moans and whimpers fill the air. Under your lips, you can feel the skin on his stomach twitch and tense in between kisses.
You let one of your hands trail up his thigh. It doesn’t move towards his crotch just yet, instead, you settle to massage the flesh from over the soft linen of his night pants. You move towards his inner thigh teasingly slow.
The goal here is to rile him up as much as possible. Unlike other men, Laios isn’t just hard and raring to go from his thoughts alone. His own shyness and insecurities still hold him back. But, with his mind clouded with lust, Laios would be likely to let more of his inhibitions go.
After a little more teasing, you finally decide to dip your fingers under his waistband. His breath hitches when your knuckles accidentally bump his groin—even the tiniest moments have Laios reeling. You pause your movements to look up at him, doing your best to hide the smugness you feel.
“Everything alright?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He mumbles, then brushes some hair out of your face. He’s smiling and his lips part, but nothing comes out. He purses them instead as if he’s debating something.
You raise a brow, which prompts him to keep talking.
“C-can we kiss? While you do this?”
He asks this almost sheepishly, and it’s enough to make you blush as well. Why the hell does he get to be so cute?
You nod, obliging his request by moving up the bed and leaning forward to press your lips to his. You can feel his lips curl into the gesture. He’s smiling. You swear he’s the most adorable thing in this world.
The lip lock starts out sweet. The two of you take your time to set the pace, pressing loving kisses to each other, before it grows more heated as your hand gently palms his bulge through his underwear. Each movement earns a gasp or groan from the man before you. It’s not long before you feel him start to harden beneath your grasp.
You pull away for just a moment to look into his eyes. Laios’s face is much more relaxed now. He seems to be more focused on the moment.
“May I?”
Your fingers dip below the fabric of his underwear, but don’t dare go further without affirmation.
Laios nods.
“Yes, please.”
He helps you shuffle off his night pants. In respect of fairness, you place his hands on your hips so he can aid you in removing yours as well. Laios bites his lip a bit, his cheeks now fully blooming with a rosy hue. The sight of your bare ass and thighs obviously has him excited.
Next is his underwear. You’re seated in between his thighs as you remove them. It doesn’t come off as eagerly as his pants, but when you press a kiss to his hip he’s more than happy to oblige.
His semi-erect cock is quite a sight to behold,\ It’s not abnormally huge or anything, but the fact that you’re finally seeing what you’ve imagined to be pounding into you for the last few months. The fact that is a part of Laios that no one else has seen—or gets to see— but you? You can barely stop yourself from drooling. You want this thing in your hands. Mouth. Ass. Gods, everywhere it can fit. He could split you in two and you’d thank him.
You spit into your palm, then grasp it. He’s warm and weighty in your hand. You can already imagine how it’d feel cradled by your walls. Your hand slides down the length a few times—earning a choked moan from Laios. It’s pulsing with life and solid now in your grasp. His foreskin moves with each stroke of your hand as precum starts to pearl at the tip, aiding in lubrication.
“Feels better when someone else does it, yeah?” You ask with a smile.
Laios merely nods, nipping his bottom lip.
“Y-yeah.”
Another stroke has him lying his head back in the pillow, groaning. His large hands fist the sheets. You take one and lie it against the back of your head, and almost instinctively, he grips your hair. However, it’s with the same power one may use to hold a sheet of glass. Eh, you think as he settles into this, Laios will eventually get it and get more firm.
You can’t help but give him an experimental lick. Laios makes an odd whimpering noise—but it’s clear it’s in pleasure—so you continue to taste him. It doesn’t have much of a flavor. It’s mostly just like licking his skin, it’s clear he washed pretty thoroughly before. His precum starts to add a bit of a salty tinge as you continue. You make sure to lick down to his balls as well. He’s got a pretty thick covering of blonde pubic hair–but the sounds he makes and the way he curls his toes makes you less than apprehensive to keep working your mouth.
Laios’s lewd sounds fill the air as you continue. His fingers gently brush your scalp for a few strokes, before finding their way to grip you tighter. When you give him a light moan, the reverberations shoot down his cock, and he fists your hair with more passion.
You start to grind yourself against the mattress, but when that’s not enough, you seat yourself as well as you can on his knee and find some decent friction there. Pleasant waves of arousal course through you, down to your crotch as you start to get yourself off a little. This feeling, along with the feeling of Laios down your throat, starts to put you in a bit of a trance.
A desperate noise cuts through the silence. Laios gives a half-hearted tug and grits his teeth.
“S-stop.” He chokes out, causing you to still. You remove your mouth from his length, before giving him an absentminded stroke. “Please. I don’t wanna cum. Not yet.”
You fully remove yourself from him and Laios lets out an audible sigh of relief. You laugh lightly as he begins to regain his composure. That azalea hued blush advances down to his chest now. For someone who’s faced beasts twice his size and kept going, Laios already looks utterly finished beneath you now.
“Why don’t we take a little break, yeah?”
You move up the bed and kiss him on the nose. You know you want him inside you now. But as wet as you are from just grinding against him, you know you need to be stretched open a bit beforehand if you want to take him comfortably.
“Sounds good.” Laios kisses your forehead in return, gently humming. His shaky breaths are starting to return to a normal rhythm.
Now it’s your turn. You lie with your back down on the bed, then look over to Laios.
“Wanna return the favor while you recuperate?” You ask, looking at him unexpectedly. You don’t want to intimidate him or make him feel like he has to do anything at this point. However, Laios’s eyes light up. He eagerly shuffles to be between your legs, before moving to assist you with getting comfortable propped against the pillow on his headboard.
He looks mesmerized by the sight of you through your underwear. The slick on them doesn’t give much to the imagination of what’s underneath. He can barely see the head of your clit poking through as you spread open for him. The sight and smell triggers his overeager brain to lean forward and take a good, long lick.
You jolt a bit, but moan. Laios snaps back, then looks wide eyed at you.
“Sorry! I should’ve asked first.”
He looks sheepish, but not entirely remorseful. You’d roll your eyes, but you’re actually kinda excited. Okay, it seems his nerves are dissipating now. This is good.
“It’s okay.” You move your hand to stroke his hair affectionately. “Do what you want. You can take off my underwear, too.”
Laios’s hands are shaky, but it's clear that’s from excitement. He licks you through your underwear a couple times as an experiment, making you tense, before finally removing them. The sight of you in front of him, finally exposed, makes his jaw drop–almost comically slow. He stares at you long enough to spark confusion (maybe even some nerves yourself), before he finally speaks up.
“What…exactly do I do?”
You snort. You almost forgot he’s entirely clueless.
“Here,” You spread your lips open for him to see. “It’s not super difficult. Anywhere you lick is gonna feel good. But you should concentrate more on these spots.” One finger points to the sensitive mound at the apex of your folds. “This is the clit. It’s the most important. It…kinda feels similar to me how it did when I was sucking on you. But…don’t get too crazy. The clit’s more sensitive, so you wanna be gentle.”
“Hmmmm…” Laios nods, following along with interest. His large finger reaches out and starts to stroke it lightly. You moan in response.
“That’s good. You’re getting it. But add a bit more pressure. That feels better.”
He obliges, and you close your eyes with a smile. The added texture of his fingerpad is what adds more pleasure. That feels good. Laios notices your reaction, then continues. As he continues to play with the nub, he pulls back the head. This seems to enlighten him.
“It has a hood!?” He asks excitedly. “Is it more sensitive underneath?”
“Super sensitive.” You agree. “Again, be careful, don’t just–”
He’s not listening. He gives a gentle lick, then a suck, which has you shuddering. You moan out his name in your own choked voice. Your hands grip his hair. It takes willpower not to shove his face into you just yet.
“Gods, Laios. You’re eager.” He chuckles, then licks at you again. You grind against his face in return, which makes him moan.
“You’re getting…slicker. More moist.” He remarks, then licks up some of your wetness. “It tastes weird. But good. It’s like I don’t wanna stop. Must be pheromones or it’s similar to how–…”
“Usually people say wet, Laios. Moist is not super sexy.” You chuckle. It’s important to cut him off now. His language along with incoming tangent would probably unintentionally kill the mood. “But it’s because I’m getting more turned on. You’re making me feel turned on.”
Laios shuffles a bit. You can tell he’s getting harder.
“I like that. I like making you feel this way.” He seems to be more confident now.
“Good, you can make me feel even better with your hands, too.”
He’s curious again. You open yourself once more, then point to the lowermost hole.
“That’s the vagina. The main entrance.” He nods, and you continue. “Before we go further, you’re gonna have to stretch me out. It’ll make everything else feel better and more comfortable for me.”
He looks up at you with a bit of a frown.
“I know what that is.” He pouts. “I’m not entirely clueless.”
Oh.
You chuckle a bit, patting his head affectionately.
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to make sure. You’re a lot smarter than most guys.”
That seems to cheer him up, so you continue. You instruct him to slide one of his digits inside you. He does so, slowly and carefully as you command. His hands are unreasonably large. One digit is actually able to make you feel something as he slides it in and out of you. There’s almost no resistance as he does so, your slick coats his fingers and seeps onto his palm as you ask him to add another. You feel yourself stretch to accommodate them and moan in pleasure. Each movement he makes is extremely purposeful. It’s not just as if he’s trying to finger you, but also get an idea of just how you feel on the inside. The pads of Laios’s fingers gently poke and prod as they continue their movements. He’s enthralled by the texture and feeling of merely his fingers inside you.
“N-now…make like, a scissoring motion.” You ask, starting to feel that typical build up at the core of your groin. Laios gasps as he starts to stretch you out, his eyes lighting up with excitement.
“The human body is amazing…” He speaks as if he’s entranced. “I wonder if I–”
His tongue moves to lick up your slit. You let out a wanton groan, then clutch his scalp. Laios takes this as a good sign and moves to lick at your clit like before. The stimulation along with him still fingering you has your breath stifling. You start to fuck yourself on his fingers and grind into his face.
“Just like that, Laios. Good boy…” You praise, not really thinking about what you’re saying. He whimpers into you, making you groan again. The little vibrations when he does that feel amazing. He continues to moan and whimper as he suckles at your clit. You can hear a swishing sound, something against the fabric of the linen sheets, and when you put two and two together you realize he’s humping the bed under him.
Okay, as good as this feels, you need to put a stop to this. He’s gonna get carpet burn on his dick. And you’re gonna cum on his face and get too brainless to direct this virgin when he’s pounding into you.
You pull him back by his hair, which Laios doesn’t fight against. His fingers still inside you. There’s a small trail of clear spit and slick that keeps his mouth connected to you.
“Pull your fingers out. I wanna ride you now.”
He’s no longer hesitating. The way Laios scrambles off you and eagerly lies on his back is comical. You’re not exactly composed yourself, though. You’re just as ready to hop on and ride him until his brain goes numb.
Laios leans his back against the headboard with you seated in his lap. Your hips almost move on their own, sliding your entrance over his cock before grinding your clit against it. Just this has the two of you orchestrating a symphony of moans. The combination of slick, precum, and spit that forms between your legs and drools down your groins adds a barely audible wet sound in addition. When the cusp of your entrance catches on the head of his cock, you shudder.
You can’t wait anymore. And you’re sure Laios can’t either. You position his head at your entrance and give him a kiss.
“Are you ready?” You ask, pressing another kiss to his forehead. You want him to be sure. Not that you’d think he’d back out at this point, but you’d rather be safe than sorry.
“More than ever.” He responds breathlessly, then kisses you sweetly. You can taste yourself on his lips. “Do it, please. I want you.”
You’re sure to align him correctly, then sink down on his tip. Laios makes what might be the weirdest, yet hottest groan from deep in his throat, while his fingertips dig into your sides.
“Relax…” You whisper, ghosting kisses over his cheeks. You’re not fully composed either, but Laios is going to burst if you’re not careful. “It’s okay.”
He lets his face fall, but his shaky breathing continues as you fuck yourself on his tip, steadily opening yourself up to him. This is better than you thought. Much fucking better. Especially with Laios’s gasps and desperate whines in your ear. The heat that radiates from his body, causing the two of you to work up a light sweat. The way his muscles tense and jolt underneath your body. It’s driving you absolutely wild.
“Laios.” You moan, letting your head fall to the crook of his neck. You know this pleasure is brainbreaking for him, but it’s making you weak in the knees as well. The insides of your thighs burn with pleasure as you continue to take more of him into you. “You feel so fucking good inside me. You fit so well.”
One of his arms raises. His hand cradles your head, but his fingers grip your hair tightly.
“You’re so warm.” The last word falls out of his mouth like a boulder. He’s struggling to speak as if his mouth is filled with rocks. “So, s-so good…” He’s speaking through grit teeth, swallowing harshly like his throat’s suddenly coated with cotton. When you bottom out, resting your ass on his balls, he cries out your name. He almost comes unfurled beneath you at that moment.
The act’s finally done. Laios Touden–No longer a virgin. He’s been deflowered by you.
You bask in the moment. Despite your mind being clouded by pleasure, you take just a second to appreciate him. That ever growing flowery hue lights up his whole being now. Laios face, neck, chest…even parts of his arms and thighs are practically growing red. The rest of his pale skin is tinted with a hibiscus-pink color. Laios’s head is lolled back. His open mouth has a small trail of drool running from it. You lick it up happily, then meet him for a kiss.
“Look at me.”
Your command gently wakes him from his trance. Laios’s golden eyes peer at you lazily.
“You’re not a virgin anymore.” You chuckle, then kiss that broad nose bridge of his. He smiles and leans his forehead against yours.
“Thank you…” He breathes out. His eyes shine with adoration now.
“I should be thanking you. It’s not every day one gets to take the virginity of someone as pretty as you.”
Your compliment makes his breath stifle. You give him another loving kiss, which he eagerly returns.
You start to move now, which Laios responds to with a whimper. He tries to roll his head back again, but you wrap an arm around his shoulder and use your hand to direct his gaze where you two connect.
“Look at us.” You say between gasps. “The way we fit together. You were made for me.”
His brow furrows, but his eyes widen in awe. Laios’s hands remain perched on your hips as you ride him. He moves awkwardly to match you, but his thighs and legs betray him when jolts of gratification surge through him. He tries to cough out a response–something, anything–but can only manage a drawn, pitchy whimper. You let your eyes fall closed and set your forehead against his again.
For now, you let yourself enjoy the moment. You and Laios exchange breaths, gasps, and groans as you guide yourself up and down his length, then bottom out once more to grind your clit against his pubes and groin. Laios creates his own cacophony of odd noises that you can assume are due to pleasure, and they send swirls of delight through your brain and down your spine.
Each movement you make makes you crave more. More of him. The way he smells, sounds, feels–its all encompassing. It makes you want to consume all of him, drain him the way he’s drained your thoughts these past months. You could never imagine it’d feel this way. Laios isn’t gifted at sex by any means, but the emotional connection between you two is what heightens the physical aspect. Knowing you’re his first, how much he trusts you, desires you–it makes your mind cloudy. He belongs to you. You have him in the most intimate way possible now. An unforgettable moment for the both of you.
You clench around him and grit your teeth. It’s almost as if you’re telling him this now–he’s yours. The noise he makes when you do that is unnatural. It’s guttural–almost primal.
“I’m gonna cum!” He chokes out, his body shaking with tension. You immediately stop your movements and relax. Not like this. Not yet, if you can help it.
“Hey, hey, settle.” You coo in his ear, now kissing whatever skin you can reach. “You don’t wanna cum just yet, right? I was hoping to give you the reins.”
Laios’s breathing is rapid, as if he just ran a mile. You coax him out of his stupor, trying to aid him in learning to contain himself. For someone with little experience, he does have a lot of willpower. With a little more time to gain his brain back, he’s able to get halfway cognizant and look at you once more.
Your hips slide up, ever so slowly, and you let him fall out of you with a wet pop. That would’ve been embarrassing if the two of you weren’t so incredibly turned on. You hop off him now, then beckon him to climb on top of you. When he does, you anchor your thighs on his hips.
“I figured you’d wanna try your hand at this. Hold yourself up and I’ll give you a hand.” You prop yourself up a bit to look between your legs. Laios grabs his cock, and you help him guide it towards your entrance. “It’s probably gonna slip out if you’re not careful, so keep close to me.”
He nods and slides in without issue. You hum in delight at the feeling of being full again. You let Laios thrust his hips into yours a few times and his hefty balls smack lewdly against your ass as he does. He’s focused, biting his tongue a little as he tries to see which angle and speed gets a proper reaction from you. He’s cute. And the fact he’s thinking of your pleasure on an evening that’s supposed to be about him is endearing as well.
You beckon him forward, then lock your arms around his neck to bring him closer to you, the typical missionary position. Laios keeps most of his weight on his forearms as he casually pumps into you.
“You’re doing a good job.” You gently play with his hair and look lovingly at him. Laios always fills you with the warmest, fuzziest feeling when you look into his eyes. It spills out like water when you have him like this. “You’re perfect. Everything I could want in a man.”
Laios’s brows furrow. You can’t tell if it's in concentration or what. You kiss his forehead softly as his eyes flutter closed.
“You’re everything to me.” He says in a firm voice. His pace begins to pick up, his pelvis starting to dig into yours. “You. I–, I just…can’t believe you’re here with me. You’re so beautiful...”
He’s really picking up the pace now. It makes your grip tighten on his hair. Laios is losing himself in you, and you let him. His length barely leaves you before thrusting right into you again. Sweet words and strangled noises pool in his throat and tumble out with fervor.
“I love you.” He whines. It’s said with enough devotion to make your heart ache. “I love you…Love you…” He gasps. You feel his cock twitch inside you. He starts to drive into you like a madman now. He has little tact, but you don’t mind. It feels good nonetheless to watch him fall apart before you like this. Feel him lose his composure just from the workings of your body. Your own peak starts to approach on the horizon.
“I wanna stay with you forever. Wanna be yours.” His balls create a slightly steady beat as they slap against your bottom. The wet, squelching sound of your hole being pounded fills your ears along with Laios’s moans.
“I love you too.” You respond, letting your fingers comb through his sweaty bangs, moving them from his face. Words come easier since you’re still more composed than he is. It’s clear Laios is exceptionally vulnerable at this moment, so you tell him things he probably needs to hear. “You’re so easy to love, Laios. Just by being you.”
That seems to do something to him. His head falls in the crook of your neck and his arms slide under your shoulders to pull you as close as possible. His entire weight now leaning on you knocks the wind out of you a bit, but you’re able to recover quickly. All you hear is jagged breaths and strangled cries as he pumps into you wildly. A wet warmth starts to gather on your skin. You think its drool.
A few more desperate thrusts of his hips has him coming undone completely. It’s everything but graceful as Laios reaches his peak. It’s obvious his orgasm tears through him like he’s paper. Not only does he almost completely fill you, but his sounds are grossly guttural, and the way his body tenses like stone and curls into yours before he slumps against you is testament to that.
You roll with it, though, and simply pet his hair, whispering sweet nothings to him as you do so. He shudders against you, hiccuping softly against your skin. As you bask in the moment, you feel your combined slick start to squeeze out of you a bit. It’s still warm, but it makes you shiver. You stayed hugged against Laios for a while before he finally starts to remove himself from you.
You’re shocked when you catch a glimpse of his face. His eyes are puffy, nose runny. There’s tear stains down his cheeks. He wasn’t drooling. He was crying.
“Hey.” You hold his jaw in your hands, frowning a bit. “You okay? What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t dare look you in the eyes. His nerves eat away as him as he sniffles. It’s a little bit of a pathetic sight.
“I-I don’t know. I just…you said all those nice things to me, and I just–” His tears start coming again, and you shoosh him. There’s a lot of hormones floating around. You’re sure that’s making him emotional, granted, on top of all his insecurities surrounding his own self-worth.
“I meant what I said. I love you, sincerely.”
Laios’s breathing starts to even out a bit, but tears still fall. He brings your palm to his mouth, gently kissing it.
“I know. But that’s what makes me feel this way even more. I just…can’t believe you’re with me at times. You’re so wonderful.” He looks at you with such adoration. It’s sickeningly sweet.
“You are too. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. Then you could at least begin to understand how I feel about you.” You continue to wipe his tears with your free hand. Laios shakes his head, almost in disbelief.
“I’ll never understand what makes you want to put up with me. But I'm over the moon that you choose to do so.”
“And I always will. Loving you is effortless. Stop referring to it like it’s a job. ” You casually flick his forehead to lighten the mood. Laios snaps out of his own head and returns to the moment with a soft “ow”, before beginning to laugh.
A laugh escapes you now. You sweetly kiss him on the nose.
“Now, stop crying, dummy.” You tease. “You’re gonna make me cry too,”
Laios chuckles as you wipe his tears. He grasps your wrist, then brings your hand closer for him to kiss.
“I’m the smartest man in the world if I’ve already decided I want to spend my life with you.”
So what he said earlier. He meant that. Laios sees a future with you…You start to feel a little overwhelmed by emotion now, but settle on squishing his face in your hands and pushing him away.
“Dork.” You chuckle. Laios’s laughter fills the room now. There’s so much mirth in the room, before he starts to look contemplative again.
“Wait…did you?” He raises a brow. “I couldn’t tell if you finished.”
Oh. Here comes the awkward truth. You weren’t expecting to get off and you had a lot of fun, but you’re not sure if that’s enough for him.
“I…no.” You answer honestly, but are quick to reassure. “It’s okay, though. Don’t feel pressured. You went through a lot right now, and I still had fun. I’m happy.”
He’s not.
“But I wanted you to…” He pouts. “You deserve it after what you did for me.”
You’re about to reassure him that hey, it’s fine. You could cuddle and just chill out, but you catch his curious gaze trail down to the shiny wetness of your crotch. If he’s willing…
“I mean, if you want…” You look up at him. “Only if you feel like it. I can show you how to get me off again. But in a different way this time.”
His brows raise, eyes shining with interest. He nods, now sitting up on his knees as if awaiting instruction.
You tell him to lie on his back and tell him about your plans. Facesitting is an entirely new thing to him, but he’s totally on board with the idea. He’s practically drooling as you describe it to him. The tension and eagerness builds up with a quickness. You hurry up and get your shins seated on either side of his head, ready to get this show on the road.
“This still alright with you?”
You look down at Laios. He’s staring at your wet, cum soaked pussy like it’s a gourmet meal.
“Fuck yes.”
That’s the first time he’s cursed all night. He must have a thing for oral. You’ll be sure to keep that in mind.
You lower yourself onto him, careful not to put all your weight on him just yet. Laios laps at you excitedly. He’s never been the most refined eater in the first place, and the way he sucks and licks at you is as if all manners flew out the window. Your thighs shiver as you let more weight onto his face. Holy shit. He seems to be a quick learner. That, or his enthusiasm to please shines through when it comes to oral. He’s so voracious it makes your head spin.
You cry out expletives and start to rock against his face. Laios’s arms wrap around your waist, pulling your hips down onto him. You lean as much weight as he can take. It doesn’t seem like you phase it at all.
With your slit flush against him, you can feel everything. His tongue dragging across your sensitive skin, diving into your hole as he lets you fuck yourself on it. Warmth builds in your core, making your jaw clench. You alternate between grinding your clit on his nose and letting him suckle at it. It’s phenomenal.
“I’m gonna…” You’re cut off by a moan. Your thighs tighten around his head. “Laios!”
He heeds your warning, now focusing on letting you ride his tongue. You grind your clit against his nose as you finally come undone, that warm familiar feeling spreading from your groin down to your thighs. Your legs clench around his head. The moan that you elicit from his lips while you do that has you shaking.
When you’re ready, you climb off his face, flopping on the bed beside Laios. The two of you are spent. At least for right now. Laios pulls you into his arms, letting your head rest gently on his chest. As you lie there, the sound of his heartbeat lulls you to drowsiness.
“That was the best moment of my life.” He speaks up. “I just…” Laios laughs at his loss for words. He’s never been good with them, but even finding one to describe how he feels right now seems like an impossible task. “I love you. I love you so much.”
“Love you too.” You murmur against his skin. This was a lot, physically and emotionally. But you’re glad you did it.
“I feel like I could lie here forever.” His voice starts to taper off, as if he;s feeling wistful.
“Mmmmm…” You mumble in agreement. Falling asleep with your face flush against Laios’s boob sounds ideal, before you’re reminded of the cool wetness between your thighs. It was sexy at first, but now it’s starting to grow uncomfortable. “I–We, gotta clean up, though. I feel gross.”
“I kinda like it.” Laios admits. “Being covered in you…us. It’s nice to see our fluids together.” His fingers brush between his own legs, gathering some slick between his fingers. “It’s kinda like slime. Man, I wish I could have those noodles again.”
You furrow your brows in disgust at first, but Laios’s words make you snicker. Of course, he somehow relates this to monsters. Then, to food.
“Well, the faster we get cleaned up, the quicker we can eat.” You begrudgingly stand on shaky legs. Laios is quick to steady you, before standing up himself.
“You’re right. I’ll pay. I owe you one after all this.” He kisses the top of your head. Laios starts to walk away towards the bathroom, but not before you land a decent smack on his ass. The man yelps, before staring at you wide eyed. The handprint that lingers due to how pale his skin is is comical.
“C’mon. You owe me a shower.” You kiss the underside of his jaw, then walk ahead of him.
Laios rolls his eyes and smiles, happily following after you.
And I know it's hard enough to love me (But I woke up in a safe house)
pairing: vash the stampede x fem!reader
warnings/tags: babygirl vash, Depressing Pillow Talk, slighty nsfw towards the end, sharing one bed trope, title taken from let's get married (MITSKI VERS)
word count: ~4.2k
“My husband and I would like a room,” you say with a smile as you wrap your arms around Vash’s and lean into him. You feel his body startle at your touch, his gaze on top of your head as you play the part of the excited bride. You think he might pass out on you if you don’t get him to room, and fast. “We’re on our honeymoon.”
“In this shithole of a town?” The innkeeper asks with a raised eyebrow, looking from you to Vash, who only lets out a sheepish chuckle as he scratches the back of his head. Despite his sluggish breaths, his slow blinking gaze, and the red slowly staining his shirt.
You shrug, trying hard not to be impatient. “There are worse places.”
There are. You’ve survived them. Compared to the slums of December or September, this shabby, worn inn is paradise.
“Yer right ‘bout that,” he laughs, acquiescing, as he tosses a ring of keys into your hand and takes your pouch of money. Vash is slumped into you now, and you can tell he’s trying his hardest not to place the full weight of his body on you. To anyone else, it would look as if he was clinging to you, the picture of a loving couple.
“Cheers to the happy couple!” the man calls out, tipping his hat down as the two of you move to the stairs in front of you.
Vash grins brightly, and manages a cheery, polite, “Thank you!” as the two of you pass.
You can’t resist the huff of a laugh that escapes your lips as you make your way up the stairs, and then into the small, modest dust lined room.
Vash collapses on the bed with a sharp exhale, and you immediately move to take off his shirt but his hand stops you by the wrist before you can.
“Sleep,” he murmurs, eyelashes fluttering. His fingers tightens, just imperceptibly, (even on the brink of sleep, he’s overly conscious about his strength, you think). In a way, it feels like he’s wordlessly imploring you to stay. “Jus’ need sleep. Not gonn’ take long.”
You blink. His fingers loosen, and in a few seconds his breathing has evened out into steady breaths. You’re relieved. He’s already stopped bleeding. From the months you’ve traveled with him, known him, he’s healed quickly enough that any other person wouldn’t understand. You still don’t. Not fully. But you’ve never asked questions. And as long as he never asked you any questions, that was fine with you.
You stay on the bed, by his side for a few minutes, watching him. You take off his sunglasses and put them on the nightstand after wiping the blood off them. He’s an unusually pretty man. Too pretty for No Man’s Land. You trace his face with your eyes. The beauty mark right under his right eye to his parted pink lips. Then down to the rise and fall of his chest to the plates of the cybernetic prosthesis of his left arm.
Lost technology. Not many people had access to that kind of technology. Or the knowledge to build that arm, let alone repair it.
Standing, you give him one last glance, reload your revolver and tuck it into the holster at your side, before you leave in search of medical supplies to patch him up when he wakes. You scope out the town while at it. It’s small; a handful of residents armed to the teeth with guns, and even less children. There are pipes that run through the town that you assume are fed fresh water by a nearby plant. You locate a medical shop at the center of town.
You buy antiseptic, gauze, and a few other things, before making your way back to the inn. The innkeeper gives you a wink.
When you open the door to the room, Vash is awake.
The sound of his harsh breathing fills the air. His metal hand fisted into the sheets so tightly you think it might tear. You meet his frantic gaze, and almost immediately, he slumps in relief, eyes dropping to his lap.
You quietly shut the door. “Nightmare?”
Sometimes, in his sleep, you hear him call out for a woman named Rem.
He lets out a loud laugh. You pretend not to notice the shaky undertone of it. “I slept for longer than I thought!” His metallic hand curls and unfurls, catching on the dull light of the room. “I thought you…” he trails off, suddenly embarrassed. He looks away.
“I brought supplies.” You place the bag on the table, next to Vash’s nickel revolver. You turn back to him: “Strip.”
His arms immediately make a cross on his chest, as if he’s already stripped, face bright red.
“I can do it myself—!”
Vash the Stampede. The humanoid Typhoon. The Sixty Billion Double Dollar Man. The man you originally only followed after to collect the criminals who swarmed to him, like flies to corpses. The man who leaves a trail of calamity and disaster in his wake. The man who continuously, everyday, without fail, begged you to leave the criminals you captured alive. A constant enigma and a headache. A walking contradiction.
“I’ll leave the room,” you say. “Don’t take too long.”
You leave the room, leaning against the wall, and wait two minutes.
You open the door, and Vash jumps with a yelp, stripped to the waist, arms covering whatever he can manage.
Scars cover his entire torso, running all the way down his flesh arm to his hand. Deep scars, shallow scars, scars that have never entirely healed, leaving the skin dark pink and the flesh caved in. There are more scars than there is unblemished skin, missing chunks of skin replaced with metal plates and seams.
It's not a pretty sight, but you’ve never much cared for pretty.
His face is flushed. “I thought—”
“I lied.”
“!?”
You shut the door with your heel, and then grab the gauze and antiseptic. “Turn around.”
Wordlessly, he turns, ears reddening. You direct him to sit on the bed, and then you begin to apply the antiseptic. The two of you sit in silence. You, disinfecting his fresh wounds and wrapping his back, while you also ignore the way his body tenses at your touch, his pointedly straight gaze, the constant bob of his throat, as if he’s looking for the right words to say.
He reluctantly speaks up. “You’re…not hurt, are you?”
“I’m fine,” you reply. Just a few scrapes and a bruised arm from where you had landed wrong after trying to dodge multiple rounds of bullets from the latest batch of criminals that had schemed to capture the humanoid typhoon. After hauling them to the police, Vash hiding away, you had gained yourself a hefty paycheck before being run out of the city, a bleeding Vash in tow.
You’re nearly done. The wounds aren’t nearly as severe as they had been only a couple of hours ago. The skin has healed enough that it’s already forming a scar. You don’t know much about Vash the Stampede, but you know enough to understand that he isn’t human. Not completely.
But he smiles. He laughs. He detests the very violence that nurtured you. He likes pizza and donuts. He’s moved to tears almost as easily as he seems to get hurt. He’s good with children. They trust him. Children love him in a way they don’t you: pulling him down to their height, climbing him, leading him and all his long limbs along. The way he takes their words seriously, nodding with all the gravity of a legal proceeding as they talk about the weather, their favorite foods, the silly argument they got into with a sibling. He smiles, and when he turns that smile onto you, it makes you think of everything warm and how you had forgotten what it meant to be happy.
He may not be human, but he is. Everything good about humanity that had been lost and forsaken when mankind crashed onto this unforgiving, harsh planet.
You pull away, resisting the urge to press your fingers down on his skin, to trace the map of his scars and feel him shudder underneath you. He’s as warm as a furnace. The heat of his body stays with you. “How do you feel?”
He beams at you, one hand on his upper arm as he swings his arm around. “Perfect!”
You sigh. “Don’t push yourself now. Let me finish wrapping you.”
He retreats back to his original position, still smiling, all reservations about his partial nudity forgotten as he waits for you to finish.
Vash speaks. “You didn’t kill them.”
You glance up. You can only partially see his expression from your position behind him, but the pull of his lips is unmistakable. He’s smiling. And you don’t need to look at him to see it. That sweet smile of his that pulls at his eyes and softens his entire face.
Your hands still. You hadn’t killed them. The Archie Brothers, the two brothers infamous for targeting banks and other commercial properties, who had gotten wind of Vash being in the city and emptied hundreds of rounds into the bar the two of you had momentarily settled in for a quick drink. It’s not as if you could’ve killed them in the first place. Vash was nothing if not easygoing, but keeping the criminals you turned in for a paycheck alive was the one thing he firmly enforced. Going as far to shield their bodies with his own.
He’s so troublesome sometimes.
You want to ask if he would’ve let you in the first place. If you had a choice.
You force yourself to wind the bandage over his arm. “You must be rubbing off on me.”
Vash turns, faster than you anticipate, eyes wide. You can see the pale irises of his eyes. He’s delighted. “Really!?”
You blink, staring at him in silence. He goes red, jerking back, scuttling backwards with his hands like a crab until he reaches the end of the bed and then air. He falls back first, legs raised up in the air.
He sits up with a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his head. “I…I guess I got a little ahead of myself…”
“...pffft.”
He straightens just as you dissolve into full blown laughter. And when your laughter dies down he’s looking at you, eyes wide, like he’s seeing you for the first time. You clear your throat and look away, embarrassed. You don’t think you’ve ever laughed in front of him.
“...Something on my face?”
He jumps, frantically waving. “No, no. I just thought,” he hesitates. “You should laugh more.”
Something in your chest gives. You can’t stand it. Not when he looks at you like that. Eyes shining, lips curved softly, face animated like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.
People like him aren’t supposed to survive No Man’s Land. They aren’t built to. But you’ve seen with your own eyes how capable Vash is. It didn’t take much to kill a man in these lawless lands, but you had never seen him miss his target. Your didn't need to take pride in your aim to know it was excellent. You just didn’t have the same consideration for criminals Vash did. A life or two wasn’t something you lost sleep over. Casualties happened. And if it was a criminal, then it was simply divine judgment.
You stand from the bed and walk towards the desk. You take a doughnut out of a brown paper bag and throw it to him.
“For me?” He exclaims, easily catching it, even though you had thrown it to him.
You don’t respond. He enthusiastically tears it in half, and offers you the bigger piece.
You shake your head, the quirk of your lips, fond. “I don’t like sweet things.”
“I see…” he says thoughtfully, as if he’s digesting the information. “That makes sense. You don’t normally eat…”
It strikes you that this is the most you’ve ever talked about yourself. You’re unusually talkative today, and he notices. You find that you don’t mind. It’s alarmingly easy to talk to him now.
In the handful of months you’ve been traveling together, you’ve learned that all the crimes attributed to him had been the work of his twin, a man called Million Knives. A man you had managed to steal a glimpse of only once before Vash had locked you in a closet before rushing away. You were still sore over that. Even though he retrieved you soon after, apologizing profusely, accepting your cold shoulder with grace. Until you couldn’t bear the way he trailed after you with a pathetically sad expression on his face, and told him to stop.
You never asked him for details. Of why his brother was terrorizing towns and cities, stealing plants and lives along the way. You’ve never pushed. You weren’t following the man to learn his life story. You were in it for the money.
Until one day, you realized he knew your exact bar order by heart. The kinds of alcohol you’d drink, and the kinds you wouldn’t touch. It was a small thing. But he looked so pleased when he placed the glass down, as he waited for you to drink it.
You knew his fear of you becoming potential collateral damage, but somewhere along the way you think you had grown on him. Somewhere along the nights listening to him cry out in his sleep for a woman named Rem, somewhere along watching the sliver of light heralding sunrise on the horizon together, somewhere in the silence in the dark of nights shared.
You think he’s grown on you too.
“Have you eaten?” He asks.
“Not hungry,” you reply, glancing out the window. Pitch black other than the glow of a single lone street lamp nearly a block down. “I’m going to sleep.” It wasn’t often you got to sleep on a bed, and you planned to make full use of it.
You go to the bathroom to wash up. When you walk out, Vash enters the room with a load of blankets. You look at him curiously.
“I asked the innkeeper for some blankets.” He laughs, recalling the conversation. “I said that my…” he trails off. “My…ah…wife…” Red paints his cheeks, and he looks away, raising the mound in his arms a bit higher to cover his face.
“...”
“...”
You watch as he makes his way to the other side of the room, keeping his gaze pointedly straight, and places the pile down.
“You’re sleeping on the floor?”
“That’s right!” Vash pats the floor a little too vigorously for your liking. “Just like usual!”
You look at the bed. It’s big enough for the two of you so you had assumed you’d be sharing it… You’ve never shared a bed together before, but you had no problems with it, not with Vash.
He darts into the bathroom quickly enough that you don’t have time to say anything else. You hear the water run, turn off the lights, and get underneath the covers.
Then you wait.
When he leaves the bathroom, he gingerly folds his red jacket and sets it down on the chair. You wait until he passes the bed to strike, grabbing him by the shirt, and hauling him down onto the bed.
He yelps, a surprised, high pitched, noise that tears out of his throat.
“We can share,” you say to him, his face inches apart from you. You can see his wide eyes, the bob of his throat working, pink lips parted as he stares at you, but your gaze is resolute.
And that’s that.
You figure that it might be easier for him to sleep if you aren’t facing him, so you turn to face the wall. You stare at the wall for ten minutes, waiting for him to settle into his side of the bed. Not even a faint rustle of the sheets. You wait a little longer. You can’t even hear him breathing.
You turn back around to face him and immediately he draws back even farther from his original position, on the tip of the bed where he’s precariously close to falling off.
A nervous chuckle. “I…”
“Sleep. I won’t say it again.” You study him, his slightly panicked expression, the grip of his metal hand fisted into the sheets. Oh. “Is it me?”
“N-nothing like that—!” He inches forward, just a little bit (still keeping his distance), puts his hand underneath the pillow, and squeezes his eyes tight. You watch him for a few seconds longer, specifically at the bead of sweat forming on the side of his temples. Your gaze drifts down, from the delicate slope of his nose to his lips.
You turn back around.
Silence settles in the room like a muffled blanket. You still can’t tell if he’s breathing or not, and for some reason, sleep doesn’t come to you as easily as it usually does. The bed is too soft.
You don’t know why you say it. Maybe it’s because you’re awake. Maybe it’s because you know Vash isn’t asleep.
“When I was a child, a plant saved me.”
A few heartbeats pass.
Vash’s voice is softly hesitant. It feels like something gentle and your stomach coils tight, as if in preparation for the inevitable recoil that always follows. “Were you sick?”
“I was.” The darkness reveals patterns in the wall, and your eyes go blurry with them. “The entire town was sick. Children were dying.” Religious fervor had taken ahold. Daily ritual acts of praying and calling out for salvation.
Taking you to your town’s plant when you were on the brink of death had been your mother’s first and final act of love. Afterwards, your mother often recounted in a drunken stupor that she was sure you were going to die. That it may have even been a mercy if you had. The plant cured you. Your mother was sure of it, the plant worshiping denizens of the town were sure of it. Nobody knew how. Nothing except for the fact that shortly after—
“The plant died the day after. I’ve never forgotten it.” You killed it. It was the first life you took.
It changed you. On a fundamental level. Something had happened to you on that day you can’t even remember. But that’s something you don’t think you can share. How sometimes, you don’t even need to dodge bullets.
That plant died, and now you are here, sharing a bed with a self proclaimed pacifist who refused to kill under any circumstances. A man who defied all logic and reasoning. A good man anyone would call misguided. A fool. An idealist.
In the end, lives would always demand sacrifice. It was either you, or them. It was kill, or be killed.
You don’t know what face he’s making behind you. Is he horrified to know that your life had ended before it started? That you were responsible for taking away the source of life for hundreds of people? That your existence was predicated on sacrifice and death before you even learned how to walk? You were at inherent odds with the idealism of pacifism. With him. Not out of choice, but because of circumstances out of your control.
Maybe a part of you wants him to hate you. Maybe a part of you is looking to be understood. But you thought that part of you had died long ago.
You shut your eyes, prepared to go to sleep.
Vash exhales. “I don’t…”
You open your eyes.
There’s a conviction in his voice you don’t understand. “You didn’t kill it.” You wonder how he can be so confident. “The plant saved you.” I know it did.
You face him once more. He’s closer than he was before, close enough to easily touch. “Sometimes,” you start, hating the way he’s smiling at you in a way that touches his eyes, framed in the pale moonlight. “You really make me mad.”
His jaw comically drops open. You watch as panic instantly overtakes his face until he realizes the lack of heat in your words. His lips push back together to form a pout. He says your name.
“Why is your brother stealing plants?”
Money. Power. Recognition. Those would seem to be the most likely answers, but you’ve seen the wreckage that Million Knives leaves in the wake of his destruction. It’s cruelty. It’s too calculated to be careless. It’s pure hatred. You can’t fathom a man like as Vash's brother. Twin brother.
But then that voice inside you speaks. Are you really any different?
Vash blinks, and then his face falls, gaze downcast. It feels odd to see him like this. You rarely catch him without a big, sheepish smile on his face nowadays, especially when he catches you looking at him, but you had seen him with a forlorn expression, shoulders slumped, in your early days of traveling together. When there were no children to demand a ride on his back, when the two of you momentarily passed an overcast shadow, in the darkness of the night when he thought nobody was looking.
You almost regret asking him in the first place. But he’s so close you can count his pale eyelashes, and you lose your train of thought.
“You could say it’s…” his mouth twists, “revenge.”
Revenge.
He’s not the first misanthrope in these lands. You think the occasional mass murderous thought, and you resist acting on it more often than you didn’t, the days before you met a blonde pacifist gunman. There’s only so much a human being can take.
You think of the kaleidoscope of scars that line his body. You only saw the ones on his upper body, but you don’t doubt the existence of countless others everywhere else.
It must’ve hurt. It must’ve been other people. People intent on capturing him. People who wanted to hurt him. You hate them all. Every single person that has permanently marked him a way that wasn’t theirs to do in the first place. You hate whoever severed his arm, whoever had repaid his kindness with violence.
Desire strikes you, hot and sudden. You want to count them all, trail your fingers over the heat of his body, the uneven layers of skin, and feel his breaths underneath you. You look at him, as his gaze lifts, remeeting your eyes, pleading for your understanding. Ball and chain to his brother. Shouldering the sins of family. You don’t understand it. Why he’s looking to you for acceptance, as if it’d even make a difference.
He is the only good thing in this harsh world, and you’ve found him.
“Maybe,” you tell him, as he hangs onto your every word. “We deserve it.”
You see the split second sadness weighing in his eyes, at your words, right before you curl your fingers into his shirt and pull him to your lips.
His eyes go wide, and something that sounds like a mixture of an exhale and gasp leaves his lips. You separate, your lips a hairbreadth away from his, as he stares at you.
“Is this okay?” You ask. If it wasn’t, you’d go back to sleep, and forget it ever happened in the first place. You made your move. It wasn’t reciprocated.
But then he nods, so vigorously that his blonde hair flops into his eyes.
You smile, and Vash lights up.
You kiss him again, drawing his face closer with your hand on his cheek. He complies with his entire body, closing the distance immediately, like if he can’t help himself. His lips are clumsy against yours, too eager, too desperate, wet and messy, as he pants into your mouth. Heat pools in your stomach, and you want more. You run your tongue over the seam of his lips, and he lets out a sigh of something that sounds reverently like your name against your mouth.
Then your tongue is in his mouth, and his flesh hand jumps. There’s a breathless, throaty whimper, the entire weight of his body pressing tight against you. So you can feel every part of him. How he’s willing to give you everything in the name of desire, of love. And when you pull away, his lips follow yours, spit slicked and swollen.
You easily lay him flat on his back as you move to straddle him. You kiss him again briefly, tenderly. Then you sit up and pull up his shirt, just enough to expose his torso. His metal fingers fist into the sheets when your finger goes to a scar of pink skin right about his hips, lightly following it to right below his chest.
He chokes with a shudder that wracks his body. You can feel him, heavy and hard pressing against you. The slight jump of his hips, barely restraining himself from rutting into you.
“It’s not…” Vash struggles with the words with heaving breaths, face bright red, embarrassment splayed out. He looks to the side. “A pretty sight.”
You think of heated irons and blistering pain. Thousands of blades slicing you open, needles penetrating flesh, blind white heat enveloping your body, and the mindless oblivion that would follow.
You realize you’ve been silent a beat too long when Vash looks like he’s preparing for your inevitable rejection.
“I’ve got scars too,” you say, finally. Quietly. You take his mechanical hand in yours and slowly slide him up underneath your shirt. “You want to see?”
Summary: Vash learns about those little markings he's seen on his lover, and oh God does he fall head over heels.
Authors Note: This is written with Tristamp! Vash in mind, and this idea was sparked by this post :) This is written as a fem! reader. I hope you all enjoy! (Also, here's your tag @blackkiwi! I hope you like it :) I went in a bit of a different direction so I might revisit this idea in the future!!)
Warnings: Mild nudity, sexual themes, self-hate.
Vash didn’t understand it—how could someone so beautiful, holding something so unique and precious, hate themselves and their markings? He felt bad for staring, he really did, but the damp air from the shower seemed to settle around her, water droplets becoming stars and her eyes morphing in a galaxy of possibilities. She, though, didn’t seem to understand his awe. All she saw was the man she loved staring at a part of her she didn’t hate, per se, but rather didn’t love completely. He knew he should’ve looked away, apologized and let her know that he was stunned with adoration, not disgust. Yet he didn’t. Like the fool he was, and always will be, he didn’t have the bravery to confess.
“Ah, sorry,” with a nervous grin she had tried to cover her hips, where the most prominent of her stretch marks were. “I didn’t know you were coming back so soon.” She grabbed her things and shuffled back into the bathroom, wearing only her underwear and a towel loosely draped over her shoulder, “I was just getting my clothes.” With a quiet click, the bathroom door shut and the room was plunged into a somber darkness.
Idiot, he bit at himself, why did you just stare? The patterns though, those curlings lines and loveable little dots and spots, it reminded him of himself; when he looked in the mirror and saw his face staring back, covered in blue lines that marked him as alien, foreign. Was she. . . like him? He turned to look at the bathroom door, listening to the quiet rustling within. No, he thought, she’s human. But there was something so remarkable about those lines, he couldn’t stop thinking.
Like me, she’s like me.
Later they sat in their shared room, the silence acting as a tyrant, holding its grip tight and solid over the melancholic atmosphere. Neither one had spoken since she had retreated to the bathroom an hour earlier; she being silent out of fear and embarrassment, and he out of nervousness and curiosity.
After finishing getting ready for the night, she laid in her bed across the room. Vash, on the other hand, was sitting criss-crossed in his, staring at his fumbling hands.
“You know,” he said, cringing at the abruptness of his voice, “I think you’re really pretty.”
She shuffled slightly in bed, blankets falling off her shoulders, “thank you, I appreciate it. You’re pretty as well.”
He blushed at the compliment—thump, thump, thump, beat his heart. It roared at him to confess, to open his mouth and say everything he wanted too. He didn’t. He fiddled with his hands and lightly tapped his cheek to cool the scorching redness that had overtaken him. “Earlier,” his voice was quiet, a pip-squeak of a noise, “I didn’t mean to stare.”
“It’s okay.”
He started to disengage his prosthetic arm, small clicks and whirs making the silence seem louder than before. “I—” he gently set his arm on the ground beside his bed, rubbing the raw and sore flesh. He didn’t often sleep without his arm, for a fear of being attacked in the middle of the night, but his body couldn’t handle it much longer. It pulled and gnawed on his shoulders, making his entire body ache with a pain he can only describe as deafening. “I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings, but if I did, I apologize.”
She finally turned over, watching as he hopelessly stared at her with a twinge of fear and. . . something else she couldn’t describe. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she smiled softly, “I was jus’ thinking.” She could never be mad at him—not that she was mad at him in the first place, in fact, she had only felt mild embarrassment towards the whole situation. The day had been long, and even if he hadn’t caught her getting out of the shower, she would’ve been quiet and exhausted—, and looking at him now only made her feel like she was gazing at a kicked puppy.
He tilted his head, “about what?”
“My body,” she huffed and sat up, “you know those days?’ Her voice was a little quiet, less teasing than it usually was, and so, painfully somber.
He understood. Sometimes he’d sit out in the desert, watch the sunset and wonder why he felt so unnatural; as if he wasn’t a person, but a thing occupying space in a body that didn’t belong to him. And sometimes he’d cover up mirrors with his coat, afraid to look into them and see what he really looked like. And other times he’d look down at himself and shove back the tears because he was a mural of pain and he wouldn’t have it any other way but God, did he wish there were other options. And sometimes he’d simply lay in bed and think about everything he hated about himself, starting with his personality and then moving on to his actions, and then he’d think about his body and then he really felt the pain because he belonged to this prison of flesh and bone, this sacred thing, and he had managed to decimate it in so many ways it would never be able to recover. And, sometimes, he hated how he looked because she deserved better. And sometimes he, without any reason really, despised the man he was, and the way he looked. So, yes, he understood those days. He understood better than anyone really; and it made his heart hurt thinking she had felt the same way.
In his eyes she was the most beautiful thing. She rivaled the stars, the ones he watched on that ship all those years ago. The greenery of flora and the nature of Earth couldn’t even compare. And even if some Goddess was to descend from the heavens, bearing all her glory and luxury at her bosom, he would deny it and find himself back in her arms. In his eyes, she was worth everything and more.
He stumbled over to her bed, momentarily forgetting himself as he slammed into the mattress with an abundant lack of grace and caution. “I get it, I do,”
She blinked at him.
“Somedays I–I hate myself and sometimes I can’t even look in the mirror, and really almost everyday I can’t even look at myself,” he forgot he had taken his prosthetic off, trying to grab her face with his hand. He paused and cursed a little under his breath, stub awkwardly hanging between them. “I forgot I took that—okay whatever,” he used his other hand to grab her face, fingers tracing her jaw, “but you know what makes me feel better about myself?”
She huffed a little and laughed, crossing her arms. “What?” she asked playfully.
“You.”
She smiled softly, “I’m glad I can help.” A little sliver of anxiety still rested in her eyes.
He took a deep breath and steeled his resolve. “Yeah, so, let me help you this time,” he sat back on his knees, suddenly realizing how close he was. “If–if that’s okay. . .?” All his confidence, his burning determination to help, dissipated into the air and floundered about his mind in a wave of unease and mild embarrassment.
She glanced down at herself, thumbing the edge of her shirt before nodding, “alright,” she wrapped her arms around his neck, “you’ve convinced me.” She gave a nervous smile, one unsure of what was going to happen but trustful in the one before her—she had no doubts that he would keep her safe, happy, and comfortable.
He let out a goofy grin, slowly pushing her back onto the bed, “okay so um,” he stared down at her, blushing a delicious red as he slowly came to understand what position they were in. Her arms were slightly settled to the side, hands above her head and chest slowly rising with each suspenseful breath. Utterly divine, was the only description he could think of. “Uh, could you. . uh, take your shirt off, maybe?” He wanted to cry when he realized his voice had cracked—uncool, so uncool.
She laughed, “alright, what are you really trying to do?” She grabbed the ends of her shirt and whisked it off, tossing it somewhere in the room. Neither of them really cared where it landed.
He waved his hand in the air and panicked, “no! No! I promise I’m not trying to do anything like that unless you want that—or, I mean, not right now! Uh, sorry!” His hands slapped over his face, covering the vague blue markings that had begun to peak through his skin.
She let out a boisterous laugh and grabbed his hips, lovingly drawing circles into his skin, “calm down, I was joking, pretty boy.”
The tips of his ears turned red, nearly drowning out his wonderful, brilliant blue, “pretty boy,” he mumbled. “Where’d that come from?” he squeaked out.
“Jus’ tellin’ the truth,” she hummed, “now, why is my shirt off?”
“Oh!” his hands flew off his face and came to settle on her torso, nervously pressing into her skin. “I wanna—well, can I see your markings?” he leaned a little closer, tempted to put his forehead to hers, but he was too scared—what if she knows what that means? What if she hates doing that? What if she hates me?
“Markings?” she raised an eyebrow, “what do you mean?”
“On your hips.”
“Hips?”
He gently hooked the edge of her pants, looking up at her for permission and when she gave it, he pulled them down slightly, revealing the little lines he had been so obsessed with earlier. Despite everything in him trying to keep his smile back, he couldn’t. “These,” he mumbled, tracing the marks with his fingers. His markings, no longer dull and scared, flowed to the surface of his skin and danced along his fingers. “They’re really pretty.” He wanted to see them in their entirety, observe how they rested along her skin and how they intertwined with one another—that would require less. . . clothing, and the thought made him blush madly, making his markings blink a bright blue for a moment.
She grabbed his hand and gave him a questioning look, “they’re not markings, they’re stretchmarks.”
He tilted his head.
“It’s like. . . little scars from when our skin stretches or shrinks too fast,” she smiled somberly, “they’re not as precious as your markings.”
He huffed and went back to caressing her skin, “I still think they’re amazing.”
“Not many people do,” she closed her eyes and savored the feeling of his touch, “so I appreciate it. Thank you.”
He hesitated and pulled his hands back, “do you. . . do you have more?”
She hummed.
“Can I see them? If that’s okay with you?!”
She sighed and opened her eyes, “you love them that much?” A slight bit of hesitance, disbelief.
A child-like joy seeped into his voice, “yes! They’re like mine, but they’re so much prettier.”
She blinked, a small embarrassed expression coming to rest upon her face. “I mean, if you really want, I can show you.”
He grinned excitedly and sat patiently on the bed as his lover slowly shimmed out of her pants, leaving them hidden by only two, thin articles of clothing that covered barely anything (not that he minded, but he was trying his hardest to focus on the markings solely—he didn’t want to be a creep. He was also trying to ignore the fact that this was only the third time he had seen her so vulnerable before. It made his heart soar, thinking that she trusted him so). After a moment, she returned back to bed and presented her thighs, where stretch marks were painted across her skin like a mural of heaven. “Here’s some more. They’re mostly on my legs and hips.”
“Oh,” he breathed out, “they’re a lot prettier up close.” He leaned down and pressed his forehead to her legs, closing his eyes. For a moment, he could’ve sworn he felt her very soul, as if he was connecting to a plant, and he shuddered out a sigh. “So, so, pretty.” He was lost in her now, gently tracing his fingers along her skin, nose buried into the side of her leg and he cherished every giggle and breathy laugh that came from his lover.
“I never knew you’d like ‘em so much,” she tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging slightly when he got a little too dazed and trailed his head up further than he should’ve.
He kissed the inside of her thigh, “they’re so. . . you’re so beautiful.”
She smiled softly, “you are too.”
The compliment flew over his head, focused solely on the Goddess before him. The divinity that had graced his presence. He sloppily kissed her thigh again, trailing his love up and up and—
She tugged on his hair, “hey,” she warned, “you’re getting a little too close there, pretty boy.”
He stared up and blinked, chin settled in between her legs and nose dangerously close to the bottom of her underwear. It took a moment for him to come back to reality, realizing that he was in a position he’d only dreamed about. “Oh,” he blinked again. “I’m sorry!” he shot up and rested back on his knees. With her hand still in his hair, he was slightly bowed forward, eyes deliciously plastered to her legs.
“Don’t apologize,” she whispered, “you’re fine.”
He whined a little, “I made you uncomforta—”
“When did I say that?”
He peered up at her through his eyelashes, watching her coy smirk expand into a sly smile. He stumbled over his words and quickly decided it would be better to shut up. What’s happening? Wasn’t she supposed to be yelling at him? Ashamed he had given into his desires a little too much? This was supposed to be about her, and how wonderful she was. Not him and his inability to hide his lustful curiosity.
“In fact,” she tugged on his hair a little more, forcing him to crawl halfway on top of her to stop the dull pain in his scalp—he really didn’t mind it though, which made him rethink some things about himself. “I really enjoyed it.”
His markings glowed so bright, she had to look away for a moment. She snickered and brought one hand to his chin, the other leaving his hair and slowly trailing down his chest. “If I’m being honest,” she sighed, “I didn’t really like my stretch marks. They’re ugly and gross, but,” she stopped trailing her hand down when she got to the hem of his pants, “you made me feel better about them.” She smiled.
“I’m glad!” he nervously grinned and tried to adjust himself so the position would be less. . . intimate, but she didn’t let him. Part of him was begging her to do something, and the other part of him was screaming with fear and embarrassment so loudly he almost didn’t hear what she said next.
“So,” she drawled out, “if it’s okay with you, can I help you feel good?”
“What?” he squeaked. “Like–what? What does that mean?” Oh my god, he cried to himself, I’m an idiot! He beat down a whine that threatened to erupt from his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted the ground to swallow him up and never let him go.
She wrapped her legs around his waist and pressed herself into him, hips bucking up and creating a delicious friction. He sucked in a strangled gasp and let his face fall into the crook of her neck, “sen–sensitive!” he cried. He gripped her waist, fumbling for a moment before once again realizing he had taken his prosthetic off. Vaguely he wondered if he should put it back on, but she bucked again and all thoughts fell out of his mouth as he cried.
“What do you say?” she purred, “up for a little fun?”
“You’re a,” he panted and ground his hips into her, muffling his moans in her flesh, “a tease.” He shouldn’t be doing this, should he? Should he have asked before he pressed himself into her, or was that normal? He didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing here.
“C’mon pretty boy, I have to hear a yes,”
“Y–yes!” He whined and ignored the blue light that bathed them both—this is so embarrassing.
“Good boy.”
He squeaked and buried his face deeper into her neck, “oh my god.” This was going to be the death of him—not that he really minded.
Not really nsfw but a crack-ish fic where Knives is trying to kidnap/threaten Vash's s/o and they just tell him "I fucked your brother, shitlips" and he starts arguing with them (they keep saying it) for at least 30 minutes until Vash shows up.
A/N: Okay this just made me burst into laughter, what a chaotic idea. I LOVE it. Sorry it's short but it's my first ever crack-fic
Warnings: MINORS DNI, Explicit mentions of sex, This is Absolutely Not Serious™, please enjoy chaos and Knives getting annoyed
"You will obey me, or else, I will-"
"You'll what? You won't do anything because jokes on you, I already slept with your brother," You immediately cut Knives off, grinning a bit maniacally at him.
Knives' eyes widened and he just stared at you for a moment.
"What?"
"I slept with your brother," You repeated, grinning even more maniacally. Despite you clearly being in a position of vulnerability, tied up and restrained, you were loving this and decided if you were gonna be unhinged, you would push the envelope as far as you could.
"You... what?"
Knives continued to just stare at you, confusion and lack of understanding clear in his pale eyes.
You let out a borderline-unhinged laugh, "What aren't you getting here, buddy? I. Slept. With. Your. Brother. I fucked Vash, which was amazing, by the way! I'm really glad we finally slept together, it took FOREVER for him to get the hint!"
Knives just rubbed his eyes with his hand and sighed exasperatedly, trying to keep himself calm and still maintain his intimidating facade, "As I was saying, you-"
"Fucked Vash, you betcha I did! Many times, actually!"
Oh, this was getting fun. You wanted to see how annoyed you could get Knives, partly out of the want to just frustrate and irritate him, and partly because you knew Vash would definitely be on his way to save you.
Knives scowled at you and just looked down at you as he got close to your face, anger clear in his features.
"Would you shut up about-"
"Fucking Vash? Never. And trust me, after the kind of sex we had? I'm NEVER shutting up about it ever again."
Knives let out an exasperated yell, "Are you kidding me?! Stop talking about sleeping with my brother!"
"Four times, Knives! Four orgasms in the span of ten minutes, I mean, what kind of man can pull that off?! It was impressive, I felt like I had no bones left in my body, and-"
"ENOUGH!"
Knives bellowed loud enough to actually silence for you, but it didn't wipe away the grin on your face. You couldn't help but stifle a laugh as you saw how red Knives' face was and how annoyed he was.
"What, jealous you aren't getting laid, Knives? I must say, the whole 'murdering the human race' vibe you've got going on might be the reason."
You couldn't believe you were pushing this far, but all your shame was out the window now - it was all or nothing at this point.
"I swear, if you don't stop talking about- about-," Knives spluttered angrily, but you immediately interjected before he could get too far.
"What? Sex? Are you so shy that you can't even say the word, Knives?" You teased mercilessly.
"Why are you two talking about sex?"
Both you and Knives turned to see Vash standing there, looking extremely confused and a bit of an amused expression on his face despite his gun being drawn.
"Get them out of my sight," Knives immediately snapped, just about throwing you across the room at Vash, "I give up. I never want to see them again, they're useless to me. Both of you, leave now, before they start talking about... about..."
[ PAIRING ] Vash the Stampede x reader
[ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] I turned this thirst into a fic.
[ SYNOPSIS ] Vash starts emitting sexy pheromones that leave you desperate for his cock.
[ WORD COUNT ] 2.5k
[ CONTENT ] Canon AU, porn without plot, dubcon, vaginal sex, rough sex, size kink, mild dumbification, plantfucking, body horror/weird plant biology, oral sex (m receiving), vaginal fingering, nipple play, Vash has a biting kink, self objectification (does that even make sense?), knotting, creampie, cockwarming.
It was just past midnight. The moons were looming high in the sky, illuminating the desolate land surrounding the town you and Vash had taken refuge in. Your face was pressed against the window, gazing out into the sandy void.
“You see the sky tonight?” you asked.
Vash didn’t bother responding. You turned around and saw his dejected form.
“You’re lookin’ more wistful than usual.”
He was sprawled out on the bed, leaving you little to no room. The lodge you were holed up in only had a single room vacant and of course there was but one measly bed. It was a good enough sized one though; it could definitely provide comfort for you and the gangly mess of a man you called a travel companion.
Vash merely sighed in response to your question and stared up at the ceiling.
His gaze was flat, not a hint of sparkle to his blue-green eyes. His sweet face was held hostage by a delightfully adorable pout. Thoughts of biting down on his bottom lip swirled around you, leaving you flustered and throbbing. You hoped whatever was troubling him wasn’t too serious because otherwise your current state would be disrespectful.
“What’s wrong?” you prodded, taking a seat on the bed. You tried to sound as dry as humanly possible.
He turned his head towards you and gave you the weakest, most pathetic smile. A smile that inspired no faith in what it sought to imply.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he answered sweetly.
You glared at him. “Fine. I—Well… I guess I’m going to sleep.” You paused awkwardly. “Goodnight.”
Vash scooted over, granting you space on the mattress. You crawled into place, not bothering to cover yourself with the musty bedding. It smelled too much like sand.
You rolled onto your side, your back facing Vash. You held yourself in a fetal position in hopes it would keep you warm. In a perfect world you’d just snuggle up next to him and leech off the heat his body seemed to radiate. But you didn’t live in a perfect world; you lived in a sandy, inhospitable land.
“Are you cold?” he asked. Such a perceptive one he was.
“A little,” you lied.
“Get under the blankets then,” he suggested.
“No. They smell like sand and… I don’t know, like, armpit sweat.”
He let out a tiny laugh. “I can’t argue with you there.”
You wriggled your shoulders in discomfort. You wanted to curl up next to Vash like a kitten, but with his current mood it just didn’t seem feasible. The last thing you wanted to do was annoy him so you would have to bear the drafty room on your own. It would only be for a night; you could handle it.
However after about five minutes of shivering in painful silence, you turned over and faced Vash. He was on his side, facing you. His eyes were shut, his dark lashes catching the moonlight streaming through the windows.
You gently nudged him. “Hey.”
He briefly frowned, but stayed asleep.
You nudged him once more, this time much harder.
“Vash!”
His eyes shot open and he jerked back.
“Ouch! Why are you being so aggressive?”
“I have a question,” you said, giving him puppy dog eyes.
“Ask away.”
“Can we spoon, or snuggle, or something?”
“Uh—”
“If you don’t want to, that’s fine. I know you… are like… You’ve got something on your mind and I don’t wanna—”
The radiant grin he gave you calmed your nerves. He pulled you into his embrace, wrapping his arms around you. Your face was buried into his neck. He smelled like freshly washed linens, undercut by a strange earthy, honey-like scent, a creamy florescent. The chills that cursed your body melted away in his presence.
“Thank you,” you muttered, voice muffled by Vash’s sweet skin.
You inhaled deeply and pressed your body up against his. He felt tense, like his muscles were frozen in place.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” you asked.
“It’s stupid,” he whined.
“I don’t care.”
He paused and took a few slow breaths, preparing himself for the question he was about to pose.
“I really like you and—”
“You wanna fuck me, huh?” you asked, your face adorned with a cat-like grin. You had never been so forward before, but something seemed to possess you.
“Of course I do.” He groaned. “But I can’t because… it’s complicated. And intense.”
“Is that supposed to be a deterrent?”
He rolled onto his back and hid his face behind his hands.
“It’s just different, alright?”
You crawled on top of him, unable to help yourself. His aura was whipping you into a frenzy, the lovely scent emanating from his skin growing stronger and luring you in.
“I like different,” you purred.
He gulped. “I should tell you—”
You didn’t let him speak.“I don’t care what happens.”
Vash blushed. “Let me finish.”
You groaned but relented. “Fine. But be quick.”
“I haven’t, uh, you know… in a while. And when that happens my body produces these pheromones that are supposed to attract a mate.”
“A mate?” you asked, voice wavering. You liked Vash and wanted to fuck him, but mate implied somewhat of a large commitment.
“No! Not a mate! It, well, it makes people want to—”
“Fuck you?” you asked, biting down on your upper lip.
He nodded. “And they kinda… drive me crazy too.” He tacked on a nervous laugh. “Sometimes I can’t control myself which isn’t fair because, well, whoever is… uh… they do whatever I want them to.”
Your cunt was growing wetter by the second.
“So that’s why I want you to use me so bad.”
His eyes were wide, almost sparkling. His cheeks were rosy and the scent emanating from him grew stronger.
You felt as if the room was enveloped in a sensuous haze that seeped into your skin, flowing through your veins. It was consuming you, eating away at your thoughts, leaving behind visions of Vash tossing your legs over your shoulders and driving his cock into your weeping cunt. Your body was growing warmer, almost unbearably so. Every inch of you ached for him. You would know no peace until his body was lording over yours and filling you up with his cum.
“I just.” He averted your lingering gaze. “It’s embarrassing. I hate getting like that. When I do all I can think about is pinning someone down and fucking them until they can’t see straight.”
“That sounds amazing,” you said dreamily.
Your manner of speaking was much more provocative than it usually was. Your tongue seemed to linger on the letters, leaving each one coated in a honey-like tone. There was almost a hint of a tumultuous moan when you said “aammmaaaaaziiingg.”
Vash looked uncomfortable, but willing. His hands were gripping the sheets as if he was holding on for dear life.
“I know you want me,” you teased, rocking your hips against his. “I’m not lying when I say you can do whatever you want to me. You need it. I know you do.” You cupped his face in your gentle hands. “Let me help you. It’s what I’m here for.”
He laughed. “It’s not, but…”
“Hush,” you said, grabbing a hold of his cock.
It was swollen, begging for release.
You lowered yourself down and pulled down the soft, worn cotton pants he liked to sleep in. His cock sprung up, standing completely upright. The tip was engorged and pink. You rubbed it with the pad of your thumb and watched as Vash winced. His brows knitted together in ecstatic agony.
A few thick veins snaked around his shaft. You ghosted your fingers over them and reveled in his desperate whines. You looked up at him with starved eyes, darkened by your devotion and desire. You ran your tongue along the underside of his shaft. You grabbed ahold of his cock and stroked it while you rolled your tongue against the tip, savoring the sweet taste of his precum.
He let out a low groan as you pumped his leaky cock. He placed his hand on the back of your head and gently pushed down. You dropped your hand and decided to let your mouth do the work.
Vash eased your head further down, until the entirety of his length filled your mouth. Spit was trickling from the corners of your mouth and tears crept out from the corners of your eyes. He began to thrust, sending the tip of his cock into the back of your throat. You were steadfast and breathed through your nose, fighting your gag reflex.
“Your mouth fe—feels so good,” he stammered.
You placed your hands on his muscled thighs to push yourself off of his cock, but you felt what appeared to be downy feathers sprouting from his skin. It threw you off for a moment before you remembered what you wanted to say.
“Wait until you feel my pussy,” you bragged.
His eyes almost seemed to glow. He gave you a boyish smile before pushing you onto your back with a swiftness that left you in awe. His hands wandered down your body, pawing at your clothes, desperately trying to take them off. Your body felt electric as he undressed you. Each time his warm, slender fingers grazed your skin your body pulsed with delight.
He kissed your neck before letting his sharp canines graze your tender skin. You hummed in delight, and laced your fingers through his silky hair. He rutted up against your body, the tip of his cock teasing your clit. You whimpered every time it made contact.
He left a trail of kisses down your neck and chest, stopping at your breast. He flicked his tongue against your nipple. He sucked on it, holding it between his soft lips. You relished in the sound of him lapping away. You held onto his shoulders, feeling spiny quills erupting from his scapulae.
“Vash,” you whimpered. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t respond. The quills from his back grew longer and denser. You pricked your finger on one of the sharp tips. You winced in pain and moved your hand down to the small of his back. You watched as the spiny quills became more feather-like. They were pale and iridescent and they left you transfixed. They were so beautiful. They soon covered his back and made their way down his arms. You ran your hand down the length of them. They were soft and sleek, like nothing you had ever experienced before.
“So pretty,” you muttered.
Vash lifted his head from your breast.
“Hm?”
A cluster of eyes has formed in the middle of his forehead. It disturbed you briefly, but the feeling of his cock throbbing against your thigh was enough to make you forget about it.
“Nothing, nothing,” you said, stroking his cheek.
You kissed him, pushing your tongue past his teeth. He held you close and you felt like your body was melting into his. You wanted to become a part of him. He slid his fingers into your cunt, spreading apart your folds. You groaned in frustration. His fingers weren’t enough. You needed his cock.
“Please just fuck me,” you whined, breaking the kiss.
He looked up at you with all of his dazed eyes and wordlessly nodded. He slowly guided his cock inside you. You gasped as your cunt stretched around it. You buried your face into his neck, hoping to mute your cries of pleasure. His thrusts were gentle and deliberate. You could feel that he was holding back.
“Is it too much?” he asked, planting a kiss on your forehead.
You shook your head. “More.”
He gave you a concerned look. “More?”
“Yeah. Fuck me like I’m a whore.”
Vash nearly choked on his own spit.
“C’mon,” you purred. “You know you want to.”
“I can’t. It’ll be too much.”
“My body can take it.”
He frowned. “I could really hurt you.”
“I like it when it hurts,” you said, tightening your cunt around his cock. You kissed him again and held his bottom lip between your teeth. “I’m your toy. You can do whatever you want to me.”
Vash looked at you, holding your gaze, clearly weighing his options. Once he made up his mind an impish grin made its way across his face and he lifted your legs over his shoulders.
His thrusts were significantly more intense than they were previously. He drove his cock into your cunt with a fervor you had never experienced. His cocktip pushed up against your cervix, sending a sharp sensation to your core. You became a panting, moaning mess. You were falling apart at the seams, your body as limp as a doll’s. Vash was able to manipulate your body with ease, essentially folding you in half, leaving your knees close to your face.
You looked up at him as his wings spread out, nearly engulfing you. It was hard to believe this was the same Vash you wandered the desert with. You never would have thought the doughnut eating dork could be so feral. You knew he wasn’t a human, but his true nature being so alien never occurred to you.
As he fucked your limp body into the mattress, you felt your orgasm begin to bloom in your stomach. Your breathing became labored and all you could think about was coming all over his cock.
“You’re close, aren’t you?” he growled.
“Uh-huh,” you moaned.
He picked up the pace, his thrusts growing more and more frantic. The room was filled with a symphony of his grunts and whimpers. You were lost in his presence, completely enamored and consumed by it. Your vision blurred and you saw nothing but white as you came. A deluge of fluids dripped from your cunt and coated his cock. You felt like you had ascended to heaven, leaving No Man’s Land in the dust.
Vash continued to thrust as his cock swelled inside you. Spurts of his slippery cum filled your cunt. He exhaled deeply and allowed your legs to fall to the side and laid down on top of you. The two of you tried to catch your breath and let the rapture you were entangled in fade away.
“I’m sorry,” he said bashfully, lifting himself up.
His cock was still buried inside you.
“Why…” You struggled to find your words. “Why are you… sorry?”
“Because! I didn’t want you to ever see me like this. I look like a freak.”
You ran your hand along his wings and made an effort to make eye contact with the cluster of ones on his forehead.
“I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“You’re just saying that because you're high off my pheromones,” he scoffed.
You giggled. “Maybe. But you’re still very pretty.”
You rubbed the short feathers that had sprouted along the apples of his cheeks. He sighed in relief and nuzzled his face into your neck. His cock continued to throb inside you and likely would for a while. You didn’t mind though. Laying under Vash, shielded by his wings from the harsh world outside, was all you could want in such a harsh and unforgiving world.
Once again, his golden goody-two-shoes older brother decided to shirk his responsibility of being a father and dump the overexcited, disgustingly bright-eyed crown prince on him for the day. And not only that, it had to be today of all days - a rare day where you were free from picking up Crowleys’ slack, where the loudmouthed, nattering extras that always followed you were otherwise preoccupied (and bribed to bugger off with a bag full of tuna), where he was certain he’ll spend the day in bed with you right next to him.
But no. Just like with everything else in his miserable existence, his dreams were crushed and he had to spend the day playing caretaker to his nephew instead of wrapped up with you. What’s worse was that, you’d decided to carry the pint-sized load off of his back and gave your undivided attention to the cub when it should have been rightfully his. How he hated that selfless nature of yours, that sweet, caring, gentle nature that would make you look at anyone that wasn’t him with that loving gaze, that would make you brush your fingers through Cheka’s golden orange curls the same way you would Grim’s fur or the stray cats you’d find around campus or any other being instead of his mane.
He hated just how loving you were, how your eyes could see the beauty in everything.
How, now that it’s late at night, and he’s closed his eyes and pretended to sleep in his attempt to actually get some shut eye and so that the little hairball would quit bothering him but Cheka just continues yapping.
Even in the darkness under his eyelids, he could feel you cast a worried look his way from the spot where his bed sags a little.
“Hey Cheka,” your sweet, dulcet voice (which is currently being used to please his nephew and not sooth him to sleep with the sweet nothings it usually does) pipes up, “how about I tell you a bedtime story from my world?”
“A bedtime story?!” Wow, even with his eyes closed he could see the stars coming out of his nephew's eyes, “yes please!”
Once the little cub has settled into bed, he asks you, “do you know any stories from your world with lions in them?
“Any ones with lions? Hmm, well, I suppose I could tell you about Narnia but I think you might be a bit too young for that and - wait,” you punctuated your words with a snap of your fingers, “I know a short one. There was this man called Aesop who wrote these short stories called fables.”
“What’s a fable?” Cheka asked, his words covered in that innocently curious lilt that all six year olds seemed to have during every occasion Leona wished they wouldn’t - and that was all of them.
You, however, seemed to have much more patience than him, “A story with a moral in them. Like, always be honest, or share, or work together, that sort of thing. I had a book of them when I was younger and I really enjoyed reading them.”
Figures. Of course, the shining beacon of sickeningly polite goodness grew up with such stories. He would’ve teased you for that but he had a child who he’s still trying to convince he was asleep.
“That sounds so cool, Aunty Y/N! Will you tell me more?”
“Of course, I will,” he can hear your smile, “but I’ll tell you them later, okay. Now, it’s time for you to rest.”
“Okay, Aunty Y/N.”
“Alright so,” you clear your throat, “there was once a lion that lay asleep in his den. A shy little mouse came upon him and in her fright she ran away, only whilst doing so she accidentally ran over his head, waking him up.”
“Oh no,” Cheka gasped, “that lion is going to be so angry if he wakes up.”
Oh, so the little hairball does have a brain after all.
“You’re right. Furious that he had been woken up, the big lion slammed a paw down on the tiny mouse and grabbed her by the tail. Holding her up, he growled at her,” here you made your voice noticeably deeper, trying to imitate a gruff growl, ““How dare you wake me up! I am the king of beasts and anyone who interrupts my slumber deserves to die! I shall kill you and eat you!””
It took everything within Leona to not burst into laughter at your adorable imitation of a ‘big scary lion’. It’s a voice you’ve used before whenever you tease him, playfully repeating the words his old self would have said to you, and it’s one that he’s rather fond of.
He loves and respects you, Herbivore, and he’s the first to attest to your formidability and capability - even though you have the annoying tendency to not only blur the line between bravery and reckless stupidity but also play skipping rope with it - but intimidating you are not.
“This scared the terrified mouse even more. Shaking with fear, she begged for him to let her go,” you make your voice higher at this part, squeaking in a way that oddly suited you, in Leona’s not so humble opinion, ““please, your majesty, I beg of you, please don’t eat me. It was only a mistake and if you let me go I’ll be sure to repay you. If you spare my life one day, I might even save yours.””
“The lion looked at the tiny creature and laughed, amused at how such a small mouse could ever be of use to an animal as powerful as him, “You? Save me? How absurd. You’ve made me laugh and put me in a good mood so I shall be generous and let you go.”
“Thank you, your majesty, thank you,” the mouse squeaked as she was put back on the ground, before scurrying away as fast as fast as her little legs could carry her.”
“Yay, so the mouse is free.” Cheka giggled.
“He is,” you said, “but there’s still more left. A few days later, the lion was prowling around when out of nowhere he was caught in a hunter’s net. Try as he might, he couldn’t get out of it. He tossed and turned, roaring angrily as he struggled to escape.”
“Wait, so now the lion’s in trouble. How’s he going to get out?” Cheka asked in worry.
“You’ll see. Hearing his cries, the mouse followed the sound, recognising it from the lion he met earlier.
“I have to help him,” she squeaked as she scampered towards him.”
Upon seeing the lion in the net, she said, “hold still your majesty, I’ll get you out!”
And she quickly started to nibble on the ropes with her sharp little teeth, biting until all they broke apart. It wasn’t long until the lion was free.”
“So the mouse saved him. Was it because the lion helped him earlier?”
“It certainly was Cheka. “Thank you, little mouse,” the lion said, “I laughed at you and didn’t think you could ever help me but you saved my life.”
“It was my turn to help you.” The mouse replied, ”never forget that even a creature as small as a mouse can help a lion.”
And that’s the end,” you say.
“Thank you, Auntie Y/N, I really enjoyed that. Do you think the lion and mouse became friends after that?”
“You are very welcome, Cheka. I think they did. They did help each other, after all. Now I think it’s time to go to sleep.”
And once you were sure that the crown prince was asleep, you made your way next to your boyfriend, running your fingers through chestnut locks, “did you enjoy that little story, Leona.”
He opens his eyes to see your endeared smile. Rolling over so that he could wrap his arms around your waist he muses, “it seems awfully familiar don’t you think? A scared little herbivore wakes up a sleeping lion and ends up saving him later.”
“I’ll have you know, Your Highness, that I was never scared of you. Even when you were a rude old brute who threatened to knock out one of my teeth. And I’m certainly not little.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.”
He pulls, letting you flop down on his bed beside him so that he can spoon you.
“Sweet dreams, little mouse,” he kissed your forehead, “I hope you know that I don’t ever intend on letting you go. Not after you helped in ways you could never even imagine.”
And so the lion fell asleep, holding the prey who rescued him from the confinement of his past safely in his arms.
cw: vil being depraved, suggestive/mildly explicit descriptions 🧎♂️
Vil has been surrounded by beautiful people his entire life: actors, models, artists. He’s let his gaze rake over them, felt his cheeks heat and a flush of desire take hold of his body. But even then, it was never about them. It was about him, about his own desires.
When he looks at you, Vil knows it isn’t about him. This thing he feels for you, it’s inevitable and external. You’re ordinary, but there’s something about you that he can’t quite place. Something that draws his eyes back to your form, average in every way, but riveting through the lens of his own gaze.
It’s perplexing and thrilling all at once; you’re so different, so real compared to the people he’s grown up around. You never hide any part of yourself, even the ones others find distasteful, refusing the mask most people cling to with their lives.
There’s some part of him, a disgusting, depraved part, which enjoys seeing the ugliness, the worst parts of you on display. He should turn away like the others, to take his eyes from you, instead of revelling in it like he does.
In both himself and others, Vil can’t help but hate anything but perfection; he finds it vile, revolting to notice the cracks and the faults in the mirage. But you’ve never been an illusory trick; there’s no shattering of a facade that’s never existed, no mask to be pulled off, no portrait that’s better than reality ever could be.
You’re so far from what he’d have described as ‘his type’ in the celebrity interviews he’s asked to do, laughing with the host and listing the attractive qualities of beauty, grace, discipline, and charm.
You’re none of those; neither conventionally beautiful nor charismatic. You don’t even try to better yourself, to become the best version of you. Maybe because you already are, and the world simply isn’t ready for it.
Because how could you, in all your messiness and vulnerability, be anything less than perfect.
Vil can’t decide if he should be nauseous at his strange tastes, or if he should feel utterly enlightened; is he the only one to appreciate true beauty, or the disgusting pervert getting off on your depravity?
As he looks down at you, flushed and panting beneath him, he thinks that he should feel appalled. Your look utterly unkempt: your hair tousled and thrown around wildly, your body twitching and positioned awkwardly, your face relaxed in a rather unflattering expression.
Instead of revulsion, a pang of desire stirs in his gut.
TW: Detailed Gore, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Sexual Assault [Not by Michael], Slightly Possessive Michael, Protective Michael, Mature Audience only!
A/N: Requested by my bestie @prettywhenibleed! I really hope you enjoy this and it was an absolute pleasure to write this for you!! Love you, my favorite slasher whore! ❤️ This isn't my best work, I'm afraid, forgive me.
The Smith's Grove Sanitarium operated according to a schedule that was consistently set in motion without interruption. No authorized doctor employed by the sanitarium, however, would have foreseen this. Medical specialists thought they were completely familiar with Michael Myers' behavior. He was docile and kept to himself, despite being the most dangerous and threatening patient in the hospital.
But if you left him alone, there was a chance he would treat you in a similar fashion. The sole exception would be if touching his masks or otherwise bothered him. Even being among other patients was something he never enjoyed.
You were a new patient, recently exiled from society and your family because of your dreadful infatuation with fire and burning objects of interest. Your arrival left the building in absolute shock. On your first day, you were assigned to the recreation room. When you entered the room, your initial instinct was to walk over to the largest and most dangerous man within the sanatorium while grinning brightly. You only watched him work on a paper mache mask while standing over his hunched figure in the corner of the room, his hospital-approved supplies scattered along the table.
You thought the colors were stunning, which you happily expressed.
As a precaution against Michael harming you, guards stood by the recreation room's entrance wielding batons. Michael, on the other hand, did the exact opposite, giving you a cursory glance before grunting and slackly pointing for you to sit next to him.
It was like you and Michael had your own timetable inside the sanitarium, and this went on for the next few months without fail. As directed by his psychiatrist, Michael was permitted to create his masks in the recreation area in the mornings. You would follow not far behind and take your normal seat beside him at a table chosen at random, apart from the other patients. You would merely watch him create his masks and ramble about whatever was on your mind. Michael never responded to the conversation, but that didn't stop you from talking to him because he had his own style of doing so without words. You have grown accustomed to deciphering his thoughts from his basic grunts and gestures.
"Hey, Mikey." You said with a smile, taking a seat at your usual spot next to Michael's side, placing your tray of food onto the table.
Michael was in the middle of placing wet paper mache on the face mold for his mask, his fingers caked in colors of paint and residue from the paper mache. He paused for a moment, giving you a small grunt as acknowledgement before returning to his activity.
You smiled more, chuckling at his usual ways of communicating as you watched him craft. You've always been interested in his masks and the variety of patterns he would use for each one. Many of his masks had their own unique qualities. However, you knew to only look, not touch.
"I see you're adding bright colors this time; are those happy pills finally working?" You teased him, nudging him softly with your body.
Michael huffed through his nose, which you learned was his way of chuckling as he shook his head at you. In the past, It took a while, but you had a better understanding of Michael's gestures and emotions than the doctors.
Simply because you treated him like a person, not an experiment.
"Maybe next time then." You replied, turning towards your tray before glancing at his project once more. "You're really good at that, Mikey. You're really talented."
Once again, Michael paused his movements, his stained fingers holding the paper mache while his eyes remained downcast. His fingers twitched before he resumed, and you almost thought you said something wrong.
"I didn't mean-"
You were cut off as Michael grabbed another mold from the table, pushing it in your direction. Your eyes widened slightly as you pushed your tray out of the way as Michael's slow movements brought other materials in your direction.
Still in slight awe, you watched him turn towards you, and your eyes connected through his favorite orange mask. You couldn't help the way your heart skipped a beat at the way his eyes stared into your own, seemingly piercing into your own soul.
The doctors were wrong; his eyes weren't soulless, nor were they black, resembling a massive void of nothingness. They were blue, similar to a clear sky or the glimmering waves of the ocean.
He huffed before pointing a finger at the materials and then towards you. He wanted you to mold with him.
"Thank you, Mikey." You said softly, a bright smile on your face.
When your eyes met Michael's, he was unable to comprehend the sensation in his chest. Usually, when his sight fell on their figures, individuals would tremble or turn away. He wasn't concerned by their fear of the facility's most dangerous patient. He actually benefited from the fear he instilled in the hearts of many who came to the sanitarium.
Yet you didn't...and he liked that.
He liked that you weren't scared of him, speaking to him, or even touching him like you've been these past few months. The thought of you being scared of him made him feel...hollow.
When you started working on your own mask using the materials that were laid out on the table, Michael couldn't help but covertly place a palm on his chest to feel how his heart was refusing to settle down. He almost wanted to groan in annoyance, hating the way he liked being around you and having your attention.
He had been content with his solitude for a long time, He preferred being alone and had been for many years. However, the notion of you leaving him made the murderous itch inside him threaten to resurface.
He decided that he would keep you with him, protect you with everything he has, and extinguish anyone who threatened to ruin that. With darkened eyes, he returned to working on his mask.
On that day, you and Michael became closer.
You weren't born yesterday and you certainly weren't born stupid. Trouble was afoot in the institution and it was either happening under the doctors' noses or they simply didn't care enough to investigate. Over the past week, you would hear feminine screams down the hallway in the women's section of the institution during the late hours of the night. Last night, the screams could be heard two doors down from your room.
The screams and cries began when a new guard was appointed to the institution, supposedly replacing a well-known guard who was at the age of retirement. Due to your paranoia, you would sit on the edge of your bed, watching the door in the chance of someone entering your room when they weren't supposed to.
During the days, you would spend all you could with Michael, hoping that your association with him would make you seem off limits to mess with, or you hoped. Yet, Michael couldn't protect you when the sun went down and the men and women would return to their respective cells on opposite sides of the institution.
Tonight, you were following the same routine, sitting on the edge of your bed and watching the door. Your mind was in shambles, trying to come up with a plan in that chance, that horrid chance of the new guard coming for you. You hoped it wasn't what you were thinking, and for once, you prayed.
God never heard your prayers, and he certainly didn't now, especially when the jingling of keys were heading down the hallway, towards your room.
Michael couldn't sleep and when he couldn't sleep, he would simply pass the time by creating more masks or painting designs onto them. He was sitting at his desk, the surface covered in paper mache, markers, paint, and crayons. He was in the middle of adding a touch of red when he heard the distant sound of screaming.
His annoyance was disguised under his mask as he sighed and tightened his grip on the crayon in his hand to the point that it almost broke in half. He puffed again at the commotion and went on, indifferent to the screams. Perhaps a patient was making a scene during the nightly check-ins.
In order to block out the noises, Michael withdrew within the walls of his mind. It was a way that allowed Michael to escape freely from the confinement of his cell. He would always imagine a life outside the institution, with you. He would imagine the way he would protect you and provide for you. The thought used to sicken himn, but now he enjoyed it, the possibility. The sound of keys jingling, seemingly opening his cage, caused him to pause, though. With a loud crash, the cell door swung open, and shouting could now be heard outside of his room.
"Want some, freak?" The guard asked him in an mocking manner while Michael remained at his desk, his back to the guard. Michael immediately understood what the guard was pulling when he heard the feminine screams and intended to ignore it.
He continued to ignore his surroundings, ignoring the rage building within his chest. The sound of his bed creaking didn't deter him from continuing on with his activity. However, it all changed when the victim screamed one word.
"Michael!"
You.
Your trapped figure on his bed, with your nightgown pushed up so that only your thighs were visible, caught Michael's attention as his head whirled around. Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, which streamed down your cheeks as you sobbed and struggled. His eyes quickly shifted to the guard hovering over you, and he developed tunnel vision instinctively.
A ferocious roar erupts from Michael's mouth and takes hold of the guard by the neck and collar of his shirt, throwing him off balance. In the midst, you shakily brought yourself to a sitting position, fixing the bottom of your nightgown to cover yourself. Your eyes watched as Michael picked up the guard, pinning him to the wall with eerie silence. The man in his grasp was yelling in pain and fear as Michael kept him pinned, his legs dangling in the air.
"L-Let go! Let go, you fucking punk!" The guard cried out.
Michael did not like that, not at all. Without a second thought, Michael hurled him into his desk, his art supplies falling to the ground in a cluster of clangs while the man groaned in pain. Like a predator stalking his prey, Michael's towering form stalked over to the smaller male, his eyes black as night and void of any life or mercy within. His large hand reached out to grab the same red colored pencil,
Michael's next action seemed to be a blur, he body launching onto the guard and stabbing him with the colored pencil, his resiliant strength making the pencil tear through flesh and muscle.
You watched in a sickening twist of fascination and awe, watching as Michael stabbed the guard over and over, leaving no body part untouched, the man;s screams filling the room. Your heart felt warm, knowing that Michael was willing enough to kill someone for you.
Lastly, Michael stabbed him until his chest, stomach, and face was shrouded in punctures, cuts, and wounds. With one last jab, the colored pencil stabbed into his neck, making the man gurgle on his own blood.
"Michael..." You whispered, your eyes taking in his bloodied form as he slowly turned to you, heaving himself up and moving towards you. It was as if he was a trained dog hoping he made his master proud. However, you were nothing of the sort. When he was close enough, you wrapped your arms around him, pressing yourself into his strong form. "Thank you..."
Michael gave a small huff, hesitantly touching your head with his bloody palm, staining your strands with the bodily fluid. Without another word, Michael pushed you away and grabbed your hand, pulling you off the bed and heading towards the door.
"Where we are going?" You asked in confusion, following behind the behemoth of a man down the stark white hallway.
In response, Michael tugged on your hand and you decided to go along with whatever he had in his mind. He saved you after all; even when he didn't have to, he did. It made you feel safe and protected in his presence.
"Alright, Alright." You muttered, your figures turning a corner and out of sight.
Red and white.
Those were the colors you would never forget. The way the walls were coated in blood and bodily fluids of various nurses and guards that laid along the floor in mangled messes.
Michael was strong, very strong. You remembered the way he smashed a guard's skull in with his fingers alone. You shuddered at the thought, crossing your arms and staring at the wall in front of you as you waited for Michael to finish off his last victim. A nurse arriving at the right place at the wrong time as Michael ambushed her, his hands around her throat as he strangled her.
Michael walked over to you, his muffled huffing practically hovering over your ear as he showed you shoes and coat. You stared at the items with a blank expression, wondering what he wanted you to do with these.
He huffed before shaking the items in his hands, motioning the items towards you. You sighed before taking the items with a small smile, throwing on the shoes and coat. You felt the warmth of the fabric soothe your cold figure.
"Thank you..." You muttered softly, looking up at him as he stared down at you.
He couldn't help but think you looked...cute.
He offered you his bloodied hand, which you instantly took and followed him to the exit. You both were finally going to be free and it was all thanks to him.
After a few hours of walking, your feet were beginning to ache and the adrenaline from earlier was wearing off.
After your fifth yawn, Michael stopped in his tracks, turning towards you in the middle of the field. He simply stared at you as you bent forward to rest your hands on your knees.
Michael, I need to rest for a moment. Please my-" Your words were cut off when Michael stormed over to you, grabbing you roughly around the hips, hoisting you into his arms. His arm went around your waist, while the other held your back in a bridal style fashion.
Your eyes widened from his sudden roughness, however you couldn't complain as you basked in his warmth, nuzzling your face in the bloodied fabric of his robe.
"Thank you." You said, closing your eyes and allowing yourself to finally relax for the first time tonight. You didn't notice the way Michael was staring at you in his arms, his darkened eyes filled with something unknown, dangerous...maybe even a little bit of caring.
Silently, he turned and resumed walking through the field, making sure to keep you safe as you began to doze in his arms.
