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guesswhojusttt · 3 months ago

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peace, peace, my love (Aizawa/reader)

Summary:

aizawa is not a good person, but he can try to be. you are not a person at all, but you can pretend to be.

(to those who wish they were a little easier to love)

Read on AO3

In which Aizawa adopts a cat. (You are that cat.)

It's never a bad time to bring a grown man to his knees.

Your nose twitches, smelling the petrichor before it happens. Big fat drops splash onto dry, grey pavement, spreading like stains on a shirt, like ink in a pond, and wet cat fur takes forever to dry, so you dart to the nearest shelter (the word shelter doing a whole lot of heavylifting here).

You huddle beneath a coarse bush, make a home of its sharp brambles and drooping boxwood leaves, the edges eaten away by crawling caterpillars or tiny ants or Japanese beetles. Your claws pick idly at the loose dirt, with its dead leaves and snapped twigs, its sharp rocks and wriggling worms that have made this damp earth their home. It would be so much easier, wouldn't it, to be a worm? You do not have to scavenge and hunt and fight for food- you can simply nibble at the nearest shred of vegetation. If it is cold, you need not seek shelter, merely crawl into the nearest pile of filth. What luxury it would be, wet mud your bed, soft grass your blanket, and all manner of greenery as your feast. No one to adopt you, coax you into a false sense of security, only to replace you and toss you out once they find someone better, someone who gives them everything you never could no matter how had you tried, no matter how you forced yourself to mold and change into anything, anything they desired, but it was not enough, because you were not enough, even when you had warped yourself into a form you did not recognize, metamorphosing yourself at their beck and call-

But, though you feel like one, though you may certainly be treated as one, you are not a worm. So you gather your limbs beneath you and tuck your head below the bush, chin resting on a patch of pillowy leaves, and watch the shoes of the people as they pass. An expensive pair of Nike's or Jordan's or whatever type of shoes high school boys obsessed over these days, pencil-thin, hot pink stilettos all tall and elegant and just a step closer to permanently disfiguring the woman's poor heels, chafed black boots that are well-worn (well-loved, your favorite type of shoes- and thus the type of people who wear them- are those that have clearly seen better days, were once shiny and polished and brand new, but have since been broken in, lost color and shine but are still worn year after year- loyalty, you think, to keep them around instead of replace them. Or maybe this man's just poor and can't afford a new pair, but… you like to think, well. Wouldn't it be nice to be a pair of shoes, kept around year after year, regardless of how you lose whatever was first appealing about you- never tossed out, never abandoned or replaced?)

What kind of life is it, if you spend your days dreaming of a worm's life, fantasizing about being a torn pair of old shoes?

You gaze out from your comfortable perch- this bush is yours, if nothing else is- and you may be parched, you may be starving, you may feel fur and fibers clinging to your ribcage till it caves in, concave chest and nothing else between your skin and bones except the thinnest most breakable layer of tissue- but at least here, you're safe from the oncoming rain. A cute pair of cats all snowy-white and speckled and spackled in cheerful orange dart past, and a little girl tugs on her mama's skirt and eagerly points at them, bouncing on her feet in her dusty-pink ballerina slippers until the mom sighs fondly, reaches into her purse, pours out a water bottle the cats eagerly lap up, nuzzling into the little girl's legs as she giggles and squeals in delight.

Well, of course (you think bitterly), everyone loves a cute kitten. You sigh and burrow your face deeper into your arms, tail flicking irritably. Why are they out so late anyway? Shouldn't the kid be asleep by now? Way past her bedtime.

The familiar pair of scuffed snow boots walks past your bush- this pair of shoes is always home well after most people are, must work a late shift, poor guy- but with your tail still agitating, it rustles the marcescent, withering leaves just a bit, just a touch, almost imperceptibility- you're never one to make much noise, why draw attention to yourself, why incite what'll only hurt you- yet the boots stop short, because of course they do. Of course he has superhuman, doglike hearing, because you truthfully weren't making much noise at all.

(You never do, anymore.

[You know better, now])

The tall figure stoops down, and if he has any regard for how dumb and silly and frankly pathetic he looks, grown-ass man bent in half, hair nearly brushing the dirt as he tries to get on your level- well. This sort of man seems to have no regard for anything, if that lackadaisical, languid, lethargic demeanor is anything to go by. He blinks at you- slowly, slowly now- and you blink lazily back.

He leaves.

Can't say you're surprised. He'd probably thought there was a cute fluffy kitten cloistered in the bushes, had wanted to take sympathy on it and feed it and maybe even pet it a little, but the moment he took a good look at you- matted fur and missing ear and mucusy eyes- he'd regretted having stooped down to inspect the bush to begin with. Well, of course he did. Wouldn't want to risk rabies or ticks or whatever else might be hitchhiking in your hair. You almost can't blame him.

Almost. For such a little thing, you really are full of more hatred than your small body knows what to do with.

You idly bat at a sprouting crabgrass weed, displacing a black ant that had been edging up its stem, when the thick, peeling boots come back, and with them, the foreign, exotic, salivating mouth-watering gourmet heavenly scent of-

Tuna.

No, not the stubby little can with cold watery shreds, but ahi tuna steak. Easily a fat inch thick, juicy and tender and comes-apart-in-your-mouth meat.

Oh. He must've seen the cute twin cats earlier and his old little heart must've softened and he must've wanted to why is he crouching down at your bush again? Are they behind you? No, would've heard. Your one ear hears better than two, really. But, no, neither your eyes nor your ear lie to you- he really is offering you this blue-ribbon tuna steak.

He digs his long index finger into it, peels off a morsel, and plops it down on the cracked curb before you. You're no idiot and make no move to take it. He backs up- five feet, ten feet- and only when he is no longer within grabbing distance do you pounce on it, snatching it up in your jaw and scurrying back to hide in the bush before he can blink.

You down it so quickly you choke. Not even a second to savor the rare, precious, once-in-a-lifetime flavor. You'd squandered your chance to delight in its taste and you'll never again-

He's offering another scrap. backing away- one arm's length, two arm's lengths-

You seize it and dash back into hiding and gobble it up and-

You continue this little song and dance till you've eaten the steak whole.

The next day, you do not perk up when he comes by, nor do you spend your full day awaiting his return. Because you are better than that, and you know better than that, and you know it was a fluke. A one-off encounter, because either he'd been drunk (though your sharp nose had not detected any traces of alcohol) or sentimental (his no nonsense manner does not strike you as the sentimental sort), and you weren't gullible enough, naive enough, foolish enough to really think he'd come by for you again.

And your shoulders do not relax when he sits at the park bench, stretching his long legs out, sighing off the weight of his day. The mini-playground, consisting solely of a small, faded red slide and an airplane spring rider, sits in wood chips which conveniently double as a big old litter box. A grey tabby- one you'd benignly dubbed Thief- scuttles over to the man's boots, its tail winding round his leg affectionately. He droops his large hand down, lets Thief sniff it, scent it, lick it.

You tamp down your envy. You expected this, and you can't be mad about things you knew would happen, right? That's like being mad at the weather for raining after you'd already checked the forecast and chose not to bring an umbrella.

Thief paws up the man's leg to settle on his lap, reveling in the scritches behind his ear and under his chin, leaning into the man's large, warm body.

You shiver under your bush, suppress an aggressive hiss (the time for fighting is long since over, for you. As far as you were concerned, Thief could have him, goodbye and good riddance), and curl your limbs closer, ever closer, around yourself.

It's going to be a long night.

Best you go to sleep now.

Night after night, when the moon is high in the sky or when the sun is just beginning to crawl up from the horizon, he comes back. Night after night, you are still on the waitlist for every homeless shelter within a 50-mile vicinity, and go back and forth between cat and person as if it makes a difference at all.

It would be nice to believe he was looking for you, but really he is just here to play with whatever stray cat is out. So you hide while he feeds fat, big, strong Garfield, and you bristle, because he snatches up any scrap you find before you can even smell it, batting at you and hissing at you or even scratching at you even if you were in the middle of eating something- if he spots food, it's his, doesn't matter whose mouth its currently in- he can and will and does snatch food right from between your jaws, still spit-slick and half-gnawed.

Even the big black cat- almost-panther-like, in size and appearance, but not as strong, or if he was as strong before, he's had it long since beaten out of him. He lopes over with a fluid agility that promise once I was something great, but now, with gunky black stains trickling from the corners of his great big eyes in permanent tear tracks, flinching, just like you, at the slightest sound, jumping, just like you, at the first sign of a motion just a hair too fast, conceding, just like you, to any cat half his size or strength the moment it wanted to steal his food right out from under him.

Yeah. Weak and a little pathetic, just like you. You get him. He's your favorite. You look out for each other, the both of you. All that really boils down to is that he doesn't steal your food and you don't steal his, and if he seeks shelter under your bush, you let him, and if you trail after him, he lets you.

It is the closest thing you have tasted to love. To friendship.

(It is not enough.)

But maybe that is because you are greedy, all-consuming, always wanting more than the little slivers and scraps they toss you. One day someone will extend an itsy bitsy droplet of kindness and you will think this solitary drop is enough to sate years and years of parched mouth and dry tongue, others you go from night to day without a single interaction and back again, and the starvation is back, like it never left, like its only compounded exponentially, worse and worse every day you go without a single moment of affection and-

And the last and only time you've been touched in a way meant not to harm is-

Is-

Is years ago, in that shelter's end of the year catch-and-release program. They grabbed you, vaccinated you against ringworms and parasites, and subsequently released you back into the wild as if you could survive out here.

Well, you're fine. You're all good out here. Just peachy.

The sky breaks open. It's happening less and less, and this worries you. Rain used to be common. Snow used to be common. Now, you're lucky to see even a smattering of snow, it's an unmitigated miracle if there's baker's sugar powdering the streets. Gone are the days of snowballs and snow forts and snowmen, lamenting long-gone snow days where children get to stay home from school and snow so high it drowned the park benches in its crests and dips. The rain is good, yes, in the sense that there'll be plentiful water to lap up when it douses the clefts of the cement, the fissures of the sidewalks, but immediately it only means that this bush isn't enough, the dappled leaves a contented for the water to seep through and soak the dirt at your feet. you scurry to the tall trash cans only to find a family of cats has already made it their home, using the plush, overflowing trash bags- thin and black and shimmery as drips slip down and coat them- as bedding, as shelter from the storm. The pitter-patter of the rain gushes into a torrent, and you dash to the overhang above the doors to the apartment buildings but of course, of course, both Thief and Garfield are already there, albeit on opposite ends since both are too competitive to really get along. Your precious bush is colonized by a drove of rabbits that in any other time or situation would know better than to come here, of all places, where bigger cats like Sushi and Fushi would eat them alive. Stupid, ugly, disease-ridden, tapeworm-carrying, flea-infested furbags, they thump their hind legs and lunge and you really, really don't have the energy to deal with them.

You can weather bad weather. You certainly have before- you are capable of it, more than capable. On one hand, you could probably slip through a train station and take it as your bed for the night, on the other, the last time you did that, someone reported you, so. Cat form it is.

Sure, the life expectancy for stray cats is about a fourth of house cats, but you've adjusted better than most. You're not weak, like the rest of them.

Even if… even if you weren't born into being a stray like some of them are. Even if, once, you'd actually been gullible enough to believe…

But there was no use worshiping that family in your mind. They never appreciated it once anyway.

The man comes back (late, as always), his eyes alighting on you as if he'd been searching for you. As if worried about you. as if. He takes a step towards you. You take three back. He crouches low, makes himself smaller, less intimidating.

He is not any less intimidating than a lion that rears back before it strikes.

You do not want his help. Not because you do not need it- you are not arrogant, nor are you so foolish so as to believe you, or anyone else, is entirely self-sufficient- not even because you do not want it (who would not welcome a warm, dry shelter from the thrashing storm lashing the trees themselves in all their height and grandeur?)- but rather, because you cannot have it.

Not permanently.

Last time you'd actually fallen for it-

So no. You have no interest in letting him warm you and dry you and take care of you only to abandon you the moment the rain stops. What is the point of love if not everlasting? What is the point of letting him give you just a sliver, just a finite taste, of what warmth could be like only to toss you back out like garbage?

No. You will huddle under this tree even as the rain slips through the leaves and douses you. He's getting soaked, too, but those heroic types are always willing to sacrifice small comforts for the greater good. You leap to the lowest hanging branch when he makes to approach you, dig your claws into rough bark, buried in the little crevices and cracks along the wood, skittering and scrambling up the tree to get away from him like a cat possessed. Take the hint, you want to growl, I don't want you. I'm not fine on my own but I'm still better off than I would be with anyone else.

He misinterprets your distaste for fear (it isn't, but of course he is the arrogant sort), and carefully lopes over to the base of the tree, craning his neck up to look at you, blinking the rain out of his bloodshot eyes. He raises one long arm to shield his stubbly face from the onslaught of rain, other hand weaving two long fingers into his stretchy grey scarf- grey, like the overcast sky, grey, like the sheets of rain separating you and him as a thick and much-welcome curtain. He takes another step closer, jaw set as if intending to scale the tree and rescue you, so you arch your back and hiss and do everything a cat does to say go away and leave me alone, but all he does is cock his head in sympathy, making a cooing noise that is so condescending and infantalizing that you'd all but gouge his eyes out were you not set on keeping him as far away as possible, scrabbling up to the next branch, ever higher, the torrent of icy water stabbing through your fur coat and right into your skin, again and again, cold sharp needles battering away at you- the leaves do not protect you at all, the tree swaying in the wind and bending and bowing to the harsh winds. When he realizes that no amount of pspsspsssting is going to bribe you to abandon your safe harbor, he squares his shoulders and straightens his slouch and tightens his grip on his loose grey scarf, tugging at it, winding it-

Then shakes his head, as if thinking better of it.

Instead, he offers his hand. Palm up. Crooks one long finger in a come hither motion.

You snort. Does he really think this would work?

He digs around in his trouser's pocket. Pulls out his phone. Your heat jackrabbits- is he trying to send you to a shelter? Not again not again- you're ready to leap off the tree and take your chances to outrace him, but-

Cats. Yowling. He's pulled up a Play this to attract your cat and make it meow back (works instantly!) video, and … he looks up at you so hopefully, so expectantly, that you almost feel a little bad for the sopping wet cat of a man before you. Almost want to throw him a bone. Rain ricochets off his moisture-wicking raincoat, douses his mop of black hair, stringy strands falling into his face (weathered, less so with age than with weariness). He fishes in his oversized pockets again, replacing his phone with a…

Carton?

CATMILK: TREAT FOR CATS & KITTENS, a cartoon of a bright orange cat heartily licking a milk mustache off its upper lip.

Does he… carry around a carton of milk for cats? Just in case? [1]

Does this man not have hobbies outside of following stray cats like some sort of stalker? [2]

He makes those soft kissy sounds that you know he thinks attract cats but really just make him look like a silly old man.

He's certainly tall enough, long-limbed enough, that if he really wanted to, he could just scale the tree and seize you himself, so it's beyond you why he's going to such bizarre, near-comedic lengths to lure you down. His pants are plastered to his legs by now, the rain sticking his clothes to his skin and isn't he cold, even in those thick boots and even with the turtleneck peeking out beneath his coat- it is the sort of wetness where it not possible to get any wetter, a drowned rat in a gutter. (You've seen and eaten enough of them to know.)

Put this poor idiot out of his misery, you huff, give him what he wants and then he'll leave you alone. As you always are. As you always should be.

You rear back on your haunches, slowly, slowly, and his eyes widen so earnestly that he must be a child seeing Santa is real, spreading his arms wide to catch you.

Well, fine.

Placate him and he'll go away soon enough.

You leap off the tree, claws out, head first, the branch left trembling from your jump off it, and he does not startle, does not react- you think dully, this must be a man who is used to catching people, to adjusting to unpredicted weights, permanently prepared. He draws his inky rain coat open, letting his sweater get rain-splattered in the process, tucking you into his jacket and bundling you close and tight before speed-walking to his home, kicking up sprays of water and splashing up perfectly good puddles in his haste to get home.

No.

To get you home.

He treks up the stairs, water-sodden boots squelching with every step, strong arm keeping you tucked closer than you think is strictly necessary, and you hold your breath and remind yourself the other shoe will have to drop.

He will release you back into the wild. It's what they always do. He's accomplished his heroic endeavor of getting you out of the cold wet rain, and as soon as the storm ceases, he'll be done with his task and done with you and honestly, honestly, you pray it stops raining right this second so you can leave. Before you learn his name or his mannerisms or what his phone-

His phone, blaring the generic, cheerfully chirping ringtone he apparently never bothered to change- he's pulling it out and you avert your gaze, not wanting to know his lockscreen, his phone case, how new and shiny and expensive it is or isn't. You tuck your small head further into his thick, dense jacket, an action he mistakes for affectionate nuzzling when really it's to cotton your ears with the fabric so you don't hear his conversation- or so that it's at least muffled. Don't want to know the low cadence of his voice, don't want to learn the slow, steady way he speaks as he sighs, "I'm not- no, Hizashi you are always pulling some- you can survive one night without me. Yes you can. Yes you can. Well if you die that's a you problem. To say I would laugh at your funeral is to imply I'd bother showing up to begin with. Mm-hm. I'm just busy right now. Yes it's more important than you, but that's not a very high bar. It's not really canceling plans because I never wanted to go anyway. No I don't. No I don't. You and Nemuri need adult supervision? Can't argue with that. I'm tired. I want to sleep. We'll go out for drinks- sooner if you have a say in it, later if I can avoid it. I said I want to sleep. Good night. I'm hanging up now. Yes I am. Yes I-"

And he really does hang up. Huh.

What a shame, too. The more time he spends talking to his friend the less time he'll spend bothering you, so it would've been in your best interest if he'd kept the conversation going just a little longer.

It's better when that sonorous, canorous timber isn't directed at you. When you can't feel it resonating from his chest into yours, can't feel his lungs steadily expanding into all of you, all of you, consumed by all of him. His rain-slicked coat may have been all rubbery and wet on the outside, but on the inside, where he had stowed you away? A fuzzy, dense fleece lining blanketed you on one side, his cable-knit wool sweater blanketing you on the other. All droopy and roomy, the shapeless collar sagged so low that your little head nestled right against his cool, smooth collarbone. The more your soggy fur presses into his sweater, the more he stinks of wet wool and wet cat and wet mud, but he only chuckles fondly.

"You stopped thrashing when i was on the phone. Does my talking help calm you down?"

No, no, no, no you do not need to hear more of that all-encompassing, steady-as-a-mountain voice. You squirm and convulse in a bid to pry yourself out of the cotton cocoon he has entrapped you in, but all that does is confirm his theory that he needs to soothe you.

Like some child.

Like some pet.

But you are not his pet. You are just a stray, that he happened to stumble across once or twice, and he had nothing better to do (he canceled plans with his best friends to stay here with you), and the moment he's done he'll toss you out and it'll be better, be safer, not to get attached to something you'll lose before you even have it.

It's not worth it, the way a cut takes only a second to stab into you but takes weeks, takes months, takes years, takes forever takes eternity takes infinity to heal and even then, even then, it leaves a scar behind to mar you; you can't risk that, not again, not again, not again-

He grunts, one large hand still cupping your head as the other fishes for his keys, jingle-jangling against each other as he unlocks the apartment door, kicking off his waterlogged boots, elbowing the door shut and flicking the light switch on. Warm, orange light bathes his apartment in a dreamy glow- the sleek wood paneling leading to a shaggy carpet, the overcrowded desk shoved to one corner, the stuffed-full bookshelf against the white wall- all so toasty and cozy and promising, awash the hazy orange glow.

Keeping a firm arm around his chest to cradle you close, as if scared you'll slip away the second he loses hold of you, he hushes and soothes you through every action he takes: his keys clink when he plucks them down onto his kitchen counter, shedding his rain coat, shaking off the water the way a cat shakes water off its fur and hanging it on the hook at the door. For just a moment, he pauses, back slumped against the wall as if his legs can no longer carry the weight of him- sighing, running a hand over his face, the quiet, irregular drip-drip-drips of his hair and clothes puddling at his feet- composing himself. Catching his breath. His heartbeat thrums slowly into yours- steady, steady, steady.

The man hooks a thumb through his thick grey socks, peeling them off, toes over to a long, pillowy, yellow sleeping bag, and eases you in.

A sleeping bag…?

Oh, shoot. You'd been taken in by a poor man. He'll shake stale Cheerios from a tattered box for you and call it dinner.

Well.

It would still be a kindness, and you would be grateful for it just the same.

You shuffle, kneading into the plush, well-used, well-loved fabric-

No, no, no. See, this is exactly what you were hoping to avoid. Now you know things about him. Things like- he has kept this sleeping bag around for a while, he has not replaced it, he has tossed it into the washer hundreds of times and it has lost its color and whatever deluxe softness it once held, whatever sleek shiny shades it had on the outside, and yet he has kept it, he has not thrown it out in the same way he has not replaced that scuffed pair of boots, he has used them both till it's molded to the contours of his body, and look, his phone's not new either, not at all, he does not throw things out on a whim, doesn't just abandon- he keeps, he keeps, long after the object is outdated and expired and obsolete, and there is no good in knowing any of this at all, because all this does is inflate a bubble of false hope, that you too could be a constant, something to keep around like a worn-out pair of well-trodden shoes-

You close your eyes. It is the only way to stop observing things.

Again, the man does not understand you. He doesn't- he doesn't get it. Doesn't get you. Delighted, babbling like a fool in love, "aw, you gettin' comfy, kitty? All cozied up? Good, make yourself at home. Oh, I know, you were just so cold and scared outside, huh? Brave girl. Such a brave girl. Trust me, you don't have to be scared, anymore. Wanna get a little warmer? Yeah? Of course I'll turn on the heat, just for you. Such a sweet little kitten."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

The dull rumble of the gas kicks on, heat seeping into the apartment like a nice hot shower after a snowy day, cradling you in its warmth till staying awake and sober is an active effort. The ambiance does not flood, but trickles into, your ears: feet shuffling along cool floor, fridge pops open, rustling, fridge snaps shut, tap water gushes, tap water off, glass clinks on the counter, cabinet opens, soft rattling, cabinet closes- the quiet, cyclic sounds of his pitter-pattering about the kitchen could've damn near soothed you to sleep, a homespun, home-baked, homemade lullaby of just- of just- someone going about their day. Someone going about the meniality of life, the same humdrum of a routine smoothed and honed and rounded the way a river sands down a stone till it's a comforting weight in your palms… when was the last time you had a place to sleep with no shouting, no crying no clanging no yelling no slamming-?

Okay, fine.

Just for tonight. You'll sleep here, just for tonight, just to weather the storm, just to dry off, and in the morning when he opens the door to go to work, you'll slip out when he does, and part ways as unlikely friends. [3]

Which unfortunately means, no matter how hungry you are, you can't take his proffered gifts. Normally you have no problem accepting help- you need food, and would never pass up a free chance to eat without neither cats nor people competing and drawing blood for each and every bite- but to eat now is- well-

It's the basic Greek laws of xenia, yeah? Same for the Islamic hospitality rules. If you have a guest, you feed them; if you are a guest, you eat and be merry and thank your gracious host. To do otherwise is to say I am not your guest; I am merely a traveler, passing through; I will not sit at your table, I will not drink your wine: I will not sleep under your roof and bid you a good night, and you will not wish me safe travels and thank me for brightening your day.

We are strangers. Let us remain so.

So when you hear the sharp snap of a metal can, when the salty tang of sardines permeates the air, when he places it reverently at your feet like a worshipper, you do not grant it so much as a cursory sniff.

"Some cats don't like seafood, right? Or is it that you don't like wet food?" He scuffles off only to come back with a bowl full of cat kibble and oh God this is not a cat bowl this is a human bowl. The man is using his own dishes to feed you. Come to think of it, that was just a normal can of packed sardines, not a can of cat food. Is he just feeding you whatever he has in his own pantry? No, the dry food for sure smells like bonafide cat food. Still. His own bowl. His own food.

Oh, well, now the reason you're eating isn't just to reject hospitality and show him you're not one to keep around, it's because he's this poor broke sorry man who's sacrificing his own meals to feed you. Poor thing, going hungry for a sorry stray. To accept his kindness would be a cruelty. It's okay, you would tell him, if you didn't have the basic social decorum that says if you turn back into a human now he'll freak out because no Quirk justifies tricking someone into providing you with food and shelter and warmth.

Because no matter how much you had fought tooth and nail to keep him from bringing you in, no matter how much he'd been the one to insist, it still felt like you'd… manipulated him. Coerced him, somehow. But there was no room for guilt: you become a cat specifically because… well. People are… kinder, to cats. Still cruel, still overlook them, still do not save them or take care of them or adopt them or love them, but no one is going to call the cops on a famished, bedraggled, ugly cat the way they would on a famished, bedraggled, ugly woman. A homeless person is a threat. A homeless animal is a tragedy.

So you give thanks for your Quirk because at least, as a cat, your stomach is smaller, your needs lesser, and no one's going to think you're some scary, smelly drug addict who needs to be reported for disturbing the peace (sleeping on a park bench).

You nudge the can back to him and hope it conveys, I'll just scavenge for mice and birds outside, so don't you worry about me! You'd leave out the part that normally the moment you get your grubby little paws on a scrap, every other cat within a 50-mile radius can somehow smell it and pounces so viciously that you're left without even the bite you'd held between your teeth. Still, go mix it with mayo, shred some lettuce, wrap it up in some tortilla, you skrunkly old man. Judging by the broken red capillaries all over the whites of your weary eyes, you need this boost more than I do.

But he does not understand you, just as you do not understand him, not even a little bit, not even at all (why is this penniless old man giving up the last of his food to feed a bony old cat, you wonder, and do not know that he is neither penniless nor that old and has a whole stockpile of catfood and cans and bags and pouches specifically on the luck occasion that he comes across a cat, you do not know that being an underground hero and a teacher at the most prestigious school in the county means his pockets are lined with far more than lint and cobwebs, you do not know, you do not know-)

Just as he does not know you. He clicks his tongue, "picky girl, huh? Princess wants to be spoiled? Want a Fancy Feast Classic Pate ™? Want a Churu Puree Lickable Treat™? Come here," and he does that fake-groan thing humans do where it's not a grunt of actual effort but they exaggerate it like it is, scooping you back up into his arms- doesn't he care that wet cat is getting all over his perfectly good nice sweater?- and you squirm viciously, struggle and writhe, but all he does is bring you to the open pantry, holding you up to eyelevel with a dizzying, colorful array of options.

Oh, bless his heart. This man's a cat mom with no cat.

Well, this explains everything.

Big brand names and wand toys and bags- not just of kibble but of litter, a scoop, a cat bed- why does this man stockpile like it's going to be a damn apocalypse. An apocalypse where specifically cats are in danger, because you know damn well he doesn't have this much in the fridge.

You dig your claws into his arm and use the split second of distraction to leap out his arms, bound over to the fridge, because you've gotta know. you can just tell he's the sort to come home at midnight, open the fridge to nothing but leftover take out (from a restaurant he didn't even want to go to but was dragged along), sniff the sticky rice, decide it's maybe decent and probably won't give him food poisoning, and eat without bothering to heat it up in the microwave.

"Refined taste? Sorry, sweet little kitty, I don't have much to offer you in the ways of human food." He pops the sleek black fridge door open, and-

And-

Oh, you were so right it sort of hurt a little.

One- because you are so set on not knowing this man, (the more you know the more you get attached is how it works you see), but damn if he isn't easier to read than a picture book with big bold neat letters.

Two- because this sorry excuse of a man was just much in need of help as you. If anything, having you around might encourage him to buy himself some food, as it had already pushed him to turn on the heat (would he had just let the apartment stay cold if it wasn't for you being here?), to go to bed at a reasonable time and to come home earlier to take care of you.

You could do him some good, you think, but that is an arrogant thought, and a condescending one to boot, so you squash it down along with the worse, rotten, traitorous he could do me some good. You give a disdainful sniff to the low fridge shelf, carrying the impressive feat of no less than half a bottle of soy sauce and a yellowing onion and a dented, open can of sparkling water that you just know had gone stale and should've been tossed out weeks ago and-

You've been here too long. Getting too comfortable with each other. What are you doing, sniffing up his fridge? Fuck's sake!

Piss him off.

You scale the pantry with its veritable cornucopia of feline delights, and it is not hard to send everything toppling over like a collapsing tower, to wreak havoc and destruction upon his frankly creepy shrine, because otherwise- and you can hear it so clearly, an impartial, detached observer spectating the actors as they take their stances upon a stage when you've already memorized the script right to the bitter, yet crudely obvious end:

"I'd love to adopt you, but I'm so busy with work; I just wouldn't have the time to give you the attention you deserve: I'm barely home as it is." And it would be true, because you always see those scuffed boots trudge home when the moon is bright, or even when the dawn has first begun to break. It wouldn't be a half-baked lie or a flimsy excuse.

(It wouldn't make it hurt any less.)

"You have a very special place in my heart, and you always will, but I'm just not in a place in my life where I can adopt a pet."

"Why is she in a room by herself? She got behavioral problems or somethin'? I'm not interested in an aggressive animal."

"It's just that I already have all the cats I need and besides what if you don't get along with them?"

"I'll still visit you. Of course I will."

(She did not).

"I wish I could, but my mom's allergic-"

"She won't let me pick her up."

"What's wrong with her face?"

"My dorm doesn't allow-"

"Not very friendly, is she?"

"I'm looking for a lapcat, but this one's been cowering and hiding in the corner like I'll kill her-"

"Can you introduce me to a better-?"

"Way too shy-"

"I'm sure she'll find her forever home, but I'd prefer a-"

"No, really, what's with her face?"

"She bit me!"

"We'll find you your person eventually," the shelter worker would promise (lie), every time, "I'd even adopt you myself, but-"

Whatever. People don't owe loyalty to strays; only to the housepets waiting for them at home, the ones they keep around for years and years till one of them dies and then they grieve carry a piece of their pet with them forever because they love them, they love them, and people can certainly be nice to strays like you, and feel sorry for you, and wish they could find a home for you, and then walk right past. They do not love them (you), they are no more loyal to them than to a trampled weed. Yes, they might see it once upon an idle stroll, might peer at it closely on their way home, but that is the start and end of the relationship.

It would… save you both a great deal of time and trouble to just nip it in the bud.

Yet even as the metal cans clatter to the ground and your claws rip into a paper bag of kibble, waterfalling onto the yellowed kitchen tiles you realize, as you exert every manner to make him turn you out sooner rather than later- so you can only feel a smug, I-knew-it-all-along satisfaction, rather than a hollow I thought this time was different pang- that the stockpile of food is assorted in the sense that- that- with a marked difference in expiration dates and brands and states of being, old and new alike, that he must've-

You can see it now. Every time he goes grocery shopping, indulging his curiosity, making a harmless little impulse purchase, flitting into the pet food aisle, perusing the shelves and grabbing one or two things just in case, for the somedays and what ifs and hopefullys, and repeating this ritual every single time he ever goes to a store until they build up into whatever the hell it is he's got going on here. You had sat in your bush a thousand times over, had watched him follow strays in his free time (so you know what he is doing is not out of kindness nor the goodness of his heart, he just has nothing better to do with his life. Probably works a miserable job with shitty hours and shittier pay and this is the only part of his day that gives his life any real meaning, makes him feel like he's useful), watched from the safety of your foliage as he extends an arm out to offer up packets of pate and cans of carp, sprawled on the park bench, rubbing the heel of his palms into his bloodshot eyes and sighing, long and heavy and aching, days- nights- when your nose tingled with the tang of blood, and what kind of job is this, that leaves him bloodied and scratched up and dented like an old beaten-up car?

So you understand that taking care of strays is just his passion project, and yes, yes, you can understand that. Respect it, even. Appreciate it the way a parishioner appreciates a bite of sacrament.

Just…

You need so much more than one bite.

(I know love does not come easy.)

You don't want to be someone's charity case, yeah? It's a little embarrassing. At the same time-

You do not have that sense of pride everyone else seems to, the sort that makes them say we're not taking free food and I'd rather work three jobs than accept handouts and I want not your pity but your respect. Can't relate. You would love to pitied. If someone felt sorry for you, that means they acknowledge bad things have happened to you. If they smother you with sickly sympathy, at least it means they know you've had a pitiable life. And your desire for dignity is so much lesser than your desire for someone to just- to just get it.

But no one fucking gets it.

(Oh, there must be someone who hears me.)

Because no one else is in your position. Oh, everyone else has a partner, if no partner, then a friend group, if not a friend group, then a best friend, if not a best friend, then a loving family, if not a loving family, then someone, somewhere, who understands them a little, who loves them a little-

But you do not have anyone to couch surf with, to 'can I crash at your place till I get back on my feet?', a special sting of misery when shelter workers, when every intake worker asks if you have any family or loved ones you can stay with, because they have limited beds and every homeless shelter is underfunded because don't you know money should go to bombs, because war keeps our country safe so you can starve in peace; a special stab of humiliation, that there is a not single person you can put down as your emergency contact, it is just a big blank line staring back at you, the dash of N/A where you're to put a phone number taunts you like a playground bully and- and it's-

At least a cat can be cute.

This man, kind as he may try to be- he doesn't get it either, can't get it, because he has friends that were waiting for him. Who want to met up for drinks with him. He does not need you, because already he has people who love him, and people he is protective of, and he is in the business of taking care of strays, not taking in strays.

And what is more violent than being taken care of but not being taken in? If he keeps you safe tonight, but is rid of you in the morning, then…

What could be worse?

Painfully patient long fingers pluck up every item that clattered to the floor and ease it back into the shelf. Get a broom too short for his tall form, sweeping up the kitty kibble like it was no bother at all,

He closes the cabinet. He sighs, and there it is, he is disappointed in you he hates you you've upset him he'll finally toss you out and you won't have to spend another excruciating minute choking down his vile, suffocating, poisonous kindness-

"So!" He claps his hands together. "Your palate is simply too sophisticated that neither my own food nor the cat food satiates it, but I can't just not feed you. Let me check again, m'sure I can throw something together."

He pries the white Styrofoam takeout container from his fridge, muttering "guess I should thank Hizashi for forcing me to try that conbini stand."

Mackerel. You do not even like seafood unless it is salmon or tuna. (You have learned that the food at a cat shelter is generally safer than food at a homeless shelter). But this poor man is trying so hard to help you, to take care of you, and even if it is to stroke his own fragile ego, it would just be cruel to reject him, at this point.

So you bend your head and you eat it and you try not to look at him when he smiles as if you are a kindly fairy who has granted him everything he didn't know to wish for.

He just… sits there. Crouching, hunching, staring. Well. Perhaps staring is the wrong word- staring (glaring gawking leering glowering) is what they do to you when you're sleeping on the train and you stink of sweat and vomit and piss and your prone form is taking up three seats, staring (watching waiting waiting waiting) is what you do when you've found a particularly good dumpster and you can't decide if it's safer to approach it as a cat (and risk bigger cats fighting you for every scrap of food) or as a human (and we all know what happens to a woman walking alone at night), staring (studying observing poring over) is what you do when you get your greedy little hands on a book, soak it up word by word and page by page and throw yourself into it, headfirst, submerged in the feel of ink and paper and thoroughly immersed that everything else just disappears-

Yes. That's the type of staring he's doing now: poring over you. Like everything else doesn't matter because finally, finally, he's fed you. Doesn't touch you. Doesn't even try. Just goes to the bathroom, door clicking shut, water running, brush-brush-brushing his teeth and just… leaves you to eat. In peace. Gives you your space.

You can almost hear him say: if my heart was a house, you're right at home.

Home.

It's enough to make you want to vomit all over his carpeting just to make him kick you out, but-

You're not about to give up the only food in your stomach for spite.

That, and…

You can't stay in your cat form forever. It's like laying down too long or sitting too long, your body can't just- can't just stay in this 'mode'. It's a mode to turn on and off, not keep running forever, like a laptop never shutting down till it overheats. And you will. Overheat. But he could come back out any minute, and- he'll think you're a burglar and he'll call the cops on you or worse he'll just kill you himself and no one would ever know, it's not just that they wouldn't care or wouldn't miss you there just genuinely wouldn't be anyone who would even know-

His footsteps, when he comes back, are enough for your shoulders to jump. Footsteps and knocking are about the scariest sounds out there. But he just flicks off the lights. Peels back his blanket- soft, well-worn, why is it that everything he has, he's owned for years, why is nothing here new, why are you the sole intrusion upon an ancient sanctum, does that means he really is the loyal type like you judged when you first saw those stupid boots?- he eases himself into it with a soft groan, pats a spot next to him to tuck you in for the night. You blink at him, attempting to convey as much disdain and dislike and distaste as physically possible-

But again, he does not understand you. He slow-blinks back, and he must think he is reciprocating love, as a cat's languid blink would normally mean a sign of affection.

He keeps misinterpreting you- giving you the benefit of the doubt, assuming your every rude, insensitive, petulant action is so much better than it is, that you're so much better than you actually are.

Nor do you pretend to understand him, either, and while he tries to see the best in you, you force yourself to seek out only the worst in him-

Yet despite every miscommunication and misconstrusion-

He finds a way to make it work. So he keeps the corner of the blanket peeled back, waiting just for you, even as you slink away to the window, hopping up on the sill, stretching your back and marveling how, for once, you did not have to be careful of your movements. You would not startle anyone around you, nor would anyone startle you, either. You do not have to be careful of how your jaw stretches as you yawn- no one will interpret at as a threat, because this man does not see you as anything more than a pathetic little charity case. (You suppose he's not wrong). You can outstretch your arms all along his cool windowsill, and he will not be mad at you for making too much noise and can you keep it down some of us are trying to sleep here. For once you are on the other side of the windowpane, the rain battering the glass practically a world away— though you can hear the pellets pound the pane, though you can feel the icy chill of the water seep into the glass, it does not seep into you, because the heat he turned on has settled quite comfortably into your boenes- for once, no one is hurting you, for once, just for now, you are safe.

You are safe.

Oh, yes, you know, you know- he'll let you go soon enough. Just as soon as those storm clouds wither up and dry.

Outwardly, you'd hissed and squirmed and clawed every step of the way.

Inwardly, you hope the rainy season stays forever.

#aizawa shouta #mha x reader #mha aizawa #aizawa x reader #bnha x reader #bnha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #aizawa shota x reader #Aizawa #cat quirk #fluff #angst #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer

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a-ramblinrose · 8 months ago

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“The lady obviously spent her days reading, napping, and eating biscuits. He didn’t know whether to be disgusted or jealous.”

― Cat Sebastian, The Soldier's Scoundrel

#quote #Cat Sebastian #The Soldier's Scoundrel #books #reading #current reading #Reader's Quirks #not out of void but out of chaos

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nymphoheretic · 3 months ago

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Synopsis: You infiltrated the Farspace Fleet only to be captured by the Colonel. He looks vaguely familiar...It couldn't be! Could it be...Caleb!

Warnings: Hatefucking, psuedo-cest, CNC (Caleb uses reader's conflicting feelings against her),OOC Caleb(probably cause he's a little mean), gun kink, glove kink, misuse of Caleb's evol, fingering, electrostimulation via his bionic arm, squirting, light degrading, teasing, edging, choking, oral sex (m!receiving and f!recieiving) impact play (clit slaps, spanking, light face slapping), praise, manipulation, breeding, orgasm control, overstim, use of "gege", use of "mei mei" (lemme know if I missed anything!)

Pairing: Caleb x F!Reader/MC

Word Count: 8.5k

A/N: Caleb has been rotting a brain ever since his trailer dropped and he was all yandere-ish vibes and mean and evil and....I swear I'm a Zayne girlie

AO3

Network: @eveningatthemoviesnetwork

You were visibly shaking with anger as you glare at the man walking around in front of you. How could he dare show his face to you again after being declared dead for a year?! How did he survive the explosion? How did he escape? And the more important question that burns in the back of your mind: if he did make it out, where was Granny Jospehine? Did he just leave her to die?

Your eyes follow him as he steps slowly around the room, an apple in his grip as he stares at it thoughtfully. There was a neutral look on his face as the methodical soft creaks of his boots echoing out as he circles you. You clench your fists tightly as your teeth bites down on the plush of your lip as you raise your chin he finally sits down, his purplish eyes easily locking with yours.

“Gege…”

The pitterpatter of the storm outside strikes against the widow as Caleb regards you with a cool look as he squeezes the apple lightly in his fist. He sits directly in front of you, his knees brushing against yours from the movement. A small, short scoff leaves his lips as he looks down at the apple in his grip. “Have you ever taken a moment to consider…” His eyes shift back towards yours as his lips quirk up into a sinister smile. “…that I was never your brother?” Caleb lifts the apple to his lips slowly and takes a bite, the sound of his teeth breaking the bright red flesh echoing through your ears.

Before you could stop yourself, you rose to your feet, hand held high and smacked it across his cheek. The apple flying from his hand and smashing against the window before sliding down and smearing the glass with its juices. Your chest heaves as you glare at him through narrowed eyes as the force of your slap causes his head to turn to the side, his cheek visibly red. “Bastard.” you growl, voice filled with hatred, yet it still trembles with conflict as the memories of the sweet Caleb you grew up with surfaces.

Caleb slices his eye back over to you, subtly flicking his index finger up and watching as the gravity around you grows dense from his manipulation as you drop to your knees. Lightning flashes, making his eyes glow sinisterly as he rises back to his feet. His hand stretches out and pets your hair as his smile turns back soft. “You’re acting like you don’t remember me, Little one.”

That nickname. It stirs something within you and the image of Caleb - your Caleb - overlaps the man in front of you. His eyes turn playful and it makes your heart beat faster in your chest. “No!” You yell out and when his hand moves to caress your cheek, you lash out and bite him. Your teeth sink in deep as you clamp your jaws down on to the fleshy part between his wrist and pinky.

He lets out a grunt as he grabs your jaw in his other hand and squeezes your cheeks until you release his hand. His tongue pokes out and licks at the indents your teeth left behind on his hand. “Do you remember when we were little and you brought home an injured cat?” He reaches out and grabs your wrist, placing a thin black device around the width as he releases his control over the intense gravity around you. “I put a collar with a bell on it so it couldn’t escape without being noisy.” His hand trails down your leg as he increases the gravity around it to hold you in place on the couch.

You gasp and open your mouth to say something, probably to curse him again when the cold gloved finger of his other hand presses against your lips, silencing you. His eyes harden once more as he rises back to his feet. “Do as you’re told and don’t cause any trouble. You won’t get hurt then.” When your jaw snaps shut his facial expression softens as he reaches for your hand and places it on his cheek, curling your fingers to make you cup his face. “It’s me. I’m back.”

Those words make your heart quiver as you nearly give into his sweet voice. Everything about him screamed your gege - your Caleb, but there was something darker about him that was holding you back. A bit of darkness in his eyes that you could easily spot. You grit your teeth as you could still feel the effects of his evol holding you down. “Gege…If you’re back, then let me go!”

Caleb’s eyes darken when you call him that and he moves his face away from you. His fists clenched tightly, his gloved hand making a creasing sound as his eyes squeezed shut. When he opens them again, he looks into yours. The hatred that burns in them was shallow. He could easily break you if he chose to. “Princess…you didn't pass.” His voice was cool as he reached out his hand.

You gasp as pressure constricts around your throat as the gravity around it moves inward, pressing down on those precious arteries and veins that deliver oxygen rich blood to your brain. Your eyes widen as you claw at the air around your neck to no avail. You try to squirm around, but the pressure on your leg holds you down. Tears begin to form in your eyes as you look at Caleb pleadingly. “Please…ge…Caleb…” you manage to breathe out.

Finally.

The pressure around your throat stops and your hands immediately fly to cup your tender neck as your chest heaves, your breath coming out in pants as blood seeps back into your brain. Your shoulder gives a short flinch when Caleb wraps his long fingers around your delicate wrist and pulls you into his chest. His sweet voice surrounds you as it rumbles from his chest. Your hand curls up on his pectorals as your face heats up, coloring down to your chest. “Caleb?”

“You can't convince yourself to hate me with every fiber of your being.” His finger slips under the small opening at your waist, slowly tracing the skin there in a slow caress that makes shivers roll down your spine. “Wouldn't you agree, Little one?” He practically purrs that name in your ear as his gloved hand presses you deeper into his embrace, a coldness seeping into your flesh through the materials of your clothing.

You meet his lilac gaze and could see the way they soften for you - because of you. It made your heart squeeze painfully in your chest. He was right. You couldn’t bring yourself to hate him completely but that did not stop the rage that was boiling within you. You try to remove yourself from his hold but still that heavy pressure on your legs keeps you close to him. You open your mouth once more to curse at him, when he slips his fingers into your mouth and presses down on your tongue.

“Ah ah ah…You still haven’t passed your test, princess.” He kicks your feet apart, his manipulation over the gravity that holds you down releasing its grip but now he has one on your jaw as saliva pools on the center of your tongue until it leaks down the corners of your lips. Caleb’s lips turn upwards into a smile, his face morphing into the one of your sweet gege. You blink once, twice, three times to try to clean your mind. This Caleb was not your gege. This was the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel Caleb. And you? You were his prisoner.

Caleb stares into your eyes, lilac orbs darkening with something akin to desire and need. All those pent up feelings he’s had for you are flooding back so intensely. His fingers slide deeper into your mouth, saliva spilling down the corners of your mouth before he pulls them out completely. He spreads his digits and watches how the translucent strings of spittle slides down them. His knee slots between your thighs as his hands quickly cup your cheeks, “Bite me again and I’ll crush your throat,” he warns before his tongue slips into your warm mouth.

A surprised squeak vibrates in your chest as you try to beat down that feeling of greedy want and desire that you had once held for Caleb before he was lost to you. You had to remind yourself that he was now the enemy, but…why were his lips so soft, tongue so gentle as it strokes over yours, trying to coax a reaction out of yours. Your first instinct was to bite down until his threat replays in your head. You could feel a sheer difference in the temps of his palms as he cups your face under your jaw.

His tongue licks over every part of your mouth, leaving nothing untouched. He strokes over your teeth, the roof of your mouth before finally coming in contact with your own. He swirls it with his pink muscle, teasing and coaxing it out to play with his. He grips your jaw a little tighter with his left hand, cold, hard fingers digging into your skin as a growl vibrates in his chest. He pulls away briefly, tongue flicking out over your lips. “C’mon. You’ve kissed me before, little one. Don’t tell me you actually hate me?”

Your eyes narrow once more as you try to pull your jaw out his grip, wincing a bit when he squeezes it tightly. A hiss vibrates on your tongue before you draw in a slow breath at his taunting words. Heartbeat racing as blood whooshes in your ears as you remember all the sweet shared kisses with Caleb. How his gentle tongue tastes on yours, how his soft lips felt against yours. Before you could stop yourself, your eyes soften as they flicker down to his mouth, his lips looking very inviting.

Slowly you lean in, breath mingling with his as you near his lips with yours. Lips clash in a soft kiss as a moan dares to slip past when his tongue reaches out to play with yours. Feelings that you tried so desperately to keep hidden away, to keep them locked away resurfaces before you could snuff them out. Your arms come up to lock behind his head, fingers digging into his soft dark hair and pulling him in closer. The sweet, familiar taste of apples explodes over your taste buds as you curl your tongue around his in a slow, seductive way. Your eyelids tip close as you begin to lose yourself.

A voice in the back of your head screams at you loudly, shocking you and making you break away as his hands begin to slide down your back. “No!” You say as you push him away, your breath coming out in hot pants as a string of saliva cools as it snaps back against your neck. Gasping when he suddenly slides his knee further between your thighs, pressing it up against the seat of your pants as his hand tips your face back up to meet his purple eyes. “Caleb…what are you…”

He says nothing as he digs his knee in deeper against your core, eliciting another gasp from you. “You don't really hate me. I'm back. I'm your Caleb, remember?” He takes your hand and presses it against the left side of his chest over his beating heart. “See? I'm alive.” His cool, even tone also sounds sad to your ears and you have to look away from his eyes. He was trying to pull you back under his spell. You couldn’t let him. Hold on to the fact that he lied! That he… Caleb trails your hand down lower until it rests on his belt. “Do you still hate this, princess? I’m aching for you.”

“C-Caleb!” You squeak as you try to pull your hand back, but his grip holds tight as he slides your hand lower until you cup his hardening cock. You could feel it rising to full attention, tenting the black slacks he had on and straining against the zipper. “Y-you…” Glaring up at him, faux disgust written all over your face, but your body was betraying you as your thighs hug together around his knee. You could feel yourself growing damp as your fingers curl around his length. “N-no…” You whimper out. Caleb takes your face in his hand gently, squeezing your cheeks until your lips part. Slipping his tongue out, he lets a long, hot dollop of saliva drip down to pool in your mouth. With a subtle flick of his finger, gravity shifts around your throat and before you could even think spit slides down your throat as he easily reverses your positions. The manipulation of the gravity around your leg strengthens and forces you to kneel in front of him, you place your hands on his thighs to prevent your face from being smushed in his lap.

A smile tilts at his lips as his finger comes up to tip your chin back up to look into his darkening gaze. “You remember what to do, right.” He coos softly as his other hand tugs down the zipper to his pants, popping the button open. Caleb shucks them down over his hips until his long, thick cock pops out, the tip leaking pre down the pale shaft, the tip flushed a bright pink. “Come on, little one.” His voice is still that same soft tone from before - the one that makes your heart quiver as you look up into his soft, puppy eyes.

Your tongue peeks out to wet your bottom lip as you are slow to realize what he wants from you. It wasn’t until his cock springs out and nearly smacks your cheek did your eyes widen. “I…No. I won’t do it.” You flinch when his hand raises, but peek one open when his fingers simply brush over your hair as he gives you another soft smile.

“Oh, pretty, I wasn’t asking.” His eyes darken as he lifts his chin, the gravity around you shifting and forcing your lips on his cock. Caleb lets out a groan as your warm cavern engulfs his length, his head falling backward to rest against the back of the couch. His hands ball into fists as he decreases and increases the pressure of the gravity to make you bob your head up and down. He could feel the familiar way your tongue curls around his dick. His lips curl into a smirk, “That’s it. Such a good girl. Keep sucking, just like that. Your mouth feels as good as I remember.”

His praise sent shivers rolling down your spine as a tingle started to throb between your legs. You squeeze your thighs together as you feel slick beginning to pool into the seat of your panties. How and why were you enjoying this? Caleb was the enemy now! He was no longer your sweet gege - no longer your sweet Caleb. This was…Your thought process was interrupted as Caleb shifts, thrusting his hips upward and the thick tip of him brushes against the back of your throat and making you let out a choked moan. You should hate this, but his familiar taste on your tongue made it almost impossible as the hatred in your eyes softened as you tried to glare up at him.

Caleb slowly eases up on his manipulation of the gravity around you until you were sucking him off willingly. He reaches down and presses his hand against the back of your head as your saliva drips down to wet his balls, your soft tongue caressing the large vein running on the underside of his cock. “Such a nasty little cockhungry slut. Wish you could see how you look, sucking my cock like it's your favorite treat.” His voice trails off in another low growl as his hips buck up, heavy balls slapping against your chin as they begin to draw up as his cock twitches on your tongue. “You want me to cum down that greedy throat of yours? Paint your mouth in my color, yeah.”

You didn’t realize that his hold over the gravity around you had stopped as you continued to work your mouth and tongue over his thickness. A moan vibrates in the muscles of your throat and chest as you bob your head deeper down on his cock, nose brushing against the light dusting of brown hair at the base of his pelvis. Thick strings of spittle clings and runs down his shaft as your tongue curls around his tip, tasting the precum that was oozing out the slit. He tastes just like you remembered, sweet with an underlying hint of salty. His degrading words reach your ears and your face burns with embarrassment as you try to remind yourself that he was using his evol to make you do this.

Before you could look back up at him with faux anger, his cock twitches on your tongue, swelling in your mouth as the movements of his hips grow sporadic. You let out a surprised squeak when his hands cup your face as he thrusts deeply, his tip hitting the back of your throat as his seed suddenly spills over. It fills your mouth at such a rate that you have no choice but to swallow or choke on it.

Caleb’s hips thrusts in sporadic jerks as his balls empty his cum down your sinfully tight throat. Oh how he could stay in this perfect little mouth forever. But he was dying for a taste of you. He missed you and your touch so much over the past year, he was gone. “You enjoyed tasting me, yeah? Got you wet between your thighs, little one?” His eyes watch the way your chest heaves as he slips his cock out your mouth and sees the way your thighs pressed together. He tsk’ed when you shake your head “no”. Still denying the fact that you didn’t hate him. That you didn’t hate what he was doing. That you didn’t hate that he was reclaiming what was his long ago.

A ‘scwhick’ sounded in the silence followed by the ripping of leather as a blade slices through the material of his glove. Your eyes widened at the sight of his bionic hand as a knife shoots out of the wrist. Caleb balls the hand into a fist and raises the blade down to your eye level, a grin spreading over his lips as he waves the blade in your face. “You’re wearing too many clothes, baby girl.” With those words, he slides the tip of the sharp knife down your neck, being mindful to not pierce your flesh until he makes it to your hunter’s uniform. He easily slices through the white collar of your top before dragging the blade down towards the red corset top.

You gasp as your breasts bounce free when your top was cut down the center and with Caleb’s manipulation over the gravity around you made it impossible for you to raise your hands to cover them. Your mouth parts in a whimper as the cool touch of the blade crawls over the soft, warm skin of your breasts as you feel Caleb’s eyes locking in on them as he traces his knife over them. “Cale-” Your words are cut off as he snaps his gaze back towards yours and you feel the shift in the gravity pulling you back up to your feet.

Caleb said nothing as he shifted his manipulation to make you rise back up, his bionic hand making quick work of the black pants you wore. His eyes zero in on the red lace of the panties you were wearing and a grin spreads over his lips. “Were you expecting this? You’re such a naughty mei mei of mine.” He says the term like it was a curse, like it was venom on his tongue before his eyes land on the dark, wet spot forming in the seat of your panties. “What’s this? Lying to me about not liking having me down your slutty throat.”

“I…I didn’t! I…I don’t want you, Caleb!” Your words sounded false even to you. You advert your eyes away from his and lift your chin in defiance to his question. “It’s a natural reaction! That doesn’t mean anything, gege.” You’ve learned that he hates being called that now and when you peek down at him out of the corner of your eye, you could see the dark cloud that covered his face. You let out a squeal when his fingers suddenly dig into your hips, hooking into your panties and pulling them down. You watch in mild shock at the long string of slick that connects your labia to the wet cotton patch before it breaks.

Caleb arches his brow up at you, a smirk curling at his lips. “A natural reaction for getting this soaked for me. Your “brother”? He leans in and presses his lips against your mound, nosing at it and listening to your soft gasps as your hands fly to his hair. “You’re a terrible liar, princess. Just admit it.”

You could feel yourself getting weak in the knees as Caleb trails kisses down the innermost corners of your thighs, inches away from your dripping heat. You feel a moan threatening to escape and you quickly bite your lip. Hard. To try to prevent it from slipping out. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about, gege.” Your mouth parts in a scream when a shock courses through your body coming from between your thighs. You yank Caleb’s head back to see his bionic arm’s finger pressing against your clit, a stream of light violet energy surging through it.

“Caleb.” He growls, another surge of electricity running from the tip of his mechanical finger to your precious little pearl. Your voice calls out to him as his tongue reaches out to soothe the sting and his chin is immediately drenched with your juices. His metal fingers slide from your clit to prod at your opening as his other hand wraps around your thigh to pull it to drape over his shoulder. The pointed tip of his tongue circles your nub before his lips close over it and he suckles it into his mouth.

Your legs buckle as your slick bubbles and pops at your hole as his fingers slowly push inside. Fuck. Your heart was pounding beneath your rib cage as your fingers curled into his dark hair and you didn’t know if you wanted to push him away or pull him closer to your needy cunt. His name was on the tip of your tongue but you swallow it back down. You couldn’t give him the satisfaction that he’s broken you down. Made you submit to him and his…Fuck. Your head falls to your chest as his tongue does wicked things to you, slipping between your folds and curling in deep as his nose nudges and bumps against your clit.

Fingers dive deeper into his hair as you could no longer hold in your voice as Caleb pushes his metal fingers in deeper and lets a wave of electricity course through your walls in a pleasurable tingle. “Oh fuck!” The screams of your ecstasy reach his ears, sounding like the gods and goddess were singing to him. His tongue became relentless as his lips suck and slurp at your sensitive little clit, drinking down every drop your slick hole produces.

If it wasn’t for his hold on your legs and the strength of the gravity holding you up, you’d have fallen as your knees buckle when he slurps at your juices as they run down his chin, trickling down his neck as he shakes his head like a ravenous beast. You were close, you could feel your heartbeat throbbing in tune with the pulses of your clit as his fingers dug you out, juices gushed out with every thrust that his greedy tongue eagerly laps up. “Ge-Cal-”

Then suddenly it all stops as Caleb pulls away, ruining your orgasm. Lilac eyes flash mischievously as he peers up at you, his bionic arms dripping with your juices as he brings the fingers to his lips and licks them clean. “Did you want to cum? Come on, little one. Admit it. Admit that you want me. Admit that you never saw me as your brother. Admit that you can’t hate me.” His hand closes around your thigh as he turns his head and presses his damp lips against the plush flesh. “Admit it and I’ll make you cum so hard you see stars.”

Caleb watches you with his lips quirked up into a smile as you whine and try to undulate your hips; seeking his tongue and fingers back into your aching and dripping snatch. But his hand wraps around your waist and holds you down as the gravity around your body places opposite pressures, causing you to stand still. His eyes narrow when you still try to struggle against his hold over his evol and a “tsk” leaves his throat. “I said. Admit. It. Little. One. Stop. Being. Stubborn.” He enunciated each word with a sharp slap to your clit with the flat of his fingers.

You let out a pained whine as each strike was also followed by a small zap of electricity that thumbs over your engorged button as blood makes it swell even more. You bite your lips to stop the plea that almost spills over. Your eyes are burning with tears as you shake your head. You would not admit that you were enjoying the painful pleasurable torture he was putting your body through. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t. You- “Ca-Caleb…” Your bottom lip quivers as tears threaten to spill down your cheeks. “Please…I admit it. Can I please cum now?”

Your subconscious was screaming at you as your lips betray you and uttered those words, but before you could even think to take them back, to redact your statement, a cool smile spreads over Caleb’s lips as his fingers slide over your soaked slit, smearing your juices over you labia. You bend at the waist, hands flying back into his hair as his control over his evol weakens a bit and a moan escapes your lips. “I…I didn’t…mmph…” Your words are stolen as Caleb shoves his fingers into your mouth, your taste still clinging to the leather of the glove he still wore as he attacks your slit again with ravenous licks.

Caleb feasts on you like a starving man, juices trickling down the side of his face and neck as he ate your pretty cunt so messily. Lewd slurping sounds echoed throughout his room as he drank down every bit of your slick pussy juices that he could. The pointed tip of his tongue flicks and lashes out at your sensitive nub as his lips suck on your labia. As his gloved fingers still thrust into your mouth, the fingers of his bionic hand find their way back inside your slick cavern twisting and turning as he digs for that sweet spot that will have you cumming on his tongue.

You could feel the way your walls were clenching tightly around his fingers as he pressed deeper and deeper, searching for that gooey spot deep within your body. It all felt so foreign to you. This wasn’t the sweet Caleb that you had shared tender kisses with. Wasn’t the sweet boy you gave your virginity to years ago before his “death”, Nor was this your sweet gege that always vowed to protect you. Your voice is muffled by his fingers as you feel your pussy squeeze around his metal fingers as you feel your clit twitch and your juices flood out of you, hot and runny and drenching down his wrist. “Gege!”

The second your juices flow down his tongue, filling his mouth as he greedily drinks and slurps it all down. But the moment that name leaves your lips, he stops; pulling away from your addictive little pussy, a line of slick clinging to his bottom lip as he cuts his lilac eyes up to meet your dazed gaze, his voice was hard and even. “What did you call me?” He watches as your mouth parts in a gasp as he rises to his feet, cock bobbing as he stands, but he ignores the pre that dribbles from the tip to splatter on the floor. Lifting his chin, he snaps his head towards the couch and his evol sends you flying down into the cushion; face down ass up and your back arched so pretty for him. “Would your precious “gege” do this?”

He pulls out his gun from the holster, his legs coming to lock yours between his feet as he leans over you. The cold muzzles of the pistol caresses the hot skin of your spine, starting at the base of your skull and trailing down to the center of your back and over the curve of your ass. His other hand came crashing down on the globe of flesh until the skin was heated and a faint print of his hand was left behind as the skin wiggled. “I shouldn’t have let you cum. If I had known you’d be such a brat.” But despite his words, he was happy to taste you on his tongue, to taste your sweet juices.

You turn your head to look back at Caleb, feeling the cold tip of the gun tracing down the length of your back. You cry out when his hand smacks the flesh of your ass over and over again until the skin was heated and you were damn near in tears. You bite your lip as you feel him nudging the gun against your right ass cheek to stop the whimpers from coming out. Your pussy clenches in anticipation of what he was going to do, body betraying you as it grows slicker with every passing second. Despite your mind telling, yelling, that you should hate this, hate what he was doing to do, your body craved it. Craved more of his mean touches. More of his harsh treatment.

Caleb’s hand fists his cock as he slides the gun down, the cold tip gliding down the line of your ass. “Hmm? Should I punish you for being a brat. Delaying your orgasms again and again as I fuck you? Or maybe this slutty pussy is greedy for something else? You want my cock, little one or…?” He traces the muzzle down the line until it brushes against your glistening slit. His eyes watch as you jolt from the contact and try to pull away as his hand glides faster over his length, squeezing the swollen tip with every upward drag. “Answer quickly before I make the decision myself, princess.”

You try to pull away from the gun, but your hips rock back against it, your labia spreading to encompass the tip briefly. How could he try to make you choose? You…didn’t want either, right? Your pussy clenches at the thought of him fucking you with his gun, but was drooling over the chance to finally have his cock nudging up against your most sacred parts. Just as you were about to open your lips to tell him your answer, the cold steel of the gun sinks into your gooey walls, slick bubbling and popping around the black metal.

“Ca-Caleb?” Your voice was a mixture of shock and pleasure as he worked the gun a little deeper as you slowly rocked your hips backwards to help him. As his knuckle nudges at your clit, you let out a mewl and throw your head back. “F-fuck!” The curse leaves your throat before you could even think to swallow it down. You push back further, walls stretching to accommodate the thickness of the gun’s muzzle. You were so depraved for enjoying this, but you would never tell him. You still hated him. Right? Right?

“Shhh….” his hand wraps in your hair gently, pulling it back until your neck is exposed as he sinks his gun in deeper, the wet gushy sounds of your sloppy pussy making his dick grow impossibly harder. As your juices gush out, drenching his gloved fingers and sliding down the handle of the gun, his eyes watch as your naughty hips couldn’t stop moving backwards to fuck yourself deeper on the barrel. “Lemme listen to these slutty sounds she’s making for me.” Without warning, he pulls his gun out, the sticky sounds of your pussy trying to desperately suck it back echoing around the room as nasty strings of your cum drips down the length. “Just look at how you’ve dirtied my gun?”

He pulls on your hair, arching your back so far back your spine pops almost uncomfortably as he waves his slick covered gun in your face. “I should have you clean it, no?” He presses the gun against your cheek, smearing the creamy cum down your skin for a moment as his bionic hand lets go of your hair, still coated in your juices from earlier and wraps carefully around his cock and smears your slick down the length of it. His eyes zero in on your quivering little hole as you tremble under him and his self-control was beginning to waiver. He wanted to keep teasing and edging you until you were screaming his name and only thinking of him and his cock.

Moving the gun away from your face and bringing it to his lips as he notches the bulbous tip of his cock against your drooling hole. He shifts his bionic hand from his cock to grip your hip tightly, his mechanical fingers digging into the plush flesh tightly. As his tongue slips out to lick up the length of his gun, he pushes past those first tight rings of muscles, your pussy immediately stretching to accommodate his girth. Your taste explodes over his taste buds and he moans softly as he was greedy for more, but the wet velvety feeling of your silken walls engulfing his cockhead was starting to make him dizzy with how fast the blood was leaving his head to his engorged cock.

Your head drops to your chest as your arms threaten to give out from under you as Caleb sinks deeper into your warm, gooey walls, the delicious stretch of him filling you was damn near maddening. His name was on the tip of your tongue as you clench down tightly around him, sucking his cock in until the thick mushroomed tip was pressing snuggly against your cervix. A low moan vibrates in your chest as you pant and your hips rock back against his, the slow sticky clasp of skin meeting skin ringing out in the room.

Caleb’s eyes were trained on the sight of your tight little hole as it swallowed up his length. You were perfect for him. Your walls hug him just right, the right amount of pressure that makes him never want to leave your depths. “Fuck.” The curse leaves him in a growl as he places his gun down on the edge of the couch, both hands coming to wrap around your waist to pull you back deeper and faster on his cock. His leg hikes up, foot planting into the soft cushion of the couch as he thrust fast and hard into your tender cunt, pounding into you at such a pace that it was near demonic.

You bite your lip to stop the scream that was building up in your throat, chest burning from holding in your voice as your pussy squelches with every brutal and harsh thrust. The lewd sound of his pelvis meeting your ass vibrates and echoes in the room. His fingers grip your waist tightly, the cold fingers of his bionic arms branding your skin with his marks as his grunts fill the room as well. Sweat forms on your brow as you pant for air, rolling down the side of your face. “Ca-” You quickly snap your jaw just as you stop yourself from calling out his name.

Another low “tsk” leaves his throat as his eyes narrow. His left hand moves to grip the back of your neck and pushes your face down into the cushions as his foot slides up higher, caging your much smaller body under his. “Come on…let me hear you.” He urged as he made sure that with every thrust, he pressed his pelvis against the curve of your ass, grinding a bit to make sure you felt every inch of him. “Say my name. You know you want to scream it for the whole Fleet to hear, hmm?” He punctured each of the next words with a sharp snap of his hips. “Fucking. Scream. My. Name. Brat.”

The dam within you broke and your pent up emotions came flowing like the river of slick that gushes out of you as you cum hard against him, the force of it pushing his cock out as you finally grace his ears with the melodic sounds of your salacious screaming. “Ca-Caleb!”

Finally.

Finally after he’s edged your body to the best orgasm of your fucking life, did you say his name in the most prettiest of cries. He sits back on the couch, hands grabbing you around your waist, using his evol to shift the gravity of your body to make you weightless as he straddles you over his lap. “Such a dirty girl. Cumming so violently like that. I’m not through with you yet.” He flicks his finger down after his right hand notches the bulbous tip against your leaking hole and the gravity shifts downward, forcing your pussy onto his length.

Another lewd scream leaves your tender throat as Caleb makes you ride his cock, bouncing you up and down on his thickness. You had just come and your body was still trembling from the aftershocks of the one he just gave you. Your arms come up to wrap around his neck as his hands grip your thighs as he thrusts up into your cunt. “Caleb! Please! Slow down!” Tears sparkle on your lashes as drool begins to leak down the corner of your mouth.

He grabs the back of your neck and pulls your lips to his, tongue sliding out to delve into your mouth and curls over yours. Caleb then sucks your pink muscle between his teeth. You moan and he swallows the sound down as his hand shifts to grab at the meat of your ass to bounce you up and down on his cock, the tip kissing your cervix with each upward snap of his hips. Caleb felt the way your walls were fluttering, gripping his thickness tightly and he knew that you were going to cum again soon.

Breaking away, a thin string of saliva still connecting your tongue until it broke away to lay coolly against your chin, his lilac eyes capture your fucked out gaze. “Gonna cum again, little one?” His breath came out in harsh pants as your pussy squelches loudly as your juices gush out and wet up the material of his pants still hanging around his hips. “Ffuucckk, you’re squeezing me so tightly.” His head falls to rest against yours as he pecks at your lips sweetly, a vast difference in his powerful thrusts.

Your body was trembling as you rock your hips into his, not caring if his evol was making you bounce on him or not anymore as the pleasure consumes you. The only thing that matters in that moment was the approaching climax he was about to give you. Your nails dig into the material of his black uniform, damn near ripping into it as you claw at his back. “Fuck! Caleb! ‘M’gunna cum!” Once. Twice. Three ti- “Wh-what?” Your voice was a warbled cry when his hands grip your hips, stilling you over his cock.

His lips curl up into a soft, yet sadistic smile as he holds you in place, his evol working against you and keeping you pinned down. “Did I give you permission to cum yet, little one?” He plants his feet down firmly on the floor before utilizing his strength to stand up, his hands wrapping around your thighs and locking your legs around his thick, muscular waist. He moves his left hand away from your body and hooks his finger between your teeth. “Bite only my glove, pretty girl.”

You do as he says, biting down on the tip of his glove and watch with hazy eyes as he pulls his hand free. And finally. Finally. His skin meets with yours as he glides his fingertips down the valley of your breasts to your belly, his eyes widen when he feels the smallest protrusion and his lips crack into a smile. “Look at that. I’m so big and you're so small compared to me, I’m bulging out. Such a tiny, tight pussy you have mei mei.” He teases as he lays his palm flat over the small bulge and presses down on it to hear you squeal out his name as he uses his bionic arm to slam you up and down on his cock.

His knees bend slightly to stabalize himself as his hips move in tune with yours as he fucks you fast and hard. Caleb grips your ass hard, hard enough to leave the imprint of his fingers behind as he bucks up into you, jostling you on his dick as your arms come to wrap around his neck as your fingers dig into his scalp, grazing it with your nails. His eyes shift towards the large bed in the center of the room and his lips curl into another smile as he turns. His cock never leaves your soft, warm, wet walls as he walks over to where the bed was; your salacious moans making him impossibly harder as he grits his teeth.

“Fuck…just listen to her talking to me.” His hands grip your ass tighter as he lifts you up, your cuntsquealching and gushing around his girth as he pushes you back down on him. Caleb stops at the edge of the bed, your slick juices dripping down his shaft and creating a creamy ring at the base of his dick as he lays you down on the plush mattress. You immediately sink down into the softness as he pushes your legs to your chest, ankles damnnear by your ears as he folds you up.

Your breath is stolen from you as your thighs are compressed against your chest as he pistons his dick in and out of your clenching pussy. You grab at his shirt, twisting the material until the buttons pop open. Your eyes widen when the familiar silver dog tag with a small apple charm dangles in front of your eyes. The chain sways to and fro before you and your heart pounds beneath your rib cage as you feel a rush of slick gushing out of your snatch. The necklace you had given him. He kept it. You hook your finger into the chain and pull.

A surprised grunt leaves him when you tug down on his dog tag, making him lean down to meet your lips in a hungry kiss as his hips pause in their brutal snapping. He moans softly when your tongue seeks out his, curling and tasting his mouth. Caleb pulls away, his eyes shining with adoration, desire, and affection for you. “Naughty girl…look what you did to my shirt?” His left hand trails down your body, caressing your soft skin and relishing in the feel of you under his rough fingertips. “Punishment by pleasure. You’re not allowed to cum until I say so.”

His feverish words are whispered hotly against your lips as he pulls his hips back, thick shaft rubbing against your walls as his cockhead bumps against your over sensitive clit. It twitches under his touch as he saws his length through your soaked lips until you damn near were in tears. “Beg. Beg for it. Beg for my cock like the slutty girl you are for me, princess.” He coos softly.

Your teeth worry your bottom lip as tears fill your eyes at his teasing. Your body was beyond sensitive and stuck on the edge between pleasure and pain as the need to cum grows more and more intense. A part of you still wanted to deny him, to not give into his demands, but the bigger, louder part wants to submit to the pleasure. “Pul-please…Caleb…I need you…”

“Hmm?” He leans down, teasing your clit with featherlight touches as he nudges the tip of his dick at your slick hole, sinking the tip in and thrusting shallowly before pulling out. “Need me to what? C’mon. Use those big girl words.”

“Caleb!” You whine out as you try to grab at his necklace again, but he’s quicker than you and takes both your wrists in his bionic hand and pins them to the bed. “I need you to fuck me! Please make me cum again! I need it!”

A feral smirk spreads over his lips as his left hand moves to spread your labia apart, translucent strings of your slick slipping over your drooling hole as he lines up the bulbous tip of his dick. “Since you asked so nicely.” With those words, he slowly sinks back in, making sure you felt every single thick inch of him. Feeling his balls tingling, he set a slow, steady pace, hips smacking into yours with every deep thrust that makes your breast bounce. Your hands twist and nails dig into the meat of your palm as you buck your hips upward and wrap your legs around his middle, your heels fitting perfectly in the dips of his back.

He keeps up that same slow, sensual pace, his hips swirling in slow undulated thrusts as he takes his time. His pubic bone grinds into your clit with every stroke as he slips his fingers inbetween the two of you. Caleb swirls his ring and middle fingers over your clit slowly, pressing into the swollen flesh as he watches your face scrunch up and you writhe with pleasure under him. “Y’like that. Like it as I slowly make you mad with pleasure. Is that something your precious “gege” would do? No, sweetheart, I was never your brother and you knew that. The kisses we shared, the times I held you closer during thunderstorms. The many times have we done this?” Caleb’s thrusting picks up in speed as his emotions hit a new high.

You shake your head as you desperately try to cling onto what little semblance of sanity you had left. But the steady wet smacks of his pelvis against your as his dick makes your pussy gush around him makes that almost impossible. “Caleb. Caleb. Caleb.” His name leaves your lips like a mantra as tears of pleasure fall from your eyes and down the side of your face into your hairline. “You were never my brother, Caleb! You’re my lover!”

Caleb’s hips stutter as his balls tingle and he cums a little at your words. You said it. The one thing he’s been dying to hear. The one thing he was determined to make you say. “That’s fucking right. You never really hated me. You just needed me to fuck the brat out of you, huh?” His hips pick up in speed until he is thrusting in and out of you at such a speed that it makes drool bubble up in your mouth and your tears to fall faster. He captures one of your bouncing breasts between his teeth and sucks the hardened nipple into his mouth, lathing it with his tongue and circling the areola as he works the fingers of his left hand over your pretty little clit.

His balls smack against the curve of your ass as he feels the telltale signs of his release nearing. He quickly moves your legs from around his waist, placing them on his shoulders as he cages you with his body, his thrusting becomes sporadic. Caleb’s hand returns to rest above your mound and spreads, thumb still resting on that tender button as he presses down on the protrusion of his cock in your lower belly. You let out a squeal as the pressure stimulates you from the inside and your legs lock around his neck. The thick tip of his was constantly knocking against your cervix and the fine dark hairs of his pubes rub so tantalizing against your clit as his thumb rubs fast circles.

“Cum. Cum for me, baby girl. Cum so hard for me.” As if by his command, your juices squirt out of your pussy, drenching his pelvis and dripping down his shaft and balls. “Good girl. You want me to cum? Deep inside you and fill you up so full?” His fingers still work over your sensitive clit until you were screaming and begging for reprieve. “Yeah, you do.” He snaps his hips heavily. Once. Twice. Three more times before stilling, his cock twitches within your depths before his seed floods out the tip.

His cum is hot and sticky as it fills your womb, his hips resuming their slow, gentle thrusts to fuck it deeper and deeper still even as the sheer amount overflows your pussy and gushes out with every slow, deep thrust. His forehead drops against yours, the cooling sweat that beads there making your skin sticky as he pecks at your lips in sweet kisses. Caleb slowly lets your legs down from around his shoulders, his left hand massaging your hips in case there was any lingering soreness.

“You okay, little one? I shouldn’t have been so rough…” His eyes widen when your hand slips from his grip and cups his face. Your eyes were soft as you gave him a smile.

“It was perfect, Caleb. I needed this. I missed you.” Your fingers rub his cheek gently as you lean up and press your lips to his forehead softly. You wiggle your hips, feeling his cum slosh around inside you and blinking in confusion. “Uh…Caleb…”

“Hmm?” He hums as he drops his head to the junction of your neck and shoulder, skimming his lips over the soft skin. “Yes, princess?”

You fidget under him, whimpering a bit when he slowly drags his hips out, cock still hard inside you. “How are you still..”

Lilac eyes peer down into yours as a boyish smile spreads over his lips and a chuckle vibrates in his chest. “You didn’t actually think I was done with you, yet? Nope, we have all night. Round Two? Start.”

2022-25 nymphoheretic - I do not give permission to copy, edit, alter, or distribute my work. Do not adverse on tiktok. Do not repost on any other platform.

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ervotica · 11 months ago

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hot rod — a.donaldson & p.zweig

pairings; art donaldson x fem!reader, patrick zweig x fem!reader, art donaldson x patrick zweig

summary; patrick comes to visit you and art at college. he finds college life is a lot more adventurous than once anticipated

warnings; mdni, 18+ only, SMUT, threesome, overstim, oral (m receiving), sub leaning!reader and art, more dom leaning!patrick, established throuple, polyamory

a/n; i’m not so sure how i feel about this tbh. i love the dynamic though so i pushed through even when it got away from me a little🥲 there will be another drabble for older!art and his pretty girl soon!!

you and art fuck until you’re brain dead and passed out from exhaustion. always have. neither of you possess an off switch, and when patrick’s not there to rein the pair of you in, things get a little… messy.

his cum is dried in your hair, the sticky substance smeared across your cheek, his knuckles still wet with slick.

patrick walks in, full belly laughs and peels you from art’s sweat soaked form, gives your cheek a pinch when you stir and whine.

he doesn’t clean you up because he likes to leave you naked whenever he has the opportunity — which is more often than not. seriously, you two need close supervision.

he just carries you with him to that shitty little armchair in art’s dorm, the room still stinking of sex and the humid summer air clinging to your skin; art shines with perspiration where he’s face down on the bed.

pat makes do with the lack of room, hooking a bare leg over the backs of your thighs until you’re squeezed snugly against his torso, face smushed to his chest. you’re snoring, and it makes patrick smile, slumping down in his chair to rest his lips against your cheekbone.

you wake slowly, eyes sticky and crusted over with exhaustion. your face is almost nestled beneath patrick’s armpit where you’ve been writhing in slumber and you grumble at the scent of sweat, layered with cheap aftershave. his hard-on presses to the center of your stomach and you can feel everything— the curve it makes now it’s hard and weeping, the feel of the spongy head, the vein that runs through the middle.

“you smell, pat,” you grumble, reaching up blindly to snatch the cigarette from between his teeth and take a long pull from the stick.

“yeah, well you’re not so hot yourself, babe. the whole room reeks.” he reaches down to tug on a loose strand of hair at the crown of your head. “there’s cum in your hair.”

“not my fault.” you stretch upward like a cat, curling into patrick’s chest. “where’s art gone?”

“still sleeping, baby.” he lights another cigarette, sacrificing the first one to you - still resting between your lips - and the clicking of the lighter draws your head upward to gaze through heavy lashes at him.

“come to bed,” you murmur, kissing his knuckles. your free hand coasts a long line across his jaw and you dig your thumb beneath his ear, giggling when he scrunches his features and relents, and pushes you to stand with a swat to your naked backside.

art curls into you instinctively when you roll onto the mattress, your hand threading through the curls atop his head. you scrub sweeping circles across his bare back and he hums a pleased sound, smearing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. patrick splays himself over the pair of you, all long limbs that sit askew to cover as much of your naked frames as possible.

art squints through the yellow light that illuminates the room, bright and artificial on his sensitive eyes. your movements against him don��t halt, a slow, rhythmic, loving sweep of your hands that he’s come to look forward to in moments like this. his jaw tilts upward as he mouths at your neck like a starved man, like you haven’t just gone five rounds and collapsed from overstimulation.

“you two need supervision,” patrick snorts. you quirk a bemused brow. “i’m serious, look at what you’ve done to each other! you look like you’ve been mauled.”

“jealous, much?” art mumbles sleepily, the sound muffled through your skin. you’re laughing and it splits your expression in two, eyes crinkled with amusement as the strawberry blonde boy snipes at patrick.

“should’a come to college with us, pretty boy,” you giggle. “could’a had this twenty four seven.” you dip your head until your brow presses to art’s. “poor pat, with no one to stick his dick in. how will he ever cope?”

“you could help me out, sweets,” he deadpans, the nickname saccharine and sour on his tongue all at once. art watches you through heavy lids. you huff, biting playfully at art’s lip before you tilt your head to face patrick,

“okay,” you chirrup. art’s quick to sit up, separating from your warmth in favour of nuzzling against patrick. patrick tips his chin down, slanting his lips against the blonde boy’s.

meanwhile, you’re working his cock through his shorts, palming the muscle until it chubs up beneath your hand, drooling a wet patch through the fabric. patrick groans, hips rolling up into your touch when you hook your fingers beneath his waistband and tug his cock free.

he moans into art’s mouth and your mouth goes dry at the sight. you’ve always loved to watch them like this, the way they get lost in each other, the way they start fervently pushing into one another’s space until patrick inevitably makes the first move and sticks his tongue down art’s throat.

patrick turns to putty beneath art’s roaming touch, huge paws that squeeze and grope and push at every inch of skin they come into contact with, not stopping even as you press your face to the seam of patrick’s balls, inhaling the sweat-soaked musk that creeps up your nostrils.

art’s hand snakes downward, flicking over pert nipples and ridges of muscle before he’s flicking a thumb over the weeping slit of his cock. patrick’s back bows into an arch as you lave your tongue over his sack, humming into the sensitive skin, full and heavy and begging for release. his hips rock upward into you as you seal your lips over him, eyes heavy with lust as art comes down to meet your mouth over his mushroom head.

it’s filthy and messy, downright pornographic as art licks over patrick’s cock, tongue pressing flat against the corner of your mouth and letting his spit pool there. you’re moaning - unable to help yourself - pressing your face forward to slant your lips over art’s fully. it’s all spit and drool as you lick into art’s mouth, the heady taste of the brunette boy still on your tongue, and then patrick’s bracing a hand against each of your heads and easing his cock through the seam where your spit slick mouths mesh.

you gasp and your damp lashes flutter, heavy with tears, and art’s tugging you frantically by your waist, pressing your bare chest to his own as patrick throws his head back and groans, shallow thrusts deepening. his breath stutters out in short, sharp bursts, chest heaving when your face slides down, down, down, all the way to the base of him until your pretty plump lips are wrapped around his sack.

you suck it into your mouth just as art takes patrick down his throat, the head of his cock bulging through the hollow of art’s throat as spit stretches and bows from the corners of his lips and lands in globs across your face.

you’re too drunk on the pleasure to care, the vibrations of your little sounds shooting right through patrick until you feel his balls tighten; he groans, long and loud, pushing closer to the pair of you as his cock pulses rhythmically and he releases down art’s throat.

you push your way through until your mouth is on art’s again, tongue licking into his mouth to taste patrick, wanting to be marked, claimed by both of them. his lips part, nose pressing to your cheek, and then he’s lifting you into his lap, his cock an angry red and pressed to the seam of your thigh.

patrick groans. there’s no fucking way he’s hard again.

“no more, you horndogs!”

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bonsubear · 16 days ago

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You're Dead Everywhere But Here │Invincible Variants x Female! Reader x Original Invincible │#1

I don't know how to describe this lol

#1, #2

CW: Slight freakiness?

WC: 3,1k

"This is complete bullshit." You spat, gritting your teeth as you tugged at the tight metal collar that the assholes from the G.D.A had forcibly attached to you. It was blinking a green hue, and each time you went to go and grasp at it with the intention of ripping it apart, it would change to red, sending shockwaves of electricity that hurt like hell.

Putting your arms to your side, you raised a brow at the complete destruction that surrounded you. Blood splatter, broken buildings, and pieces of human remains that laid around only served to fuel your bad mood. Screams of civilians could be heard from the distance and instead of worry and concern flooding your senses, it was only annoyance.

You had been captured and locked away after another fight with Invincible—and you couldn't believe you had been a fool to have been caught off guard. That stupid superhero, Invincible, got into your head and messed with you.

Each time you thought back to the moment back in that cell, a bitter taste flooded your mouth, and you couldn't help but bite your tongue.

"There's no way you've always been like... this." His voice—God, every time he would confront you he'd use this aggravating soft tone as if he was talking to a scared cat—called out to you, trying to reason with you.

"The fuck you know about that, pretty boy?" You scoffed, "How many times are you going to give me these pep talks? This is a fight, not a book club."

"How ever long it takes. You don't hurt people."

"Tell that to the people I sent to the hospital."

"Fine—I misspoke—you don't kill people. Even then, you're different from the other villains." He stepped towards you, pushing past the debris that you caused. "It's not too late to turn a new leaf. Change your ways."

"What makes you so confident in that, hm? Did you take one psychology course and suddenly you know exactly what I'm thinking?" You cackled, an amused smile gracing your lips.

"Maybe." He couldn't help but chuckle, shaking his head. "But we've fought long enough for me to know that you pull your punches. You drag out the fight just a few minutes more..." Invincible hesitated, something at the edge of his tongue that he wanted to say.

He cleared his throat, changing his mind. "... and I think you do that 'cause you like the company I give you. And I like giving it to you."

Your breath hitched, a small squeal itching at the back of your throat as you took a step back. What on Earth was he saying? "The fuck you getting at?" You snarled, but the stutter of your words were as clear as day. "I'm going to kill you for this sappy shit your saying."

Invincible's lips quirked into a smug grin, tilting his head to the right just slightly. "I don't think you will. I also think we can be... good friends, you know."

... Friends? Is he delusional?

Invincible eyes flickered behind his goggles, and his shoulders stiffened as he saw an agent had snuck up behind you while he was talking to you--a gun in hand. "Wait, fuck, look out!" He screamed.

You immediately tense, turning on your heel to see what was behind you. Though it was too late, the gun set off and a painful electric bolt stabbed into you. Your body immediately went limp, falling to the ground as you were being subjected to millions of bolts running through your body relentlessly.

"What the hell! I had all this under control, why did you do that?" You could hear Invincible's voice screech out, and a quick whoosh sound approached you. The superhero crouched next to you, cradling your head as he watched you spazz out uncontrollably.

This little shit is acting like he didn't plan this from the beginning. Caught you off guard with that fake friendship shit and have a goon take you out from behind? You should've fucking known.

"Fuck! Your going to be okay, I'm, I'm so sorry." He sounded so apologetic as he continued to cradle your head as if you were a delicate flower. Invincible then shifted his eyes to the G.D.A agent who had shot at you, glaring daggers. "How do I make this stop! Tell me!"

The pain and how tired your body quickly got overwhelmed you, your vision turning black as Invincibe's shouts faded into the distance.

You couldn't believe you fell for the—ugh—friendship talk. You should've known he was just saying that crap to distract you, but with that superhero it was confusing!

Every other super would immediately get straight to business, throwing punches or whatever special power they had when they came on scene and see the absolute destruction you caused. Putting the safety of civilians above 'talking it out.'

Yet with Invincible it was the opposite; he seemed more concerned about you than the wreckage and terror you spread.

Destroying downtown with a maniac laugh escaping your throat? He'd just sigh and shake his head, calling out to you as if he had just caught you in an embarrassing act.

Throwing a civilian in the air at full speed? Oh, Invincible will just catch the dude and go, "Come on, (Y/N)!" In a playful way as if you had gone a little too far with playing around.

"Weirdo." You shivered as you recalled his weird behavior. The next time you see him, you will for sure kill Invincible—or erm, the Invincible of this dimension? You've been dragged out of your cell and been briefed about some evil alternate Invincibles wreaking havoc all over the world. They needed every available resource they got out there to fend off the evil variants.

Well, at least you can practice the best way to kill your Invincible with the knock offs.

You jumped in the air, pushing yourself high so that you could see down below. Squinting, you scanned the area. The destruction stretched for miles, blaring cars and screams filled the air. You saw injured civilians using each other as support as they tried to run to safety.

You averted your gaze—all those governments assholes told you is to fight off variants, not save lives.

"No! Please! Aarrghh!" You heard a blood curling scream screech up ahead and you tilted your head in curiosity as you made your way towards it. Jumping off the destroyed structures like a frog jumping off lily pads.

Peering down, you saw a tall figure standing before a freshly dead body. The skull crushed and the brain spilled out slightly from the cracks. You raised a brow, an unimpressed look on your face as you observed the supposed variant.

He had no mask, his face was fully visible and the mohawk haircut out in full display. His suit was torn on the shoulder, dust sticking to the costume. He had a large shit eating grin on his face, a visible smile line accompanying it.

Is that what Invincible actually looks like without the mask? Huh, I guess he is actually a pretty boy.

Clicking your tongue, you put a hand on your hip as you watched Mohawk Invincible cackle to himself as he turned his head, his back facing you. A sly smirk creeps at the edge of your lips, your eyes dilating like a cat watching its prey unaware of what is behind them.

Without a second to hesitate, you leapt off the structure you were on, raising a fist. Clenching it tightly, you landed a solid hit on the upper part of his back—sending him flying to brick wall. "Score!" You whistled, his legs up the air as his head shoved into a patch of dirt.

Cracking your shoulder, you slowly began to approach Mohawk Invincible, "Those G.D.A suckers kept me in their basement for way too long, my body is all tense. Happy to be out, but sucks I got a shock collar on me." You hummed, talking to yourself as you used the back of your foot to leap from the floor—sending yourself flying to the variant.

"W—"

You sent a harsh kick, sending him flying once more. Though this time, Mohawk Invincible caught himself, digging his hand into the ground. Whipping his head up, he swatted at the dirt dust that accumulated in the air from his body being dragged.

A tight fist met his jaw, sending his head backwards. Clenching his teeth, he whirled his head back, extending his arms and harshly tackling the person who had just attacked him. The variant put his whole-body weight on you and he was quick to grip a hand on your neck, squeezing as his eyes darting to your face as he raised his free hand to beat the hell out whoever ambushed him.

His eyes were angry, but it quickly faded as the dust settled and he saw who was under him. His clenched fist softened, blinking as there was no doubt in his mind that he was staring at this world's (Y/N). You looked the same, your perfect hair sprawled and the color of your eyes he used to stare lovingly staring daggers at him

"Oh shit, (Y/N)?" The variant called out, the solid grip grasping on your neck loosening. Your eyebrows furrowed, a knot in your stomach twisting as the same exact tone the variant was using sounded exactly the same as your Invincible's.

"That's me." You hissed, watching as his gaze flickered to the collar that was on your neck. With him distracted, you took the opportunity to land a hit on Mohawk—his weight lifting. You rolled both of you over, and you connected your hands to his throat, pushing it down.

"How do you know that name?" You questioned. No one should know your real name.

"Fu—Fuck—(Y/N)," He choked out, staring up at you with something you couldn't recognize. Your Invincible always wore goggles so you never had to look into his eyes. You wondered if he had this look whenever he looked at you, and you grimaced as that made you uncomfortable.

The look wasn't hatred, anger, or fear. It was... some form of desperation. Not desperate to live, but desperate for something else. Or someone else.

"It's—It's you. Shit, it's—it's really you." He heaved out, his hands grasping at your arms. He was holding them, not making an effort to tear them away. Hell, he was actually using his thumb to caress you instead of pulling you away.

He sat his neck up, bringing it closer to the chokehold you had on him, looking up at you with half lidded eyes. Your hands that were perfectly molded to touch him, the familiar weight of your body on top of him—Fuuckk, he even got a small whiff of your scent.

He wasn't expecting to find this world's (Y/N) so soon. He held hope that this world's (Y/N) was still alive, planning to go looking for you after he wrecked some shit, but instead you found him.

He didn't expect you to jump him like this with this incredible strength. Are you a super in this dimension? God, right now he doesn't care, this is pretty fucking hot.

Mohawk slid his hands to your waist, squeezing the familiar curve that he used to grab so much. You were sitting on his stomach, but if you just moved your sweet ass a little lower you'd be at a perfect spot. He could just nudge you a few inches down—

You gasped, quickly pulling your hands from squeezing his throat as jumped backwards away from the man. The ghost touch of where his hands used to be on your body lingered, and you shivered as you scowled.

"What kind of perverted freak are you?" You growled, taking a defensive stance.

The variant merely coughed, cackles escaping his throat as he stood up from the ground. He brushed a hand over to his throat, his neck feeling empty without your hands squeezing them.

"What's wrong, babe? Figured your Mark liked being choked with how comfortable you were doing it with me." He laughed, his arms outstretched. "Can't blame a guy for enjoying a sample. You know—I'm kind of itching for another one, round 2?"

You looked at him like he was crazy. "Who the hell is Mark?"

"Your boyfriend, duh."

"I don't have a boyfriend."

"He doesn't bag you?—Ah whatever, friend or something." He rolled his eyes, bringing a finger to rub the inside of his ear.

You continued to stare at him like he was crazy. "I don't know anyone with that name." You hissed, irritated at this odd situation. The fact that he called you babe was driving you further up the wall of irritation.

That seemed to surprise him, his eyes wide. Every single variant had some sort of relationship with you, it was either dating or one-sided love. "Your a super then, right? You gotta know Invincible." He raised a brow, trying to gauge what the hell this universe's Mark was up to for you to not know his civilian identity.

You snorted. "Super? Don't fucking play with me. I'm not fighting you out of a 'heroic duty, I didn't have a choice,'" you rolled your eyes, tugging at the collar that was still beeping around your neck. "But Invincible? Yeah, I know that pretty boy, he's the reason I got thrown into G.D.A's little dungeon and have this zappy collar on me."

Not a super. Huh.

That left him a little dumbfounded, hell, your whole attitude left him dumbfounded. Not that he didn't like it, but more so it was so different. You were soft in his dimension and all the other dimensions according to the other variants about the stories they'd share about you, so this was certainly not what he was expecting.

"... You were captured by the G.D.A? You're not a good guy? Wow. That’s new."

You groaned; you were done hearing the nonsense this Invincible variant was spitting at you. It made you confused and annoyed. Not answering his question, you lunged forward.

He blocked your attacks, dodging your leg kicks and jabs. "So, you’re naughty? I'm getting excited." He jested, biting his lips as his eyes bore into you. God, is he going to talk the entire time? "You're going to definitely like me then. I’m naughty myself, especially in bed.”

"Shut the fuck up.”

“Fine, we can continue this foreplay. Fun!”

“You’re more annoying than my Invincible.” You took a step back as you watched Mohawk Invincible lunge towards you with full speed. You steadied yourself, preparing to lunge towards him as well before a blur of black intercepted.

You dug your feet into the ground, whipping your hand around to see that another variant was here. They wore the same blue and black palette that the Mohawk variant wore, but their face was fully covered by a black mask.

"Ya dick!" Mohawk screeched, pushing off the fully masked variant. "I'm in the middle of something here, go somewhere else!"

The fully masked variant merely slapped the other variant's face to the ground, standing up hurriedly to look at you. He had heard the commotion, and your recognizable voice made his ears perk up.

It's been so long since he heard you speak, heard you breathe. His body started moving before his mind could process that you were alive in this universe.

"(Y/N)..." He breathed out, feeling his whole body go light as he took a step towards you. "Your—Your alive in this universe. Alive and healthy..." His eyes trailed to your figure, and you tensed. "... and strong. That's good."

"What am I supposed to be? Dead?"

"In my universe you died. You were sick." His voice broke, taking more steps towards you. This masked Invincible seemed different from the one with the Mohawk. Sad, but still held that same desperation. "I've missed you; I've missed mom—both of you were my world."

"What is with this sentimental bullshit?" You cut him off, shaking your head. You felt like you were intruding in some sort of sad romcom scene that wasn't supposed to be directed at you. This was really killing your appetite to kill Invincible. "Did we know each other?"

'I' knew that pervert and now this guy too.

He flinched, seemingly hurt from the fact that you didn't know how deep your two's relationship was. "Yeah, in my dimension we knew a lot of each other—"

"—Well I'm not whatever lame ass version you think I am." You cut him off. You eyes darted to the two variants, wondering what to do next. If it was just, you and Mohawk, you could've had the shot to kill him. But two of them? Maybe it's best to sneak off. It'll be even worse if more Invincibles showed up.

Worse in a fighting aspect as well as worse in... whatever you call this strange phenomenon that was happening with these variants. Some alternate versions of you apparently had relations with these mentally unwell men, and you didn't want to find out how many more Invincibles had the googly eyes for you.

"That's okay. As soon as we find mom you can get to know me, and I can get to know more of you when we go home."

"Hey! I found her first, I get dibs, dipshit!" Mohawk sprang to action, his face contorting at the assumption that the masked asshole would be the one to take you home. He jabbed finger into the masked variant, shaking his head. "Go cry to your mommy! I was here first, fair and square."

"Don't talk to her as if she's an object!"

"Waaa! Waaa! That's what you sound like!"

You sweat dropped at the scene, they were acting like two children fighting over a toy. Though it worked great in your favor to escape from this situation. Turning on your heel, you were ready to make a break for it.

"You're both immature." A cold voice called out. You looked up, seeing two Invincibles hovering in the air.

One adorned the signature colors of Omniman, a red cape attached to his shoulders, while the other was wearing a white uniform. The Omni-Invincible had his arms crossed as he looked down, his head tilted at you.

"Let me guess, you two know ‘me’ too?"

"Yes." They both answered. The red one looked over to the two variants that were squabbling with each other a few seconds before, but the white one kept his eyes on you. Unmoving.

I'm getting out of here.

You jumped into the air, bolting through the sky. Though you could hear something whirling a few feet behind you. Guess you weren't going to escape so easily.

Maayybee I’ll do a part 2 since I didn’t get to write Sinister Mark and barely did interactions of Omni Mark and Viltrum Mark 😈😈 hope you like this blurb thing? Sorry I don’t know the terminology HAHSHA

#mark grayson variants #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #invincible x reader #invincible war #reader insert #fanfic #idk if I should continue this #writers on tumblr #invincible #mohawk mark #mohawk invincible #full mask mark

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clementine-thedestroyer · 2 months ago

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I stand by this, but I’d also like to add that like a year later, that mean, scraggly feral tomcat has turned into the sweetest and most lovey cat in the world. If you saw the way he acts with Simon, you would’ve guessed he’d raised him since he was a kitten.

He sleeps on his pillow whenever he’s deployed (and will still try to even when he gets back), sits outside the bathroom door and meows anytime Simon’s in there for more than a minute, and greets him loudly and happily every time he gets home.

He’s gained enough weight that he’s pretty solidly in the healthy range for a cat his size and his coat’s cleaned up and filled back in nicely too.

But the real show of how much he’s softened up is when he starts being sweet to you too.

When Simon had first brought him inside, that cat absolutely despised anyone and everyone. Even Simon wasn’t safe from being scratched or hissed at if he was in a bad mood or got startled. It was months of consistent food, keeping your voices low, and patience on you two’s parts before he’d really started to trust Simon- then another few before he’d done the same for you.

For a while seemed like the cat more tolerated your existence because you were Simon’s. He’d let you pet him and occasionally even sleep in your lap, but he’d never seek you out as often as he did Simon.

That only changed when Simon had his first long deployment since he’d brought the cat home. All it took was a week of no Simon for him to redirect all of his needs for affection to you, becoming clingy and like a little sponge for attention.

Even when Simon came back, the cat maintained its warmth towards you, and even took to perching beside you like a fluffy gargoyle whenever you worked on your computer.

And of course he’s still a bit easy to startle and hates when you have new people over, but you and Simon try your best to keep the master bed room as a safe space for him to run off and hide in whenever there’s company and he always seems fine once it’s just you and Simon again.

Simon has the biggest soft spot for black cats and you can’t change my mind.

Like, he sees the meanest, most scrappy looking stray and spends the next month doing everything he can to gain its trust. When he finally manages to get the thing in his arms, how could you not let him keep it? You’d have to be some kind of monster.

#one of my family’s cats from when I was a kid would sleep on people’s heads #like try and suffocate you or be your hat while you slept #in my mind this cats also got a bunch of weird quirks #like occasionally uses its litter box standing up #I’ve seen cats do that and it’s so weird.#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley

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itsxarien · 19 days ago

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i will fall in love with you over and over again | katsuki bakugo x reader

summary:

Your quirk was meant to save lives, but with every revival, it slowly chipped away at your memories. Ochako smiled brighter, Deku lingered longer, and Katsuki stayed—always stayed.Even when you forgot his name. Even when you forgot him.

warnings: major angst, memory loss, spoilers!

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The first time it happened was when you revived Katsuki’s deceased cat.

You were children then, barely old enough to understand the weight of life and death. But when he found you crouched by the creek, his small hands trembling over the lifeless body of his beloved pet, his voice was already hoarse from calling your name.

“Please,” he choked out, red eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “Do it. Just…just bring her back.”

You stared at him, uncertain. The raw desperation in his voice made you second-guess whether this was really the same Katsuki who shoved you off swings and tugged on your pigtails.

But his voice cracked again, and you gave in.

Tiny hands trembling, you knelt beside him, fingers brushing against the cat’s cold fur. You didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t know if it would work. You were too young, too inexperienced but the light of your quirk flickered faintly between your palms.

And suddenly, she stirred.

Just for five minutes.

The cat let out a weak meow, nuzzling into Katsuki’s trembling hands. His chest hitched with a choked sob as he cradled her, burying his face in her fur.

“Hey… hey, it’s okay, girl,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

He hugged her tightly, arms curled protectively around the frail creature.

And when the light in her eyes slowly dimmed once more—her small body going limp in his arms—he pressed a final, tear-soaked kiss to her head.

Then he turned to you.

Without a word, he threw his arms around you, clinging to you as though you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth. His fingers fisted the back of your shirt, shoulders trembling violently.

But your eyes were dull.

Blank.

Who… was this again?

Your fingers twitched faintly at your sides, your gaze vacant as you stared over his shoulder. There was warmth against you—the faint dampness of his tears soaking into your shirt. But you felt nothing.

When he pulled back, his red, swollen eyes searched yours.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice cracking slightly.

You blinked slowly. Tilted your head faintly.

“…Huh?”

Confusion flickered briefly across his face, but it was gone in an instant. He forced a shaky grin, nudging your forehead with his.

“Idiot,” he muttered hoarsely, ruffling your hair. “You look wiped out.”

But the faint crease between his brows lingered. And he stared at you a little longer than before.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Over time, Katsuki learned the cruel price of your quirk.

How ironic.

The ability to heal and revive—the very embodiment of hope—was also your slow undoing. A power so heroic, yet its cost so merciless.

In order to save someone, you had to lose pieces of yourself. Slivers of your heart. Fragments of memories you once held dear.

And Katsuki couldn’t help but wonder—once you were pushed to the limit, would you forget everything?

Would you forget him?

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Izuku’s body hit the ground with a sickening thud, sending dust and pebbles scattering across the broken bridge. His fingers scraped along the jagged pavement, knuckles bloodied from the fall.

He groaned softly, clutching at his shoulder as he slowly pushed himself up.

“Dammit…” he hissed through clenched teeth, wincing at the sharp sting pulsing through his arm.

But before he could rise, you were already by his side.

“Don’t move, Izu.”

Your voice was light, a soft, reassuring hum as your hands hovered over his injuries. A faint golden glow flickered between your trembling fingers, spilling warmth over his torn skin. Slowly, the bloodied scrapes faded—the broken bone mending beneath your touch.

Izuku sucked in a sharp breath as the pain dulled, his muscles loosening slightly.

But instead of relief, his chest tightened.

His hand shot out, gripping your wrist before you could continue.

“You shouldn’t use your quirk in times like this.” His voice was low but firm, his green eyes narrowed with concern. “You know how it affects you, (N/N). I can handle myself just fine.”

You forced a sheepish smile, brushing him off with a lighthearted laugh.

“Don’t worry, Izu!” you chirped, your voice too bright—too forced. “This is just me practicing for when I become a hero… I have to get used to it someday, don’t I?”

You meant it as a joke, but the faint quiver in your voice gave you away.

Because even now, you could feel it—the subtle sting behind your eyes, the faint disorientation creeping in at the edges of your mind.

It was happening again.

But you pretended not to notice.

“Idiot.”

The sharp voice came from behind you, laced with unmistakable irritation.

You barely had time to turn before Katsuki’s shadow loomed over you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His voice was low, cutting, but you caught the faint tremor in it.

“The dumbass is right,” he muttered, jerking his head toward Izuku. His crimson eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t waste your efforts on shit that can be fixed easily.”

You blinked at him.

And before you could say anything, Izuku let out a low, incredulous scoff.

“Wait—did you just agree with me?” he asked, staring at Bakugo with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Bakugo’s scowl deepened instantly. His glare snapped toward Izuku, eyes blazing with irritation.

“Shut up, dumbass!” he barked, fists clenching slightly at his sides.

Izuku’s lips parted slightly, brows knitting faintly in surprise. But then—just barely—he smirked.

“You agreed with me,” he taunted softly, his voice deliberately teasing.

Bakugo shot him a withering glare, his jaw clenching sharply. His hands twitched, sparks crackling faintly at his palms.

“Say it again and I’ll throw your nerd ass off this bridge.”

But Izuku only grinned wider, his eyes glimmering with barely concealed amusement.

And even as the two bickered—hurling threats at each other with all the ferocity of childhood rivals—you knew.

You could see it in the way they lingered close. The way they subtly kept their bodies angled toward you. The way their eyes kept flickering back—searching, wary, worried.

Because they both cared.

And you smiled softly, even as the edges of your mind blurred slightly. Even as you knew you were losing another sliver of yourself.

But you didn’t say a word.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The use of your quirk became more frequent as the three of you entered U.A. The missions grew harsher. The battles bloodier. And with them, so did the people who worried for you.

You were stronger now. Sharper. Your control over Reverie was improving—you could heal faster, revive longer. You were starting to master it, refining the edges of your power with each mission.

But the cost remained the same.

The memory loss never left—it simply grew quieter, more patient. Lurking beneath the surface, gnawing at you slowly.

It would take everything eventually.

You knew it.

And so did they.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Your hands shook faintly as you pressed your palms over the woman’s bloodied chest. Her breath was shallow, fading fast, but you didn’t stop.

Golden light flickered from your fingertips, mending the torn skin, sealing the wound. You poured every ounce of strength you had left into her frail body, coaxing her pulse back to life.

You felt your quirk pulling at you—taking from you. You could feel it in the sharp sting behind your eyes, in the dull ache spreading behind your temples.

When you pulled back, the woman’s chest rose steadily, color returning to her face. She clung to your hand, her fingers trembling as she murmured a tear-soaked, broken “thank you.”

You smiled faintly.

And then you staggered, vision tilting slightly. Your knees threatened to buckle, the weight of exhaustion making your limbs heavy and sluggish.

A faint warmth trickled down from your nose.

Blood.

You stared at the crimson droplets falling onto your trembling hands. It took you a moment to register what was happening.

“Hey—hey!”

Ochako was by your side in an instant, her hands gripping your arms tightly, steadying you. Her brown eyes were wide, round with worry as she stared at the blood smeared across your upper lip.

“(N/N), you’re bleeding!” Her voice was tight, barely above a whisper. “You need to stop—”

But you shook your head, a weak, lopsided smile tugging at your lips.

“I’m okay,” you rasped softly, forcing a breathless laugh. You could taste the iron in your mouth, but you still smiled. You lied.

Ochako’s brows furrowed deeply. You could see the tremor in her hands as she cupped your face, wiping the blood from your lip with the edge of her glove. Her hands were shaking.

“Please, just rest,” she begged softly, her voice breaking slightly.

But you didn’t.

You carried on with the mission.

Despite the dizziness threatening to pull you under, despite the way your hands trembled faintly, you didn’t stop.

You pressed your bloodied hands against another fallen civilian’s chest, reviving them for five fleeting minutes.

Enough time to let their loved ones say goodbye.

You moved onto the next.

And the next.

Because they deserved their goodbyes.

And if it meant sacrificing another sliver of yourself, you would do it without hesitation.

The man’s sobs echoed through the broken city street, his knees hitting the cracked asphalt with a hollow thud. His arms trembled as they clung to the small, lifeless body in his lap, the delicate frame of his child. Her limbs hung limp, eyes half-lidded, robbed of their light far too soon.

You had brought the child back with your quirk, just for five minutes. Enough time for the father to say goodbye.

But when she awoke, she screamed.

And the father, through tears, held her anyway.

“It’s okay… I’ve got you,” he whispered, rocking her as if he could shield her from the agony she was reliving. “Daddy’s here. I’ve got you, baby.”

The girl’s cries faded into broken gasps. She stilled in his arms before slipping away once more. Cold and lifeless.

You staggered backward, legs trembling beneath you. Something sharp cracked behind your eyes, a splintering sensation as if a fault line had split in your skull.

The world turned blurry.

When you blinked again, the sobbing man was a stranger. The charred street, unfamiliar. You stood there, lost in the very place you were supposed to save.

Katsuki’s voice cut through the fog.

“Hey! Hey, look at me!”

His voice was rough, sharp with urgency, but his hands were steady as he grabbed your face, thumbs pressed to your cheeks, grounding you.

Your eyes were unfocused, glassy with confusion. You didn’t know where you were. Who you were. But his voice was loud. Familiar. Real.

“Focus, dammit.” His forehead pressed against yours, sweat-damp hair clinging to his skin. His breath was uneven, but his voice was steady. Low. Rough. “It’s me. Come on, (N/N). Stay with me.”

And just like that, you were back.

Your chest heaved sharply, a gasp catching in your throat as your mind slowly pieced itself together. Your name. Your quirk. Your mission. His voice.

Bakugo held you in place for a moment longer, his grip firm but careful. His breathing was shaky against your temple. And when you looked into his eyes, wide with something raw and fragile— he was scared.

He almost lost you.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Then it started becoming more evident as you became the intern of a hero that owned a hospital. As her intern, you were tasked to heal patients, and if you were given the permission to, revive a patient for five minutes so their loved ones could say farewell. The heroine you were interning for, Lady Sakuko, knew the limitations and didn’t want to risk you and so you stuck with healing.

But some families begged you.. And you couldn’t say no.. It was cruel to do so.

And so you paid the price.

It started with training exercises. Lost memories slipping through your fingers. Sometimes it was minor, a name you couldn’t place, a route you couldn’t recall. Sometimes it was bigger.. Fading details of your past, faces you swore you knew but couldn’t recognize.

Your childhood best friend, Izuku, noticed first.

You were in the common room when he passed you a glass of water, his green eyes soft with concern.

“Hey, you okay? You kinda zoned out earlier.”

You stared at him blankly. “Huh? When?”

He hesitated.

“During training,” he murmured gently. “You didn’t dodge when I called your name.”

You blinked slowly at him, confused.

You didn’t remember.

His eyes softened with worry, but he forced a bright smile, brushing it off with a chuckle.

“Maybe you were just tired,” he said lightly. But the concern in his eyes lingered, even when he turned away.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You didn’t remember your favorite cafe

Ochako suggested stopping by after classl. Her voice was bright, casual, trying not to sound worried.

“Hey, wanna grab those cream puffs you like? You always get that matcha latte too.”

You blinked at her, confused.

“What café?”

Her smile faltered slightly.

“You know… the one by the park? You love that place.”

But you didn’t remember.

You stared at the tiny shop across the street, its warm glow spilling out onto the pavement, but it meant nothing to you. No familiar scent. No sense of nostalgia.

Ochako covered it quickly, her voice bright and casual.

“Oh! Maybe I’m mixing it up with someone else’s fave,” she laughed lightly. “Wanna check it out, though?”

You nodded absently, but you could feel her gaze lingering on you the entire time.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You can’t sleep.

The rooftop is cold, the wind nipping at your skin, but you don’t move. You stare out at the city, its flickering lights blurring faintly at the edges of your vision.

You hear footsteps behind you, heavy and familiar. When you glance over your shoulder, you expect to feel a flash of recognition.

But you don’t.

The blond boy strides over with his hands in his pockets, his eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows. His presence is strong—almost too much. He carries himself like he owns the entire sky.

He stops beside you, eyes narrowing slightly. “You didn’t go to your café today.”

You stare at him blankly. You don’t answer.

He turns toward you fully. His voice lowers. “What café?”

His crimson eyes falter ever so slightly. His knuckles go white in his pockets.

For a moment, neither of you speak. Then, he scoffs faintly.

“Tch. It’s a shitty place anyway,” he mutters. “Too sweet.”

You don’t know why, but your chest aches.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The hospital wing is too small.

Cots are pressed against every wall, medical supplies scattered haphazardly across tables. Blood stains the once-white sheets. The air reeks of antiseptic and scorched flesh.

You sit by the cot of a fallen soldier, his blood pooling onto the sheets, soaking through the thin fabric. His eyes are glassy—vacant. His fingers twitch once, and then still.

“Please…” his wife whispers from the other side of the cot. Her voice is thin, trembling. “Please, save him…”

You don’t hesitate.

Your hands, slick with blood, press down on his chest, trembling as the familiar warmth of your quirk pulses through your fingertips. Light spills from your hands, golden and dim, sinking into his ruined flesh.

He gasps sharply. His eyes snap open, and he screams.

You don’t flinch.

You hold his hand as he thrashes violently, as his body relives every wound he has ever suffered. As he sobs and clings to his wife’s trembling arms. As she cries and holds him, even as he begs for it to stop.

Five minutes.

You stay with him until he goes still again. His wife kisses his cooling lips, her sobs raw and broken. She holds him close, even though he is cold.

You slowly stand, legs trembling. Your head throbs violently, and your vision briefly tilts sideways. Your hands shake so violently you barely manage to wipe the blood from your cheek.

“(N/N)!”

You don’t register the voice at first. The words are muffled, distant, until a pair of arms suddenly wrap around you.

Ochako.

You blink slowly, trying to focus on her face, but her features swim and blur. For a brief, disorienting moment, she is a stranger.

Her hands grip your arms tightly, her voice trembling. “You’ve been overworking yourself at the hospital… (N/N), you should remember to pick who you revive. You can’t save all of them.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “But I can.”

Her eyes burn with tears. She shakes her head weakly. “And it’s taking a toll on you!” Her voice cracks as she tightens her grip. “You’re my best friend, (N/N)… I know that it’s selfish… but sometimes… people go.”

Her voice breaks on the last word.

You just stare at her, your breath shallow. You want to hold her. To promise her you’re fine.

But you don’t.

Because you can’t remember if you are.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You’re slipping.

You can’t remember your name. You can’t remember the mission. You can’t remember why you’re here.

But you know you need to keep moving.

Your legs shake as you stumble forward, your body screaming in protest. Each step feels heavier, each breath shallower, but you don’t stop.

You press your trembling hands to the bodies littered across the battlefield, summoning every ounce of power left in you.

You revive them.

Again. And again. And again.

You don’t think. You don’t breathe. You just do.

And then you find him.

His body is crumpled against the ground, blood pooling beneath him. His gauntlet is cracked, sparking faintly with remnants of his quirk. His hand lies slack around the grip. His eyes are closed.

You don’t know who he is.

But your heart shatters.

You fall to your knees beside him. Your fingers tremble violently as you press them against his chest. His blood seeps into your skin, warm and sticky, but you don’t care.

You don’t understand why you’re crying. You don’t know why it hurts so much.

But it does.

Your hands shake so violently you can barely summon the light. It flickers faintly at your fingertips, sputtering weakly. You’re too far gone. You barely have anything left.

And still, you pour everything into him. Every drop of strength, every broken piece of yourself, every memory you don’t even have anymore.

“Please,” you choke softly, voice cracked and trembling. “Please, just… come back.”

You’re not sure if you’re speaking to him, or to yourself.

You press harder, ignoring the searing pain in your arms, the tremor in your shoulders. Your vision blurs with tears you don’t understand, spilling hot and fast down your cheeks.

And then he gasps sharply, his eyes flying open with a sudden, broken breath.

You let out a strangled sob.

His chest heaves with shallow, ragged breaths. His eyes—crimson and glassy—flicker hazily to you, unfocused and wide with confusion. Blood clings to his lips, his skin pale from blood loss.

But he is alive.

And then you smile.

Tears slip down your cheeks, your eyes blurry, but you smile anyway. You let out a shaky, broken laugh, soft and breathless—because he’s breathing.

Your trembling fingers brush over his blood-matted hair, pushing the damp strands from his face. Your hands linger, trembling faintly against his skin.

You stare at the face you don’t recognize.

But somehow, somehow, it still feels familiar.

Your voice is barely above a whisper, soft and fragile, breaking faintly over the words.

“I think I loved you before.”

Bakugo Katsuki allows himself to cry.

Because you still do.

Even if you don’t remember.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The war was over.

The scars it left behind were not.

U.A. slowly stitched itself back together. The halls were quieter now. The seats emptier. The classrooms once filled with voices and laughter now carried a somber stillness.

But you were alive.

And so were they.

You sat by the window in the classroom, the sunlight spilling weakly across your desk, warming your hands. The soft murmur of your classmates lingered faintly around you, their voices dull and distant. You watched them quietly. The way they moved, the way they smiled, the way their hands trembled slightly when they thought no one was looking.

They were familiar strangers.

You knew their names because they told you. You knew their faces because they showed you old photos. You knew their stories because they sat beside you and spoke softly, laughing through their tears, hoping you would remember.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

No matter how hard you tried, it was all blank.

You stared down at your notebook, the lines empty. The words wouldn’t come. Your fingers trembled slightly against the pen, your chest tightening with something sharp and suffocating.

You clutched the pen harder.

And then you heard someone sniffle.

You glanced up, eyes widening slightly.

Ochako sat beside you, her hand pressed to her mouth, trying to stifle the small, broken sound. Her eyes were red, tears clinging to her lashes, falling despite her best efforts to hold them back.

You blinked slowly, confused.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered softly, your voice cracking faintly. Your eyes flickered around the room. Izuku, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, trying to smile for you. Kirishima, clenching his jaw as his hands fisted faintly on his desk, his knuckles white. Mina, her face buried in her arms, shoulders trembling softly.

And then you looked at Katsuki.

You didn’t know why, but you couldn’t look away.

There was no pain on his face. No tears. No trace of sadness.

Just tenderness. Raw and steady.

You stared at him with so much love, like your heart remembered what your mind had forgotten. Like somewhere, in the hollow of your chest, you still knew him.

And you tried so hard.

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing yourself to remember—to claw through the blank spaces, to tear through the fog—desperate to find even the smallest flicker of a memory.

But nothing came.

Just empty, aching silence.

You pressed your palms against your eyes, your shoulders trembling slightly. A broken sob caught in your throat, and you shook your head sharply, voice small and broken.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out softly. “I’m so sorry. I—I can’t remember. I—”

You covered your face with your hands, hot tears slipping between your trembling fingers. You tried to stop them, tried to breathe through the suffocating weight in your chest.

“I’m trying so hard,” you whispered shakily. “I want to remember, I do. But I—I can’t. I can’t remember any of you.”

Your voice cracked painfully as you lowered your hands, your eyes desperate and glassy. You clutched the fabric of your shirt over your chest, knuckles pale from how hard you squeezed.

“And I’m so sorry…” your voice broke completely, trembling and raw, “for forgetting you.”

And then you felt warmth.

Arms wrapping around you.

Steady. Strong. Familiar.

You felt Katsuki’s hands cradle the back of your head, his fingers slipping into your hair, holding you gently against his chest.

Your trembling hands fisted weakly into his shirt, clinging to him, your tears soaking into the fabric. You shook faintly in his arms, and he just held you tighter.

He pressed his lips softly against the crown of your head.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice rough and low, but gentle. “You don’t have to remember.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, burying your face deeper into his chest, tears falling freely.

He stroked your hair softly, his voice breaking faintly as he held you closer.

“We’ll just make new memories together.”

You hiccupped softly against him, and his arms tightened faintly around you.

“We have time,” he murmured against your temple. “We have forever.”

And so you broke completely in his arms.

Because even if you didn’t remember who he was, you still knew him.

THE END.

#katsuki bakugo mha #mha bakugou #bnha bakugou #bakugo katuski #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bnha bakugo katsuki #bakugou x you #bakugou x y/n #bnha #bnha x reader #bnha fanfiction #my hero academia #mha #mha x reader #izuku midoriya #ochako uraraka

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cherrygirlfriend · 20 days ago

Text

─── YOU'VE GOT MAIL .ᐟ

...or how reader made a friend in the most unconventional way.

★ pairing.ᐟ frat!rafe x nerd!reader

★ summary.ᐟ rafe cameron is the golden boy of kildare university; certified frat boy, captain of the football team, relentless party animal with lines of girls to sleep with.

reader couldn't be more different; while she has the best grades in the whole school, she suffers from social anxiety disorder, and her social life is limited to her three best friends and the cat she secretly snuck into her dorm room.

both of them decide to join the anonymous chatroom for their campus, and start talking to one another,, a friendship starting to form between the two; but neither of them know how different the other is.

★ author's note.ᐟ i hope you guys like this! i'm considering making this into a series; if i do, i think i'd do it the same way this fic is, aka some narration but mostly 'chatting' between rafe and reader. anyway, let me know if you want it to continue!! i've been feeling down for a few weeks now, so something simple and fun like this was a good way to get back into the flow of writing.

i thought about making this a smau, but doing the chats like this feels more authentic to the 2000s chatroom experience y’know

you were sitting on your bed, your laptop open on a website called KildareUChats, a website that was apparently meant for the students of your university to be able to anonymously chat with other students, your friend having told you to give it a try, knowing that it’d be difficult for you to do in person.

you didn't really see the point of it; although your social circle was in no way huge, you were happy enough with it, really. never having been great with new people, you'd made three friends on your freshman year of college and simply stuck to them. it didn't help that whenever you tried to talk to someone new, it felt like someone was choking you.

but this was online. the person on the other side would never know who you are, and you'd never have to actually be face-to-face with them. your cursor moved to hover over the 'REGISTER' button, and you filled the page out with your basic information, name, school email, birth date... but when the website asked for a username, you couldn't help but purse your lips as you looked around your dorm room, from the fairy lights you'd hung up on walls that now glowed in a yellowish hue, to the several books stacked on the floor, to the dead roses on your desk...

but when your eyes landed on your nightstand, you spotted a book of poems by edgar allan poe, and your lips quirked up into a small smile. after you typed the name 'AnnabelLee' into the username field, a green check mark appeared next to it to signify it was available.

after setting a password, you were redirected to a page that said 'WELCOME TO KILDAREUCHATS AnnabelLee! CLICK HERE IF YOU WISH TO CONNECT WITH A RANDOM STRANGER!'. you clicked the button, your cursor turning into a circle for a moment as it loaded, before you were redirected to a chatroom with a pop-up.

KILDAREUCHATS IS CONNECTING YOU TO A STRANGER...

KILDAREUCHATS HAS CONNECTED YOU! REMEMBER TO TREAT OTHERS THE WAY YOU WANT TO BE TREATED <3 SAY HI!

you stared at your computer screen, biting into your lower lip. you had no idea what you were supposed to say; outside of the people you already knew, you were helpless when talking to people, the words always getting stuck in your throat, or vanishing from your mind. angel's white fur blended in with your white sheets as your hand moved to absentmindedly stroke her, the little cat purring in her sleep. but before your hand could dart out to type something on your laptop, a message appeared on the screen.

STRANGER: heyy

taking in a deep breath, you shook your head, as if shaking all doubts and worries out of it. the site was anonymous; that was the whole point. and your therapist told you, that for your social anxiety to get better, you should try go socialize. mingle. you took the bottle of cheap white wine you'd snuck into your dorm, taking a large swig straight out of the bottle before setting it back down, your hands flying to your keyboard.

YOU: hi :)

STRANGER: wsp?

YOU: ...wasp?

STRANGER: lmao no... what's up?

YOU: sorry, i'm not good with that kind of lingo haha. YOU: nothing much. i'm hanging out with my cat.

STRANGER: damn, do you have an off-campus apartment or something?

YOU: nope :) YOU: don't tell my ra.

STRANGER: shit you have a CAT in your dorm?

YOU: if you tell on me, i'm gonna have to hunt you down and kill you.

STRANGER: lucky for you this is anonymous STRANGER: and i'm not a snitch lmao STRANGER: so, what are you doing on this thing at 12am on a friday night? no hot parties?

YOU: honestly, i think i'd rather put a noose around my neck than go to a party. YOU: i'm just in my room drinking wine. decided to try this site after my friend suggested it. YOU: what about you?

STRANGER: damn, kinky STRANGER: i do have a 'hot party' to go to but i also have an essay due in nine hours and the prof already hates my ass

YOU: so you decided to not write your essay and instead procrastinate by chatting with some random stranger?

STRANGER: exactly! you get it STRANGER: if i even have my laptop in front of me, i'm counting that as me writing my essay

YOU: what's it about?

STRANGER: what kind of a role religion has when it comes to politics and shit

YOU: and let me guess, that's not a topic you enjoy studying in your free time?

STRANGER: you know me so well already

YOU: if it helps, i'm also studying. or, procrastinating studying. YOU: i have a chemistry exam on monday :(

STRANGER: ...and you're studying for it on a friday already? STRANGER: i just read for exams a few minutes before they start STRANGER: compared to me you're like a genius

YOU: eyeroll. YOU: and that's why you have trouble writing an essay! YOU: you're probably missing out on a keg stand at your 'hot party'.

STRANGER: i can't believe you're making fun of the art of the stand

YOU: you'll live.

STRANGER: how do you know? maybe i'm the god of the kegstand and every time a human loses faith in me, i grow weaker

YOU: are you? YOU: oh sacred frat god? YOU: shall i make an offering for you at your altar? would that appease your distaste towards me?

STRANGER: you shall

YOU: okay, how about these for an offering: YOU: a white claw, a buzz ball, a red solo cup with a strange mixture of different kinds of alcohols, and a vape pen?

STRANGER: those appease me much, mere mortal STRANGER: also mango-flavored juul pods

YOU: you're so weird.

STRANGER: says the person who's hanging with her cat on a friday night

YOU: how do you figure i'm a her?

STRANGER: oh please STRANGER: no man would disrespect the fine art of the keg stand

YOU: got me there, frat boy.

STRANGER: that's very presumptuous STRANGER: i could just be a tomboy

YOU: please. YOU: if you're a girl then i'm sasquatch.

STRANGER: don't worry, i don't mind a little body hair

YOU: i hate you.

glancing at the clock on your wall, you'd realized that thirty minutes had already gone by. you let out a small sigh, rubbing your eyes.

YOU: i should get going. i can't keep procrastinating.

STRANGER: already?

YOU: what, are you gonna miss me or something?

STRANGER: hey, if i get a pic of bigfoot i'm gonna be making millions, i just have capitalistic tendencies

YOU: fair point.

STRANGER: you should add me as a friend

YOU: you can do that??? i thought this was an anonymous chat.

STRANGER: yeah you can lmao why else would you need to set a username STRANGER: i'll just do it

and soon enough, a pop-up appeared on your screen, with the text 'STRANGER HAS REQUESTED TO ADD YOU AS FRIEND.' along with the buttons 'ACCEPT' and 'DENY'.

you pursed your lips, your finger lingering over the touchpad, first dragging it over the button reading 'DENY', before you let out a sigh, taking a large swig from the bottle of wine, moving the cursor to 'ACCEPT' and pressing it before you could regret it.

the pop-up was now replaced with another one, reading 'CONGRATS AnnabelLee YOU ARE NOW FRIENDS WITH MalachiConstant' and when you read the stranger's name, you couldn't help but let out a small chuckle. you clicked the red 'x' that closed the pop-up, and the word STRANGER in your chat logs was now replaced by MalachiConstant.

YOU: really? vonnegut?

MalachiConstant: what? i don't seem like the type to read?

YOU: just surprising!

MalachiConstant: says the girl with the hard-on for poe MalachiConstant: which isn't surprising at all

YOU: har har. YOU: goodnight, weird vonnegut frat boy.

MalachiConstant: goodnight, weird poe girl

YOU HAVE LOGGED OUT OF KILDAREUCHATS.

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crushpunky · 5 months ago

Text

drew and actress!reader on the kitten interview

masterlist | actress!reader masterlist

this was highly requested, hope you enjoy <3

“Not sure how I got the short end of the stick with these three.” Y/n teased as she crossed her legs in front of her, joining Chase, Rudy, and Drew on the floor of the interview space. Cameras and crew surrounded them, a small makeshift barrier of boxes dividing them from where the cast sat on the floor.

“Ouch.” Rudy said, placing his hand over his heart in faux hurt. Drew grinned, leaning back on his hands, his fingers resting closely to the curve of y/n’s back.

“Are we ready for the kittens?” One of the producers asked.

“Bring in the cats!” The four of them cheered, clapping excitedly as one of the crew members entered the space, kittens in hands. Y/n put her hands over her mouth, squealing quietly as they placed the tiny creatures down in front of them.

“How long until y/n starts crying?” Chase said, as they continued to watch the kittens stumbled along the ground.

“She already cried on the drive here so…” Drew said, causing y/n to elbow him before returning her attention to the cats. A small gray kitten waddled over, climbing its way into y/n’s lap, its paws padding along her legs softly. The four of them talked sweetly to the kittens as they continued to play, climb, and run along the set.

Who in the Outer Banks cast consistently makes you break character?

“Oh JD,” Rudy said, moving to lay on his back as a small orange kitten rested politely in his lap.

“Yeah…” Drew watched one of the kittens crawl along his arm. “Or Nick Cirillo.”

“Agreed, agreed,” Chase said. “Y/n?”

“Hmm?” Y/n asked, clearly still entranced by the gray kitten playing with the sleeve of her shirt. The boys broke into laughter, causing y/n to groan. Of course she knew it was going to be difficult to answer questions with the smallest, cutest creatures alive in front of her, but she at least thought she’d be able to answer one question.

“I’m sorrryyy!” Y/n laughed. “Um, I think I’d have to say JD or Drew.”

“Me?” Drew asked with a quirk of his head.

“Yes! It’s just so weird to see you acting like… for lack of better words, a crazy person.” Y/n grinned, her nails scratching the scruff of the gray kitten’s neck.

What’s your favorite behind-the-scenes memory from filming Season 3?

“Oh, probably when Drew dropped me on my ass.” Y/n said, causing Rudy and Chase to laugh at the memory and Drew to shake his head emphatically. They had been filming a scene where Rafe picked up y/n’s character, carrying her over to the couch, however, Drew had miscalculated and dropped y/n straight on the hardwood floor. He had felt so awful, stressing as a pretty gnarly bruise began to form along her back over the week.

“I’m sorry! It was an accident.” Drew groaned, running his fingers through his grown out buzz cut.

“I know, I’m just kidding, baby.” Y/n cooed, pressing a kiss to Drew’s cheek.

If you could create a playlist for your characters, what songs would be on it?

“Do you guys have playlists?” Drew asked, looking between his co-stars.

“Oh yeah,” Rudy said, patting the head of the kitten sleeping soundly on his stomach.

“I’ve got like a lot of… dark stuff.” Drew chuckled, glancing over at y/n, who was entranced with the gray cat that was still lying politely in her lap. Drew noticed the sparkle in her eye as she tickled the cat playfully, the kitten letting out a small meow.

“Um, a lot of Taylor Swift, of course… some Fleetwood Mac.” Y/n answered, attention still on her new furry friend.

“I think you’ve got a new family member, Starkey.” Chase teased, pointing at the furball in y/n’s lap.

“Oh, yeah, I think Charleston needs a little kitten friend.” Y/n said, blinking her eyes at Drew playfully. Drew said nothing, just grinning and chuckling lightly.

What’s your biggest ick?

“If you don’t like animals.” Rudy said, y/n pointing at him with a nod. At her movement, the small gray cat in her lap leaped off her knee, landing on Drew’s stomach. The kitten crawled up before flopping down on his chest, wide eyes peering up at Drew. Y/n squealed, watching the little cat having a staring contest with big old Starkey.

“I’d say, um, being rude to service people. That’s a big ick.” Drew whispered, his hand moving to rest next to the kitten’s paws.

“I would say hating on people for liking things,” y/n said, scratching the gray cat’s head. “Like, let people like things. Who cares.”

“Yeah, I agree.” Chase said.

If Outer Banks could crossover with any tv show, which show would you choose?

“Seinfeld?” Rudy laughed, the orange cat resting on his lap stirring slightly as his stomach moved as he chuckled.

“I’ve been digging Rings of Powers lately. I think it would be kinda cool to be in Middle Earth.” Drew answered, sitting up slowly, the cat sliding to rest in his arms.

“Alright, nerd.” Chase teased, causing y/n to giggle and Drew to roll his eyes at the jab. Contrary to what his very frat boy-esque exterior may give off, Drew was a nerd at heart, more than okay with spending the night reading Harry Potter or watching Lord of the Rings.

“I’m gonna say, and I think JD and Austin would agree with me, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.” Y/n said, the boys humming in agreement.

“I feel like JJ would really get along with the Gang.” Rudy said.

Who was your celebrity crush growing up?

“Robin Williams. I had a huge crush on him growing up.” Rudy answered, petting the kitten in his lap softly. The gray kitten resting in Drew’s arm began to climb up his shirtsleeve, balancing on his forearm as Drew lifted it higher.

“Padme and Anakin in Attack of the Clones were… life changing.” Y/n said, watching the kitten walking carefully across Drew’s arm. One of the kitten’s paws slipped off, causing the kitten to fall and y/n to let out a small yelp. Drew was able to catch the cat’s small body before it fell too far, the cast letting our relieved sighs.

“You saved him.” Chase gasped, Drew lifting to hold the kitten against his chest, a sweet smile on his face. Y/n cooed at the way the kitten rested in Drew’s large hands, resting her head on Drew’s shoulder as the two of them looked down at the cat.

“Hmm,” Drew hummed quietly, “maybe Charleston does need a little friend.”

Y/n grinned, pressing a kiss to Drew’s cheek before squealing excitedly. Y/n turned to Chase, shaking his shoulders excitedly as Chase joined in on her excited squeals.

“Thank you Buzzfeed!” Rudy said, elbowing Drew playfully.

“Yes, thank you Buzzfeed!” Y/n joined, thanking the crew for their new furry friend.

#drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x actress!reader #actress!reader

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yandere-daydreams · 2 months ago

Text

Title: Good Dog.

Pairing: Yandere!SatoSugu x Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 5.5k.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Pet Play, Wildly Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Bondage, Revoked Consent, Kidnapping, Manipulation, and Rough Sex. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

[Part Two]

About half an hour into your first date, Suguru told you that he was an animal trainer.

He mentioned it offhandedly, filling in a blank you hadn’t thought to ask about, but anything more interesting than ‘financial manager’ or ‘digital entrepreneur’ would’ve caught your attention. “It’s nothing exciting,” he explained, smirking at your eagerness to pry. “Dogs and cats, not lions and tigers. It’s a good gig, if you’ve got the patience for it.”

About three hours later, after a main course, a round of drinks, dessert, a second round of drinks, and your waiter politely clearing his throat as he dropped an unrequested, but well-deserved check onto the corner of your table, Suguru asked if you’d like to come back to his place for a drink. You laughed, propping your chin on your fist. “I don’t know,” you started, a teasing drawl in your voice. “You’re sure you’re not one of those charming serial killers, right?”

His eyes darted to the side, his smile quirking. “…if I said I was, would you still come home with me?”

You were on your feet by the time he finished. “I guess I’ll just have to risk it.”

Ten minutes later, you were in the passenger seat of Suguru’s car as he pulled into a sprawling, rustically ornate villa. You fought the urge to whistle as his headlights fell onto outermost facade. You should’ve guessed from the restaurant, but still, you would’ve been impressed by a more-or-less furnished apartment. A countryside mansion was something you hadn’t even known to hope for.

It was only as you pried open your door, one foot already on the ground, that he told you he had a dog.

“You probably won’t meet him,” he shrugged, rounding the hood of the car to your side. An arm was extended and accepted – the gravel driveway quickly proving too much for your pin-prick heels. “Satoru’s a little shy around new people.”

“Satoru,” You repeated, more to yourself than to him. What a strange name for a dog. Must’ve been a purebred. “That’s too bad. I was looking forward to seeing your training skills up close.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry.” He rested a hand on your elbow, squeezing gently. “You’ll get a chance to.”

Admittedly, there wasn’t a lot of blood left in your head to think with, after that.

Your feet had left the ground entirely by the time you reached the porch. Suguru had no problem carrying you, and not having to worry about pesky inconveniences like putting one foot in front of the other meant you had more time to string your arms around his neck and run your fingers through his hair as you divided your attention between his mouth and his throat. You kept yourself occupied, pressing open-mouthed kisses into the latter as he struggled with the lock and stumbled over the threshold. Your back hit a wall before the door was shut, but you were beyond the point of caring, by then.

One of the many things you liked about Suguru was his size. Standing up, he was about a head or so taller than you, and bent over you like this, supporting you with little more than the tension of his body pressed into yours, he seemed to eclipse you entirely; dark hair cutting off your vision, large hands wrapping around your thighs, teeth that were more similar to the fangs of some great, terrible animal than anything human ghosting over the curve of your throat. You felt his chest slot against yours, pinning you against the wall as distracted fingers fumbled with the zipper of your dress, and his head dipped, mouth latching onto the slope of your shoulder in a slow, bruising love-bite. The process was painstaking and noisy, the joint sounds of his breathy moans and your whimpers enough to fill the entryway twice-over. Really, it was a wonder you managed to hear the footsteps at all.

It wasn’t that your attention drifted, just that you couldn’t stop yourself from acting on reflex. You heard padding footsteps, the metal ting, ting, ting of swinging tags, and raised your head, unconsciously searching for a dog, a pet, an animal. And, in a way, you found one. Honestly, it took you a beat too long to realize that what you were looking at wasn’t an animal – lean and pale, peering tentatively around the corner as he made his way down the staircase that led further into the villa. White leather faded into pale skin, crossing over his chest and wrapping around his thighs, supporting a pair of white thigh-high socks and matching paw-shaped mittens. The second worst part was his face; bisected by a titanium muzzle in the shape of a snout. Two white dog ears, the same color as his other accessories, framed his expression on either side, bouncing slightly as he walked.

The absolute worst part was, of course, the erect and leaking cock between his legs.

Suguru must’ve felt you go rigid. With an irritated groan, he pulled away, lowering you gently back onto your feet. He noticed the strange, naked man just as quickly, acknowledging him with a roll of his eyes. You were quickly abandoned in favor of lowering himself to one knee and cupping the naked man’s face, who panted happily in response.

“Satoru,” Suguru mumbled, carding his fingers through the man’s bone-white hair. “I thought you were going to be good and stay upstairs, for now?”

There was a non-verbal response, mostly tail wagging and clipped barks, and you stared blankly at the drooling, leaking man. At Satoru.

You might’ve said something – about a cigarette, or fresh air. You’d never know. You were on the other side of the door before the sound of your own voice could catch you, trudging stiffly to the end of the driveway.

You needed to get out of here. You wanted to get out of here. You kept one arm crossed over your chest while your free hand shot for your phone, a list of a dozen identical rideshare apps already flitting through your mind. You were cursing the lack of available drivers (why hadn’t you noticed how remote this place was earlier?) when you heard gravel crunching under rushed footsteps, Suguru’s airy laugh.

“I know, I know,” he started, while you were still glaring at your phone. “I’m an asshole.”

Colorful language, but not the type you would’ve opted to use, at the moment. “You told me you had a dog.”

“Oh, god, I did, didn’t I?” There was another laugh, a quick shake of his head, like he didn’t fully remember something he’d said all of three minutes ago. “I’m sorry – I just get into character. It’s hard not to, after a few months.”

You didn’t relax, but you didn’t bristle, either. Suguru took the opportunity to go on. “Look, whatever you’re thinking, it’s not like that. I didn’t lie to you about anything. I really am a trainer, and this really is my place. Satoru’s my client.”

You paid him a wary glance. “Client?”

“Mhm. CEOs and rich fuckers with a lot of power and a lot of money to throw around like to turn their brain off, every now and then. Since they can’t risk anyone they’ve been seen with going to the tabloids, people like me get brought in to—” He paused, shrugged. “—help them relax, I guess.”

“You expect me to believe that guy’s a CEO?”

His wry grin widened, sharpened. “Have you heard of the Gojo clan?”

Of course you had. The Gojo clan owned half of every business in Japan. The Gojo clan had enough property to build their own continent.. The Gojo clan--

You pursed your lips. Slowly, deliberately, your phone was powered off and slid back into your pocket, any other plans you might’ve had for it immediately forgotten.

“No.”

“Yes.” And then, with a note of pride in his voice, “Satoru’s the scion.”

“And he pays you to…”

“Pretend he’s a dog,” Suguru picked up, unflinchingly. “Or a cat. Or a maid. It’s pretty flexible. The costumes get a little out of hand, sometimes.”

You’d noticed. “And to lure women back to his mansion and… what? Have sex with them while he watches?”

There was another airy laugh, this one less apologetic than the first. “No, no, it’s not like that. Satoru’s not the voyeur type, and I don’t like sharing the spotlight. I let him know I was bringing someone over, but he probably thought it’d be funny to scare you – catch us both off-guard, y’know?” He flashed you a smile. “I promise, you’re here because I want you to be. That’s it.”

It was a little insulting, honestly – just how unfaltering he was. Part of you felt offended, like he’d accused you of overreacting, but another, quieter, more base faction chided you for being over-dramatic, for storming out like a child having a temper-tantrum. Because it had been childish, hadn’t it been? For as much as he’d surprised you, Satoru hadn’t seemed to be under any kind of duress, and it wasn’t like Suguru had fundamentally changed sometime in the past few minutes. Looking at him now, with his easy smile and tired eyes, it was impossible not to recognize the man who’d come up to you in your favorite coffee shop, practically tripping over your name; the man you’d spent nearly four hours talking to tonight, and enjoyed every second of it.

“…’caught off guard’ is kind of an understatement,” you mumbled, letting your shoulders slump.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I must’ve forgotten he was coming over tonight. I should’ve been more thoughtful.” His shoulders fell. “If you want to call it here, I get it. Just let me grab my keys – I don’t want you in a stranger’s car so late at night.”

It took you a few seconds to find your voice, but when you did respond, it was with a valiant effort to mirror his easy charm. Admittedly, it didn’t come as naturally to you. “And if I don’t want to call it here?”

Suguru seemed to appreciate the effort. “Then I’d ask for a couple minutes to tell Satoru to fuck off,” he started, slowly, his arm finding it way around your waist. He pulled you into his chest, and you let him. “And make sure I’m all yours.”

It was humiliating – how quickly you cracked. As soon as he finished, you sighed, shaking your head. “No, no, you shouldn’t have to do that. I really should apologize to him.” Suguru hummed curiously, and you clarified. “For running out like that, I mean. It might’ve been a little rude.”

Suguru chuckled, kissing your forehead. “If you say so, sweetheart.”

He held your hand as he led you back inside, the door left ajar from your hasty exit. Satoru was waiting in the entryway - still uncomfortable exposed, but sitting cross-legged with Suguru’s jacket draped over his shoulders. You made a point of keeping your eyes on his collarbones or above, just in case.

“’toru,” Suguru called, affection thick and honey-sweet in his tone. Immediately, Satoru perked up, ambling to his feet, and you did your best not to flinch as you noticed his height, his piercing eyes, the sculpted muscle wrapped around his arms and legs. There was no scenario wherein you would’ve been nonplussed to find out your date was engaging with niche, dubiously sexual roleplay with the heir to the largest trust fund on this side of the planet, but having a less imposing image to associate with that realization might’ve helped to soften the edge.

“I want you to meet (Y/n),” he went on, the embodiment of nonchalance. You straightened, and Satoru cocked his head to the side, evaluating you. What he was looking for, you couldn’t imagine. You wished he would take off that muzzle – at least, then, you might be able to find something a little more human in his expression. “And (Y/n),” Suguru paused, nudging your side. “This is my puppy, Satoru. The one I told you about.”

You forced yourself to smile. Satoru stared at you for a long second before bowing his head, and you took the signal – bringing your hand up to pet him the same way Suguru had, watching as he melted into your palm. It was a little too easy to let the last of your anxiety wash away, an odd sort of confidence taking its place. This wasn’t so bad, not when you knew what to expect. Maybe you’d ask Suguru if Satoru had any friends with similar interests and similar numbers in their bank accounts.

“Suguru didn’t mention how pretty you were.” You let your voice lilt up into that light, cloying sort of baby-talk. With the way they were both acting, it was a little hard to remember you weren’t talking to an actual dog. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

“Careful, now. He’ll get a big head.” He squeezed your hand gently and tugged you towards the staircase. “C’mon – I know where we can get a little privacy.”

Satoru whined, but didn’t attempt to follow you as Suguru guided you up a spiraling set of stairs and into a long, blank hallway. Suguru’s home (Satoru’s home? Their home?) was remarkable unlived in, intentional decoration sparse and the clutter of everyday life entirely absent. It might’ve been off-putting if you’d been able to focus on it, but Suguru seemed eager to distract you, pawing at your waist and stealing kisses every few steps. You counted doors half-heatedly as you passed, and somewhere between eighteen and twenty-three, Suguru pulled one open and ushered you inside.

The bedroom was less non-descript. A king-sized, four-posted bed dominated the space, the sheets a sea of red satin to contrast the black, void walls. The bare necessities were littered sporadically throughout the room – a half-empty glass of water on a bedside table, a white towel hanging from the knob of the closet door, etc. The messiness was almost calculated, things left out on purpose to feign disregard. The only thing that seemed genuinely out of place was the long, braided cord looped around the upper right bedpost, so well-used that it’d ground into and softened the wood underneath. Suguru didn’t seem to notice it, so you decided against saying anything. If you were lucky, it could be useful later on.

It wasn’t like you had much of a chance to talk, anyway. There was a specific sort of fragile, uneasy tension between you and Suguru, and it never seemed to last very long when you two were alone together. The door was shouldered closed hastily, and then, his hands were on your hips, his mouth on the side of your neck. “I’ve been looking forward to this.” And then, with an airy chuckle, a nip to the corner of your jaw, “Thought I was going to have to bend you over in that fucking coffee shop.”

The humiliating part was, had he asked, you probably would have. There was no reason he should have to know that, though. “I’d say to buy my dinner first, but—” His teeth digging into the curve of your throat, a hitch in your breath. You forced out a chirping laugh as he sucked and lapped at your neck. “—I guess you beat me to it, huh?”

Suguru’s only response was a low grown, ten fingers burrowed into your waist. You started to shrug off your jacket, but Suguru was just a little faster, just a little more eager; jerking the article down with one hand while the other wrapped around your midriff. You’d known how big he was, loved the way his body measured up to yours, and yet, you couldn’t seem to suppress the little gasp that escaped your lips as you were pulled off of your feet and thrown onto the center of his bed, to ignore the fear that knotted in your chest as he loomed at the foot of the bed – hastily dragging his shirt over his head. You watched him undress with a lazy type of indulgence, more than happy to sit back and enjoy a free show. Honestly, you’d almost forgotten you were supposed to be a part of the entertainment by the time he propped a knee on the mattress and let the full weight of his attention fall onto you.

Against your better judgement, you thought about Satoru as Suguru climbed into the space between your spread legs. You couldn’t seem to imagine how he and Satoru fit together, not that you were very inclined to. It was hard to picture either one of them as very submissive; Satoru with his menacing height and bright, vigilant eyes, or Suguru with his easy smile and feline arrogance. You’d assumed it was a fetish, but you could’ve wrong, right? You’d heard of people who make paperclip chains and chew paper to relieve stress – when you weren’t actively looking at a grown man pretend to be a dog, it really didn’t seem that much stranger.

“Where do you think you’re going, pretty girl?”

Suguru’s voice, deep and saccharine, brought you back to the present. You blinked up at him, smiling. “’m right here.”

“Good girl.” Muscular thighs straddled your waist, and you whined, reaching towards him. Suguru only caught your hands in his, intertwining your fingers with his own. “Do you trust me?”

“I don’t know. You never did tell me if you were a serial killer.”

“And it didn’t stop you from coming home with me.” He squeezed gently. “Which means you do trust me – whether or not you should.”

You hummed, and that was all the confirmation he needed. Your wrists were gathered in one hand while the other reached for the black cord – not as forgotten as you’d thought. Suguru worked quickly, but deftly. A snug slip-knot soon bound your wrists above your head, and you fought the temptation to test the binding’s strength and ruin the moment. It felt slack enough, and more importantly, Suguru was already shifting, moving, gliding a hand down the length of your throat, your chest, before finally cupping your breast, groping harshly.

Unable to do much of anything else, you arched into his touch, earning a breath of a laugh from Suguru. Dark hair veiled his face as he dipped his head, lips sealing around the bud of your nipple. It seemed to be less for your pleasure and more for his entertainment – the way he sucked with such a deliberate amount of force, how slowly he drew the flat of his tongue over your skin, the feather-slight pressure of his teeth against tender flesh. The stimulation was thick and aching, simmering where it should’ve sparked. You might’ve complained if his hand hadn’t wandered to your sex, two think fingers tracing over your slit and gathering the slick that’d been building up since he invited back to his place. Calling you ‘wet’ would’ve been the understatement of the century – you were soaked. Suguru seemed to know that, too.

He lifted his head, grinning as he pulled you into a deep kiss. By the time he drew back, your lungs throbbed in your chest and he’d been reduced to muttering. “And here I was, so scared that you’d try to run away.” The heel of his palm ground into your clit, drawing out a moan muffled only by his proximity. “No, you were never going to leave before you got what you came for, were you?”

You shook your head, bucking into his hand, but Suguru only clicked his tongue. There was another open-mouthed kiss to the curve of your neck (his favorite spot, it seemed), then another the tender flesh just above your collarbone. “You have to tell me what you want, baby. Nicely.”

Two fingers slipped under your panties and into your tight heat, scissoring apart as you moaned and squirmed underneath him. “Please,” you managed, your voice reduced to a pitchy, wavering drawl. “Please, please fuck me, Suguru.”

“That’s my girl.” You felt his fingers curl inside of you and protested with a mewling whine. When Suguru did draw back, it was only to bring his palm down on your cunt in an open-handed spank that left your skin burning and sparks racing straight to your core. You swallowed down any lingering complaints as he fucked you open on three thick digits, focusing the brunt of his energy on thrusting into you with as much depth and as much force as possible with the occasional curl or split of his fingers, whenever you threatened to adjust to his erratic rhythm. Making you cum was a secondary goal; something to be considered, but not planned around. Judging by his brutal pace, the way his dark eyes stayed fixed on your expression, he was more interested in seeing just how long it took to take you apart.

It was a shame you couldn’t hold on longer, really. Suguru might’ve been patience incarnate, but you’d never had that level of self-control. It took less than a minute of his calloused fingers rubbing against the seizing walls of your cunt, of his palm grinding sloppily into your clit before you were clawing at the cord around your wrists, clenching your eyes shut, snapping your thighs together around his forearm as you came undone from seconds of his harsh stimulation. Of course, Suguru nursed you through your climax and of course, he waited until you were coherent enough to hear the humiliatingly wet noise of your cunt clenching around his digits as he drew back. Your reward came in the form of a moment to breathe, a lingering kiss pressed into the inside of your knee as he lowered himself into the space between your legs. His remaining clothes were dealt with hastily – pulled out of the way where they couldn’t be easily discarded – and before long, you felt the blunt tip of his cock tracing over your entrance, his arousal mixing with the aftermath of your climax. Beyond the use of words, you did your best to grind against him and pulled at your restraints, putting up a laughable imitation of a struggle. The corner of Suguru’s lips turned upward. With one hand wrapped around his base and the other planted on your hip, he eased into you, fitting his body against yours until he’d bottomed out.

Immediately, it was too much.

Suguru caught on quickly, too. “This is what you asked for.” Four fingers rapped against your side as he started to move, limiting himself to short, shallow thrusts. You clenched your eyes shut, digging your nails into your palms and muttering distant, abstract curses between moans. Suguru let out a pitying hum. “You’re not allowed to change your mind now, princess. Not after begging so prettily.”

As if you could. As if you’d have any reason to. It felt like he was trying to fuck your throat through your pussy; his hips grating against yours as he pulled out to the tip only to rut back in. It was less the friction that got to you and more the pressure – filling you entirely, battering against your walls, weighing down your body where it was pinned under his. His hands hooked the underside of your thighs and hauled your legs upward, pressing your knees closer to your chest than the mattress. The stretch was incredible, nearly enough to break you. It took everything you had just to open your eyes and stare blissfully at Suguru, his dark hair dripping over his face and pooling around his shoulders, his eyes narrowed into clever, condescending slits. You could see a smirk shining through his slack-lipped groaning, and over his shoulder, something white bobbed—

Something white.

Satoru.

Against your will, your attention slipped away from Suguru and onto him. You could only make out his upper body, but even that was more than you wanted to see. The bedroom door had been nudged open, and Satoru leaned against the frame, head cocked to the side and glassy blue eyes fixed on the bed. One of his arms was angled strangely, reaching for something below his navel, and you swore, even with the sound of Suguru’s skin crashing into yours, you could hear him panting. You’d assume that the muzzle would’ve done more to muffle it, but guess not.

You didn’t say anything, but the horror written across your expression was obvious. Suguru slowed, then stopped entirely, scowling as he looked over his shoulder to follow your gaze. His reaction was reserved, minimal. A sigh of a scoff, a slight shake of his head. You waited for him to get angry, to tell Satoru to leave, or better yet, to panic, to throw a sheet over your body and do anything but let his pervert of an employer keep jerking off to your exposed, vulnerable form. Instead, he only straightened, pulling to the side as if to show that much more of you off. “Your turn already, puppy?”

Satoru didn’t nod, didn’t respond, and Suguru didn’t wait for him to. Whatever mutual understanding they had between them didn’t need to be spoken aloud; it was enough for Satoru to step forward and Suguru, half-swallowing a moan, to pull out of your cunt. You couldn’t help but feel relieved, your point of connection having abruptly gone cold.

That relief was quickly replaced by stiff, frigid dread as Satoru shuffled forward, into your direct line of sight. Most of his get-up had been abandoned, leaving only his ears, pawed gloves, and of course, that terrible muzzle. Somehow, the subtractions seemed to make him less human – like he’d gone from a man pretending to be a dog to a dog pretending to be a man. Suguru didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t seem to care. There was one more squeeze to your thigh, and then Satoru was pulling himself to the headboard, positioning himself beside you. Unceremoniously, you were turned onto your stomach, your bound wrists positioned awkwardly above your head and your elbow prodding into the mattress. Your ass was dragged upward, your knees forced underneath you. Unsure of whether trying to kick out would salvage what was left of your remaining dignity or humiliate you further, you held the position.

This time, the way you jerked and thrashed against your restraints wasn’t playful. The knot had been loose enough to slip a few minutes ago, but as soon as you exerted any real amount of force, it seemed to constrict; soft rope digging into your wrists, cutting off your circulation. You felt the mattress dip behind you, heard Satoru’s rhythmic panting through the metal of his mask. Desperately, you looked to Suguru.

“R-red,” you stammered, hoping the edge in your voice would make up for the lack of an established safe-word. “Black. Pineapple. Stop. I’m not good with this, Suguru.”

Satoru’s knees on either side of yours, the dull head of drooling cock against your ass. You felt Satoru’s tip drag over the curve of your ass, streaking your skin with arousal. Suguru hummed. “But, you’ll grin and bear it, won’t you? ‘toru’s been looking forward to this all day.”

It was awful, how little his tone had changed. If it hadn’t been for the spare man now looming over you, the terror forming knots in your chest, you would’ve thought he was still making mindless dirty talk.

“I never—” Your voice caught in your throat as Satoru whined, needy and keening. Animalistic. “I don’t want to do this.”

His attention flitted between you and Satoru, never quite landing on either. “You’ll come around,” he decided, eventually. “Just like Satoru did.”

Something cold and stiff stabbed into the center of your back. At first, you wondered if that was what fear – true fear – always felt like, made more vivid by tangible betrayal and the sudden awareness of your own stupidity, but then, you realized it was only the lower edge of Satoru’s muzzle digging into your skin as he laid himself over you, and that made more sense.

Satoru was not like his owner. Suguru hadn’t been gentle, but Satoru seemed to operate on something deeper, something baser, something that didn’t give him time to breathe between forcing his cock into your sensitive cunt and his first thrust. Actually, calling it a thrust at all might’ve been too generous – he never seemed to want to pull away from you, only rut deeper, only grinding against your ass as he moaned and whined and drooled against your neck. Eventually, his chest pressed into your back, his head falling over your shoulder. You tried not to look at him, to disassociate where you couldn’t physically separate, but it would’ve been impossible to block out the way his prying eyes seared into your skin. “So pretty.” The metal distorted the exact shape of his tone, but something cloying made it through the fog. “Been waiting forever for Suguru to pick. Knew it had to be you, though. It was always gonna be you.”

You didn’t respond, but Suguru did – laughing brightly. While Satoru did his best to beat your pussy into the shape of his cock, Suguru swung his legs off the side of the bed, turning away from you as he fetched something out of the nearest bedside table. “I’m sorry,” he said, straightening back up. “I knew Satoru needed someone to keep him company while I was away, but I couldn’t bring home just any stray – he’d tear them to pieces. You were perfect, but holding ‘toru off for the months it took to prepare…” He trailed off, smiling fondly. “He’s overeager at the best of times. You can imagine what it was like – trying to tell him he had to wait to meet his kitten.”

He was lying. He was lying and he wasn’t even trying to hide it. You hadn’t known Suguru for months, you’d known him for days. There’d been a meet-cute and everything – you’d stayed at your favorite café for an hour longer than you could really afford to just to catch his eye, and he’d stuttered the first time he’d said your---

Your name.

He’d known your name.

The stabbing sensation was back. You didn’t think it was Satoru, this time.

You opened your mouth – maybe to sob, maybe to scream – but all that came out was a fractured, airy squeak. Satoru’s dick twitched inside of you, and suddenly, you were aware of just how erratic his pace had grown, just how stifling the heat rolling off of him had gotten. You clenched your eyes shut a moment before it happened, keeping them that way as something too terrible to name was pumped into you in hot, smoldering strokes. When the last spark of his climax faded, Satoru went limp against you, cuddling into your back, but Suguru was quick to chide him with a click of his tongue.

“Bad puppy.” You saw him reach for Satoru’s head, hear something metallic and taut click out of place. “Clean up your mess. Then, we’ll have you meet your kitten properly.”

Satoru grumbled, but didn’t disobey. Dragging your unresponsive body onto its side, he nestled his head between your thighs and dragged the flat of his tongue over your slit, lapping up the remnants just beginning to drip down your thighs with a tired sort of enthusiasm. Suguru shook his head wistfully. “He can be such a brat, but he means well. Ah – can you pick your head up for me, baby?”

When you failed to so much as try, Suguru cooed. “I guess you wouldn’t be.” And then, cupping your cheek, “You’re going to be a delicate little thing, aren’t you?”

“…I’m not a thing,” you spat, but it didn’t matter. He was already fitting something onto your head – a headband, the weight balanced by two off-set ears near the rounded peak. The collar was next, heavy and decorated with bows and ribbons that scratched at your throat. You were struck with the inexplicable and irresistible urge to try to claw it off, but your bound hands saved you from the humiliation.

It took you a few seconds to put a name to the last item. Made of a pale pink leather, it had an odd shape – like a cup someone had accidently made wider than it was tall. Studded straps stretched from each corner of the opening, and Suguru’s hand fell away from your cheek as he fitted it to your lower face, The upper strap was pulled tight, then the lower, until the leather pressed snugly into your skin. You started to open your mouth, but shut it just as quickly.

You should never have bothered to wonder. There was only ever one thing it could possibly be.

A muzzle.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #yandere geto suguru #geto suguru x reader #yandere gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #yandere satosugu

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guesswhojusttt · 11 days ago

Text

peace, peace, my love (Aizawa/reader)

Chapter 3: if you are intolerable (let me be the one to tolerate you)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 AO3

(art credit to https://rob0ti.tumblr.com/post/177084481180/let-aizawa-pet-all-the-cats )

Summary:

He let me speak my own language. Earthlings probably don't realize it, but meeting someone like that is rare in life. That's a miracle in itself. - Earthlings, Sayaka Murata

Fight! Flight! Freeze! Fawn! (Fornicate…?) Fuck!

Turn into a cat? Run faster? Turn into a cat then run faster? Punch him? Kick him? Lick him? Burst into tears? Yell 'free cat cafe' and point in the opposite direction to distract him?

Of course you cannot outrun him, he is a hero and you are a malnourished, lazy thing, but you are small, as a cat, small enough to hide, and even if he finds you, you can squeeze into places he can neither see nor reach. Round the corner, down an alley, under a dumpster.

Yes. This is a perfectly good dumpster.

Big and clunky and dented, carved with rust the way wood is carved with curving curlicues- one downside of a cat's sharp sense of smell is that every scent is heightened: the wet rot, the moist ground, the oil slicks catching shimmering rainbow glints like a portal to another world, shimmery black garbage bags bloated and hastily tied shut and spilling out in ebbs and flows, piles teetering too high till they've toppled over to litter the filthy, grey concrete- which, actually, little known fact, makes for a good blanket to protect you from the way the concrete absorbs cold, and it's a tight fit, perfect for mice and pigeons and runts who need to hide from big predators.

And no predator was more fearsome and more loathsome than man.

"This again." He sighs, but there's no real weariness to it, only pity (somehow this is worse, for all your rhapsodizing about how you want to be pitied actually), "I would've hoped you already know I won't hurt you."

His footsteps are getting closer, but aimless. He does not know where you are. He cannot see you, you are squeezed not just beneath the dumpster but have backed up- back, back, allll the way back, that even if he did bend down to peer, he would not find you- you, who are so safely tucked behind more garbage than should reasonably be here (but this is not the first time you have slept here, you know the garbage trucks don't come for another couple of days, so. It's as good a cover as any, for now).

Still, those scuffed old boots are pittering around, splashing on oil and the juice of rot and mold and gutter water puddles, and his voice is that low, steady, this is a man you could introduce to your parents and he'd call them sir and madam and offer to help them move heavy furniture and assure them he has a steady income to support not just you but them well into ripe old retirement sort of voice, "do you know what my Quirk is?" He continues conversationally, "I could force you back into a person, if I wanted to. I could just look at you- don't even have to touch you, wouldn't matter if you ran away or scratched or bit- one look, and I turn off your Quirk, and you're back into human form. I say this not to threaten you, but to tell you that I can do it and am choosing not to, because I will not force you into anything you don't want."

Are you supposed to be grateful for this basic human decency, this sliver of generosity? What does he want, the not as much of a jerk as you could've been award?

You wedge yourself in cold metal and rotting wood because at least it is familiar, at least you do not have to fear losing it, being abandoned, the way you did in his plush soft warm exquisite blankets and pillows and-

You're hyperventilating. You don't mean to, but you realize that your inhales are too desperate, your exhales too ragged, your lungs too tight, too small, physically unable to gasp in any air no matter how much you gulp it down like a parched man at an oasis- your ribs are wringing the very air from your lungs like water from a sopping towel- it's that tunnel vision again, except there's nothing to see, nowhere to run, it's just pinpricks of black and red stabbing at your eyes, and you cannot breathe, you are not capable of breathing-

"I realize in hindsight that maybe telling you I could force you out of your form was perhaps- not helpful, but I only meant to- that is, I'm not going to use it even though I can, so you don't have to be so sc- I'm just making this worse, aren't I?"

You cannot hear him, not really; or you do, but only through a sharp, drawn-out ringing in your ears. Suddenly you are young again and they are coaxing you out of hiding and you are terrified and sobbing or maybe you are even younger and you are still dumb enough to listen when they swear they only want to help you, that stupid, silly age where you take people at their word and believe pinky promises. Your mind rattles off outcome after outcome, blurring through possibilities, scrambling erratically for some way, any way, out of this, out of here, away from him, away from danger-

Every scenario plays out in your head in rapid succession- he'll drag you to a shelter (not again again not again) and pat himself on the back for rescuing a stray, only to go out drinking with his friends and forget all about you, leave you to spend months and years and all your nine lives waiting for someone to take pity on you, to pet you, to take a shine to you, to adopt you and never once, never once being chosen- or worse, being adopted only to be returned because they got sick of you, because they don't like you anymore, because they can't (won't) keep you anymore- or cut the shelter altogether and adopt you directly and speed run it to get to the very same part, the inevitable outcome, of ending up right here 'neath this dumpster where you start and end, or maybe you'll hide here long enough that he'll get tired of waiting because no one can stay here forever, so he will leave because he has work and responsibilities and cannot pause them just to entertain the fancies of a skittish rabid animal, so you will escape and he won't find you, you will go to the library tomorrow and get a pen and fill out the intake forms and get a little corner with a yoga mat stinking of feet in the homeless shelter that you will choose only because it's the closet one to wherever Toga's gone to now, and even if she can stand to be away from you, you can't stand to be away from her because she is quite literally the only person who even talks to you like you're a person, too.

(Okay, this is not true. In fact it is a bold-faced lie. In fact nothing could be further from the truth. She does not speak to you like you're a person, but also she does not speak to anyone like they are a person, she does not even view herself as a human, not at all, so.

Still.

It is the closest thing you have to-)

Oh, and isn't that pathetic? Worms have more dignity than you. Isn't that humiliating, that she's your very favorite and you are not even in her top 10? That you are a whole adult and she is a child and the only reason you were ever close is because protecting her, looking after her, gave you a sense of purpose, as if your life is not a total waste so long as it is contributing to someone else's? Maybe you only like it because it makes you feel useful, important. Needed.

And no one would throw out a useful tool, right?

But no one needs an ugly homeless filthy cat. No one wants- because who in their right mind could ever want-

Through the slat of the dumpster, where your fragile head is tucked between your little shoulders, you watch shadows shift along alleyway concrete, watch sludge soak into dented metal trash cans, watch him sit down cross-legged, as if at a kotatsu rather than upon the filth and rain stains. In his large palms a small, thick book opens like a flower blooming.

"This one actually… is a... well, you can decide for yourself." He clears his throat, stilted and awkward like a friend who's recommended a questionable show and both hopes you won't judge him for it and secretly hopes you enjoy it as much as he does. " 'You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel, If on a winter’s night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, “No, I don’t want to watch TV!” Raise your voice—they won’t hear you otherwise—“I’m reading! I don’t want to be disturbed!” Maybe they haven’t heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: “I’m beginning to read Italo Calvino’s new novel!” Or if you prefer, don’t say anything; just hope they’ll leave you alone.' "

He is reading to you as if a bedtime story. Is he… seriously going to camp out here, in soggy litter in the pitch black night, waiting for a feral cat to crawl out from under the dumpster? Is he that on his mettle to arrest you, to punish you, to demand his money back? Is he that arrogant, that presumptuous, that he fancies himself a hero, a martyr, so patient and good and gallant that he is sacrificing his scarce, precious free time (because you know, you know, you have seen him come back to his apartment past midnight and leave the house so early that he can scarcely put one foot before the other) just to feed a sorry stray, will so very kindly drop you off at a cat shelter and feel all self-satisfied for being so fucking selfless and doing his kind deed of the day? Turn it into a moral to teach his students, a sappy story to tell his friends over pink drinks?

God. You really do hate those heroic types. Despise, loathe, utterly-

" 'Find the most comfortable position: seated, stretched out, curled up, or lying flat. Flat on your back, on your side, on your stomach. In an easy chair, on the sofa, in the rocker, the deck chair, on the hassock. In the hammock, if you have a hammock. On top of your bed, of course, or in the bed. You can even stand on your hands, head down, in the yoga position. With the book upside down, naturally." Why does he teach at the supercilious child-soldier-factory that is U.A.? This man's life calling is clearly an audiobook reader, a nature documentary narrator, an ASMR legend. One of those apps advertising sensual stories for women. Voice low, dreamy, trickling into your ears so they're no longer pinned back, easing your tail's anxious flicking to slow and curl calmly behind you, bristles sinking till the fur is smoothed down. His voice feels quiet, although it is not: it is, in fact, all you can hear, no longer deafened by the blood rushing to your ears nor your rapid breathing- because your breathing is not rapid at all anymore, instead steadying to sync with the surety of his own voice. Every time you've ever heard him , each time you've interacted with him, the same word keeps floating to the forefront of your mind, unbidden yet clear as a rising sun: stable. An oak tree, firmly entrenched in its miles-deep roots, never to be dug up or destroyed, unchanging come flood or hurricane or earthquake. You force your eyes open every time they drift closed, keep your lids from slipping shut, even as his voice drags on like the most loving of lullabies, the most mellifluous of melodies. "Of course, the ideal position for reading is something you can never find. In the old days they used to read standing up, at a lectern. People were accustomed to standing on their feet, without moving. They rested like that when they were tired of horseback riding. Nobody ever thought of reading on horse-back; and yet now, the idea of sitting in the saddle, the book propped against the horse’s mane, or maybe tied to the horse’s ear with a special harness, seems attractive to you. With your feet in the stirrups, you should feel quite comfortable for reading; having your feet up is the first condition for enjoying a read.' "

Your breathing slows, mellows out like the rest of you, thoughts of fighting or flying long since chased off with those neat black letters floating the air from him to you. You find your chin tucking into your arms, your mind fuzzing and blurring at the corners, the story fading to background white noise and then nothing at all.

You do not know this, but the next day, he comes back to this dumpster, checks beneath it, and panics when he sees you're not still there, right where he left you last night. He shouldn't've gone back home. He shouldn't've started nodding off himself, should've called off work, should've stayed and waited for you to come out on your own even if took the rest of your life. His scarf stretches to scour all around and beneath the leaking dumpster bin just in case he somehow missed you, (slip of a thing that you are, slippery as you are), but no, you're- you're really not here. He checks your leafy bush at his apartment complex but it it is only the twin cats, Fushi and Sushi, who he feeds but only wishes that he could talk to them to inquire as to your whereabouts. He builds a ramshackle cat shelter in the complex, two wide entrances so you do not feel backed into a corner, with straw for warmth because a blanket might get wet and therefore defeat the point, and while everything from skittering squirrels to thumping rabbits to the other stray cats, like the fat squash-faced orange one and the skinny one-eared one and the sleek tear-stained black one take refuge in it, you are not here. He built it for you, and you are not here.

You have not come back. Never, ever there. Never again.

He scared you off.

It's because he told you about his Quirk, isn't it? He should've shut his mouth, should've kept it secret. Telling you he could turn you back into a human must've cemented your pre-existing distrust and distaste for him. Tilted the power far too much to his end.

It doesn't… make sense, this- this obsession. He's fed and pet and taken care of countless stray cats ever since he could walk on his stubby little legs, so why was this time any different? Was it because he'd found out you were a person? But he'd fed and donated to homeless people before too, never once tried to chase them down and- and what? What would he even do, when he found you? He'd wanted to adopt you when he'd though you a cat, but you're a whole person. What was he going to do, let you be his roommate? Every time he thought of just- just doing what he always does, just dropping you off at a shelter, his blood curdles like sour milk and he'd shrink back. Somehow it would be- it would just be wrong, okay? Why is he still thinking about you?

You'd never even spoken to him.

(This isn't entirely, completely, wholly out of the blue for him. It does not go against who he is as a person, but he leans into it: once, young and starry-eyed (though he is loathe to ever call himself as such), he had been in the bus, gazing idly out the rain-tracked windows, and the bus rolled to a stop at the traffic lights. There was a black-haired girl, sitting cross legged outside a sprawling Victoria's Secret boutique, all bubblegum pinks and elegant blacks, propping up a cardboard sign in her lap, sharpie begging in all caps SO HUNGRY, NO FOOD, NO MONEY TO CONTINUE COLLEGE. ANYTHING HELPS.

All he had in his pocket were two vegan espresso cookies they were giving out at a potluck his parents had dragged him to last night, both still uneaten and in their crinkly wrappers, and his leg twitches with the impulse to run to her, shove the cookies in her hand, tell her he doesn't have money on him now but he'll come back tomorrow, walk her into the nearest store, buy her something. He wants to tap on the glass, beckon her to come, maybe he could lean out the door and give them to her and ask for her number so he can contact her to make sure he can find her tomorrow, and the time stretches, the bus unmoving, the woman too, and he has to do something, anything, get off the bus, he can just wait for the next one, surely even a few bites of soft cookies would be better and- his eyes dart from one passer-by to the next, biding hope that one of them will stop, will drop change into her hands, but they ignore her as one would an ant, insignificant and nigh-invisible, and maybe if someone did help her he wouldn't feel such searing guilt that he did nothing, himself.)

So, no. Him obsessing over helping you is precisely the sort of thing he would do. He is, after all, the same man who, down the line, will take in an abused little girl and adopt her as his own daughter instead of doing what any hero would do, and leave her to be as soon as she's free from the Shie Hassaikai compound.

And- if he is being entirely honest- it is not just goodness, not just concern, but curiosity. The sort of stories you must have, to have ended up there, that night. The sort of things you must have to say- how he yearns to hear them all.

He leaves food out every night. Strays wander in to eat it, all of it.

But not you.

Never you.

He does not continue reading, because, well. It was nicer when he was reading it aloud to you. He does not how to explain it, but somehow he is certain you are the type to enjoy a particularly good book.

But perhaps that is projection and wishful thinking and a dangerous path to traverse, to pin the would-like-to-be-trues atop the what-is-actually-trues. Crush is just a lack of information and all that. It is entirely possible you do not care for books at all.

へ ♡ ╱|、 ૮ - ՛ ) (` - 7 / ⁻ ៸| |、⁻〵乀 (ˍ, ل ل じしˍ,)ノ

You can always come home to this abandoned bookshop. After all-

There was no point. That is, no sense in finding a shelter till you find out where Himiko is staying and get one near hers. In case… that group of men turns out to hurt her. In case she needs a place to stay. In case…

You have tried homeless shelters. Actively, desperately, maddeningly tried. Some would not let you stay in the shelter if you did not join in their Bible circle and their prayer to Jesus (subsequently throwing you out the moment you muttered the Jesus would never force anyone to perform religion like a monkey at the zoo just to get a bowlful of soup that's more water than it is stew), some were constantly at full capacity and carried waiting list heavier than your heart, some wore lecherous grins and wandering hands and can pull a few strings as long as I can pull some of yours, cutie.

Molestation was fine. Groping was fine. Smiling and pretending to enjoy the amateur PornHub-level dirty talk was fine. But when those attentions were directed to a half-your-age petite thing in a middle school uniform just to let her have a corner of the rug to sleep on- only then did you punch him and then, of course, be charged for assault of a staff member and subsequently permanently banned.

But it was worth it, the splits in your knuckles, the loss of your backpack that they wouldn't let you in to take back, because this was how you met Himiko.

So you went to another shelter. Rats squeaked and roaches crawled and spiders wove and bedbugs bit and it is not their fault that they genuinely cannot afford pest control.

Well, it depends. In some, the management- the CEO, the boss, the whoever- clearly pockets more money than the rest of the staff combined. In others, they are so severely understaffed that they rely more on volunteers than actual employees- apologetic, accommodating, altruistic volunteers who work their hands raw to make the shelter halfway livable- though the building remains too cramped like a crumpled shoebox and there is never a working shower nor bathroom stall and the food runs out before the line does, even if you'd been standing in wait for hours- shelters you'd been waitlisted for that had now closed to lack of funds, lack of resources, lack of eleemosynary institutions-

And they close, bright and early in them morning at the hairline fracture before the crack of dawn, so that they have the day to clean and organize and put it all together for the evening. You have a bed, you can sleep there and eat breakfast there- and then, what do you do all day? Live in the library. Slither back to the shelter when the library closes. Rinse. Repeat.

They did not allow animals. A blind man sat outside every day refused to part ways with his oversized, flea-ridden, panting dog- shelter workers would bring the food out to him, and he would scoop the steamed pork out of the sandwich with his bare hands, hold it out for his drooling companion to lap up form his open palm, and then the man would eat the soggy bun and little else. Loyal as a dog to his own dog. Started some sort of fundraiser to get the money to get his dog a proper vet visit and vaccinations, you think. Don't remember if he reached the campaign goal.

So this abandoned old book shop- it was a goldmine. Yes, it was freezing in the winter and searing in the summer, but so were half the homeless shelters. While in the shelters there was a guarantee that even the fleas in your hair would be stolen if you didn't stash them well enough, while the staff was too overworked and underpaid to lift a finger about the drugs and the drunks and the rapes and if they fought back to try to break up a fight- knives or guns or fists fling- they'd either be stabbed in the process or fired or quit.

Here was your safe haven. Here you were safe from every harm, except the elements, except squeaking mice and skittering cockroaches and other things that make a home in shelters and beaten down apartments anyway.

The water was out. Broken pipes, or maybe frozen, or maybe the water company had finally realized they're supposed to shut it off since no one comes around here anyway. Not anymore. The gas and electricity and heat have been out since before you got here- if no one is around to pay for something, it ceases to exist.

What a sobering thought.

The holes pockmarking the decrepit walls mirror the ones on your face, except the building's blemishes are big enough you can walk through- and walk through them you do, as some of the doors are still locked, rust and age congealing them into place. Plaster's easy enough to tear apart, (it roughs up your palms till they're nothing like the soft silky hands of the heroines featured in the romance novels you loved), and most of the work's been done for you by stray dogs and cats and whatever other pathetic animal sought shelter here.

Shelter.

Can this place really be called… a shelter?

If you close your eyes- (and you do live like that, going through life with your eyes closed and hands outstretched blindly before you- it is the only way to stay sane-) you can pretend your head is not resting on cool concrete, but a cool, hard pillow, make-believe the cold air is of a cranked-up air-conditioner rather than the cruel winter winds, playact that the putrid stench of mold and rust and filth is just a sorry custom-made candle, tell yourself your exhaustion is from a night out way, way too late with friends-

Oh, but the fantasy shatters there: even in your daydreams you don't really know how to imagine what having friends would be like.

Maybe your hair is just matted because you had a crazy, wild night partying. Maybe you're hungry because you're on some fad trendy diet. Maybe your scarcity in clothes and belongings is because you're a minimalist. Maybe-

A roach crawls its spindly legs up your arm, and you jerk away but don't crush it.

You two are here for the same reason anyway. A safe haven (albeit dingy, albeit slovenly), tucked away from humans who'll crush you underfoot and elements that'll batter your skin till it's frostbitten and numbed beyond salvaging.

You're fine, right here. You don't mind, being here.

Really.

But now the water was out.

That's okay, though. You can lap some up somewhere. Suffice to say what you said before, isn't it? A homeless person is a threat. A homeless animal is a tragedy.

Truth be told, there was another reason you'd come back to this, your ever-present hidey hole.

The books. Water-stained and water-logged from years of leaks before you'd ever found it, they were not entirely hopeless. Somewhere, surely, must be... Italy Navarro? Italo Cavaro? Cavali? The book, damn it. If on a winter's night a traveler. Surely it was here.

This abandoned book shop, though… there is so much to say about it. To tell its story (what it was like while it was in the height of business, how it retained these hundreds of books even after the shop was bought out, how the shelves are sorted by a strange, seemingly nonsensical system which you'd pieced together over years), to explain each labyrinthine aisle, each interesting tale- you have so much to say. If only there was someone to listen.

You know the title, you know the author's initials. You don't know what the book looks like, though, and color and size would be helpful to know what to look for. You are also not quite sure what genre it falls under- speculative fiction? Contemporary literature? Comedy, tragedy, romance? The fact that it was second person should narrow it down, you had not read a second person story since the Choose Your Own Adventure book series..

There is no copy of it here (you decide, after hours of futile rifling), but what if there is and you missed it? You could kick yourself.

(It is nice to have something to look for. It gives one a sense of purpose; redirects your aimlessness to a clear, physical goal, a neatly typed-out quest in a video game: acquire the book).

You peruse the library because it is sort of common knowledge that libraries are better than shelters, and the librarian has known you well enough by now that she smiles as soon as you enter. Large, square, wire-rimmed glasses frame gentle brown eyes, corners crinkled with decades of smiles, the pilthum grooves from the corners of her lips running deep and up to the sides of her nose. How wonderful, you think, to laugh so much that it carves into your face, till your very skin is heavy with wrinkles etched from a whole, full lifetime of joy. Silvery threads lace through her brown bob, and somehow the greying hairs only complement her, the way everything seems to.

"This is not the sort of book you usually read."

"Yes, but do you have it?"

"Well, dear, we've only the one copy."

"Which is, of course, checked out." By him, no doubt.

"Oh, don't look so annoyed, dear. He's not one of those that keeps a book till it starts growing grey hairs of its own. He's a regular, ever punctual, returns each book before it's overdue, and in pristine condition, too. Such a darling. Never has to pay fines, doesn't talk much but always asks after my health- "

"I'm sure he does," you say curtly, "he certainly seems the type."

"You've met?"

"No."

She blinks owlishly you, but doesn't push or even ask. Kicked out of a shelter? Doesn't ask. Smell so repugnant and clearly wearing the same clothes she saw you in last month? Doesn't ask. Come in with a flimsy teen girl splattered in blood that is clearly not her own? Other than offering butterscotch candy from the bottom of her velvet old lady purse and offering a printout of hotlines, doesn't ask.

You huddle into a stiff desk chair- libraries being the only place in the world offering free, indiscriminate access to computers- click-clacking at the keyboard's fat buttons, mindlessly refreshing your inbox and reading only Thank you for taking the time to speak with us about our custodial opening. Unfortunately, we have decided to pursue other candidates who appear to match our requirements more closely at this time. and Thank you for applying to the position at this company. Unfortunately, the Ootori Group has moved to the next step in their hiring process, and your application was not selected at this time. and Thank you again for your interest in an employment opportunity with Center for Learning, and we wish you the best in your ongoing job search. and-

The rest of your inbox does not exactly provide relief:

Your available account balance is low

The available balance on PERSONAL CHECKING/SAVINGS ACCOUNT ending in 0981 has dropped below $100.

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"All yours, now, dear!" Your shoulders jump, startled out of a miserable stupor, the old librarian's sweet voice goading you back to reality. You have no idea why you read so much of these superfluous e-mails that never had good news anyway. You blink, eyes already straining from staring aimlessly at the computer monitor. The instant the book is returned, she waves you over, waving the tattered wrinkly book in her equally tatted wrinkly hands.

The man who has just returned it turns to see just who she's talking to, and his eyes widen in- shock? Disgust? Relief? As if his whole body is declaring finally, finally, finally!

You curl in on yourself, electrifying fear licking up your spine like a jellyfish sting, because look at the facts, at how much he did for you, at how you've done nothing at all but inconvenience him at every turn, he must hate you, so how can you help the way your throat and lungs squeeze shut, shoulders rolling in and neck tucking in and ready to flee the instant he-?

But he does not. Approach you. Or talk to you. Or so much as acknowledge you.

He only thanks the librarian and leaves.

Oh.

Oh, okay. You see how it is. You didn't want to talk to him anyway.

You quell your disappointment relief, purse your lips, fidgeting with the plastic library card (hot pink owl mascot with its wings outstretched along the length of the card, big round glasses perched atop its cheerful yellow beak), yet somehow you are not at all happy to get the book.

You don't even want to read it.

You genuinely don't.

(Because you want him to read it to you. You don't want to read it yourself.)

(Yes, yes, you love reading, you devour books not like food but like air, freely and greedily without having to budget or ration or think at all, but this book? This book specifically?

Can't be bothered to read it if he won't read it to you.)

Your hand hovers over the book- there is a steam engine train on its carmine-red cover- but you do not take it. "I actually- ah... still need to finish Earthlings. Yeah. Sayaka Murata, actually. I don't think I can read this book now, so... uh. You can just, y'know... give it to whoever is next in the waitlist, yeah? I changed my mind."

"Wonderful, dear, it was set for renewal- sir! Your book-"

He stops in his steps. Had he been in such a hurry to leave you?

Of course he was. You'd only ever seen each other in the dark, deep in the night, if you discount the time he'd seen you in the bath, but you'd been asleep. But now? Now that he sees you standing, talking, existing as a fully sentient human being? Not a cat huddled 'neath a dumpster, nor shivering atop a tree? Now that you're not something for him to coax and lure to false security? Now that he sees what you really look like, in broad daylight, where you can't hide (though all you want is to shrink away from his gaze)?

You really do shrink back, legs liquidizing and nearly shaking from the urge to run away. It's embarrassing, the way he looks at you. Disgust, revulsion, judgement. God, how your legs ache to scurry and hide under the desks, anything, anything to get away from his scathing execration.

Wordlessly, he drifts back to the front desk. Hands over his white card. She scans it with a cheerful beep. Hands it back to him. He tucks it into his coat pocket. It is small enough to fit comfortably in, though you can still make out its rectangular outline in the black fabric.

(The very same fabric he'd tucked you in a couple weeks ago, to shield you in the rainstorm).

All you see is his back- yes, broad and firm and strong, but also ramrod-straight, tense and coiled as if bracing to pounce or be pounced upon, hesitating, deliberating, shilly-shallying like he's gotta do something monumental but just isn't ready. A student who did study for a test but didn't expect to have to take it quite this soon, had in fact been banking on having more time to prepare. Taking a deep breath to steel himself- oh, God, he has to steel himself just to look at you?

He takes the smallest step towards you- barely perceptible. Not so much a step as it is slightly raising his right foot to move forward but not quite, as if the command from his brain had only halfway reached his muscles.

Slight as it is, it is still enough for you to flinch back.

He stops.

You lick your lips. They are dry, peeling like old paint flaking off decayed wood. Swallow thickly (you hear the crinkle in the back of your throat). You cannot bring yourself to make eye contact, instead occupying yourself with boring a hole into his boots with your self-conscious stare. Your voice comes out hoarse, humiliated, and heedful. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"You didn't." And he says it so earnestly, so sincerely, so simply and factually that you remember yourself all at once, ice cold water dunked on your head and bringing you right back to harsh bitter reality. He stops himself as if scared he'll scare you off again. Instead he sinks down in the orange bean bag chair, opens the little red book, and-

reads to you again.

~~~

more of my writing

Taglist/ Thank you for your love and support on the previous chapters ^_^:

@toecrust69 @spicyg02 @sunnywell @the-measure-of-things @thefrogisautistic

Let me know if you want to be added ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ thanks for reading!!

#angst #fluff #ao3 #aizawa shota x reader #aizawa x reader #ao3 writer #aizawa shouta #bnha aizawa #mha aizawa #aizawa #bnha x reader #bnha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #cat quirk #aizawa shōta

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onceinablueberrymoon · 3 months ago

Text

made for this | husband!salesman x pregnant!reader

part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | series masterlist scenario: pregnant!reader has a doctor’s appointment and wants to help husband!salesman by recruiting some new players at the clinic. the salesman has a different idea in mind… setting: a couple months after the events of season 1; sequel to this but can be read as a stand-alone fic warnings: pregnant!reader; a bit of spice and a lot of fluff; both reader and salesman feel morally superior to others; no use of y/n; second person POV word count: 931 notes: thank you all for the love on the first part! i hope i didn’t make the salesman too ooc, i try to keep things as accurate to the show as possible! but i think he is somewhat capable of having soft moments, although very rarely. i have at least one more idea for this series (if it can even be called that), so be on the lookout for that ٩>ᴗ<)و (also if anyone has any ideas for this ship, send them my way!) please enjoy! borders by @strangergraphics-archive

“Hey, can I borrow some business cards? I have an appointment at the clinic today and thought I’d pass some out.”

At your call, your husband walked into the bedroom to find you standing in front of the mirror next to your shared bed, adjusting your outfit for the day. He crossed his arms.

“I don’t think so. Any public involvement with the Games could endanger you,” his gaze lingered on your swollen stomach. He sighed, “You can’t defend yourself in your condition, no matter how much you think you can.”

You just rolled your eyes and shot him a piercing look.

“My pregnancy doesn’t impact my job, though. I can take care of myself just fine.” You took a couple steps towards him. “Who’s the one who befriended Gi-hun again? You?” You looked around the room before you pointed at yourself.

“Me, that’s who,” you grinned proudly, only for your husband to cover his face with his hands, his patience clearly running thin.

“Besides,” you shrugged, “it’s not like I’ll be playing ddakji and smacking people. No, my dear husband, that’s your thing.” You brought a finger up to your lips.

“I have my own ways to play.” You flashed a wicked smile towards your husband, causing him to shiver.

Right there and then, you knew that you had won the battle.

…or so you thought.

In the blink of an eye, your husband swept you off your feet and pinned you on the bed with only one arm. Your startled expression pleased him judging by the wild look on his face. His unoccupied hand came to gently press on your growing stomach, adding to the tense situation. He brought his lips up to graze your ear.

“See how vulnerable you are? Just think,” he lightly bit at your helix, “others won’t be so nice.”

It was your turn to shiver.

When you didn’t respond, he continued nibbling at your ear with his hand still firmly planted on your belly.

Soon after, he lifted his head and asked, “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” He kissed you deeply, only breaking away to gasp for air. The most smug expression was plastered on his face.

“Oh wait, I do.”

How cheeky of him. And cheesy, too!

You huffed, “Wow, already starting with the dad jokes? And not even the good ones either.” His eyebrow quirked upwards before he bent down to press his nose against yours.

“Do you really want to play this game?” He whispered softly, causing you to shudder. “You know I always win.”

Turning your head to the right, you let out a small chuckle.

“Oh really?” You retorted, “Prove it.”

This sent him into a borderline frenzy as he started planting kisses down the side of your neck. You threw your arms around his neck, a smile on your face. Sometimes it was just too easy to manipulate him.

As he was about to leave a mark, a sharp movement stopped him in his tracks. He blinked, snapping out of his trance. You were both confused when there was another movement, although not as sharp as the first.

The two of you looked down at your rounded stomach, and your husband removed his hand. The baby’s kicks continued nearly every minute, while you both just watched, not moving a muscle. Then, your husband lifted himself up off of you, moving to sit on the bed beside you. You sat up and, taking one of his hands, gently laid it on your stomach. Your husband carefully wrapped an arm around you, now acting as if you were made of glass.

“They’re so active. Do you think,” he paused, then in a whisper, asked, “Do you think I hurt them?”

“No… I think they’re just making themselves known,” you kissed him on the cheek.

Both of you sat in comfortable silence for a while, only to soon realize that you were now running late for your appointment.

“Is there any chance I can still get those business cards?” You pleaded.

Your husband chuckled, “Absolutely not. In fact, I’ll accompany you.”

“I thought we weren’t allowed to be seen together in public?” You furrowed your eyebrows.

He let go of you and turned to open his briefcase at the foot of the bed. Pulling out some files, he nodded, “There’s quite a few prospective players residing at that hospital. You attend your appointment, I’ll recruit more players.” He flashed his signature smirk, putting the files back in his briefcase.

“Wow, I thought you wanted to come to my appointment with me!” You laughed, giving him a light shove.

Your husband gave you a knowing look, “I can’t do that. But I expect a copy of the sonogram.” He stood up, holding out a hand for you to take.

“What a gentleman.” You took his offer and stood up.

Placing a hand on your husband’s chest, you teased, “Try to take it easy at the hospital, hm? Most of the prospects there are already on the verge of cracking. We don’t want to break them before the Games – it wouldn’t make for a good show.”

Wrapping his arms around your waist, your husband pouted, “But where’s the fun in that?”

“Giving them a tiny sliver of hope, only to eventually rip it away…” You looked him straight in the eyes. “The suspense is so thrilling, don’t you think?”

“And here I was starting to think you weren’t cut out for the job,” he chuckled. He checked his watch, noting the time.

“We should get going – it’s rude to be late.”

a/n: by the way, i don’t think i have it in me to write full-on smut, the most i can probably do is a bit of lime lol

tags: @preppyfella

#the salesman x reader #the recruiter x reader #squid game #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader #squid game x you #the salesman #the recruiter #squid game fanfic #gong yoo x reader #reader insert #the recruiter squid game #the salesman fluff #the salesman x you #pregnant reader

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bitchface24-7 · 3 months ago

Text

COYOTE UGLY - VIKTOR X READER

synopsis: When you’re not at the lab researching and developing Hextech, you’re in Zaun at the BDSM club Coyote Ugly as the bartender. Having this job ensures your team has enough money to continue working without any headaches. Well you’re in for a massive migraine since the man you’ve been in love with since you were kids is gonna find out about your dirty little secret.

warnings: secrets, bdsm etiquette, dom!viktor, love confessions, abelist comments (Viktor refers to himself in a negative light twice, referencing what others have called him) traffic light system, spanking, afab terms used for the smut section, dirty talk, vaginal sex, unsafe sex (wrap it before you tap it), creampie, squirting, I’m gonna write this as a 5 + 1 kinda deal. Ok? Ok. Grammarly is my beta

genre: m/f

p.s. This fic very obviously references Coyote Ugly (2000), and I know it is a bar in the movie but I didn't want to do a whole plotline on The Last Drop vs Coyote Ugly; and I didn't have the energy to write and characterize Silco LMAO. So I hope none of y'all are mad I tweaked it to be a BDSM club/bar instead. I've loved this movie ever since I was a kid. Now I'm tempted to do a Practical Magic (1998) fic too 😭😭

The Five Times Viktor Gets a Clue About You, and the One Time His Suspicions are Confirmed

One.

Viktor’s known you for almost two decades by this point. You’re well into your twenties and can do whatever you please. But Viktor’s got suspicions regarding you. Your excuses, your secrets. He knows you better than he knows himself.

So when you walk into the lab one day with a stack of cash, both Jayce and Viktor can’t help but look at you as if you were a project they were working on. You’ve peaked their curiosity and suspicion.

“So,” Viktor starts as you give the money to Jayce, and walk back to your desk, “Where did that money come from?”

You lightly scoff, “Don’t worry about it, V.”

“Of course I’m going to worry about it! That’s a lot of money miláček! Please tell me you got it legally.”

You whip around with a snort, “Don’t worry Viktor, it’s all legal. I just got paid from my second job. I already took a cut for myself; the rest I’m donating to the lab for our research.”

Viktor’s lips thin at that. You already took a cut for yourself and still had that much money to just… give away?

“Whatever you say, miláček.”

You’re gonna regret that. You’ve just peaked Viktor’s curiosity; and what’s the saying?

Curiosity killed the cat… but satisfaction brought it back.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Two.

Viktor’s curiosity is peaked once more when he sees a glimmer of sparkle at your navel as your shirt rises, as you try to get something off the shelf for him.

Viktor hums as he puts his pen on the hem of your shirt to lift it a bit more. You gasp as a fresh breeze brushes against your abdomen.

“Whats this, hmm?”

You sputter a bit before dropping your arms and tugging your shirt down quickly, “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Your belly button is magical and shimmers on its own?”

You sarcastically hum, “How’d you know?” you add a dramatic gasp, just because you can. Viktor quirks an eyebrow at you, “You can just admit you got a piercing. Its quite common down in Zaun.”

“Whats the fun in that.” You pout, “I got it forever ago, a bit before we left for the Academy actually.”

“You got your navel pierced when you were seventeen, and I never found out about it until you were twenty-six and I was twenty-eight?”

You playfully shrug, “Guess you aren't as observant as you think you are.”

Viktor clenches his jaw, “Don’t tease me miláček. You won't like where you end up.”

“Try me.”

With that, you walk away with a sway to your hips as Viktor's grip on his pen tightens to the point he thinks it's going to snap in half.

You're going to regret that.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Three.

“What is that?!” Jayce exclaims as you lounge on the couch, taking a small nap. “What? What! What're you screeching about Jayce?”

“That!” he squeaks, “On your lower back! Is that a…”

Viktor finishes the thought, “A tattoo?”

You twist your torso and look down. There's the perpetrator, a small tramp stamp that kind of looks like the Hexcores magic, and in the centre is a heart.

“Yeah.” you casually state as you go back to nap.

“Why does it look like the Hexcore?”

You take a quick peek over to Viktor before muttering, “Why not? I care about you guys and decided to get a tattoo to commemorate it.”

Jayce awes a bit but Viktor just narrows his eyes at you. There's more to it than just that. Because if not, then why did you put it in such a… risque place? Unless you wear low-rise pants or extremely cropped shirts; no one would ever see it.

Unless you're completely naked.

Viktor rubs his nose as you reposition yourself, your hip jutting out as your top rises even farther.

Viktor casually stands up and walks over to where you're resting on the labs couch. Lightly touching your lower back, he feels you flinch as he presses his hand harder onto the fully healed tattoo, “You must be cold, here. Let me fix that.”

And with that, Viktor pulls up the fleece blanket to cover your torso.

You look to Viktor and your eyes have darkened, your lids slightly narrowed. Your lips are lightly pursed as you examine Viktor. Viktor just smirks at you.

The longer this goes on, the more clues Viktor gets.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Four.

Jayce keeps pacing in the lab. Back and forth, back and forth. Viktor is worried Jayce is going to wear the floor down to the baseboards.

“Are you okay?” Viktor quietly asks, looking at Jayce in concern. He's never seen him so… frazzled before.

“No. There's a small gathering happening later today with the council members and high-level individuals. There was supposed to be a bartender to make the meeting not as mind numbing but the one Mel booked previously is sick. Now we need to find a replacement for…”

Jayce looks at his watch and runs a hand through his hair, “Three hours from now.”

Before Viktor can put his two cents in, you pipe in, “I can do it.”

Jayce whips around to look at you, a manic gleam in his eyes, “You’re not joking, right? You can actually bartend.”

You nod once, “I can actually bartend.”

“Shes not lying Jayce. She was a part-time bartender at the Last Drop when… when Vander was the owner.

Both you and Viktor look down, Vander was a good man. He took care of everyone as if they were his own kids.

Jayce clears his throat, trying to dissipate the mournful aura in the lab, “Wow, you're like a wolf in sheep's clothing. Many hidden talents.”

You snort, “More like a coyote prowling in the forest. Challenge brings mastery, dear Jayce.”

Viktor quirks an eyebrow at you. That's an… odd choice of words. No one ever refers to themselves as a coyote unless they frequent…

Oh.

Everything is slowly piecing together, he just needs one more piece of proof before he pounces. Viktor almost feels like he's insane; he's a frequent member of the well-established BDSM club down in Zaun; Coyote Ugly. He's sure he would’ve seen you before. But there's the off chance you work when he's not there. He only goes on Saturdays, on a bi-weekly schedule.

Maybe you knew that and planned your schedule around Viktor's desires.

For this last bit of proof, Viktor’s gonna bring his attitude from Coyote Ugly to the lab. Hopefully, he doesn't traumatize Jayce (or you if he's wrong.)

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Five.

Viktor is good at what he does. Many people look at him and assume he's a virgin due to his disabilities. They think he's submissive due to the fact he's more lean and lithe as a man.

He's not.

He can get anyone down to their knees. He can get anyone to listen to him. He doesn't typically use this power in his day-to-day life, but he's going to bring it to the lab today. Luckily for him, Jayce had a mandated meeting to go to and couldn't weasel his way out of it.

He sees his target in the corner of his eye.

You.

You're standing by the blackboard, wobbling in place. Viktor isn't sure how well you've slept, if you've eaten anything today, or if you've even taken a break.

Viktor gets up from his own spot, and makes his way to the small kitchenette in the lab and prepares a basic sandwich and sweet milk for you. He places the items onto your desk and you're none the wiser.

Its not until Viktor clears his throat do you look away from the blackboard.

“You can barely stand straight. Here, come take a small break. Eat something.”

You smile lightly at the care, “Oh Viktor, I’d love to but I can't. I'm on the verge of a breakthrough; I can feel it! If I stop now, I wont ever complete this runic sequence!”

“I insist.”

“No, I really can't—”

“Sit.”

With that, you sat down at your desk immediately. You've never heard Viktor's voice go like that. So dark, so commanding, so… sensual.

You feel almost ashamed. Here Viktor is, making you food, a drink, and worrying about your health. And you were too much of a brat to see it.

You take half the sandwich and bite into it as your stomach growls at you. Shit, he's right. You haven't eaten in several hours and now your body’s catching up to you.

Viktor tilts his head, observing you.

“You were right, thank you.”

Viktor puts his hand on the nape of your neck and squeezes. You shiver and lean into the touch.

“You’re welcome. Don't make me have to do that again.”

You look up at him, your eyes wide and glossy. Your lips pouted lightly. Viktor's grip tightens on your nape and you somewhat successfully suppress a whine.

That's the final puzzle piece.

“I wont.”

“Good girl.”

And with that, Viktor can see you blue screen.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Plus One.

Viktor's changing up his routine, visiting Coyote Ugly on a Friday rather than his usual Saturday. The trek down to Zaun wasn't too bad, but the difference is air quality was highly noticeable.

Slowly but surely, Viktor makes his way to the club. He's in his usual outfit for this scene, an all-black ensemble with the buttons of his shirt undone almost dangerously low. He can feel the looks of desire shot his way. He's always on the top of the submissive’s lists at Coyote Ugly. And every coyote he's taken has been incredibly satisfied.

But ever since this theory of his sprouted, he's been hyper-focusing on it. On you. So he hasn't been able to take any of the coyotes to bed. They're desperate.

But there's a certain coyote that's already caught his eye.

He sees you working the bar as if it were second nature. Mixing drinks, pouring shots, opening beers, and chatting up the patrons. You seem so at home here.

Viktor gets a lovely eyeful of your outfit when you hope up on the bar with a megaphone, “Same shit, new day! We follow the rules and—”

All the patrons echo your words back to you, “We don't touch your girls!”

You smirk, “And with that, let the party begin!” a bell is heard ringing in the background but all Viktor can do is appreciate your sexiness.

You're in an all-black outfit as well, but its all leather. Your top is closed by a single button, so Viktor damn near gets an eyeful of your breasts. He can see your abdomen down to the top of your navel, your belly button piercing glittering in the club's lights.

Your leather pants are skin tight and low enough that Viktor's worried you can't bend over in them without flashing someone. He sees you turn around to hop off the bar and there it is. Your hexcore inspired tattoo.

Viktor feels his pants tighten at that. Its almost like a branding in his mind. Look at that. She's mine.

A few girls get up onto the bar and dance to the songs playing on the jukebox. With a distraction in place, he makes his way to the bar to order a drink.

Your back is to the bar as you clean some glasses, “What can I getcha?”

Viktor ensures his voice is loud enough so that you can hear him, “A whiskey sour, miláček.”

The sounds of cups almost breaking puts a smile on Viktor’s face. He's got you just where he wants you. You whip around with a deer-in-the-headlights look, “Vi—Viktor! What're you doing here?! You usually come on—”

“Saturdays. Yes, I know. But I've heard wonderful things about a certain bartender and wanted to see her for myself. The only bartender I've ever met is Thomas.”

You inhale sharply, “What gave me away?”

“Little things. The money, your body modifications, referring to yourself as a coyote.”

You hit your forehead with the palm of your hand, “I'm an idiot.”

Viktor shakes his head, “No, you just got too comfortable. Besides how you reacted a few days ago when given an order sealed the deal.”

Your face feels hot, almost unbearably so. Goddamn it.

“Does this… ruin anything between us?”

Viktor scoffs, “Absolutely not! Do you know how long I've fantasized about a scenario like this happening?”

“I have an idea…” your tone is breathless as your eyes are as wide as saucers. No way is this happening. No way are your dreams coming true.

Before anything else can happen, you do a special knock on the bar. Thomas whips his head over to look at you and seems shocked.

“This is officially a Code V. I need you to man the bar tonight.”

Thomas just smiles and takes over no problem, you hop over the bar and stand next to Viktor, a beaming smile on your face.

“A Code V?”

“When I officially get the man of my dreams, I get to have a shift off. No ifs, ands, or buts!”

Viktor smiles sweetly at that.

“So…” you add before your confidence dissipates, “Wanna go upstairs?”

Viktor knows that private rooms are located upstairs if you want to… have some fun. He just nods, a sly smirk on his face, “Lead the way, miláček.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You and Viktor rush up as best you can to one of the private rooms. Before anything happens, Viktor enquires if you know about the stoplight system. You do. And with that, you two touch each other in a way you’ve been dreaming about since you both started puberty.

A bit of kissing here, a bit of groping there. Before you know it, Viktor’s fingering open your pussy as you whine and pant at the pleasure Viktor is presenting your body with.

It’s wet, slick, and so hot. Viktor’s hand is slapping against your clit, causing a loud schlick sound that makes your ears burn in embarrassment. Viktor just revels in the sounds and faces you make; he never thought you could get any prettier. Looks like he was wrong.

“Please… Please… Put it in.” You beg, your eyes watery at the constant assault Viktor is giving your g-spot. Viktor kisses his teeth, “Put what in?” He cockily asks.

“Y-your cock. I want your cock in me. I want to fuck you into the bed. Please Viktor, please? I want it so bad… I need it…” You beg, your voice wobbly in your desire. Viktor growls low in his chest as removes his fingers from your pussy. “You're such a good girl, begging for me. C'mon sweetheart, I'm all yours.” With that, you ensure Viktor is comfortable as he sits up against the headboard, you saddle him and slowly sink onto his wonderful cock.

You gasp out a long drown out moan at the feeling. Viktor’s pushed right up against your g-spot, he’s stretching you out. Your pussy is moulding itself to Viktors cock, nothing else in this world will satisfy you now. One hand holds your waist as the other rubs your back.

“C’mon.” In a low, throaty voice, you moan. As if you had to use additional effort to get the words past your parted lips. Your voice is whiney and breathy. As if putting Viktors cock in you knocked all the air out of your lungs. When you lower yourself more, Viktor, who is rubbing your back with his free hand, feels something deep inside his gut tighten up a little more as you persistently try to fit the final few inches of his cock inside. You feel dizzy at that, you're so stuffed… and there’s a few inches more.

Needy. You're so fucking needy; and Viktor loves it.

He squeezes, quickly prickling your flesh beneath his fingertips into a supple hue. Viktor wishes he could mark you like that for good, wishes that squeezing hard enough would leave bruises and indents to last a lifetime. Last several lifetimes. Even if you aren't aware of it, you still attract admiring looks from other people, which irritates Viktor. Ever since you two were teens, people would look lecherously at you. And you never noticed. But at the mere thought of everyone seeing you so marked up, something wild, primal, and almost startlingly possessive gets hold of him. Even though Viktor would know who did it, they wouldn't.

They would question who defiled you so throughly; and not once in their tiny minds would they think Viktor “The Cripple” “The Weirdo” fucked you so good you're bow-legged for days. With a trail of hickeys down your neck and chest, red marks on your wrists and a glazed look in your eyes. Viktor needs to calm down, he’s getting ahead of himself.

Before he can stop himself, Viktor tangles his fingers into your sweaty, untidy hair. You shiver at the feeling. His hands are so strong, so beautiful to look at.

“Viktor! Please! Please let me move! I need it…”You beg. You've needed this since you were fifteen and you noticed how handsome Viktor was becoming.

You lean closer to Viktor, your tits close enough to his face he can easily suck a nipple into mouth. This small shift caused his cock to press even harder into your g-spot; making a long whine and a few tears to slip out of you. Seeing that causes Viktor to freeze a bit before asking, “Colour?” At that you desperately cry out a pathetic, “Green! Please!”

If Viktor had shown even a tiny bit less restraint, the pitiful little "please" that slips from your mouth might have killed him right there.

You start to bounce, a nipple still firmly in Viktor's mouth. One hand stays on your hip as the other tweaks your other nipple. You use the headboard as support to ride Viktor to your heart's content. Fuck his cock is huge, you swear you feel it in your lungs. You could've been doing this for ages. You pitifully whine at that thought; so much time wasted.

“You look so pretty like this, you know,” Viktor mumbles appraisingly as he lets your nipple go, rocking back and forth at an almost painfully slow pace, trying to give you even more pleasure. Your thighs are trembling, splattered with lube, sweat, and an unprecedented amount of wetness from your arousal. You make a tiny, barely there noise in response, pushing weakly back against him. Viktor holds you still. “So fucked out, just for me. So cock-drunk aren’t you? My little fucktoy. My good girl. My prettiest girl” Viktor showers praise on you, who just groans at the sweet attack.

You pull up as far as you can against Viktor’s strength, the head of his cock catching on the entrance to your pussy, before dropping back down aggressively and picking up a steady rhythm. Viktor lets out an appreciative moan at that. Fuck you feel so good. He's gonna become obsessed with your pussy after this. Viktor's head tilts back to rest against the headboard as he moans, you pepper hickeys all across his pale neck. He's not the only one with possessive tendencies.

You go faster and faster, rougher and harder with each bounce, but you still take into account Viktors weaker leg. You're both moaning, yours goes up a pitch when Viktor starts to rub your clit.

Viktor whispers into your ear as he ravages your pussy, “You like that? You slut. Do you like having my big cock stretch you out? Do you like me abusing your g-spot, moulding your pussy into the shape of my dick? Nothing else will ever satisfy you again, will it Pretty Girl? No. It won’t. You’ll be desperate to have my dick rearranging your guts again.”

You just moan and starts to cry at the whispered words alongside the pounding your pussy is getting. The knot in your stomach is getting tighter and tighter, you instinctively know you can’t cum without permission. So you ask,

“Viktor… Can I cum? Please? Can I cum?

Viktor just snarls at that, nipping your ear and slapping your ass with a heavy groan, “Oh fuck… you’re such a good girl aren’t you? Asking for permission to cum without me even having to telling you. Cum. Cum right fucking now.”

And you do. With a gush of liquid, you cum hard. Your body jerking, eyes rolling into the back of your head, with your mouth ajar in a silent moan that trickles down to a pleased whine. Viktor starts to fuck into you, wanting to cum too. You start to overstimulate yourself, desperate to feel Viktor cum.

Little “Uhs.” are punched out of you at each thrust due to the painful pleasure. In no time, Viktor cums too. His hips pressed flush against yours; his sharp hipbones causing a nice bruise to form. You both simultaneously moan at the feeling of Viktor pumping you full of his cum. The two lose their strength and flop down onto the bed.

You're cuddled up, now efficiently cockwarming Viktor. You're both our of breath, and immensely pleased.

“We should clean up.” Viktor pants, you giggle breathlessly, “I don't think I can move.”

The silence is comfortable, enjoyable. You’ve almost fallen asleep when Viktor casually states, “I love you. I've loved you since I was sixteen.”

You look up at him and give him a sweet smile, before pressing your lips together in a loving, passionate kiss, “and I've loved you since I was thirteen. Looks like I've got you beat.”

Viktor just chuckles as he runs a hand through your hair, “I'm exhausted. We’ll get cleaned up when we wake up.”

“I couldn't agree more. But I want a round two before that.”

“Seriously?!”

You slap Viktor's chest playfully, “We could've been doing this for a little over a decade. I'm making up for lost time!”

Viktor kisses your forehead and contently sighs, “Can’t argue with that miláček. Can't argue with that.”

With how vigorously you two went, it’s no surprise you fell asleep in a few minutes. Wrapped up together, as content as can be.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

That's a wrap! Please be nice to me, I haven't written smut since like 2022-2023. Hope y'all liked it!

For the tattoo, search up “cybersigilism heart tramp stamp tattoo” on pinterest to see what kind of tramp stamp you got LMAO

#arcane #viktor arcane #arcane imagine #arcane smut #viktor imagine #viktor smut #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #fem!reader #banners by cafekitsune

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void-my-warranty · 5 months ago

Text

18+ Gaz/fem reader — past bullying, PIV, friends to lovers

Gaz who used to be such a jerk to you.

You’d almost think he liked you at times, but then a backhanded compliment or a laugh at your expense would sober you right out of that delusion. It was always a stark reminder of the invisible wall between you — his effortless charm, and your nervous quiet.

You accepted it.

Socially, your breeds were just different. He was a dangerous thing you’d better not touch, better not even look at too long, in case it opened you up to his attention.

And if you were a more healed version of yourself, you might have cut ties — found new friends, deleted the group chat, and maybe even switched your classes around to avoid him. But you were seventeen and didn’t think you deserved any of those protections, so you stuck it out.

And then he joined the military, and you moved on with your life. Many years, two and a half boyfriends, and two cats later, you never expect to run into him again. But you do, on some random, gloomy day. That’s definitely him, headed obliviously in your direction while he talks to someone on the phone.

You’ve just finished assuring yourself that there’s no way he'll remember you, when his eyes land on your face and light up in recognition.

Shit.

This is going to hurt.

Instantly your mind erases all the personal growth you’ve accomplished, and puts you right back into the anxious shell you were all those years ago, as if his face were some trigger for memory loss. If only he hadn’t noticed you, and you could turn around and pretend you never saw him. But no, he’s already walking over, stowing his phone in his pocket.

“Kyle,” you respond with a fake smile when he says your name. “You look…” Your eyes rake over his faded, well-worn jacket, so at odds with the flashy clothes he used to wear. “…different.”

It’s true, everything about him seems changed, from the understated surety of his posture, to the random scar on his face now. Even his eyes feel different, when they’re connecting with yours. It’s like his personal aura of disregard has evaporated, and something entirely different has taken its place.

“Speak for yourself,” he says, in a softer, deeper voice than you remember. “I like the new hair.”

You cringe internally, waiting for that mocking smile to make an appearance. But no, he just gazes speculatively across the pavement at you, as if the compliment had no hidden meaning at all.

“Thanks,” you mumble. “It’s… uh… are you visiting?”

“Stationed,” he clarifies, reluctantly dragging his eyes away to scan the damp street. “Just got my things unpacked.”

“Oh, that’s cool.” You’ve just started to slink away as subtly as you can, first one sidestep and then another.

“D’you live here?” he asks point-blank, with a little quirk to his brow.

C’mon, lie. Say you’re on holiday or something.

“…Yeah.” Why does he have to act so different? It’s throwing off your learned defenses. “A couple streets over.”

The spark of interest you glimpse in his eyes is quickly smothered by something unreadable.

“S’ppose I’ll be seeing you, then,” he offers, lingering his eyes once more on your hair, which you previously believed was behaving today.

“Alright, see y—“

It’s Kyle who escapes down the stretch of pavement. Kyle who makes a hasty, awkward retreat before you’ve even finished speaking.

“What the fuck?” you mutter to yourself, continuing down the street.

Sure, you’re confused, but that encounter was oddly… centering.

Maybe, after all this time, you somehow grew up. You’re not even that afraid of his attention any more, as if it just doesn’t even matter that much. Even if he were exactly the same as he was before, he would never again become a main character in your life or in your thoughts. How unexpectedly liberating.

You go home that night, thinking about the person you used to be. The energy you’d waste on proving yourself to people who were never your friends. The awkward moments you’d agonize over in your head, punishing yourself a hundred times for the smallest misstep. How strange that Kyle was the one to prove how much you’ve changed.

You start running into him on a fairly regular basis. At your favorite lunch spot, at the chemist's, and most commonly, on your way home from work, heading to your respective flats in the opposite direction of each other.

Every time, you're struck by how grounded you feel when he looks at you. Your heel suddenly doesn't ache, your skin doesn't feel tight and uncomfortable. He keeps a respectful distance, but his voice is always steady, and his clothes are always functional and boring. You suppose that's what the military does to some people, or maybe it's just time itself that changed him.

It takes a month for him to ask for your number. Another week to text you, and instead of asking you out for drinks, he seems interested in your cats. He can't have any of his own, he says, with the job. He seems to like the photos you send, and the little updates about your day.

It's you who invites him over the first time, for a bottle of wine and a pirated film. He sits on the other side of your couch for most of it, with his hands clasped over his belly like he's been paid not to touch anything while he’s there. He even keeps his jacket on, so when the film is done and it's time to either talk or kiss, he just stands right up and says his goodbyes.

He's almost awkward as an adult, which throws you completely off guard. It takes your cats claiming him to get him to relax a little at your place, but eventually he'll be spread out on your couch on a random Thursday night, with one cat loafing on his lap and the other one waiting on the arm rest for her turn, twitching her tail impatiently.

Your coworker asks if you two are dating, which is so utterly absurd, you don't even know what to say. You and Kyle are friends, and that alone should be enough of a crinkle in the universe. He's just new to the city, and you get along now, so it makes sense to hang out sometimes.

Nevermind that you've been cuddling closer lately, so the spare cat won't be so left out. Nevermind that you're now familiar with the feeling of his warm arm pressed against your shoulder, the backs of his knuckles tucked into the side of your thigh. Nevermind that in your bed after he's gone, you often hallucinate scenes of other things happening between you, things that would surely never exist in a sane world.

If he wanted you, he would make a move, so you're friends.

You're a bad friend, the next time he comes over.

You're wearing one of those satin bras that shows the impression of your nipples through your shirt, and you have your hair done, and you've got on a pair of little shorts, instead of your usual leggings.

Nothing a rock-solid friendship can't handle, of course. Nothing Gaz can't handle, even if he's extra quiet that night. You expect to feel his eyes on your body, but instead you feel the opposite, the inward shift in his concentration.

That rock-solid military control is suddenly a tangible barrier between you, uncomfortable and tight. The outside of your knees touch when he joins you on the sofa, shooting a spark through your lower belly—

Christ, you need to stop it. You're probably just seeking his approval to fill a teenage wound that's not his responsibility to repair. You shouldn't need him to validate you, you're your own person now, and also, fuck him for making you feel like shit in high school. You don't want him, anyway. It would be toxic as hell to pursue someone who's capable of hurting you like that, so stop it.

Overwhelmed, you put your feet up on the couch and rub at your face, trying to simultaneously get a handle on your feelings and shield you from view. This is all so stupid and unnecessary, and you're terrified that you actually like him in a very un-friendlike manner, which will only serve to embarrass you further.

For some reason, Kyle jolts straight up out of his seat, sending the cat leaping away with an affronted growl.

“Have you got any beer?” he asks, already on his way to the fridge.

“Um… I think so. Help yourself.”

Curiously, you watch his back while he putters around in your tiny kitchen. Why the hell is he taking so long?

“Kyle, are you okay?”

He takes a long drink with his back to you, and then finally turns around, bracing his arms on your counter and almost glowering at you.

“What?” you probe, curling your feet under you, and feeling self conscious with your bare legs.

Shit, he has a girlfriend, doesn’t he. Or he’s married. Or this is all an elaborate prank to shred your self esteem.

Kyle’s mouth opens and closes silently, and then he stalls with another drink of beer. You know, to torture you.

“Look, if y—“

“I love y—“

You both snap your mouths shut at the same time, staring wide eyed at each other over the countertop.

“I know I’ve been a right prick,” he says in a rush, “and you’ve got every right to bloody hate me—“

“I don’t hate you.”

Again, you both stop and blink at each other, breathing fast. You can feel your heart pounding against the front wall of your chest.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits. “I thought I’d gotten over you, and then I meet you again, and it’s like…”

Some kind of weird euphoria is starting to bubble up inside you, making the edges of your consciousness turn into blurry pink irrelevance. Kyle— Kyle likes you.

“Are you married?” you croak, and he just laughs, shaking his head.

“No.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

You chew on your mouth, heart still fluttering. “Mind grabbing me one of those beers?”

You have sex that night, in your bed, with the cats making annoyed noises intermittently on the other side. He accidentally cums in your hand, with his palm wrapped around the swell of your pretty satin bra. He seems rather embarrassed by it, but you tell him it’s fine, of course, and just expect that you’ll have to wait another day to get yours.

You couldn’t be more wrong, because he makes you cum on his fingers twice before he gets hard again.

You walk into work the next day, feeling the most alive you’ve ever felt on a solid two hours of sleep. Your phone chimes, and you look down at first text from your new boyfriend:

Come to mine tonight? I’ve got something planned.

Drabble masterlist

#kyle gaz garrick #Gaz x reader #cod Gaz #call of duty #x reader #kyle garrick x reader #dinnertime

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