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animeomegas · 4 years ago

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Omega!Light - How do his plans change? If he had a mate?

Anon: How about light yagami as an omega? It would be interesting considering how he plans on being 'justice and creating a new world. How would he feel of having an alpha mate?

and

Anon: Could I request for an omega light. I feel like it would really be interesting and it would make sense with the story line a bit. Considering he wants justice and all in an alpha-dominated world. "Omega rules over the world type of stuff "

(Hmm, this was an interesting one to write! It was a bit of a deep dive into Light’s psyche~ I’m sick at the moment and not taking my classes so I’m bulk writing some older requests right now! Sorry it took me so long to get to this. Enjoy!)

Warnings: Mpreg, Discrimination, Light’s general blasé attitude towards murder.

The World

Firstly, let’s look at the omegaverse world in Death Note (pre- Kira) and how it was for Light growing up as a male omega.

Light’s experiences with discrimination very much shaped his desire for justice. He felt like he was never given justice for the way he was treated and he was going to change that.

Omegaverse Japan was very prejudiced against omegas and Light felt these effects at a very young age.

The first time was with an elderly neighbour of his. When his mother was proudly showing off his recent perfect test scores, the neighbour dismissed them with a comment about how he shouldn’t be focusing on education but on training to be a good mate and mother, and that alphas didn’t like omegas who focused outside of the family and the household.

This was extreme, but it did reflect the biases of the older generations.

At only six, Light was crushed, even if he kept those feelings to himself. Eventually, he vowed to show everyone who thought he couldn’t do ‘alpha things’ that he could, and not only that but he was better than any alphas at those things.

Other examples of discrimination he faced are as follows:

Being told by his teacher that he should pick a new future career because “being a police officer is a demanding job. You’ll need to be at home for your future pups, Light kun!”

Alphas at his school never taking no for an answer when he rejects their advances (and the teacher ignoring this behaviour).

Gaining the attention of sleazy adult alphas starting from when he was only 14.

In public, Light tried to play both a respectful genius and good omega boy.

He would never dull his intelligence too much, but he remained soft-spoken and manipulated his way out of situations without causing a fuss. Eg. Claiming he was waiting until he finished school to court, rather than just rejecting his alphas classmates outright.

Light just found that this strategy made people leave him alone more often and therefore was his favourite.

And then he finds the Death Note.

Kira

As an omega, Kira’s actions change ever so slightly.

He is very harsh on hate crimes against omegas.

He goes so far as to seek them out, rather than mostly getting names from watching the news.

This has the unfortunate side effect of L figuring out almost immediately that Kira is an omega though. Which ultimately increases suspicion on Light.

When Light finds out that L is also an omega, he can’t decide if he feels more or less angry.

On one hand, he was imagining an arrogant asshole alpha that he would have been delighted to kill, so this is a more tolerable alternative.

On the other hand, shouldn’t L be supporting him making the world safer for omegas like them? It feels like L is betraying his kind which makes Light angrier.

In the earlier days, Kira’s focus on helping omegas and closing the discrimination gap makes him pretty popular, especially on anonymous internet forums.

With an Alpha mate

Light met you at university. You were a tolerable classmate who expressed an interest in courting him.

Light, although he had no interest in you, accepted the courtship to get L off his back. L had theorised that Kira was either an unmated omega, or mated and very angry/regretful about it. Considering Kira’s age, he decided it was likely the former. For this reason, he figured being in an active courtship would throw L off.

Light picked you because you were one of the more tolerable alphas, but he found himself surprised at how much he enjoyed your company.

You actually listened to him, valued his opinions, supported his dreams. He found himself thinking that it wouldn’t be that bad to be mated to you.

He pushed those thoughts back, following the courting motions with as little emotion as possible.

But when he was in heat (a minimised one because he takes suppressants) he just really wanted you there with him. He was so confused and angry that he was feeling this way, but he caved in and called you over to spend time with him.

As he laid in your embrace, he started trying to justify what he was doing.

He liked to think he was a god, but ultimately he had the lifespan of a human. Who better to continue his legacy than his own child? For a child, he would need a mate. And you were the most tolerable alpha he had ever met. That’s the reason he was doing this.

So, he puts out feelers to see your opinion on Kira and eventually he tells you who he is. He is gleeful when he receives your support.

From this point, he throws himself into the relationship a lot more, moving on from courting to intended mates.

He loves having someone he can be himself with. He never has to put up a mask with his alpha.

His plan is to get pregnant after he’s established the new world order, then raise his child to take over when he’s too old. He doesn’t care what their primary or secondary gender is because he plans to make sure they are raised to be a suitable leader.

Light gritted his teeth as he persevered through his university coursework. His heat was driving him mad. He skin was itchy and he couldn’t focus properly.

It would probably be better if you were here with him.

No. He gripped his pen tightly. He didn’t need anyone else, certainly not an alpha. He was fine. He just needed to lay down for a bit, then he’d feel better.

Closing his textbook, he stretched and made his way over to his bed, supressing a whine at the lack of a nest. No, he didn’t need a nest he was fine.

Okay, maybe he wasn't as fine as originally thought. It had been a few hours and he was only feeling worse. Maybe he should send you a message. Just so he could get back to work of course.

You knocked hesitantly on Light’s front door, clutching your bag tightly. Light had sent you a cryptic message and you were a little worried about him.

His mother opened the door and ushered you up to Light’s room with a smile. You thanked her politely before walking quickly to Light’s bedroom. You knocked twice before tentatively swinging open the door. You saw Light sitting up in bed, looking a little ruffled, like he’d been asleep. You took a deep breath. He was in heat... The omega you were courting had just invited you into his room while he was in heat! Your alpha puffed up in pride.

But... where was his nest?

“Hey Light.” You spoke quietly. “How are you feeling?” You moved to sit on the edge of his bed, watching carefully for any signs of rejection.

“Like crap.” He let out a strained laugh. “I need to get my work done, but I can’t do anything like this.”

You hesitated. “Where is your nest? You’d probably feel a lot better in there.”

“I don’t have one.” Light said shortly.

“Oh!” You said, flustered. “That’s fine. I just thought- but that was rude, I’m sorry.”

Light rolled his eyes. “It’s fine, just drop it.”

You let out a sigh of relief, scooting closer to him and wrapping an arm around his waist. Light automatically leaned onto your shoulder before realising what he was doing and starting to pull away. Before he could, you tightened your grip, releasing a calming scent as you enjoyed the physical affection. Light hesitated, but the feeling of burning itchiness was finally starting to subside and he couldn’t help but lean into the person providing the soothing sensation.

He was only doing this so he would be feeling well enough this evening to write in the Death Note. That’s it. Nothing else.

#death note #light yagami #omega!light #omega light #omega L #alpha!reader #alpha reader #abo #omegaverse #headcanons #scenarios #mpreg #nesting #reader insert #omega male #gn reader #gn alpha #light x reader #omega light x alpha reader

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tiffanytoms · 3 years ago

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Hello! So I just came here to tell you how much I love your stories (Yes I've read all of them). I also wanted to tell you how much I love love love that James feeling in all of your stories (I hope that makes sense, check next ask for more info [I was out of characters srry]). So using this I want to ask how do you make James so James like or what are some characteristics of his personality you use in your stories? - Thank you for everything, I love your stories SO SO MUCH

Awwww, you went straight for my heart with this compliment! 🥺♥️ Thank you!

I oddly do get what you mean with ‘that James feeling’ 🥰 Full disclosure, I feel like I’m practically in love with him at this point and see his personality so clearly in my head now, so perhaps that’s why I’m so happy I can throw him into different situations, and you can still see him.

But yes! Social psych 101: situations, situations, situations! We don’t act the same with our parents as we do with our friends or even teachers, and so these different situations with the same guy are so fun to play with!

Basically, I feel like I’ve psychoanalyzed the shit out of him now, since we really do have so little to go off of in the books. So if you’d like to hear me ramble… 😊 We know that he was popular (as a Marauder), extremely talented (the map and animagus), a troublemaker, athletic, a bit of a jerk in 5th year (to blood supremacists… so, valid) but then almost immediately turned around and matured to the point of saving his enemy’s life and making a girl who swore she hated him give him a chance, brave, loyal, and would do anything for his friends and family. So right off the bat, I think we can’t ignore those traits.

But there’s also so much we can infer! We also know his best friend was basically the most gorgeous man on the planet and that James probably followed Harry’s rough growth trajectory. So here was a guy who was physically gangly and awkward until becoming tall and handsome in 6th year. I think it’s realistic to think that he would therefore have to work really hard at being charming (which I think is supported by even someone like McGonagall favoring him so much) in order to keep up with his best mate.

I also am super impressed by his growth — I mean, not everyone can admit when they were wrong and learn from it. The fact that Lily gave him a chance (being described every damn book as the kindest witch ever) shows he really must have become pretty dang awesome, and responsible even with being Head Boy. Strength of character.

I also think we know he was very generous — offering to pay for Remus when he was unemployed and offering Sirius a place to stay when kicked out. I am one hundred 💯 perfect extrapolating that into his love life 😏 There’s no way James was not a good lover. It is law. Also being into Quidditch, I’m sure he was competitive and always trying to top himself 😅

More so about being an only child (before actively choosing not to be, which I think speaks to his selflessness, bc I think there are certain stereotypes about only children) — he grew up doted and loved extra hard. I definitely think that led to him always being confident to the point of cocky (but he could back it up.. and again, he’s charming 😉) bc he was always made to feel special growing up. Also think it made him feel invincible and like he could get away with murder 🤣

Also, we know he’s rich and comes from a Pureblood family. With that sort of background, I think we can guess some of the upbringing he had. I’m adding at least knowing how to be chivalrous and polite (when he wanted to be) to his list!

Now, most importantly I think, is his relationship with Lily. This is the height of that James feeling 😍 I do not accept anything less than he was absolutely, positively in love with her from super early on. Honestly, what sort of teen boy doodles initials of his crush?! And then marries her right out of school? An adorable doofus, that’s who, and WE LOVE HIM FOR IT! I often make him a bit obsessive, but I kinda feel like that tracks. I think his honest devotion to Lily was what convinced her that he was serious about her. Because he was definitely playful too 😁 But yeah, how hard he had to work to prove himself to her I think also made him never take a single second with her for granted 💕 Grateful

Anyway. Thanks for letting me ramble!

TL;DR James’ traits in purple 💜

#james potter #psych students are psychos #JILY Characterization #sweet asks #thisisjustanormalaccount #review

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writefasttalkevenfaster · 4 years ago

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John Munch / Simple

Prompt: “Suck it” “oh i’m gonna suck something”

Word Count: 3,887

Warnings: canon typical situations and violence, discussion of rape (non-graphic), hurt/comfort apparently, fin and munch are literally some of my fav characters to write for lmao, some discussion of the psych evals from 1x22

A/N: what is this? how did this happen? I don’t know - i blame @laneygthememequeen mostly, but also my friends for enabling me beyond belief lmao.

“Am I allowed to come in or must I bow and show my allegiance before I am deemed worthy?” and you didn’t need to look up from your desk to know who it was. Your pen still moved, scribbling notes in the margins of the answer that was given to you by Roger Klessler — more hassle than law.

“No need for allegiance, Detective Munch — I know you only give that to your squad and your string of conspiracy theories,” you finish with the page, sparing him a glance, “only compliance is needed — the one thing you didn’t do on the last case.”

“Your hands aren’t exactly clean yourself, counselor,” he shuts the door behind him, slipping his hands into his pockets, “what did you do to get that warrant again?”

You raise an eyebrow, “Are you questioning my integrity?”

“Funny, I didn’t know lawyers had any,”

“They don’t, but I can try, can’t I?” you lean on your elbow, “what do you need?”

“We have a suspect in holding who just invoked, we thought they might be a little more conducive to having an A.D.A. in the box with them,” he tilted his head.

“Alex isn’t available?”

“Alex told us to get you,” you held in your sigh, “don’t you lawyers talk to each other?”

“No, we communicate through telepathy,” you reply drily, grabbing your coat and bag, “Let’s go.”

~~~

“Counselor, you should remind your client that his options are running out,” to say this meeting was going poorly would have been the understatement of the century, “and my patience is running thin.”

A serial child and women abuser — with videos abusing so many children and women over the last twenty years, videos that made your stomach turn — and to make matters worse, he had made into a business, selling these children and women and their pain for profit — and now it was time to make his pain your profit.

“You have no evidenc—”

“We have a witness who saw your client, we have his DNA being run against the blood that was found at the scene, and when it comes back it will match and your client will be facing life in prison—” your teeth grit, “And I’ll be sure he gets it. Or, give up your sick buddies. And maybe you’ll have the possibility of parole in the far off future.”

“You fucking bitch—” he spits at you.

“Is that the best you can do?” you raise an eyebrow, as you see Munch tense out of the corner of your eye, “Mr. Bradford, I’m not scared of you. I’m not a defenseless child or battered woman you can intimidate—” you cross your arms, “not so easy picking on someone who can fight back, is it?”

Bradford lunges, but Munch shoves him back into his chair, “Do we need to add assault on an A.D.A. to your laundry list of charges, Bradford?” and you blink, slack jawed, a shiver going down your spine — if Munch was a second later— “Try that again and I’ll have you—”

There’s a knock on the window, and your eyes snap over, “Control your client, counselor, or I’ll have him locked up in solitary,” your jaw is set — you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of seeing you waver, “the offer had 24 hours — it now has an expiration date in ten, so look forward to hearing from you in one.”

The door shuts behind you, your fingers white knuckling the handle of your briefcase. Liv frowns, “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” you wave them off, as Munch emerges from the room as well, “tell me when he caves to my offer. And when you’re setting up the sting to get the other guys — I want to be there to make everything go smoothly. No screw ups this time.”

“All due respect, counselor, but we don’t need a babysitter,” Fin says.

“All due respect, Detective, maybe you do,” you swallow the lump sitting on your throat, “we need to nail these guys — we have all of New York, 1PP, and the D.A.’s office all breathing down our necks — it needs to be airtight,” you scan all of their faces, “unless all of you would like to take the heat?”

“I don’t think any of us want that, counselor,” Cragen cuts in, “we appreciate your help. We’ll let you know when we decide to go ahead with the sting.”

You nod curtly, intent on leaving the precinct as quickly as you could — the image of Bradford lunging at you still fresh and stinging — but nothing was that easy, “Counselor,” Munch was at your side, standing beside you at the elevators, as you pressed the button, “in a rush?”

“To go home? Yes,”

“I just wanted—”

“Wanted what, Munch? What do you want?” you sigh exasperatedly, fighting a losing battle for your voice not to break, “I’m not in the mood for a verbal sparring match, so why don’t we take a rain check?”

The elevator doors ding, and you step in, hoping to spare yourself the agony of a response, but he follows, the doors shutting behind him.

But surprisingly his voice was soft, “I wanted to make sure you were okay,”

“I’m fine,” you cross your arms, hoping that it would hold you together, until you got to your office, “I’m not scared of him, Munch—”

“I know you could kick his ass, counselor, I’m not asking you if you’re ready to go seven rounds in the ring with him—” he leans against the wall of the elevator, “I’m just asking if you’re alright.”

You raise an eyebrow, “John Munch asking me if I’m alright? No sarcastic remark?”

“I know, I’m surprised myself, I might have to ask Skoda to do a psych eval on me,” and you crack a smile, shaking your head.

“It was scary,” you admit, something you didn’t want to, “I’ve been threatened before — messages, verbally, even had a guy say he would kill my family—” you bite your lip, “but I never had someone try something, physically before.”

“It’s okay to have been scared, y’know,” the elevator doors ding, and you step out, shaking your head, “no one expects you to be strong all the time, counselor.”

And you pause, looking back at him, “But I do,” you blink away the tears, “good night, detective.”

~~~

“It’s too risky!” you ignore Munch, continuing to fix your makeup, “You saw how you acted when Bradford lunged at you — why—”

“I would do anything to make sure these men get put away,” you finish your makeup, grabbing the outfit Liv had handed you, “and that includes this.”

This being an undercover operation designed to get names of victims, ages, and dates if possible, before arresting the group for exchanging pictures and videos of their crimes.

“Putting yourself in the middle of this chaos? You’re being reckless—”

You slide past him and into a bathroom stall, “I know what I’m doing,”

“Do you? Do you know how many things could go wrong?” he continues, “I could list them for you for posterity — assault, battery, rape, and let’s not forget murder—”

“I don’t think Liv will let me get murdered when she’s in the room with me, and I would you, Fin, Stabler, and the Captain wouldn’t either—”

“Things go wrong on these ops, counselor — the field isn’t as safe as a courtroom — court officers, a metal detector right outside—”

His words fail when the door swings open, a skin tight bodysuit clung to your figure, crimson, just as his ears nearly were, his eyes raking over your outfit, before finding their way back to your raised brows, “You were saying?”

He stumbles over his words, “I was saying that—” you cross your arms, waiting and he finds himself distracted all over again, before he shakes himself from his stupor, “I was saying that this is too dangerous—”

“Munch—” you cut him off, “I appreciate your concern, really I do, but I’m going to nail these guys anyway I can, so you can’t change my mind,” your hand finds his shoulder, squeezing, “but I can count on you to have my back right?”

He simmers, sighing, his eyes softening, “Of course,” and you squeeze his shoulder, and he calls after you as you head towards the squadroom, “I just hope they taught you taekwondo in law school,”

“And I hope you know by ‘having my back,’ I meant more than my ass,” you flash him a smile over your shoulder, shaking your head, and flexing your fingers.

It would be fine.

You would be fine.

~~~

It wasn’t fine. He couldn’t find you.

“Where is he? Where is that son of a bitch, he took—”

“Munch, calm down,” Liv starts, and he’s shaking his head, his finger in his face.

“You were supposed to watch them, you were supposed to—”

“Hey, Munch,” Elliot cuts between him and his partner, his hand on his shoulder, “we all were there, Bradford slipped out during the raid, there wasn’t anything we could do. We’re going to find them.”

Munch brushes him away, finding Fin, “Where are we on Bradford?”

“Got him sneaking out during the takedown,” Fin points you out in the crowd, “looks like he had a knife pressed against counselor’s back, just out of view.”

“How the hell did that scum sucking, gangrenous low life of a—”

“Looks like he stole it off one of his buddies he was setting up,” Fin rewinds the tape, and points it out, “lifts it right from his pocket.”

“Where does he go?” Fin fast forwards, until he gets to the cameras outside, shooting from the van itself.

“He steals a car down the street, must belong to that brownstone,” Fin shoves the equipment at another officer, “Let’s get the license plate and get a bolo out.”

Liv and Elliot join the two of them, handing a report to Fin, “We got a list of places that Bradford was known to hang out at—”

“What are we waiting for?” Munch brushes past them to the car, rounding the car to the driver’s seat, pulling it open, before Fin stops him.

“I’m driving,” Fin says, holding his hand, and Munch opens his mouth to rebut, “do we really have time to argue right now?”

Munch glares at him, before handing him the keys, “You better not abide by any traffic laws,”

“Do I ever?”

~~~

“Can we go any faster than this? I swear my great uncle could drive faster than this,” Munch expects his partner to be angry, but he’s only sighing and shaking his head, “what?”

And Fin side eyes him, “If you’re in love with—”

Munch gapes at him, “I’m not—”

“--then why don’t you just say something, man?” Fin scoffs, “you can deny it all you want, explain it away with one of your crazy ass conspiracy theories, but it’s there, John.”

Munch pulls off his glasses, running his hand over his face, fingers resting right below his nose, “You know every time I got married, I thought I was in love,”

“I know, and then your ex-wives screwed you — what about it?”

“This is different,” he sighs, “and I don’t want to admit that to myself.”

“What’s so bad about that, Munch? You want to try again,” and Munch is shaking his head.

“You know a psychiatrist once told me that the reason all my marriages failed was because I chose women who were spoiled, beautiful, and not my intellectual equal?”

“Meeting some of your ex-wives, I could believe that,” Fin’s eyes fall back to the road, “what’s your point?”

Your name slips from his lips, “this is different — this is someone’s who's my equal — smarter than me, beautiful— it could — we could be—” he cuts off, “I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose--” and he cuts off, sighing, “I don’t know.”

“Well that’s easy, John,” Fin pulls over, the car screeching as it does, “we won’t,” and he jerks his head, “whose car does that look like?” Munch calls in the car, unbuckling himself and slipping from the car, “We have to wait for back-up—”

“I’m not waiting—” before he adds, “you don’t have to come—”

“I’m not letting your bony ass get shot again,” Fin is already shutting the car door, pulling his gun out, “let’s go.”

~~~

“Are you scared now?” Bradford asks, circling you — a predator gauging its prey — no, he was simply playing with you now. Your wrists flex against your restraints, the wood grain of the chair digging into your skin the more you struggled, the rope around your wrists ungiving, “are you, counselor?”

It was rhetorical — judging by the tape stuck to your lips and the fact he continued to speak, and his fingers fist into your hair, pulling your head back, “Come on, no smart remarks now?”

Are you that stupid that you’ve forgotten that you taped my mouth over?

No, wait he was that stupid.

And he slaps you — the sting of his palm against your cheek dazes you a moment, and then his fist lands a blow in your stomach, choking on the same air you breathed, tears burning before slipping down your cheeks.

“Do you think this is bad?” and now he’s holding your face between his fingers, nails digging into your cheeks, and he grins, a shiver going down your spine, “just wait.” And he disappears a moment, his shadowy figure rifling through a bag on a table.

Your eyes darted around, looking for something that could help you, something to help you escape, but nothing was within reach. Your chest squeezed — what if you died here? What if you never saw your family again? What if you never saw your friends again? What if they never found your body? Fear claws up your throat, eyes burning.

What if they found your body?

What if Munch found your body?

You had promised him you’d be careful, but you were careless. You didn’t watch Bradford close enough, you didn’t stick with Liv, you were stupid — so stupid.

And you wondered if he’d rape you before he was done — if they would find your body like so many victims that came across your desk. You wondered if he’d kill you at all — or just let you live with the memories of his torture.

And you didn’t know what was worse.

But then something clatters in the distance, and his head is whipping around, there are footsteps, and he’s grabbing a knife, cutting your restraints free, “Come here bitch,” he mutters, hurrying to cut the ropes, at your feet before moving to the ones at your wrists, “they aren’t taking me before I get a chance to slit your throat.”

Blood roaring in your ears, you know you have to do something — he’s almost done cutting the last rope at your wrist. You couldn’t wait for help.

You rear your head back, before smashing it into his, hard. His groan gets caught in his throat, as you lunge for the knife, the handle within grasp of your fingers, and you’re trying to crawl away, a deep ache in your skull. You’re stumbling to your feet, but his fingers close around your ankle.

“I should have fucking killed you from the start,” and you kick him with your free foot, hearing him scream and the satisfying crack of his nose breaking, gripping the knife in your hand and pushing yourself to your feet.

And you rip the tape from your mouth, “Get the fuck away from me!” you point the knife at him, heart pounding against your ribcage, as he lays clutching his bloody nose.

But he’s still getting to his feet, “You better hand over that fucking knife—”

“You better not take another step before I blow your brains out,” and suddenly Fin and Munch are there, Fin stepping forward to arrest Bradford, as Munch is beside you.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” and he’s trying to ease the knife out of your fingers, but you won’t let go, “let go of the knife, it’s okay,” he’s murmuring in your ear, slipping the knife from your fingers, “you’re okay. I got you.”

Your knees are buckling, and he’s holding you, your head buried in his chest, “I thought he was going to—”

“I know,” he says softly, “I know, but you’re okay.”

“Because of you,” And he’s helping you up, and police sirens in the distance, as he helps you out of the building, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he whispers, “I’m sorry,”

“For what?” and his arm around you squeezes you gently.

“For not saving you sooner,” And suddenly EMS and police are flooding the scene, Fin is shoving Bradford into a car. And you spot him, glaring, but Munch steps between his view, his arm around your shoulders, “don’t bother with that scum. He’s not worth it.”

And he wasn’t — you knew he wasn’t, but you know that you wouldn’t be able to prosecute him now. But, you craned your neck to watch him be taken away, you wanted to see the bastard get put away at least.

It’s over, you tell yourself as you rest your head against Munch’s shoulder.

It was over.

~~~

“I just want to go home,” you shake your head, but he pulls you along regardless, protesting all the same.

“Just let them look at you, please?” he asks, “if only for my sanity.”

And you scoff softly, “I thought you lost that a long time ago,”

“There’s that wit,” he replies, and you go with him, fingers intertwined with his. E.M.S. examines you, insisting on taking you to the hospital for a possible concussion. But you don’t want to — you just want to sleep, you want to take a shower, you want to forget this ever happened—

“Please just let me go,” you’re pleading with him, tears slipping down your cheeks, “John, please let me go home.” and he’s wavering for a moment, before his hand is on your shoulder, gently pushing you back down.

“I can’t, and you know that, counselor,” he never wanted to see you cry like this, he never wanted to see you as a victim — because you aren’t just another victim at his desk or in photos spread across his desk — you were you.

But you were also a victim now.

“Why not?” you lie against the pillow in defeat, tears slipping down your cheeks, and he’s leaning down to your level, running his fingers through your hair.

“Because you’re hurt, and you need to be seen. I don’t trust doctors as much as the next conspiracy nut, but you still need to see one,” he tilts his head, “do you want me to come?”

And you’re blinking back tears, before nodding, “I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Don’t apologize,” he’s wiping your tears away, “don’t ever apologize for this.”

~~~

You don’t remember much else — it’s a blur of testing, until finally they let you sleep. And you don’t know how long you sleep. But you don’t dream, and for that much, you’re thankful. You awake to the low hum of hospital machinery, and quiet voices in the room. And you blink, the fluorescents much too bright for you, and your eyes flutter shut again, before not before voices creep in.

“—been asleep?”

“It’s been a few hours,” Munch whispers, assumedly trying to keep from waking you, but that was out of the question already, “docs gave something for sleep.”

“Have you said anything yet?” and it’s Fin asking.

“When? In between the ambulance ride here and the C.A.T. scan and the fifty other tests they ran?” Munch replies drily, sighing, “it’s not the right time,”

“You know there’s never going to be a right time, John,” and you’re grateful that you’re turned away from them, your brow furrowed, their voices growing louder, “you have to say something or is counselor a mind reader now?”

“Well—”

“Don’t spout another conspiracy theory or you’ll be the one in the hospital bed,” you could almost see Fin crossing his arms.

“You know that psychiatrist also told me I could make a conspiracy theory from a five-year-old’s lemonade stand,”

Fin raises an eyebrow, “Well now that I believe,”

“What am I supposed to say?” Munch asks, “‘hi, I know you almost just died, but I think I’m in love with you?’”

And your eyes snap open, the air sucked straight from your lungs — “It can be that simple,”

He was in love with you? John Munch was in love with you. Your heart squeezed at the thought — you hadn’t a clue that he was. You knew he cared — but you didn’t know he… loved you.

“Nothing is ever that simple,” and you turn around, the words leaving your lips without a thought.

“It can be, John,” and both him and Fin’s gazes snap to you, a small smile on your lips, “if you let it be.”

Munch is staring at you slack jawed, while Fin is grinning, elbowing him, “I’ll leave you two alone,” before he adds, “remember that there is an officer at the door—”

“Fin—” and he’s gone, disappearing out of the door, and Munch is wiping a hand down his face, his cheeks flushed red, “so how much of that—”

“All of it,” and he’s covering his hands with his face, “for someone who claims to be so evolved, you’re very cute when you’re embarrassed,”

“I’m cute?” he repeats, and you hold out your hand to him, and he’s staring a moment — as if he can’t believe it — before taking your hand, “how cute?”

You snort, “Just cute enough, don’t go getting an ego,”

“You’re sure it’s not just the concussion? And the almost dying?” and you roll your eyes, tugging him closer, by his coat’s lapel, and he’s whispering your name.

“How’s this for an answer?” and you kiss him — his lips barely brush yours a moment, but he’s already pulling you back in, parting and meeting until you hold him there a moment, fingers twisting in the hair resting on the small of his neck, “John—” you breath against his lips.

“I don’t understand why…” he whispers, your foreheads brushing.

“Why...?”

“I don’t understand why me,” his fingers cup your cheek gently, as if you’d disappear between his fingers, “you could be with anyone — why would you choose this paranoid, old detective?”

“Because it’s you,” you softly chuckle, and you draw your lips to his again, “and I wouldn’t want you any other way,” before you add, “except maybe sharing your feelings more so I don’t have to overhear any other conversations to know how you’re feeling.”

“I could say the same to you, counselor,”

“Excuse me, I said how I felt first,” you gape at him, in mock offense.

“Only after hearing how I felt,” but you shrug, smiling as your noses brush.

“Still, I was the first, so suck it,” you reply, and he laughs, a warm sound that makes your chest stir.

“Oh,” his lips brush yours, a smile on his lips, “I’m gonna suck something.”

#john munch #john munch x reader #john munch imagines #john munch fanfiction #svu imagines #svu #law and order: svu #what the fuck is this dkfsnjfn

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snlhostharry · 4 years ago

Text

try try again

harry x reader

2.2k words

summary: harry wants to propose, but life keeps getting in the way

a/n: first off... I suck at titles... why am I like this.... second off this is my secret santa gift for @jambrosemc ! happy holidays em! hope you like this, you are a super talented writer I just binged all your pieces and I am obsessed. and thank you to @peeterparkr for hosting

The first time he tries is after the first concert he does for Fine Line.

Fine Line at the Forum is a success in all the ways that matter, and Harry is so happy coming off the stage that he almost forgets about his plan to propose all together. When you barge into his dressing room after the show is over, smiling and ecstatic for him he suddenly sees the ring box on the counter and rushes to shove it in his pocket before you can see it.

“That was insane, love,” You say wrapping him into a hug. “I think they really liked it.”

He gives you a cheeky smile, “You think?” You roll your eyes in response, “What gave it away?” He asks, “The frantic screaming or the bra’s that were thrown onto the stage?”

“You should’ve kept a couple,” You tease, “They could’ve been my size.”

He laughs, “If you want one that bad I will buy it for you.”

“I’m holding you to that,” You say, taking a seat on top of the counter. He runs a hand through his hair, knowing that this would be the perfect moment to just get down on one knee. He can see himself doing it, simply bending down and saying the words he’s wanted to say for what feels like forever. “You okay?” You ask him, seeing the look on his face and supposing that he’s thinking about something that happened during the concert. “You did a great job out there, seriously. Everyone really loved it H, the album is spectacular.”

He shakes himself back into the moment, “I know, I know.” He says, and it comes off a little sharper than he means it too, he’s just very much in his own head about this whole thing now. What felt like it would be the perfect moment now feels wrong, like doing it now would cheapen the entire thing. He sighs, “Sorry,” He says, planting himself down on the floor dramatically, “Thank you.”

“We don’t have to go out if you don’t want to,” You tell him, guessing that he’s just tired from a long night. “Let’s get takeout and go home, or go home and get takeout whichever order.”

He smiles, “You ate before the show.”

“That was like three hours ago, and it was a snack, I always planned on eating again, and you were too nervous to eat before the show.”

He hugs his knees to his chest, “Watching you eat an entire kids meal in under five minutes actually helped with the nerves.”

You shrug, “What can I say? I have my moments.”

He stands and presses a kiss to your forehead as you swing your legs over the side of the counter. “You have a lot of moments, I love you.”

“Love you too,” You wait a second before asking, “So home then?”

He thinks about it for a minute, “Yeah.”

“When you call in the food order make sure you put it under my name,” You tell him and he collects his things from the room, “People are beginning to get suspicious when I go into the restaurant to pick up an order for Harry.”

He nods, and gently grabs your hand as the two of you leave. Maybe he’s not going to do it tonight, but he’s more resolved to actually pop the question than ever. He’s just so in love with you that he wants the whole thing to be perfect, and for some reason he has it all in his head that it needs to be a story that the two of you can tell in the future, something meaningful, he just has absolutely no idea what that is.

The second planned attempt is a lot more off the cuff.

You insist on throwing him a birthday party at the house, saying something about wanting to one up your sister who threw a very tasteful christmas party that the two of you went to. Not that your sister was invited seeing as the party was in London, but you knew that there would be enough pictures that she would see that you’re just as good as she is. Harry doesn’t understand it at all, but he decides that he doesn't even want to know how a rivalry like that can develop and leaves it alone.

Objectively, you throw a very nice party. Of course Harry makes it a point to tell you this as often as possible without seeming overly invested in it, because he loves you and he wants you to be proud of your own work just like you want him to be proud of his. It’s hard for him to leave your side at all because he loves to see you talk to his friends and family and seem so happy to do it. You fit right in with everyone and he’s so grateful for that, and it’s as he’s standing there watching you talk to people that it hits him that this could be his moment.

Not in front of everyone because that would be so much more pressure than he needs, but he thinks that after when everyone has finally left the house that he could catch you in the middle of cleaning or something and gently ask you to marry him. He decides that tonight, that’s the plan and he spends the rest of the night just thinking about that. It really is a great party, full of all his favorite things and people, it’s one of those nights where he feels like he loves you so much that his heart might just burst out of his chest.

When finally every last guest has left the house, and things are a bit messy, he can’t seem to find you anywhere. He locks the door behind him, and starts walking through the house calling your name. He checks upstairs, in the kitchen, in all the bathrooms, and nothing. Until finally he walks into the living room and finds you sound asleep on the couch, snoring loudly enough that he’s surprised he didn’t hear it while he was looking. He looks at you and just smiles, suddenly completely fine with the fact that another plan has been ruined. He simply picks you up and takes you to bed, well aware he’s going to have to move onto plan C if he ever wants to get this done.

The next time he tries, you end up surprising him.

Plan C is a nice candlelight dinner at the house, which Harry tried to cook but ended up burning so eventually he relented and ordered food before putting it all together. Of all the plans he had come up with thus far, this one seemed the most foolproof. Everything was already planned: he knew you were going to come home from work at a certain time, he knew that there wouldn't be any distractions, and he had psyched himself up enough that he wasn’t just going to forget about the whole thing like he did the first time.

When the entire table is set up and the ring is in his pocket, he sits waiting for you to come home. He thinks about getting up to change some of the place settings just a little, but when he does he hears the clicking sound of your key in the door and sits back in his seat. After you walk into the house and set your stuff down in the entryway, Harry hears the sound of your shoes on the floor as you excitedly run into the kitchen. When you make it to where he can see you, he sees that you have a megawatt smile on your face and a large box in your hands.

“I have a surprise,” You say, keeping a firm hold of the box.

“I suppose it’s in that box,” He says, leaning over the chair so that he can see.

You roll your eyes but keep smiling, “Yeah, obviously.”

“Do you want me to guess?”

“God no,” You say, “That would take way too long. Basically I was at work today, and Mark has been producing this piece about a no kill animal shelter for a new segment about everyday heroes or whatever which is gross because puff pieces but when the woman came in to do the interview she brought in all these cats, no dogs for some reason, but anyway so we were all playing with the cats because our job is stressful and cats, and then she was like ‘you guys seem so good with these cats, they are looking for homes and-”

He looks at you with a wide eyed expression, “You didn’t.”

You ceremoniously walk over to the table, open the box and pull a small orange cat into your arms, “You bet your ass I did.” You gently pet the cat, which mews quietly from your arms, “She does not have a name mostly because I couldn’t think of any.”

“We talked about pets like a week ago, briefly.”

You give a guilty smile, “Yeah but I felt like I really needed this cat. I live here now, we live here, and I finally feel like I’m settled-” You sit down at the table and sigh, “I think I might be nesting, which is kind of gross but I don't know. I love you, and I love being here and I finally feel stable enough to get a freaking cat so that’s the explanation I have.”

He can’t stop himself from breaking into a smile, even though he knows his plans have been thwarted again. (He thinks later, after the moment has already passed that he very well could’ve done it right then and there after you’d given a whole speech about the two of you being stable). He shakes his head after looking at you making funny faces at the cat like it’s a child, “Okay hand her over.”

You hand her over and say, “I will not accept any names that have to go with the fact that she’s a ginger, because that’s just lame.”

“Well seeing as those were my only ideas-”

You sigh, “We will think of something, just not now because you got dinner and I’m starving.”

“What’s she going to eat?”

“I got food and a bowl, and a bunch more things being delivered within the next week or two.”

“Did you go out and buy a box just for the dramatic reveal?”

“Yes, I did and it was totally worth it.”

The cat’s name ends up being Hillary, after you discover an affinity for pet names that are usually person names. Something about the way you’ll end up talking about Hillary in polite conversation and someone will have to ask you who that is makes you want to choose it overall. Even though Harry is not sure about the sudden change at first, he soon becomes best friends with Hillary, and you often find the two of them cuddled up together on the couch. She likes to listen to him play music just as much as you do as it turns out.

Harry is still trying to think of a way to propose. So much time has passed since he bought the ring, and the first time that he planned to pop the question that he wonders if he’ll ever find the right time to do it or if you’ll just end up asking him one day because it’s all gone too far. One afternoon when the two of you are relishing a rare shared day off, he watches you cook lunch in the kitchen and decides that now is the time to do it. No more excuses, no more surprises, just him and you and the question on the tip of his tongue for too long.

When you put all of the food on plates, and set them out on the counter he walks over and just looks at you. It weirds you out at first so you ask, “What? Is there something on my face?”

He gets down on one knee and you still are very confused about what he’s doing. You open your mouth to ask him, but the realization suddenly hits you and you cover your mouth with your hands.

“y/n,” He says, “I have been waiting to ask you this for what feels like forever. And everytime that the plan fell through you somehow managed to make me want to marry you even more. I love you so much, I love everything about you, how excited you get about your work, how much you love Hillary and how supportive you are whenever I do anything. I love our life here, and I want to be with you forever. Will you marry me?”

You don’t say anything for a second, still shocked, “Yes of course.” He stands and kisses you, slipping the ring onto your finger. “I was wondering when you would ask me.”

“You knew?”

“I saw it that night after the forum,” You say, “I figured you got nervous.”

“And you just let me flounder here for almost six months?”

“Yes,” You smile, “I figured you wanted to do it on your own terms.”

“Next time just call me out love, because I sat on this for too long.”

#peetersanta #why am I posting this so late? because Im ~impatient~#I need feedback NOW #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #my writing

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ikeromantic · 3 years ago

Text

Piano Lessons

An ObeyMe! Lucifer fic, approx. 1800 words. G/N MC, Fluff.

The infernal grand piano squatted in one shadowed corner of the music room. To any human, at first glance it looked no different from the version in the human world. A dangerous assumption, you knew. If an easy one to make. This instrument was capable of compositions that would drive a mortal listener mad, or even cause death.

You thought that would be reason enough to be given a pass on your Devilish Music I, but Lucifer didn’t agree. In fact, he considered your ignorance of the instrument and its compositions an opportunity. And that was how you found yourself in the House of Lamentation’s music room every afternoon when RAD let out.

Lucifer was already waiting on the bench. He looked up as you came in, lips compressed in an expression of near-constant disapproval. “You’re late.”

“I’m on time!” You glanced at the clock on the wall.

“If you aren’t five minutes early, that counts as late. Now come here and sit next to me.”

Arguing with Lucifer was futile. Besides, you did want to sit next to him. During your time in the Devildom, you’d developed a bit of a crush on the eldest brother. One that had you working hard to be on the receiving end of his rare smiles and sparse compliments.

Today you were hoping to impress Luci with your rendition from Certovski, Faust’s Mistake. It was one of the mortal-safe pieces you could attempt without risking your mind or your soul.

“Fingers on the keys.” Lucifer’s red eyes followed your hands as you tried for the appropriate position. “Elbows out. Move your left hand in.”

You did as instructed, but apparently you were still off. He reached for your hands, positioning them. Part of you wanted to fight him on it. The rest of you just enjoyed the feel of his hands on yours. His skin was always so warm and smooth.

He frowned. “Focus.”

“Sorry,” you mumbled. With your hands in place, you ran through the demonic scale. Some of the tones were too low or too high to hear. You could feel them though, shivering your bones and raising the hairs at the back of your neck.

Your warm-up didn’t get any objection from the Prince of Pride, which meant you were doing well. A quick glance showed he wasn’t frowning any more. Good.

Lucifer stood and began to pace behind you. “What are you going to play for me?”

“I’ve been practicing Faust’s Mistake.” As if he didn’t know.

“Then begin.”

You take a breath. This is it. You try to psych yourself up. All that practice will pay off. All those evenings you gave up gaming with Levi and Mammon, the weekends you stayed in instead of going out with Satan or Asmo. You could play this in your sleep.

Your hands float across the keys, the melody pouring from the hidden strings, describing the terrible bargain Faust made. The fast, tripping notes gave way to the long, slow sounds of regret, and finally, to the clashing finish.

Sweat beaded your forehead as you lowered your hands to your lap. The tension in your chest stopped your breath as you waited for Lucifer’s judgement.

“That was . . . not bad.”

From anyone else, you’d take this as a criticism but from Luci? It was a gold star. You smiled over your shoulder at him.

The left corner of his lip turned up in a slight half smile. “I’m impressed you memorized the whole piece in such a short time. I can tell you’ve worked hard.”

You felt like if he gave you one more compliment, you might completely melt.

“But -”

Your heart sank.

“I didn’t feel the tension, the passion of the moment in your rendition. You were too focused on technical mastery.” Lucifer sat down beside you, his hip brushing yours. “The Faustian epic is classic. It must evoke the emotion of the moment, the story, that birthed it. Let me show you what I mean.”

His hands went to the keys. “This is from earlier in the story. The Fall.” He began playing in a low octave, a heavy, slow rhythm that made your heart pound. Or perhaps that was just from sitting so close to him.

Lucifer kept that going as he began to layer higher, lighter notes atop it. These sounded almost playful, innocent. If not for the ominous beat beneath it. “Here we have naivete. The mortal at play, unaware of the trap laid for him.”

You nod.

“The music is the story, the story lives in the music. Now -” The lighter notes began to slow, creeping closer to the lower octave. “The mortal becomes aware of the nearness of death. The lingering, slow demise that comes to all men.”

Your breath slows in time to the music, and you can almost feel the weight of your years, few though they are. It is as if you lived a century and now your bones are heavy and your body is weary. Your eyelids drift half closed.

Lucifer continues to play, the ominous chords grow louder and the higher tones fade until both melodies close in on each other.

There is a subaudible component now, and though you can’t hear it, you can feel it move with the pulse of your blood. An arrhythmia that pulls you into the moment. The music surges beneath your eyelids, a spiral of red across a dark abyss. A false light.

“Here Faust decides his soul is worth less than his earthly pleasures, and denies Death its due. You can hear the strains of rage from Death’s denial beside the demon’s triumph. And there, Faust’s -”

The music stops but you can still feel it inside you. Something slick and warm slides down your cheek.

Lucifer’s voice, demanding. Trembling. “Wake up. Open your eyes this instant.”

You wish you could obey. You’d like to but the music holds you where you are. Limbo. A space bereft of everything but the music. Death and the demon, Faust’s lust and greed.

“Please.” Lucifer’s voice is gentler than you’ve ever heard it before.

You feel the pad of his thumb against your cheek. A sudden burst of magic like static on a distant radio. Then silence. Your mind slips under a dark, quiet ocean.

The water is warm. Peaceful. You can feel it cradling you. Stroking your hair, your cheeks. The touches become more insistent. Pushing you toward the surface. Toward wakefulness.

“I am sorry. Please. If you open your eyes, I will do . . . I will do anything, anything you want. I won’t make you practice anymore. I’ll give you a - a bigger room.”

The voice belongs to Lucifer, you’re sure of it. But it doesn’t sound like him. When has he ever pleaded, begged, for anything? You realize it is his hands on your skin, stroking your arms, your face. Then it hits you. The music. It wasn’t safe for your mind and now . . . was this real?

You open your eyes.

Lucifer’s face is the first thing you see. He is so close, you can feel his breath on your cheek. His eyes are wide and damp, and full of concern. You are held tight against him, like a child.

“Can you hear me? See me?” His fingertip slides along your jawline, a delicate touch.

“Yes.” Your voice comes out throaty and low. Rough as if you’d been screaming.

His relief is palpable. He squeezes you tighter, pressing your face to his chest. “I . . . I apologize. I got carried away with the music. And you’ve taken injury because of it - because of me.”

The words are halting, stiff. Hard for the proud eldest to say, and yet, for you, he does. “It’s okay,” you croak. “It was beautiful.” And it’s true. Some remnant of the cursed melodies still echo in the chambers of your heart. Haunting you with a promise that has no words.

“I will see you are fully recovered.” The briskness returns to Lucifer’s voice.

You try to push yourself up, off his chest. He doesn’t loosen his hold on you.

“Stop struggling. Are you uncomfortable?” Lucifer adjusts his grip, sliding your head to the crook of his arm. “Is that better?”

It isn’t, really. But at least you can see you aren’t in the music room anymore. Lucifer must have carried you to his chambers. He must have been worried, but you don’t know why. You feel alright. You try to sit up again.

With an exasperated look, Lucifer partially lifts you. He doesn’t release you. “Didn’t I say to stop struggling? You need to relax until you are . . . repaired.”

“I feel fine,” you tell him.

He frowns. “You are still bleeding from your ears.”

You lift a hand to the side of your head. It comes away red and wet. “Oh.”

“It will take a few days for the effects to wear off.” The concern in his scarlet gaze frightens you more than the blood.

“Will I be ok?”

“Mostly.” He looks away. “Until then, I will keep you here and see to your needs. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Does anything hurt?”

You shake your head. This, you discovered, was a mistake. The shadows of the room move with your vision, growing one direction and then the other. Wide swaths of darkness that catch your eye.

“Are you seeing things?” Lucifer looks back at you. His thumb caresses your cheek.

“N-no.”

“Rather, tell me what you are seeing. And don’t lie about it a second time.”

There is a flicker of warning in the crimson depths of his gaze. You tell him about the shadows, and the way the music still sings in you.

He frowns. “If the effects do not fade, I may have to keep you in my rooms forever.”

You note that he doesn’t sound annoyed at this prospect. But he didn’t ask you, and his assumptions don’t sit well. “You can’t lock me up, Lucifer.”

“I can.”

Wrong tactic to take. You amend. “It probably isn’t a good idea to burden yourself with caring for me. You have a lot to do. Diavolo needs you.”

Lucifer knows what you’re up to. He has millenniums on you, after all. He smiles and brushes the hair back from your forehead. “I have informed my brothers, and the Prince, that you fell ill yesterday afternoon. I’ve taken time off to care for you.”

Your mind takes a moment to catch up. “Yesterday?”

“Yes. I cast a spell to knock you unconscious when I realized what I’d done. It helped, briefly. But you started screaming some time in the night and . . .”

You realize he’s been sitting here, holding you, for hours. Warmth blossoms in your chest. A happiness completely out of place, all things considered. But despite the blood loss and possibly permanent madness, you feel loved. Cared for.

Lucifer seems to read your mind. He says nothing, just places a light kiss on your forehead.

Neither of you need to speak. He knows and you know and words just complicate things anyway.

He stands, still holding you, and carries you to bed. When you drift back to sleep, it’s with your head on his chest, his arm around your shoulders to pull you close.

#obey me shall we date #om #om lucifer #otome guys #otome #devildom #obey me lucifer #fanfiction #fanfic #fluff

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crypticfandomtrash · 3 years ago

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L Headcanons Part 3

Since the author confirmed L is the smartest character in the series (How to Read), I’m in full agreement. I’ll also take it further. He’s THE most intelligent person in the world but he never got his IQ tested. L finds IQ to be a poor measure of a person’s potential and capacity to learn because it’s a flawed system. That’s actually what IQ measures: capacity, not intellect. He is fully aware that creativity, social smarts, street smarts, and other skills are forms of intelligence.

L is definitely a child prodigy. He skipped most of grade school and graduated High School (or the French equivalent since L was in France at the time and their school system is different than the USA’s) at 6. He was also dual enrolled and taking college courses at the time. When his parents were murdered at age 7, he had to put his classes on hold for mourning and because the French orphanage did not let him (it made him too “different” and “intimidating”).

After Wammy took him in when he was 8 and moved him back to England, he made up for lost time by taking lots of extra classes (like 6 or 7 classes a semester) and summer classes. He graduated with his Bachelor’s degree in Clinical Psychology with a focus in criminal psych at age 9. He got his first Master’s (upgrading the previous one) when he was 12. He turned that Master’s into a PhD at 15. He also has a Bachelor’s in IT (he got that at 17).

He is naturally gifted different things (psychology/reading people, technology, and a few musical instruments). This allows him to be very skilled in hacking, playing video games, figuring out how things work, putting things together, taking them apart, and playing and composing music.

He is very knowledgeable about laws. He knows the laws in all major countries and most minor ones. If he doesn’t know, he finds out. He has enough knowledge about legal stuff to go to law school and become a lawyer (either a prosecutor or defense), but he doesn’t want to.

L has special permission to carry a gun everywhere, even in countries with strict gun control laws. This extends to Wammy and his other official agents/proxies. It does not apply to his informants or criminal employees. Being the greatest detective in the world comes with tons of perks.

As I mentioned in a previous post, he plays piano, flute, lyre, and duduk (a double reed wind instrument from Armenia that is ancient). He can also play organ (which is impressive since organs are the most complex instruments) and does so when there is one around. He likes big church organs.

He sees things as equations or puzzles to be solved. People are more complex, ever changing equations/puzzles.

Since those with autism (especially less severe versions like Asperger’s) can develop/learn the social skills they lack if they want, L is fully capable of doing that. He just doesn’t care about being socially acceptable unless he is in a situation where he has to. He has plenty of social skills and uses them when he needs to. He will also play up his autistic traits to annoy others and get them to make mistakes.

L actually gets irritated if someone mentions or believes the myth that autism is caused by vaccines. He’ll go into a long, scientific explanation on why that is false. If they don’t listen/believe him, he’ll just be like “well, I’m a genius but I can’t fix stupidity”.

He will also correct misinformation about autism and other disorders. He’s a psychologist, so he knows what he’s talking about. Most people realize this and just let him point out why they’re wrong.

He supports autism rights, disability rights, and LGBT+ because he was treated badly in the past for being autistic. He donates heavily to charities and he does research to make sure they ACTUALLY help people before giving them money.

He also supports scientific research (as long as it’s ethical) and environmental stuff (as long as it’s ethical and doesn’t screw working class people over). He has a lot of places that he gives money to.

In terms of politics, L is an independent voter. He’s not a Tory (conservative) or a Labour Party person (using the British English spelling, it’s the more liberal party). He is a mix of conservative and liberal. There are things he’d side with the Tories on and things he’d side with the Labour Party on.

L purposely suppresses his emotions during a case or other situation that requires him to be serious because he doesn’t want emotions to get in the way of hard facts and logic. He’s also British and is very familiar with “stiff upper lip” and “keep calm and carry on”.

Since he’s autistic, he also has trouble displaying his emotions in a way society deems acceptable and distinguishing between similar feelings (frustration and anger, for instance). This DOES NOT mean he can’t tell what emotions are. He sometimes can’t tell WHY he’s feeling a particular emotion (because I have this issue too).

He has a high level of empathy, though many people see him as cold. He can quickly tell what someone is feeling and why, although he is not good at comforting others and generally keeps people at a distance. It’s been shown through research that a lot of autistic people have higher levels of empathy than “normal” people do or a different type of empathy.

Wammy actually did adopt L, who does consider him to be his adoptive father as well as his assistant. As Wammy’s son, L will inherit all of his possessions and the orphanages (since there’s more than one) on top of L’s personal fortune.

No one but L and Wammy know how much money L has. He’s a billionaire and that’s all people need to know. L does invest in the stock market to get more money, but he won’t be concerned if he loses some (he’s super loaded, so losing a few million is nothing to him). He gets tons of money from working difficult criminal cases. He’ll get back whatever he loses and more.

When staying at one of his own houses, buildings, or bases, his bills are rather high. He cranks the AC constantly, he has a huge internet bill (since he uses the latest tech), his water bill is big... All together, it’s probably around $2,000 (or less/more depending on the currency of whatever country he’s in) a month. But it’s not like he can’t pay. He’s filthy rich.

L’s pillows and bed sheets are all made of nice materials. He likes to be comfortable. During Yotsuba arc, his sheets are imported fine linen. He put similar sheets on Light’s bed.

He does enjoy video games every so often. He’s very good at them.

He also likes reading and researching. L will research whatever is relevant and necessary to the case he’s currently working on. So if a serial arsonist was leaving codes in the the form of memes, L would research memes. He’s definitely done that. He knows about internet culture.

He also keeps up to date on world events (he has an information network, so of course he’s well-informed about whatever is going on).

#death note #l lawliet #death note headcanons #l lawliet headcanons #I looked up a real child prodigy and made L even better #young genius #prodigy #L is the world's smartest person #I don't make the rules #more Autistic L #Autism #Autistic person wrote this post #I have so many Death Note Headcanons #send help???

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siriusmydeer · 4 years ago

Note

can you do young sirius black x reader fic where him and the reader are dating the reader has really awful parents that make them feel like shit all the time

the promising potters

sirius black x gender neutral!reader

summary: sirius offers you a better position then one you’re already in.

word count: 1.2k

warnings: mentions of child abuse, mentions of self insecurity/doubt, crying, guilt, hurt/comfort, mentions of feeling unworthy/useless, angst but only if you squint, bad parent-kid relationship bonds

a/n: so i combined this with another request bc they’re so similar.

there was a familiar recurrent amount of anticipation weighing like a tipping scale in your subconscious, simply waiting for it to tip too far. it was a circadian never-ending cycle of thoughts, of venomous thinking that had immense potential to swallow you whole if you’d allow it. the recurrent malignant thoughts were never-ending.

as the sorrowful day continued, it felt like an eternal chain of events that would never cease, the recurrent thought pounding in your psyche similar to an alarm without a snooze button. the burden on your mind, the letters upon letters barricading your every thought at the disappointing words scribbled upon the parchment. there was only feeling that was a considerable emotion among the others that were struggling to afloat,

dismay.

how could you be good enough for yourself if you couldn't be enough for the people that brought you into this world that was supposed to love and cherish you? it was quite a familiar question that rapidly came and went in a vicious cycle swishing around your mind almost making your perception an obscuring fog that regarded any other thought.

your bottom had been sprawled upon the carmine stitched duvet, that belonged to sirius, for the past several hours. the small parchment clutched between your trembling digits from recurrent gazing at the wounding letters sculpted into the paper by your parents following their signatures. the letters becoming a jumble of words that you could no longer read due to the tears obscuring your vision.

there's a stutter of words that spill off your tongue in the sense of dejection, a faint cough escaping your lungs through your trachea before you spoke again. “sirius— i just can’t do this anymore.” you spoke desperately, the slight jut of your lip quavered whilst you spoke in sorrow. there was an erratic palpitation soaring through your chest every millisecond at the uneasiness strumming through every minuscule blood cell that your body could possess.

your fingers slightly trembled while you clenched them deeper into the creased parchment from your steady and unwavering grip. “hurts so bad.” your words slightly muffled from the tears that were bound to spill over your waterline. your sentence was almost disorganized from the congestion that had formed in your throat due to the number of tears you had shed then less than ten minutes ago.

he began to soothe you with his tranquil fingers that began to trace bemused shapes down your spine, feeling the balmy touch of his finger pads through your shirt ventured into the beginning of tranquility in his endeavor to comfort you. his chin had been resting on the curvature of your shoulder whilst his nose slightly prodded at your clavicle, seeking to conciliate you further.

how could a parent reject their child? what could that child have done so wrong that suddenly they’re unworthy of a parent's love?

who is deserving of that treatment?, not you, certainly not you.

there was a cycle of questions that remained prominent in your mind that only swirled down for a few moments as you were distracted by sirius’ soothing touch, your subconscious yearning for the answer since you had been a young child pondering why you felt so dejected by them. if you were given the opportunity you could've to plead on your knees for an answer as to why.

your respires were beginning to elevate tremendously as you thought of the answers to your ignored questions. whilst sirius began to notice the heaving movements that trembled in your chest, he placed a soothing palm on the bend of your spine— he was adamantly trying his best to comfort you in a situation he had been incredibly familiar with.

“i know baby, i know,” he spoke with a small quiver in his voice. an empathetic sense beginning to acquire over the planes of his sensorium, feeling the uttermost affliction that had been radiating off of your body now melding into his own.

“i wish things were different.” you sighed. your neck began to crane to the left in an attempt to glimpse at the boy. sirius’ chin remained on the curvature of your shoulder and the movements of his palms never faltering, he peered his eyes at you. the familiar pearl-hued irises covered in a clear glaze of empathy towards your slouched figure that was sat upon his bed.

he nodded as a sign that his attention remained on you, observing the way you brought your hand, with a slight tremor now enabling its way from the exertion of stress your body had to endure, and bringing it to wipe across the streaks engraved its way down your cheeks; letting your hand flop back onto your thigh in exhaustion.

“i’m here, m’love. ‘m here,” he whispered into the pulse point of your neck along with a small kiss, identifying how your jugular began to quiver faintly at his consoling words.

he pondered for a moment in silence. if his next words were worthy to be sputtered out in the despairing aura that remains present in the room since you had trudged in his dormitory. james wouldn’t have the slightest problem, euphemia nor fleamont either.

‘the more the merrier.’ they would say, sirius’ mind depicting their exact voices.

“i feel so useless.” you broke the silence once more, wiping another tear whilst expressing your concerns to the gryffindor. “like there’s nothing else i could do, besides disappointing them,” you spoke without an ounce of dishonesty in your voice.

the murmur of your honest confession was enough to bring tears cascading down his pallid cheeks.

sirius’ hand had paused and his chin had lifted from your shoulder, his brows contorting into a broad emotion of perplexity. bewildered at his sudden actions your eyebrows began to crease at his movements. “listen to me,” he began to speak in nobility, “you’re not a disappointment nor useless, you hear me?” he chastised sternly.

“and i don’t ever want to hear you think like that again.” he proceeded to lay his hand on your dampened cheek feeling the familiar searing burn of embarrassment rise to your face, sliding the pad of his thumb against your skin in a comforting motion. “stay with me, and james, and the potters.” he offered, your eyes shooting rapidly into a widened state at his request.

“i can't, it’s—“ you began to deny his offer with the shake of your head, feeling a barricade of guilt. you hastily cut yourself off while attempting to put together your disfigured thoughts. “s’not worth it, ‘m not worth it. to ruin everything you have going with the potters.”

“you aren't ruining anything, love. ‘m gonna talk with james, you don't have to do with it alone.”

you gaped at him, wide eyes glistened with glaciers of despair and dejection while your lips were adamantly trembling attempting to not let a flow of tears overcome you once more. simply not wanting to disturb the atmosphere that had been built in the potter household since sirius had arrived, as well as having no desire to burden them with the faults that had been weighed upon you. but sirius would have none of that, the potters had adored you since the first christmas you had to spend with them in second year.

there would be zero troubles taking you in, and he was going to make sure of it.

“everything’s gonna is alright, i promise you.”

taglist: @fific7 @wisedreamcatcher @kittykylax @ronbrokemyheart @aspiringsloth20 @georgeswh0re @amourtentiaa @msmb @fangouria @five-cups-of-coffee @dracofknmalfoy @emmaev @serenitywilderness @i-love-scott-mccall @artemis1orion @miss-starkov @siriusbarnesslut @inglourious-imagines @famdomhideout @hufflepogue @kirascottage @luvvninaz @miraclesoflove @black-like-my-soul @slytherclawbitch @90steaology

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lord-explosion-baku · 4 years ago

Text

Keep Away

Yandere!Bakugou x reader

It’s a special occasion, so Bakugou decides to wine and dine you. It’s too bad for him that you’re intent on ignoring him.

Warnings: yandere, dark themes, lime, forced orgasm, minor food kink, stockholm syndrome, spanking, light violence

A/N: I woke up at like three in the morning and decided to finish this. I saw a bad ending to a certain cyberpunk bl dating sim, and thought “would be kinda cool to be force fed cake,” but then it didn’t really turn into all that much cake feeding which is probably for the best. Who’s to say. It’s just kinda fun to say “it came to me during a cyberpunk bl dating sim bad end,” rather than, “it came to me in a dream.” Also, I’m so sorry if you read this and go “ew strawberry cake isn’t my jam. Belgium chocolate 5evah!!!!1!!” but if you do happen to like strawberry cake, I got you fam.

“So you’re not talkin’ to me now, is that it?”

You keep your gaze low, careful not to even lock eyes with your captor—because no, you’re not talking to him, you’re not looking at him, you’re not even going to acknowledge his existence. It’s your verbal keep away. You’ve decided that it’s the worst possible punishment for Bakugou—ignoring him. You’ve tried just about everything: screaming at him, hitting him, crying to him, begging for your release, and it’s all given you nothing. You figure, why be anymore of a source for his entertainment?

“You should at least thank me for cookin’ you a proper meal.”

From across the candlelit table, Bakugou uncrosses his arms, glaring from the admittedly very well-made plate, to you. He clicks his tongue when you don’t respond, then moans around a mouthful of pad-see-ew, just like he knows you can’t stand.

“It’s so good, baby. Practically melts on my tongue…”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at that. It would be different if it wasn’t his food he complimented, but that’s Bakugou for you. Insolent, prideful, and terrible.

Bakugou stabs his chopsticks into his plate. “You’re not wearing the dress I bought. Not good enough for you?”

You didn’t even try it on. You want to tell him, but that would only spur him on. Bakugou likes it when you challenge him. He always gets that stupid smirk on his face, that daring look in his eye—always like he’s ready to bend you over and fuck you into submission. More often than not, that’s what ends up happening.

“Your ass would look great in it,” he says before taking another mouthful. You can feel his crimson glower scorching your skin, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “You can wear whatever you want, though. I want your ass even in those sweats.”

You exhale and lean back back in your chair. He really has to be so vulgar, doesn’t he? Well, that’s not gonna make you crack.

“Yeah, I won’t force you in it. Not yet, at least.” Bakugou grins at the thought, chewing loudly. “I wouldn’t mind playing a little dress up with my doll.”

Your lip twitches, and you hope he doesn’t see. You have to squeeze your thighs together and ignore impending thoughts of Bakugou’s hands on you—first tearing your clothes off, then slowly, sensually zipping that tight, black dress up. You can’t keep from imagining his lips grazing your back, hands running through your hair, him pressing into your backside…

“Need some water, babe? You’re looking a little flushed.”

Your eyes snap to Bakugou’s and your cheeks warm even more when you realize he’s just caught you fantasizing. At least he doesn’t know what you were thinking about. Christ, you could only imagine the field day he’d have with you if he found out you ever thought about him like that.

After you’ve spent plenty of time hating yourself for having these thoughts, you’ve come to the conclusion that it has to be natural. In a psyche class you’ve taken, you learned a bit about Stockholm syndrome, and though you’re sure you’re definitely not falling in love with your captor, it’s perfectly fine that you occasionally think about him in the lusty kinda way. Admittedly, he’s earned it with the amount of orgasms he’s given you since you’ve been taken. But he hasn’t earned your love. Definitely not.

Bakugou stands, folding his napkin onto the table, and walks over to the ice chest he has on standby. He’s wearing his red dress shirt, paired with that white floral vest and nice slacks. You want to know what the occasion is for, but you won’t ask. You’re definitely underdressed, and a part of you wishes you had put on that dress he picked out for you.

You close your eyes and empty your mind of such stupid thoughts.

“How about some champagne?” Bakugou flips a knife out and cuts the cork off with a pop!, making you jump a little bit. He glides over to you, puts his hand on your shoulder, leans in, and fills the crystalline flute sitting on the table. He smells like spice and that natural burnt toffee aroma he has. It’s so nice that you can’t help but lean into him just a teeny bit. And he notices.

“You’re gonna eat somethin’ for me, yeah?” he whispers lowly into your hair before kissing your temple. You freeze while he moves down your neck, brushing a finger along the opposing side of your face, coaxing your head to turn. “Or are you not in the mood for Thai? We can always skip straight to dessert.”

Bakugou dips down to kiss you, but you turn so he misses and kisses your ear. He growls out a sigh and you clench your hands into fists. You’re waiting for it—for him to lose his cool. You don’t know why he’s trying to act kindly to you, but that’s sure to end at any moment, and when it does, he’s going to feel guilty. You’re planning on exposing him as the monster you’re always accusing him of being.

“I’m serious, I made cake,” he says, a slight edge in his voice. He twirls a finger around a strand of your hair, tugging it so you face him. “Your favorite. Strawberry cream frosting, and it tastes fucking fantastic.”

Bakugou’s gaze drops down to your lips before finding your eyes. “I could feed it to you—have you lick that sweet cream right off the tips of my fingers.”

Your scowl tightens on him. He smirks.

“Your lips always look the prettiest when they’re wrapped around something. I’m startin’ to really like that idea.”

“Why?” you bite out, because you can’t take it anymore. You’re either going to die from curiosity or die from embarrassment when he inevitably undresses you and finds out just how much his teasing gets to you, and you won’t let him have that.

Even still, Bakugou looks as triumphant as ever because you gave him what he wants: your attention.

“Why what, huh?”

“Why the dress!” You bark, resolve out the damn window. “The meal, the champagne, the cake?! Why are you trying to be so nice to me all of a sudden?”

“I’m not trying to be nice. I am nice.” Bakugou rolls his eyes as if he’s explaining something simple to a child.

“No, you’re not!” You insist. “You’re...you’re…” Shock sets in and your shoulders grow rigid. He couldn’t possibly be...but if he is...he’d be absolutely daft to think you’ll say yes. “You’re not proposing to me, are you?”

“Hah?” Bakugou’s eyes widen. You definitely caught him off guard, and you could melt from the steaming blaze in your cheeks. “You want me to put a rock on those pretty fingers of yours? Make an honest man out of me?”

“No! No!” You exclaim on a head shake. “I just thought...with the whole atmosphere-“

“Princess,” he interrupts, taking your hand into his. He brings the back of your wrist to his lips, and for a moment, you think you could be right about him proposing after all. At least, until he speaks again. “We ain’t gonna get hitched ‘til you’re good and knocked up—at least four months in, too. That way, there won’t be a chance in hell you can skip out on me.”

There won’t be a chance in hell he will knock you up with your IUD in, so good luck to him on that endeavor. It’s not like he doesn’t know about it, either. There’s a reason why he’s never been hesitant to enter you unwrapped. Although, considering what he just said, you don’t believe he’d be any different if the circumstances were different.

Your lips curl into a snarl. “Then what’s going on?!”

“You seriously don’t know?” He scoffs, then leads your hand to your champagne flute. Once you take it, Bakugou tells you he’ll be right back, and you down the drink. You let the bubbles wash down your throat and quickly take a bite of noodles before he sees. You sigh. They really do melt on your tongue. Bastard.

Before you know it, the faint smell of burning wics envelope your space, and all the lights in the room besides the candles on the table dim. Then, there’s a cake placed in front of you—pink, with intricate, white designs lining its frosted edges. You count the candles and there are exactly the same amount of years you’ve been on this earth, plus one—no, not plus one.

You look up to Bakugou for an explanation. He’s simply grinning down at you, looking proud.

“Happy birthday, baby.” Bakugou kisses the top of your head. “Make a wish.”

Absently, you blow the candles out, but you don’t make a wish, because your brain is too busy doing mental math. On your last birthday, you’d gone on a date with Hitoshi Shinsou. He took you to a cute, little café, bought you a coffee and a tiny cake. He’d ended the night with one of the shyest, sweetest kisses you’ve ever received. Not even four days later, Bakugou took you. You never got to thank Shinsou for that perfect day.

The hair on the back of your neck rises with the sudden realization that you’ve been with Bakugou for nearly an entire year. That’s one year of your life ripped away from you. One year where you haven’t made any progress achieving your dreams. One year that you’ll never get back.

“What’d ya wish for?” Bakugou asks, but you hardly hear him due to the scathing fury that rings in your ears and burns your back. You’re unsure of what you should say or how you should react; you already pulled the silent treatment and you think you’re far too livid to go zipping your lips again.

There’s only one thing you can do: go absolutely batshit crazy.

“I hate you!”

With a quick shuffle, the cake is splattered on the table, your plate flies across the room, and chopsticks are in your hand, aiming for Bakugou’s eyes. It’s too bad for you that Bakugou either expects it, or his reflexes are just so good that he catches you by the wrist before you can stab him. You’re immediately twisted around, chest on the table, arm pinned to your back, and his erection pressing into your ass.

“Yeah? You hate me?” Bakugou’s voice is erratic, husky, dripping with lust. He climbs on top of you, grinds into your behind, and hisses, “wanna say that again?”

“Let me go, asshole!” You below and try to buck him off of you, which only encourages him to pull your arm tighter, forcing you into paralysis. You grit your teeth while tears sting your lower lashes. The only weapon you have is your voice, and that’s always proven ineffective against him in the past. Still, you can’t stop yourself from yelling. “It’s been a goddamn year! I’m sick of being your prisoner!”

“Is that right?” Bakugou shifts, and you hear the sounds of metal clanking. You know instantly that he’s taking off his belt. You writhe as much as you possibly can, fearing a lashing. He hasn’t ever really hit you before, and though getting him to the point had been your end goal, taking the belt is a whole other level of pain you’re not willing to endure.

“Katsuki,” you pant, desperate. “Please, no. Please don’t. It’s...it’s my birthday!”

“You think I don’t fucking know that?” Bakugou releases your wrist, and goes for your hair instead. He yanks you back so that his chest presses against your back. His lips are against the junction of your shoulder and neck as he growls, “after everything I’ve fuckin’ done for you? Ungrateful little slut.”

He pulls your sweats down, cupping your ass roughly with his large, calloused hands. They feel good—his rough touch against your soft cheeks—and despite feeling fearful for the state of your ass, you can feel yourself getting aroused. “I really gotta put you in your place today of all days?” He squeezes your ass tight and possessive, like he owns it, and in the moment, you can’t really say that he doesn’t.

“No,” you cry and god you’re pathetic. You had this entire plan set up and now it’s barreling out of your control. As his lips graze your shoulder, you let out a sigh and say, “the cake was really, really pretty, Katsuki. I’m sure I would’ve loved it. I’m sorry I did that. I just…”

“Just what?” He rasps against your neck before his hot tongue draws a long line across your skin, making you shiver in response.

“I was just...overwhelmed,” you admit. “Our anniversary-“ you choke out, the words sour on your tongue, but you manage to make it sound sweet-“is just around the corner. I wasn’t prepared...I don’t have a whole lot of resources to do something special for you…”

Katsuki Bakugou sure is a lot of things, but he’s not a moron. You’re positive he can read your facade like a book and he’s certainly not one to play along. .

“Oh yeah? You wanna do something for me?” He sucks in your earlobe between his teeth, nibbling playfully. You mewl as Bakugou reaches around your body, large fingers moving down the front of you and sliding down your pubic bone. He dips two fingers between your lips, swiping smugly at the traitorous puddling at your core. “Is this really what gets you off, sweetheart? Lying to me just so I get a little rough with you?”

“N-no.” You try to sound stern, sure of yourself, but Bakugou is light to the touch, fingers barely teasing your sensitivity. You catch yourself grinding into them, directly resulting in your ass moving against his erection. You can feel him pulse against you, and it only makes your pussy throb in direct result, which doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Just admit you want me,” he seethes, pressing more firmly against you while his middle finger teases your entrance. “You like me like this. You don’t want sweet—you want me to be a hard ass, don't you? Why else would you act like such a slutty little brat? Good girls don’t get wet after shit like this, baby. Good girls don’t like to be thrown around.”

“Katsuki,” you say on a sigh while bringing a hand to his arm, hoping to direct him to break through your surface.

“Put your hands on the table,” he growls.

“Please.” You ignore him, pulling his arm more insistently, needing him to deepen his touch.

“This is the last time I’m gonna ask you; put your hands on the table, or I won’t hesitate to use this belt against your bare fuckin’ ass. I’ll lick you so good, you’ll have bruises for months. You’ll need to sit on a fuckin’ ice pack the next time I’m courteous enough to have you dine with me at my table.”

Shuddering, you obey him, planting your palms against the flat of the table, away from the splattered cake. Bakugou lets out a contemptuous scoff, brings your wrists together, and easily wraps his belt around them, tight and with no leeway.

He then pushes your shirt up so that it’s around your wrist with the belt, and pulls your sweats down all the way off of your legs. You’re virtually naked in front of him, with the exception of your bra and panties, helpless to do anything about it. Just like he likes it. He always wants you to bite back until he gets you to submit. He was probably enjoying your little silent treatment show, too; it was just another kind of rebellion, another barbel that he’s fought and won.

A tingle runs down your spine as he traces it with calloused fingers. You feel your stomach tighten from anticipation when he reaches your tailbone and his touch leaves your body. You hear him chuckle as he pulls at a strap of your thong, snapping it back into place. “At least I know you like the panties I got you.”

Pain bursts on your right cheek as the sound of his sharp slap ricochets around the dining room. You have to bite your lip to keep from crying out—even still, you’re trembling when he rubs the sore spot.

“Awww,” he coos, snickering. “You gonna try and act tough?”

You exhale, trying and failing to keep a steady breath, but it’s all wrong and you’re already panting.

“Show me how much you hate me, baby, I wanna hear you sing it.”

The next lick comes without any precursor, no warning, no time for you to brace yourself, so when he slaps your ass, you can’t help but cry out—ecstatic or indignant—it’s not your place to decide.

“Katsuki!” You fall forward, forehead on the table, inches away from the ruined cake.

He chuckles at your position, petting the back of your hair. “If you want me to stop, you’re gonna have to lick it up, Princess.”

Your eyes narrow and you shoot a sideways glare back at him. “I’m not a dog.”

His lips tilt sideways, cocky and annoyingly hot, cheeks red, brow raised provocatively. “You sure look like a bitch to me.”

He spanks you a third and fourth time, and your mouth hangs open with unspoken yelps, a familiar, shameful feeling traveling down your stomach to your throbbing heat.

Taking a second, Bakugou dips his fingers into the pink frosted mess in front of your eyes, and brings it to your mouth. “Taste it for me. I worked hard to get the flavor right,” he commands, smearing the cream over your bottom lip. You’re helpless to oblige. Only, when you stick your tongue out, he pushes two fingers into your mouth.

“Bite me, and I’ll have you tied up for the entire night. I’ll make you scream until you’re on the edge of passing out, then I’ll fuck you awake. I’ll use you—fill every hole you’ve got ‘til you’re nothing but a leaky drainpipe full of my cum. Do I make myself clear?”

“Mhmm…” Not wanting to test to see if he was just making empty promises, because he never makes empty promises, you glide your tongue around his fingers, aiming to please. You let out a soft, appreciative hum when you taste the sweet, strawberry flavored frosting, and suck his fingers clean.

“Good girl,” he says, his fingers leaving your mouth, only to dip back into the cake. He brings them back to your lips and you take him in willingly. “Now, I don’t want to hear another word out of that pretty little mouth, until I tell you to speak. Understand?”

You look at him with affirmation. He spanks you again.

Your body jolts, spit and cream drooling out of your mouth as you moan, trying not to utter a comprehensive word. The vibrations from the impact sends waves of pleasure dancing across your clenching heat. He hasn’t even really touched your sex, and yet, you feel the coils of an approaching orgasm winding up in the pit of your stomach.

The sixth and seventh spank has tears falling down your cheeks. The heat is too much to bear and you can feel sweat sliding down your back. You want to warn him—to request that he takes a break, because the oncoming shame that’s making your toes tingle and your heart race might be a little more humiliating than having him torture you for the entire night. But you say nothing, your curiosity besting your dignity. The next spank does you in. Your body shakes as you wail, your coils breaking while you pool out, thighs sheened with your arousal. There’s absolutely no hiding yourself, and Bakugou is going to be all too smug about this. You simply cannot believe yourself.

“No way,” Bakugou husks, fingers leaving your mouth. You’re panting again when he brings his fingers to your fluttering pussy. He pushes them in and all you can offer is a sigh when he’s up to his digits in you.

“Aww...oh no.” You can’t tell if his concern is genuine or not, but it doesn’t matter to you. You’re ashamed, embarrassed, and defeated. He’s never going to let you live this down. You can already hear his future taunts buzzing around in your head. ‘You can’t pretend like you don’t like me when I’ve made you cum just by spanking your perfect little ass.’

God-fucking-damn it.

He has all the merit to tease you for it now, and you’re expecting him to—hell, you’re practically bracing yourself for it, but instead, he pulls his fingers back and pushes your bottom over, so you face him.

“Ah~Ow!” You wince when your butt hits the table.

“Ah. C’mere.” He frowns and pulls you up by the belt at your wrist. You don’t stop yourself from falling into his embrace. He might be the source of all of your dread, but he’s also your only means of comfort. You let your tears roll onto his chest, muffling your sobs into his shirt. He hushes you, nails tickling your back as he kisses your hair. “S’okay, princess. You’re okay. I’m here.”

“I’m s-sorry,” you cry, and though your wrists are still bound, you manage to clutch onto his shirt. You pull him into you, shamelessly reveling in the familiarity of his scent.

“Hmm?” He lifts your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “What for?”

Your lips tremble and you shake your head, unable to voice exactly what you’re sorry for. Climaxing? Telling him that you hate him? Treating him so poorly when all he does is take care of you? You shake your head again when the actualization of your situation sets into the forefront of your mind. There’s practically a river of tears streaming down your face now and you wish for nothing more than to do disappear, because you’re a stupid girl, there’s cake in your hair, and Stockholm syndrome is bullshit!

“What is it?” He insists, he is tone low, caring.

Dumb. You’re so dumb. Your brain is screaming at you to not say anything, but your skin still buzzes from the thrill of your orgasm. Despite loathing yourself more than ever, you’re practically high, both from catharsis and euphoria.

“I don’t...hate you.” It’s small but it’s there—your voice. There’s a lot to decode from your confession, and by the way Bakugou’s eyes soften just the tiniest bit, you know that he knows what you will not say..

His thumb brushes across the corner of your mouth, wiping away at some residual frosting, then brings it up to where your lips part.

“I know,” he says as you take him in again, swirling your tongue around his thumb, now enjoying the taste of the cake. “Of course I know.”

Your heart swells when he doesn’t laugh at you. He doesn’t even look all that proud of himself. He simply gazes at you with adoration and amazement—and, of course, lust because you have your lips wrapped around something. Prick.

“That was very hot, babe,” he says before kissing your forehead. “I really didn’t think that you could be so responsive to me.” He chuckles darkly, but it lacks his familiar malicious undertone. “Don’t really feel like I earned it, either.”

His thumb leaves your mouth, slides against your bottom lip, and is abruptly replaced with a kiss. Bakugou’s tongue teases your mouth open, then caresses yours with his. “Mmm,” he hums, the reverberations of his voice sending sensational buzzes down your neck. He nips at your bottom lip, then smirks against you. “Tastes good.”

He kisses you again, molding his lips perfectly to yours, and you feel his arousal poke at your bound hands. Not quite lucid enough to think it through, but feeling a bit mischievous yourself, you cup his girth through his trousers, rubbing his hard length up and down. You run your tongue against his, wanting to taste the power he has over you.

“You want me, baby?” Bakugou asks, pressing himself more firmly into your hands. “You wanna feel me slide inside that wet pussy of yours?”

Still not willing to give him a verbal confirmation, you squeeze his cock, legs wrapping around his torso to pull him closer to you. He growls when you have him grinding against your heat, a dark stain appearing on the prominent bulge he rubs against you. When he pulls away, you see that his pupils are blown, barely a sliver of his crimson iris to be seen. He looks moonstruck, predatory, and beautiful.

“Naughty girl,” he scolds, a tick in his jaw. He pushes you lightly, easing so that your back is on the table, your legs spread out for him. He groans when he runs a finger up your damp, clothed slit.

“I asked you a question,” he continues, playing with your core. He gets a dreamy look in his eye when he pulls your panties to the side, and feels exactly how wet you are for him. Then, he shoots a scathing glower your way. “Do. You. Want. Me. To. Fuck. You?”

“Yes,” you say with a nod. “I want you to fuck me, Katsuki.”

“That’s really too bad.” He snickers arrogantly and your heart falls into your stomach. Didn’t you just have a soft moment?! “Only good girls get fucked, pretty baby. You can’t confess your undying love for me and expect that gets you out of your punishment.”

“I did not!” You argue which earns you a dangerous look.

“You and I both know what the hell you meant,” he says with a threateningly sexy lilt. “You can’t take something like that back at the drop of a hat.”

”I think you’ve punished me enough already,” you bite out defensively, quick to change the subject, because you‘re bitterly aware that he’s right.

“And who are you to decide that?” He smirks, brushing a thumb across your pubic bone. “Thought you were my prisoner.”

“I didn’t mean that!”

“No?” Bakugou gets down to his knees, leveling his face with your center. “Actions speak louder than words, angelface.” He kisses your clit, making the same noise he does when he’s trying to bother you while eating, only when he does it on your cunt, all of your nerve endings catch flame and you’re spiraling back to needy senselessness. “Prove to me that you’ve earned my cock by riding my tongue.”

He’s nothing if not altruistic when he’s between your legs. He’s always been generous and dedicated to getting you off, but there’s something different about how he’s moving now. He uses the flat of his tongue and draws languid strokes up your entrance, taking his time while he swirls around your clit. He groans into you, and if the vibrations of his voice weren’t enough to finish you off then and there, his fingers sure as hell do it for you. He pushes them into you, reveling in the feel of your spongy walls hugging him tightly. He traces intricate patterns across your skin, mapping out the places that make you moan the loudest, just to be keen on teasing you for harrowing minutes. He’s going about this agonizing slow, but there’s something about him taking his time, rather than completely ravaging you to prove just how good he is at eating you out, that already has your walls clamping down around his fingers, your back arching, whimpers and pleas tumbling out of your mouth.

It hits you like a brisk wave crashing against the oceanic shoreline. First it was one liquescent sensation, then a pandemonium of your nerves roaring to life. Your thighs close against his head, locking him into place while your fingers twine with his hair. He moans into you, multiplying the excruciating thrill tenfold. You rock against his tongue, savoring this magnificently prolonged ecstatic escapade.

When your nerves cool down and you’re no longer twitching too much, Bakugou offers you a wry grin before licking his lips.

“Look at what a mess you’ve become,” he coos , kissing your shaking thighs, eyes locked on yours. “Was that all because of me, princess.”

“I...don’t think I’ve come so hard in my life.” You breathe, disoriented by the fact. “Oh my god.”

“That so?” He asks as his tongue travels up your thigh.

Bakugou fervently laps up your post-orgasmic juices all the way back up to your drenched cunt. He groans dramatically while his tongue dives back into you. You’re far too sensitive now, and he doesn’t stop—he likes having you squirm around, bucking your hips this was and that, all attempts at finding an escape for his erotic torture futile. Soon he has you spasming out of control for the third time this night, and he rides the waves of your grudging pleasure with delight.

“K-katsukiiii, pleeease!” You’re breathless, hot, and irrational. He has a large hand gripped tightly on your side while three fingers continue to curl inside of you. “I can’t t-take it anymore! It’s t-too much!”

“What? You don’t think you’ve got another one in you?” He keeps your eyes locked on his as his hands push your thighs farther apart, his tongue slowly gliding across your throbbing clit.

You shake your head, practically sputtering your pleas. “I will do whatever you want, so please-“

‘’S that right?” Bakugou grins up at you, smug and triumphant. He pushes you farther up on the table and climbs over you, one hand at the side of your head, holding him up—the other reaching out to grab a coin-sized piece of cake. He presses it against your mouth as he prompts you with an, “ahh.”

“Ah,” you mimic and he pushes the cake into your mouth. The moment you swallow is the moment his lips latch onto yours. You taste your headiness mixing in with the creamy texture of the cake and you can’t help but moan openly into his mouth.

Bakugou ends the kiss too soon, catching you out of breath and wanting more.

“You can be a good girl, can’t you?” His voice is raspy, thick with need, and you know he’s close to falling apart. You want him to. You need him to. He’s broken you, so it’s only just that he breaks sometimes too.

You nod, cautious to see what he’ll be doing next. He’s certainly not taking off his pants, which was the only thing he should be doing.

He moves your arms over his shoulders and leans down low, breath hot on your ear. “You’ll do anything for my cock?”

“Yes,” you sigh and wish more than anything for your hands to be free so tear his shirt off.

“Because you don’t hate me at all. In fact, you fuckin’ love me. You love everything I do to you, but you’re too stubborn to admit it. That right?”

You scowl ahead, teeth clenched. “Yes.”

He draws a line with his tongue against the most sensitive part of your neck, making you shudder, and asks, “yes, what, princess?”

You narrow your eyes. “Yes, I am stubborn.”

With a “teh!” Bakugou kisses your cheek and leads you up so that you’re sitting straight, and guides you both carefully off the table, sweeping you up to carry you so that you don’t step in any of the food you’ve tossed around. He cradles you in his arms, you half-naked, him fully dressed, and smiles sardonically.

“I’m not gonna make you say it, because it is your birthday, but I will have you know that your punishment is not over.”

“You’re kidding me!” You bark back, leaning away to look him in the eyes to see if he’s serious.

“Sorry, baby.” He laughs. “But I had a romantic evening planned out for the two of us and you just had to throw your little bratty tantrums.”

“What do I have to do—?”

“—to get me to fuck you?”

“Yes!”

“You’re going to take a shower, put on that fuckin’ dress, then we’re gonna do this whole dinner thing over again. If you can behave, then maybe—maybe you’ll get my cock. If not—well princess, history tends to repeat itself, but I was hoping we could act like a normal couple just for one night. Thought maybe you’d be into it too, but that’s not what you want at all, is it?”

“I...want to be a normal couple,” you say unenthusiastically. You’re not sure if you meant you wanted to be a normal couple with Bakugou or if you wanted to be free and normal with somebody else entirely.

Bakugou snickers, as if you said something childish. “No you don’t.”

“Because you think I don’t want to be with you.”

“Nah...I know you want to be with me. But you don’t want to be a normal couple. You want this, babe. You want what we have. You want the chaos. You revel in it.”

“Well, I—“ you begin, desperate to find an argument point that doesn’t make you sound dumb. Is he right? Do you enjoy this? Everyday is like a game with him, and it drives you up the fucking wall, but what would you be without it?

“I hope you can keep your self-control,” you retort flippantly, abandoning the argument. “Hope your dick didn’t burst your buttons, Katsuki.” Your gaze drops down to the tent in his pants, then snaps pointedly back at his face.

He’s absolutely unfazed. In fact, he’s more chipper than you’ve ever seen him—like he’s the cat who caught the mouse. “Just for that, I’m gonna join you in the shower. Keep my belt around those wrists and have you watch me wash myself—see all that you’re missing out on.”

You groan, head falling into his chest as he begins walking towards the stairs. “I really do fucking hate you.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, sweetheart,” he says back, a smile in his voice. “Just as long as you know that you’re not the only person here that knows how to play keep away.”

#bnha x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #mha x reader #yandere!bakugou #yandere!bakugou x reader #yandere bnha #yandere male #bnha yandere #yandere au #bnha au #bnha imagines #bnha reader insert #reader insert #tw yandere #katsuki x reader

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smuggsy · 3 years ago

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Remember this post about how Riddler dug up Elijah's body and we just... collectively chose to ignore it along with Oswald? 😂

Well. I un-ignored it. With a sad angsty fic.

(You can read it down here as well.) Word count: 2040. Tags: #emotional comfort #established relationship #hence: canon divergence #nightmares

Oswald's used to having nightmares. He's no stranger to sleepless nights, 5-am coffees have become a bit of a recurrent habit to make up for the drowsiness clouding his mind after a particularly difficult dream chimes in without permission and throws his sleeping schedule off — so much that he often finds himself power-napping through the day when Ed isn't around to tell him off for it.

Yes, he's almost grown too accustomed to Hugo Strange's voice narrating all sorts of gruesome scenarios that he ends up carrying out of his own volition, propelled forward by an unknown and invisible force deep inside. He never really sees the Doctor, but he hears him all the time, he's just there all the time. He tells Oswald what to do and Oswald does it without a pinch of remorse. Shoot him. Stab her. Blow them all to pieces, they deserve it.

It's the kind of hell he's used to. He's almost learnt to accept it's never going away. That it's a part of his psyche now, a part of him that will never really go away — because how do you fix a tattered mind? He wouldn't let anyone try, anyway. Not after Arkham.

This night is different. This night he's assaulted by a new kind of terror, almost perfectly calibrated and specially curated for him. Blossoming from the deepest part of his mind where he'd stocked it, never to be revisited.

And it's most cruel for one reason: when he wakes up with a startle he can't bear the thought of those arms wrapping around him and providing comfort like they've done so many times before. In fact, the first thing he does when he opens his eyes is untangle himself from Ed's sleeping embrace like it burns him.

Which means he's got no-one but himself to count on, again. No-one to hush him through the aftermath and speak softly in his ear and hum a long-dead melody until he calms down or, if he's lucky, falls back asleep.

"Oswald?"

He sits on the edge of the bed, hunched over to catch his breath, and feels Ed shifting position behind him. His partner's voice is clouded with sleep and Oswald can't bring himself to even turn around and reassure him — lie to him. He fears if he turns around he won't see Ed but Riddler. Not Ed's gentle eyes but Riddler's mocking glare. Not a warm comforting smile but a disdainful sneer.

His father, standing on the other side of the bed with a disappointed frown. My boy, how could you steep so low? Do you know where I am? Do you know where he left me?

When Ed's warm fingers brush over his right shoulder Oswald bolts upright with a whine.

"Osw—?"

And he runs to the bathroom and slams the door close behind him, feeling his one-piece nightgown sticking to his chest with sweat.

"Oswald, what's wrong?" Edward's voice is immediately on the other side, he tries turning the doorknob but Oswald is pinning it closed with his own weight, still unable to brush away the gut-wrenching feeling of betrayal that's so suddenly taken hold of him, "Oswald, get off the door."

It's a gentle request.

Oswald might have done it, perhaps, might have considered it, if he hadn't looked right into the mirror hanging on the opposite wall and seen Elijah's pale and sickness-stricken face. A dead man's face that makes him shiver.

He shall never have peace, so long as you're with him, Oswald thinks. Some other Oswald. Some other voice that sounds like his but isn't. Can't be.

"Oswald," Ed tries again, and this time he pushes against the door with more conviction, Oswald leans off and turns around to face him when he comes in, to keep him away, Riddler, he's still in there, he's— "oh dear," Ed coos, having one look at him and taking pity instantly. He takes a step forward and Oswald takes a step back.

"No!" he blurts out with a raspy voice. Edward stops dead in his tracks, lost expression for a moment before his shoulders relax again.

"It's okay, Oswald. It was just a nightmare," he adds, softly like so many times before.

"No, it isn't! It wasn't!" Oswald lashes out, hating that he looks at Ed's dishevelled face and concerned caramel eyes and wants him to just get away, his voice comes out just barely, "you did that to him! You— How could you?!"

Ed opens his mouth and doesn't move, clearly taken aback by the accusation even if he fails to comprehend, thrown off by the way Oswald looks at him, stands like that, like a wounded animal, like he might flee if Edward takes another step forward.

He still takes a step forward, though, because he never was really good with physical cues.

"Os, I don't understand wha—"

"Don't touch me!"

Oswald jerks away and hits the wall behind, still shivering despite his burning skin. Edward shows him his palms, a gesture of surrender.

"Okay. Okay, I'm not," he takes a steadying breath in, "I'm staying right here."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! It's not him, I swear! I didn't—"

"Oswald?"

"He's different now! He's not like that anymore!"

Oswald gestures towards Ed, clever, supportive, thoughtful, with his checked blue pyjamas and plaid shirt and lack of glasses and puffy eyes from sleep. Then he looks back at his father now standing by the door and projects the thought: Ed. Not Riddler!

But Elijah shakes his head and purses his lips, looking him up and down like he doesn't approve and Oswald just needs him to understand.

"It's not hiiiiim!"

"Oswald, this is starting to become very unsettling."

Edward looks around, to his right, there. To where Oswald's looking, to nothing. He knows that deranged gaze, he's seen it countless times before, he's stood in front of the mirror a lot of times and seen it on himself.

"Os, it's just those new painkillers making you groggy, okay? It's a much heavier dose than the one you're used to. Whatever you're seeing," Edward chances a slow step forward and Oswald finally turns his head back to him, with glassy eyes and tears on his eyelashes and still looking like he'll run away, "it's not there, Oswald. I am here."

Oswald stares at him for a few more silent moments with a lost expression, mouth open and still bracing himself with one hand on the cold tiles behind and the other on the sink.

"You're not... you're not him, I try to— I tell him you're not," he babbles, looking feverish and lost.

That's when the penny drops for Edward. It feels like a stab to the heart, that broken voice, the trembling hands, the quivering lips, the whole sight of an Oswald so distressed he won't even let him get close enough to soothe him.

"No," Ed says softly, his own voice failing him for a moment, shaking his head and taking yet another step closer, "no," he repeats breathless, "I'm not. Please. Come here."

He reaches an offering hand and Oswald slowly looks down as if weighing his options. As if making sure this isn't a trick — which, well. If he's thinking of Riddler, he can hardly be blamed for exercising caution, Ed admits. It hurts him to admit it. To know he's caused this, one way or another. Painkillers or not. This raw incoherent fear is coming from somewhere, however small the flame that ignited it might be, and he can't fix it because Oswald won't stop trembling like a leaf and recoiling.

"Oswald, please," he begs, voice finally breaking and eloquence escaping him, retrieving his outstretched hand and rubbing fingers over his burning eyelids because if he breaks down too... "please, it's me, Ed, just Ed."

He doesn't know what to do. He's on the verge of blurting out apologies when he opens his eyes to Oswald latching onto him with one of those desperate hugs. Ed wraps his arms around him instantly, a reflex, feeling like he's just come back to life.

"Go away," Oswald says, sobs with his face buried in the crook of his neck and starts crying. Edward tightens his hold and hides his own tears in the other man's raven locks, understands he's not the one being spoken to, "go, please. I won't leave him!"

Edward can barely understand the string of pleas when Oswald's clutching onto him so firmly his words come out muffled and nearly intelligible. Either way, he's not about to ask who's there — better not add salt to the wound. Not feed the horror, lest it become a recurrent thing. He needs him to understand this is a figment of his imagination if he's not aware already.

"Shhhh, it's all good," he keeps Oswald in place with an arm around his waist and brings the other one to gently pet his hair, "it's o-kay, Oswald. I'm here, it's just you and me."

Oswald nods against his chest but he can't seem to bring himself to stop crying. Edward rubs circles on his back.

"Just you and me," he repeats, striving for a soothing voice and feeling it waver ever so slightly.

They stay like that for a whole five minutes until Oswald finally leans back, sniffs and looks up with red eyes and a self-deprecating comment on his lips that Ed doesn't let him voice out.

"Come on, it's freezing out here."

Ed guides him back under the covers and tucks him in, Oswald watches his every move like an overcurious child. That cloudy expression is gone, though, and Ed can't help but let out a sigh of relief at having him back. He looks drained but sober.

Mostly sober.

His eyes still dart around with a nervous air but he doesn't seem to find his demon anywhere. When Ed climbs back up on the bed Oswald immediately shifts closer and hides his face in his shirt again.

"I'm sorry, that—"

"No-uh-uh," Ed cuts in, brushing a strand of hair off his green doe eyes and feeling an almost compulsive need to plant a kiss on the now-red tip of his nose, "say no more."

Oswald purses his lips and shuffles even closer, pressing his flush body so firmly against Ed's that they can't exactly see each other's faces anymore.

"Can you...?"

"Yes I can."

And that's that. He settles his chin on top of Oswald's head and starts humming; content to sidestep the issue just for now but unable to brush aside the sour taste of guilt filling almost every corner of his mind.

He starts rubbing circles on Oswald's back and doesn't stop the melody until he feels the other man's hold loosen up and his breath change into a normal and peaceful pace. Only then does Edward slowly extract himself from the embrace, far enough that he can look at Oswald's face.

Red and wet and troubled, still. He reaches over and soothes the lines on his forehead.

"I'm sorry, Os," he breathes out.

He's used to Oswald having nightmares. He wakes up all heaving breaths and uncertain hands latching onto anything that's near for comfort, for safety or reassurance. Ed is always there to provide either one, wrap his arms around his shaking form and listen to him if he wants to talk. Make him a cup of tea or play soft tunes on the piano if sleep doesn't return.

Oswald's always been needy like that.

Having him wake up and frantically keep himself away, recoil from his touch and excuse himself to a third party only he can see... that's a first.

And it's terrifying.

Because He made that happen. Because Oswald's grown to be too dependant and Ed's grown to be his anchor in moments like these and if he can't even be that... then what can he be? What's left for him to be, besides the clear instigator?

Ed closes his eyes and lets out a sigh, focusing on the sound of Oswald's breathing and on the touch of his cold feet and the smell of cherry-scented hair conditioner. He relishes in the familiarity of the hold and shakes the darker thoughts away.

Perhaps he's become a bit dependant himself.

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yesokaythatsfine69 · 4 years ago

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In Need of A Stable Relationship (Jean Kirstein x reader)

Description: y/n's having a shitty week- mainly because she's tired of loving Jean because he doesn't feel the same way.

Character(s): y/n, Jean, Connie, Sasha, Eren, Mikasa, Levi

POV: 3rd person

Warning(s): cursing, little bit of angst, fluff

A/n: JEAN IS SO HOT I LOVE HIM SO MUCH he's such an absolute cutie and probably the second most attractive character in the series. I'll let you guess who's number one.

Word Count:

Song: listen to Agni kai- epic version by Samuel Kim. It's just cool.

*none of the gifs used are mine, full credit goes to the maker.

Y/n bit into her bread harshly, swallowing the lump thickly. "y/n? Are you okay?" Taking another harsh bite, y/n nodded at Armin. "I don't think I've ever seen you eat like that." Eren laughed, but his eyes remained wearily trained on her. "I'm just hungry." She grumbled, taking a third bite.

"Hey, but not even Sasha eats like that." Connie pointed to the girl who sat next to him, who was stuffing bread into her mouth like it was candy. When she noticed everyone's eyes on her, she looked side to side. Quickly swallowing, she smiled sheepishly.

Y/n rolled her eyes, quickly losing interest in the conversation. "Didn't captain Levi say that if we didn't have this place spotless by the time he got back we'd be eating our own shit?" Y/n got up from the table, and her chair squeaked against the wood floor.

"You're already done, y/n?" Mikasa approached the table, a tray in her hands. Y/n only took the young woman in dejectedly, giving her a small shrug. "Yeah, you can have my seat." Y/n grabbed her empty tray and left the group, leaving them to watch her silhouette retreat out of the lunch room.

A few seconds later Jean arrived, coming in the same way Y/n had exited. He was sweating, obviously having just got done training. He grabbed a tray and made his way to the table, sitting down beside Connie.

"What's up with y/n? She barely spoke to me just now." The table was silent. "I think she ate too much." Sasha said, as she put a hand on her stomach, her own face scrunched up in pain. Jean raised an eyebrow at his friend, his gaze moving away from Sasha to Armin. "She's been off with all of us recently. Maybe the scouts are getting to her." Armin spoke, shaking his head slightly.

Eren folded his arms across his chest, a sign that something was obviously bothering him. Jean watched the action sharply, his eyes narrowing the slightest. "Yeah, maybe." The rest of the time it was mostly quiet, a few different topics arose. Noticibly, Jean remained silent, barely eating.

His mind focused on her, analyzing everything she said, did. He could barely eat he was so engrossed in worry for his friend.

He missed y/n.

--------------------------------------------------

Y/n sighed. The stables were always dirty, but when you're in a bad mood- they seem dirtier. She grabbed her broom, fixing to sweep when a door opened. She turned, surprised at first- but then her shoulders relaxed when she saw who entered.

"Did you need something, Jean?" Jean's eyes widened. He had such pretty eyes, a lovely warm brown. In the soft glow of the stable lights they were illuminated and they sparkled. He was beautiful, and even her misplaced anger couldn't diminish that. Y/n felt a sinking feeling as she realized just how captivated she was. This was going to be harder than she thought.

Jean, swallowed and shut the door behind him. "I came to check on you. You seem off." Y/n just shrugged and turned away from him, continuing to sweep. "It doesn't really matter."

In less than four steps, he caught up with her, grabbing onto her arm. "Hey, what's wrong with you? You're obviously mad- instead of just sulking maybe you should-" y/n spun around to face him.

"Shut up Jean! Just shut up!" She stabbed a finger at him. "Maybe I should just blow up like you do, without thinking or caring about the consequences of my actions. I'm sure that would just solve all my problems!" She huffed at him.

Jean straightened. "So this is about me?" Y/n's eyes widened. "No!" His eyes widened. "I never said I was perfect, y/n but..." He closed his eyes. "You...you're acting like a child!" She stared at him.

Before she could even acknowledge what she was doing her arm flew forward and she punched him square in the face. He grabbed his jaw, his doe eyes wide.

Y/n's own eyes widened and she clutched her hand. Pain erupted from her knuckles, but she ignored it, watching in fear as Jean clutched his face, staring at her in shock. "Oh God, Jean I'm so sorry...I- I..." He only winced, removing his hand. "Your right hook has gotten better."

Y/n stared at him. "But it still doesn't compare to mine!" Jean swung barely missing her as she ducked, side stepping him. The two fought, hand to hand combat style. Again Jean tried to swing but y/n was still to fast, ducking and landing a hit to his chest. He grunted but quickly regained his balance.

Jean swung again, but this time y/n caught his first, bring his face inches from her own. Then without warning he sideswiped her feet, bringing them both tumbling down.

Jean landed on his elbows above her, both out of breath. Finally, Jean caught his, looking down at y/n with sincere worry.

"What's wrong, y/n?" He asked again, his gaze gentle. She sniffed and looked away.

Silence.

"please, tell me. I want to help you." He spoke barely above a whisper, afraid he'd scare her off.

Finally, she spoke. She gave up.

"I-I love you."

Silence.

Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"And you...you don't love me."

She let out a sob then, more tears streaking down her face. Her hand wrapped around her mouth, a feeble attempt to subdue her cries.

She flinched when his hand reached over to her, gently cupping her cheek. He guided her to be directly in front of him.

But his face surprised her, he looked pissed. Jean was gritting his teeth in frustration, "How could you say that? Damnit! You can't just- You could've just asked."

"What?"

"Of course I love you! You're y/n y/l/n. You make life bearable, you make my day, my night. After Marco died- you were there for me. You've always been. I'd... I'd have to be an idiot to not...to not love you, y/n." Unshed tears shined in his eyes. "Of course, I love you."

Y/n frowned. "But Mikasa, I thought you-" "That was a year ago, y/n." they stared at each other, the truth finally sinking in.

Then, she smiled. Jean arched a brow as y/n wrapped her legs around his waist, a blush erupting on her cheeks.

Then suddenly she spun the two of them around, switching their positions. "Then why the hell didn't you say anything! You could've not wasted my time- the precious time I have." Again, Jean gritted his teeth. "Well, I thought you liked Yaegar! Considering the fact that you follow him around like a lost puppy!"

Y/n stared at Jean, who glared from under her. Then she bursted out laughing, a different type of tear streaming from her eyes. "You thought I liked Eren and I thought you liked Mikasa?" She laughed, slapping her thigh.

"We're both a pair of idiots!" Jean's scrowl slowly dropped, a smile slipping onto his face until he too began laughing hysterically with y/n.

Finally, She wiped her face, about to get up off of Jean but he grabbed her hand. His thumb gently ran through the knuckles, and he smiled.

"What's the rush, y/n? I like this view." Y/n flicked him, and got up, giving him a hand. He hopped up, but kept their hands intertwined.

Jean pulled their connected hands to his heart, and thus pulled her closer. Y/n closed the space between them, and Jean wrapped his free hand around her waist, settling his palm in the small of back.

The kiss was sweet, Jean's lips were soft and he dipped his head in deeper, catching her breathe. She snagged his bottom lip in her teeth, gently tugging. He tasted sweet, and it made her giggle, the thought of her hothead being anything but spicy- it was poetic.

"y/n..." He breathed, removing his lips from hers and peppering her face with sweet kisses, moving down to her neck. Her breathe caught at how soft he was.

"Oi, I didn't realize that the stables were suddenly designated for snogging." Y/n and Jean's eyes shot open, them freezing their minstrations. Captain Levi stood before them, his arms crossed.

In a flash they separated, putting a safe social distance between the two of them. Simultaneously giving him a salute, they spoke "Captain Levi!"

"Tch, save it you shits. You're both on horse shit duty. Separately." His eyes flickered dangerously between the two of them. "For how long?" Jean asked, his face pale. Jean hated getting in trouble, though it often found him because of his hotheaded nature.

"Until you start hating it, horse boy." Levi's eyes dangerously glittered at him. "Now, I expect you two dumbasses to have this place spotless by the morning." He leaned against the wall and Jean and y/n shared a look.

Sighing she picked up her broom and Jean grabbed the mop. Under the watchful eye of their captain they cleaned, but even under the burden of being in trouble the two could barely wipe away their smiles of delight.

"Will you two shitheads stop smiling, it sickens me."

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A/n: hey guys this one isn't my favorite prolly because I psyched myself out with doing Jean. Anyways feel free to give critism and feedback. Thanks for reading + happy new year

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