#I don’t think he is built at all but he has broad shoulders.

[bluenerdtastemaker]

Their Doll

We Miss You sequel (1)

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Esteban Ocon x Pierre Gasly x Charles Leclerc | 1.5K

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Esteban groaned softly as he stretched out on the oversized bed, the morning sunlight streaming through the partially drawn curtains. His gangly limbs sprawled out, taking up more space than necessary, and yet he felt deliciously small as two sets of strong arms closed in around him.

“Mon cœur, stop hogging the blanket,” Pierre murmured sleepily, his voice gravelly. He tugged gently at the duvet Esteban had unintentionally cocooned himself in, but instead of pulling it back, he draped his arm around Esteban’s waist, his fingers tracing lazy circles over the thin cotton of Esteban’s t-shirt.

Charles, on the other side, pressed a soft kiss to Esteban’s temple. “He doesn’t need the blanket; he has us to keep him warm,” he teased, his accented voice sending a shiver down Esteban’s spine. Charles’ fingers found Esteban’s jaw, tilting his face gently so he could steal a kiss from those perpetually pouty lips.

Esteban hummed into the kiss, his long fingers reaching to cup Charles’ face as their lips moved together in unhurried sync. When Pierre leaned in, resting his chin on Esteban’s shoulder to join them, Esteban felt a spark of warmth spread through his chest, brighter than the sun outside.

“Do you know how spoiled you are, bébé?” Pierre whispered into his ear, nipping playfully at the lobe.

“I think you two enjoy it more than I do,” Esteban replied, his voice light but tinged with fondness. His tall, lanky frame might have towered over his boyfriends, but their broad shoulders and muscled bodies made him feel undeniably delicate—something he secretly adored.

Pierre laughed, his hand sneaking under Esteban’s shirt to press against his stomach, fingers grazing over the sharp angles of his ribs. “And whose fault is that? Hmm?”

Charles took over, his hand slipping up to brush through Esteban’s soft, dark hair. “Don’t act like you don’t love being taken care of,” he murmured. “You’re practically made for it.”

Esteban didn’t bother denying it. Instead, he let out a soft sigh, sinking further into the bed, into their touch. “You’re both ridiculous,” he said, his voice quiet.

“Ridiculously in love,” Pierre corrected. He turned Esteban’s face toward him, stealing a kiss of his own, deeper and slower than Charles’ earlier one. Esteban’s breath hitched as Pierre’s strong hand cradled the back of his neck, anchoring him.

Charles made a small, amused noise. “Don’t keep him all to yourself, mon amour,” he said, leaning over to kiss Pierre as well. Their lips met over Esteban’s shoulder, soft and unhurried, as though they had all the time in the world—which, in this moment, they did.

Esteban couldn’t help but smile at how easily they fit together, even in the chaos of their lives. Pierre’s energy, Charles’ steadiness, and Esteban’s quiet grounding presence—it was a balance they’d built together.

“You’re smiling,” Charles noted, brushing his thumb over Esteban’s cheek.

Esteban shrugged, playing coy. “Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

“We’re the lucky ones,” Pierre said, his tone soft but firm. He pressed a kiss to Esteban’s shoulder before pulling him closer, wrapping his arms around him completely. Charles mirrored the motion on the other side, sandwiching Esteban between them.

And Esteban? He melted into their embrace, letting their warmth seep into him, their love tangible in every gentle touch, every kiss.

“Stay here today,” Esteban murmured, his voice muffled against Pierre’s chest.

“As if we’d go anywhere,” Charles replied, kissing the top of his head.

Esteban’s stomach betrayed him with a loud rumble, cutting through the quiet intimacy of the moment. He froze for a second, cheeks flushing a soft pink as Charles and Pierre both pulled back, looking at him with matching amused smirks.

“Well, that answers what’s next,” Pierre teased, poking Esteban lightly in the side, which only made him squirm. “Our doll needs to be fed.”

“I’m not a doll,” Esteban huffed, though the protest was half-hearted at best.

“You are our doll,” Charles corrected, slipping out of bed. He stretched, his toned body catching the light in all the right ways, before leaning down to peck Esteban’s lips. “Stay here. We’ll handle breakfast.”

Esteban blinked. “Wait, you’ll handle it?” He shot a glance at Pierre, who was already pulling on a t-shirt and looking far too confident. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I still remember last time.”

“Last time was a fluke!” Pierre declared, tossing a pillow at Esteban. “Stay in bed and look pretty. We’ve got this.”

Esteban wasn’t entirely convinced, but he let himself sink back into the pillows as his boyfriends disappeared into the kitchen. From his spot in bed, he could hear their voices drifting through the apartment—Pierre’s sharp teasing and Charles’ more patient instructions. The occasional clang of pans and muttered curses made Esteban chuckle softly.

“Do you even know how to flip that?” Charles asked.

“Évidemment!” Pierre retorted, though his tone wasn’t entirely convincing.

A suspicious sizzling sound followed, and Esteban had to bite back the urge to go check on them. But the thought of being spoiled for once kept him rooted to the bed.

After what felt like an eternity, the two finally returned, a tray balanced between them. Charles carried it with the steadiness of someone used to precision, while Pierre hovered protectively, ready to catch anything that might fall.

“Breakfast is served,” Pierre announced with a dramatic flourish, setting the tray on Esteban’s lap.

Esteban glanced down, surprised to see an impressive spread—scrambled eggs, toast, sliced fruit, and even a cup of coffee that smelled exactly the way he liked it. “You didn’t burn anything?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Excuse-moi!” Pierre said, pretending to look offended.

Charles smirked, sitting on the edge of the bed. “It’s edible, I promise. Try it.”

Esteban took a cautious bite of the eggs, his eyes widening. “This is... actually good!”

“Told you,” Pierre said smugly, leaning in to steal a kiss from Esteban’s cheek.

“Okay, okay, I admit it,” Esteban said between bites. “You two did a good job. I might let you cook for me more often.”

Charles laughed, his hand brushing through Esteban’s messy hair. “Anything for you, mon cœur.”

Pierre joined him on the other side of the bed, wrapping an arm around Esteban’s waist. “We’re keeping you well-fed so you stay this cute.”

Esteban rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling as he continued eating, basking in the warmth of their affection.

As the breakfast tray was cleared away and Esteban settled back into the soft pillows, he found himself flanked once again by his boyfriends. Pierre was the first to crawl closer, his sharp features softened with a playful smirk. Charles followed, his hands casually sliding up Esteban’s lanky arms, pulling him back against the headboard.

“Tu es si beau,” Pierre murmured, his lips brushing against Esteban’s temple. “How do you manage to look this perfect even in the morning?”

“Stop exaggerating,” Esteban muttered, though his voice came out softer than he intended, his cheeks already pink.

“Not exaggerating,” Charles said firmly, his lips finding the corner of Esteban’s jaw, warm and lingering. “He’s just telling the truth.”

Esteban huffed a laugh, trying to wave them off. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” Pierre quipped, his lips traveling to Esteban’s cheek, pressing a kiss there, light and teasing, before another kiss followed, and another. Each one came quicker than the last, peppering over Esteban’s face until he was giggling, trying and failing to squirm away.

“Pierre—stop!” Esteban said, his words broken up by laughter.

“Never,” Pierre declared, his grin widening. He grabbed Esteban’s wrists, gently pinning them to the mattress, as Charles leaned in from the other side.

“Don’t think you’re escaping me either,” Charles said, his voice low, though the mischief in his tone was unmistakable. His kisses were slower, more deliberate than Pierre’s, starting at Esteban’s other cheek before trailing down to his neck, barely brushing against his collarbone.

Esteban let out a soft, breathless sound, his head tilting back instinctively. His long limbs felt weightless, as if he were melting into the mattress under the attention. “You two are going to be the death of me,” he mumbled, though there was no real protest in his voice.

Pierre’s lips found Esteban’s jawline, his stubble grazing just enough to send a shiver through him. “You love it,” Pierre whispered, his tone smug and knowing.

Charles hummed in agreement, pulling back briefly to look at Esteban’s flushed face. “Look at him,” he said softly, cupping Esteban’s cheek. “Completely drunk on us.”

Esteban’s lips parted to argue, but he never got the chance. Pierre claimed his mouth in a kiss, firm but not demanding, pulling him under once more. When they finally broke apart, Charles was already there, tilting Esteban’s face toward him for another kiss, gentler but no less intoxicating.

By the time they both pulled away, Esteban’s eyes were hazy, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He blinked at them, his mind swirling with warmth. “You two…” he whispered, unable to finish the thought.

Pierre brushed a thumb over Esteban’s swollen lips, his own smug smirk softened by affection. “Yes, mon cœur?”

“You’re too much,” Esteban finally said, though his voice was far too soft to carry any weight.

Charles laughed, resting his forehead against Esteban’s. “Good. Because we’re not done spoiling you yet.”

And as Pierre leaned back in, stealing another kiss while Charles resumed his slow, deliberate touches, Esteban let himself sink into the haze of their affection, feeling completely, utterly cherished.

[jaxieus]

Thinking of him again

[pure-smut]

sunshine.

featuring: Hinata Shoyo x f!reader

contains: timeskip!Hinata, best friends to lovers, unprotected s*x, creampie, slight overstimulation at the end

word count: 2.4k

note: all characters are aged up to 18+!

MDNI | 18+ content

Masterlist

a/n: if anyone knows the artist for the cover picture, I searched everywhere and couldn't find them!! Pls and ty in advance <3

When Hinata Shoyo left for Brazil, it was like an eclipse over your life.

You’re best friends so you still talk almost every day, whether it’s quick messages squeezed into busy days or a video call right as one of you wakes up and the other one is about to sleep. But Hinata was the sunshine in your life - a bright, burning ball of energy that powered your days. When he left, everything went a little bit gloomier.

You’re busy yourself with college – meeting new people, keeping up with classes, and making time to catch up with everyone from Karasuno. Still, it feels like a candle trying to compete with the sun.

So when you show up at a house party, not really feeling up for it but wanting to see your old classmates again, you stop dead in the doorway.

Sitting on the sofa, surrounded by everyone you know, you see shock of orange hair and hear a familiar laugh. Your mouth falls open.

“Sho…?”

Hinata turns at the sound of your voice, a broad smile breaking out on his face. The moon slides to the side, the sun shining again. Your heart thunders in your ears.

“Y/n!” he calls out, leaping up and sprinting over to you.

You’re still in shock when he scoops you up into a hug, squeezing you tight.

“You’re here?” is all you can say.

Hinata doesn’t stop hugging you but you hear him laugh, vibrating through his chest.

“I wanted it to be a surprise.” He pulls back to grin at you, brown eyes alight. “Are you surprised?”

You huff out laughter, your shock subsiding, and wrap your arms around his neck for another hug.

“It’s a great surprise,” you say, smiling hard.

It’s only when you put your arms around him that you realise how big he’s gotten. He’s a few inches taller than before and he’s broader than you remember, his shoulders hard as rocks. When you pull away from the hug, you hope he doesn’t notice the blush dusting your cheeks.

You both make your way into the party to a chorus of greetings from your old classmates. Hinata sits back down on the sofa but you linger, realising all the seats are taken.

“Um…”

“Sit here, y/n,” Hinata says, patting his thigh.

You don’t know why the idea makes you blush so hard – you and Hinata were always physically close, not afraid to hug or touch. Maybe it's because it's been years since you saw him in person. Maybe it's because...

You search his face for any sign he feels as flustered as you but he’s wearing an easy smile, his head cocked to the side as he waits for you to reply.

“S-sure,” you stammer out.

As soon as you slide onto Hinata’s lap, his arm snakes around your waist, resting his hand on your hip. His thighs are solid beneath you, as built as the rest of him. You obviously knew he trained hard in Brazil but you didn’t realise just how much he’s changed. You chance a glance at him, wondering if anything else has changed.

Hinata catches your eye.

“You okay?” he asks, flashing you a smile. “Comfy?”

Confidence. Hinata hasn’t only gained muscle in Brazil – the awkward teenage boy you knew has been replaced with a man. A man who flirts with his best friend, who invites you to sit on his lap with ease.

You wonder if he’s flirting because it’s you or because it’s his personality now. You’re not sure.

You’ve been quiet for too long because Hinata’s smile starts to drop. His eyebrows furrow.

“Seriously, you okay?” He lowers his voice, leaning in closer. “You don’t need to sit here if you don’t want.”

You shake your head.

“No, it’s fine. Sorry, I was just…” You give him a sheepish smile. “I was thinking, you’ve changed a lot.”

“I have?” Hinata looks genuinely confused before his expression clears. “Oh! Yeah, I grew like three inches!”

He grins wide and you smother your laughter.

“I mean, yeah, that,” you say. “But you’re like… bigger.”

You get the first glimpse of the Hinata you used to know as his cheeks tint pink. He rubs the back of his neck bashfully and you’re treated to his bicep bulging with the movement.

“Heh, yeah, I guess so.” His eyes swivel to yours. “You’ve changed too.”

This catches you off guard. You glance down at yourself before looking back up at him.

“Me?”

“Yeah. It’s like you get prettier every year.”

Your cheeks go hot. Hinata holds your gaze and you get a familiar feeling in your stomach, something you haven’t felt since he left. Intense, like you’re looking directly at the sun. Your skin prickles and you feel light-headed, like you’ve been sunbathing too long. It’s the effect Hinata has on you, that he’s always had on you.

Your sunshine.

Hinata’s hand tightens on your hip, not looking away. There’s something taut between you that thrums with electricity. You know there’s a party full of people around you but everything around Hinata has fallen into darkness. He’s the burning ball of fire in front of you, blocking out all else.

“I really want to kiss you,” he confesses, voice low and thick. “But I want to do it somewhere better. You deserve somewhere better.”

Your throat feels suddenly dry. You open your mouth to say something but your voice sticks. You give a small nod instead, not able to tear your eyes away from his.

“Let me take you out tomorrow,” Hinata says. “Please?”

You lick your lips to wet them and Hinata eyes dart down before flicking back up.

“Yeah,” you manage to croak out. “I’d really like that.”

Hinata grins like he’s just won a volleyball game, his ears pink. You both return to the chatter of the party but you feel Hinata’s thumb tracing circles on your hip, his hand on you the entire night.

*

You spend the entire next day trying on clothes and throwing them to the floor. Hinata had told you to dress nice and be ready for 7pm but he insisted on keeping the rest a secret. The closer that 7pm gets, the more frantic you are.

Eventually, you settle on a short black dress, showing just enough leg and cleavage without looking like you’re about to hit up a club. You’re finishing the last of your make-up as the doorbell goes. 7pm on the dot.

You open the door to see Hinata grinning, holding a bouquet of your favourite flowers, and your heart melts. He’s wearing a fitted emerald green shirt, tight across his chest and arms, in contrast to the fiery orange of his hair. If you hadn’t noticed the change in him before, you wouldn’t be able to ignore it now.

But Hinata’s smile falters as he sees you. He blinks once, twice, his mouth dropping open. His eyes trail down your body as his ears turn hot pink.

“Holy shit,” he exclaims.

It’s your turn to blush under the intensity of Hinata’s gaze. You gesture for him to come inside and he does as you close the door behind him. You barely have time to turn around before Hinata closes the space between you, forcing you to press your back against the door.

Hinata scoops his hand under your jaw, tilting your face up to his. You can feel the heat radiating off him as he dips his head, his other hand finding your waist. When he kisses you, he feels like molten fire.

Hinata’s lips are soft but his grip on your jaw is firm, only a fraction of his strength. You clutch at the hard muscles of his back, anchoring yourself to him. When his lips part yours to deepen the kiss, you give no resistance. His tongue meets your own as you moan into his mouth, melting under his touch. Hinata’s body responds, his cock hardening until you can feel it pressed against your lower stomach.

When he pulls away, you’re both breathless.

“I’m sorry.” He presses his forehead against yours. “I had a whole plan but when I saw you…”

Hinata tightens his grip on you, his fingers tangling in your hair as he cradles the back of your skull.

“I couldn’t help myself,” he finishes, shaking his head. “I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

“It was perfect,” you tell him and it’s the truth.

You’re almost dizzy and your skin feels like it’s on fire. You’ve always missed your best friend but now you crave him. Your hands run up his back as you reach up to kiss him again.

“Fuck…” he mumbles against your mouth. “I don’t wanna stop.”

“Then let’s not stop,” you say, kissing across his jaw.

“The reservation…” Hinata’s hips grind against yours on instinct as your lips reach his neck. “Our – ah – date…”

He groans as you lick across his windpipe, his bulge now apparent as he continues to grind it against you, his body moving of its own accord.

“I waited so long to show you…” He sounds so upset with himself.

“Sho.” You take his face in your hands, looking at him. His eyes are half-lidded and glazed over. “All I want is you. I don’t need anything else.”

Hinata’s face softens. He leans forward to bury his face in your neck.

“I missed you so much,” he says, voice muffled. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You reach around to run your fingers through his vibrant hair, feeling him shudder with pleasure under your touch.

“Show me,” you whisper.

Hinata’s resolve crumbles. He’s spent so long taming his impulsive side, the part of him that moves without thinking, without regard for consequences. But now you’re in front of him, asking him to take you, and the rest of the world goes white.

He dips his head to kiss you again, this time with intent. His hands grab at you, fingers digging into your flesh as he presses you flush to him, trapping you between his body and the door.

As his tongue laps into your mouth, he reaches down to grab your thigh, holding it up and forcing your dress to ride up over your hips. His bulge grinds against your clothed pussy, the friction making your clit throb with need. You tilt your head back and sigh as Hinata trails wet kisses down your neck.

With two layers of fabric between you, you start to whine, needing more. Hinata’s spent years wondering what you sound like, imagining the noises he could get you to make, but nothing compares to hearing you for the first time.

His movements are frantic, hooking his fingers over the hem of your panties before tugging them down. They’re not even fully off, still dangling around your ankle when Hinata unzips his jeans, pushing them down just enough for his cock to spring free.

Now it’s happening – now it’s finally happening – he can’t hold back. He grabs your ass with both hands, lifting you until you can feel his fat tip pressing against your hole.

“Are you okay?” he breathes. His cheeks are flushed pink, his lips red and swollen. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready, Sho. I need you.”

Hinata presses you against the door as he pushes himself inside. He doesn’t want to go too fast, doesn’t want to hurt you, but as soon as he feels your walls around him, he can’t help himself. He pumps in and out of you shallowly, desperate for more friction from your heavenly pussy without going too deep too fast.

“Ah!” you gasp as he penetrates your needy hole, the ridges around his mushroom tip stimulating your nerves in a way that makes your thighs quiver.

You wrap your legs around him, encouraging him deeper. Hinata is more than happy to oblige, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass as he sinks his cock further inside you. You grip the hard muscles of his shoulders, feeling him reach the sensitive spot inside you.

When you open your eyes, you see Hinata watching your face intently, a notch between his brows. His eyes have done dark, that same intense look in his face when he’s locked onto something. Or someone.

Hinata’s cock slides back and forth over the sensitive bundle of nerves inside you and you know it’s pushing you close to the edge.

“T-there, Sho…” you whimper. “Right there, fuck-!”

Your voice is so sweet, so high with lust and need. Hinata picks up his speed, fucking you so hard the door rattles behind you. You didn’t know he had this in him, this feral side, but you’re more than happy to be on the other end of it. Your cunt is drooling over his cock, only making it easier for him to fuck you as hard as he wants.

“Sho, I’m… I’m gonna…”

You dig your nails into his shoulders, your toes curling as he brings you to orgasm.

Your plush, slick walls massage his cock, quivering around him as you cum. Hinata’s stroked himself to the thought of you before - many times - but nothing comes close to this. His fist can’t compare to the way you milk his cock, so hot and tight. But it’s your face that Hinata can’t stop watching.

The way your lips part, your features contorting in pleasure, your eyes glazed over with lust. Hinata knew when he left for Brazil that he loved you. He didn’t think he could fall any further. Until now.

“You’re so beautiful,” he groans, his cock throbbing, knowing he’s close. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Even as he cums, Hinata can’t stop fucking you. He unleashes thick ropes of cum inside you, still pumping in and out, a flurry of curses falling from his lips. The mix of your fluids is indescribable, the noise of your sloppy cunt only spurring him on. He keeps going until he can’t cum anymore, until it’s almost painful. Only then does he pull out, a flood of his cum following, running down your thigh.

“Holy shit,” Hinata gasps, releasing his grip on you so you can stand.

When your legs quake, he wraps an arm around your waist, holding you up.

“Fuck, Sho…” you huff out laughter.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, running a hand over his face. “Fuck.”

Hinata glances down at where your dress is stained with his cum and winces.

“Shit, I’m sorry. Here, let me clean you up. Where’s the bathroom? I’ll run you a bath.”

“Slow down,” you laugh. “Let me look at you a second, okay?”

You reach up to cup his face and he rests his hand on yours, turning to kiss your palm, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Let’s make up for lost time, hm?” you say with a smile and Hinata looks at you like you’re made of sunshine.

masterlist

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[bambiimutt]

He makes you cry during an Argument.

Arguments with these boys? What could possibly go wrong..

ೃ࿔*:･

Headcannons and short stories under the cut!

ೃ࿔*:･

TW!! talk of Hoodie stalking, but not major! I think that’s it!!

Jeffrey Hodex:

- you’d think an argument with your boyfriend who loves you oh so dearly would hopefully end in him apologizing. Wanting to make sure he didn’t say anything to you to hurt you.. but you sometimes forget he’s not the normal person.

-Jeff has anger issues and it’s not a surprise to anyone when it’s brought up. So typically with any argument he has, his anger tends to get the better of him.

-which means if the argument is small it’s bound to be blown out of proportion, if it’s a pretty bad argument it’s about to be even worse.

-he doesn’t like to listen. To him he’s always right. He’s never wrong even if deep down he knows he actually fucked up he doesn’t want to admit it because he doesn’t want to look “weak” or too “soft”

-he typically doesn’t feel bad if you end up getting hurt emotionally, you’ll get a good ol scoff and roll of the eyes while he tells you “it’s not that big of a fucking deal, you don’t need to be so emotional.” Along the lines of that.

-but… you might just tug a few heart strings when he realized he’s made you cry. It’s when he sees that he’s scared you that he breaks a little. He’s got a habit of punching walls, breaking shit around the house when you both argue, screaming in your face.. and if it all leads to you finally breaking down and shaking that’s where he finally draws his line.

-he didn’t mean to scare you.. not like that at least. The last thing he wants is for you to be scared of him. He loves you.. even if he shows it in odd ways. He’s an asshole yes but he’s your asshole.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“Would you just fucking Listen!” Jeff screamed out. His hands were immediately gripping onto his pants, trying his damned hardest to not punch the closest thing to him. But he can’t help himself the moment you cross your arms and give him that fucking look. “Jeffrey. Cut it out, I’ve listened to you for the past 40 fucking minutes.. you need to listen to me-“ you’re cut off quickly hearing his hand collide with the wall and a loud grunt leaving his lips. He’s slightly heaving, breathing heavily and hair a bit messy in front of his face. You jumped a bit, backing up quickly when he immediately whipped around to trudge towards you, black combat boots making him taller then he already was. His large hand was quick to grab your jaw and squish your cheeks together just slightly. “No you fucking listen to me. Stop being a fucking bitch. Why do you have to pick at everything I fucking do, huh?! Huh?!” If he was a scrawny guy you’d say you’d be able to at least get free but no.. no he was a big guy, tall. Muscular, broad shoulders.. built chest. His biceps twitched slightly as his grip grew harder. There was no way you were escaping this. Not with him. Your small hands pushed at his arm and your eyes watered, a tear falling onto his fingers. Oh.. Jeff’s grip softened as he slowly let go. His form lowering himself so he was at your level. “Oh baby.. oh..” his hands hesitated before cupping your cheeks and his lips are kissing at the corners of your lips, trailing towards your ear. “I didn’t mean it..” his voice is deep, gruff and low in your ear as you immediately wrap your arms around his waist. “I’m sorry..” really it’s the only time you’ll get a sorry out of him, a genuine one at that.

Tobias Rogers

- he’s one of the ones who’s a bit more understanding. He can’t exactly understand physical pain or frustration but he can completely understand emotional pain and anger.. and how fucking awful it can be to handle. So when he’s stood, tall and lanky in front of you, hands swinging in the air and his voice raising he can suddenly feel the room shift to a hurt.. deep cut feeling.

- he tries not to yell he tries to hear you out when you both have an argument, but having BPD can be an issue when it comes to that.. you say one thing in a slight tone and he’s set off. Oh? So this is his fault suddenly? Why did you have to say it like that? You could have said it this way. Why do you have to be such a fucking asshole?

-when in reality that’s not how you meant it at all.. and yes Toby does feel bad for it afterwards he shouldn’t have lashed out that way, he should have sat and listened and maybe asked why you said it that way.. but sometimes things get the better of us.

-he’s not always the one to apologize afterwards but he does when he knows he really fucked up. He can’t lose you not to something so fucking stupid. “I-I’m sorry.. you didn’t deserve to hear that.. to e-endure any of that..” with a sniffle you look up at him teary eyed. Oh that really hurts. “It’s okay Toby” he’s immediately at your side, hands brushing your hair back and placing gentle kisses to your jaw. It kills him when you cry.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“I don’t know Toby I’m just tired..” this is what set him off. The way you said it. You were tired? of this? Of him? Of this relationship? “Are you fucking serious?” He speaks with his teeth clenched together, his head resting in his hands before he’s looking up at your slowly. His body slightly twitches from time to time, though when he was angry it usually became an issue for him, twitching far too often, clearing his throat more aggressively. His tics would normally become more violent in some ways. “Are we just d-done then? That’s it just b-because you’re tired yo-you can’t fucking walk away-“ his arm flys up in the air as he stands, his hands coming to rub at his face and the patch of hair on his chin. His tired droopy eyes dart towards you. You didn’t necessarily start crying because he scared you it was more of the the stress of the situation. “Toby please that’s not what I meant.” He still hasn’t noticed as his tall figure is rambling on, tics making his occasional grip and smack to his leg but he of course can’t feel it. When he finally looks at you he realizes you’ve been crying and it stops. The room becomes quiet and he twitches a few more times before softly kneeling on the floor where you sat. “I shouldn’t have assumed like that.. I’m sorry..” he’s softly laying you down on the floor as his lips trail your neck, his hands placing your arms around his neck. “I’m so sorry.” He mumbles against your neck.

-Ben Lawman/drowned

- to be honest he’s probably not the one who started it. He’s usually pretty calm, and quiet…. Except for when he wants to act like a child and become ignorant and downright inappropriate.

-he can be perverted.. gross and this is usually where the arguments start, not that you don’t like him nor the way he acts it’s more when he says things he shouldn’t be saying. So you typically end up yelling at him and he will normally sit embarrassed and feeling a bit guilty.. he didn’t think you’d get so upset.

- on occasion if the argument isn’t about that and about something else he still is usually the one to just take it but there are rare moments where he snaps back. And when he does. Oh boy.

-constant pacing back and forth, hands in his hair, sharp glares at you and laughing in disbelief. He’ll sometimes say things he doesn’t mean. He’s usually not one to yell but when he does you aren’t really expecting it. So it scares you.. and the tears finally break.

- ben only stares for a moment. “Shit.” Yeah he fucked up big time. He immediately feels guilty and he immediately rushes towards you to pull you into a tight embrace. He didn’t mean to take it that far.. he really didn’t, knowing it was him who made you cry makes him want to break down himself.

ೃ࿔*:･

“You can hate me yknow, I won’t blame you, or be angry..” Ben mumbled against your hair, your sniffling shattering his dead heart even further. You look up at the blonde, your fingers lacing their way into his hair as you force a bit of a smile “I just.. I hate when we argue like that..” your voice breaks causing Ben to swallow. Oh no. There’s that lump in his throat. His hands rub at your back before feeling his way towards your lower half, squeezing gently. “I know babe. Don’t listen to me when I get like that yeah?” You give a gentle smile as he softly lifts you up, bringing you closer as he grabs his controller, getting ready to play his game and have you relax against him. Occasionally he’ll presses kisses to your forehead. He doesn’t like to talk about the arguments, maybe because he doesn’t know how to handle his emotions and yours at the same time or maybe he’s just scared it’ll lead to another argument, but he apologized like he always does and makes sure your comfy against him while he games. As long as you’re content with it, he’s content.

-Masky/ Tim Wright

- a bit like Jeff I just think he’s a bit more mellow, he won’t ever apologize unless he knows he’s actually in the wrong. Which ends up being majority of the time. You know he has his episodes, where he blacks out and doesn’t remember a lot of the things he ends up doing.

- he will sometimes black out during an argument. It’s not often but when he does it’s like arguing with a brick wall. Like Jeff he won’t listen. He refuses to listen to anything you say because In the moment he’s the one who’s right. But he’ll never go as far to say mean things like Jeff does. No Tim tends to stop himself before he does.

-he storms off frequently. I think he more or so hates the emotions that comes with this. He hates the yelling, the way you look at him with disbelief and anger.. Its more so he doesn’t feel like fucking shit up for being an asshole to someone who genuinely cares about him. So he leaves you to your emotions to figure out, and if they aren’t figured out by the time he gets back he tries his best to help. Even if he does seem annoyed.

- typically your arguments are more him being snarky, sarcastic and being too logical, he can raise his voice from time to time but he’s only ever yelled at you once, and he still beats him self up for it to this day. Seeing you cry at how angry he got, how you still reached out for him in your meltdown caused by him.. and you still reached for him.

ೃ࿔*:･

“They’re pills y/n, prescription pills. I’ll be fine you know I need to take them. Why do I need to keep telling you thi-“ you cut him off quickly your voice already laced with concern as it shook. “Because you take more then you should be taking Tim. I don’t like it I don’t want you to hurt yourself..” he understood where you came from yes but what you needed to do was stop it. Just stop worrying about him. “Please for the love of god, I’m fine! I’m fucking fine! I’ll be fine! Please just stop it. I hate how much you worry and stress yourself over me. They’re fucking pills, I take them when needed. So just stop!” Now he didn’t scream super loud, but it was loud enough for you to feel the lumpy tingly feeling in your throat bubble, your hands softly twisting together “s-sorry..” you squeaked out. Tears brimmed your eyes as your bottom lip quivered. He watched you carefully for a moment, grimacing a bit as he watched your face twist with sadness.. and you slowly making your way towards him. Tim opens his arms and quietly pulls you in, one hand rubbing at the back of your head and the other gripping your back. “I’m an asshole. I know you’re just worried.” He mumbled quietly, lips pressed to your forehead as you hide your face in his chest. “You’re okay..” he continues to mumble, awkwardly trying to find a way to comfort you further.

Hoodie/ Brian Thomas

-he’s quiet. Very quiet. I think he’s the most gentle when it comes to arguments with his S/O. He’s scared to hurt you, always in any circumstances. He’s more observant, he knows when the argument gets too much for you just by a single movement.

-though he does have his moments where he does get angry back, he can normally control his temper. Usually the argument starts by something he’s done so he can handle it, he can deal with it. He tells you “I promise I’ll change, just give me some time” and you believe him because he does change but then he falls back into his habits, leaving for weeks on end, taking too many pills, his stalker tendencies.

-the argument this time is unclear, you probably don’t even remember by the Time Brian starts yelling back at you. His hair is messy from running his hands through it one too many times, he’s clenching his fists and trying to breathe as he shakily keeps his voice down.

-even in moments like this he still thinks of you. Not wanting to hurt you nor scare you.. he just lets you have your outburst and then you both move on. But tonight was different.

-he tends to ignore you when he gets worked up in an argument. If he’s not yelling back then majority of the time he’s just silent. His back towards you. But only when he’s angry right back at you. He’ll give you that silent treatment for hours.

-but this time. He made you cry. And he’s stopped dead in his tracks, eyes softening, getting down on his knees and resting his head against your stomach,his hands holding onto your waist. Sigh… he just had to fuck shit up again didn’t he.

ೃ࿔*:･

“Brian you can’t just leave me for weeks on end.. you can’t just.. disappear then show up like nothings happened. Where do you go..? Is there someone else” at this point he’s just been listening to you, letting you vent out but when you suddenly accuse him of cheating on you.. he snaps. You really think HE would cheat on you?! It’s not like he didn’t spend months watching you, becoming so infatuated with you to the point that it would make anybody so fucking sick to their stomach. But he couldn’t tell you that he couldn’t tell you he’s loved you far longer. So he stands, looks at you with anger in his eyes, a hint of sadness flashing on his face “don’t fucking accuse me of cheating on you.” He points a shaky finger in your face “don’t you ever. You don’t understand the shit I’d do for you, the shit I DO for you.” He’s close now, watching as you look up at him shakily. “This S-still doesn’t explain where you go Brian.. you-“ he’s grabbing your wrist and pulling you close “no listen to me. I want to tell you I want to tell you so badly but I can’t. I can’t. I just can’t.” His eyes are averting he’s becoming shaky himself, he’s panicking. Trust him. Is what he wants to tell you, that It’ll all be okay, he’ll be okay in a couple of days, he’ll change just give him time.. but he can’t lie to you.. not now. It would only make shit worse for you in this moment. When he finally looks back at you he sees you staring up at him, not a word spoken but tears streaming down your face, and your wrists still held tight in his large hands. “I..” he softly brings your hand down, lowering himself to the ground as he watches you still stare straight ahead. He scared you. Brian goes silent and lets himself sit on his knees, his hands running up under your shirt to hold onto your waist and burying his head into your stomach. “I’m sorry” he whispered gently, shivering when he feels your hands curl into his hair and finally look down at him. You know he feels guilty. He’s only trying to protect you.

[beloveds-embrace]

rugby player Simon and his pretty little balerina partner. Thats it. Thats whats currently plaquing my mind

Now that you’ve said it I’m thinking about them too because YES 😩 i tried a more headcanony style for this, really had no idea what to write as a drabble

• You first met Simon “Ghost” Riley during an injury rehab session. He’s there nursing a rough tackle, while you’re recovering from an overworked ankle. Despite his intimidating size and silence, he notices how gracefully you move even while stretching, and you can’t help but admire his sheer size even if he’s making the nurses nervous.

• Ghost is, honest to god, shy about approaching you at first; why would delicate, lovely you want someone of his type and build to approach you? But he still gets roped into conversation when you tease him for struggling with a basic stretching exercise. “I’m built for smashing into blokes, not folding like you do.” he grumbles, but he doesn’t sound truly bothered. You are sure you can even hear the amusement. And this is how you end up exchanging number and texting, until he finally asky you out on a proper date.

• He’s genuinely amazed at your discipline and talent, often catching himself zoning out while watching you rehearse. You tease him for staring, but he’s truky awestruck by how effortlessly you glide across the floor, almost looking weightless.

• You love watching him play rugby. Seeing him control the field with raw strength and precision is hot. You start attending his matches, cheering louder than anyone else when he tackles an opponent or scores. His favorite cheerleader- his best girl <3

• Ghost introduces you to his gym routines, and you try (unsuccessfully) to keep up with his weightlifting. You love the view of his muscles flexing, though, and you don’t try to hide it. You also love sitting on his back while he does pushups, giving him a kiss ever so often in encouragement.

• In return, you teach him some basic ballet moves to improve his agility to help him. The image of this massive, intimidating man attempting pliés is hilarious, but he’s surprisingly nimble. “Don’t tell the lads, yeah, doll?” he huffs, though his amusement is clear and it has you giggling.

• Simon loves how tiny you feel when he wraps his arms around you. After games, he picks you up effortlessly, spinning you around as you laugh and lean down to kiss him much to the whistles and hoots of his teammates. Neither of you care anyways.

• After a game, he’s all adrenaline and intensity, body taut. You tease him by saying, “Don’t you dare bring that sweaty self near me, Simon Riley.” but he pulls you into a heated kiss anyway, pinning you gently against a wall in the hallways of the stadium.

• He loves when you practice in front of him wearing your ballet leotard. The combination of your grace and your form-fitting outfit gets his heart and more racing, though he keeps his composure… mostly.

• Simon is also your biggest cheerleader during your performances, sitting in the front row with a bouquet of flowers that looks comically small in his massive hands. He always looks proud, even if he doesn’t say much. And he absolutely glares or shushes anyone who is causing a ruckus and taking the spotlight off you.

• He joins you most of the time in the backstages, and when you’re feeling nervous before a performance, he cups your face in his big, warm hands and whispers, “You’re the most talented person in the room. Show ‘em who you are.”

• You return the favor by helping him relax before games. You massage his shoulders and give him little pep talks, which he pretends not to need but secretly loves. Sometimes of them are even recorded on his phone for the very rare occasions you can’t make it to his games.

• Said it before but I’ll say it again: you love how his body feels next to yours- rugby has made him all broad shoulders and powerful muscles, and he loves how delicate your hands feel running over his skin. Likewise, he loves caressing your skin and rubbing creams and ointments to your aching feet muscles.

• He calls you “Twinkle Toes” which sounds sarcastic at first but is said with so much affection that it melts your heart.

• You call him “Big Softie” because, despite his tough exterior, he’s the sweetest with you. He pretends to hate it, but he secretly loves when you use it in private. Had a stupid smile on his face when saw it was how you had your contact for him saved.

[coquettepascal]

felicitas and her general

summary: general acacius has caught your attention after being the first mortal to worship you in decades. you only face one challenge: don't get too attached.

warnings: rated g, contains spoilers for gladiator ii, follows the timeline of the movie somewhat, reader is the goddess felicitas (who is the goddess of good luck,) this fic is basically just an add on to the movie.

tags: goddess!reader x general acacius, emotional infidelity, lots of roman mythology stuff, writer is basing all her knowledge out of what she remembers from PJO and HoO, worship, complicated feelings, marcus does not cheat on lucilla physically, yearning, pining, grieving, guilt, major character death(s), stalking (kind of), a lot of obsession/dedication, angst, hurt no comfort but also hurt with comfort.

a/n: i watched gladiator ii and then was too emotionally devastated to finish this fic the way i planned. i really hope you all like this!! also, this fic is also dedicated to my dear friend @pascalssbabyy because she is my biggest cheerleader and i love her <33

wc: 7.2k (not beta read)

It was he who woke you.

A quiet sacrifice in the evening that felt like the freshest breath of air you could have, more intense than what you could have atop any mountain, near any spring. The scent of burning meat and smokey vegetables grasped at your lungs, and you almost choked on it. How long had it been since someone had offered you something so kind? Real food, not just scraps of something they didn’t wish for. 

You’d never complain about how difficult it is to be a minor Goddess, you know that you could be a mortal, but most don’t think of how Gods can fade. It’s a physical process, one where you’d notice how your fingertips passed through things like chalices and bowls, how a spoon slid through your hand once. The clatter of gold on the table was embarrassing, even though you were alone. Nothing about being forgotten, or fading, physically hurt. It was only mentally taxing, knowing that you weren’t as important as you once were, that mortals found you insignificant.

Generals used to come and offer things frequently sometime ago, but you couldn’t even begin to understand how long ago that was. When you’re immortal, or supposed to be, mortal lives seem fleeting. You had taken them for granted, and regret it now, for all you have now are the empty clouds above your temple. 

The last offering you can gather was from a young boy, who wanted to win a board game against his sister the next day. He had given you half a bun with strips of meat. Sure, it was thoughtful, but this was something rich. 

You finish inhaling the offering, and then hear the offerer's voice. But it’s muffled, and you want to see who it is anyways, so you swipe through the clouds and create a window to see. Then you can hear him clearly.

Someone who is clearly a general kneels at your altar, which is chipped and dirty. The ashes of the food are in front of him, smoking still, and you can taste the wealth in his meal. It can’t distract you from him though, he is striking.

Broad shoulders support a heavy, curly, grey, head of hair, which is bowed in honor of you. His body is widely built, sturdy for battle, and his voice is just as powerful. You’re so focused on hearing his voice you only catch the tail end of his request.

“... Allow me to come home safely, if not for Rome, then for my wife.”

Your heart squeezes, and you swear you can feel the ichor gushing through your veins. Scarcely when a General came to give you an offering all those years ago would he mention a wife, only ever wishing for luck in the upcoming battle or war. But here, now, you’ve been given a respectful request and offering. It isn’t a thought in your mind to not favor him now, your eyes closing and your mouth murmuring a blessing to him. It feels intoxicating to use some of your power again, especially on someone who asked for it. It also feels intoxicating to watch this General leave.

He looks around before he goes, seeming to note how degraded your small temple has become. The statue of you that lies ahead of your altar is yellowing, and ironically, multiple fingers have broken off. The General seems displeased by this, sighing as he exits the temple.

His gait is heavy, sandaled steps weighted as he walks down them and into the torch-lit night. You find yourself looking for him even after he’s disappeared from your sight, the warmth of gratefulness hugging around you. Part of you knows better than to play around with the thought, but still you wish to know more about him.

—

It worsens when he comes back. A few times a week he returns, offering rich foods. It’s been a month now, and you are coming back to life.

Fading didn’t feel like anything, but coming back feels like so much more. The first few offerings had your body feeling alight again, like the ichor in you was flowing again, but within the last two weeks you’ve gotten your fingertips back. They were tingling for a day and then the next you were able to properly grasp things again, nothing was slipping through you.

In that time you had also learned his name. A guard had come looking for him one night, and stood behind him whilst he prayed. You had found yourself smiling when he didn’t interrupt himself, instead acting aggravated once he had finished. The guard had apologized for interrupting and let him know that “Your wife wishes to speak to you, General Acacius.”

Acacius. 

You still don’t know his first name, but it is enough. You can think of it when you feel lonely, when you are bored. Something to associate with the offerings, with the blessings. The fact he has been so consistent hints at a desperation, which would usually repel you from blessing him, but he is the only one who seems to recognize you. His efforts are not going to go unseen by you, not when you have so little to do.

You can feel yourself conceding to your need to know him more, but just as you begin to fight yourself again, he shows up.

Tonight he’s dressed a little nicer. Usually he arrives in a plain tunic but this one has golden trim on it, and his hair is a little more tousled. He stumbles into your altar holding something in a cloth, but he’s walking like he’s… drunk? 

Acacius meanders to your altar, grabbing a torch along the way, and then empties the contents of the cloth. It produces a small dessert bun, a Libum, or honey cheesecake, and your mouth waters. So much of the food that is given to you is savory meats, masculine foods that are heavy on the senses, but this is sweet and delicate. You can, of course, eat whatever you’d like. You’re a Goddess, and though you aren’t major, you are still very fortunate.

But this feels thoughtful.

The General drops to his knees after lighting the bun ablaze, swaying slightly, and now you know he must be drunk.

“Goddess Felicitas,” he begins as normal, “I am sorry I am later than usual. Though I don’t know if Goddesses sleep. I was… caught up in other affairs, but I made it in time.”

He is less eloquent than usual and seems particularly focused on how it is nearly past midnight.

“I brought you this though,” he gestures to the half burnt bun. “I wanted to bring you something different than meat and… things. I thought a dessert would be fitting for that task.”

Acacius pauses now. His thoughts are probably muddled from whatever he drank, and you find yourself smiling. Foolery has never been so endearing to you.

“You have been listening to me, I suppose. My requests for luck in battle have been answered, as well as my safety being ensured. Your blessings have brought my wife peace of mind, something I could not previously afford to her.”

He looks so small in your temple tonight. Normally he is not so vulnerable, but his shoulders sag as he mentions his wife. Some sort of shame runs over him at the idea that he could not ease his wife’s worries, but it makes you feel better that you could help. 

“Goddess Felicitas, I come here tonight bearing no requests, just gratitude. Your blessings have soothed wounds I could not see, and I feel like a young soldier again. You invigor me.” 

Then, he leaves. 

You watch helplessly as he stumbles back down the steps and away from your temple, and more than ever you wish to chase him. The love he has for his wife is clear, and you hold no jealousy of that, but you wish it were you. Something in you is deeply attached to this General now. He has awoken you so much more than rekindling your power as a goddess, more than releasing you from the grief that comes with fading. Yes, Acacius has made your heart beat again, your mind curious again, and you feel seen. Being worshipped is not the same as being loved, if that were true you’d have had many children by now, 

But after so long being forgotten, this feels like what you remember being loved as.

—

You try not to interact with the other Gods for the most part. They tend to meddle in things they don’t need to, and are sensitive. You are not exempt from this stereotype, but that’s only more reason for the distance. 

But today, you venture to meet another deity.

Morpheus is not hard to find. He is pretty stationery where he is, usually lounging on a rock or bench near his temple, or above it in the clouds. He is a bit…dramatic, from what you remember, but wise. 

Today he is stretched out on a cloud above his temple, eyes shut. His pale skin stretches taut on his bones as his lean frame breathes deeply. But, he is not asleep. 

“Morpheus,” you speak. 

His body rolls toward your direction, eyes still shut, but a small smile on his face.

“O young goddess Felicitas, what brings you to me?” He questions.

It’s hard not to feel embarrassed. You’ve spoken to Morpheus on very rare occasions, but he’s always been somewhat helpful, though nosy. Dreams tell a lot about people, and when he’s the one giving them to people, it’s hard to hide anything at all.

You don’t want him to know of your true affection for General Acacius, just that he is… worthy of a visit. 

And so you begin to describe it to Morpheus, your need to visit Acacius. He doesn’t open his eyes at all, but he raises his eyebrows a lot and seems bemused at your situation. You’re only halfway through your rambling before he raises a gangly limb and waves at your words.

“Felicitas, you think you are the only Goddess wishing to visit her admirer? You need no explanation,” he says jovially. 

Morpheus reaches into the air and pulls 6 black berries into existence, then drops them into your open palm.

“When you know he is asleep, bite down on one of these and think of him,” he describes to you.

The berries smell like nothing, but a powdery residue is left on your skin as you roll them in your palm. It doesn’t repel you at all.

Tonight, you will visit him and express the same gratitude he did to you. 

—

Marcus lays next to his wife, Lucilla, with her hand in his. She fell asleep sometime ago, leaving him to lie awake by himself.

He didn’t make it to her temple tonight and the guilt is festering in his body. Marcus knows that she is a Goddess, that he probably isn’t a thought in her mind. He knows that he is just another whiney mortal, giving her food that isn’t nearly as good as whatever Gods eat. His insignificance grows as he feeds into his guilt. 

Stress has permeated his life for much of it, from his time as a young soldier up until now, as a General. Battles, politics, and his family, have created a breeding ground for him to be wracked with anxieties, but he stays strong. Thanks to his time in Felicitas temple, it’s been better.

Which is why failing to make it to her temple tonight is making him feel so bad.

He grabs at the linen sheets of his bed, stressing and trying to reassure himself until he falls asleep finally.

—

Being in a dream is weird. It feels much the same as it does when you disguise yourself as a mortal, the out of body experience is semi-familiar, but it’s weird because someone else is there.

You’ve been watching the General enjoy the lake in front of him for a few minutes now. He hasn’t slipped into it, but just walks along the waterline. It seems like he is looking for something. Surely his dreams usually contain more action, or perhaps are memories, so you assume it may be strangely understimulating for him.

The appearance you’ve chosen is one of modesty, but elegance. A seafoam green peplos hangs off your frame delicately, with golden clasps at the wrists and waist. You did your hair so it would be tucked out of your face. There is no guarantee that Acacius will recognize you like this, but you look much like your statue that’s within your temple.

Swallowing your nerves, you shimmer yourself into visibility. The grassy field is odd beneath your feet, and you walk toward him with uncertainty in each step. You’ve never met with a mortal before, and you haven’t stepped on anything earthy in a long while. His broad stature only becomes more daunting as you get closer, especially since he seems so focused.

You will have to speak first. You’re much too quiet in this environment, and you must act fast lest he wake before you get his attention.

“General Acacius,” you speak firmly, though your hands shake. 

This is so unfamiliar to you. You’ve barely even seen his face, as he’s usually bowed at your altar. It is the first time you’ll see him at an equal level, the first time you’ll have brought yourself to him rather than him to you. 

He turns quickly, an instinctual aggressiveness toward the unknown. You stand about 10 feet from him, eyes widening.

Acacius is striking. His nose is what you focus on first, strong in shape and line, but behind it are his eyes which look to you with wide acknowledgement. His hair curls around his head in greying ringlets, like a permanent laurel crowning him. The wide expanse of his back was once impressive, but now you can see the solid wall which he becomes when facing you. Nothing could push him over it seems, a man built to stand.

Your heart squeezes the way it did the first time he gave you a request, a tender rush tingling your whole body. No words come out of either of your mouths, and the General drops to one knee instantly. 

He recognizes you.

“Goddess Felicitas,” he rushes out in a breath. His chest is heaving as he bows his head and no, no this isn’t how you want this.

Your feet are moving before you can focus on your anxiety, bringing you so close to him that you can kneel too. Maybe a goddess should not kneel before a mortal general, but you are just on your knees rather than putting yourself below him. Your peplos billows a little as air rushes through it when you hit the grass.

He is above you like this, and you tilt your head to see his face again. His strong brow is furrowed, eyes squeezed shut like he is afraid of you. 

“Acacius,” you say softly, “I am not here for… for ill reason. Please relax yourself.”

You lean back as he relaxes, head tipping upwards as he kneels in front of you as well. Now you can meet his eyes, see the crinkles that are beside them, and really take him in.

An energy of anxiety is shared wordlessly, with him stiff from the sight of a literal goddess, and you with the fear of… something. 

The identity of your anxieties isn’t something that you can figure out. Maybe it’s too much to see such a handsome mortal, or maybe it’s that you’re going to thank him for his offerings so personally. Maybe it’s humiliation from this act. What would other Gods think of this? Is it not degrading to become so attached to a mortal? Are you no better than Zeus or Hermes, the gods who interact too intimately with mortals? 

The sound of his labored breathing alerts you, calls your attention back to the present moment. 

“I wanted to thank you,” you admit meekly, “for your offerings. You have been very generous and… devoted.”

His eyes are shifty, and you can see the terror in him still. You don’t want him to fear you, but you can understand why. Visits from Gods or other deities can mean trouble, but you aren’t significant like that.

“General Acacius you are the first mortal who has acknowledged me in a long time,” you offer a vulnerability, perhaps trying to soothe him.

It feels so backwards for you to be kneeling in front of him, speaking. He has done so in front of your altar for many weeks now, but now the spots are switched, yet you are still in power. You avert your gaze as you speak up, wanting to request something of him.

“You’ve been so generous to me, General, I was hoping to know more about you.”

And now, rather than scared, he seems suspicious. 

“To know me?” He clarifies. 

You nod.

“I only know your last name. I think I could offer more luck and splendor if we were more… personal.” 

Gods that felt awful to say. You’re no better than the whorish brutes on their thrones, offering petty glories for intimacy. Everything feels flirtatious but that’s not what you’re looking for. Acacius has a wife he clearly loves, you would never want to interrupt that. 

He seems to hesitate, but he knows he cannot refuse you. So far your blessings have brought ease to his life, he wouldn’t want to lose that.

“Then… yes, I suppose I can offer myself if it would please you.” He responds stoically. 

And it does please you, to know his name. Marcus Acacius, the one who woke you, the one who has saved you from being a fragmented memory within the temples. 

Marcus Acacius, who you are too fond of.

—

You visit him 3 more times. In an attempt to space out the usage of the berries Morpheus gave you, you only visit him once a week. The bleak tasting berries are sour on your tongue, a rotten sour which lingers once you wake up, but it’s worth it.

The two of you have grown closer, with Marcus opening up more. He tells you about the stresses in his life, how much anxiety is buried in him. But, he’s confident for the sake of his wife. You’ve learned that her name is Lucilla, and much more about her. Marcus talks about her a lot, in passing or retelling something she told him. In the small amount of time you’ve gotten to know him, you’ve gotten to know her as well.

It burns you with a strange warmth, a desire and envy which makes your stomach growl. You are hungry for him to admire you in the same way, to speak of you, but doesn’t he already? Shame grips your throat when you think of it. You are a Goddess who he sacrifices to, who he wishes to have blessings from. What more do you need? A mortal couldn't offer you what another deity could. 

After the fourth meeting, you found yourself lonely. Lazing back in the clouds above your temple, you woke with a deep hunger. Marcus is beautiful, an admirable man, and he loves passionately. You are already being such a glutton for even speaking with him, meeting with him repeatedly, so why must you yearn for him too? 

Worship isn’t enough, you want what you will never let yourself to have.

Nothing hints that he might feel similarly. His starry gaze which lands on you is not due to your beauty, your personality, or anything more. You have blessed him, and that is why his eyes glitter. Goddess status has never made you feel so low and isolated. Still, you are happy to help him achieve what he wishes, even as it cripples your heart.

Tonight you plan on visiting him. That fourth visit was a week and a half ago, he may be wondering where you are. He still comes to your altar each night, but the prayers are less personal. Marcus saves his stories and ramblings for when the two of you are in the field, or near the lake, when the two of you are really alone.

—

You bite into the berry at around midnight. Its tangy yet death-tasting juice floods your mouth, clinging to the crevices between your teeth and staining your gums. Closing your eyes, you think of Marcus, and his curls, and his eyes, and his nose, and his strong hands.

And then you are there, and he is waiting. 

It seems like his subconsciousness has picked to be at the lake today, and he’s sat in the sand at the edge of the water. You walk over to him, but notice how… down he appears to be.

“She is not happy with me,” Marcus confesses before you even sit down.

You stand a few feet back from him, looking at how his curls fall around his bowed head.

“Lucilla?” You ask softly.

He nods.

A wicked feeling begins to steep in your heart. She is upset with him, he is in need of you for something more than a blessing. 

And so you listen. 

It’s one of the longer meetings the two of you have had. Marcus doesn’t cry, but he seems truly upset. He’s been called to go off somewhere far again, to fight and kill. Reassurances that you will protect him as best you can only soothe him so much. 

He doesn't care if he dies, he cares that his beloved is distraught over this. 

The more the two of you talk, the closer you get. There are marks on the sand from where you originally sat, but now you kneel in front of him, with creased brows and worried eyes. This isn’t something you can fix, you aren’t familiar with love and its intricacies. 

His knees were tucked closer to his chest before, but they’ve loosened now and his fists rest atop them, clenching. Frustration sits on his face like a mask, one you wish to take off him.

Touching is not… something either of you partake in. Sometimes your shoulders will brush when you sit together, but nothing more has ever been initiated. 

That is why it doesn’t surprise you when he flinches as your hand reaches out to rest on top of his right clenched fist. 

“Marcus,” you say softly, wanting to offer comfort, but he cuts you off.

“Don’t,” he replies swiftly.

At first it hurts, watching as he waves off your hand from his own, but then you look at his face rather than where your hands were joined. The frustrated look on his face is gone, replaced with something worse, something guilty. His eyes aren’t glittering at you like usual, nor are they hardened with anger.

They’re soft pools of conflict that mirror your own.

It doesn’t soothe your burn, satiate your envy. You can see in his eyes that maybe you aren’t alone in these feelings of admiration, of want, but maybe this is not what you want.

Maybe you want a different universe, one where he doesn’t have to be a mortal and you, a Goddess. So you wouldn’t have to worry about him dying, and have this friendship survive off death flavored berries. Maybe you want a universe where he isn’t married, where he could be yours and you wouldn’t feel like a spectator to his heart.

Maybe you want that, but you won’t get it.

Instead the flames of jealousy die in your chest and are replaced with tumors of guilt. Your whole body feels bloated, embarrassed, and ugly. 

The pair of you stare at each other, a stupid realization between the both of you as you realize that your secrets have been spilled, even though it’s the same one.

His eyes don’t move from yours, so you move from his.

The sandy edge of the lake does not look so bright now, even though there are no clouds in Marcus’s dream. 

“When do you leave?” You ask softly. 

You will not follow him into whatever battle he’ll win. Don’t embarrass yourself, Goddess.

He tells you two weeks. You say you’ll see him before then.

Then you wake on a cloud again, with a cavity of guilt in your chest.

—

Marcus wakes alone. 

Lucilla had not wanted to sleep with him that night, choosing to stay elsewhere. She didn’t tell him where, she left in a quiet flurry of tears and anguish.

It’s easier for him to feel guilt over his Goddess than it is to hurt his beloved, even if it is the same.

In a moment of frustration he grasps at the sheets, turning over and biting at his pillow. The bed is so cold, and the room smells like stale air even though the window is open, the night breezy. 

He knows she is beautiful because she is a Goddess. All Goddesses are beautiful, ethereal beings that mortals cannot even comprehend at times. Marcus knows he is lucky to even perceive her, for her to have chosen to visit him.

Yet through all her blessings, he feels cursed.

A plague of emotional infidelity is crawling through his body, sticking to his bones and making him stiff. Everything he does has felt flat for so long, from pretending he is grateful to the Emperors, to now pretending nothing is wrong in his marriage. He’s scared, and exhausted.

Marcus rubs a hand over his face after rolling over and sitting up in bed, groaning into his palm. 

At first he tried to blame her for it. What would a Goddess want from a successful General other than a demigod hero son? What could truly be so special about him? He assumed she was manipulating him, using some sort of power to morph his heart, but now he knows it is not true.

If she had wanted to, she would have had him by now, and he knows this. If she had wanted to, her hand would have stayed where it was tonight, and pushed him further. It isn’t unlike the Gods to force themselves on a mortal, but she didn’t.

Instead, his hand feels hot where hers rested, and his mind is spinning. 

Marcus doesn’t fall asleep again, afraid that he’ll see her. 

—

You wait for a full two weeks before you visit him again. He had been coming to your temple less, and you had assumed he was busy with preparations for the coming battle. 

The stubbornness you felt that night has not left you. At first you did not leave your temple in fear that you would grow attached, now you remain there because you have grown attached. 

“Enough is enough,” you had thought to yourself. 

But it is hard not to miss him, and his soothing prayers. The way his offerings tasted of smoke and sweet, and how he’d always burn such a large portion. Marcus never gave you scraps, he seemed to refuse to. 

However, you can only distance yourself so far. 

It is quiet when you approach him. He is sitting in the field this time, the lake a distant glitter in your eyes. He does not face you, but his head isn’t bowed like before.

“Marcus,” you greet, your voice muted.

He raises his head, turning over his shoulder and nodding, as if to direct you to come closer, and so you do.

Tonight’s visit isn’t vulnerable, or even pleasant. Marcus seems so distant as he dryly tells you about how he’s preparing, and his wishes to return safely. His eyes barely meet your own as he talks, and he continuously twists the ring on his finger.

It grows tiring, watching him ramble about politics you could care less about, listening to him say things that have nothing to do with him. He’s so far from the friend you thought you had made. When the air between you goes quiet, you don’t fill it for a while. You listen to the sound of the wind in the grass as his eyes still will not meet yours. It’s breaking you apart.

This is the last night you’re able to visit him, unless you visit Morpheus again. You will not waste it like this.

“What is ailing you, General?” You ask, deciding to prod more than you usually do.

To your surprise, he scoffs in light laughter.

“You,” he responds quietly.

His words don’t hurt, at least not yet. You have the option to walk away now, wake yourself and leave him with his final blessings, but of course you don’t.

“Me?” You ask, “what have I done?”

Marcus rolls his shoulders back, lifting his head to look into the everblue sky above the both of you.

“You have made my life difficult, Goddess.”

Difficult? You have made his life difficult?

You have half a mind to tear him to pieces, curse him with something awful like snakes for toes, or spoons for teeth. After all that you’ve done for him, all the safety you’ve provided, he is telling you that you make things difficult? How dare he? Be outraged, Goddess, for he disrespects the holy luck which you bestowed to him.

That’s what you should think, that’s how most of you should feel.

But instead you feel small, and hurt. Yes, he is disrespecting all that you’ve given, but also you feel like a failure. Your physical existence is because of him, because he did not let you fade. All you wanted to do was make his life easier, help him to have an eased mind and a safer life.

But instead, he’s telling you you’re difficult.

It feels like your body is shrinking in the white peplos you’ve worn, the sheer fabrics swallowing you. Shame is flooding in the form of tears behind your eyes, wetting your orbs with an unexpected outburst of emotion.

“I am sorry,” you manage weakly.

Marcus does not look at you while you cry, and you want to believe it is because he cares too much to watch, but you cannot verify that.

The wind picks up again, but it does nothing to hide the soft cries you can’t hold back. Once you were a fading Goddess, now you are just a failing one.

There is no luck involved with love.

Eventually he speaks again, with his head turned away from you.

“I am sorry too,” he says. There’s a finality in his tone that makes you ache.

So much is said in such little words. He is sorry to you, for you, and with you. A sorrow is shared between the two of you, knowing that your hearts ache for one another as they are worlds apart yet on earth together. 

This last berry was only supposed to mark the end of your visits, not the end of everything. It feels like this is all there is for the two of you, since it’s too complicated to continue on like this.

That’s why he doesn’t move away when you move closer and rest your head on his shoulder as tears leak down your cheeks, or at least that’s what you’ll believe. 

—

Time moves weirdly when you’re immortal, but it all happens so quickly.

Marcus stopped coming to offer things for you, and so you were blessing him less. Admittedly you had kept an eye on him, but not a keen one. It didn’t feel right, not when you and him weren’t… friends anymore.

But this feels too soon, too fast, too unfamiliar. Has your sadness caused you to be blind?

You watch as a man kneels in front of Marcus, panting and bloody with a sword beside him on the ground.

The only reason you are here was because you had felt the roar of a crowd all the way at your own temple, a wide distance away. It had drawn you in, and instead you had found this.

That roaring which you had heard crescendos to a new height around you as you shimmer into existence, cloaking yourself to the mortal eyes in the stands of the coliseum, but existing enough to touch him.

Arrows stick out of his front, more crushed beneath his back, as he is slumped on the white, gravel, ground. His hair is curled with tacky blood streaking through it, and he is so, so, still.

You drag your hand across his forehead, feeling the remaining heat, and in the echo of the crowd you begin to sob. 

Everything around you is moving, changing, fighting, and screaming, but you sit invisible in the center of the coliseum, running your hands over the now dead General Acacius. There is nothing you can do to bring him back, to ease Lucilla, to save him and apologize. He is dead beneath your fingers, with arrows lodged deep in his irreparable, mortal, flesh. 

You were supposed to keep him safe.

Hot tears run down your cheeks as you keep grasping at his armor, unable to move him or yourself. The last visit felt official, but this feels final. There is nothing more for you here, no friendship in a corpse.

Thoughts are running through your mind at the rate that your breath is puffing from your chest. The question of where he will end up in the afterlife is overwhelming you, and the chance for him to go to Elysium feels reasonable. It’s where he should be, where he deserves to go, especially after all he had done for Rome. You don’t even care why he’s here, or why he seems to have been brutally killed, but after the time you spent with him, Elysium seems right for him.

—

It’s where he should be. Elysium is where he should be.

And it’s where you find him.

His place there is somewhat similar to his and Lucilla’s home back in the mortal world, with lush greenery and airy drapes that flutter in various colours. It seems like he has left space for Lucilla here too, with space left in the chests for her things, and a permanently made half of the bed.

Elysium offers a true celebration of life for heroes, demigodly or not, and you’re sure Marcus has been enjoying that. Anything that he had been shackled to in his mortal life was gone now, and it seems that all he would have to miss is his wife. 

Most of your time is spent there, in his afterlife home. You peer from behind curtains when he comes back, hidden in drapes and keeping yourself small. 

He is already dead, but after the last time you abandoned him, you cannot bear to leave him alone again.

The vision of him, bloodied and murdered on the coliseum floor, flickers into your mind every time you see him lying in his bed. It’s an obsession to be near him, to be looking after him. Pluto might not even know you’re down here anymore, but what does it matter?

Marcus Acacius was the last living mortal to worship you. In the underworld, you are beginning to fade. Your fingers are slipping from you again, which is making it easier to lurk near him, but it is a painful process.

You want to speak to him. No longer do you yearn for his love, not after being in his home and seeing how dedicated his heart truly is to Lucilla, but you yearn to speak to him again. A panicked emotion runs through you at the thought of fading alone, of being entirely forgotten. 

It didn’t matter before he died, fading was just something bound to happen, but now it’s more. Is he forgetting you?

—

You’ve lost most of your arms by the time you work up the courage to speak up. Lucilla arrived sometime ago, joining Marcus in the afterlife. Watching them together brought some warmth to you, some kind of happiness that you couldn’t have for yourself, but seeing it for him was enough.

You sit on the terrace of their home, invisible to their eyes, and somewhat to your own. From the tips of your fingers to just below your elbows, you are a specter. Grey shadow fills where your limbs used to be, and they pass through all objects. You couldn’t tap his shoulder if you tried.

Oftentimes you sit, hidden, and ponder by yourself about more than Marcus. There were so many things you were adamant about when he was alive, and you regret it all now. Your determination to avoid your feelings, or at least not show them, and your need to not become attached… it bites at you now, a stinging, grieving, venom, that won’t leave. Your status as a Goddess blinded you to how tender that friendship could have been, and now you sit as a ghost spectator to his afterlife, obsessed with a mortal as a fading immortal. 

The tips of your fingers pass through the glass you try to grab as you think of this on the terrace. You’re glad that you’re such a minor deity, so at least you do not have to feel so humiliated about fading. A smile has just graced your face as you feel blessed for being so unimportant you can essentially stalk this mortal, when suddenly his voice cuts through the humid air of the space.

“Felicitas?” Marcus’ voice asks.

It’s so hesitant that you think you’re imagining it. You thought you had their home to yourself right now, thinking they had gone to do… whatever souls do in Elysium, but when you turn your face, he is there.

Marcus has not worn fancy clothing in a long while now, and right now is no different. He stands before you in a plain looking tunic, which just graces his knees. To see him at ease has been so nice, but he looks distressed at your sudden appearance.

You cannot find your voice as you awkwardly stand up, trying to think quickly. There is no good way to explain what you’re doing here, hidden away in him and his wife’s home. You could just vanish into thin air, but that feels wrong. He has seen you already, any attempts at pretending you aren’t here would be ridiculous.

His eyes scroll from your face down to your arms, and the smoking shadows that used to be there. Concern pinches onto his face with knitted brows and pressed together lips.

Something in you wants him to turn away, so you don’t have to think about why he is worried for you, even after all the trouble you caused, but he doesn’t.

His sandaled steps are heavy as he comes to you, reaching for your hands but finding the gesture fruitless as his own slip right through yours.

“Dulcissima,” he speaks weakly, shock woven in his words.

You had told him about fading a little while ago, when the two of you were in that field. Now it seems the severity of it has hit him.

What is hitting you is the name. Dulcissima, or sweetest. How long had it been since you had been referred to so fondly? All at once you are being remembered, recognized, and shown some affection. It feels like too much and tears are falling out of your control.

“I’m sorry,” you manage, “I was supposed to– to keep you safe.”

Marcus is shaking his head already, refusing your apology.

“No, no. You did keep me safe, you did. I pushed you away, I couldn’t control myself and I caused this,” he argues. 

It does not comfort you that you both blame yourselves. You wish to reach out to him and touch his face like you should have when he was warm and alive. You want to know if he is cold now, and it’s as if he hears you.

Marcus places a hand on your cheek, a softness in his eyes and hold that says that he missed you.

“I saw you,” he claims, “when I was on the ground. You were the last thing I saw.”

Somewhere between life and death for mortals, there are moments of godly clarity. Some see the light, others see their families and memories, but in that tiny glimpse of time, some see Gods. 

He was able to see you as you knelt over him, sobbing as you were cloaked to any mortal's naked eye.  You were the last thing he saw, and the last thing he truly regretted. 

All you can do is stiltedly nod at him, feeling like you were in trouble even though it seems he’s not upset.

For a moment, his eyes flick away, contemplative, but then he meets your gaze again.

“I told Lucilla of you, before I died. Not– not of my feelings which I struggled with, but that you were a close friend, a blessing in many ways.”

A blessing in many ways.

Another choked sob is wracked from your chest, your bottom lip curling out embarrassingly as your face contorts. He almost coos at you, the thumb on your cheek rubbing away your tears.

“Goddess, I have missed you,” he admits. 

Stupid nods are all you can offer, your voice imprisoned in your ever tightening throat which cries. When he was alive he was never this tender, too confused and insecure to ever touch you, but it seems he has been regretting things too.

“Felicitas,” he says quietly, “do you come here for ill reason?”

You shake your head this time, rather than nodding. You have no reason to be here, other than the fact that guilt has taken over your mind and heart since he died.

“Then relax, dulcissima. I have an offering for you.”

Marcus relaxes his stature, eyes still gazing over you. He looks at your fading palms and you watch him swallow nervously.

“I will worship you again, lending you offerings here, and all I ask in return is for our friendship again.”

It’s the opposite of how you met, almost completely, but it’s everything you need. You will not fade, he will not struggle in marriage, and you will have one another again. 

Again, you are nodding stupidly, but soon you’re embraced by him and nodding into his chest. His hands grasp at your back as he tells you how much he missed you in his final weeks, how he regrets losing you entirely, how he requires you as a friend. 

You are satiated in his arms as he comforts you, awakening you again there on the terrace. Unbeknownst to you, Marcus has let tears slip down too as he holds you close. 

“You will keep me safe here?” he asks jokingly.

It makes you smile, the idea of offering luck to a man who already died.

“Yes, General. I will keep you safe here, from all the horrifying glory and splendor,” you assure.

The two of you laugh, breaking the embrace but staying close. A passionate connection is still between the two of you, but in a different way now. Maybe when he was alive it was romantic because it is all you could think of, but through his death the two of you have come to understand it more. 

You require one another in a unique way, and leaning on one another does not have to be intimate the way he is with his wife. Marcus does need you, just as you need him, and now that you are both immortal in a way, you will never be separated again.

please leave a comment, like, reblog, askbox, or ANYTHING. i'd love to hear thoughts on this <33

tags (people who seemed excited for this) (sorry if these dont work)

@pascalssbabyy , @moonshapedflan , @gossipgirl-03 , @kyloispunk , @frannyzooey , @coocoolahh , @bug-boy32 , @honeymarvel , @magicalmorg , @1deakybass , @tuquoquebrute , @harryshousewhore , @teeagain, @chewie-bars , @vampyyweek , @queenslandlover-93 , @amijenn , @aquanatalie

[mindmelter]

A Body Stealer Tale: Fugitive

"I only have four available at the moment. I don't hunt like I used to." I say, guiding the man to my basement, where four men are standing frozen in only their underwear.

"It's fine, they all look good." The man says.

He is a fugitive, one of the most wanted men in the country. The kind you see on the news, his face plastered everywhere, but no one knew the truth. No one knew the lengths he would go to escape. That’s where I come in. I don’t judge them—how could I? That’s not my role. My job is simple: I help them find a new body to hide in.

"Would you mind giving me their info?" The man asks.

"From left to right, we have Ethan. He's 19 years old, fresh out of high school, and I got him at a small beach town where he was spending his summer surfing and working part-time at a café. His bodysuit is smooth, with just the right amount of muscle definition, and that wavy hair makes him stand out. He's the perfect body if you like that carefree, beach vibe.

Next is Jake. At 22, he's fresh from the military, built like a rock. I picked him up after he finished his last tour. The tight buzzcut and his stocky build give him that no-nonsense, tough look. If you're into strength and durability, Jake's bodysuit is the one for you.

Then, we have Cole. He's 24 and hails from a small Texas town, hence the cowboy hat. I found him working at a rodeo—he's got that strong, silent type charm. His broad shoulders and muscular chest give him a powerful presence, perfect for anyone wanting that rough, country boy look. You won't be bothered by anyone if you pick him.

And finally, there's Luca. At 23, he's got a natural good-looking face that makes heads turn. I got him right after he graduated college—he was modeling on the side to make ends meet. His suit has that classic, athletic look, with just the right amount of body hair to give it character."

The man looked thoughtful, like he was having a hard time picking one. He inspected them from closer and pulled down the underwear of each one to inspect their junk. After a while, he finally decided.

"I think I’ll go with..."

[madamechrissy]

Dirty Little Secret

ꕥ Pairings: Toji Fushiguro x Fem Reader

ꕥ Warnings-MDNI-explicit sexual content, dirty talk, Toji calls reader 'doll, ma, slut (Toji and Doll just work lol) Age gap- reader is 21, Toji is 39. - This chapter-rough sex, anal sex, whipping, daddy kink, breeding kink, squirting, face slapping, oral (fem receiving) FREAKY ass chap lmao, reader is a brat and Toji is a whole freak

ꕥ Word Count-this chap- 7k

ꕥ Summary- Toji Fushiguro is your dad Shiu's best friend for years. You've known him most your life. You come home for spring break to relax, and who pops up at the fucking doorstep? Toji. He's nasty, annoying, perverted and... Sexy. Hot. Built. And makes you think, maybe your first time shouldn't be with some college boy? But with this buff dude who can tie a cherry stem with his tongue and a scar on his damn lip.

Chapter 9 - Masterlist - Playlist

Chapter 10

The next day

You and Toji Fushiguro are going on a date, it feels so… insane to say that out loud, but here you are in Toji’s Mustang, and his big hand is on your thigh, bare with the pretty little black dress you’re wearing. Your fingertips brush up and down his knuckles gently, feeling the roughness of his skin, and he keeps sneaking glances at you, tongue running along that scar so sexy.

Fuck how are you so attracted to a damn scar? To everything about him, how he’s wearing this dress shirt, so different from his thin gym tees, and you see how it has to stretch over his broad chest. He’s so fucking sexy, you find yourself rocking your hips side to side, thighs shifting. He smirks at you, dark green eyes darting to your bare thighs as you make that motion.

“Excited, doll?” He asks, and you flush a bit, as his fingers brush up and down your thigh, making you tremble.

“You do look really handsome, Mr. Fushiguro.” He snorts at that, rolling his eyes then focusing back on the road.

“Making me sound old as fuck, brat.”

“Well…”

“I’ll beat that ass.”

“You’re not old, silly.” You lean close, pecking a kiss on his cheek, with a little bit of stubble tickling your lips, and he sighs then, as you rest your head on his shoulder, inhaling his scent, so manly and he’s wearing some cologne you really like. “I can’t believe we’re going on a date.”

“So surprised? I have a girlfriend I never see, and haven’t taken out.” You tense a bit then, hearing the clear pain in his voice, as you chew your lower lip.

“I don’t think you’ve called me your girlfriend before.”

“Yeah because I’d like you as a wife.”

“You can’t say shit like that!” You pull away, crossing your arms and looking out the window, trying to control your rapidly beating heart.

“What shit, the truth?” He counters, yanking you back to him.

“That’s insane talk. You know it.”

“You think I am sugar coating shit, who the fuck do you think I am? I’m not gonna whisper sweet shit I don't mean, doll.” You blink back emotions, sighing.

“It’s crazy, Toji. How would it work?”

“Go to college online and move in.”

“And my dad!?”

“He’ll get over it when he has a grandbaby.”

“Toji!” He’s scowling, his hands tightening on the wheel as you glare right at him. “Where is all this coming from?”

“Where’s it coming from?” He scoffs, pulling up to a pretty restaurant then, parking and looking at you with his dark brows low. He turns off the car and then bends over, cupping your face. “Did I not tell you I’m fucking in love with your bratty ass?”

“And I love you, but… isn’t this just…”

“Just what?” His words are short, as you look down, but he snatches you by your chin, squishing your cheeks. “Just what, some fun on breaks? I told ya that’s not what I’m wanting. I want you.”

“And I want you. But it’s fucking scary.” He sighs, brushing your hair back, before cupping your face, slamming his lips on yours, and you meet him, hungry for more, kissing more and more, desperate and breathless soon.

“Want you to stay with me. In my arms, got me sappy and shit.” You giggle a bit, blinking back emotions as he whispers those words.

“Toji who knew, you’re so sappy-”

“I will beat you later. Beat your ass black and blue.” You get excited if anything, earning his sexy glare, a big hand squeezing your hip over your little dress. “Keep acting up, no date, I’ll fuck you right here.”

“Fine, fine I’ll be good!”

“Mmhmm.”

Toji is opening your door, but before you all go in he’s pressing you on the car, big hand gripping your ass now, and you feel heat pool, desire in your core, like you can’t breathe. He’s looming over you so big and tall, and you can’t stop the little whine that escapes your throat, earning his lidded gaze and exhale.

“Better be good. I’ll fuck you right here.”

“You will not!”

“Wanna bet, doll?” He licks his lips and your hands slide up his chest now, head tilting back to look up at him.

“No, you’re fucking crazy, you just might.” Toji’s chuckling now, and then kisses you softly, sweeter than usual, intoxicating you with how multifaceted he is, as you peel back all his layers slowly. “Let’s go, I’m excited!”

“Come on, then.” He’s holding you by the waist, hand on the small of your back, as you both head to the pretty restaurant, it’s a steakhouse and much nicer than you’d expect from Toji. For some reason you figured some seedy little place or something, you’re impressed as he pulls out a chair for you.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Fushiguro.” He scowls as he pushes your chair in, sitting all sexy and handsome across from you.

“You’re such a fucking brat. I’ll order you chicken nuggets, how about that kiddo?”

“Chicken nuggets!?”

“Mmm, so cheap too. Do we need crayons and shit-”

“Fuck you, old man!”

“Ahem… hello.” The waitress comes as you two stick your tongues out, and you cover your face, blushing as Toji chuckles, leaning back in his seat. You struggle to save face, kicking him under the table, and watching his knuckles go white as he’s clutching the little black table.

“Hello, he wants the kids meal-”

“Steak for me, kids meal for her-”

“You have to be twelve and under, I’m afraid.” She says seriously, and you and Toji burst into laughter, earning this girl’s confusion. You both struggle to hold in your laughter, getting more serious.

“Can I get a glass of white?” You ask, and she smiles then, nodding and tapping the tablet for your order.

“Can I see an ID?” You pull it out of your purse, showing her, and she then turns to Toji.

“Anything to drink, Sir?”

“Mmm, give me a beer.”

“Got it.”

“Card him too!” Now Toji is kicking at you, and you’re surely confusing this waitress.

“May I see your ID, Sir?” He rolls his green eyes, dark lashes fluttering, and you can’t stop the grin as he shows her the ID. “Very good, any appetizers?

Toji starts to order, and soon you and him are nibbling together, he’s handing you little bites of food, he is scooching your chair next to him, and you’re right next to him now, his big hand burning your skin. You bite your lip, snuggling to his shoulder and sipping your wine.

“Fuck this is nice.” You say softly, Toji hums at that, thumb brushing your inner thigh and making you overheated, as you look up at his eyes, dilated by the soft lights of the restaurant.

“It is nice, could be all the time if you’d live with me.”

“You know that’s-”

“Crazy. Ya keep saying that like we’re not crazy together period.” You sigh, running a fingertip along the glass then.

“That’s true. I mean, theoretically I can do journalism anywhere, it’s all from my computer mostly.”

“See, there you go. You can do that and clean my house-”

“Hell no.”

You both laugh again, as you roll your eyes, as his hand slips up more, taking your breath away. “You like that idea.”

“Shh, you’re so misogynistic.”

“And you eat it up.” He whispers, thumb brushing your already damp panties, you struggle not to cry out, as his touch makes you so needy.

“Maybe.” You admit, and he smirks, eyes lidded as he leans down, turning slightly to kiss your temple, but he’s now rubbing your achy clit in circles, and you bury your face against his neck, crying out your pleasure as quietly as you can. He exhales, kissing down to your ear.

“You’re my little slut, ain’t ya doll?” He cooes ever so quietly, and you just nod eagerly, there’s no sense acting otherwise, you’re letting him run his fingers under your lacy panties, letting the rough pad of his middle finger circle your clit, which twitches in response. Your nails dig into his strong arm, as you struggle to act normal. “Asked ya a question.”

“Yes, I am, Daddy.” You whisper back, and then he’s shoved a thick digit in your little entrance, and you bite your lip so hard it hurts, as you’re gushing around his finger, just barely inside you. “Oh my… fuck…”

“So easy, so wet already, just f’me, huh?” You just nod, then the waitress comes back with your food, and Toji eases back, sucking on his finger blatantly, making your mouth drop as he grins over at you. “Yummy. Looks yummy, yeah doll?”

“Um… uh huh.” Your hands shake as you shut your eyes for a moment, struggling to come to, the man ruins your brain.

Soon you all are digging in, as you try to cool down, then suddenly after about twenty minutes of laughing, of flirting, and of talking shit with the man you’re stupid in love with, a woman comes up to you. She saunters, so tall with blond hair, muscular and lean, swaying her hips in a gorgeous red dress.

“If it isn’t Toji fuckin Fushiguro.” She speaks all sultry, trailing a hand across Toji’s broad shoulder, over his starch business shirt, earning his glare.

“Sure is. Ya need something, Hana?” She scoffs then, leaning down, and Toji takes her hand off his shoulder, as she’s got her perky little breasts full on display, to the point you can see her nipples almost.

“A girl can’t say hi?”

“Nah, not when I’m with someone.”

“I see. And who’s this?” Her voice is purring, you outright scowl at the pretty woman, then glare at Toji, who’s covering his face and wiping down it with a tired expression.

“I’m his girlfriend.” You say then, and Toji smiles, scar stretching as his lips quirk up. She scoffs then, looking wildly at Toji.

“You, dating? Since fuckin when?”

“Yeah, so what’s it to you?” His voice is terse with her. She huffs a bit, crossing her arms and analyzing you.

“So, what, we fuck steadily for a year, and you go get some young little girl to date now? Don’t want someone your own age, Fushiguro?”

Toji scowls, his dark brows low over his eyes, jaw tense. “Not that at all, just didn’t wanna date you.”

She gasps and you can’t stop your laughter, even when you try to sober up, earning more of her ire. “She’s like a teenager!?”

“I’m twenty one. See.” You hold up your wine glass, as people are starting to look at you all.

“You’re interrupting our date. Go on now.” Toji waves a hand dismissively, earning more of her anger, as she then takes your glass of wine and splashes it right in your face. You gasp at that, standing up then, chest to chest, as Toji stands up, furious, scowling.

“Excuse me, bitch? I didn’t do shit to you.” You shove at her with open palms, making her nearly topple backwards.

“Why don’t you go back to school and get someone your own age?” She bites out those words, and you raise a brow.

“I’m gonna give you a minute to leave before I fuck you up.” You ball up fists then, and she turns, scoffing.

“Stupid little whore-”

Well, you gave her a chance, yeah?

You grab her by her hair then, knocking her on the floor, and now the entire restaurant is in shock, watching as you straddle her in your pretty black dress, and you hold your hand up. “Drink, Toji.”

He chuckles, handing you his beer, and you smirk as you pour the entire amber contents of the pint on her face, and she sputters under you, a whole sloppy fucking mess now. She’s clinging to her face as you stand, laughing maniacally as her makeup drips down her face in streaks, and she opens her eyes only to shut them again, screaming.

Toji is chuckling right with you now, as she shakes some of the liquid off, scowling at you. “How dare you!”

“You spilled one on me first, so.”

“Immature little kid.”

“Says you, the woman who comes and starts shit with a man that didn’t wanna date her? He’s mine, got it?” You snatch him up by his arm, as he looks to you practically with hearts in his damn eyes.

“Miss, we must ask you to leave.” The manager comes then, and she screeches, pointing at you and stomping.

“But she did this to me!”

“Yes everyone saw you approach and throw a drink at her. You need to pay your bill and leave.” She is dragged away, and Toji pulls you to him, tilting your chin, but you shove at him.

“I’m mad at you, too.” You hiss through your teeth, and he scoffs, gripping your shoulders tightly.

“Excuse me, brat? Lemme just find you sexy right now….”

“Nope. Check please.”

*****

You two are both outside now, screaming at each other as Toji carries your little take home bag, as you get in the car he throws it at your lap. You shove it back in the passenger seat now, as you feel the adrenaline pumping, sure you’re furious at that bitch, who’s now flipping you off on the sidewalk, but you’re also upset that this is what happens on your date.

Toji was a hoe.

“Put on your fuckin seatbelt, now brat.” He orders, snapping it then, and you unsnap it, just for him to snap it again, and you to unsnap it, smacking at his hand. “The fuck are you mad at me for!?”

“Is that what I’ll deal with!? Your hoe life all over.”

“Look, I didn’t ask her to be a bitch. Put on this fuckin seatbelt, or I swear you won’t be able to sit.” You take a shaky breath, as both of your chests heave, and the energy in the car is so intense you can’t take it.

“Fine!” You let him snap it as he starts the car with a shaky hand.

“Can’t take you anywhere, can I?”

“Me!? Me!?”

“Yeah you, causing a whole scene with that temper, angry little elf.”

“Elf!”

“Hard of hearing?”

“Fuck off! I’m mad because you clearly had something serious enough she’s bothering me. She said you fucked her for a year.”

“And, so what, now I fuck you, get over it.”

“Aw, romantic.”

Toji’s eyes narrow as they set on you, as you two sit at a red light in the quiet night. “Who’s on a date, you or her, brat!?

You laugh, shaking your head. “Fuck you Toji.”

His laugh is harsh. “Fuck me, fuck me?”

“Yep. Fuck you.”

“You’re mad at me for what?”

“Being a manwhore!”

Toji’s forearms, visible in the evening, those veins wrapping around them turn you on far too much, as he grips that steering wheel so tightly, and you struggle to remember why you’re mad. “You knew it when you fucked me. And guess what? I’m good at fucking the shit out of your little pussy ain’t I?”

His words hit hard, and you feel it, right in your core, that deep husky voice and nasty words. “Pfft. Maybe.”

“You really talking shit like that, doll?”

“Sure am. How many more women will I meet?”

“Probably a lot. What’s it matter, I am with you, annoying little bitch.”

“And you’re such a hoe.”

“Means I eat pussy like a champ.” You gasp, smacking his hand as he grips your thigh.

“You ate her out, that makes me mad. So mad. Should have punched her.” Toji laughs now, only serving to make him more attractive and make you more angry, an infuriating mix.

“Doll, you were a baby when I fucked most of these women, couldn’t even legally touch you!? What, you wanted me to be some virgin? My kid is your friend, clearly I’ve been fucking a long time.”

“Ugh, whatever. Fuck you.” You cross your arms as he pulls up to his home, and he’s at your door in a flash, dragging you and shutting it with a loud thud as he’s pulling you further. When he’s inside he’s shoving you against the front door, hands on either side of you, and you see his vein pulsing in his jaw at how angry he is.

“Fuck me, huh brat?” I think I’ll fuck that attitude outta ya.” He grabs your hair roughly now, pricking your eyes with tears, towering over you, and you find yourself strangely excited.

Is it strange?

Toji has always had this effect, when he’s mad at you and you get soaking wet, your cunt right now is just dripping, as you ache for him. You tilt your chin up then, narrowing your eyes, not remembering just why you were so mad at Toji, but now he’s got you on one.

“I have a right to be mad, old man.”

“No, you don’t, I clearly stopped everything since Spring break. I didn’t even look at anyone the whole time I was gone.” You blink back tears then, as he’s got his other hand gripping your waist so tight you can’t stand it, gripping the silk material of your dress, bunched in his hands.

“You really didn’t?” You whisper, and he sighs, lips just an inch away from yours now, and you can taste him, that taste that fucking kills you, as you both pant heavily, as he’s scowling at you.

“How could I see anyone but you, little fucking brat. You think I want anyone the fuck else?”

“She was all elegant, and pretty… and…” You’re sniffling now, as your insecurities hit you, and Toji sighs.

“Ain’t shit compared to you. Y’know how beautiful you fuckin are!? You know how sexy? How perfect your body is?” You tremble, as he turns you then, pressing you against the door face forward, unzipping your dress, baring your skin to his hungry gaze and his hot touch. “I’ll take you in a Hello Kitty bikini over any bitch.”

Fuck.

You’re being petty, stupid. You sigh, trying to calm down now, but he’s simultaneously putting you over the edge of how bad you want him. “T-Toji… M’sorry. I let it get to me. Am I just young, stupid!? I…” You gasp as he yanks your dress down, pulling it past your hips, and he moans softly, hands sliding down your every curve and line.

“You’re young, you’re stupid-”

You glare back at him. “Hey!”

He chuckles a bit. “But you’re beautiful. You’re mine. My little doll, don’t you fuckin know?” He kisses down your spine then, pressing hot trails of his lips as you step out of your dress, as he eases those heels off your feet.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you. You didn’t even know me…”

“I knew you, but you were barely twenty, off limits. Think I didn’t jack off to you then?”

“I’m dumb, fuck.”

“Mmm, you were a virgin. It’s all it is. But you’re not now, are you?” You shake your head, as he smacks your ass gently, one cheek than the other. “And when you threw her to the ground, lemme tell ya how hard ya got me?”

“I did?” He chuckles, kissing up your thighs now, fingers gripping into the plush flesh at the center, and his breath is hot, tickling you, you’re so shaky you can barely take it.

“Sure did, sexy as fuck.”

“Ah!” You scream out as Toji pulls your thong to the side and licks a stripe up your slit with the flat of his tongue, lapping at the wetness already pooled there.

“And you, little bitch that you are, got this wet from making me angry? Was that the goal, get Toji mean with ya?”

Shit.

Your pussy did this maybe!?

“Did n-not. Fuck you.”

“Nah think I’ll fuck you.” He stands then, turning you and picking you up, throwing you over his shoulder, smacking your bare ass so hard this time you cry out at the sting, as the fans whirl from his ceiling and cool air hits them. You gasp, up far too high.

“That hurts, you damn big brute! Caveman!”

“Ah, getting yourself even wetter? Slutty little brat.” Toji huffs, fingering you then as he holds you up over his shoulder, and you’re moaning, soaking his fingers, as he bites the fuck out of your hip, before tossing you on his bed, and you bounce at the impact, gasping.

“Toji, I am sorry. Daddy…” You crawl on your knees, just in your panties and bra now, and Toji is furious, veins in that thick neck bulging, his hands brutal when they push you down again, on your back, and he’s yanking your panties down your thighs, making you shiver with desire.

“No, you’re not just bad, you’re very fucking annoying and bad. You wanna drive me fuckin insane, then you get the consequenses, got it?”

“Daddy I said sorry.” You blink your lashes, and he hesitates, then shakes his head, putting your panties to his face and moaning, he’s so nasty but it makes you even wetter, and he clearly sees it pooling down.

“No, not getting out of this one, brat. I’m done with your attitude, it seems I gotta teach you manners. Your dad didn’t, let you run around and be such a little brat, all the time. Spoiled.”

“Toji…” You get this tiny amount of fear then, as Toji takes off his belt, and your cunt throbs around nothing as he flips you, and you feel something silky wrapping your wrists now. “Toji!”

“Hush this mouth before I gag you.” You whine pathetically now, as your tits are shoved out of the bra, bouncing out for his view as he circles you on the bed.

“I’m tired of your mouth. I only want you, annoying as fuck as you are. Got me, doll?” You nod, biting your lip as he bends down, tilting your chin up and kissing you, bruising in his kisses, and you melt into him, but then he’s smacking your cheek, making your face sting. “Answer me.”

“Yes, Daddy. I’m sorry.”

“Not good enough, but it’s a start.” He pushes your head down into the mattress then, running his leather belt along the curve of your ass, and then he smacks the fuck out of you with that belt, so hard you scream. “One. How many do you think you deserve?”

“N-none, daddy.”

“Wrong answer doll. Let’s start with how many times you said ‘Fuck you Toji’ yeah?” He mocks your voice, and you’re whimpering, then he smacks you with the belt again, burning your skin, and then he slides a finger between your lips, pulling that wetness out, moaning softly. “And you like it, dirty lil slut f’me.”

“Ngh, Toji I’m really sorry.” You scream out as he smacks you again, fingering you rougher, two fingers, pressing up against your spot, past that tight ring of muscles, against your little gummy walls. Your pussy starts pouring out wetness now, slippery, loud in his room.

“So slutty. You’re not a good girl, are you?”

“I am.”

“Lying to me now. Hmm.” He hits you right across the backs of your thighs, hitting your sore little cunt, and it hurts so bad you’re crying into your pillow now, but your pussy is almost ready to cum, you’re so fucking ready. “Got something to say, brat?”

“F-fuck me, please.” He grips your hips now, pulling your ass up, cheeks apart, spitting down your little ass hole and dripping to your cunt.

“You deserve dick right now, you think so?”

“You want it, old man, stop- okay fuck!” Another smack, lower across your thighs, makes your knees buckle, and he’s pulling your ass back, holding you up, as you sob softly. “I’m sorry, s’sorry… T-Toji…”

“You remember that safe word?” He says softly, pulling your hair and bringing you to your knees, you nod quickly, as his breath tickles your ear.

“I remember it.”

“So you’re good, doll?” You hear it then, the concern, the care, making sure you’re okay even as he’s beating your ass.

“I’m not just good, I’m soaking wet, Daddy.” Your words earn his sexy moan, and he’s turning your face to him, gripping your breasts, squishing them in his hands and his thumbs pressing on your sensitive nipples. Your head falls back, ass arching for more and more of his rough touches.

Your pussy is so soaked when he wraps his arm around your hips, finding your clit, and you’re so wet his fingers slip. “Fuck, you’re stupid wet.”

“Fuck me, please.” You beg, as he’s pumping two fingers inside you, making the most lewd noise, and he pulls them out just before you cum, shoving them in your mouth so deep you almost choke.

“You’re not done yet, you’ve pissed me off so fuckin much. Ya think that was enough hits?”

“I do!”

“And now you beg for dick, pathetic f’me, so fucking slutty.”

“Ugh, fuck you- shit, shit sorry!” Toji’s big hand now smacks the fuck out of you, so hard you’re rocked forward, and you look back with tears in your eyes, and he’s furious now.

“So you’re still running the mouth, gotta fix that.” He shoves your head back down, and then he’s shoved three fingers in your little entrance, stretching you too full, and you’re wriggling every which way.

“T’much!” You whimper the words, muffled by the pillow, and Toji bends low now, tongue on the little unused hole, as he keeps working your cunt. The sensations are too much, there’s so much pressure building you think you’ll explode, your eyes rolling back, thighs shaking.

“Always running this mouth, huh? Do you think you’ll get to cum?” He yanks his fingers out then, and you scream out in pain, empty and pulsing, so close it hurts. “Aw, were ya close, brat?”

“S’sorry…”

“Nah, that’s not a good apology.” Toji slides two fingers in your cunt again, only to shove them up into your ass, and now the stretch nearly breaks you, as his other hand slides down, rubbing your clit, overstimulating and teasing. “Maybe I’ll break you the fuck in, huh?”

“Ngh…” You can’t say a damn thing, you’re drowning in pleasure, in need, as you’re about to cum again, and you’re sobbing hot sticky tears when he stops toying with you completely, when he’s spitting on you again, spreading his hot saliva all over your pussy and ass. “Please…”

“Please what, slutty fuckin brat? Use those words. Or already stupid from my fingers?”

The more he degrades you, the hornier and wetter you are, as his thumb pumps in your ass again. “Fuck me there.”

Toji pauses then, and for a moment it’s silent, then he’s getting undressed behind you, his tip rubbing against your slit, grinding on your clit, between your puffy lips, moaning as he feels how wet you are. Your arms are aching as you can barely breathe, so shoved against the blanket you are feeling so hot everywhere, almost weak.

“So slutty ya need me in all your holes, huh?” He whispers, now sliding his cock up, his thick, reddened tip dripping precum as it rubs your little hole, pressing in and making you hiss at it.

“Slutty for you, Daddy.” He moans then, one hand at the base of his cock, the other gripping your hip, pressing his thumb in the dimple of your back, pressing further, and then you feel him, the thickness inside, so intense you’re shaking violently. He’s gentle for all his talk, for how he usually fucks your pussy, just barely moving, and just that has you a mess.

“Fuck you feel so good, doll. Fuck… are you all right?” He asks, and you smile against the pillow, at how sweet he can be even when he’s literally fucking your ass, which is covered in red whelps.

“It feels good, alot though… can you untie me, please?” He quickly does as you ask, and you move your numb fingers, up on your hands and knees now, and he’s running one hand up your rib cage, wrapping your waist and bending over you, his lips against your ear. “Daddy… it’s s’good.”

“You like it, doll, huh? Want me deeper in that tight little ass?” His husky voice kills you, as he pulls back, and you nod eagerly. “Then what do we say?”

“Please, Daddy. Please- ah!” He shoves in deeper, his hand brutal as it grabs your entire body damn near, as the other braces itself on the bed over you. Your own hands cling to his thick cotton blankets, arching your ass up for more, every inch feels like ten, so good you can’t stand it, eyes rolling back, your toes curling against the bed as he fucks you slowly.

“Oh my fucking… fuck, fuck…” He’s cursing, not moving, moaning and breathing in your ear, making you shiver as your cunt throbs around nothing. “Can’t hold back, can you take it, baby doll?”

“I’ll try, Daddy.” He moans at that again, then he’s shoved in so deep it rips you in fucking half, and you’re screaming, as he’s huffing, his huge cock sliding in and out of your tight hole, his balls smacking your neglected entrance. “Ah, ah, ah!”

“Feel so fuckin good, Ma.” Toji bottoms out, before leaning you forward, on your stomach, bracing himself over you, one hand sliding down your spine, dripping with sweat now. He smacks your ass, bringing your hips up, and starts fucking into you, skin of his pelvis smacking your ass, making it jiggle with each thrust. “Rub that clit, pretty doll.”

“Y-yes Daddy.” You earn his satisfied sigh, as he pulls your hips up more, you’re on your knees, rubbing your clit in circles with your tiny fingers, and one of his hands finds your cunt, filling your pussy with two fingers. It’s so much, too much, your clit, pussy and ass so filled you can’t think anymore.

Your hands join each other, and you’re gushing out, as Toji’s thrusts slow, and he’s rolling his hips, hitting some spot that makes your tummy coil with tension. “You’re doing good, doll, s’good for your daddy, huh?”

“Please… can I cum? Please. I’ll be good.” He laughs softly, slamming his length in you hard, fingering you deeper, until your cunt and mouth are drooling, pools of arousal and saliva, and you’re blinded.

“Cum f’me, doll, let me feel this slutty ass around my cock.” Toji presses in so deep you can’t see, crooking those fingers, and yours slip off as you begin to cum, so hard and so much pressure, your little hole begins to squirt all over Toji’s hands, and you can’t even speak, can’t do anything as it sprays all over the bed. “Oh my god… fuck…”

“S-sorry!? Sorry! S-sorry….” You’re chanting as you keep cumming, and he groans, pausing his movements, to pull his hand back staring at the sticky mess with wonder.

“Sorry, fuck no. You’re such a good girl, squirting f’me.” You blink a bit, as you try to come to, and he’s pulled out of you, making you hiss, so damn sore, as he flips you on your back, rubbing your clit side to side.

“Too sensitive, too much… too wet…”

“Oh, doll, fuck no, Imma need you to do it again, gonna drink it.” He says, husky, dragging your hips and spreading your thighs, and you’re yanking at his silky black hair, and he’s lapping at your clit, three fingers back stretching your cunt, and you’re close again. He hums on your clit, and your hips buck up off the bed, and you’re gushing all over again.

“F-f-fuck, ah!” You’re screaming out as Toji drinks you up, you’re spraying so much wetness out, it’s all over his chin, his face, as he grins, long tongue lapping what he can as you make a wet spot in the bed.

“That’s it, that’s my lil slut.” He’s smacking loud kisses on your cunt, leaning up now, shoving your thighs up high, your knees on either side of you, pressing into the mattress, folding you in fucking half. “Imma put a baby in you now.”

“Toji…” He chuckles, smacking your cheek and shaking his head. “Daddy…”

“Mmm, you ready to take it? She sure made a fuckin mess, didn’t she?” He shoves in your cunt now, and it immediately tightens, so sensitive from how hard you had cum you can’t stand it, falling apart with every thick thrust of his veiny cock, as his swollen tip is rubbing right against your spot.

“Too much, too much! Too much!” You’re a mess, writhing and shattering under him, under his heavy weight, pressing down on your thighs with his brutal hands, as his cock bullies your cervix, and you can’t take anymore, damn near blacking out.

“You tryna pass out, brat? Tap out?” He huffs, as you try to keep your eyes open, as your mouth is slack and open, as you’re pushed over some edge. He fucks you so deep you feel him everywhere, as you see black glittery stars, and he’s cupping your face possessively. “Look at me, doll.”

You gaze at him with dilated, cock drunk eyes, narrowing, your lashes shaqdowing your view, as you struggle to breathe, brows drawing together, cheeks flushed, and he studies you with heated dark eyes, shoving in so deep then. He rolls his hips and the tip is just grinding against your cervix, pushing you again, and you’re so weak you can barely moan.

You cling to him, nails digging into his broad shoulders, scratching him hard as you cling to him to tether you, but he’s the one pushing you further and further, as he works you, as he’s heaving his own breaths. His chest contains that heart that thuds erratically now, his thumbs brushing your cheeks gently as his cock presses and stretches you till you’ll break.

“That’s it doll, lemme feel ya around me, can’t fuckin think can you? I fuck you stupid?” You would say ‘fuck you Toji’ but you can’t do anything, he has to swipe your drool off your face then, sticking his thumb between your lips, for you to weakly bite, and he bites out in laughter. “Fucked the brat out of ya.”

You wish you could say something smart, but he’s got you so weak, it’s too much, the pressure, the stretch, his sweat dripping down on you, you just weakly cry out, and now he’s leaned back slightly, putting his weight on your sore thighs. His balls smack the little hole he’d wrecked, as he fills your pussy, and his pelvis smaches against an overstimulated clit.

“Ready for this baby in ya, huh doll? Fill ya so good with me.” He cooes those words out, and all you can do is nod just a bit, gasping, head sinking into the bed as your hips buck up at how deep he gets. “Say it, say it doll.’

“W-want… your babies… Daddy…” You speak in a breathy whisper, hearing that gutteral groan as his rhythm stutters, as your walls convulse around him, and you’re gulping for air, as if he’s choking you, your sore ass fucked deeper and deeper into the mattress, making it throb and ache.

“Take all this cum, be my good girl, yeah?” You nod weakly, then he’s leaned over you, shoving in and his tip is quivering, pulsing, as hot spurts of cum fill you, and she eagerly drinks them in, like she wants it, wants it as bad as you won’t admit. Toji’s kissing you, hot and messy, moaning his pleasure into your lips, his scar brushing against the corner of your mouth.

You’re crying now, tears down your face, as he finishes pumping so much cum, and you’re clinging to him, as he’s tasting your salty tears. He keeps kissing you, long after he’s cum, as your fluids are dripping down the bed under you, and he leans up then, eyes different, they’re softer, his lips are rested, parting as he rubs your face so sweetly.

“I fuckin love, you, little doll.” He murmurs, and you sob more, kissing him and sinking your hands into his hair.

“L-love you. Love you Toji. Fuck. I’m a mess.” You say weakly, and he chuckles a bit, pulling off you, making you suck in a breath as he pulls out, leaving you empty.

“You’re a beautiful fucking mess, so, so messy too.” He fingers the sticky cum between your lips, making you jerk and cry out. “Didn’t know you could squirt, freaky lil slut aren’t ya?”

“I didn’t know either. Fuck it was too much though. I’m done.” You weakly fall back, and Toji sits you up carefully, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“Lemme get you cleaned up, want a shower doll?” He asks softly, caressing your back, brushing up and down, and you exhale, shutting your eyes and sinking against him.

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll take care of ya.” He picks you up with ease, as you weakly let him carry you. “I love taking care of you after I ruin that little mind of yours.”

“Dick.” He snorts, and you can’t summon the energy to glare, you just let him bring you inside his shower, surprisingly gorgeous, with marble tiles, and a waterfall shower head. “This is s’nice.”

“Built it.”

“Built it?” You yawn, blinking bleary eyed as he washes your hair, his rough hands gently, massaging your scalp, as the hot water pours over you both, and the steam rises in the shower.

“Yeah, I built most of this place. Was bare bones.”

“Mmm, my manly man.” He snorts, and soon he’s rinsing your hair, sudsing your body up.

“You’re so pathetic f’me, little doll, can’t stand?”

“Fuck no.” He’s chuckling, holding you gently, and you think that the moment can’t get much better, being in his arms, feeling his heartbeat thud in his chest, so soothing you almost fall asleep then and there. Only to be wrapped in his big, strong arms all night in his bed.

*****

Fuck you feel sick, you sit up as you awaken, and Toji’s sheets are rumpled, your nipples are killing you, more than they have been, and you peer between your thighs, worried you’re on your period. You’re thankfully not, standing now, smelling breakfast Toji is cooking, which should be yummy, tantalizing, but another wave of nausea rolls through you.

You only had one glass of wine!?

You blink at the sun streaming through the windows of Toji’s cozy cabin, standing on wobbly legs, he’d fucked you so good you can barely walk even now, your ass is so goddamn sore from his belt, and his cock it’s ridiculous. You wonder how you’re going to manage to sit even.

You pad barefooted on old wooden floors, seeing Toji’s sexy, strong back now, and you can’t even appreciate it, because your tummy is rumbling and hurts. You bite back it, trying to suck in a breath, and Toji looks back, grinning deviously, dark green eyes drinking you in.

“Sit down and eat, doll. Let daddy cook for ya.”

You can’t even snort, you can’t do anything but cover your mouth, and he then looks concerned, brows lowering, and you run off to his bathroom, throwing up everything you’d digested last night. You’re sobbing as you do, and Toji is there, freaking out.

“Well shit, the fuck!? You okay!?” He’s pulling your hair, trying to be gentle but he’s such a damn brute it yanks your hair.

“Ow- fuck!” 

“Shit, my bad. Here.” He’s yanking one of your pony tails off the sink, putting your hair up in a bun then, rubbing his hand on your back as you flush the toilet. “Was it something you ate?”

“No, I don’t think?”

“The wine?”

“One glass, no. Shit am I sick? I…”

You trail off then, and do some math in your damn head, then you gasp, falling back on the tile floor. “Doll, want some water?”

“Fuck no. No, no, no. Shit!” You’re trembling, hugging your knocking knees then, eyes wide in horror as you look at Toji.

“What the fuck is it?”

“You… I… oh my god.”

“What!?”

“You asshole!” You haul off and smack him then, earning his glare, snatching your wrist and shoving you against the wall, pinning you there.

“Me, I didn’t do shit, don’t smack me little fuckin bitch. Explain yourself, what the fuck is…” He trails off then, and brushes your nipple, making you scream out. “Fuck… shit… you’re sensitive, I noticed, and they’re even…”

“Oh my god.”

“Shit. Are you…” He looks up at you carefully, as you struggle to fight another wave of nausea, then he presses on your flat tummy, as you come to the most scary fucking thing you’ve ever though of. “Are you pregnant!?”

Shit.

A/N enjoy the cliffie *evil laughing* ahahahah

Chapter 11

[rrrrinmaru]

tease (sylus x mc)

wc: 4.4k rating: M (for violence) warnings: canon typical violence, blood mention, broken nose

“This isn’t a competition.” His voice is amused, lips pressed tightly together to mask the smile pulling at the corners. “And even if it were one, you’re not in the running.”

“Rude.” Sylus smiles this time, this smug look that makes your fingers itch. You want to wipe it off his face. “Everything’s a competition with you, don’t even pretend to hide it.”

He shrugs. One hand is draped over the inside of his thigh—his legs are spread, thick thighs far apart enough to accommodate your frame if you stand in between them. If you wanted to. If you could bear being that close to him without taking decisive action, like curling your fingers into a fist and jamming it into his pretty face. The other hand is laid out against the table.

His eyes are filled with lazy amusement. He always adopts that look around you, like you’re nothing more than a straggling kitten he picked up off the side of the street. 

“Sheathe your claws, dollface,” Sylus says. He tilts his head to the side and his heavy gaze traces over your form. “This isn’t a competition because you’re not competition.” He pauses, long enough for you to bristle and raise your hackles, then continues, “not yet, at least. Maybe in a few years. Months, if you work hard.”

“I could take you,” you say heatedly, uncaring of how severely outmatched you are. Yes, the man is a good couple centimeters taller than you (and by a couple, you mean a lot). Yes, his shoulders are twice as broad as yours. Yes, his palm is the size of your face and his calves are as thick as your thighs. But just because he’s built like a brick shithouse and then some doesn’t mean you can’t lay him flat out on his ass at least once in a fight.

“Some would argue that retreat is the better part of valor.” 

You scoff. “Some would argue you’re deflecting the question.”

Sylus hums. He drums his fingers idly on the table; the pads of his fingertips tap out a steady beat against the stained oak. “You seem to have quite a bit of wild energy inside you today. Do you need some help letting out some steam?”

“My fist, your face,” you retort. “My knee, your gut. What are you, scared?”

And here’s the thing—you think Sylus thinks he’s above petty provocation. Sylus thinks he’s more mature than someone who will give in to the fighting words of someone with the vocabulary of a kindergartener. Sylus thinks that he won’t sink to your level, or to anyone’s level, really, because he’s above everything.

All about the bird’s eye view, this man. What a lofty attitude. You kind of want to tear at him, from his feet to his knees to his hips, fingers grasping at his clothes to rip them apart as you clamber up the pedestal he’s put himself on. 

But deep down, you also think Sylus’ just a teensy, tiny, little bit competitive. It also helps that no one has had the balls to mouth off to him like you have. Part of the reason you manage to get such strong reactions out of him is because he’s unused to having someone who doesn’t instinctively defer to his authority around his person. 

So when you raise your eyebrows, smirk back at him in a sharp mirror of that smug grin clinging to his lips, saying words like ‘what are you, scared’, you can see the way his eye flashes. Crimson red, just for a breath, like a ruby gem that turned just so and caught the glint of the light—and then he’s up, pulling off the coat that he wears in that infuriatingly chuunibyou manner over his shoulders. 

“If you want to memorize the taste of concrete so badly, who am I to deny you? I am nothing but a good host,” he muses. 

“You think you’re so funny.” You roll your eyes at him, but when he clicks his tongue and stalks off to the nearest training room (read: one of the many rooms around his godforsaken maze of a mansion that is empty enough for Sylus to treat it as expendable), you follow behind him.

Electricity burns up and down your spine, like a volt snapping along the livewire of your back. 

Maybe you do have some energy you need to work out.

==

Again, the thing about Sylus is that he is… a small bit cocky. 

Depending on one’s perspective, he could also be seen as extremely cocky. He carries himself with the confidence of a man who has a well-decorated CV that precedes him. Just the name alone is enough to make people in the street scatter into the alleyways, choosing to avoid whatever hailstorm chases his ankles.

It’s not difficult to see why. With an Evol like that, Sylus is practically set up for greatness. 

It does, however, also mean that he underestimates you. 

“No Evol, or this wouldn’t even be a fight,” he says idly, reaching for a roll of hand wrap  he had squirreled away somewhere. He binds his fists quickly, the movements swift and practiced. The cloth circles his wrist, around his knuckles and palms, through his fingers—he pulls it taut, gaze focused as he tightens it around his wrist again. 

Must be a pain to have such big hands, you think, reaching for the other roll of hand wrap in the little cubby behind a light switch. The same roll of hand wrap would make it around your palm at least three or four more times than his. 

A wrapped wrist catches yours before you can unravel the roll. “Ah ah,” he murmurs, giving you a considering look. “Did I say you could touch that?”

You give him a blank stare. Sometimes, Sylus can be really irritating. 

“I’ll split my knuckles apart on your face if I have to,” you say indifferently, letting go of the roll of hand tape. 

“I didn’t say you had to ruin your pretty hands,” Sylus retorts immediately. He flips your hand around, palm face up as he grabs the roll of hand tape with his other hand and sets it in the centre of your palm. “Your manners?”

You scoff. “Please,” you say with as much disdain you can inject into your voice, “and thank you.”

Sylus lets go, a smile pulling at his lips. He may think he has an excellent poker face, but he wears satisfaction like a second skin. It sinks into his face, lighting up his eyes and lips, and you think you can see it scrawled all over his neck, shoulders and chest. 

You make quick work of the hand wraps. You bind your wrists and knuckles tight enough to give you that much needed support—your dainty wrists, as Sylus would say with a grin, as if it’s your fault your wrists aren’t as thick as a coke can like Sylus’ are—and you use up the remainder of the wrap around your wrist for extra security. 

It moves quickly after that. You rotate your wrists, testing the give of the wrap. Flexing your wrists gives you the same reaction—sturdy, firm wrists with well-padded knuckles that won’t burst apart upon first contact with the sharp lines of a face eyeing you from across the room. 

When you look up, Sylus’ gaze is still on you. He doesn’t even bother pretending to avert his gaze. There’s something in his gaze as he stares at you, as if he’s doing nothing more than looking at a possession. 

Yeah, you really want to punch that look off his face. And if he splits his lip, you think it might even be an improvement to his face. 

Upon meeting your gaze, he rolls his shoulders and brings his fists up. His stance is loose and he rocks back and forth, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

“Ladies first,” Sylus says, crooking his fingers at you. 

Sylus’ fighting style is always interesting to watch. There is a formality to his actions that have to be taught—the way he binds his wrists and knuckles is almost identical to the demonstration from the instructors who taught hand-to-hand combat when you were training to be a Hunter. His stance is almost an exact replica of the stance the instructors modeled for the class. 

And you’ve seen the way street rats fall into a brawl. You’ve seen the way they form a fist in the wrong way and how they mistakenly wrap their palms into mittens. They don’t even adopt a stance before they start swinging desperately at anything that moves, flinching at the nearest target. They throw their entire weight behind a punch and end up overbalancing, tipping into the arc of their fist. They stumble. They trip over their feet. Even the more experienced brawlers have a wilderness to their hits that one doesn’t get from formal training and sparring under supervision. 

But despite how formal his stance is, when he holds his fists up and makes a come hither motion, crooking two fingers at you, there is an air around him that students studying martial arts in a regulated environment would never have. 

There’s just something about Sylus that screams how he cut his teeth on other people. 

Or it might be how he’s the only one alive on this Earth that fights Wanderers with his fists. Even during Hunter training, even during the compulsory hand-to-hand combat lessons, the instructors never failed to impart to you the importance of using weapons where you can. Keep the Wanderers at a distance, however slight, if you can. Even if it’s nothing more than the range of a dagger, some distance is better than fighting so tightly up close that you can smell the stench of rot from them. 

Simply put, no one’s crazy enough to fight Wanderers with their bare hands. No one except Sylus, of course. 

“Don’t go easy on me,” you say briefly. Before he can respond, you dart forward to jab at his face. 

Your knuckles make painful contact with Sylus’ forearm. It sends a tremor through your hand—you almost want to accuse him of having undergone some kind of body modification because surely that is an exoskeleton, not bones that he somehow grew all by himself. 

There is a throbbing ache in your fingers, but the pain doesn’t faze you. You swing back into your old routine: jab, jab, upper cut, jab, left hook, jab—

The hits don’t always land. Sylus weaves through your swings with practised ease. It’s always either a defensive block or an evasion, the former more than the latter and you can hear him grunting from the force of your hits. A few blows even get him to let out a low gasp of air, and there are slivers of moments where he angles himself just right and you manage to peek through his arms to catch the slightly surprised look on his face. 

One upper cut gets close, your knuckles glancing off the side of his jaw because he didn’t manage to turn fast enough to avoid it. The hiss of air he sucks in is gratifying, a whistle through gritted teeth. What’s even better is how you take advantage of that situation to turn on your front foot, pivoting and slamming your shin into the side of his thigh. 

Sylus doesn’t curse out loud, but it’s a near thing. There’s another grunt, lower this time, accompanied by the sharp sound of another hiss of air as if he slammed his teeth together to stop the sounds escaping his mouth. 

His eye glows. Through the gap between his arms, his defensive guard he has up to block his face and chest, you see the way his eye pulses.

“No Evols,” you say breathlessly, your voice trembling from exertion as you back him into a corner. To be fair, when he’s not actively attacking you and sticking (rather infuriatingly) to a ‘defend-and-evade” maneuvre, the only direction he can go is backwards. So you back him up, further and further until he’s almost flush against the wall.

“I wasn’t going to use my Evol,” he pants. Exertion makes his voice low, his words interspaced by quick breaths. “Had your fun, kitten?”

You don’t deign that with a response. You swing a right upper cut and when he veers back to avoid it, you take full advantage of how he’s been slightly favoring his other side ever since you first slammed your shin into him. And if it ain’t broke, there’s no reason to fix it. 

So you swing again, leg bent as you drive it into his side. There’s a moment where you think your kick will land, but he catches your calf and kills your momentum with a twist of his body.

He looks at you, smug as all hell, and you turn your foot to brace it against his (again, infuriatingly) hard abdomen to use it as a platform. 

And he wouldn’t drop you, of course. Because he’s play fighting you, like a lioness does with her cubs—you can tell, because the scent of bloodlust radiating off him is next to none. It’s so faint you almost suspect this is nothing more than his base level of danger, a brutality that sits so at home in his bones that it follows him everywhere he goes. He isn’t fighting you, not really, for reasons you cannot fathom and you think you are better off not knowing, for the sake of your own sanity. 

With that knowledge in hand, you put your entire weight behind your foot and use it as a step, flying up towards his face. His arm is down, fingers wrapped around your calf. His guard isn’t up. Like this, he’s ripe for the taking.

There are a number of ways you could do this. Hands in his hair, ripping the strands out so viciously one would think you were trying to scalp him. Jamming your knee up into his face, breaking his pretty nose. Grabbing his head and forcing his face down to slam against your hipbone. Whatever you pick, you suspect it won’t end well for his face. 

For the briefest of moments, in the span of the flap of a hummingbird’s wings, you consider going easy.

And then you remember how he survived a gunshot point blank to the chest, how he insists on play fighting you even though you told him you could take him in a genuine fight, and you decide against it.

Stupid games will only win him stupid prizes, you think, as you sink your hands into his hair, fingers yanking so tightly around the strands that Sylus starts to wince, and you slam your knee into his face.

You can feel it. The crunch of cartilage under your knee, the way the muscle gives in and shifts, quite viscerally, to the side. The familiar feeling of a broken nose, the bridge shattered from the force of your hit—it’s been a while since you’ve put this much force behind your hits, and you’ve forgotten what’s a normal amount of force to use when friendly sparring with someone. 

Although, you’re not exactly friendly sparring with Sylus. 

To your surprise, however, even the sound of his nose breaking doesn’t mean Sylus lets go of your calf. He swears, voice hoarse from the blood spilling from his nose, but he doesn’t let go of you. 

“Fuck,” he groans, reaching up to prod at his face. “I haven’t had a broken nose in years.”

Quite right, considering he doesn’t let a living soul get within ten meters of him if they’re not you. “It’s an improvement,” you tell him candidly as you subtly try to wrench your leg out of his grasp. For someone who just had his nose broken, he’s surprisingly concerned with sliding his hand to your ankle, the pad of his thumb rubbing against the sharp jut of your bone. 

He tilts his head at you and gives you a droll look. As droll as one can look when fresh streams of crimson blood leak from his nose, two lines that trail down to his upper lip. His tongue darts out to skate across his skin, licking up the trail, and you can’t look away. 

You’re paralyzed, eyes drawn to the way he treats the wound so casually. You’re no stranger to a broken nose, and it hurts like a bitch. It’s a sharp pain that radiates all over your face for the first few minutes, until all you can feel is pain. Then it fades into a dull ache that still persistently lingers on your face and you end up looking like a fool while being in persistent, throbbing pain that doesn’t go away for days. 

“Let go of me,” you say, but your heart’s not really in it.

Sylus grins at you. The blood is slightly smudged, dripping down to his chin. It’s like someone took red paint and splashed it all over a white wall. The only blood you’ve ever seen strewn on his skin like this is other people’s blood and his own, from that first and only time you pointed a gun at a human. 

The first and only time you’ve shot a gun at a human. 

Point blank.

If you close your eyes, you think your breathing might fall into a specific breathing pattern. Caleb had told you about it once, when he came back from the Aerospace Academy and had just learnt how to fire a sniper rifle. Mandatory training, he had said, although he wouldn’t be the type of soldier to need to use it. No one carries a rifle in a fighter jet. 

Finger on the trigger, he had said. Breathe in, hold it, and breathe out. Slowly, so slowly that your heart almost tricks itself to think you’ve fallen asleep. And once your heart is steady, once your mind is clear, squeeze the trigger with the faintest of touches in between breaths. 

You didn’t have any of that when you shot Sylus, of course. That one was just right off the cuff. You don’t even know if you were thinking straight when you did it. As if you squeezed the trigger by accident, with a heart pounding like the paws of a rabbit hitting the ground as it escaped from a larger predator. 

This time, though, with Sylus looking at you, face bloodied and thumb still rubbing, distractingly, along your ankle, your foot pressed against the line of his abdomen—

You think your breathing is starting to slow. 

“You really do look good like this.” The words slip out before you can wrench them back where they came from. And then, as if realising how absurd that sounds, you add on, “aren’t you going to fix it?”

Sylus hums. His free hand comes up to wipe the blood dripping from his nose. It stains his thumb red, as red as his eyes, as red as the wine he tried to foist upon you before you somehow changed the topic to fighting and how you could take him in a fight. 

“If you think I look good like this, who am I to argue? Perhaps I’ll keep this look for a change.”

“... And strut around the N109 Zone with a broken nose?”

That makes him laugh. “Does it affect how menacing I look?”

His comment makes you relax, funnily enough. The tension in your body dissipates, and you put your fists down. The wild energy that made you challenge Sylus to a fight is gone, tamped down and tamed for the time being. 

As if noticing how you’ve relaxed, the hand on your leg finally leaves your ankle alone and slides up your calf. 

“It makes you look a little stupid,” you admit frankly. “The big bad crow of N109 will lose quite a bit of street cred if people see you walking around with a face like that.” All battered and bruised and bloody.

“Do you like it?”

There’s a knowing look in his gaze. It’s enough to make you huff, leaning forward to squeeze his cheeks together. His other hand darts up to catch your wrist before your fingers touch his cheek. 

“I’m not about to let you touch my face again,” he says mildly. “Who knows what you’ll do to it?”

“Fix it,” you retort, pretending like you didn’t intend to manhandle his face and cause him a second round of excruciating pain. “Clean up your broken nose.”

“Or what? You’ll break it again?”

He teases you like you’re a feral kitten in a cage and he’s sticking a finger in just to see what you’ll do with it. Like he’s not afraid to get mauled, or perhaps he thinks you’re so tiny that your claws won’t be able to do much damage to him. 

There’s an air about him that suggests he’s only allowing you to do these things because he finds them entertaining. That he allows you to mouth off at him, that he allows you to slam your knee into his face, that he allows you to break his nose. As if you didn’t do that all on your own. 

“Maybe.” You shrug callously. You’ve finally managed to free your leg from his grasp, and you somewhat stumble back into an upright position with both feet firmly on the ground. “I told you I could take you. If you insist on underestimating me, or playing nice with me, you’ll end up with a few more broken bones, I’d reckon.”

“Hm.” His gaze scans your face, then quickly drops to your knee, as if he’s fully appreciating the weapon that slammed into his face. “I’ll admit, I haven’t seen a move like that before. You took me by surprise.”

When he locks eyes with you again, his look is appraising. “I’m impressed. You do know how to fight.”

By now, the blood has trickled to a stop. The stains on his face are fresh, though, and you feel this urge to reach up and press your fingers over it, to properly rub it into his skin. 

The first indelible mark you’ve left on him. Even if he fixes his nose, even if he manages to make it look like your knee had not gone anywhere near his face to begin with, you’ll know. He’ll know. 

Almost as if you’ve branded him with a secret just the two of you carry. Red hot and burning, spilling down the curve of his his Cupid’s Bow like an overturned wine glass. 

“You went easy on me,” you say eventually, dragging your gaze away from his nose with much difficulty. “Clean yourself up. I mean it. I don’t want to hear news from the N109 Zone about the leader of Onychinus walking around with a broken nose. It’ll mean more paperwork for me when the higher ups demand an investigation into who, or what, could have left such a visible injury on you.” 

“I won’t go easy on you next time,” he murmurs, blinking slowly as he stares at you. Tendrils of energy sneak up his chest, red and black swirling around his neck and flaring up his face. For a moment, you lose sight of his facial features. It’s just a thick, surging ball of energy that crawls up his body like flames licking at cloth.

When it clears, his nose is back in place. His features are back to that unfairly symmetrical build, so classically handsome that you immediately want to draw your hand back to punch him again, just to mess it up a little. 

His hair is still a mess, though, from when you sunk your fingers into it. It’s nowhere near his usual coiffed look, or what some might call artfully tousled. He really just looks like someone had their fingers tangled in the strands and pulled hard enough to make it disheveled. 

And the blood is still on his face. Twin trails to his mouth, over his lips, and down his chin. It draws your eyes to his mouth, the shape of it, the half-moon lips and how the tip of his tongue runs along the seam. 

You think of his messy hair, and you think of his mouth. You think of your hands sinking into his hair for a different reason altogether, and his mouth pressed up against a drenched hole begging to be filled by something clever. Fingers or a tongue, it isn’t picky. 

Once you’re thinking about this, the arousal hits you like a trainwreck. Now you’re the overturned wine glass, arousal pooling in your gut and spilling into your veins so quickly you almost stumble. His low voice, the way he licked the blood off his upper lip, the caress of his thumb against your ankle, the insistent way he held your foot even as he stood there, blood all over his face—

You look down, almost instinctively, a knee-jerk reaction when arousal floods your system so potently it makes you dizzy, and what you see just makes the heat spike in your body. 

“What?” Sylus’ voice is lazy. When you briefly glance up, his gaze is knowing as he stares you down. He leans back enough to brace his upper back against the wall behind him, and his knees shift imperceptibly wider. You wouldn’t have noticed the shift in his stance if you weren’t looking.

But you were. You were staring, 

So when Sylus speaks in that tone that barely hides a smile, you know he knows. 

“See something you like?” 

Your mouth is dry. Again, with those spread thighs. Just enough space to fit you, if you bothered to go between them. More than enough space if you decided to go on your knees. 

“I was the one who won that fight,” you point out. If your voice is a little hoarse, Sylus is magnanimous enough not to call attention to it.

He hums, seemingly deep in thought. “And so you did,” he says, brows raised in feigned surprise. “Would you like a reward?”

Something inside you throbs. It’s a hunger that sparks and spirals until it’s a flame eating through your veins. You shift your weight from one foot to another, unconsciously fidgeting on the spot. 

“I would,” you say eventually, tilting your head to the door. “Should we unwrap our hands first, or…?”

The grin Sylus gives you is filthy. “I won’t need my hands for what I’m about to do,” he says in a silky voice, and jerks his head at the wall. “Get up against the wall, sweetie. You won’t need your hands either.”

If you almost stumble in your haste to get your back pressed up against the wall, Sylus is again generous enough to not mention it.

==

© rrrrinmaru 2024 | no unauthorised publication or reproduction allowed

a/n:

reader: i could take you

sylus: in a fight?

reader: :)

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Vienna. Two.

you want to shake him, scream at him, bare your heart to him. you don’t dare. not yet, anyway. you don’t know how to feel - and carmen doesn’t either.

pairing - childhood bestfriend!carmen berzatto x female reader

warnings - cursing.

word count - 2k

authors note - part two, baby! I hope you can start to understand their dynamic here - they’re like magnets. they’re a perfect match until they’re not. this is going to be fun… <3

part one. series masterlist. masterlist. inbox.

Everything is the same. Nothing has changed. Everything has changed. Nothing is the same.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

“We haven’t done this in a while, huh?”

You shake your head as you adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder, taking a moment to look Carmen up and down.

He’s dressed up just for you, even attempted to style his hair. He’s wearing trousers and a linen shirt, loafers on his feet instead of the usual beat up sneakers. His jacket is slung over his arm, rings adorning his fingers. He looks handsome.

Although, admittedly, he always looks handsome to you. You’re not blind to the way girls look at him, how they looked at him when you were growing up. He’s always had this unassuming charm, this subtle, quiet beauty. He’s got striking features. Strong jaw, sloping nose, unruly curls.

He was always a skinny, lanky kid. Limbs too big for his body. He had a habit of tripping over his own feet, making both of you laugh no matter how many times it happened.

Now, he’s grown into himself. He looks strong. Broad shoulders, thick biceps, prominent thighs. He’s toned, muscled, built slightly like some sort of Greek God.

The realisation hits you all of a sudden, standing outside of The Bear. It takes you off your feet a little, causing you to sway sideways and into Carmy. His arm wraps around your hip as if by reflex, warmth from his palm bleeding through into the material of your dress. His cologne is woody and musky, and you know if you stand close enough to him for long enough that you’ll smell like it too.

“I’ve never had to do this,” he murmurs, breaking you out of your daydream. “Get seated at my own damn restaurant.”

You chuckle, fixing a stray curl that’s fallen into his eyes with gentle fingers.

“You ready? We’ve been stood here for like ten minutes, Carm. It’s kinda cold.”

You think that maybe this is all a little overwhelming for him, so you’re letting him take all the time he needs. He’s about to eat in his restaurant, the place he’s poured his heart and soul and savings into.

He nods, and you link your cold fingers with his warm ones at your side.

“Relax, Carm. Tonight is going to be incredible, alright? Just you, me, and some damn good food. We’ll be yapping each others ears off soon enough, and you won’t even be thinking about the service, or what’s happening in the kitchen.”

“You’re right,” he mumbles, squeezing your hand. “Just you and me.”

“The way it’s always been.”

You smile, and the smile you receive back is enough to light up your bones.

“Let’s fucking do this.”

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Richie seats you at the back of the restaurant, tucked away just out of sight. You’re grateful for the cover, and for the fact that Carmy can’t see into the kitchen.

“You nervous about them doing a night on their own, or about having dinner with me?”

His bright blue eyes snap up to meet yours, head tilting in confusion.

“Nervous?”

“You’re shaking the entire table with your knee, Carmen. I think you might be shaking the entire restaurant, actually.”

You reach out under the tablecloth to place a hand on his leg, his jitters stopping instantly.

“Sorry. Fuck, sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.”

“I need to chill the fuck out.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to be the one to say it.”

He laughs, then. Loudly. So loudly that Richie spins around to look at the two of you, fighting a smile as he does it. He hasn’t heard that sound coming from Carmy in a long time.

“Okay, okay. I’m relaxed, I swear. Sorry. It’s just, uh… a lot to process, I guess.”

“I get it. Just remember that I’m in the exact same position as you are, alright? I mean, I’m not about to eat dinner in my restaurant, but you get my point.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. Sorry.”

“I haven’t heard you apologise this much since I had to get stitches in fifth grade.”

“Oh, shit. Don’t remind me of that, please.”

It’s your turn to laugh now, your entire being lighting up with it.

“I have never seen you look so guilty in my life, Carm. Thought you were gonna cry every time you saw me.”

“Stop,” he groans. “I felt so bad. It was all my fault, and there was so much blood.”

“You didn’t know I was gonna hit my head.”

“Yeah, but I used to forget that I was stronger than you. Especially when I started growing taller.”

“When did that happen? You got taller?”

“You’re such a bitch,” he laughs, kicking your shin under the table.

“Careful, Carm. That might need stitches.”

“I hate you,” he all but yells, beaming grin plastered across his face. “Shut up and decide what you want to drink.”

You pretend to look at the menu, eyes scanning across it.

“This is hard to read.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s a terrible choice of font, Carmen. There’s no way anyone older than sixty is deciphering this.”

He snatches it from your hand, studying it carefully. After a moment of silence, he speaks.

“Fine. It might be a bit difficult to read.”

You feign passing out, sagging back in your chair like an award winning actress.

“You’re apologising, you’re telling me I’m right… who are you, and what have you done with Carmen Berzatto?”

He laughs again, still loud and real. What a joy, to make your best friend throw his head back in amusement after all this time.

“It’s fine. I’ll just get you to redo them.”

“Oh, you will, will you?”

“Of course. It’s your speciality, and it means there’ll be a piece of you in the restaurant too.”

You think about it for a second, holding his gaze.

“Fine. But only if you ask me nicely.”

“Vienna,” he begins, grabbing your hand across the table. “Will you please do me the honour of designing me some new menus?”

“Carm,” you grin, squeezing his fingers. “I would love to. It’d be my pleasure, in fact.”

“Perfect.”

Richie appears, then, smiling like he knows something you don’t.

“Drinks, kids?”

“Two waters, and two wines that’ll go best with dinner, Cousin.”

You nod in agreement, winking at Richie.

“You got it, Boss.”

When he leaves, you turn to Carmen.

“You guys are… good? You and Richie?”

He looks a little taken aback by your question. Bristled, almost.

“Yeah, uh - yeah, we’re… fine. We’re good. Yeah.”

“Sounds it.”

Another kick meets your shin under the table.

“Fuck you, Berzatto. Those fancy leather shoes hurt.”

“I hate when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look at me like you’re reading my mind. It’s annoying.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Real mature, Vi. Real mature.”

Richie appears seemingly out of thin air, placing your drinks on the table. He still has that look on his face.

“Food won’t be long, besties.”

“Besties,” you laugh, shaking your head. “Haven’t heard that in a while.”

“That’s what you always were! The Besties. Honestly, I was always a little jealous. I asked Mikey if we could have a cool nickname for our friendship, but he fuckin’ refused. Asshole.”

The offhand mention of Michael hits you like a punch to the stomach, solid and unflinching. It still makes you want to cry, even after all this time.

“You were always Mikey and Cousin,” you tease, hoping they can’t hear the shake in your voice. “A world famous double act. Never one without the other.”

Richie laughs as he walks away, which in turn makes you smile. He always laughs so wholeheartedly, so fully. It lights up a room.

“I don’t know who’s happier that you’re back - me or him.”

“Oh, definitely him.”

Carmy shakes his head as he chuckles.

“I don’t know about that,” he says quietly, after a minute. “I missed you like hell, Vi.”

“I missed you too,” you murmur, linking your fingers with his atop the table. “I wish you’d answered the phone more.”

“I know. I know. I, uh… I guess I just… I didn’t think you could ever miss me as much as I was missing you.”

“That’s not true,” you whisper, brows furrowed. “That’s not true at all, Carmen. You’d know that if you called. You could have asked, and I would have answered.”

“Yeah, well. Didn’t wanna bother you, I guess.”

“You being my friend isn’t you bothering me, Carm. It’s the exact opposite. That’s kind of the point.”

“Too late now.”

You drop his hand, withdrawing yours into your lap.

“Yeah, it is. Because you were my best friend, and then all of a sudden it was like you didn’t exist. Do you understand that?”

“I thought it would be better-”

“If I lost you and Michael? Because that’s what it fucking felt like, Carmen. He died, and you were gone. Actually, you were gone long before he died, which somehow was worse.”

He doesn’t know what to say - it’s written all over his face. You don’t break his gaze as you sit across from him, the rest of the restaurant unaware of the heated conversation you’re in the middle of.

Richie brings your first course over in silence, as if he’s sensed the change in mood. He places both of your plates down, squeezing your shoulder gently as he walks away.

“You know you’re allowed to love more than one thing, right? You don’t have to choose between food and me, or between food and your family. You never had to choose. No one ever expected you to,” you take a deep breath, exhaling carefully. “And yet, for some reason, you made yourself believe that you did. And you chose food. And I got left in the dark. We all did.”

He goes to speak, but you cut him off before he can.

“There is nothing you can say right now that isn’t going to piss me off. So don’t try.”

You pick up your fork and begin to eat, trying to focus on the food. It’s delicious, admittedly. Not something you’d usually order, but clearly very carefully crafted. When you’ve finished, you look up at Carmy to find him already watching you.

“How was it?”

You consider it for a moment, making him wait.

“It was beautiful.”

Some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He values your opinion so much, even if he’d never admit it. His brother used to tease him about it, his constant need for your approval. Even as kids.

He nods, not wanting to step over the line again.

“I don’t want to spend tonight fighting with you, Carmen. We can do that some other time.”

“Can we talk about this properly, though? Later, or tomorrow, or something?”

You chew your lip, tasting slight vanilla from your lip balm.

“Yeah. I think we need to. It’s long overdue.”

“Okay,” he breathes. “Yeah. Later. Or tomorrow, or something.”

“Yeah.”

You sit in the silence for a minute, listening to the noise from the restaurant.

“So come on, Carm. Tell me about what’s on this menu tonight.”

He launches into a language you barely understand, but you listen intently anyway. Flavour palettes, texture combinations, acidity and sweetness. You take all of it in, watching the way he lights up with every word.

You wonder if maybe he did make the right choice. Choosing food, instead of you.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Everything is the same. Nothing has changed. Everything has changed. Nothing is the same.

@agirlcandream84 @diorrfairy @raging-panda @melancholicmelanin @nolita-fairytale @jacxx2 @huang-the-geek @2guysonascooter @stxxllaaa @an0nym1ss @thereisnoowl @amataadriana @dreamingofleon @gabbycoady13 @stilinskisensation @prongsprincessworld @arieltwvdtohamflash @clairesjointshurt @gnocchisworld @buzzcutlip

[blackenedsnow]

Hello! Feel free to ignore this if you can't or wouldn't like to write it!

If it's not any trouble, could I request an Arthur Morgan x Asexual!Reader thing (one shot or headcanons, whatever fits better and/or is easier!), where there's like, mutual pining, but the reader speaks about their aversion to sex and lack of that sort of attraction, and how they think they're just never gonna have a meaningful romantic relationship because of this? Been feeling discouraged and sad about this, so yeah lmao.

And if the reader could be buff, it'd be awesome (no, I am not buff yet, but I will use this as inspiration to get there lol.

Anyways, tysm for taking the time to read this! Have a lovely day/night/afternoon!

heart stronger than flesh

WARNING: None

PAIRING: Arthur Morgan x Asexual! Reader

NOTE: I hope this gave you the encouragement you were looking for! Arthur's got your back, and so do I. You're going to reach those buff goals, one step at a time. Stay strong and know you're worthy of all the love and care in the world! Thank you so much for requesting this. Remember that love comes in many forms, and you deserve it as you are.

SUMMARY: Arthur has always admired you—your strength, your sharp wit, the way you stand tall in the middle of this messy world. He knows there’s something unspoken between you two, but neither of you has dared to name it. That is, until one evening when you finally confront your fears about the future.

The camp was quiet tonight, only the crackling of the fire filling the air as the rest of the gang slowly drifted off to sleep. You sat a little ways from the fire, resting on a fallen log, your muscles tense from the long day. Arthur sat nearby, the warmth of the firelight casting flickering shadows over his face as he quietly cleaned his gun. His usual frown softened whenever his eyes flickered your way, though he was trying to act like he wasn’t paying too much attention to you.

It had been this way for a while now. The unspoken tension between you two simmered just beneath the surface—an unacknowledged pining that neither of you knew how to handle. You weren’t blind to how he looked at you, especially after all the times you’d ridden into town together, his eyes lingering on the way your biceps flexed when you pulled the reins. He was always good at keeping it hidden, though, his cowboy façade of stoicism remaining intact. But tonight felt different. He kept glancing over at you more often than usual, his jaw clenched a little tighter.

You sighed and stretched your arms above your head, feeling your muscles strain under your skin. Even in the dim light, your physique was obvious—strong arms and broad shoulders earned through days of hard work and rough living. You were proud of the strength you'd built, but something else gnawed at you. The weight in your chest wasn’t from exhaustion.

You tried to brush the thought aside, but it came creeping back, like it always did.

Arthur noticed the shift in your expression. He finally broke the silence, his voice low and gravelly. “You alright?”

You hesitated, your fingers idly picking at the worn fabric of your pants. “Yeah. Just… got a lot on my mind, I guess.”

He nodded, putting down his gun and giving you his full attention now. He was quiet for a moment, waiting for you to speak. His eyes were soft, his usual guarded expression slipping as he looked at you with concern.

You shifted on the log, feeling the words at the back of your throat, but they were hard to spit out. How could you explain it? You weren’t shy about being tough, about fighting back against the world, but this? This was something different. Something more vulnerable.

“Arthur…” you started, not looking at him directly. “You ever… feel like you're not ever gonna have what other folks have? Like, love… romance?” You paused, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten. “I mean, I see people, how they are with each other. But for me… I don’t feel the same way they do.”

Arthur frowned slightly, not sure where you were going with this yet. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed hard, your hands tightening into fists in your lap. “I don’t… I don’t want the same things as most people. I don’t want—” You stopped, heart pounding, before forcing yourself to continue. “I don’t want sex, Arthur. I never have. Never felt that way. And it makes me feel like… like I'm gonna be enough. Not for anyone.”

Arthur was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on you, but there was no judgment in his eyes. Just understanding, like he was listening to every word you said with more focus than he gave most things in this world.

You let out a shaky breath. “I’ve been thinkin’ about it for a while now. About... us. I know there’s… something between us, but I’m scared it’ll never work because I can’t give you what most people expect in a relationship. Hell, I don’t even know if it’s fair to you.”

Arthur finally spoke, his voice low and calm. “You really think that’s all there is to love? To wantin’ someone?”

You blinked at him, surprised by his question.

“I’m serious,” he said, shifting forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as he leaned toward you. “You think I’m with you—care about you—just ‘cause of what I could get outta you physically?” He shook his head. “It ain’t like that. Not for me.”

You stared at him, unsure of what to say.

“I don’t care about that,” he continued. “Hell, I’ve been around enough folks to know what really matters. I care about *you*. I care about the way you carry yourself, the way you look after the people you care about, the way you get stronger every damn day.” His eyes softened even more. “You think I ain’t noticed how damn strong you’ve gotten, how you keep pushin’ yourself?”

Your heart skipped a beat as he spoke, and a warmth spread through your chest at his words. You had always prided yourself on your strength, but hearing it from him—hearing how he noticed and appreciated it—meant more than you could have expected.

“I’ve felt it too,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “Somethin’ between us. I ain’t gonna pretend I know all the answers, but I know I care about you. And I don’t need anything else but you by my side.”

It was hard with the weight of your fears crashing into the relief his words brought.

Arthur, ever perceptive, reached out slowly, placing a calloused hand on your knee. It was a gentle touch—so different from the hardened man you were used to seeing in him.

“I ain’t here to push you,” he said softly. “You don’t ever have to be anything you’re not. I don’t expect you to change, and I sure as hell don’t think you’re any less for feelin’ the way you do.” He hesitated, squeezing your knee gently. “You’re more than enough. I promise you that.”

You let out a shaky laugh, wiping your eyes quickly. “Arthur, I… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t gotta say anything,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “Just know that you mean somethin’ to me. And I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

For the first time in a long while, the tight knot in your chest started to loosen. You weren’t used to feeling this kind of reassurance, and yet, here was Arthur Morgan—someone as rough as the life you both led—telling you that you were enough just as you were.

You looked down at his hand on your knee, then back up into his eyes. “Thank you,” you whispered.

He smiled—just a small, fleeting thing, but it was real. “Anytime.”

The two of you sat there for a while longer, the fire crackling softly beside you, the night quiet and peaceful for once. And in that stillness, you felt a sense of calm settle in your bones.

You were strong—physically and emotionally. And with Arthur by your side, maybe you didn’t have to carry that weight alone.

[chvoswxtch]

we got a problem

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: you discover a shocking revelation about who's behind the defenders of freedom.

warnings: swearing, angst, mentions of guns & violence

word count: 4k

a/n: this chapter is a little on the shorter side, but it does contain a huge bombshell. ;) as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

[previous chapter] | [next chapter] | [series masterlist]

If someone had told you six months ago that you would be going shopping with Frank Castle, you would’ve done more than laugh maniacally; you would’ve recommended that they get a psychological evaluation. Hell, even seventy-two hours ago you wouldn’t have believed it. But here you were, in the women’s section, sifting through hangers and stacks of clothing with Frank following you closer than your own shadow, listening to his quiet grunts of irreverence and faint hums of approval when your fingers wandered over different items.

“I don’t get what the big deal is ‘bout this place. It’s just a store.”

All at once, your palm paused over a dark blue pair of jeans, and you looked up at Frank in a mock expression of horror while clutching your hand over your chest. 

“Target isn’t just a store, Frank. It’s a way of life. And we happen to be in a Super Target, which means not only do they have literally everything you could ever want, but there’s a built-in makeup store and a Starbucks.”

Frank rolled his eyes in exasperation and grumbled under his breath as he lifted the white grande cup up on cue, which looked comically tiny in his large hand, and brought it up to his lips to take a sip of the black coffee he had gotten.

“Yeah, don’t remind me I paid seven fuckin’ dollars for one goddamn cup of coffee.”

“Technically you paid eighteen because you were kind enough to buy my iced latte.”

“Is it even still a latte when you ask for fifteen extra fuckin’ shots of espresso?”

Narrowing your eyes slightly, you arched one of your brows and placed your hands on your hips while looking up at Frank. 

“I asked for two extra shots-“

“When it already came with four-“

“I don’t need to explain my caffeine intake to you. Now, if you’re finished with your interrogation, can you tell me how long we plan to be on the run for?”

A slight crease nestled between Frank’s brows while his features twisted into a look of incomprehension. Shoving one of his large hands into his jean pocket, he pursed his lips slightly in conjunction with shrugging his broad shoulders.

“However long it takes to figure out who’s behind this shit.”

“And…exactly how many outfits and tubes of toothpaste does that translate into?”

“Just get whatever ya want.”

Pinching at the bridge of your nose, you inhaled deeply and let out a slow breath before crossing your arms over your chest and staring up at Frank. 

“I don’t know how much you think journalists make, but I can’t exactly-“

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, I’m buyin’.”

Those words were certainly not what you were expecting to come from Frank’s mouth, and the shock was evident on your features. While you stared up at him, completely stunned, Frank gave a light shake of his head with a miniscule charming smile and took another sip of his coffee.

“You can’t use any of your credit cards. They could be trackin’ your bank accounts to figure out where you are.”

“I could pull out-“

“You use an ATM to get cash, they’ll know which one you pulled it from, and that gives ‘em a location. As far as they know, you’re dead somewhere. The longer they think that, the more time we got to figure this shit out.”

“Frank-“

“Just put the goddamn stuff in the cart, and finish your liquid heart attack. We got shit to do.”

Realizing that Frank was serious about his offer, a part of you felt guilty for all the items currently in your cart. You weren’t high maintenance by any means-okay maybe a little, but a girl has needs. You couldn’t get by with three shirts, two pairs of jeans, and a three in one bath product like Frank could. 

On the other hand, you were curious to see exactly how much you could get away with, and the urge to press his buttons was oh so tempting. A devious grin stretched slowly across your lips, and Frank narrowed his eyes at you in suspicion when he noticed the mischievous twinkle in your gaze.

“Well, if you insist.”

Dropping the jeans into the cart with a satisfied smirk, you pushed the cart over towards the makeup section in the middle of the store and could hear a disgruntled Frank muttering an ‘aw hell’ under his breath as he followed right behind you, much to your amusement, which caused laughter to bubble up from your chest. 

Shopping with Frank was your new favorite activity.

»»———　　———««

“How them sheets feel?”

A faint smirk curled at the edge of your mouth as you glanced at Frank over your shoulder from where you were laying on your stomach on one of the comfortable beds. He had managed to find a decent hotel outside the city, and got a room with two beds much to your disappointment, but anything was an upgrade compared to the seedy motel the two of you had camped out in the previous night.

“Like clouds.”

Frank raised one of his dark brows in silent amusement while looking over at you from his spot at the desk by the window. He let out a quiet grunt in response before his features morphed back in pure concentration while he averted his gaze back down to the gun he was currently cleaning. For a moment you completely forgot what you were doing and just watched him, completely mesmerized. His large hands moved methodically, but so fluidly as he cleaned each piece and re-assembled the weapon, like it was second nature and something he could probably do with ease in his sleep. The way his fingers were gliding over the pieces had your mind suddenly wandering to what else Frank’s hands might be good at. 

“Find anythin’ yet?”

Frank’s gruff voice tore you out of your impure thoughts, and your cheeks burned with heat realizing you had spent the past three minutes gawking at him. Clearing your throat, you turned your attention back to the documents in front of you, willing the black and white text to come back into focus as you found the paragraph you had left off on.

“Um…it seems like all the permits and the deed for the land are registered to a company called Fortis Allied. I can’t find a name attached to it, but all the paperwork is fairly recent. Everything looks like it was filed within the last year.”

“You say fortis? Like f-o-r-t-i-s?”

“Does that ring a bell for you?”

“It’s Latin.”

Scrunching up your brows, you turned your head to look at Frank again in a mixture of puzzlement and surprise.

“You know Latin?”

Frank had leaned back in the chair he was sitting in, his legs spread slightly making his lap look like an extremely comfortable and inviting seat. He held onto the handle of the gun in one hand and the rag he had been using to clean the pieces in the other, his dark brows knit as he stared over at you with his eyes squinted slightly in curiosity, like he was deep in thought about something.

“Marines’ got a motto, Semper Fidelis. It’s Latin, means always faithful. Navy’s got one kinda similar; Semper Fortis.”

Frank clicked his tongue against his cheek as he let out a dry and humorless scoff that only fueled your confusion further.

“And why is that funny?”

“Cause it means always courageous. And if these are the assholes we think they are, that’s pretty goddamn ironic.”

Staring down at the slew of papers spread on the bed in front before you, Frank’s Latin lesson presented more questions than it answered, and your lips pursed slightly.

“Defenders of Freedom and Courageous Allied. Their creativity is astounding.”

Frank snickered quietly behind you hearing the dry sarcasm seeping from your voice. Letting out a sigh of frustration, you reached for your phone that was charging on the nightstand. It had been dead for the past seventy-two hours, and as soon as it turned on, you had an overwhelming amount of missed calls and texts from people who thought you were either missing or dead, or both. About eighty percent of the missed calls and frantic voicemails were from Ellison, but to your surprise, there were quite a few missed calls and texts from Billy as well.

You had made sure to turn off your location so that your phone couldn’t be tracked, and Frank had been adamant about you shutting off your imessage. Deciding you had raised your boss’ blood pressure enough for three days, you sat up cross legged on the bed and grabbed one of the paper’s from the bed that had all the company’s information on it.

“I’m gonna call Ellison and see-”

“No.”

Looking over at Frank in surprise, you let out a quiet scoff of incredulity. 

“Frank, I have to tell him I’m alive. And he can help us-”

“The less people know you’re alive right now, the better. I told you, we can’t trust nobody right now.”

Dragging your palm down your face slowly in irritation, you shook your head in a show of defiance.

“I’m pretty sure my boss isn’t one of the people trying to kill me-”

“You don’t know that-”

“Yes Frank, I do. Ellison is practically the closest thing to family I have in this city, and considering that his best friend, and my mentor, was murdered by Wilson Fisk, I can say with absolute certainty that he is not involved in this shit.”

Frank’s hardened features softened slightly hearing the slight twinge of grief that resonated in your tone, and he was looking at you with those big brown puppy dog eyes of his that normally made your knees weak. But right now that infatuating sight was no match for the heaviness of guilt that filled your entire rib cage like raw cement every time you thought about Ben. 

You swallowed the pebble that threatened to swell into a boulder in your throat and stared down at your phone screen, your thumb hovering over Ellison’s contact.

“Fisk was never charged with murder.”

Frank’s voice sounded almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should be saying that, but it was clear he was looking for an explanation behind your accusation, even though he wasn’t outright asking. It was almost eerie how he always seemed to know when to explicitly ask you something, and when to craft an open invitation to let you come to him.

“Ben was writing a story about him. He was going to expose him for who he really was. He got too close, and Fisk killed him for it. He broke into his home and strangled him to death, but he didn’t leave any fingerprints or evidence, and his hard drive was wiped clean. Ben’s d-his case is still considered an unsolved homicide.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Frank slowly stand up from the chair he was sitting in. He tentatively took a few steps towards you and sat down on the edge of the bed next to you, his eyes searching your avoidant gaze.

“What makes you so sure that’s what happened though?”

“Because I pushed him into doing the story.”

The way your voice slightly broke off towards the end of your sentence broke Frank’s heart. The remorse you felt was evident as it rose along your waterline.

“He didn’t wanna do the story. He told me to let it go, and I didn’t. If I had just left it alone-”

Frank wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you in closer towards him, cradling your head against his chest as he held you close and kept his voice soft.

“Hey, hey…don’t do that. Don’t put that on yourself. Whatever happened, it ain’t your fault, you got that? Don’t take the blame for somethin’ that someone else did. He did the story cause he knew you were right, yeah? He believed in you, sweetheart. And that piece of shit Fisk is rottin’ in prison where he belongs, gettin’ exactly what he’s got comin’ to ‘em, trust me.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head as he slowly carded his fingers through your hair in an attempt to soothe you. 

“I just feel like it’s all my fault. Like I…I could’ve prevented it.”

For a moment Frank was silent. Eventually he let out a heavy exhale through his large nose and gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“I know.”

The deafted way he spoke those two words made it sound like Frank was telling you that he knew exactly what you were feeling, and an ominous thought crossed your mind as you found yourself wondering if he felt that way about his wife’s death. 

He let go of your head and reached into his pocket, pulling out the burner phone that he used. Frank handed the flip phone to you, and you lifted your head to stare up at him curiously. 

“Let ‘em know you’re alright, but make sure he knows it’s important no one else knows nothin’ ‘bout you, yeah?”

“You can trust him, Frank. He’ll help us.”

»»———　　———««

Forty five minutes later, you managed to calm an absolutely hysterical and pissed off Ellison, changed his mind about firing you once you were no longer considered missing/dead, and caught him up on everything that had happened since the night you were attacked three days ago. He agreed to help you and Frank do some digging into the company listed on the permits for the warehouse that burnt down, and in addition to emailing you everything he could find about the company, he also sent you copies of the reports on the two men that had attacked you.

“You were right.”

Frank’s head instantly snapped over in your direction, and his thick brows rose up his forehead slightly in bewilderment.

“‘Scuse me?”

“Cavella and Walker were in the Navy.”

Holding out your phone for Frank to see, you showed him the article you were currently reading on your phone that had a picture of the two men in their Naval uniform. Frank seemed to completely ignore your comment and was looking at you instead of the screen.

“You mind repeatin’ that?”

“I said Cav-”

“Nah, what you said before that ‘bout me bein’ right.”

As you caught the delighted smirk that tugged at the edge of Frank’s mouth, you rolled your eyes playfully and shook your head with a soft laugh, returning your attention to the article.

“Shut up, I tell you when you’re right.”

“Yeah, only after I gotta fix that bratty attitude of yours. The other ninety nine percent of the time, you gotta fight with me ‘bout every goddamn little thing.”

“Don’t be so fun to argue with, and I’ll stop.”

Lighty shrugging your shoulders with a faint mischievous grin on your lips, Frank shook his head and let out a dry scoff in response.

“Ya’know, you remind me of another hot-headed smartass I know.”

“Your other favorite person?”

“He’s the fuckin’ Devil, and a goddamn pain in my ass. Hell of a lawyer, though. You oughta think ‘bout switchin’ professions and arguin’ for a livin’. Think you could give even him a run for his money.”

For some reason that made you laugh loudly. The kind of carefree laugh where you throw your head back like a little kid, eyes crinkling, stomach aching with pure joy. Frank was the first person to make you laugh like that in a long time.

“I’m perfectly happy where I’m at. Besides, I’m pretty sure I would be disbarred within the first hour. I don’t think you’re allowed to tell the opposing court to go fuck themselves when they say something out of pocket.”

“Pretty sure you ain’t allowed to throw shit at ‘em either.”

Turning your head to glare playfully over at Frank, he returned it instantly with a challenging arch of his dark brow. You couldn’t fight the grin that slowly stretched across your lips seeing the faux serious look on his face.

“I threw a pillow at you.”

“Two pillows. Hard as hell, too.”

“I had no idea you were so sensitive.”

“I’m fuckin’ delicate, goddamn it.”

The mock expression of offense on Frank’s face coupled with the serious tone of his voice made you double over with laughter. He couldn’t seem to keep his composure either, and he began to laugh along with you. Shaking your head slowly, you waved your hand at him dismissively and turned your attention back to your phone.

“Okay, I’m trying to solve a case here. Stop distracting me. I have more than two pillows in my arsenal right now.”

“That a threat?”

“It’s a promise, Castle.”

“I had no idea you were so ruthless.”

Frank grumbled quietly under his breath as he looked through the stack of papers with the ghost of a smile on his lips while you softly laughed, his dark eyes scanning the pages for anything either of you might have missed. 

As you looked through the documents Ellison had emailed you about Fortis Allied, perplexity creased in the middle of your forehead the more you looked through each page.

“It’s not a real company.”

“What?”

“Fortis Allied. It’s…it’s like a shell company. It’s just a front. And it’s owned by…”

As you read the signature on one of the forms you were looking at, your confusion melted into an expression of cognizance. Enlarging the signature, you turned to show your screen to Frank, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he read the letters, before his face shifted into a look of indignation.

“Son of a bitch.”

Owned and operated by Nicolas Cavella.

Before either of you could say anything, Frank’s phone started to ring. He glanced down at and read the name flashing across the screen, giving you a quick glance before flipping it open to answer.

“Yeah?”

He stood up and walked over towards the window, leaning against the wall with his back to you. Curiosity got the better of you, and your eyes fixated on him as you watched him intently.

“Been takin’ care of somethin’. What do ya need?” His voice sounded a little rougher than usual, and you caught the way he tensed slightly and watched as his eyes flickered over at you over his shoulder. You arched one of your brows silently, as if asking him who he was talking to and what was going on.

“Yeah…I know. Cause I turned ‘em off. You know why, Bill. Yeah, she’s fine.”

Billy.

It abruptly dawned on you that you weren’t sure if Frank had told Billy what happened. He was technically supposed to be with Steven right now. Where did Billy think Frank was? What had Frank told him? Why wasn’t Frank letting him help?

In the midst of your chaotic inner monologue, Frank’s head dropped between his shoulders for a moment and he let out a heavy exhale before turning to stare over at you with an unreadable expression.

“She’s with me.”

The way Frank said that sent a shiver cascading down your spine, and the room suddenly felt twenty degrees hotter. You watched as he lightly clenched his jaw and nodded, as if Billy were in the room and not on the other end of the line.

“Be there in an hour.”

Without another word, Frank snapped his phone shut, and you watched him inquisitively.

“What was that about?”

“I gotta go check in with Bill. That trustfund asshole is throwin’ a fit ‘bout me not bein’ ‘round.”

While Frank started to gather his wallet and his gun, you quickly got down from the bed, feeling your pulse start to quicken at the thought of him leaving.

“Wait, I thought Steven didn’t want you around?”

“And I didn’t wanna be ‘round, but I guess you gettin’ kidnapped and two cops gettin’ shot spooked ‘em. I won’t be gone long.”

Before Frank could take another step, you grabbed your bag and started to gather up all the paperwork back into the folder.

“I’m coming.”

Frank paused while reaching for his black denim jacket. He let out a deep exhale as she shook his head and motioned towards the bed for you to sit.

“It ain’t safe for you to be in the city right now. Just stay here and I’ll be-”

“Frank, we already talked about this. I’m safer with you, okay?”

“It’s only an hour away-”

“I don’t care if it’s five minutes down the street, I don’t want to be without you.”

Alone. You had meant to say, ‘I don’t want to be alone’. But the words had already left your lips, and Frank was already staring at you with that one look in his eyes that you could never seem to decode. He didn’t hesitate like he did when you asked to come on the stakeout with him. He walked over towards the door of the hotel room and opened it, gesturing with his head for you to follow him, and before you knew it, the New York City skyline was coming into view.

»»———　　———««

When Frank pulled up to the Anvil office and put his truck in park, he turned his head to look at you with a somewhat stern gaze.

“Just stay in the truck, alright? Won’t be long.”

“Okay.”

For a minute, Frank’s thick brows knit together before they rose up his forehead an inch, like he was shocked you simply agreed instead of arguing with him about coming in. He eyed you warily for another moment before letting out a quiet grunt and getting out, closing the driver side door behind himself. While you watched him march up the front steps of Anvil, it was incredibly amusing to see how many people rushed to get out of his way. You weren’t sure if it was because they knew him and knew to stay out of his way, or if it was because of his physical stature and the permanent broody look etched onto his sharp features. Either way, you couldn’t help but laugh.

While you sat there in the truck looking through your phone, you noticed that there was a red notification dot lingering over your voice notes app. Clicking on the app curiously, you were met with an error message that read “Failed to capture full recording”. Immediately you were puzzled, and then you noticed that your last recording was over four hours. When you checked the date and saw it was from three days ago, a soft gasp left your lips.

You had never stopped the recording with Walker and Cavella.

Your phone must have just kept recording until it eventually died. With everything that had happened the past three days, you had almost forgotten about the recording entirely. Pressing the play button, you turned up the volume and listened to the playback.

The sound of glass shattering and bullets flying along with your own panicked scream had you wincing and pulling the phone away from your ear. The sounds of one of the most traumatic nights of your life had your stomach twisting into anxious knots, and you felt the phantom pain in your bandaged hand of glass slicing it open all over again. But just as you were about to turn it off, something caught your attention and made your ears perk up.

Rewinding the recording a few seconds, you pressed play again.

“Pr…we…ot…fuc…lem.”

The sound of bullets being fired in the background made it difficult to make out the words. You rewound it a few seconds and played it again, furrowing your brows as you listened intently.

“Pr…we..got..fuc…problem.”

After quickly downloading one of those music recording apps on your phone, you imported the clip from the voice memo and tried to figure out how to isolate the audio to where you could hear it better. As you pressed play this time and listened, you could hear Cavella’s frantic shouting clear as day, and his words made your blood run cold.

“Price, we got a fucking problem!”

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[jpitha]

The Gods Among us

It is not unusual to have Gods.

Most - if not all - of the sapient races did at one time or another.

What is unusual however, is how completely the humans kept their gods.

Don’t get it confused. There is not one human religion.

There are millions.

There are atheists who worship no gods and think the whole thing is rather silly, monotheists who worship one and only one god and get sniffy about all the others, and people who worship a whole pantheon of gods of all different shapes, sizes and colors.

People who worship nature.

People who worship their ancestors.

People who worship their system’s star.

Humans are unique in their belief though. They bring their gods with them. I mean this figuratively of course. But... also literally. Humans will talk about how their gods follow them, and come along - sometimes to help, sometimes not. They speak of them as if they're right there with them.

And friends, I swear I’ve seen them too.

One time, we were between the stars and our FlashWarp drive failed. I don't know the details behind the why of it, I was onboard as a passenger. We were two days without our drive and thoroughly stuck.

On this trip, quite a few of the passengers were human. I had seen them before in passing, but never up close before. Short and stout, their bodies shouted their origin. A dangerous, difficult, high gravity world. They were strong and clever and built to survive.

Some carried little trinkets and charms too. Little pieces of metal, or plastic in small shapes. During the evening meal, I had asked one of them about it, and they had mentioned that it was a sign of their religion.

"Religion? As in worshiping the supernatural?"

"Well, technically, I suppose. It's much more personal for me than something academic sounding like that." They smiled and used their delicate digits to manipulate the little charm while they spoke. "Humanity has had religion a long, long time. I understand that many Confederation races had it too at one point, but most decided to put it away as they ventured out into space, correct?"

I nodded. It was fascinating to hear the conversation. I had never spoken with a human this much before. Her accent was impeccable and her voice was like music. Did all humans sound like this?

She continued. "Humans - those who Believe - bring that with them in what they do, who they are. That's not to say that Atheists are bad or wrong, or people who follow different gods are bad or wrong either. The galaxy is large enough for everyone, right?" I nodded, trying to follow her logic. "But in a galaxy as large as this, I believe that there is more to existence than meets the eye." Her eyes twinkled as she spoke.

While we were speaking, another human walked by. Tall for them, male shaped, with broad shoulders, and quite a lot of facial hair - beards is what they called them I believe. His facial hair was neatly trimmed and oiled. As he walked by I could smell it. I couldn't place the scent. Resinous though, natural. It was nice.

As he walked by, he glanced down at Meredith, he saw her fingering her little charm - it was two straight pieces of metal crossed near the top, one smaller than the other - and smiled.

I looked up at him. We met eyes - Meredith didn't notice him - and he closed one eye quickly and then opened it again. I think it's called... a wink? It's one of those gestures humans do that's full of nuance. It's hard for most translators to understand it.

Just as quickly as it began, the interaction was over. He continued on with long purposeful strides towards the rear of the ship, where Engineering and the FlashWarp modules were.

Later that day, there was an announcement from the Captain that the drive was repaired and we could continue to warp to our destination. We would work hard to make up for lost time, but that we would probably be a demi cycle behind. Apologies were offered, discounts on future travel given out, but mostly everyone was happy we weren't stranded anymore.

A rumor started on the ship however. While the engineers had the drive apart and were struggling with why it had failed, a human had walked into Engineering, looking around as if they belonged there, approached the FlashWarp module and stared at it for a moment.

When confronted and asked what he was doing, he replied in perfect Maligran - the language of the engineers working that time - "Have you checked the outer compensator? It looks cracked to me." and then did that motion with one of his eyes - closing and opening the lid quickly - and left.

The engineers, with nothing else left to try checked the outer compensator. It was impossible to see with an unaided eye, but they scanned it and sure enough, it was cracked. Just enough to prevent the FlashWarp seed field from forming. They had a spare on hand, replaced it, and were up and running almost immediately.

The next morning, I sought out Meredith at the morning meal. I asked her if she knew the human that had walked in, pointed out the error and left.

"What did he look like?"

I described him as best as I could, as well as the scent I noticed.

She nodded sagely. "That was probably Saint Eligius, patron saint of mechanical engineers."

My fur puffed out involuntarily. "A religious figure?"

She nodded and took a sip of coffee. "A minor one, but one nonetheless."

"And you're not surprised by this?"

"On the contrary, I'm pleased to hear that my prayers were answered."

"You... prayed for him?"

"Not him specifically, but I did ask for help."

I sat down at the table heavily. It seemed impossible that a human saint had walked by - had winked at me - and yet...

"Meredith, can you tell me more about your religion?"

[lovemyavatar]

Just for the Night

Lo’ak x Fem!Omatikaya!Reader

Part Two

Warnings: (aged up) nsfw, enemies to lovers, angst, arguing, hate-fucking

part one

The skin on the back of your neck prickles with unease, color tinging your cheeks as frustration mounts with each rushed stride through the forest.

You're practically vibrating with irritation, muscles pulled so taunt a dull ache radiates from between your shoulders. You welcome the sting of short nails biting into your palms, reveling in the distraction for only a moment before the scrutiny at your back becomes too much to bear.

“Will you stop that already?” Your lips purse with a low hiss, head turning just enough to send a steely glare toward the man behind you.

Lo'ak glowers at your quickly retreating figure, lips turning downward in displeasure. Long fingers tighten around the woven basket perched on his hip, the mere sound of your voice putting him further on edge.

“I can feel you plotting my murder back there.” You mutter with a roll of your eyes, attention returning to the path ahead.

The weight of his hard stare is palpable. It settles in your gut, twists your insides uncomfortably. Warmth blankets your skin, a heady mix of anger and...something else, something you haven't dared begin to dissect since the night you both crossed a line it doesn't seem you'll be able to come back from.

“Oh, I don’t have to plot, sweetheart. The whole thing’s already planned out.” His voice is rough, lips twitching into a satisfied smirk at the way your spine stiffens.

You whirl around to face him, fists clenching impossibly tighter, eyes narrowed in a fierce glare. Despite your best efforts, he's continued doing what he's best at: worming his way under your skin.

Whatever this is between you—this stifling tension—it's only gotten worse since that night in his family's tent. The lingering looks, the constant bickering...it's driving you crazy. Not a single day has gone by without some altercation with the youngest Sully brother.

Despite years of this back and forth, you aren't accustomed to the cold, unreadable wall that Lo'ak has built around himself since that night. It makes you uneasy, has you questioning if there may be some deeper issue he has with you, past the point of friendly competition.

“Charming.” Your nose wrinkles with an insincere smile, a scoff falling from your lips as you turn away from him again.

“You always do this." A humorless laugh echoes through the trees as you near your destination. Lo'ak jogs forward, arm extending to brush away a large leaf from the path, allowing you to duck through into the clearing first. “Get all mad as if it's not your fault we're in this position.”

You're already facing him as he steps into the plush grass after you, an expression of exasperated shock etched into your features.

“You're joking, right?” Wide eyes scan his lithe form, taking note of the way strong arms cross so casually over his broad chest.

He can't possibly think this is your fault. You were simply minding your own business, as usual, when he appeared and started bothering you. Kiri was at your side, the two of you helping prepare for the midday meal, chopping various vegetables for the clan.

Less than a minute after Lo'ak plopped down onto the rock only inches from yours, the fighting was unbearable for your best friend. She disappeared with the typical departing insult—calling you both skxawngs (idiots) with a soft sigh.

Truthfully, you don't even know how it started. You never do. Somehow, despite your best efforts, the two of you always end up right here. Harsh words and cold glares exchanged until one of you snaps and stalks off, only for the cycle to repeat the next time you see each other.

“I know you're used to getting away with everything, but you should know by now that I see through the good girl act.” Lo'ak's head tilts to the side, tail swaying with ease at his back.

Despite the volatile nature of your relationship, he's never stopped watching you. He's tried, he really has, to leave you alone—to keep his wandering eyes at bay. But you're always there, always so close yet still out of reach.

It's his own fault, and he knows it, but the fact does little to lessen the sting.

“What are you talking about?” Something ignites in Lo'ak's chest at the flare of heat in your golden eyes. It eggs him on, pushes him closer to the line he's always toeing, between good-natured bickering and actual fighting.

“Oh, please. The clan's precious little angel, used to getting whatever she wants.” His voice drips with mockery, and it makes a wave of embarrassment wash over your cheeks. “And you can't stand that I don't like you.”

Lo'ak's feet move on their own accord, bringing him a step closer with each harsh word. He has no idea what he's doing, doesn't know what's possessed him to take it this far, but he's just so...fed up. He's tired of this push and pull, tired of warring with himself every time you're close.

He can't stand you, and yet, he aches to be near you. His heart yearns for yours in a way he's never experienced with anyone else. In a way he hasn't been able to shake since the very moment he realized his feelings for you breached well past platonic.

It was only a breath later that he decided he would never have you. Decided it would be best to push you away, to protect his fragile heart from the surety of your rejection. Because, even at such a young age, he knew it would never work. He'd long been labeled the trouble child, the rebel, the one who ruins everything he touches...

And how could he bear to bring you down with him?

A surprised laugh bubbles in your chest, and you move back, desperate to put some distance between you. It's clear, what he's insinuating. That you're the instigator, the one to blame for the argument that got you into this mess in the first place.

Regardless of who threw the first verbal punch, Lo'ak's father—your Olo'eyktan—was not the least bit happy. He stormed toward the two of you without hesitation, sternly hissing that you were drawing attention to yourselves. Bringing shame to your families.

His words settled heavily in your heart, made your ears flatten with shame. But he was right. It only took a single glance toward your father, standing just a few feet behind Jake, to notice the disappointment gleaming in his eyes.

As the Olo'eyktan's closest confident, he has an image to uphold. Which, in turn, means that you do too. And typically, you're an exemplary member of the clan. You pull your own weight, help others whenever possible, and keep to yourself otherwise.

But there's just something about Lo'ak that makes you forget all duty and responsibility in the name of defending yourself, of proving that you're not some wallflower. That you're worthy of being noticed.

Jake quietly ushered you both off to collect some fruit for lunch, ordering that you not return until you've figured out how to get along.

“Are you actually that self-absorbed? You really think I'd waste my time trying to get at you?” You peer up at Lo'ak in disbelief, a flash of anger making your heart beat just a fraction faster.

“Drop the innocent act. It's just me, and I've already seen the real you. Can't get much worse than that.” He regrets the words the instant they leave him, jaw clenching at the way your lips part in surprise.

He's taken it too far. That much is clear, if the pained glimmer that washes over your eyes is any indication. It's gone in an instant, replaced with the fiery anger he's used to. Your ears twitch, tail snapping, a clear display of your animosity.

“If I’m the clan's angel, what does that make you? Clan screw up?” Your hands curl into fists and you take a small step forward.

The air between you is sharp, jagged edges of your tattered friendship hanging by a thread. You can't help but lash out, even if the insult has your own heart cinching in your chest.

It was a low blow, and it's obvious you've hit a nerve. Your chest heaves as you watch the words settle over him, watch his expression crumble before turning hard as stone again within seconds.

Lo'ak's tail twitches to attention against his spine, before swishing from side to side harshly. His breath hitches, heart racing with an overwhelming mix of emotion.

It washes over him in wave after wave, an onslaught of anger, frustration, crushing sorrow. Because after all this time, you finally see him for what he truly is.

What he fears he'll always be.

“At least I actually contribute. You can’t do anything without daddy hovering right behind you. How pathetic.” He crowds the remaining space between you, towering over you, chin dipping as his eyes narrow into a harsh glare.

He looks downright menacing, not an ounce of warmth in his expression. A soft gasp falls from your lips, moisture blurring your vision. He's breathing heavily, chest nearly touching yours as he fights to slow the violent thrum of his heart.

You peer up at him, equal parts rage and hurt swirling deep within your belly until you can't take it for even a second longer. One of your hands rears back, but before you can land a hit on his cheek, he snatches your arm out of the air.

Long fingers curl around your wrist, his hold gentle but firm. The feeling of his skin on yours sets you ablaze, fans the flame of desire that's been building within you since that night. This is the first time he's touched you since then, and though it was only in an act of self-defense, the warmth from his palm has you reeling.

“I hate you.” You voice wavers, the proclamation nothing more than a broken whisper.

“Good.” His jaw clenches, your spiteful words only spurring him on.

He pulls you forward roughly, capturing your lips with bruising force. You stumble into him, body responding without hesitation despite the weak internal protests warning against falling into this pattern with him.

The pressure on your wrist disappears, instead moving to your hips as both of his hands circle your waist. A gasp tears your lips from his as rough bark bites into the skin of your back. You hadn't even realized you were moving, too distracted by the burning heat of his lips on yours.

Lo'ak devours you like a man starved. His kiss isn't sweet, it isn't tender. It's all tongue and teeth, a explosion of pent up tension that's been brewing for years. A shiver rolls down your spine, and you arch into him, pressing your chest flush to his.

Your tongues battle for dominance, ragged breath mingling as you both pour every ounce of distain for each other into the kiss. One of your hands lifts, fingertips smoothing over the side of his neck to draw him in.

You hold him there gently, a quiet moan spilling into his mouth despite your best efforts to keep any noises at bay. Warring desires clash in your mind. You want to shove him away, and pull him closer all at once. He's so infuriating, so intoxicating, and you're far too under his spell to escape now.

Within seconds, your loose hold is ripped away as he cages your hand against the tree, holding it above your head. You can't help the way your hips writhe along his, a breathy sound falling from your lips when you feel the stroke of something hard against your soft heat.

You respond by tangling your free hand into his braids, tugging harshly just to see his reaction. His head jerks back at the unexpected sting, a rough growl rumbling his lungs. Your hips rut against his again, the vibration of his chest on yours settling hotly between your legs.

A wave of pleasure washes over him, the color of his cheeks deepening. His eyes snap to yours, narrowed in warning before he leans forward, nipping at your bottom lip lightly. An involuntary whimper escapes you, hold on his hair tightening.

A low moan falls from his lips, a shaky breath fanning your face as he staggers back a step. Your lips chase his, seeking the heat of his touch before your mind has a chance to catch up. The two of you stumble blindly, an uncoordinated dance of passion as you desperately fight to stay connected.

This continues until one of Lo'ak's heels catches on an upturned root, sending him crumpling to the ground. His arms slide around your middle, caging you to his chest as his tailbone takes the brunt of the fall. He grunts against you, lips still ravaging yours without skipping a beat.

The slight ache from the fall is instantly forgotten as you mount him, spreading your legs so his body easily slots between them. His head tilts back at the sensation of your plush skin on either side of his hips, a shudder wracking his chest when your hands begin exploring his skin.

Your fingertips trail along his chest, over trembling abs, all the way down to the hardened length still trapped beneath his loincloth. When your touch ghosts over his cock, he jerks, his hips rutting into your hand. A breathy moan falls from his lips, followed by a shaky gasp when you do it again.

“Not so tough now, are you?” Your lips twitch into a smirk against his, earning you a low growl.

“Shut up.” He hisses, long fingers curling around your throat.

The hold is possessive, and oh so dominant, a show of control even though he's the one beneath you. He pulls you forward, claiming your lips harshly again. A shiver rolls down your spine, and you can't help but drag your soaked core over his cock.

“Fuck, Y/N.” He gasps, lips ripping from yours as his head falls back, eyes fluttering with a surge of pleasure. His hands fall to your hips, his hold tight as he presses you down onto him, guiding your movements.

“Take this off.” Your chest is heaving, breath ragged as you hurriedly tug at the strings of his loincloth.

His lips curve into a lopsided grin, though another moan rumbles his chest when your hips roll along his cock again. “That desperate already?”

“Don't.” Your voice drops in warning as you successfully undo the knot, before practically ripping the material from his body.

It's quickly discarded, leaving you with nothing to do but dissect his cock with heavy-lidded eyes. It's bigger than you imagined, slapping against his stomach as it stands fully erect.

Something warm and unwelcome blooms deep within Lo'ak's chest, as he watches you. Wide eyes, flushed cheeks, plump lips parted with wonder as you take him in for the first time.

He's quick to flip you over, to lay you gently onto the soft grass. His palms press into the earth on either side of your head, supporting his weight as he takes a moment to gaze down at you. He can't help it, the way his eyes lock onto yours, pouring out every last bit of his usually tightly shackled emotions.

Having you beneath him like this is something he's fantasized about for years, and even now, he's not quite sure that it's real. He's tried so hard to push you away, to wedge so much distance between you that this could never be a possibility. And yet, here you are, more beautiful than ever...and all his.

He rips his gaze away, warmth blanketing his face. He deftly unties your loincloth with one hand, slipping it down your legs smoothly. His palm skims along the outside of your calf, sending a shiver down your spine.

When he reaches your thigh, he gives it a firm squeeze before hooking his fingers behind your knee and urging your legs apart. A deep moan rumbles his chest at the sight of your glistening pussy, fingers moving to drag along the trail of slick coating your inner thighs.

“Goddamn, you always get this wet when we fight?” He rasps, only half joking. The mere idea of you so hot and bothered by him, by your frequent disagreements, has his cock throbbing in anticipation.

“Stop. Talking.” You hiss, the color of your cheeks deepening with arousal and embarrassment alike.

Lo'ak gives his cock a few strokes as he aligns himself with your entrance, dragging his swollen tip along your soft folds. You arch into him, a quiet moan falling from your lips. The sound has his gaze snapping to yours again, breath lodging in his throat.

Suddenly, this position feels too intimate. It tightens his chest, makes his stomach flip with conflicting emotion. A deeply seeded desire within his heart urges him to take care of you, to allow whatever this is between you blossom into something real. Something warm and soft, unlike the cold bitterness that's been festering for years.

It's all too much. Too good to be true.

So, instead, he grips your waist and roughly flips you over, hauling you onto your hands and knees before him.

“Lo'ak—” You gasp, surprised at the unexpected movement.

“Thought you said no talking?" His teeth clench so hard he fears they may shatter, but he welcomes the ache as he easily slides into your waiting pussy.

You cry out, arms already trembling, nearly collapsing onto the grass at the burst of pleasure. Lo'ak's eyes pinch closed, hands gripping your hips with bruising force as he slams his entire length into your sopping pussy. He groans when he bottoms out, tip pressing firmly into your womb.

You're a mess before him, reduced to a string of moans and whimpers as he drills into you mercilessly. Your back bows, head dropping between your arms when your lower belly tightens. His head falls back, a low growl echoing through the clearing as your silky walls flutter around him.

He doesn't give you even a second to rest, maintaining a brutal pace as he chases his high. One of his hands smooths over your lower back, pressing into it to force a deeper arch. It continues trailing upward, until his fingers tangle in your braids, jerking your head back firmly.

Sharp teeth catch his lower lip, restraint tightening his chest as he fights to hold back mounting pleasure. All you can do is whimper meekly, the sting in your scalp pushing you closer to a quickly approaching orgasm. Moisture pools in the corners of your eyes, his roughness too much and not enough all at once.

This is what you expected from him, and yet, it's better than you could've imagined. The way he handles you, bends you to his whim, it has your pussy spasming around his cock all over again.

“Fuck.” Lo'ak rumbles, his free hand snaking around your stomach, fingers expertly finding your clit.

You jolt at the sudden explosion of pleasure, the mere swirl of his fingers over your overworked pussy throwing you into an intense release. A series of sharp moans echo through the trees, every muscle in your body tensing before you shatter around him.

Lo'ak suddenly jerks his cock free, the abrupt emptiness jostling your trembling form as he pumps his cock, riding out his orgasm with an arm still firmly wrapped around your middle.

Silence falls between you, thick and uncomfortable as the weight of what you've just done settles over you both. You fight to catch your breath, pushing yourself up and out of his hold with shaky limbs. You avoid the sharp glare you can feel prickling against the side of your head, eyes scanning the area for your loincloth.

“That's never happening again.” The words aren't nearly as strong as you would've hoped, the slight quiver in your voice betraying the turmoil raging within.

Being with him like that, it was...good. Too good. It felt right, like the two of you should've been doing this for years, rather than pushing each other away at every opportunity. It's planted a seed of doubt in your mind, made you wonder what it could be like to let him in, to explore the possibility of being more.

It's a dangerous thing, hoping for something like that.

“Obviously.” Lo'ak is quick to agree, averting his eyes as you shakily stand to your full height and pull your loincloth back on.

By the time he's retrieved his own clothing, you're gone. A rough sigh caves his chest, disappointment lodging deeply within his gut. Some part of him, however small, thought maybe things would be different after what you just did.

He runs a hand down his face, replacing his practiced mask of indifference before he'll have to face you again.

The walk back to Home Tree is silent. He doesn't approach you, instead he maintains a wide birth between you, trailing your tense silhouette from a distance. When he breaks through the tree line a few seconds after you, his irritated groan has your head whipping around.

Your eyes widen, silently asking him to corroborate whatever story you've just told before your attention returns to his father.

“Lo'ak.” Jake's arms are crossed tightly over his chest, a signature look of disapproval etched into his strong features. “Did you two work it out?”

“Uh…yeah.” He winces, rubbing at the back of his neck as a wave of uncertainty makes his stomach twist.

Had you? Or did he only make things worse, like he always does?

Jake's eyes narrow, flicking between the two of you for several seconds. He notes the absence of any fruit, which is the entire reason he sent the two of you into the forest in the first place. That, coupled with your disheveled hair and Lo'ak's crooked loincloth, tells him everything he needs to know.

“Alright. Dismissed.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, a sigh of exasperation filling the space between you.

You're quick to scurry off, practically running away the very second you're given permission. Lo'ak's gaze remains locked on your retreating figure until it disappears into the center of Home Tree. His head drops, eyes closing as he considers the consequences of what you've just done.

He only makes it one step before Jake grips his arm, gently pulling him back.

“Not you, boy. We need to have a talk.”

@youcantseem3 @neyetams @pandorxxx @daiyuu27 @taleiak @neyetams @mrslandryy @superiorbyfar

[angelcqre]

no grave can hold my body down • i

Your husband has been dead for three weeks, four days, and twelve hours.

Every glance at the clock reminds you of the fact. Reminds you that you’re damned to a life without Simon - a life without stupid jokes and his hands around your waist and the weight of his stare when he thinks you don’t notice him looking.

When Price had come, hat in hand, you’d screamed. Clutched at his shirt and screamed and hit at the broad chest until he’d had to hold you still, support you as you bawled your rage and grief into his shoulder. You’d always told Simon that you supported his work - even if it was hard, even if you hated it. He was a hero. He saved the world from the bad guys.

Three weeks, four days, and twelve hours.

You buried an empty coffin last week. Price hadn’t told you where his body was - you didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know. Had watched the coffin descend into the ground, gripping your best friend’s hand white knuckled and firm.

The thing in your yard now is not your husband.

It looks like him - broad shouldered and tall, the pale blond hair curling past his ears the same as always. Even the way it stands, steady and heavy as if the world weighs upon its shoulders, screams of Simon. The mask illuminated by the moonlight, silver on bone on black, is his mask, is Simon’s.

But it isn’t him.

Tonight is the second night it’s stood there, and every time, it gets a little bit closer to the door. Gone by sunrise, you wouldn’t even have noticed it if you hadn’t gotten up in the middle of the night and caught sight of it last night.

Tall. Broad. Hands curled loosely into fists as it stares up at you, highlighted by the full moon.

You watch it now from the safety of your bedroom, phone clenched in your hand, but - who would you call? Who would believe you? What would you even say? You watch it for what feels like forever, the blanket of two in the morning leaving the entire scene feeling hazy and thick.

You go to raise your phone to your ear, to call - somebody, Soap maybe, he’d promised he’d come if you needed him (though he’d said it a bit more intensely than you’d known what to do with), one of Simon’s brothers to come and get you and -

It takes another step forwards in the span of a blink. One moment it’s in the middle of your yard, the next its boots are in your daffodils, crushing the delicate blooms that you’d spent hours planting in careful little rows.

Mud stains its jeans, and you can see the fluid, thick and black, that sludges from the center of its chest. It waits. Patient. He’s always been able to out-wait you, infinite patience to your nervous energy.

What choice do you have but to let it in

Your bare feet on the stairs of the home you’d built with him are quiet, soft, the floor cold beneath you. You move like you’re in a dream, tugged along by a narrative you can’t quite grasp, merely a tool for the story. You couldn’t fight it if you tried, so you don’t.

There’s a knock at the door. It’s almost funny, how proper that knock sounds, how polite, as if you haven’t seen Simon knock down doors like it was nothing, all broad power. You know it could get through with ease. Considerate of it to knock.

[godhandler]

Hey Handsome!

[Noritoshi Kamo gets hit on, right in front of you]

[stand-alone drabble, part of Obeisance to The Arrow universe | fluff, light jealousy, arranged marriage, contractual marriage | 1k words]

Friendships are a difficult world to navigate, especially for someone like you who’s been raised in strict isolation. Even with your cursed technique that is particularly aimed at solving problems, how do you solve this problem: Saori, who you befriended a week ago and have brought along to introduce her to Noritoshi, has been steadily flirting with him for the past 15 minutes.

Not like your husband has noticed. You had caught up with him after his archery practice, with his sports bag hung over his shoulder, and all three of you are now walking around Nihonbashi with ice cream in your hands. Saori is subtle– maintaining plausible deniability just in case. A brush of her hand against his (“an accident!”), asking if she could try a bit of his ice-cream (“I asked you too, though!”), giggling at everything he says (“he’s just so funny, you know!”), and why is her voice so much cuter and softer now? 

Granted, Saori doesn’t know that you two are married, you only told her that he’s a good friend of yours. You suppose it’s not fair for you to be mad at her shooting her shot: Noritoshi, if you take a completely unbiased objective view, is really fucking good-looking. Why is he so tall? Why do his lean muscles strain against his workout clothes? Why do his built arms and broad shoulders draw your eyes? Why does his hair, parted and wrapped like always, seem so much more gorgeous, like a prince from the Edo era? And his face, it really sours your mood to admit this, his face is a masterpiece. With a blessed face like that, he could’ve been a rockstar-idol; it’s as if someone took a list of traditional markers of male beauty (lily-petal eyes, a refined mouth, ski-slope nose, straight eyebrows, delicately carved chin, long lashes and nobly-pale skin), and crafted a man with that as a to-do list. If it wasn't for his ice-cold standoffish demeanor, he'd be getting hit on everyday. No, you can’t blame Saori. You would’ve done the same if you were in her place. 

And technically, you can’t be mad at Noritoshi either. You were the one who established that your marriage exists only in front of the elders. I’ll be your perfect wife and lady when you need me to be, and you let me be otherwise when I want to be. You don’t even wear the wedding ring, not wanting your peers at Jujutsu High to see you differently (Noritoshi does keep his ring on, but he has his own reasons for that; not like Saori seems to care). The perfect deal struck between you two included a tacit understanding: as long as we keep it from being a scandal, our love lives are our own, with no interference from the other. 

Listen, it made a lot of sense when you two shook hands on this. It was equitable, mutually beneficial, and fair. What isn’t fair is the fact that you want to gouge out Saori’s pretty fucking eyes and throw your melting ice cream at her pretty fucking sundress. She’s so pretty too, you have to admit. And so is Noritoshi. And they seem to get along so well. It’s not fair.

Noritoshi’s picked up that you’re upset, though he’s not very sure why. You’ve been walking alongside him and Saori for the past 15 minutes without butting in a word while Saori has been chattering non-stop. You were so excited to introduce your first non-sorcerer friend to him too. Truth to be told, he doesn’t like meeting new people that much, and it’s been a while since he’s talked to a non-sorcerer, but he wanted to oblige you, as well as make sure your new friends are good to you. She’s only just started to interact with people. Noritoshi thinks as Saori accidentally bumps into him. Again. God, he really wants to go back to practising. She really can’t be blamed for her taste in friends. 

Your eyebrows have hardened, as if you’re trying to make a decision. Maybe she finds her annoying too? Or maybe– is Noritoshi inwardly pleased about it? Doesn’t the thought of two girls fighting over him stroke his ego? Doesn’t he get to feel silly things like this too? Doesn’t he, despite being Noritoshi Kamo and all that entails, get to enjoy that his wife is jealous?

He doesn’t stay with that thought for too long (his face is getting redder by the second), because the way your cursed energy is darkening, this situation might not end well for anyone in your vicinity, especially not Saori. As casually as he can, he throws an arm over your shoulders and presses a quick kiss onto your hair. It’s not too intimate to be PDA (both of you would rather die) but it sends a message, especially with the ring glinting on his left hand, which is just-so-absentmindedly playing with your hair. You’re getting really good at reading his mind and playing along: you lean into his side immediately. 

It’s a small gesture, done with practised ease. Saori gets the hint. She doesn’t stop talking about the price hike in Bottega Veneta though, but this time without any attempts to flirt with Noritoshi. She’s not evil that way. She might be a bit too chatty for your introverted duo, and she might not fully get the relationship between you and Noritoshi, but she’d rather grow a wart and eat it before breaking girl code: never ever eye a man that your friend likes. 

Noritoshi supposes that Saori is alright. It took you a (secret) Distillation or two to understand her intentions, and another Distillation on your husband to truly sate your insecurities. He doesn’t have any secret romances with anyone, you’ve gathered. It wasn’t like you were expecting him to. Still, it does make you happy, selfishly. 

You don’t even bother telling yourself things like, I just don’t want to be humiliated if my married husband is caught with another girl, or I don’t care if he likes someone, I just didn’t want it to be Saori, that’s all. Unfortunately, you are too self-aware: you might have a teensy-tiny crush on Noritoshi.

written as an inverse of #7 - Jealousy, Jealousy, where Kamo gets jealous.

timeline wise, this fic is set three weeks after reader has joined Jujutsu High. Kamo is in Tokyo now and then, for missions. Right before this fic, he was sent on a solo mission near Nihonbashi, and is staying in a hotel there for the weekend. Reader drops often to meet him. Nothing bad has happened yet :)

img credits: 1 2 3

@kalopsia-flaneur thnx for the idea!