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yuujispinkhair · 1 year ago

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Heatwave

The hot weather triggers your heat unexpectedly, but your Alpha Sukuna takes good care of you.

Pairing: Alpha!Sukuna x Omega!Reader (female) Genre: smut + fluff, omegaverse Word Count: 5.5k Warnings: 18+, smut, omegaverse, going into heat, oral, breeding, knotting, praise, biting. Reader is contemplating getting pregnant in the future. Reader and Sukuna are mates. Reader is on birth control but still goes into heat. This is a modern AU. All characters are of age. This story is 18+. Minors don't interact.

Part two of my Heatwave Summer Series

It happens while you're at work. Suddenly, the air in your office feels too hot, almost suffocating. It's as if the heatwave that's holding the city in its chokehold those last few days is finally winning. But one look at the a/c tells you that it is still running at full power. You shouldn't feel so hot. Something is wrong. And it has nothing to do with the air conditioning in the SHRINE Group's fancy downtown office.

A strong wave of dizziness hits you, making you knock your coffee cup over, spilling its contents all over your desk. You curse and hastily get up to grab some paper tissues, only to clutch the desk tightly as a strong wave of nausea washes over you. You feel feverish, your pulse is fluttering. And then there is this throbbing. Your eyes widen.

You know these symptoms.

But it's not the right time! You cannot be in heat! Please, not now, not here at work!

Usually, your heat cycle is under control, and you can plan ahead, take your heat-leave from work, and get comfortable at home in your nest.

But an unexpected heat throws you into chaos. You cannot stay here! You need...

You are out the door in a heartbeat, swaying on unsteady feet but making your way hastily down the hallway towards the large door of the CEO's office, where he is.

Your husband, your mate, your Alpha.

Sukuna.

You are instinctively drawn to him, your mind and body screaming to see him and throw yourself into his strong arms and let him take care of you.

His assistant, Uraume, says something to you, but you cannot make sense of their words. All you know right now is that something is very wrong and that the only one who can make it right again is Sukuna. Before Uraume can stop you, you have already yanked open the door to the CEO's office.

Sukuna is sitting at his luxurious desk, looking as flawless as ever. The only sign that he acknowledges the unusual temperatures is that he has removed his suit jacket and is now in his dark red dress shirt, but his black tie is still perfectly in place.

You gulp when you see how the shirt accentuates his broad figure, hugging his buff muscles deliciously, showing how impressive he is. Not just any Alpha. Sukuna is THE Alpha in this city. Powerful, dominant, attractive, and intelligent. Deadly towards his rivals but caring towards you.

He sits in his leather chair as if it were his throne, oozing confidence and power. Tall and muscular, pink hair styled perfectly, combed back over his undercut, filigree black tattoos decorating his beautiful face enticingly.

His chin rests on the back of his left hand, next to the glittering wedding ring that shows he belongs to you.

His beautiful maroon eyes snap to the door, with a dangerous glint in them upon getting disturbed. But that expression melts into a soft one when Sukuna sees who entered his office. He smirks and raises one eyebrow.

"Oh, darling. Did you miss me?"

But his teasing manner gets replaced by a worried expression when he sees the feverish state you are in.

Sukuna is by your side only a second later, wrapping his strong arms around you and pulling you against his broad chest. He is always so protective of his mate. You snuggle against him gratefully, pushing your nose against your Alpha's shirt, inhaling his comforting scent as you cling to him.

Sukuna's face presses lightly against the side of your neck, sniffing you, too. His breath brushes over your skin, and suddenly, Sukuna tenses up against you. His arms tighten their hold around you, and a low growl escapes his lips,

"You are in heat."

Before you even know what's happening, Sukuna has already grabbed his suit jacket from his chair and holds it out for you,

"Put this on, sweetheart. Let's get you home."

He gently puts the jacket over your shoulders, wrapping you in his scent while leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your neck. You almost sob in relief.

Sukuna's right hand comes to rest on the small of your back, and he gently but firmly steers you towards the door. You pass his assistant's desk, who hurries to get up, but Sukuna makes them stop with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Uraume, I will be out of the office for the rest of the day. Probably tomorrow, too. Please re-schedule all my appointments."

He keeps you in front of him while you walk down the hallway towards the elevator. The strong Alpha protecting his mate. Shielding your back, pressing his tall and muscular body against you.

No one would be crazy enough to dare approach Sukuna's omega, yet he never lets his guard down when it comes to you. The thought makes your heart ache with how much you love him.

There are some curious glances coming from some of your coworkers that you pass in the hallway, but Sukuna growls at them in a deadly calm voice,

"Get back to work. If I catch anyone so much as breathing in her scent, you are fired."

Your heart and your pussy throb for him.

You make it to the elevator and down to the underground parking space, where Sukuna helps you gently into his car.

You sound a bit hysterical when you say,

"I... I don't understand what is going on, Kuna. It's much too soon for my heat to start. And it feels... it feels different. Stronger somehow. It doesn't feel right!"

But Sukuna's voice is calm, velvety like a warm caress, instantly soothing your nerves,

"I have heard of cases where a sudden climate change triggered a heat. Maybe the current heatwave is to blame for this. Don't worry, my love. I am going to look after you."

He smiles his most charming smile at you. His large hand cups your cheek and caresses it lovingly, soothing you and reassuring you that things will be okay.

You smile at him gratefully,

"Thank you, Kuna. But you have that important meeting with the Infinity Group in an hour. I feel bad that I am keeping you from work..."

Sukuna huffs and shakes his head,

"It doesn't matter, darling. Uraume can re-schedule it. You will always be more important to me than work or anything else. I am your Alpha and your mate. I provide for you. I take care of you at all times. And now, lean back and try to relax while I drive us home so I can take proper care of you."

His beautiful maroon eyes glitter as he brings your hand to his lips, kissing the back of it tenderly while he fixes you with a gaze that holds so much fierceness and intensity that it leaves no room for doubt.

This is a command from your Alpha, and you will obey.

His words make something primal in you come alive. A soft moan escapes your lips, and your legs press together automatically as the all-too-familiar throbbing in your core flares up at your Alpha's words.

Yes, you need him to take proper care of you. You need him to breed you, to stuff you full of his Alpha cock and his hot seed.

You whine as you feel your slick coating your pussy lips, drenching your panties and probably the fine leather seat beneath you, too.

But you manage a nod and let out a long breath as you lean back in your seat and snuggle even deeper into Sukuna's suit jacket, burying your nose in the collar of it and breathing in your Alpha's scent deeply while Sukuna turns up the a/c and backs out of the parking space.

The moment you step into your penthouse apartment, you feel relief wash over you. Yes, this feels right. This is where you are supposed to be today. Here in your home, in your nest, where everything is safe and smells like your mate.

You feel a sob finding its way out of your lips as you slump against the wall.

The cool air-conditioned air of the apartment should feel good on your skin. It should help you cool down again. But it doesn't. This form of heat cannot be tamed. You still need so much more.

Your legs press together involuntarily as you feel another violent throbbing between your thighs, even more intense than the last one. A deep craving so feral that it cannot be silenced. Your panties are wet with your slick. They stick to your swollen pussy uncomfortably.

Your body is preparing itself for your Alpha. Slicked-up cunt, wet and hot, ready to get mounted and stuffed full of a big knot and generous amounts of seed.

The thought alone is enough to make you tremble. You need your Alpha, your mate, your husband. You need Sukuna. You need his strong arms around you, need his soothing low voice, need the comfort of his buff body against you, his firm muscles under your hands, and the bliss of his knot deep inside your aching cunt.

You shudder with arousal when he steps up to you, caging you between his beefy body and the wall. His strong arms wrap around you, steadying you and enveloping you in your mate's familiar, intoxicating scent.

Sukuna smells of cherry blossoms and smoke and a warm, rich flavor that you associate with a deep red color, like love, passion, red wine and autumn leaves. Warm and sexy, comforting like home, and powerful like a wildfire burning down whole cities in its way.

He leans down to press his face against your neck, breathing you in deeply, finally allowing himself to let go now that you are in your shared home. A low growl escapes his mouth as his lips caress your skin.

"Fuck. Your scent drives me crazy. My sweet little omega needs me so bad."

You can only whine in response, helplessly getting swallowed by the primal instinct that always takes hold of you during your heat. You aren't in control anymore. From now on, it's raw instinct. The primal need to get bred.

Your hands cling to Sukuna's muscular back as you press yourself needily against your Alpha's tall, strong body. You can smell his need for you, the scent of his arousal so musky and thick and seductive that it makes your head spin. His hardness is pressing against you through his suit pants, cock already swelling for you, filling for his omega that needs to get mounted and stuffed full of a big Alpha cock.

It's how nature intended it. An omega in heat and a strong Alpha to take care of them.

And your Alpha is the strongest Alpha you ever encountered. Powerful and dominant like no other. So dedicated to providing for you, to take care of you.

Sukuna claims your lips with a heated and passionate kiss, pushing you against the wall, making you moan needily into his mouth as he licks into you with hungry, deep strokes of his tongue. But the kiss only lasts for a moment, and you whine at the loss of Sukuna's mouth on yours when he pulls away with one last open-mouthed flick of his tongue against yours.

You feel feverish with need as your Alpha drops to his knees in front of you. A sight that always leaves you breathless. To see this powerful man on his knees for you. On his knees for his mate, for his wife. He looks up at you with glimmering maroon eyes and that typical sexy smirk on his handsome face.

You exhale shakily, but it comes out as a growl as your instincts take over, your heat making you a victim of your body's most primal urge.

"A.. Alpha.. please...I need you...aah ah. Kuna..."

"I got you, darling. I'll take good care of you, my love."

Sukuna's voice is so low and sexy that it makes your pussy twitch with need, overflowing with your creamy slick. His large hands land on your thighs, steadying you, fixing you to the wall, strong fingers that leave bruises on their way, but it's what you need in those moments. Getting marked and claimed by your Alpha.

You shudder under his touch, your body instantly reacting to your Alpha's loving hands. A thin rivulet of slick is slowly running down your left thigh, feeling cold on your heated skin when the air-conditioned air lands on it.

But the chilly feeling gets replaced by the velvety warmth of Sukuna's tongue. He growls in the back of his throat while he catches your creamy slick with his tongue, slowly following the trail up your thigh, licking it off your skin, making you moan and tremble, almost coming undone.

Your hands reach out blindly to tangle in Sukuna's soft pink hair, tugging desperately on it, pulling him needily to where you need him the most. To that throbbing wild ache between your legs. But Sukuna is already one step ahead of you. His large, strong hands run up your thigh, slipping under your skirt and pushing it up to reveal your soaked-through panties to his intense gaze.

You whimper when you see the hunger in your Alpha's eyes. He desires you just as much as you desire him.

A second later, Sukuna's beautiful face is pressed against your drenched lace panties, his soft lips attached to your puffy clit, sucking it through the thin fabric. Your hips buck and a feral-sounding cry falls from your lips as your head falls back against the wall with a soft thud.

You push your wet heat needily against Sukuna's face, tugging on his hair, moaning his name so loud and desperately that you would be ashamed under other circumstances. But today, your most primal instincts have taken hold of you, and you cannot be bothered to care about how horny you sound.

A tearing sound is heard. Sukuna ripped your panties off you, exposing your soaked, puffy cunt to his hungry eyes, making both of you growl, filling the penthouse with your mating calls.

Sukuna pushes his nose between your pussy lips, making it rub over your sensitive, swollen clit, drawing another loud, needy moan from your lips.

You are hypnotized by the sight of your Alpha rubbing his pretty face against your pussy, smearing your cream over his gorgeous features, and watching you while he does so with desire and love clearly visible in his maroon eyes.

It's so messy. You are so messy, pussy overflowing with slick, clearly in a full-blown heat, luring your Alpha in with your scent, demanding his seed, his knot, his pups. It's pure primal need at this point. A state that leaves you a horny, needy mess every time.

Sukuna buries his face between your spread legs, growling lowly. Your head spins when you see him take a deep breath, inhaling your scent hungrily.

"You smell so good, darling. I'm going to breed you all night."

His voice is low, dripping with sex and arousal and dominance. His tongue flicks over your wet clit, making your legs give away. But Sukuna's hands hold you in their firm grip, pushing you against the wall and fixing you there as his tongue moves through your slicked-up folds, tasting you, drinking you. He pushes his long, hot tongue into you, eliciting a cry from you as your eager pussy twitches wildly around his muscle.

But it's not enough to satisfy the craving you feel. You need his cock. You need his hot seed filling you until you are so full of it that you are overflowing.

Your Alpha knows this, of course. Before you can beg him for more, Sukuna is already back on his feet again, towering over you so tall and big, growling in the back of his throat as he looks at you with a fire in his eyes and a massive bulge in his black slacks.

He swoops you up into his buff arms, making you whimper with need. You can't help but feel your pulse flutter at how small you feel in the arms of this huge Alpha. He is such a beast, so strong, so big. And he is so dedicated to fuck you right. To fuck your heat away.

"I'll take care of you, my sweet little omega-wife. Your Alpha's gonna take good care of you."

You nod feverishly, feeling the sweat run down your back and more slick coating your swollen pussy lips as Sukuna carries you princess style to the bedroom, one large hand slipping between your legs to play with your pussy, caressing it tenderly, fucking you slowly with this thick thumb, taking care of you until you can get his big Alpha cock to satisfy your need.

Your hands run over his muscular chest, needily clawing at his clothes in your desperation to feel your Alpha's skin on yours.

He smiles when he places you carefully on the King-sized bed. It is a display of power, proving just how powerful of an Alpha Sukuna is that he is able to stay in control even when his omega is in heat and exuding pheromones that make Sukuna's cock throb.

His touch is firm and sure when he undresses you, removing your clothes until you are completely naked, every inch of your skin brimming with need and lust, your needy cunt oozing slick onto the silk bedding, begging to get touched by your Alpha.

You feel feverish as you watch your husband get undressed, taking off his tie and unbuttoning his dress shirt, revealing more and more of his tattoed skin and firm muscles.

He pushes down his slacks and black boxer briefs to reveal his Alpha cock to your hungry gaze, resting thick and strong against his taut abs. A fat vein is pulsating gorgeously on the underside, and two black rings are tattoed around the thick base to show Sukuna's status as a powerful Alpha. His cock stands rock-hard, leaking milky pre-cum. His balls are taut and round, heavy with his precious seed that contains the antidote to your ache.

A desperate sob escapes your lips. Your chest heaves with your excited breaths, almost hyperventilating in your need for Sukuna.

Your legs are already spread, and you pull them to your chest, instinctively presenting yourself to the powerful Alpha in front of you, presenting him your breedable cunt, wet and needy. Ready to get claimed by his fat cock.

Your breath hitches in your throat as Sukuna's glittering gaze lands on you, a smirk lifting the corners of his lips as he takes in your naked, willing body, so wild for him and his knot.

He slowly walks over to the bed, maroon eyes watching you hungrily. Like a predator stalking his prey, the big bad wolf who is about to take his victim. A very willing victim, though. His mate, with a scar in the shape of his canines on your neck, with a wedding band on your ring finger, with a wet cunt that aches for his knot.

He is your man. Your Alpha. There could never be another for you. You are Sukuna's for life.

You submit to him eagerly when he crawls over you, naked and muscular, with his buff muscles and black tattoos fully on display for your love-drunk eyes. So big and strong on top of you. Your Alpha. Your mate. Your whole world.

He smiles at you while his maroon eyes glimmer with that fire they always get when he is about to mount you and fuck your heat away.

His lips catch yours in a deep kiss, tongue licking sensually into your mouth, making your pussy twitch and your hands run needily up and down his broad, muscular back. His thick mushroom tip drips his hot pre-cum onto your belly, making you hiss into the kiss with need.

Sukuna flicks his tongue against yours once more before he pulls away to grin at you,

"Turn around, darling. On your stomach, like a good girl. I want to breed you right. You need me extra deep in you today, don't you, omega?"

But your mind is too blurry to answer him. It doesn't matter, though, because Sukuna is there to take control. To take care of you. His large, strong hands are already grabbing your hips and flipping you over on your stomach, so dominant, so strong, but so gentle and loving at the same time.

You keen into the silk pillow underneath your face that smells of your Alpha, lifting your ass needily for him, offering yourself to him, begging to get mated and knotted.

You are in good hands with Sukuna. In the best hands. He is the most powerful Alpha of this city, or maybe even of this whole country. And he fucks you like the natural leader that he is.

He pushes your thighs apart, lowering his beefy body on top of you, pressing you down into the mattress, offering the comfort of his heavy weight on top of you.

He rolls his hips against you, making his thick, wet cockhead slap your puffy clit several times before it catches on your slicked-up hole, making you writhe beneath him in your horny need to get taken by your Alpha.

You cry loudly into the pillow when Sukuna snaps his hips and buries his fat cock deep inside your needy cunt with one powerful thrust.

You orgasm the moment he is sheaved fully inside you, pussy twitching needily around him, slick gushing over him, welcoming him with the first orgasm of many, milking his fat cock wildly, begging for his fertile seed to fill you. Begging him to fuck his pups into you.

Your hands claw helplessly at the silk pillow as you try to get more of your man, lifting your ass and pressing against him, moaning and crying, face wet with tears while you sob and whine for his cock and his seed and his knot.

"More...please...Alpha...more...oh god...Sukuna!!"

But your Alpha is there for you, soothing you. Dominant and strong. Sukuna leans down to kiss your neck, resting even more of his weight on you. One of his large hands captures both your wrists in his firm grip and fixes them above your head, restraining you effortlessly, stopping your desperate movements.

You sob in relief, feeling so taken care of with your Alpha's buff body on top of you, restraining you, anchoring you on his cock.

The headboard of your bed thumps rhythmically against the wall as Sukuna fucks you into the mattress with deep, hard strokes of his big Alpha cock. He is so deep inside you, rutting into your needy, wet cunt with his powerful thrusts, mounting you hard and unrelentingly.

He knows exactly what his omega needs. Knows how to breed you the right way to fuck you through your heat.

His big Alpha cock makes you squeal and cry with lust as he fucks orgasm after orgasm out of you. Sukuna growls against your neck, low and sexy, making your head spin. He sounds so hot. So full of primal need, too.

Your cunt clenches greedily around his fat Alpha cock when you feel him cum for the first time, filling you with the first thick load of his hot seed. You're crying as you milk him eagerly, taking all his precious, fertile seed deep into you, your body so eager to carry his pups.

Sharp teeth graze over your skin, and then Sukuna bites your neck and marks you up again, right where he left his first mark on you when he mated you and made you his for life. His name falls from your lips in a needy moan.

Sukuna's hips move rhythmically, rutting into you with savage, deep thrusts. His cock is stroking all the right places inside you, and his heavy balls full of seed smack wetly against your pussy with every powerful thrust, loud and wet, spreading your slick everywhere. It's drooling out of your cunt and onto his balls, making a mess on his cock and the bed, getting fucked back into you with every hard snap of your Alpha's hips.

It drives you wild. You are lost in your heat, growling and whining for your strong Alpha to fuck all the madness away.

And Sukuna does just that. He always makes everything feel right again. He always takes all the chaos and turns it into something he has under control. So dominant, so strong. He is the master of your heat.

Sukuna fucks you for hours without any sign of weakness. His cock stays rock hard all the time, swollen and thick, so perfect for filling you and making you cum again and again until you are so exhausted that you tremble weakly under his muscular body. But you know you don't have to do anything. You have Sukuna to take care of you.

He gives you anything you need. His cock, his seed, his love.

His low, velvety voice is so sexy when he leans down to whisper in your ear while he humps your soaking wet pussy slowly,

"Yeah, like that, my sweet thing. Taking your Alpha's seed so well. You would carry my pups so well. You are such a good omega for me."

You whine loudly, trying to reply to him, but at this point, you are just a babbling mess, crying and sobbing, trying desperately to get even more of Sukuna, even though you are already stuffed to the hilt with his thick Alpha cock, your cunt overflowing with his hot cum.

But Sukuna knows what you need. Of course, he does. You don't have to tell him.

"Shhh. I know, sweetheart. I know. I got you. Relax, my love."

His voice is soothing, full of dominance and love, and you feel his soft, warm lips caress your neck tenderly right over your mating mark before they press a lingering kiss to it.

"I'll give you my knot. I'll give you all of me."

He bucks his hips, pushing his thick cock as deep into your slick cunt as possible, stuffing you with it, and pressing you down into the bed with his weight. And then you feel it. The stretch.

The swelling at the base of Sukuna's cock is growing steadily, stretching your pussy around his growing knot. He is so huge, so powerful, the Alpha of all Alphas, and that shows in his size.

You always struggle to take all of him, to take his massive knot. But you crave it tonight. You need it desperately. You need to be claimed fully by your Alpha. You need to be plugged with Sukuna's fat knot for hours, keeping all his hot seed inside your aching omega cunt that's begging for his pups.

Sukuna trails kisses over your neck, soothing you, helping you relax. He lets go of your wrists, so he can massage your puffy clit, helping you become loose for his huge knot.

"It's ok, my love. Just let go. I'm gonna knot you so good."

You whine, eyes rolling back in bliss when you feel his fat knot swell even more, filling you so completely. You're his. You're Sukuna's. You aren't going anywhere. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't run from him. He has you on his knot, and your whole body is covered by his buff, muscular body. It's perfect. It makes you feel so taken care of. So loved.

Sukuna groans, moaning your name softly, praising you for being such a good omega for him and letting him knot you. His large hands come up to cover the backs of your much smaller hands, interlacing his fingers with yours.

Hot tears of bliss run down your cheeks and into the silk pillow beneath you. You are surrounded by Sukuna. He is your whole world. He is all you know in those frantic moments of primal fucking. His big muscular body feels so perfect on top of you, his fat knot plugging your twitching cunt, keeping all his warm seed deep inside your aching cunt. His enticing, musky Alpha scent is everywhere, filling your nostrils, making your head spin from the love you feel for him.

This is the closest you can be to someone. Knotted by your Alpha. Completely giving yourself to him, submitting to him entirely, trusting him with everything. You sob Sukuna's name, your voice so full of love and devotion, mumbling incoherently as your head spins and your pussy throbs around his huge, swollen knot.

And he humps you slowly, as much as his fat knot allows. Slow, gentle thrusts that make his swollen cockhead rub your sweet spot, fucking you into a state of complete bliss. He growls praise into your ear every time you orgasm on his knot, telling you how good you are for him.

This is where you want to stay forever. Here in your bed, in your nest, where Sukuna mates you, fucks you, claims you over and over again. Where he cums in you over and over again, filling you with rope after rope of his hot seed while he growls your name and groans in your ear.

Your orgasms become more gentle with time, building up slowly only to make you cry in relief when they wash over you, so good, so intense that you feel like you are floating. You shudder around your Alpha's cock, whining his name and milking him with your convulsing pussy, taking all his thick loads of Alpha seed into your needy cunt.

It's dark by now. Only the moonlight and the city lights outside your window illuminate the bedroom, but you and Sukuna remain in your mating position. His thick Alpha cock and knot stuffing your omega cunt, your bodies pressing tightly against each other. Your movements grow slower, and loud growls and cries of pleasure turn into soft moans and whispered words of love. After a while, Sukuna rolls the two of you onto the side, pulling the blanket over you, getting more comfortable. But he keeps you on his cock and his knot all the time.

You sigh dreamily as Sukuna wraps you in his muscular arms, holding you tightly, kissing your neck while whispering the sweetest things to you. He is so good to you, so loving and sweet. Mating you, anchoring you, satisfying you for as long as you need.

You smile, almost delirious with happiness and love, feeling so full and taken care of.

"This is perfect. Please stay like this, Kuna. Don't go, please."

He laughs softly, sounding warm and full of love.

"I'm not going anywhere, my love. I am not leaving when my darling needs me so bad. I have all day and night to knot you and fill you with my seed. I love you, baby."

He cups your chin with one of his large hands and tilts your head back to capture your lips in a deep, hungry kiss while his Alpha cock pulses another load of hot cum into you. Sukuna's lips are soft against yours, his tongue stroking yours tenderly. Deep, passionate kisses that grow calmer eventually, turning into slow, sensual caresses.

You stay like that the whole night.

Sukuna lets you have his knot for hours. The sun is already rising again over the city, bathing the skyscrapers in its warm golden light, when the swell of Sukuna's knot slowly starts to subside.

He finally slips out of you, but not without kissing you tenderly, making sure you know he is still there for you. He's such a caring mate. Such a good Alpha.

You smile at Sukuna when he gets up from the bed. His warm maroon gaze meets yours, and he grins at you, making you marvel at how beautiful he is, with his buff muscles and filigree tattoos, with the soft expression on his gorgeous face, his half-hard cock still glistening from your slick and his seed while the sun rises behind him outside the floor to ceiling windows of your penthouse.

Sukuna picks up the shirt he abandoned on the floor yesterday and hands it to you.

"Here, sweetheart, something for your nest. Get cozy while I get breakfast for you."

You sigh happily as you snuggle into your bed, holding Sukuna's shirt tightly and inhaling his comforting scent. You feel so content, so calm, and so loved. Wrapped in your Alpha's scent, filled with his cum, and marked by his teeth. Just like it should be.

A wave of gratefulness washes over you. You are so lucky to have Sukuna as your mate, as your Alpha. He is so strong and caring, always loving and breeding you right.

You are on birth control, so his seed won't take. But you catch yourself thinking that maybe one day, you will have Sukuna's pups. Maybe soon, it'll be time to give this world a few more strong Alphas like him.

AAAAHHH ALPHA SUKUNA DRIVES ME FERAL 💗😭 This story became much longer than intended. But I cannot be blamed. I am just a little omega, and naturally, Alpha Sukuna makes me lose control A LOT lmaooo.

I hope you enjoyed this story and that Alpha Sukuna could comfort you with his dominant and caring nature ;)

Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs would be very sweet!

#sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna #sukuna smut #sukuna fluff #jjk x reader #jjk smut #tw omegaverse

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colebabey888 · 4 months ago

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A few DIY beauty secrets I began doing to elevate my "natural" look | IT GIRL DIARIES

something that I noticed over the years, when looking to enhance your natural beauty, there are 4 main points that build the first impression, hair, eyes, brows and lips..

I have naturally bushy brows that I used to manage with eyebrow gel, but it would start flaking during the day, which gave me the ickk. So, I began laminating them with a kid-friendly relaxer every two weeks (my eyebrows grow pretty fast, which is why I do it so often and i don't get them professionally done because i don't trust people with my brows lol).

I always tweeze my eyebrows instead of waxing them; they seem to grow back slower that way + it's easier to do, just grab a tweezer along with a pocket mirror and you can do it anywhere if you see a hair out of place. ( don't over do it though, i made this mistake and it went horribly, just keep them neat )

Get your lashes laminated !!! Natural lashes are so classy and I don't have to worry about putting on mascara or falsies. This I'd get done professionally though lmao, I would do this myself but I'm way to scared to be messing with anything chemically so close to my eyes, so it isn't necessarily a diy but still, get it done!

ALWAYS make sure your hair, eyes (lashes) and eyebrows are done! You don't have to have a silk press, falsies and freshly waxed brows 24/7 but make sure they're neat. These are the key features that attracts people's attention when youre speaking to them

I have tight 4b type hair, and I used to have to lay my edges with gel or edge control because of how fluffy they'd get when I wore my curls out, but it was super damaging from constantly pulling on them and having them laid down. So, I started relaxing my edges every 3-6 months. Now, all I use is a bit of hairspray to keep them tamed, and now it doesn't puff up even during workouts and it lasts my whole silk press. Yes, my curls are still thriving.

I do weekly deep conditioning, monthly hot oil treatments, routine trims, and always use a heat protectant and frizz control when doing silk presses to stretch them out and minimize heat application. ( my hair has grown so much, leave your hair alone and only feed it when it's hungry! )

you'll hear everyone talking about silk bonnets, but as someone who hates the feeling of having anything on their head or in their face, I always took it off unknowingly throughout the night and it defeated the purpose, so i got silk pillow cases instead, game changer! i don't wrap my hair as often anymore and i don't experience frizz anymore.

I apply a face mask every week depending on what my skin is lacking, whether it’s moisture or something else. It just keeps my face looking fresh and plump in between professional monthly facials.

I use a lip tint every third day. It makes makeup application easier, and it doesn’t wear off throughout the day so i don't have to re-apply lipstick continuously. It also gives my lips a bit more colour so now I just leave the house with a pretty gloss or plain lip balm.

I take zinc supplements religiously!

Vitamin C everyday, all day. Lemon wedge in my greentea for breakfast, orange for a lunchtime snack and a naartjie for a late night movie. My skin is glowinggg!

hair removal cream! this is so slept on, i no longer shave or wax, both of them have caused ingrowns for me and accentuate my strawberry legs. i use hair removal cream now and i don't think I'll ever go back! i use it probably every week or so depending on how much growth i have, it's so easy and mess free. apply it before you get in the shower and use an exfoliating glove to slide it off gently and continue with your normal wash routine. always apply tissue oil and moisturizer after! baby soft skin all day, everyday!

It's not much, but these small changes have completely transformed my overall look. i do them specifically for those actual no makeup days where i want to give my skin a break from makeup or where im working out but still want to look prettyyy and done up..it's like a wash and go except it's for your face lmao, anyways

mwah! xoxo, colebabey8.88

www.investingforbeginners/gumroad.com

---

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rahuratna · 4 months ago

Text

Synopsis: Post-Shibuya Nanami x Classical Dancer Desi Reader

In the aftermath of Shibuya, an injured Nanami struggles to balance his eroding self-worth with his desire to conduct his duty as a sorcerer. He finds healing in the fragrant garden of your dance.

Genres: Romance, angst, suspense.

Content warnings: depictions of low self-esteem, dealing with trauma, erotic and sexual content.

Thanks to @tsukimefuku for reading and editing this piece that is so precious to me. 🧡💜

Please refer to the glossary for the meaning of certain terms used. 🧡

(I)

Pushpanjali: an offering

"Tha ka dhi mi, tha ka dhi mi, tha ka ... "

It is a chant that spans centuries, leaping from the high-ceilinged, airy chambers of a land and time long past, to here, and now. It winds between the gently rippling silk scarves that adorn the walls, a drumbeat like the slow collapse of ancient kingdoms under the steady tramp of cavalry.

Time seems to pass at a stagnant pace in here, in this place where your domain has taken root and unfurled, a red, red bloom in the heart and hand of a painted god.

Feet slide and strike against the worn wooden floor, precise and weighted, as you perform the basic stance before your pupils, watching faces tight with the concentration of the inexperienced.

"Tha ka dhi mi, tha ka dhi mi ... "

Your voice guides them, as does your form, an arm straightening here and a pair of knees bending further as they watch you. The twist of your lower back, the stretch of your arms in a line to some point behind you, the rejoining of your fingers in katakamukha, the arch kept between chin and the line of your shoulder, all shifting in a single fluid movement that requires no thought.

Incense snakes through the air, close to the glass double doors, the heady scent of sandalwood gathering in tendrils there, where the gentle push of the breeze cannot dissipate it. It is through this fine mist that you see him, for the first time, standing just outside the doors in the narrow passageway.

Shoko had informed you of his arrival, of course. She had warned you about his physical condition, about the nature of his grievous injuries. It wouldn't be the first time she'd made use of your services to assist in the rehabilitation of wounded sorcerers.

Your eyes meet his, through the shifting coils of fragrant smoke from the brazier, and you see, in a single, fractured moment, why he is here. He has been sent here for a form of healing, but his gaze is not soft and receptive. It is shuttered, its passion muted and closeted away, defences piled so high they might as well be weapons. He scans the dance hall with the kind of predatory clarity that long, long years of being a sorcerer would bring.

You excuse yourself and step outside, the open door allowing the scent of the incense and the soft evening air to filter out into the hallway. Behind you, the silk scarves flutter gently in the draught.

He is a tall man, poised and elegant. He wears the jacket and comfortable, warm trousers in a way that speaks of someone more accustomed to formal wear. As soon as you enter the hall, he bows with deep formality, and the mellow resonance of his voice seeps into the narrow space like honey spilled across the floorboards.

"Nanami Kento. I was referred here by - "

"Shoko. Yes. I've been expecting you."

You return his bow and introduction, aware of his scrutiny travelling the length of your spine. You can sense that he is picking you apart in his mind, fitting together the components to try to build a coherent whole.

Close-up, the severity of his burns are evident. A layer of darkened scar tissue covers the left side of his face and scalp, running down his neck and further, where your eyes cannot follow. The left eye, according to Shoko, had been unrecoverable, now shielded with a soft, surgical patch. The damage to his arm had been even worse, as it seemed he'd used it to shield himself. A fuzzy growth of pale hair had started along the scorched skin of his scalp, a sign that even now, his body was knitting itself slowly back together.

Your eyes travel over his sharp-edged countenance, and he stares back, unphased. You make a rapid mental list, a trickle of first impressions that will later build to a torrent.

Stength, and plenty of it. A deathly, well-controlled calm that permeates his living flesh, skin over smooth stone. The martial bearing and powerful arms and shoulders, even scorched as they are, speak of the force he must have presented on the battlefield.

He assesses you in return, and you tilt your head as the dim sunlight filtering into the corridor catches his eye, turning the honeyed brown of their depths to a moss-flecked river bed, steady and cool.

Beautiful.

That is your first impression of him.

(II)

Alarippu: the flowering

Recovery.

Kento has heard a dozen variations of that word by now, couched in the language of choice.

The road to recovery.

Recovering your mobility.

Getting your old self back.

A return to routine.

He is aware, by now, that any such full repair of the damage that has been done to him is a castle in the air, one he cannot summon the lightness of spirit to ascend to. Positivity had never really been his hallmark. Now, even less so.

The world had shifted around him while he was asleep, you see. Comrades had fallen. The new generation had triumphed. The very fabric of Jujutsu society had been rewoven, the dawning of a new age embroidered for all to see across the hard-won horizon.

The sacrifices he'd made were but a few of many. They'd hardly mattered, in the larger scheme of things. Many had given their lives. What had he offered up?

The ability to walk without aid, for one. Also, most of the skin on the left side of his body. Basic movements, things that had once been second nature to him, were now carefully calculated because of the pain.

The lunge of an arm through a coat sleeve when he was in a rush. The brisk pace he'd maintained to keep his body temperature up in cold weather. The sensation of a soft cashmere scarf against his cheek, or the brush of an aerated cotton shirt against his skin in summer. The cascade of hot water on tired muscles, after a long afternoon swinging diligently at cursed spirits. All muted, fuzzy, lost.

And what else?

Kento had never been soft with himself. People often thought that sentiment never clouded his cool judgment, allowing him to make objective and sensible decisions. While that was largely true, it flew wide of the mark in terms of what really pushed him, what gave him direction. It was ironic, as he'd speculated later, that his mortal enemy had been the one to identify what many of his comrades hadn't.

Mahito, in that light, youthful, jubilant voice, declaring how he'd seen Kento's soul quivering. And he was not wrong.

Kento was a man driven by a quiet, desolate desperation, a desire to fill an empty space that yawned endlessly within his soul, a black hole with an insatiable appetite. Emotion was as vital to his function as breathing. It drove him out of bed everyday, into the office, into the boardroom, into the bakery, back to jujutsu tech, into rain, snow, sun and wind, into the face of his darkest imaginings.

He watches traffic from the window of his room at the private clinic, pedestrians going about their lives, people chatting on precariously held phones, children dancing through a world of make-belief, people on lunch break. People with purpose, a certainty of their place in the world. What could he offer, in this world of colour, sound, movement and shadow, this world that threatened to leave him behind?

Kento had paid the price, and would do it again, and again, and again, in every known reality, if it meant maintaining the stability he saw outside his window.

(But if that was the case, why was the darkness inside him more ravenous than ever?)

********

Shoko comes to see him most frequently, even with her workload at the Tech. She can't really help it. Nanami is her last remaining bridge to the past, as selfish as that makes her seem. She doesn't care much, not anymore. She'll take what she can get.

A tenuous bridge, is Nanami.

Shoko is accustomed to seeing the damage that can be done to a body by the uncontrolled hatred of a curse, or the more conscious destruction of a cursed technique. She has seen it all, performed the most grotesque procedures on the corpses of those she loved. But something about seeing Nanami's injuries, seeing him like this, is more jarring than any of those horrors.

Her technique has allowed his skin to heal, the raw flesh, exposed tendon and muscle beneath now covered by the new epidermal growth she has stimulated. The chances of oedema and infection are also minimal, considering her precautions. All that was left now was his slow physical conditioning and therapy.

(If only that were all.)

If Itadori, Kugisaki, Fushiguro and Ijichi had their way, Nanami would never know a moment of solitude. They wanted constant updates on his condition, to bring him his favourite foods, to talk, weep, mourn and rejoice with him. She allowed them to see him, every other day, but drew a firm line, citing his recovery as priority. She didn't have the heart to tell them that every gentle glance, every proud smile, every glimpse of the old Nanami they received came at a great cost.

Standing in the doorway of his room now, she could see it. Or rather, the lack of it. That vitality, that pain from which he drew his vigour, the firm lines of his back and shoulder that reminded her of an implacable bulwark against the raging of the cursed world, all absent. When he didn't think anyone was looking, that is.

Stepping into the room, she offers a slight nod as the door slides shut behind her. The change is immediate. He straightens, the corners of his eyes regaining their sharp edge, the set of his mouth firm and familiar.

"Shoko."

"Nanami. Ready to talk about physical therapy?"

She gets straight into it, knowing that he wouldn't want it any other way.

"I'd like that very much. When can I begin?"

His words are still slightly muffled, the burnt edge of his lips stiff with a new layer of scar tissue.

Nanami had never been a vain man. He had always been in possession of striking features, and had taken care of his appearance, but in a way that was more attuned to practicality; if he was neat, well-presented and unremarkable, Nanami considered this a success.

It was why he had been able to look in a mirror with such equanimity for the first time after his treatment. All she had seen was a slight tightening at the corners of his mouth, a slow nod, a brief look of exhaustion and resignation as to this new set of scars.

The loss of his left eye and the damage to the arm on the same side had been the worst of it. There, she'd done everything in her power to restore the lost tissue, but Nanami would never regain his eye, or the full range of motion with that limb. There was, however, the soft growth of new hair on his scalp, a promising sign that elsewhere, her rejuvenation of the underlying tissue layers had somewhat succeeded.

Shoko doesn't reply to his query just yet. She approaches the bed, and he sits up, unlacing the front of his hospital gown, accustomed to the routine by now. She place her palms a few inches from his skin, closing her eyes as she maps him out, bone, muscle, blood and water, the minute synapses where impulses leap in a frantic race, the steady beat of his heart.

Inhaling deeply, she steps away.

"The sooner you begin, the better. I know you've been walking a lot. That alone won't help in the long term."

There is a hint of reproach in her voice. Nanami, displaying his singularly stubborn streak, had been discovered out of bed on more than one occasion, standing by the windows, staring into space in a way that made her worried.

He gives a wry, crooked smile.

"What do you recommend?"

Shoko places the file she'd carried along carefully on his lap.

"There's a family with a specific cursed technique I've corresponded with before. Sent some of my patients to them. They specialize in therapeutics."

Nanami is watching her closely, taking note of the way she focuses on the view out the window.

"And you're sending me to them?"

"They aren't local. The main clan is located in India. Scattered at various locations in the Tamil Nadu province. One of their members moved here, some years back, to conduct research on the compatibility of their techniques with ours. It wasn't a success, for various reasons, but he stayed, with his family."

"So it's a hereditary technique?"

"In a way. It manifests with varying degrees of efficacy. I'd simply like ... for you to meet with their representative."

She returns his gaze, and when she speaks again, he understands why she has been so hesitant.

"It's not just physical therapy, Nanami. We can achieve that pretty well here. Their methods go ... deeper than that. I can mend physical wounds. They might be able to help you heal in other ways."

He doesn't agree to it immediately, looking through the list of exercises that came after the therapy recommendation letter. One eyebrow lifts slightly in a comfortingly familiar query.

"You want me to do yoga too?"

"Gojo's idea. He added it to the list before he - "

She stops abruptly, one hand finding purchase on Nanami's ankle, squeezing lightly on it where it rests beside her, under the blankets.

"Anyway. He said he wanted to make video edits of you with your ass in the air. Said it would be good to bring you down to earth a little."

Her chuckle doesn't sound hollow any longer. She can talk about her friend (yes, he was that too) without that tell-tale catch of agony in her chest. Nanami sighs before opening up the file, his good hand leafing through the printed pages.

"I suppose ... I could humour him. This once."

(III)

Shabdam: The Word

In a month's time, with Shoko's regular treatment, Nanami is in good enough condition to leave the clinic. He still makes use of a walking stick, especially for longer distances and steeper flights of stairs. Ijichi makes sure he is permanently on call, for the occasions when Nanami simply needs to get out of the sterile halls of the clinic, the rapid intake of the world outside enough to sustain him.

Nanami has, for the most part, been following Shoko's regimen religiously, adding his own variations without her knowledge. In this way, his strength and endurance steadily build up to a point where he is ready to be discharged (with daily check-ins, of course).

Nanami keeps the file that Shoko had handed over, but every time he spies it out of the corner of his eye, he occupies himself with something else, procrastinating in a way that is wholly unlike him. Eventually, his own conscience prevents him from delaying further. He is entirely skeptical that anyone can truly help him. He has felt that way since Haibara died, but even he can admit that there's no harm in trying.

He finds the address given with little issue, and Ijichi is more than willing to take him there. The place is nondescript, no signage giving any indication of the activities that take place there. There is an wood-panelled foyer, a colonial style spiral staircase leading to the upper floors. The stairs themselves have been worn smooth by many generations of feet.

Nanami is half an hour early, anticipating some kind of registration process, or introductions, as there had been in martial arts dojos he had frequented. There is nothing of the kind. He finds himself in a corridor, flanked by two pairs of glass double doors. In one of the rooms, a wide open space with a wooden floor and a view over the city, he sees some kind of class in session.

Approaching slowly, he hears it. The rhythmic thump and shuffle of feet, the feminine voice that called out a pattern that he's never heard before, but seems familiar all the same. The glass doors give him a clear view of the room, of the five occupants (a small class, then) who were engaged in some kind of dance practice, and the instructor, up front.

He pauses, body coming to a complete and rare standstill. He watches as she moves through a repetitive step, in time with the beat she calls out, firm, musical, lilting. The grace of movement, the low centre of gravity, the rigidity of the lower body in contrast with the flow of the upper, arrests his vision.

The disciplined line of her throat turns, and she is facing the door, facing him, hands brought together in a signature pose. Long lashed eyes, observant, catching and holding his glance. For a moment, he feels the desire to back away from the door, to hurry out into the street, a return to his comfortable routine. He stands his ground, as always.

He watches as she approaches the door.

********

Once your introductions have been dispensed with, you gesture to Nanami to follow you into the smaller room you use for individual therapy. His gaze lingers on the class that continues, even in your absence.

The same silk scarves ripple gently along the walls of the room next door, orange, grey, red and green. The rug is old, but rich and plush. There are two chairs, comfortable and supportive, their orange upholstery lined with faded gold thread, and an urn on a stand nearby, on the boil in readiness to prepare chai.

You pour him a cup now, the fragrant liquid a rich, caramel brown in the small glass, eyeing his expression through the steam.

There. Immediate interest. A man with a varied palate, considering the way he accepts the tea with polite deference, but takes an appreciative sniff before sipping deeply. The way his shoulders relax slightly afterwards has the corner of your mouth tipping up.

"So, Nanami. Shoko told me that you're here for our specific line of therapeutics."

He puts the cup down with a decisive motion.

"Yes. She told me a little about the effects of your technique."

"Did she explain what exactly it involves?"

He pauses, gaze traveling to the students in the dance hall next door who were now stretching and rounding up their practice.

"I assume it has ... something to do with that?"

You set your own cup down and clap your palms together.

"Well observed. It has everything to do with dance. Bharatanatyam, to be exact."

He raises an eyebrow, and you explain obligingly.

"Where I'm from, Bharatanatyam is one of many classic dance forms. The practice itself goes back centuries. My family's technique is rooted in the principles of the dance itself."

Nanami cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid ... I'm not a good dancer."

Your laughter comes easily.

"That's what they all say, in the beginning. But don't worry. You won't have to do anything strenuous, nor am I going to make you prance around in a dhoti."

"You have my thanks, I suppose."

"We will do plenty of physical conditioning, but you will also be my audience. My technique requires that you are ... receptive and open to answering the things that I ask."

Here, the easy flow of conversation stills a little, and the tea swirls gently through the motion of his dexterous fingers. He does reply, eventually, softer than before.

"I chose to come here. I think that speaks for itself. I will accept whatever your technique can do for me."

The non-committal nature of his reply does not escape you. You nod, understanding that this is the best you'll get from him, for now.

"Hmm. I think it's best that I demonstrate. That always works better than sitting here and explaining."

You stand and gesture for him to do the same, observing his movements carefully.

There. The burned side of his body has slower movements, as expected. He still displays agility and grace, despite the stiffness and pain he must feel. You approach and stand directly in front of him.

"Nanami, I'm going to lay my hand here, on your abdomen. Please tell me if this is fine."

He nods, but his body is now taut, anticipatory. This close, you can smell the surgical cleaning fluid that he must still use when changing dressings, the scent of the clinic still clinging to his clothes and hair. Beneath it, something warm, vital, pleasant. The scent of him. His hair falls over one brow, unhindered, and he impatiently pushes it back. Judging from the length, he must like it shorter than it currently is.

"Please try to relax."

Your hand presses against the firm planes of his stomach, centering around his navel. He is shockingly solid, vitality surging under your fingers. And something else. You frown, but keep your hand in place. After a few minutes, your fingers begin to move. You start to tap out a gentle rhythm against his skin, tentative, repetitive.

You keep this up for a while, eyes shut tightly, focused. When you eventually look up at him, he is watching you with close attention. You know what he sees, that he is following the currents of cursed energy that swarm around your body, fluttering and pulsing in accordance to the pattern you've been tapping out.

This part is crucial. The manner with which you approach this will determine his response, and you can feel his resistance to an invasion of this kind, how he could shut himself off from you, the giant ribcage of self-preservation sealing to the sternum, forever shielding his heart.

You step back and take your seat again, and he pauses before doing the same. He leans forward, elbows on knees, watchful. This man doesn't miss a thing.

"Your diagnosis?"

He had a lot of cheek too.

"There is no diagnosis. Not in the sense you're thinking."

"So, what was the purpose of ... that?"

"It allows me to plan my dance. For next time."

"Your dance?"

You reach for your glass, take a quick sip of the cooling liquid.

"In plain terms, my technique is called Arangetram. It's named after the dance recital performed by a bharatanatyam student after many years of perfection of their art. The recital takes place in stages, and each stage reveals more of their dedication, their skill and their unique talent."

Your palms, placed together, draw apart and Nanami's gaze falls between them.

"It's an unfolding. A gradual one. My technique enables me to read deeper into the patterns of your own energy, gently peeling apart each layer in stages, until we reach the crux of the issue. The wound to your Atman. Your true, and eternal self. With my guidance, and your cooperation, we can possibly help heal that."

As you speak, Nanami's gaze falls to his glass, the bitter dregs collecting at the base. He stands abruptly, and turns away from you, facing the window. You remain still, waiting.

When he speaks, there is something in his voice that makes you wince slightly. So much heaviness. So much despair. The weight of it must be crushing.

"That sounds ... familiar. Before I was saved by another young sorcerer, someone I helped mentor, I ran into a curse that could have ended my life for good. I'd met him before, you see, but he escaped me at that time. His technique ... wounds the soul. Our perception of ourselves."

You take in a sharp breath. What Nanami was describing was a form of cursed technique in direct opposition to your own. Nanami continues, eyes fixed on the steady stream of cars that pass by below.

"Are you telling me that you can heal that kind of damage completely?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because damage to the soul requires accurate perception, but a callous disregard for any and all forms of life. Destruction is part of universal balance, but to actively go about it, without any consideration for what you will create, is ... inhuman."

You stand, wanting to meet his eyes when he turns to face you again.

"Healing the soul is nothing like this. Nor can it be done in the same way for every person. But Nanami, here's the question I want to ask most right now. Why, even now, are you thinking about all the victims of this curse? Why, since you've heard the nature of my technique, have you never once thought about how it could actually help you?"

This demand is what it takes for him to finally tear his gaze away from that window, mouth opening in protest, but your silencing finger is up. You're not touching his lips, not quite, but close. His warm breath ghosts over your finger.

"Dont answer that question now. Answer it tomorrow, after you watch me dance."

(IV)

Jathiswaram: Purity of dance

He is early the next day, and you can sense that this will be a pattern. A seasoned sorcerer, through and through, gaining intel on the lie of the land. He is dressed with casual elegance once again, this time in a soft sweater and old jeans.

You guide him through a series of stretches and stances, eyes following his movements. As hard as Nanami is to read, you can tell, from the softening of the lines at the corners of his eyes that these exercises give him relief.

He is also unlike any other pupil you've ever encountered. There is something about having that keen gaze trace every line your body forms with such close attentiveness, the lithe mimicking of each pose, the easing of the stiff line of his mouth when he gets something right, and is aware of it.

It is like practicing yoga alongside a panther, one that won't harm you, but with every stray connection of the eyes, you are aware of just what it is physically capable of. It is both thrilling and strange; new.

When the first short session is over, and he seems slightly more at ease, you serve him tea once again.

"Take a few minutes. Relax. You'll wait in here until I call you into the hall next door."

"What would you have me do?"

"There will be a cushion on the floor. You're going to sit cross legged, as comfortable as you can get. Arms relaxed, hands resting on your knees. Then, you watch."

"A performance of some kind?"

"Yes. To be more specific, you're going to be inside my domain."

This was the one detail he seemed most hesitant about. You wait, in silence, giving him a chance to defer, to push back, to delay the inevitable. He doesn't do any such thing. You're beginning to understand just what kind of courage this man possesses. It takes a different kind of bravery, you're well aware, to face your own demons rather than the gnashing beasts of the cursed world.

*****

Kento does his best to let the soothing spiced heat of the tea perform its dutiful relaxation of his limbs. He sits, legs spread slightly, staring at the wall. The door to the small side room effectively cuts off any sound from the dance floor beyond. He does not know what to expect and he doesn't like it.

Finally, a soft chime sounds. His signal. Setting the glass of tea aside, he stands and makes his way into the corridor, then into the room beyond. He pauses, taking in the transformation.

The view of the city outside has been completely blocked by rich, embroidered curtains, a screen propped up all along one end of the room. Behind it, he hears soft voices speak in another language, rapid and lyrical. The experimental pat of drums and the musical clink of small cymbals indicates that a band of some kind has set up back there, in readiness with their instruments.

Following the instructions he'd received earlier, Kento pads quietly to the centre of the room, where the large, solitary cushion sits, and lowers himself onto it. It is surprisingly comfortable. When everything seems to be in position, a hush falls over the room.

The first hint of her approach is the chime of the anklets she wears, many layered, the bronze shimmer of the individual bells catching the buttery light. She wears a sari, but something about it seems tailored differently from those he'd seen before. The waist has been cinched in with a belt, the pleats of the skirt fanning out around the knees. Beneath, she wears a pair of loose-fitting pants, the shimmering material caught in at the ankles by the bells he heard earlier.

Her hair has been fixed back in a long braid, flowers framing the outline of her head. Dark kohl lines her eyes, and her hands and feet are decorated with a red stain that stands out against the ocean-coloured silk of the sari.

She approaches and crouches nimbly before him, that long-lashed gaze travelling over his form, attentive. Her voice is low pitched, as always, but now there is a new undercurrent to it. He can feel the latent energy within her, as if she has been calling to it, like some long- submerged civilization breaching the surface of the sea.

"Nanami. I'm about to start. In order for me to do so, I need you to picture something in your mind's eye for me."

He nods, slowly.

"I'm going to touch your navel the same way I did yesterday. When I do, don't fight the image your mind throws up. It is natural. It may be a good memory, or an upsetting one. Either way, just let it be. Do you understand?"

"I do."

The pressure of her hand is barely tangible through the material of his sweater, but her cursed energy slides against him with a force he can push back against. He doesn't. Even as it goes against every preservatory instinct he has, he lets her in, watches the slow dawn of soft surprise in her eyes. She has kind eyes, he is only just realising.

And then an image flashes across his mind, just as she warned. Another era of lost kindness, a boy who looked at him with eternal patience, good humour and warmth. In the instant that he sees that face, laughing, animated, lips peeled back from wide, white teeth in that trademark grin, the world shifts. The face is no longer filled with life and humour. It is cold. Pale. Lips purplish and creased, dried blood flaking from the corners.

He wants to pull away, to stop, but he cannot. This is important. This has to be done.

Her hand comes down on his abdomen, harder. Then again. She is finding a rhythm in his own cursed energy, hand mapping out the pulse, scenting his weakness, his pain, following it. Again. And again. And again. The steady pattern builds. So does her cursed energy. It fills the room, filtering into every space, until Kento feels like he is the inhabitant of a fish tank.

Blue silk fluttering, she steps back suddenly. The scent of the incense is heady, intense. Behind the screen, the unseen musicians have somehow struck up the same tempo she has been playing on his abdomen. Her expression changes, and he straightens, slowly.

The kohl-lined eyes open wide, the whites stark gains the smoky backdrop of her lids. She drops to the same stance he'd seen her adopt in the class she'd taught yesterday, knees slightly bent, thighs holding a rigid line, arms outstretched, hands slightly bent at the ends. Her entire upper torso forms an elegant line, see-sawing gently, before the arms snap back and forth, as if tugged by an elastic band.

Red-painted, flickering like four flames, her hands and feet move with rapid precision, taking her through a fluid series of steps that are timed exactly to the beat of the drums, the beat of his own cursed energy, humming and writhing. Her dark, dark eyes meet his, and he understands, now, that every movement she makes entwines their energy, tangles it further, a cat with a ball of yarn, edging the threads closer to a woven pattern.

Her hands stretch toward him, shaped in what seems to be something symbolic of a flower. They spread, and he follows the reddened unfurling of her fingers, the crash of the cymbals louder, a portent of her ability.

He sees the incorporeal lotus, the shadow of it on the screen behind her, petals rifling past each other like the pages of an endless book, and her hands are dragging something out and away from him, emptying like fragrance into the room.

This is her domain, and he shudders in sudden understanding, as memories he'd long buried, bruised and raw, come fluttering like a cloud of butterflies to the surface of his mind.

The first time he'd met Haibara, the way the bright-eyed boy had handed him a shared ice cream, that hot, hot summer's day. The way he'd followed Kento, ignoring his grumpy demeanour, pressing snacks and home-made creations (less successful) into his hands. The long days of training, the sudden and pleased widening of his eyes when Kento had let slip that he'd been improving. The muted tones of his exuberant voice when he'd spoken of his sister, of the path he'd make sure she'd never choose.

And that, right there, was that focal point of pain, the sore spot that had festered, untreated, deep in the knowledge of his soul. Haibara had known, all along, the dangers of their job. He'd known, full well, how easily his life was spent by those who did not understand the full value of such currency. He knew that his youth was a fool's game, one that may never be completed. And for all of these years, since his death, Kento had chosen to -

The loud clash of cymbals dissipates those thoughts instantly, the energy permeating the room, surrounding them both, snapping back to her still form, controlled and under her command. She is watching him closely, the tight grip he now has on his knees, the sweat beading on his brow.

She takes three steps forward, legs lifting high in the stylized movement of her dance form, and her palms come together as she bows to him. Instantly, the performer is gone, and she is back with him, no longer in command. She pads quickly over to him, kneeling and touching his leg.

"Hold on to those images for a moment. Tell me, who was that boy?"

Kento pauses, swallows thickly.

"Haibara Yu. A boy who studied at the Tech with me. We trained together."

She does not need to ask what has happened to Haibara. She has seen it, through the binding of her dance. She has seen his death. Her next question catches him off guard.

"Why is his spirit so strong inside you? You carry him with you like a briefcase to work everyday. Why is his reflection on every surface you pass? Why does he force you forward, and yet, drag you backwards too?"

Kento is still, the sweat cooling on his temples. His muscles are rigid, cording. Pain flares along his jaw, where he has been clenching it. She raises a hand, palm up.

"Don't answer me now. Take the next few days off, and think about the questions I've asked."

*******

He does consider it, as she asked him to. In fact, it's all he can dwell on. As much as it robs him of sleep, leaving him tossing and turning, blankets rumpled and damp with perspiration, he thinks that this is better than staring into formless space. This torment is preferable to the endless battle played out against the pale, sterile walls of the clinic.

How long has it been since his pain has been cut out of his chest, a fully formed, hard-edged diamond, the corners so sharp they slice through him at every touch? How long has it been since he's turned over that crystalline fragment in his hands, allowed himself to remember, to cherish, to grieve?

He understands why he could not, before this. There were missions to undertake. Work to be done. Curses to be dispatched. An endless cycle of activity to tear his mind away from such things.

And then, there had been the students. He goes over each of their names in his mind like a mantra. Yuuji. Megumi. Nobara. Maki. Panda. Inunaki. Ino. The faces of children, the minds of warriors, the scars of those who had known their worst fears and overcome them. It was his duty to protect and serve, to keep them safe, and yet ...

If he had convinced himself, so many times over, that Haibara had needed an adult like the one he had shaped himself to be, then why wasn't he needed any longer?

(V)

Varnam: The Centerpiece

When you see him again, you can't help the smile that breaks across your face. Nanami is a tricky customer. In spite of his natural strength and charisma, you can tell that he is unaccustomed to relying on others for his emotional well-being.

And yet, here he is, standing in the hallway, expression controlled and muted as always. There is a certain tension and guarded quality to his demeanour that is lacking this time around, however. He has seen the extent of your technique. It cannot harm him any more than he harms himself. This, you are also aware of.

"Nanami. It's good to see you."

He nods, that keen eye of his taking in your expression.

"You were not expecting me to return."

It is not a question. You laugh and gesture to him to follow you into the smaller room beside the dance hall.

"I can't say what I expected. But rest assured ... I'm glad to see you here."

He dips his head in acknowledgement as he follows you through the door. You note that he's had a haircut since the last time you've seen him, the flowing blonde hair slicked back on the right side. His surgical patch has been replaced by a soft black one. His walk seems a little steadier, even if he still has to use the sturdy cane to navigate the stairs.

You pour him tea in silence, waiting for him to initiate the topic that you've asked him to consider. He takes a sip, a soft grunt of satisfaction escaping him, before he sets the glass down with that decisive motion you've come to recognise.

"Last time I was here ... you asked me about Haibara."

"I saw him. In your memories. He must have been important to you."

"I said that we studied together. We were in the same year. There was ... a mission. It was assigned wrongfully, by the higher ups. The difficulty level was ... too great for two fledgling sorcerers. We'd held our own against curses before, but this was different."

"And Haibara ... "

"He was killed. I escaped."

There it was. The words seem to exit him easily enough, because he's probably said them many times before. There is a raw quality to them, though, that cannot be disguised. He has never forgiven himself for Haibara's death. You give him a minute before resuming your questioning.

"My technique showed me that Haibara had a sister. He did not want her to become a sorcerer like you two?"

Here, Nanami's hesitance is tangible.

"No, he didn't. He knew the dangers of our work."

"And yet, in your memories, you clearly see him as someone to be protected."

"He was."

The words emerge sharper than Nanami likes, because he tries to lessen the bite of his tone as he continues.

"I believe that the younger generation of sorcerers should be protected at all costs, whenever necessary. It doesn't matter how much they've seen, how much they've experienced. What matters is that they are not robbed of responsible adult figures in their lives, who can help them cope with what comes later."

"Did anyone help you with coping? With dealing with what happened to Haibara?"

For the first time, Nanami does not meet your gaze. There is a softness to this man, that shows in the gentle, considered way he touches objects, the way his dark lashes shadow his cheeks, the way he is always thinking of someone, anyone other than himself.

"No."

His voice is charged, but quiet.

"And so, you think to play this role for the future generations?"

"I hope to. Yes."

You already know what must be done, as painful as it may be.

"Nanami, is it possible for me to meet with your students?"

******

"Nanamiiiinnnn!"

The boy with soft-hued pink hair is enthusiastic in his greeting, none of it contrived. You can see from the way his eyes light up, the way his whole body gravitates to the sorcerer standing beside you, that Nanami means the world to him. The girl with the eyepatch beside him gives a more staid greeting. There is a certain tough rakishness to her bearing that you've come to recognise as well-earned bravado.

It's Nanami you are more focused on. He introduces you to the students who greet you politely, each giving a small bow.

"How's the progress, Nanamin? You look great!"

The young sorcerer, Yuuji, truly means it. He is taking in Nanami with an air of triumph.

"It's slow, in some ways, but I'm getting there, Itadori."

You note how he still refers to them by their family names, even after everything they've been through together.

"Why don't we have lunch together?" you suggest.

Nobara immediately points at Nanami.

"Ask him. He's knows all the good places, in just about every part of the city."

And so, you find yourselves seated at a small soba place, one you haven't come across before. The food is excellent, and Yuuji and Nobara chat animatedly across the table with their senior as they plough through a selection of dishes.

It is now that you notice all of the things that Nanami doesn't.

The way Yuuji constantly keeps an eye on how much his mentor eats. The way Nobara adjusted the table when they sat down, such that Nanami could be more comfortable. The way they both scoped you out with clear protective instinct, forming their opinions of you.

Yuuji keeps up an encouraging stream of comments, complimenting Nanami on his receptiveness to treatment, on his hair, on the fact that he's been getting out more. He asks Nanami's advice on missions he'll be undertaking solo, and with others.

"So, Ino got his grade one promotion!"

"He told me."

Nanami cannot help the small smile that appears on his face. Yuuji shakes his head.

"Ha. I bet he told you before he told his mom."

Nobara snorts in agreement.

"Did you know he's picked up wearing a suit on missions now?"

"He does?"

Nanami seems surprised by this.

"Sure does. Keeps his hair shorter too. Thought I was teaming up with a Yakuza the last time we went on a mission together."

"Surely not."

"Oh, absolutely! He tried acting all cool, until I told him I'd video him and send it to you, and then he stopped with the persona real fast."

Nanami chuckles. It is a rich, warm, hearty sound, one that flickers over the table like the heat of a fireplace. You see the aching softness in Yuuji's eyes, the way Nobara grins triumphantly at having wrung that sound out of him.

And you understand, fully, like you knew you would.

These are no fledgling sorcerers. Nanami can never again offer them the kind of protection he once had. It is obvious that they value him no less for that. He is a glowing lantern of comfort, of hope to them. If he'd ever desired to play the role of responsible adult to these youngsters, then he'd exceeded every expectation and made himself indispensable, and loved.

If only he could see that.

You catch yourself watching Nanami's smile throughout the meal. It is, at times, contagious, at times shy, at other times a sarcastic tilt. He likes sandwiches, as you learn, and Nobara makes fun of the time one of Yaga's cursed dolls knocked a fresh salmon bagel out of Nanami's hand and he'd snapped and almost destroyed the garden it had escaped into.

It's only when the meal is over, and you are gathering up your purse, that you spy Nobara's eyes on you. The curve of her lips is discreet, and knowing.

*******

During the next few weeks, Nanami's physical condition slowly, but gradually improves. He does not ask when you will ensconce him in your domain again, and you do not offer. You feel that there is some fundamental hurdle he needs to overcome before this.

He still comes regularly, though. For someone who lived a regimental lifestyle like he did, you suppose it has something to do with maintaining a routine. Every other day, he is present, and sometimes, you note, he arrives almost half an hour early, watching the dance practice through the glass doors from the room across the hall.

You now leave the chai where he can help himself to it, and the cushioned mats rolled out so that he can take himself through the preliminary stretches while he waits.

The muscle atrophy, that is sometimes expected in cases of severe burns, does not present in any such way with Nanami. You can see, in the firmness of his stride, in the way he is able to balance his weight, in the slow loss of infirmity, that he has been working hard to maintain his strength and regain his physical abilities.

This is not what worries you. It's what comes after.

One month after treatment began, you see him ascend the staircase without assistance from a cane. He looks across the small distance, that bewitching hazel eye so firm, so proud, so accomplished, turning to you for acknowledgement that you cannot help the small sound of delight that escapes you. You also feel your stomach clench in anticipation.

Once in the room, you notice the small hint of amusement on his face, as you serve him from a plate of samoosas. You lift a curious brow.

"What is it?"

"You don't have to look so concerned. I won't be trying to take on any missions."

"I'm not concerned about- "

You cut yourself off, busying your hands with the tea. When you look up again, your breath catches slightly in your throat. He is watching you with what looks like tenderness, one hand still holding the plate you've absently passed to him. He speaks again, leaning back in his chair.

"There is something I haven't told you yet."

"And what's that?"

"About a dream of mine. One I've had for a very long time."

"And I presume it's a good dream?"

"In every sense. When I worked as a salaryman, I planned to save up enough money to retire. Live somewhere affordable, near the sea. Somewhere like Kuantan. I'd finally get to read all the books I'd bought and never finished. I'd live peacefully. Travel now and then."

You hum slightly, considering this dream.

"That sounds wonderful. Do you still think that this dream ... belongs to you? That it can be your reality, someday?"

"I always have. But ... I also know that such dreams come at a heavy price."

"Nanami ... I'd say that you've paid a thousand times over for such a dream."

Your heart twists at the pained knowledge in his glance. You've underestimated his astute nature.

He knows.

"I did tell you that one of the younger sorcerers saved my life, before. It was Yuuji. He found me when I was half conscious, burned, hallucinating about ... but that's beside the point. When I walked through that subway, I kept thinking the same thought, over and over again. 'Haven't I done enough?'"

The silence that descends upon the room is stifling. You clasp your hands over your knees.

"And have you?"

"I don't know, truthfully. Every time I think I have, there is something else. There will always be those who need the help of sorcerers. As long as I am able, how can I deny them that help?"

He is testing the waters, you can tell. Something about the last time he entered your domain must have triggered a curiosity in him, a desire to know just how much you could help him. You're not sure what it is, but you feel a rush of hope, a sense of a dawning breakthrough.

He spoke of a dream, and you know that Nanami never speaks idly. You pour him another glass of tea.

"I have a suggestion. Would you like to enter my domain again?"

(VI)

Padam: Simplicity

This time, there is no pre-amble. Nanami seats himself on the cushion at the centre of the room with preternatural calm, but you sense the roil of emotions beneath. It gives you a sense of purpose, as you prepare, focusing your technique as you braid your hair and apply the red alta dye to your hands and feet and leave it to dry.

When you enter the room, you see his gaze immediately follow the movement of your hands. You crouch beside him, and something feels different.

Prior to this, Nanami was yet another patient of Shoko's, referred to your family for the kind of healing that physiologically-based cursed techniques couldn't touch. It was the reason that the study of their connection had fizzled out. Practitioners like Shoko were fully aware of the effects, but could not recommend them without a sense of hesitation.

And what was Nanami to you now?

You'd been avoiding that question. You know, full well, that helping him has become a desire birthed inside you as vital as breathing. You want to see him well, you want to see him happy, you want his laugh to echo through the corridors of Jujutsu Tech and his feet to find their way to warm sands and the gentle caress of waves. It is that simple.

(You wish it was.)

Your touch on his abdomen is charged with the weight of this knowledge, the heat that floods your veins intoxicating as he opens himself to you. You feel for the thread that hangs in the still interior of the self, the quivering vibration that changes and slides from his soul to yours.

There. It is different this time.

There is a tug of greater urgency, a rhythm that swells into a powerful current that threatens to snatch away your control.

No. You won't let it.

The reigns twist in your hand, but you pull them further into yourself, taking them, pioneering your way across the ocean of his desolation and uncertainty. You begin the steady rhythm, synchronized with the music of his soul. The drums behind you take it up. The song holds power, heady and fractious.

There will be theater in your performance tonight.

You spring away from Nanami, the connection between you thrumming with latent energy. The visions of his mind's eye flash upon yours, a series of broken images. You need more coherency. And so, you dance.

You allow your expression to mould to a frightening form, eyes wide, shadows gathering beneath them. Your palm raised, the other thumb above it, quivering.

Illumination. Let the soul reveal itself.

And it does. Nanami's form, dragging his feet, fresh, horrific burns across his torso, swimming into your vision. As you take measured steps across the floor, knees poised high, anklets chiming, his footsteps echo yours.

You turn, palms facing floorward and ceilingward, the red seeping between your fingers in the dim light reminiscent of the blood that creeps sluggishly from the raw ends of his scorched flesh. You take his pain into yourself, whirling across the floor.

And then, something startling. Yuuji appears, but not as the heroic saviour. There is a gaping hole in his chest, those bright eyes, fervent with life, now empty and soulless. He collapses with a solid thud and your steps falter.

This is not -

And then, Nobara. Your hands draw back, foot placed on the flesh of the enemy, but Nobara's face explodes in a bloom of scarlet, painting the walls with a hibiscus flare of bone, flesh and matter.

Why is he -

Nanami's face and neck are drenched in sweat, his eyes shut tightly. There are crescents forming in the fabric of his trousers, over the knees, where his fingernails dig into the flesh. The cymbals are now clashing to a faster pace, and you are drawn along, the river of his despair breaking its banks.

You see them, one by one, in-between the rush of your spinning braid, arms and the red flash of your fingers. All of them. All of the students Nanami holds so dear, lifeless, bodies broken beyond repair. A thin, bespectacled man in a dark suit, motionless on the ground, blood seeping from beneath him. Shoko, with her lackadaisical smile and lazy warmth, neck slit, dropping to her knees. Haibara Yu, his youthful face ghastly and pale, one finger raised, pointing.

There is a dreadful sound emerging from Nanami's throat, pain and loss and suffering ground between his teeth to spill into his lap, along with the dampness that rushes from beneath his single, uncovered eyelid. You fight against the overwhelming current, back towards him, the muscles of your legs screaming as his cursed energy pushes up from all around him, a defensive wall.

You're on your knees beside him now, reaching past the battering of his energy, grasping hard at his shoulders.

Come back. Come back to me.

He is twisting in your grasp, his strength all but overwhelming, even in his weakened state. You position your hands on either side of his face, gently, the tendons in your neck standing out with the effort of keeping them in place.

Come back to me.

You are vaguely aware that words are spilling from between his clenched lips, the muffled sounds slowly gaining clarity as you fix your gaze on his mouth.

"Why not me, why not me, why not me, why - "

You feel an answering dampness on your own cheeks as you draw him closer, feeling his cursed energy envelope you, binding you even closer in mind and body.

"Not you, Nanami. Not you. Because your life is not going to be spent like this. Not like this."

Through the atomic engagement of your cursed energy, you feel for the familiarity of him, and you flood his awareness with images that push away the darkness that lingers. Of Yuuji and his kind eyes and watchful care, of Nobara with her brash humour and protective glance. You force him to confront the reality of the others he's buried in his memory, of the bespectacled man scurrying around his office, of Shoko puffing out a dense, white cloud as her head tilts back against a pillar, of the other students, traipsing back in, exhausted after a mission, of a young man pulling a ski mask over a cheeky, lop-sided grin.

"They need you, Nanami Kento. They need you to be alive and well. That's all they've ever wanted."

Your voice has lowered to a whisper as your domain is finally able to manifest, unfolding in the absence of his resistance. The many-petaled flower blooms in shadow, until the shining heart of it breaches like a whale's head above the turbulent waves.

And Nanami is enfolded in your arms, head pillowed against your shoulder, as your voice draws his drowning mind inwards, a solitary lifeline.

*****

Nanami does not return for his scheduled appointment the day after, or the time after that. Two weeks go by with no sign of him. You debate calling Shoko to enquire after him, your concern growing like a viper, hatched in the pit of your stomach.

Something holds you back, however. The same idea that forces you to confront what Nanami Kento has become to you. Your technique alone is based on facing the uncomfortable truths buried deep in your soul, and your feelings for him are no exception.

You cannot, in good conscience, call Shoko when the man you have come to care for so deeply wants nothing more to do with you, or your domain. The best thing for both of you would be to remain as silent ships, passing each other on the vast ocean, as Nanami gradually finds his way to the uncertain shore of recovery.

You cannot help but wonder, though, if you did truly have some impact on him. Had it worked? Would he now make more positive changes in his life that you would simply remain unaware of, or would he ignore all the progress you had made since the first time he'd stepped through those doors? You had to make peace with the idea that you'd probably never know.

(It still leaves you breathless with hurt, remembering the tender scent of him that remains on your clothes.)

******

Nanami does return, just not in the manner you'd expected.

It is a cool spring day, a full month after the incident in the dance hall. You've just come down from your apartment on the third level, wrapping a scarf around your neck and steeling yourself to brave the chill. You hear footsteps on the stairs, and you will your heart to a regular beat as their steady pace and weight sounds familiar. You've long given up the chance of seeing him again.

And then the distinctive wing of blonde hair makes an appearance past the rickety balustrade, followed shortly by the rest of him, and something in your chest constricts, because all of your discipline and mindfulness is about to fly out the window, and -

He mounts the final stair, pausing as he takes you in, in your outdoor clothes. You are trying, failing, trying so hard not to read too much into his expression, but there ... you see it. His eye kindles; the warmth of it floods the narrow space between you two, seeping into you down to your bones. No scarf can replicate this.

He steps forward, uncertainly, face twisting slightly in pained apology.

"Am I ... I hope you're well."

"I am. You look ... "

He is finally clad in the form most natural to him, a tan business suit, dark blue shirt beneath, a speckled tie cast to one side by the wind. His hair has grown drastically in the time he's been absent, one half of his scalp covered by a short growth of luxuriant white. He wears a dark glove over his left hand, presumably protecting the sensitive burnt skin there.

He is walking, completely without aid, only a slight stiffness betraying the original severity of his injury. All the elegance, strength and beauty you saw in him at first glance, now magnified beyond your comprehension, because something else is different.

His soul, the Atman that had struggled like a wounded tiger, frantic and torn, beating against its constraints, is not whole. Not just yet. It is, however, expanding beyond the borders of his body, exuding that confidence and grace you knew were such a vital part of his being. This is Nanami, the shackles of his mind trailing with uncertainty behind him as his gaze seeks yours.

You take a breath, but he holds up a hand.

"Please, let me speak first."

Seeing your slow nod, he seems slightly relieved.

"I apologise sincerely for not coming sooner. I felt that ... I needed to make progress on my own, to come to terms with what you'd shown me, before I came here once again. Above all I was ... "

Those rich, mellow tones of his drop to the range of the barely audible.

"Above all, I was ashamed. Of how obtuse I'd been. Of all the things I'd missed. I had to make that right somehow, to work harder to show the people who care about me that I can learn. That I can change. That I can ... think of myself and prioritize my well-being."

You are vaguely aware that you've drawn closer, a hapless moth, fluttering closer to a consuming flame.

"And are you at such a point now? You can really think of yourself?"

He huffs a soft laugh, eye traveling slowly, softly over your hair, your face, your lips.

"Yes. Yes, I think I can. If you choose to forgive me, maybe I can accompany you on your walk now?"

******

It is not the only time he walks with you. Nanami starts to visit again, regularly, but not just for yoga and exercises. Many of his visits are social, calling on you with a small gift of some edible treat or other that he'd discovered.

He tells you that he has started working at the Tech again, but in a purely advisory capacity, holding special seminars for younger sorcerers on the dynamics of co-operative missions, prioritizing the safety of oneself and teammates, strategy and appropriate preparation before missions.

He watches each young face that peers earnestly at him from the audience and feels a sense of peace, that he is doing all that he can to help them survive the harsh world that awaits. He is also liaising with various counseling services, trying to build a solid foundation for sorcerers who require emotional and psychological support.

You listen to each of his endeavours with delight, especially when he asks if you are willing to be part of this new co-ordinated team, bringing your area of specialty to the table.

Other times, you sit on the balcony with him, watching the ebb and flow of humanity in the city below, your bubble of tranquility untouched. These times are the most precious to you, because that is when Nanami's shoulders ease, when the lines at the corners his eyes deepen with merriment, when he tells you stories of places he's visited, people he's come across, anecdotes from his days as a salaryman and the latest exploits of the students.

There are times when he leans in close, when your breath halts at the verdant, warm, masculine scent of him. There are times when you pass him a steaming glass and your fingers brush the ends of his, and you notice that he always takes off his glove when he sits with you. Sometimes you stand, side by side on the balcony, your upper arm pressed slightly against his, revelling in the sweet, solid proximity of him.

It is one one of those occasions that you turn to him, to point out a new store that has opened not far away, and you see that he is watching you. There is no shame in his glance, only a gentle wonder that weaves a golden bridge between the both of you. Your voice is soft, reverent.

"What is it?"

"I'm remembering the first time I saw you dance."

"Oh?"

"You were teaching a class, as I recall. I remember standing by the door, watching, and some time later, your eyes were on me. And I realized that I couldn't remember anything that had happened in between."

He reaches for you, the glove absent, and you lean into his touch without hesitation. His fingers are light, so light, as they trace across your temple, your cheek, the corner of your lips.

"And ... during our second session, when you held me, I knew that I couldn't continue like this. That you were using the strength of your soul to heal mine, and that if I didn't do my best to understand what you had shown me, then all your effort would have been for nothing. I couldn't accept that."

Your forehead finds purchase against his, a natural movement that echoes the press of your palm against the substantiality of his chest.

"And now?"

"Now ... I can walk beside you in the sun."

The taste of his mouth is a nectar you've never known you've craved. It is heady, a fiery joining of soft and rough, the edges of the scar tissue tracing along your lips like the light drag of a fingernail.

You open your arms to him once more, and this time, he stays.

(VII)

Thillana: Revivification

After learning the soul, learning the body is as natural as breathing. You were hesitant about touching him, wondering how much he'd allow after his injuries. You needn't have worried much on that account. As much as he makes your heart flutter and sing with his praises, with his eager, gentle touches, with the growing harshness of his lips against yours, all that he seems concerned with is how to use his body best to bring pleasure to yours.

You have seen the barest desolation of his soul, and its healing, and the damage to his body means as little to both of you as the muted rush of traffic outside your small apartment.

His urgency is sweetened by the clumsy tug and pull on zips and fastenings, on the shedding of clothes, the soft exhales, painting skin with warm moisture in between the frantic pace of your lips and his.

His hands are so large, spanning your ribcage as you lead him to your bed, circling and finding purchase on the dip of your waist. His body is a moving furnace that warms you as you stumble and clutch at each other, the ripple of muscle like an unseen beast beneath the waves as your palms explore his shoulders, arms, torso, hips.

Kento's skin is a map of hidden treasures, the smooth, tawny, gold- flecked expanse of chest meeting the ridges of scar tissue halfway across. The new growth of white hair on his scalp is downy soft between your fingers, in contrast to the silky texture on the right. His powerful thighs slide between yours, the forward thrust of his hips spreading you open to receive his weight.

He is not forceful, and yet, takes the reigns of your intimate dance almost as if by instinct. He pauses above you, propped on his hands, chest heaving slightly as he takes you in, his amber-shot gaze misty with adoration and lust. You reach up, tracing the firm line of his nose, the sharpness of his jaw, the sinew of his neck. Every new angle you spy reveals more, that elusive, predatory beauty that never fails to enchant you.

His head dips, the blonde strands falling forward softly against your skin as he kisses a line of fire down your torso, quickening your breathing as his tongue flickers against your flesh. He holds you down, pressing you firmly into the mattress as he worships each breast, lapping, suckling, savouring.

He moves further down, and your sharp breathing devolves into whispered pleas and whimpers as he nudges your inner thigh softly with his nose. So deliriously slow, so decisive, as in every action he takes, he devours his way to the apex of your thighs, sliding his hands underneath you as you lift your hips and present yourself further to him.

The feast he has been waiting for lies open beneath his gently probing fingers, their honey smearing over his lips as he tastes you, eye snapping up as a breathy moan escapes your lips. He laps at you with heady abandon, that smoky, devoted gaze never leaving the contortions of your face as he brings you to each hard-won peak, drifting you back down to a mellow lake of blinding pleasure.

Your fingers slide and catch on his shoulders, anchoring yourself as blood thunders in your ears, and a rising storm, electric and charged with fresh potency, builds at every ultra-sensitive point of contact. He is your passionate guide, leading you to a shining horizon, familiar and yet fraught with the overwhelming knowledge that he is the one who pulls you over the edge of the thundering waterfall.

You are submerged, the shake of your limbs and the hoarse cry of your voice reaching up from beneath the surface your senses have yet to emerge from. When they do, you glance down at him, past your heaving chest, at the blaze that roars within him as he beholds you splayed out, breathless; an offering.

He takes it.

The slow crawl of his skin, sliding against your damp flesh, the brief touch of his mouth at the hollow of your throat, the brush of his nose against yours. He takes your lips in a soft request for entry, groans into your mouth as you trace the ridges of his spine.

Kento is almost too much for you, the burning vitality that steals your breath, the fullness of your arms as they embrace all of him. The air rushes out of your lungs as the hardened press of his length breaches you, fills you to overflowing.

He holds you close, so close, as if he could meld your bodies as you had once done with your cursed energy, ragged puffs of air escaping his lips to collect like clouds in the evening sky of your hair. His movements are slow, dragging tears from the corners of your eyes, drunk and blissful moans cocooned within the slowly rotating vessel of your lovemaking.

You are at sea with him, around him, washing over his starving self and nourishing his spirit with every slick press of your bodies together, every arch of your back, every trace of his scarred skin, every gentle touch of your lips to his brow, cheek, mouth. He is now taking as well as giving, rolling his hips hard into the widening harbour of your thighs, soft grunt and pants deepening in their urgency.

The unfolding within you is different, completely out of your control. A wild, reckless dance, the rhythm ever-changing, golden threads running like molten metal between the undulations of your bodies. The flower of your combined desire unfurls, petal by petal, each dropping to the floor as new layers of delight and abandon are reached.

The bed creaks beneath the weighted push of his thrusts, his hands flying to your cheeks as your cries grow louder, louder, raspy and choked. This is the true face of passion, the complete submission to the will of your lover, the way you take all that he gifts you with and reciprocate with the finest nectar that slides from the deepest parts of you, soaking the sheets beneath you.

It is here, it is here in the glazed film of his eye beneath dusky lashes, the sweat between his body and yours, the heat that stretches on and on to an infinity within your knowing and snaps-

Washing over his ears in your sharp scream of release, in the wanton covering of his mouth with yours, the ecstasy of a thousand fluttering birds within the cage of your ribs. This time, the gentle ripple of your tide pulls him forward over the edge, his deep groan of guttural satisfaction reverberating through your whole body as his hips stutter and still their frantic pace.

You lie with him, afterwards, limbs entangled, aware only of the shift of his nose against your collarbone, the tightening of his arms around you, the way you wrap yourself around his form, as if to shield him, just for a moment, from the world he has been born into.

Kento.

Brightness, shadow, mellow and hard-edged, the loveliness of everything in-between.

Yours.

How can you ever call it anything other than love?

(VII)

Mangalam: Gratitude

To be in Kento's presence is to discover a thousand tiny precious shards, hidden in the silken folds of your changing life, piecing them together to form a diamond of unparalleled value.

He is quiet, stubborn, brave, resilient, mischievous and agile of mind. He challenges your thoughts on the jujutsu world, brings summer to your heart and draws you into the sunshine of his embrace. The fractured nature of his soul is not one that can be undone, but weeds (hardy and weathered) have grown through the cracks and your own flowerbed finds a home there, gently blossoming.

You are reminded of every richness he has brought into your life on one summer night, in the aftermath of a taxing mission for some of the students, when he meets them for supper and a discussion of what had occurred.

This time, Megumi is also present, and he reminds you a little of Kento as he watches Yuuji's animated re-enactment of the battle, rolling his eyes at obvious embellishments, adding a solemn word now and then. Kento leans forward on his elbows, listening attentively, as always.

When Yuuji is finished, Kento sits back, contemplatively sipping his coffee.

"What you've described is certainly concerning. I'd take this information up with the research committee as soon as you've filed your report. They may want to know details like that."

Yuuji nodded fervently.

"Already on it. I've been looking it up and there was a similar surge in cursed energy in Okinawa a few years ago. Pretty much leveled a small village. I'm not taking any chances with this one. I've texted Ijichi about sealing technique specialists and requested a team to map out energy signatures in the surrounding area. Anything I may have missed?"

You take note of the small smile that graces Kento's face, the pride that spills out along its sharply defined edges.

"No. You've done well, Yuuji. It's exactly what I would have done under those circumstances."

"Oh?"

Yuuji's surprised expression quickly morphs to something else, a deepening realization that silences him and brings a tight, tender quality to the set of his mouth.

Kento has called him by his first name.

********

On the slow stroll back to your home, you link your arm with his. The night sky is flecked with faint stars, unusual to see in the normally smog-laden sky over the city. You speak into the comfortable silence.

"Yuuji handled that well."

"He's a born leader. I've always thought so. He has the confidence and drive to be the strongest, not just in technique. Not to mention the magnitude of what he's already accomplished."

He pauses, one finger idly tracing over his eyepatch.

"I noticed it on our first mission together. He was not just a young sorcerer, going through the motions, trying to survive. He genuinely felt for the victims of the curse. It ... reminded me of Haibara, a little."

He gives your hand a small reassuring pat.

"Not that I've ever confused the two. They're fundamentally different. But Yuuji ... Yuuji had a light inside of him. He made me take note. He made me see him, and his spirit."

Your fingers entwine with his, tugging his hand up to your lips.

"Your spirit is quite marvellous too, you know."

He eyes you sideways, slyly.

"It is?"

"Of course."

"Would you like to elaborate?"

"Fishing for compliments, are we?"

"From your lovely tongue, always."

Your laughter echoes in the silent street, stretching out along the sidewalk, shimmering in the puddles that had formed after the rain.

"You are beautiful, Nanami Kento, and you're- "

You never finish that sentence, as his hands draw you closer, his lips finding yours in the glow of the street lamp. In that moment, you can think of nothing else apart from the man who strides with quiet confidence beside you, on every conceivable path to an unknown future.

He is a red-painted center, kindling in the palm of your hand, the tiger that inhabits the secret garden of your heart, the flame in a gilded brazier that never goes out.

************

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faggotbeloved · 2 months ago

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Cold Metal Biting Soft Flesh | Yandere!Curly x Captain!M!Reader

1: Sanitized (~1k words)

Cw: Canon typical violence, my headcannons for post-crash Curly's wounds, no beta we close our eyes, body horror, lots of painkillers

This work does not contain smut but is 18+. Minors and fem-aligned people, please do not interact. AN at the end.

└───────────────────────┘

It had been only a few hours after saving a man from a three decade old craft when you’d determined that he was going to be under your primary care, aside from medical, from now on.

The man, as you’d discovered, was in fact the captain of the Tulpar. Upon inspection of his wounds, which only occurred back at the ship and with him sedated, Rhodes discovered the harrowing truth that he’d been in a state of third degree full-body burns for over four months. Worse still, he had one half-functional eye with the eyelid burnt shut though the other was severely dry, eyelidless, but still in surprisingly good condition.

Immediately, Rhodes ordered someone to get the passenger’s company issued bio-fabricator, a critical technology with the ability to take biological elements and grow genetically similar (but not identical) copies.

Technically, it was reserved for creating more plants or animals in a biosphere lacking most of the required succession elements, but it’d be easy to grow supplemental skin, hair, and blood to perfectly match the burnt man’s body. He also ordered silver sulfadiazine cream to soothe the initial burns, and for the first time since the man was in the accident he seemed to not be in agony.

──────────────────────

You sat beside the man. He still had his tongue and vocal cords, so he could talk (with much effort), but he was fully deaf so you had a captioning machine set up for him to read your words. Once he awoke, you silently showed him your badge with your name, picture, and title, which he read and nodded once he was done.

“Are you able to talk, sir? We need your name,” you said softly, watching as your head doctor, Rhodes, finally replaced the sticky, deteriorating bandages that practically cemented to his raw flesh. Luckily, the man was unable to feel it with how numb his entire body was.

He nodded weakly, eye never straying from you for long, and coughed. He spat up blood and saliva, to which you gently swiped a rag across his chin to remove it. “It’s okay. Take your time. This is Rhodes, he’s your doctor for now, but one of the passengers here is also a cosmetic surgeon and can start skin grafts once you’re ready.”

You sat back to give the man some space and idly wondered if the bio-fabricator could make enough connective tissues, nerves, and muscles to give him back his limbs. Rhodes left after replacing his arms and legs bandages, and soon the man tapped your resting hand with one of his handless arms and you looked back at him.

“C…url…y,” he rasped out. His volume was lacking, but he couldn’t hear himself so it was to be excpected.

“Curly? Is that your name?”

He nodded weakly. You spoke again, “Curly. Okay, and can you answer a couple questions for me? Shake or nod your head, if you can’t talk.”

Curly nodded, and you began questions. “Were you the captain of the freighter I found you on?” Nod. “Were there exactly five people, counting you?” Nod. “Did the crash do this to you?” Nod.

“Was the crash on purpose?”

He hesitated, then nodded very minutely.

“Did you–” you were cut off. “Jim…my,” he croaked. Well, it sounded more like ‘Jenny’ on account of his lack of lips, but you got the gist. “Jimmy crashed the ship?” Nod. “Did the crew know that?” Shake.

“Shit.” Nod. You chuckled at the nod and he looked up, like he was proud of making you laugh.

“So… do you have your ID with you?” you asked, and he produced a fresh ID from a lanyard under his gown. “Huh. Did Jimmy put that on you?” You asked, to which he nodded. “Was he your friend?” A weak nod. “Do you know why he went batshit? I mean, he’s the only one who could have killed all of your crewmates.” Curly tilted his head like he was wondering what you were asking. You rambled too fast for the machine to pick up. “Oh, yeah. Do you know of a motive?” Shake.

You glanced from the ID card to his face. There’s no mistaking those eyes. You notice there’s something written on the back, but the handwriting is awful. “Um, it looks like Jimmy tried to give me instructions and told a five year old scribe. Can you decipher this?” You asked, showing him the text. Shake. “Fine, I guess. It’s good you have this, facial reconstruction can probably get you pretty close to your face from then.”

He shrugged and laid back, gazing at you. “Wait…” he gasped. “‘lease.” Please.

“Yeah?”

“Stay?” He pleaded, using what remained of his forearm to lock around your arm and keep you (only barely) in place. “’m… s…cared."

“Scared?” You echoed, settling back into your chair and placing a hand on his thigh. “You’re safe here. Everyone who goes in and out of here has high clearance and I know them all personally.” Even still, Curly shook his head. “‘lease,” he echoed.

“I… suppose I could get Sealegs to move my desk into here. Would that be good?” Nod. Nod. Nod. “This is Captain to Sealegs, Sealegs, do you copy?”

“I copy. Whatcha need?” Sealegs hummed. The sound of a familiar video game caught your attention.

“Quit playing Snake on government computers, first of all. Wheel my workbench to the medbay,” you requested, only endearingly annoyed at your nephew. After a few minutes, a young boy with the same eyes and hair as you came in with a rolling desk equipped with robotics equipment, soldering items, and more. Curly seemed to relax once you situated beside him and the two of you slipped into a comfortable silence.

“Hey, Curly, can I take some measurements of you?” You asked after a couple minutes. “Arms and legs,” you added. Nod. Curly lifted up a handless arm and waited for you to start, to which you took diameter and circumference of his arm, approximate length, shape of the amputation, and more. You did the same for the other arm and both legs, then you sat back down to work.

──────────────────────

In a few minutes, you put your higher education to use and attached a crude prosthetic to his leg, but since he was numbed to hell it wasn’t causing him any pain. You worked, he watched, and soon he fell asleep painlessly for the first time in probably a half of a year or so, for him at least.

Once he stopped coughing every time you looked away for too long, you were able to get some work done and sent off an update to your boss–you told him that you had a new crew member on board, that you authorized the use of the bio-fabricator, and that you’d pay for his medical costs. Of course, you wouldn’t tell Curly that. Feeling indebted to someone is a terrible thing.

You were in for a long night. You wanted to give him the most mobility possible, but it’d be up to him ultimately to use them. The least you could do is build him the choice.

┌───────────────────────┐

I’m not happy with this, but if I didn’t get it out now it’d rot forever :( thank you to everyone who’s left kind words and reblogs and likes!! It means so much and if youve left any asks I’m so sorry but tumblr SAYS i have 6 asks but none show up :(((

#✑ captain curly.#✑ my works.#yandere captain curly #curly mouthwashing x male reader #yandere curly mouthwashing #yandere curly #captain curly x male reader #captain curly x reader #curly mouthwashing x reader #curly x male reader #curly mouthwashing #curly x reader #captain curly #tw yandere

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notapradagurl7 · 5 months ago

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Sick Day In.

Black! Fem Readr x Orlando Johnson from All American: Homecoming.

(a/n: he is so fine. I loved writing this one.😫❤️)

Taglist: @lavnderluv @harmshake @sageispunk @soft-persephone @megamindsecretlair @westside-rot @siqueth @liatreads @torsiar @mypointlessdays @justhornyyme @cristallizednmesmerized @satoruya @planetblaque @hoodbarbiesims @harlemheiress @glitterperms @amplifiedmoan @avoidthings @judymfmoody @life-in-the-slut-house @keyera-jackson @tryingtograspctrl @nzia-writes @multiversefanfics @thecookiebratz

Summary: You were feeling under the weather in your college dorm so your boyfriend Orlando visited your dorm and helped you get better.

——————

You lay slouching against the white bed sheets, cocooned in light green blankets. Your fingers plucked another dark green tissue from the bedside tan table, as you blew your nose with a sniffle. Sliding off the twin bed, you peeled back the covers, revealing white socks gliding over the grey carpet. Frustration set in you as you tossed yet another tissue into the overflowing mint green bin, rolling your brown eyes, and pursing your lips.

A quick hand wash in the compact bathroom, and you returned to your bed, surrounded by the eggshell white cinder block walls in the average-sized dorm room, The walls were adorned with your own artwork, and a cherished family photo. Just then, a few gentle knocks on the door pulled your attention.

"Who's there?" you asked, you weren’t in the mood for company right now.

You were an art major and college student at Bringston University, an HBCU in Atlanta.

You were dedicated to your studies and held the position of club president in the art club.

Your strict academic schedule and demanding leadership role left you with little time to rest. Unfortunately, you fell ill and were forced to spend your summer cooped up alone in your dorm room, unable to enjoy the sunny Atlanta weather. Your hard work and dedication have taken a toll on your health.

You had been looking forward to the summer break to relax and recharge, but your plans were ruined by the cold. You missed your family and friends, who were all back home, and wished you could be there too.

Despite feeling sick, you had still managed to inform your boyfriend, Orlando about your not being able to make it for their date tonight. Although he empathized with your condition, he was still eager to spend some quality time with you. You appreciated your boyfriend's concern.

During your art class, the two college students crossed paths and soon became partners on a collaborative project. It was then that he witnessed your natural artistic talent, admiring every stroke and technique you used.

The two of you worked together, you found it endearing that he took such care in learning how to handle a paintbrush. Your partnership blossomed into a friendship, with you cheering him on at his baseball games and him buying your art supplies when you lost them.

Eventually, your friendship evolved into a romantic relationship and he proved to be an exceptional boyfriend. Attentive to every detail, he never missed a beat when it came to you.

You were grateful for Orlando's support and love and he was grateful for yours too, especially during times like this when you felt helpless and alone. You knew you could always count on him to lift your spirits and make you feel better.

In her comfortable attire, you sported a grey tee shirt that was matched with a pair of grey sweatpants that clung to your legs. You wore white tube socks on your feet, while your raven box braids, gently swayed in front of your face. Your hands were tucked away in your pockets, and the room was filled with the sweet aroma of vanilla, emanating from the trio of candles on your nightstand. The thin, white blinds allowed the gentle sunlight to peek through and shine upon your brown skin. Serene silence fills the room.

"It's Orlando." He said outside of your dorm room, made your heart leap with excitement. You practically skipped over to the door, your hand eagerly grasping the metal door handle.

You slowly swung the door open, your face broke into a smile at the sight of your boyfriend standing there. Without hesitation, you welcomed him inside your cozy dorm room, his hand holding a bag filled with everything you needed to combat the cold you had. Orlando holding a bouquet of red roses. You couldn't help but smile at the sweet gesture as you closed the door behind him.

"Hey, baby," Orlando greeted you with a gentle kiss on your forehead, "I brought you some soup, medicine, and your favorite snacks, your favorite movies. A bouquet of red roses to cheer you up."

"Orlando, Thank you. You're the best." Your eyes glinted with gratitude as you took the bag and bouquet from him, carefully placing it next to the nightstand while putting the flowers in the purple vase. He wrapped his arms around your waist, hugging her from behind. You felt your heart fill with affection for him as your cheeks grew hot.

"How are you feeling Y/N?" Orlando asked in a gentle tone, as he leaned in and rested his chin on your shoulder. His thumb gently rubbed over your stomach, hoping that his presence could bring some good to the summer that had been tough for you.

"Still pretty crappy, this cold won't go away but don't you have a baseball season this summer? I hope that I didn't get in the way of your games," you spoke in a gentle tone, shaking your head as you looked at him.

Orlando gently shook his head, his hands cupping your face as he turned around and

Faced you forward to meet your gaze. He locked eyes with you, his tender touch causing her chest to flutter with nerves. He didn't want you to think he didn't care about your well-being.

"I only care about being with you this summer. You've been overworking yourself and it pains me to see you like this. I'll skip another season." he mentioned softly, his thumb swiped over your cheek.

"Let me take care of you baby," Orlando said in a sultry voice, his gaze fixated on your. He nibbled on his lower lip, as if contemplating the next move.

Your heart raced as you soaked his words, understanding both senses but feeling unprepared for what he had planned. He leaned in for a kiss, but she quickly turned your head, redirecting his lips to your cheek. "I don't want you to get sick," you pouted.

"Let's wait until I get better." you added, you didn't want to risk his health for momentary pleasure.

Orlando let out a contented hum and turned his attention to your bottom lip. After a brief moment, he looked back into your eyes and uttered, "One of the many things I love about you." He then leaned in and planted a gentle kiss on your cheek.

You knew you were lucky to have someone like him in her life and so was he. The two of you sat on your bed, watching movies and enjoying the soup and snacks, you felt your cold slowly start to fade away. But more than that, you felt the warmth and comfort of your boyfriend's love.

—————

The night sky crept up on them faster than anticipated, but with the help of medication, a steaming bowl of soup, and some cough drops, your cold went away.

Orlando's back leaned against the light green plush pillows with your back nestled against his chest and he gently laid his chin on top of your head while he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer to him. "Feeling better?" he asked, his voice low and soothing.

You nodded, snuggling further into his embrace. "Yup, thanks to you," you replied, your voice still a bit hoarse.

Orlando chuckled. "I'm just glad I could help." They lay there in comfortable silence, enjoying each other's company. The only sound in the room was the soft hum of the air conditioner.

Orlando placed a gentle kiss on your cheek and used his index finger to lift your chin. "Now that you're feeling better, can I take care of you?" He whispered in a low tone. You flushed and nodded, "Yes, of course, baby."

Your lips met in a passionate kiss as you tilted your heads in different directions, exploring each other's mouths with your tongues. You let out a soft moan as the kiss intensified, leaving a trail of saliva between your lips as you parted.

"Orlando can you lock the door really quick?"

——————

Your naked back laid flat against the white bedsheets with his hands held your hips in place while his slim hips rocked into you, while your fingernails sunk into back muscles and your mouth hung open to let a chorus of moans, "Oh shitt! Orlando!" you moaned loudly, your eyes locked intensely, your thumb traced the outline of his lips while he smirked against your brown skin, he trailed kisses up to your breast. The bed creaked from their movement, you shivered with pleasure, sending tingles down yourr entire body. He plunged deeper into you while you arched your back off the bed.

Orlando lowers his head to pepper warm kisses on the sides of your neck and sinks his teeth into your neck gently, leaving hickeys on your brown skin while he gyrated into you making your toes curl in the air, "Talk to me, tell me how good it feels.." Orlando lulled to you, you gasped at the sensation of his tongue swiveling around your erect nipple while his other hand gently kneaded your other breast and the wet sounds of your skin colliding filled the room.

Orlando's mouth enveloped your nipple, the warmth of his lips sending shivers down your body. You pulled him closer, your hands moving to the back of his neck. "It's so good, Don't stop," you sputtered, pulling him closer to you as you whispered, motivating him more as he quickened his pace, your wet walls clenched around him so tightly "Damn...you're taking it so good baby.." he praised lowly, his nails digging into your hips while his middle finger circled her clit. Tilting their heads together to deepen the kiss, you moaned, "Mmhm!" unable to control the pleasure that was building inside of you.

His hips lunged faster, you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to your climax, "I'm gonna cum baby..." You gasped, He didn't slow down, instead, he pushed you over the edge with a few slow, sloppy thrusts. You cried out his name while your essence gushed around his dick, your body shaking with the intensity of your orgasm.

Orlando pulled out of you, "fuckk.." Orlando gripped the covers and laid them on their naked bodies while pulling you into his arms and he nuzzled his face into your neck, peppering kisses along your brown skin. "You're so beautiful," He hummed, his voice husky. You smiled, feeling completely content in his arms before kissing your lips tenderly again.

———————

#black!reader #black fanfiction #all american homecoming #lando johnson #orlando johnson #lando x reader

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sugurugetofavoritemonkey · 4 months ago

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Ethan Landry taking care of his sick girlfriend.

You had been sick for days now and it was making you feel so weak and tired that you found yourself lucky to have such a loving and caring boyfriend to be with you in these moments. You had insisted with Ethan that he didn’t have to miss so many classes and that he could get sick by taking care of you but he wouldn’t even listen to your arguments, saying that it was part of his mission as a good boyfriend to make sure you would get better under his care.

Ethan would lay in bed with you all day and night just to reassure you with his warm presence as you two were watching horror movies all day, well…seeing your condition, it would be more accurate to say that you rather slept during most of the movies while Ethan softly caressed your hair and silently chuckled at your little snores.

Ethan would also argue with you when you had to take your medicines that you quite disliked. Ethan sighed as he tried to move the big spoon of syrup closer to your closed lips, as he mimicked what he wanted you to do like he was talking to a child.

« Aaahhh », Ethan opened his mouth but soon after started to pout at you when you kept on being stubborn.

« Please baby, I know it’s icky but at least try for me, hmm ? », Ethan smiled at you as he caressed your cheekbone with his free hand. You couldn’t refuse when he was being this adorable with you and you opened your mouth for Ethan to give you the medicine for your sore throat, as your attentive boyfriend put his other hand under the spoon just in case some of the syrup might spill.

You had also told Ethan that your tummy awfully hurt with how much you were coughing. Considering that Ethan held you in his arms all day long, your back comfortably resting against his chest, he instantly had the idea to massage your tummy to make the ache slowly fade away. Under your shirt, his hand felt soft and warm on your skin as Ethan applied firm yet gentle circles where you needed relief.

And during the night, when you would constantly wake up shivering because of coughs or pain, Ethan would still hold you close to his heart, only leaving you to bring you a glass of water, tissues or something that you needed. When your head would rest back on his chest, Ethan leaned down and kissed your head, his lips lingering there for a moment before he pulled back to look at you with a tender expression. His hand found yours instinctively to intertwine his fingers with yours, his thumb gently rubbing circles on the back of your hand as Ethan murmurs reassuring words in your hair.

« It’s okay, I’m right here…my angel, I’ll always be. Just relax and rest, I’m not going anywhere…because I love you. »

Yeah I’m like very sick so this is super indulgent, I need Ethan to hold me 🥺💓

💗 Ethan Landry Masterlist 💗

#ethan landry x reader #ghostface x reader #scream x reader #jack champion #ethan landry #ghostface #my own stardust

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holylulusworld · 19 days ago

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Care for you

Summary: He takes good care of you.

Pairing: Biker!Ari Levinson x fem!Reader

Warnings: fluff, heavy daddy kink, caregiver Ari, comforting, protective Ari, sick reader, mentions of menstruation, kinda DDLG dynamics

A/N: This snippet takes place a few months after “Pick you up”. It can be read as a stand-alone fic but makes more sense if you know Pick you up masterlist.

You sneeze, again. A little louder this time. For days, you didn’t feel well but tried to hide your condition from Ari.

He had his hands full with the club, and their business. The last thing your daddy needs is a sick baby whining for his attention.

Today, you grabbed your warmest and softest blanket and joined the big bear in your pillow fort to sleep the cold off. Rest, lots of water, and your safe place is all you’ll need. You're sure about it.

Work can wait. You called in sick and won’t need to worry about a thing but to get healthy again. Sighing, you snuggle into the pillow smelling like Ari.

“No,” you whine as you sniff at it, only to smell – nothing. “I want to smell him.”

Turning around, you start to whimper. You’re sick and tired. All you wanted was to smell Ari, to feel safe. But no. The cold took this from you too.

“No…” you sniffle now, desperate to have anything reminding you of your protector around. “His shirt.” You grasp for the shirt he leaves for you on the pillow fort and press it to your nose. “Achoo…” you sneeze loudly. “No…I can’t smell him.”

“Baby kitten?” You gasp, hearing Ari return. He left only half an hour ago, and you assume he must’ve forgotten something important to come back home. Clasping one hand over your mouth, you try to not cough. If Ari hears you’re sick, he’ll not go for a ride with his friends. “Y/N? Where are you.”

You bite your index finger. If you do not answer him, he’ll get scared and search for you. If you answer him, he’ll know you’re hiding at the pillow fort. The place you only seek out if something’s wrong.

“Baby kitten, please tell me where you are. I’m worried!” You hear him step closer, pacing back and forth.

“In here,” you finally murmur, not to worry Ari even more. He doesn’t deserve to be scared.

He crouches down to poke his head inside the pillow fort. Ari frowns deeply, watching you clutch his shirt to your chest.

“Okay, Y/N. What did you not tell me?” He searches your face, watching your lips wobble. “I need to know if something is wrong. Did someone at work say something bad? Did you not sleep well?”

“I,” you sniff. “I got a cold and…” you giggle as you point at your crotch. “Aunt Flo came tonight too. I don’t feel good.”

“You’re sick?” He kneels in front of the pillow fort. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re sick? I could’ve—” Before you can answer, Ari crawls inside the pillow fort to press the back of his hand to your forehead. “You’re going to call in sick. I’ll get something to help you feel better.”

“What about your trip?” You ask. “I don’t want to ruin your fun.”

“You’re not ruining my fun,” he huffs. “The guys will understand you’re more important than a stupid trip. Let me take care of you.” Ari leans over you to press a soft kiss on your forehead. “Give me a minute to call them and make tea.”

You smile at Ari. He once again put you before his friends and the club. “Thank you, daddy.”

“All for my baby kitten,” he hums against your skin. “Do you need a heating pad too? Do you have cramps? Do you have a sore throat too?”

You nod, silently telling Ari everything he needs to know.

“I’ll be right back, Y/N,” he says, before leaving the pillow fort.

Ari called his friends, telling them you were sick. You didn’t expect them to come around and bring their friend everything he’ll need to take care of you.

Steve got you hot chicken soup. His mom’s recipe. Sam brought cold medicine and tissues, while Bucky got you lots of ice cream.

The rest of the gang came around to check on you and Ari, offering their help if needed.

After he rubbed balsam for colds into your skin, and helped you take your meds, Ari put a heating pad on your lower abdomen. He didn’t care that you told him not to get close to you. Ari wrapped you in his arms and offered warmth and safety.

“You’ll get sick, Daddy,” you murmur in his chest. You don’t want Ari to leave, though. “I can sleep alone.”

“No,” he simply says and kisses the top of your head. “If I get sick, we already have enough medicine.” Ari chuckles when you whine against him. “I won’t get sick, promised.”

“I’ll take care of you if you get sick,” you rest your head against his chest and close your eyes. You’re warm, and safe in his arms, so you sigh happily.

“We always take care of each other. Always, Y/N…”

Tags in reblog.

#ari levinson #tw: daddy kink #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson x you #ari levinson x female reader #ari levinson x y/n #biker!ari levinson #biker au #Care for you

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facelesswoman666 · 9 months ago

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The Beast Blade - Feyd Rautha x Fem! Reader

Hello lovelies, I am back and i have brought to you the product of my many nights spent reading Feyd Rautha smut. I thought i would have a go at it myself. This is part one of a 4 part series. So please enjoy xoxo

Synopsis - There are enemies in every territory. At the request of the emperor, the House Harkonnen and Atreides have been asked to discuss the conditions of a peace treaty, that could subside years of futile conflict. Poised at the centre of this conflict are the young heirs of each house. Na-Baron Rautha and the young Duke Paul Atreides. Under the machinations of their guardians, they must navigate their own claims to leadership and the claims of their newfound allies. Although Rautha is developing a taste for the young Duke’s sister, and he will stop at nothing to claim what he covets. Regardless of the outcome of his desires.

18+ MINORS DNI. Sexual contact warnings

This part is short, sorry xo

Part 1 - A dove and a dog

He was Harkonnen, the perversities of his nature knew no human bounds and yet his composure was impeccable. The lone blade, they called him, hushed in opulent halls and whispered around feasting tables too grand for proper representation. Better translated to ‘Beast Blade’ in the native tongue. His character was primal, unfiltered, raw, and those who were favoured enough to appear in his presence frequently, knew of his interests.

A select few suffered them recurrently.

Na-Baron Feyd Rautha was a petulant man. Yet desirable in the traditions of the House Harkonnen. His body an expanse of heavily built muscle tissue and sheer skin, with a hue of spectre white. The rotated assortment of precious things that followed, nipping at his heels and fawning over his body were ever lingering in his presence. Although not today.

Feyd found himself, today, in an unfamiliar setting, an uncomfortable one at that. Traipsing soft footed around the halls of the Arrakeen castle, now under the jurisdiction of House Atreides. Thieving bastards he thought, and imagined his blade studying the soft pale skin of the eldest atreides child. Weak as a crib bound babe was Paul. His rumination’s shifted to the youngest atreides daughter, a girl of 18 and whether it would be pleasant to ruin her in the short time he would spend here.

The ruining of the princess was far from possibility, considering the minute truth that was she despised his bloodline, along with him. The complexities of this sand wrought cavernous abode was not lost on him, seeing as his former years as a youth had been spent causing deviltry about these halls. His hand slid over the walls; it reminded him of the past.

A servant girl began to cross his path, hurriedly skipping on tapping feet to an unknown destination. It was decided.

The Na-Baron expressed his internal sentiments ‘A dove has entered the dog’s pit’ Her chin rotated in his direction and she replied ‘And does the dove not have wings?’ Her overt defiance to a superior amused him ‘The dove has wings and the dog has teeth’ He gave in to her rebuttal. Her smile stretched small against her pretty face ‘The dove is slight’ Feyd studied the girl with intense curiosity.

‘Dogs eat birds’ The words dripped from his poison lips; he did not indulge in their recreation of the folk tale. His boredom grew within him.

She stepped closer, bringing forth the beauty of a youthful face into a light which did not shadow the most adored features. What a strange specimen, he noted, allowing her momentary pauses from his scrutiny. His eyed lowered to the tunic she wore, draped lazily over her skin and the perfect tits that hung on her chest underneath it. She noticed Rautha’s eyes darting from peak to peak across her chest. His tongue subsequently sliding over his bottom lip. He spoke ‘Do all caladan women have such perky tits? Or is it primarily you?’ Rautha smirked

The girl was not accustomed to such a word and she imagined it held its own brutality for this man. Her mother had always referred to them as breasts. The Na-Baron suppressed the urge to reach out, to skim them with his fingers. The pretty little servants on his home-world would have welcomed his hands to their chest but little did he care for those white mounds of flesh. These things were delicate, flush from exertion and begging to be touched. She, taken aback by his statement, breathed a gasp and stumbled back a pace. Was he truly so bold?

The girl stood in puzzlement of the living statue positioned before her. Slithers of yellow light filtering through the windows, washing over him as though a wave of ocean cascading. It illuminated his form for brief bursts of remark “I asked you a question” he repeated simply “And by what means do you expect me to provide an answer” She clipped her tone, speaking candidly. Feyd stilled himself, the initial spouts of rage fighting their way to heat the skin of his arms. He presented his smile, blackened teeth, gums writhing over them like tar and pressed her further “Are all caladan women blessed with perky tits? Or and i repeat, is it primarily you?”

She would not play pawn in this righteous amusement of power and lust. Her mouth kept in a hard line, to the Na-Baron’s annoyance. He reached his fingers to her in an untamed prediction of violence. The thumb and forefinger of this looming figure came to rest on her neck, pressuring the area. His other hand grasping the flesh of her ass in it claws, he craned his neck, and stretched downwards to whisper against the shell of her ear ‘I will take these tits in my mouth until they ache with pleasure and the distortions of lust cloud your feeble mind. There is no one you can run to that will affirm this ever happened. Do you understand?”

The girl nodded slowly, heaving breaths racking her lungs. Hips bucking in a childish display of discomposure, into where his pelvic bone struck against hers.

Duncan idaho rounded the corner, spotting the pair immediately and his eyed betrayed cause for concern. She sensed his presence to her side although Feyd Rautha did not conclude his oppression of her even under the eyes of the Duke Leto’s most trusted adviser. “My lady” The firm query of Idaho concealed layers only known to the girl and her family. Feyd released her at the realisation of the name Idaho gave to her. Lady, he pondered, interesting. The Na-Baron watched keenly as the little creature before him wandered off, tailed by Idaho.

The Na-Baron revelled in the accusing glance Duncan speared him with upon departure.

#dune fanfiction #feyd rautha #feyd rautha x reader #feyd smut #feyd x you #feyd imagine #feyd fanfiction #dune smut

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sizzlingstarlightsky · 2 months ago

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A Court of Burns and Scales

Azriel Week 2024 [Day 2: Scarred]

Azriel x F reader

Summary: His hands burnt, hers flaking. As solstice arrives, you both notice each others hands and attempt to remedy any of the discomfort. Either from scar tissue or dried out skin, you don't have to suffer alone.

work count: 2.3k

Her skin was perpetually cracked, no matter the season, and she was always seen fidgeting with a small, worn-out tub of lotion.

She walked with her head down, a silent guardian of her secret, her eyes darting up only briefly to survey her surroundings for any signs of contamination.

On a day much like the others, the sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm glow across the training grounds of the inner circle. The air was cool, hinting at the winter solstice approaching, and the smell of roasting meats and sweet spices wafted from the distant kitchens.

The sounds of laughter and camaraderie filled the air, as everyone worked tirelessly to prepare for the upcoming celebrations.

Her hands stung with the cold, the dryness a constant reminder of her condition.

She pulled out her lotion from the pocket of her cloak, the soft sound of the lid opening barely audible amidst the bustle around her. Applying a generous amount, she worked it into her skin, her eyes fluttering closed as she focused on the soothing feeling of the cream against her parched palms.

It was in that moment of solitude, her mind briefly detached from the chaos, that she felt his presence. The air grew colder, and she knew it wasn't the wind.

She looked up, her gaze meeting Azriel's, his eyes a piercing shade of cramelized green that seemed to see straight through her.

He was watching her intently, his expression unreadable, and for a fleeting second, she felt a flicker of embarrassment. But his gaze didn't linger on the tub of lotion; it remained on her hands, as if he could see the unspoken battle she waged every day.

"Your hands," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate within her chest. "They're dry."

"You really are preceptive Mr. Spymaster."

Her voice was a gentle tease, but there was an edge of vulnerability to it that she hadn't meant to reveal.

She quickly turned her attention back to her task, her eyes darting around to ensure no one else had noticed her odd behavior. But his gaze remained fixed on her, his silence more profound than any words could ever be.

"Let me," he offered, holding out a large, calloused hand.

His palm was a stark contrast to hers—marred by scars and burn marks, a testament to his own battles.

Her heart skipped a beat as she handed over the lotion, their fingers brushing briefly. He took her hand in his, his grip firm yet gentle, and began to apply the cream.

His touch was surprisingly tender, each stroke deliberate and soothing. She watched as the lotion disappeared into her skin, leaving a trail of softness in its wake.

"You should tell someone," he said, his voice softer than she had ever heard it. "They can help."

"It's nothing," she replied, trying to pull her hand away.

But he held firm, his gaze never leaving hers.

"It's just something I deal with."

"But you don't have to deal with it alone," Azriel insisted, his grip tightening slightly. "I can see the torment it causes you. It's clear you're fighting something more than the cold."

She swallowed hard, her pulse racing.

No one had ever cared enough to notice, let alone speak about it. The realization was both comforting and terrifying.

"It's... It's just contamination... it's nothing to worry about."

He studied her for a moment, his eyes searching hers.

"Is that all it is?"

"It's just... I need to keep my hands clean. It's a compulsion." The words tumbled out of her, a confession she had never uttered to anyone before.

She felt a weight lift from her shoulders, but also a deep fear of what he might think. Would he judge her, pity her, or worse, think her weak?

But Azriel's expression remained steadfast, a rare softness etched into his features. He finished applying the lotion to her other hand and gave it a gentle squeeze before letting go.

"It's not nothing," he said firmly. "But I won't push you if you're not ready to share."

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken understanding.

They both knew they had just shared something deeply personal, something that had the power to either bond them or drive them apart. She looked down at her now-moisturized hands, the flakes of skin settled, and felt a sense of gratitude towards him that she couldn't quite put into words.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

"It's the least I can do," Azriel replied, his eyes never leaving hers.

He tucked the lotion back into her pocket before turning to reveal his own hands.

They were a map of his life, etched with the scars and burns from years of fighting and serving in the shadows. He held them up to the fading light, showing her the stark contrast between them.

"My hands have seen their own battles," he said, his voice laced with a hint of sadness.

Her gaze traced the jagged lines that crisscrossed his palms, the burns that had long ago turned to scars. She could see the pain in his eyes, a pain that was not just physical, but one that ran much deeper.

"They're beautiful," she murmured, surprised by her own words.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Beautiful?" He repeated the word as if it were foreign to him. "They're my failures."

"No," she said, her voice firm. "They're your strengths, your proof of survival. They tell a story."

He stared at his hands for a long moment, contemplating her words.

"But they ache," he finally admitted, his voice a quiet confession. "The tightness, especially when the cold sets in..."

"I know," she said with a nod of understanding. "I have my own remedies, but I've never found anything that truly works."

The rest of the day passed in a blur of preparations, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between her and Azriel. His gesture of kindness had been so unexpected, yet it felt as if it had been the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

As they worked side by side, she found herself stealing glances at his hands, wondering if he felt the same discomfort she did.

The winter solstice had arrived, bringing with it a biting cold that seemed to seep into the very marrow of their bones.

The inner circle had gathered around a roaring bonfire, the flames casting flickering shadows across the snow-covered ground.

Her eyes found Azriel across the bonfire, his cheeks flushed with the exertion of the day's festivities. He caught her gaze and flashed a rare smile, his teeth gleaming in the firelight.

The sight of him, so carefree and happy, warmed her more than the blaze before them.

But she noticed his hands—clenched into fists at his sides, the tightness of his skin around his knuckles a stark reminder of his own silent struggle.

The snowball fight had been a highlight, a playful reprieve from their usual solemn duties. But she knew that beneath the jesting and camaraderie, his hands must have suffered.

Approaching him, she offered a warm mug of mulled wine.

"Your hands look like they could use a break," she said with a knowing smile.

He took the mug with a nod of thanks, his eyes never leaving hers.

"They ache," he admitted, "but the victory was worth it."

Her own hands felt tight, the cold air exacerbating her skin. She pulled out her tub of lotion and began to apply it, watching as the flakes of skin disappeared once again. But this time, she didn't do it in secret. This time, she did it openly, as if daring anyone to judge her for her compulsion.

"These are for you," she said, holding out a small, velvet pouch. "I had Thesan enchant it."

He took the pouch with curiosity, his eyes narrowing slightly as he felt the weight of the contents within.

"What is it?"

"An oil," she said with a soft smile.

"It's supposed to soothe the tightness of scar tissue." She watched as he pulled out a small vial and opened it, the scent of something warm and earthy filling the air.

His eyes widened as he took in the deep, amber liquid.

"You had this made for me?"

"It's the least I could do," she said, echoing his earlier words. "You've been so kind to me, and I noticed how much your hands hurt."

With a nod of understanding, Azriel dropped a small amount of the oil onto his palm. He tentatively touched the scarred skin of his hands, his eyes closing as he felt the warmth spread.

"It feels... amazing," he murmured, his voice filled with wonder.

Her heart swelled with pride and relief. She had hoped it would help, had spent hours with Thesan perfecting the enchantment.

"It's a blend of arnica and comfrey oil, with a hint of magic to penetrate deeper."

He nodded, his eyes still closed, savoring the sensation. "It's perfect." He looked at her, his gaze intense. "Thank you."

No was the infamous Spymaster. He knew everyone. Yet no one truly knew him.

Y/N did. She always saw him. Noticed him.

Y/N was always there.

She ducked her head, feeling a blush creep up her neck.

"It's nothing," she mumbled.

But Azriel didn't let the subject drop. He studied her for a moment before speaking again,

"You're always looking out for others, but who looks out for you?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning. She took a sip of her wine, the warmth spreading through her chest, and considered her response.

"I manage," she said, her voice a little too bright.

"But you shouldn't have to manage alone," he said, his eyes searching hers. "Not with something like this."

"It's just OCD," she said, trying to downplay it. "It's nothing compared to the battles you face."

"Our battles are different," Azriel said, his voice low and serious. "But that doesn't make yours any less significant. We all have our demons, some we carry in plain sight, others we hide away."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, intricately carved box. The wood was dark and gleaming, the edges inlaid with shimmering silver that caught the firelight.

"This is for you," he said, holding it out to her.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

"What is it?" she breathed, reaching out to take the box.

It was surprisingly warm to the touch, as if it had been cradled in his hand for hours.

With a gentle smile, Azriel opened the box to reveal a small bottle of lotion nestled in velvet.

"It's an enchanted lotion," he explained. "Looks like Thesan helped both of us. This is supposed to lock in the moisture, no matter how much you wash your hands."

Her eyes lit up with hope as she took the bottle, her trembling fingers tracing the delicate silver runes etched into the glass.

"This is... I don't know what to say," she whispered.

"Say you'll use it," he said, his voice firm yet gentle. "You deserve to find some comfort."

Her heart fluttered as she looked up at him, his eyes holding hers with an intensity that made her feel seen. She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Thank you," she murmured.

As they stood there, the warmth from the fire and the newfound warmth between them seemed to create a bubble of comfort around them.

She could feel the eyes of the others in the inner circle on them, curiosity and speculation in their gazes.

But she didn't care. For the first time in a long while, she felt understood, accepted, and even a little bit cared for.

"Let's sit," Azriel suggested, gesturing to a bench nearby. "Give it a try."

Her heart pounded as she sat beside him, the warmth from his body seeping into her side. She unscrewed the cap of the enchanted lotion, the sweet scent of vanilla and sandalwood wafting out.

Carefully, she applied a dollop to her palm, feeling the rich cream sink into her skin. It was unlike any lotion she had ever used, cool and calming, as if it were whispering reassurances to her very soul.

As she rubbed the lotion into her cracked hands, Azriel's gaze remained on her, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. It was as if he was memorizing the sight of her, the way the firelight played across her features, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about her potions, and the way her hands looked after being coated in the magical balm.

"Better?" he asked, his voice a gentle rumble in the cold night air.

"Much," she replied, smiling genuinely as she examined her now-softened skin. "It feels like a miracle. I never thought my hands would be truly moisturized again."

"I'm not one for miracles," Azriel said with a small smile, "but I'm happy it helps."

They sat in comfortable silence, their breaths coming out in little puffs of mist in the cold air. She noticed the way the flames danced in his eyes, the way his scarred hands looked less harsh in the flickering light.

Without thinking, she reached over and took his hand, the one that wasn't wrapped around the warm mug of wine.

His fingers were large and rough, a stark contrast to her small, smooth ones. But the moment their skin touched, she felt a connection, a silent understanding that went deeper than words.

He looked at her, surprise flickering in his eyes before they softened.

He didn't pull away, instead, he entwined his fingers with hers, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. The heat from his palm seemed to meld with the magical warmth of the lotion, sending a rush of comfort up her arm and into her chest.

@azrielappreciationweek

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#azrielappreciationweek2024 #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel fluff #winter solstice #azriel #spymaster #acotar #a court of thorns and roses

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phoneuserhana333 · 1 year ago

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.°˖✧ part 2/3: neighbor!doctor!abby / neighbor!producer!reader headcanons .°˖✧

tags: NSFW!!!, sick!reader, mention of nausea and illness, hand on throat, cliffhanger, ellie appears.

i acc hate how this part turned out :( i hope it’s somewhat enjoyable, barely proofread</3 sorry :((((

PART1 — PART2 — NSFWHC — N(SFW)HC

• you successfully forced abby into a temporary truce. sort of. falling sick and losing your voice, motivation and strength left you low on groceries and medication. so you opted to sleep through the nauseating headaches and eat oatmeal for breakfast, lunch and dinner. it was bad bad.

• so bad, in fact, that you sought out abby’s help. sure, she was a seemingly pretentious, stuck up ER nurse with a mean streak and a hatred for anything fun, but she had the medical knowledge you desperately needed to get back on your feet. plus, she definitely had pain relief medication lying around her house.

• this lead to a strange deal to form between abby and you; nurse anderson agreed to get food and medicine and deliver it to you until you got better, in exchange for three weeks of peace and quiet. hesitant, but desperate, you agreed. this was a huge win for abby. all she wanted was you to be quiet, after all.

• on the first day of your deal, you didn’t let abby come inside, claiming that you were quarantining and demanding she leaves the tote bags full of groceries outside. you barely managed to pull them into your home and the heaviness made you break a sweat, causing your fever to worsen. you texted abby that you were feeling worse and she managed to convice you to come over tomorrow after work for a check up.

• the day after, a defeated patient greeted abby at the door, avoiding her questioning gaze. she sighed and entered your home with a smaller bag filled with medicine and her briefcase with equipment that her dad gifted her. abby was a keeping her side of the deal to a t, she was determined to get on your good side, hoping you’d tune your partying and constant noisiness down for good.

• upon entering your home, the blonde was stunned. bookshelves, a grand piano, papers everywhere, even a chess board. you were smarter than she gave you credit for. the woman let you lead her to your bedroom where the air was thicker and the blinds were pulled down, hiding a bed full of tissues and forgotten mugs in the dark. fuck, her condition might be worse than i thought, abby thought to herself as she stared at your messy floral sheets, or she’s lazy, which might be even worse.

• abby checked you with the care of someone who has been in the medical field for decades, taking her time with you. your temperature was high and you were shivering, claiming to be cold while burning up. abby telling you to pull your shirt up wasn’t helping your trembling state either.

“take me on a date first, w-why dontcha?”

“sorry, y/n. i don’t date neighborhood brats.”

• you pout, too tired to argue, jumping when you feel the freezing stethoscope abby placed against your bare back.

“ow, ow, ow- abby what the hell?! s’cold!”

“god, you’re such a crybaby! here-“

• abby pulled away and warmed the metal with her hot breath, rolling her eyes as she did. your pitiful appearance was only surface level, a cruel reminder to abby that you weren’t a doe-eyed, helpless girl next door she got to take care of and feed soup, much to her disappointment. her cute little face is hiding a literal devil, abby muses, listening to your irregular heartbeat.

• what abby wasn’t aware of however, was how often she thought of you as cute. it was always- “that cute brat”, “…kind of endearing if she wasn’t so annoying” or even “a handful”, complaining to manny on the phone with her darkened eyes glued to your ass, watching as you rushed past her home to catch a train. abby was getting lost in thought, her brain full of aforementioned handfulls and soft plump skin and maybe even her landing a rough spank on- fuck. no. that was wrong.

• … right?

• you, on the other hand, were wide eyed and choking on words. abby placed her warm hand on the small of your back, forcing you to straighten up. she was moving the chest piece around, occasionally telling you to breathe deeper, in a voice that your hazy mind registered as surprisingly hot.

• what really made your heartbeat skip, was her thumb rubbing your back, tracing the elastic waistband of your pajama pants and then slipping underneath to explore the hidden skin. was abby aware she was doing this?! why weren’t you saying anything?!

• … why did it feel so good?

• abby pulled your shirt down, packing away her equipment as she started to speak, offering you a final diagnosis (“you’re so dramatic, it’s just a cold”). the blonde was peeking at your shaking form from the corner of her eye, watching you pick up your tissues and mugs, trembling with barely open eyes. it may be just a cold, but you were obviously drained.

“… ugh. lay down, okay? i’ll take these downstairs.”

• abby rolled her eyes and took over cleaning up your cups. she ignored your protests as she walked downstairs to your kitchen to rinse your dirty dishes in the sink and get your dishwasher started. when she looked up, she saw a few photos on the cupboard above the sink, memories of you and your friends.

• on the one in the middle, you were hugging two girls, playfully kissing one on the cheek, caught mid laugh. her gaze softens. you were a good friend. but a horrible neighbor. for a second, abby lets herself get lost in her head, her eyes staring at the polaroids, unblinking.

• the next few days went by quickly with daily visits from abby. you started to get better, taking it easy and trying to cough quietly as to not bother your neighbor. abby was tired; december was coming up and she was unsure of her plans for the holidays. work was becoming more stressful and the ER was full of people- well, more than usual.

• abby stopped visiting as frequently when she noticed you were getting better, instead sending you wave and tell you off for not cleaning snow off your doorway or wearing a jacket she deemed to be too thin.

• until she stopped acknowledging you altogether. abby was purposefully ignoring you and you just couldn’t find out why. you were used to her eyes following you around, guarding you in some way, like some weird nurse-angel. why was she slowly becoming a ghost you could barely catch a glimpse of? had you done something wrong?

• instead of simply confronting abby, you chose to ignore her back, sending cold looks towards her whenever you crossed paths on the sidewalk. abby, on the other hand, would blush, thinking about how she saw you in only your tiny maroon panties a week ago, naked and on display in your window. since then, she couldn’t look at you, scared that you’d somehow find out that you were the reason she’s been moaning at night the past few days. seeing you on the street would make abby shut eyes shut tightly, fighting her mind as it conjured the image of your pussy and your hard nipples hidden by lacy curtains on a cold december night.

• one thing lead to another, and both of you ended up alone on christmas eve. abby swore she was just going to check on you, see if you were alright. the sight of you with puffy eyes and pouty lips, wrapped in a festive blanket made abby feel fuzzy. before she knew it, she invited you over.

• emotions running high and a somewhat romantic candlelit dinner resulted in you falling into abigail anderson’s bed. she fucked you until morning came, overstimulating you into oblivion and not letting you go until she was satisfied. and after that, she made you hot cocoa.

• despite pretending to be nonchalant, you were a goner. abby had wrapped her hand around your neck and reached down your throat to squeeze your heart. you wanted abby to be yours so bad.

• abby, however, was still hesitant to commit to you. you were the best sex she’s ever had in her life, your hot mouth and tight cunt left her aching for days after, running home to you every night after work, but did she like-like you? what if you didn’t like her back? abby was used to being non-committal, so why was she so enamored with the idea of sharing her life with you?

• this inner turmoil didn’t stop abby from eating you out on your counter top, fingerfucking you while taking a bath together, letting you grind against her thigh in her bedroom.

• god, why was everything so intimate all of a sudden? abby ground you harshly on her chiseled leg, moving your hips with force and pulling a nipple, anything just to hear you whine. with your forehead pressed against hers, you whispered “please, abby. need you-“ and she was gone. her pace quickened as she moaned “good girl, goooood girl…” over and over again. you truly were the best girl ever, abby thought, as you rode out your high on her, now wet, leg.

• sex this heavenly landed abby in your house on new years eve, attending one of your infamous (and unexpectedly fun) parties. she met your friends, dina and jesse. and… ellie. she recognized the two women- they were on one of the polaroids in your kitchen, ellie was the girl who’s cheek you were kissing.

• ellie was too close to you for abby’s liking, touching your back and brushing a finger against your lips after you took a shot of tequila. why was she telling you to “take it easy, babe”, why was she calling you babe? abby felt her blood boil as she rolled her eyes at the overly flirty tone ellie used, taking a sip of her favorite wine you made sure to get just for her.

• just when abby thought that it couldn’t get worse, ellie tried to make a move on you.

“so, y/n. any-uh, plans on who you’ll kiss tonight?”

#abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #tlou #wlw #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson x you #abby the last of us #tlou x reader #abby tlou #abby anderson headcanons #abby anderson x female reader #abigail anderson

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bitterrfruit · 4 months ago

Text

houndtooth [3]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.4k words

“I’ll freeze to death.”

You utter, voice low and tense; your cadence despite your effort is sheepish, as though you’re exerting every effort to reassert yourself as brave and unflinching. A mask to veil the shivering little rabbit you must spend most of your life trying to conceal.

Ghost isn’t fooled by your disguise, by your attempts to obfuscate your vulnerability – no, he can scent your panic, that frightened wee animal at the centre of you, hidden beneath the baiting curves of your flesh. He might be able to see its reflection glistening in your nervous eyes, once he’s able to rip that sack off your head.

The thought tempts a vengeful smirk that tugs at his lips. One he wished you could see, if only to witness your quaint bravery be exsanguinated from you at the sight of his amusement.

Still, you’re not wrong.

The dry air of the midwinter night must be dipping below the double-digit negatives. A frigid cold that Ghost himself had scarcely noticed on his expedition to your estate – shielded by many layers; woollen fleece under windbreaker under thick, gore-tex parka, face kept warm by his balaclava, fingers protected from frostbite by waterproof gloves.

It’s a short ride to exfil by snowmobile, less than ten minutes – but, in all likelihood, long enough that the exposure could kill you by the time he hauled you to the helicopter.

Long enough that it might freeze the mucus of your throat and lungs into crystalline shards, might blacken and petrify your extremities, might have your exposed skin sloughing off in a few days' time.

Ghost knows he must return you to base alive. But, alive is the only condition that is expected of him. No expectation of unharmed. So, he is left to place bets on whether you’ll survive the journey.

He could make a sport of it.

He plays with your possible fates as though they were marbles in the palm of his hand, rolling them between fingers and uncaring if he drops them.

“You might,” he chides gruffly, finally offering you a response. “It’d be your own fault for wearing a fuckin’ tissue.”

His glower scrutinises you as he releases his hand from the doorknob, whose rattling must have informed you that he intended to drag you outdoors. He keeps his other gripped around your bicep, wrenchingly tight, he anticipates, hopes, that his grasp might leave bruises on your soft skin. You, slippery vermin, seem liable to flee at any moment, so he justifies it to himself.

He watches your chest rapidly rise and fall, gratuitously exposed décolletage shimmering with a thin coating of sweat, it glows silky in the moonlight that illuminates you.

You, standing as still as you can muster, covered only by your peony pink lingerie and a black hood over your head, hands bound with thick black cable ties – look like a scene out of a snuff film.

Maybe you’ll end up in one.

He finds himself silently appreciative you don’t have the satisfaction of seeing how long his hedonistic glare lingers on your cleavage; on the tightening of the edges of your lacy cups, cutting into the swell of your breasts with each of your quaking breaths, allowing them to pillow out of the top.

Still, a small derisive scoff escapes you through the fabric. “I didn’t anticipate an outing.”

You facetious little shit. Almost makes him laugh.

Fine.

With a shrill rip of Velcro, he tears open one of the flaps of a pocket on his tactical vest, plucking out a loudly rustling emergency blanket; a foil shawl folded neatly into a rectangle the size of a playing card, tucked into a plastic pouch.

You step onto your back foot in an anxious reflex at the noise, little rabbit, maybe you’re expecting the worst. He hopes you are.

But he’s doing you a favour. He grimaces in revulsion at the acknowledgement of that fact. Resents that you might be thankful for it. Tells himself it’s for the good of the mission – nothing more, nothing less. Reminds himself how much he’d otherwise relish in watching your skin turn indigo, left exposed to be ruined by the fatal ice of your country’s stark winter.

Unwrapping it promptly, he tosses the thin foil to unfurl it, before floating it behind you. He pulls it over your shoulders, watching you wince at the sensation of it brushing against your bare skin. With rough haste he grabs hold your bound wrists, tugging them upwards and shoving the edges of the foil into your grip.

“Thanks,” you murmur, a disingenuous show of sarcastic gratitude, as you roll your shoulders to adjust its coverage, holding the emergency cape tightly in your bound hands. The fabric of your hood sucks inward against your nose and mouth as you draw in a lengthy breath.

“Don’t thank me,” he grunts, as he finally unlocks and pulls open the gargantuan, ostentatious entrance to your mansion; a towering double door, two thick slabs of carved wood. The frigid gale immediately floods into the gaudy foyer, forcing him to squint, its iciness pricking shards at his eyes and threatening to freeze solid the water that lubricates them.

“Rgh – fuck,” you groan through gritted teeth, faltering bravery quickly giving way to squeaking panic. Your entire body tenses at the sudden gust of ice, toes curling and head twisting away from the blast of ice.

He spectates amusedly as you immediately pull the thin foil to better cover yourself, admires as you struggle to do so while your wrists are bound.

He adds, “…only delaying the inevitable.”

Your negligée billows in the invasive wind, exposing your skin even further to the frost; not to say that otherwise it would do much to protect you from it.

He takes an impatient grip of the back of your neck, the impact of his palm on your nape loud enough to emit a smack. He burrows his fingers into the fleshy bands of your tendons, driving you ruthlessly you towards the exit. Holds you upright by the neck like trapped game as you stumble over your bare feet.

“Move.”

You didn’t expect to be gracious of the sack the dog had secured over your head.

Your unstable breathing warms your cheeks, the hot vapour of your adrenaline pumping from your lungs is trapped in by the thick black cotton, preventing the membranes of your nostrils freezing solid.

The vice like grip of your hunter has not faltered, dragging you by the neck down the winding stone steps of your estate – the slabs free of snow by virtue of the heated coils beneath them, a renovation you yourself had requested. Of course, your husband had obliged.

But your abductor isn’t steering you down your driveway, it seems, as you are instead led off the path.

A gasping shriek jumps from your throat as your feet touch the layer of powder, snow packing between your toes; the frost immediately burns the soles as though you tread over shattered glass.

“Where are we going,” you question through a clenched jaw, chattering with the cold, having to push your weak voice out of your seizing diaphragm.

As you had anticipated, he says nothing.

Stays dead silent, the peculiar beast.

You’re frightened of him. Suddenly unconfident in your attempts to read him.

It’s typically your strongest talent, a perfectly honed skill – reading men.

Every one of them like a children’s book, predilections and intentions so blatant that they may as well have been scribbled in crayon. They believe wholeheartedly that they are mysterious, too cunning to be understood, so mistaken in their conceit; expecting that you as a mere woman are simply unable to comprehend them.

Yet you have made a craft of determining what makes each one tick. Disassembling them like the gears and screws of a clock, surveying their quirks and components through your looking glass.

Once reduced to their basic constituents, their most primordial parts, they are all the same. Always want the same thing. Always boil down to the same creature.

Dogs.

You’ve gotten good at baiting them. Leashing them. Taming them.

This one is guarded. Keeps his teeth bared, keeps you guessing when he might maul you.

So far, the only quirk of this one that you been able to deduce is that he wants you to be scared of him. Doing his best to terrorise you with his threats while enacting none of them.

If he wanted to hurt you, or rape you, or kill you, countless opportunities to do so have been presented to him. You’ve been offered up to him so freely you may as well have been gifted to him wrapped in a bow.

And yet, he hasn’t unwrapped you.

That’s where your scrutiny has failed you. Like static distorting a radio signal.

He provides you no tells. Tips no hand.

He continues to act as though he is yet to impart his worst upon you. Vague about his intentions with you, in spite of his wandering eye. At least that is consistent with what you would expect from any of the dogs you have so far encountered. Acts too good, too moral, too chaste to take you; yet still gropes and licks and fingers and fucks you with his wanton glower. All the same.

His claws cut deep into the cartilage of your neck as though he might hang you from it, unaffected by your whimpers nor your looming hypothermia. You feel it sinking beneath your skin. Freezes your nerves, turns the blood in your arteries into icy sludge, sends your muscles into irrepressible spasms. Your lungs ache, forced to suck down the very air that will inevitably freeze them solid.

You gasp as you feel your knees knock against something solid; the dull ring of thick metal.

His talons release your neck, finally, though you find yourself immediately longing for the warmth of his grip – the nape of your neck prickling with gooseflesh as it’s bitten by the frigid cold.

Quick to thwart your opportunity at freedom, he takes prompt hold of you, gloved hands shoving past your foil cape and tucking under your arms. You squeak as you are lifted, uncertain how high off the ground you might be, though grateful that your frozen feet are finally free from their bed of snow.

You’re lowered, then, your feet and ankles quickly parted by whatever frosty metal is now beneath you – then he drops you, and you land on your pelvis with a sore thud, abruptly bestriding whatever vehicle it must be. A snowmobile, you suspect.

You feel him mount the vehicle behind you, his form hulking even when you can’t see it. You feel his breathing through the fabric on the top of your head. Heaving thighs on either side of you, you’re nestled between them. He even tugs you back with an arm hooked around your stomach, so you’re pressed more firmly against him, prevented from wriggling free. A couple fewer layers of gear and his body heat might even bring you comfort.

Through his touch alone he seems unbothered by your proximity, by the pressure of your ass against his crotch. Not lascivious, though not disquieted. Steals no grabs, no rogue touches of any of your more intimate parts – though you’re not daft enough to assume he would shy away from it.

You can feel the fleshy mass behind his trousers despite the thickness of the weatherproof fabric. Formidable even soft.

Perhaps you could tempt him.

With just a shimmy, an innocent readjustment of your ass between his legs – you offer just a touch more pressure. You might bump against him while he rides through the snow, might feel that pliable weight turn rigid against your back.

You admit that he doesn’t seem the type to offer you special treatment if you offered your cunt to him. He’s made it known that he thinks you’re a slut, after all. In your experience, though, it works in your favour most of the time. Where’s the harm in trying?

But you feel the fabric of your sack hood twitch and quiver as his head lowers beside yours, he growls into your ear;

“That’s not gonna help you.”

Fine. Whatever.

Worth a shot.

It sounded as though he had uttered it through a grin; a very slight, near imperceptible drip of amusement in his malicious tone.

But, with your hands bound, near naked, and blinded, your survival is dependent on him. Rather, it's entirely up to him.

So you play it cool.

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sheepishly respond, sweet and naïve, you get back into character.

He huffs derisively, impatiently, perhaps. You let his arms envelop you as they reach for what must be the handles of the snowmobile in front of you, quickly deafened by the roar of the engine as he tugs on the throttle.

Your body is abruptly forced backwards, tossed against him like a ragdoll as he suddenly accelerates - your fabric mask now provides you utterly no protection from the icy wind as it breaks through the weave. Your foil cape billows in the gale of his speed, rendering you entirely defenceless against the vicious knives of the cold as he speeds through the snow.

Dropping your head, curling inwards on instinct, you find yourself nestling deeper into his shrouding form if only to shield yourself from the deathly cold he has purposefully exposed you to.

After what feels like an agonising hour of having your bare skin dragged over a steel grater, you feel the snowmobile begin to decelerate, its roaring engine growing quieter and eventually grunting to a stop.

You had thought you might be granted a reprieve from the painful gusting wind once the mobile finally came to a halt; but you’re still in a whirlwind of ice and glass, so disoriented you feel as though you’ve been spun on your heel and then cast out into the barren wilderness to find your own way.

In the malevolent hurricane you lose your grip on your foil blanket, your only respite, it flies off into the ambiguous void of black forced upon you by your hood.

But that mechanical thunder is unmistakable – an aircraft you were well acquainted with. A helicopter.

A transport you frequented in your days of luxury, often to your warmer getaway home further south. To your Petit Trianon, another gift from your husband – one that acted as a clear means of getting rid of you for weeks at a time. Not that you complained.

The begrudging protection of your hunter is stolen from you as he dismounts, leaving you utterly exposed to the blizzard, shivering with such intensity that your muscles burn with the acid they involuntarily excrete.

But you’re quickly hauled off the vehicle, gloved grip under your arms once again, picked up with ease as you feel your body get tossed over his shoulder like a sack of flour. His thick arm hooks over your hip, you feel the veil of your babydoll flutter up and expose your bare ass to the icy gale - it humiliates you as if spanking you with its frozen hand.

You hear the metallic rumble of a rolling door amidst the bellow of the rotating blades.

“’Bout fuckin’ time.” The irate roar of a new man.

You bounce on the shoulder in your stomach as you are carried within, listening as the door is slammed shut. After a few steps you are unceremoniously dropped onto a seat, a weak yelp escapes you at the pain of the impact.

“Jesus fucking Christ, LT.” Yet another. Scottish.

LT. Lieutenant? Military?

Blind and defenceless, you stay seated but adjust yourself so that you sit upright, exerting every effort to catch your breath and steady your chattering bones. But despite effort, your body rolls around in its seat as the helicopter presumably begins its wobbly ascent.

“What?” Your hunter growls.

“Couldn’t give her a jacket?”

“Why the fuck would I do that.”

“It’s negative fifteen out there. Look at her, she’s just about blue.”

“Mm. Maybe I should’ve given her the chance to pick out her favourite mink coat, eh?”

You hear a huff of laughter from another man. “You just wanted to keep her in her knickers.”

“Mh. Might loosen up her husband.”

A chortle. “Could loosen up anybody.”

Dogs.

You stay silent and listen shrewdly.

“Bravo Six to Gold Eagle Actual – double jackpot. We’re RTB.”

Military, you are now certain. You can tell by the codeword gibberish without needing to understand it. You wish now that you had watched enough Western war movies to be able to translate it – but they’re all banned in Russia, of course.

There’s a quiet murmur of a static-ridden voice emerging from a radio, but it is drowned out by the humming of the helicopter.

“Fuck’d you do to Zakhaev?” Your hunter asks, throaty voice almost taunting.

Your husband. Was he in the aircraft with you? Could you call for him?

“Squealed like a pig when he came to. Knocked him out again.” The Scotsman.

But, in spite of your effort to distinguish them, the unfamiliar voices quickly begin to blur together.

“Tracks.”

“Separate them before he wakes up.”

“Why?” A new voice.

“Can’t have him knowing that we’ve got her already. We need to surprise him with it.”

“Kinda fucked up, Cap.”

“Ts’all in a days work, Sergeant.”

Captain. Sergeant. British Army? Airforce?

There’s a few moments of silence, you shuffle disquietly in your seat. Oh, if only you could see what was happening. It was already hard enough to hear them over the roaring of the chopper. Deaf, dumb, and blind.

“Christ, she’s a looker, though, isn’t she?” The Sergeant.

A chuckle follows from the Scotsman. “Can’t even see her face, mate.”

“Don’t need to.”

“Never know. Could be all botched by filler and botox and shite. All those fuckin’ oligarchs are.”

“Mm. Nah. I’ve seen the photos.”

“Take a long hard look at ‘em, did ye?”

“Definitely hard. Dunno about long.”

A laugh. “You nasty fucker.”

Dogs.

You’re even further discomforted by the fact that your hunter knows you can understand every single word that these men are uttering around you. And, evidently, feels no need to inform his comrades that you know exactly what they are saying about you.

He wants you to feel uncomfortable.

He wants you nervous.

You hear the thud of boots against the metal floor, uncertain of whose nor which direction they are coming from, though they approach you. You shrivel on instinct, curling in on yourself to hide your near-nudity from whichever of the lecherous men is standing before you.

You jump, squeaking in fright as something heavy is tossed around your shoulders. Fabric. Wool, judging by the thickness and scratchiness of it; you use your bound hands to grab at the edges of it to blanket yourself, finally able to conceal your body from them.

“Согрейтесь.” Warm yourself up.

The Captain, if you remember his rumbling cadence correctly.

“You’re too soft, Cap. She’s a prisoner of war not a fuckin’ damsel.” Your hunter.

The man who had given you the blanket addresses him. “We need her alive, don’t we? I’m keeping her alive.”

“Fuck’s sake. She’ll be fine.”

The charitable one speaks to you again, voice low and close, as though he has bent down intending for only you to hear it.

“Он ничего тебе не сделал, да?” He didn’t do anything to you, did he?

“Oh, piss off. Who do you think I am?” Your abductor immediately disputes, having apparently overheard.

You consider your options. Maybe this captain could take pity on you, if you played your cards right. You can deduce his type through his words and actions already. Nobleman. White knight. It’s a façade, of course. If he’s a captain as the others say, he has probably orchestrated this entire operation.

Though, inexplicably, you decide honesty is your safest course. You want an ally out of your hunter.

“Нет, он меня не трогал.” No, he didn’t touch me.

“Told you.” Your hunter grunts.

A laboured sigh follows from the captain. “I never know with you, Riley.”

He scoffs disdainfully.

Leaves an ugly silence.

“I’m not an animal.”

#call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x female reader #ghost cod #bitterfruit fics #bitten-fruit

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