#at least I get to text him and tell him how much I love him

[headkiss]

anna oh anna. i see you’re taking spencer request and was wondering if you’d be willing to write something with a childhood friend visiting spencer and the team just embarrassing him cause they can tell they have feelings for each other?

love you anna💗💗

omg erin ik this request is old but i hope u love it anyway 🫶🫶 | 0.9k words of bestfriend!reid fluff!!!

Despite nearly a lifetime of friendship, today is the first time you’re visiting Spencer in Quantico.

You grew up as neighbors, and your friendship wasn’t a slow, gradual thing. Instead, one day, as a kid, you’d knocked on his door and declared him your best friend. He didn’t fight you on it, and that was it.

Whenever he goes back to Vegas to visit his mom, Spencer never fails to visit you, too. Sometimes he stays over and you fall asleep watching movies on your couch, sometimes he can’t stay any longer than a quick meal.

You talk on the phone at least once a week, and you text Spencer every day, though he rarely manages to reply with more than a smiley face because of his thing with technology. You know he reads them all, though.

All of that and still, you’d never been to Quantico until now.

Spencer always told you it wasn’t worth it, that there wasn’t all that much to see and he’d probably get called away on a case, anyway. Selfishly, you would have liked to stay in his apartment even if he was away. To snoop at all of the books he has lying around and be surrounded by him.

After much badgering over the phone, he’d finally invited you to come for a visit and you jumped at the opportunity.

Spencer’s excited to see you. He always is. But something about you coming to Quantico had always made him nervous, like if you got too close to his job, you’d be in danger. Or, less logically, like he’d have to share you with his team, in a sense, and he really liked having you to himself.

Of course, they know about you — he’s got a framed picture of the two of you as teenagers on his desk — but they’ve never met you. Spencer loves his team, and they’ve heard him speak to you on the phone and have asked him about you countless times, but so much of himself is involved in the job, and you’re almost like an escape for him.

Somewhere safe, somewhere separate.

He traces a fingertip across the top of the frame on his desk when the elevator beeps, and the sound of your footsteps reach his ears. He knows it’s you from those alone.

Spencer stands just as you reach the bullpen, and as soon as you spot him you let out a tiny squeal and rush over. He welcomes you into his arms easier than he does anyone else, your arms tight around his neck, his supporting the small of your back.

“Hi, Spence,” you say, cheek against his shoulder, smile in your voice.

“Hi,” he returns, his mouth a breath away from your hair.

Garcia and JJ are standing by the entryway of the bullpen, watching you and Spencer with these knowing looks on their faces. Emily walks up a moment later, just as you pull away from the hug and ruffle Spencer’s hair.

“Is that…?” she asks.

“Yup,” JJ says.

“And they’re just friends?” Emily adds.

“According to them.”

“Sweet, clueless creatures,” comes from Penelope.

Unaware, or maybe just uncaring, of your audience, you fiddle with Spencer’s tie, then his vest, “Look at you. So professional.”

“I actually dress like this most of the time.”

“And look at your badge!” You flick it where it’s clipped to his pocket. “Can I have one?”

“You’re wearing a visitor’s badge.”

“So not as cool.” You scan your eyes across his desk, pausing at the picture of the two of you. You hadn’t known that was there, and your heart squeezes a bit at the thought of him keeping it where he can see it. “Did you just put that picture there for my visit?”

“Of course not,” he scratches the back of his neck lightly. “It’s always been there. They like to tease me about it.”

“Spence,” you start, eyes flicking over his face. You want to say something stupid and cheesy about how sweet he is, about how warm that makes you feel. Instead, you say “You’ve even got your glasses on. Very smart, Dr. Reid.”

Back by the entrance, Rossi and Morgan join the others. “Reid’s friend from home?” Dave checks.

“Uh-huh,” Garcia nods.

“And they’re still just friends?” Derek points between the two of you.

JJ, Emily, and Garcia all nod.

“Kids,” Rossi sighs.

You push Spencer’s glasses back up his nose gently. “Or should I say, the resident boygenius.”

“How did you-”

“Oh, I met Penelope in the elevator. She’s lovely.” You turn around and wave at her.

She waves back, beaming.

It’s then that Spencer realizes the entire team has been watching your exchange all along. He closes his eyes and huffs before taking you over to them and introducing you, even though he’s aware they know who you are.

Derek turns his charm on a little extra when he says hello to you, and Spencer’s hands twitch at his sides, his brows scrunched.

When JJ and Garcia distract you with a story that’s sure to be an embarrassing one, Morgan nudges Spencer’s shoulder with his, “She’s pretty great.”

“She’s the best person I know.”

Derek doesn’t even pretend to be wounded at that. He only grins like he knows something.

Hotch watches through the window of his office, that barely-there upward tug of his mouth on his face. He hasn’t seen Spencer smile the way he does with you in a long time.

[mariasont]

House Rules - A.H

summary: bimbo!asssitant!reader hasn't been answering her phone all day, hotch needs her to clarify something about a case report, or at least that's what he tells himself when he shows up at her house

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: reader wearing some skimpy pjs, pre-relationship pining, hotch trying to act like he's not madly in love with reader

wc: 3.3k

Hotch wasn't sure why he'd expected your house to be normal. He chalked up his misjudgment on the haze of old injuries, the kind of logic that gets muddled when you've bled out on too many occasions. Because standing on your porch, staring at the pale pink door with a glittering Home Sweet Home sign dangling from the handle, he realized how spectacularly wrong he'd been.

It suited you, he realized. He could almost picture you hanging it there, humming to yourself and adjusting it three times before deciding it was just right.

It wasn't a social call. At least, that's what Hotch told himself repeatedly, as though the words might drown out the irrational knot of worry in his stomach. You hadn't answered your phone all day, and that was strange for you. It was your day off, yes, but normally you were over-communicative to a fault, texting emojis when a simple yes would have sufficed, or leaving voicemail messages that somehow turned into tangents about your neighbor's cat, your favorite polish color, or the iced coffee you'd spilled that morning.

But today? Nothing. No texts. No calls. Nothing.

His rational mind told him you were fine. Phones die, phones get left behind, people turn them off to take a break. But when it came to you, the rational part of him always seemed to lose ground to the side of him he didn't care to admit existed—the side that careful just a little bit more than he should have.

He knocked.

After a second, he heard the unmistakable sound of your voice yelling a muffled coming!

The door opened, and there you stood, wearing something that could only be called pajamas by the loosest of definitions—shorts that left far too much skin exposed and a matching top that hugged your chest like it was afraid to let go. Your hair was loose and slightly messy, framing your face, and your bare feet peeked out from under the door.

"Oh!" You froze and looked at him like he had fallen from the sky. "Hotch! What are you doing here?"

Hotch cleared his throat and he tried, tried, to keep his eyes glued to your face. It was harder than it should have been—his brain wasn't helping, already memorizing every detail of your appearance that he knew he shouldn't have noticed.

"Do you always answer the door like this?"

"Like what?"

"Dressed like..." He hesitated, jaw clenching as he searched his vocabulary for a word that wouldn't sound entirely inappropriate. "Dressing like that. Without knowing who is on the other side."

"Hotch," you said, smiling slightly. "I could tell it wasn't a stranger."

"How?" he asked flatly, raising a brow. "Because if you tell me it was a feeling, I'm going to be very disappointed in you."

"So what are you doing here?"

You ignored him, smiling innocently as though he hadn't spoken at all.

He almost started to lecture you—about answering doors, about caution, about everything—but the words died before they reached his tongue. You were fine. Perfectly fine. Not injured, not in danger, not lying in a hospital bed or worse—just standing there, unharmed, while he tried to shake off the residual tension of imaging all of the worst-case scenarios he'd been wrestling with the past hour.

"You weren't answering your phone." His voice came out sharper than he meant, but he didn't correct it.

You stared at him before letting out an incredulous laugh. "Okay, but like... that's usually not cause for a wellness check."

"It's unusual for you."

His own voice sounded defensive in his ears, and he winced inwardly.

Your lips shot upwards as if you had discovered his game, leaning on the door frame with your arms crossed. "Aw, were you worried about me, bossman?"

His response didn't come as quickly as it usually did, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to decipher something. "I needed to confirm something about the case report."

"Sure, you did." You tilted your head, smile widening as you let the words linger. "Well, since you're already here, might as well come in. I'd hate for you to leave empty-handed."

Hotch hesitated. The professional part of him—the one that lived and breathed protocol—told him to stay outside, finish his excuse, and leave. Normally, he wouldn't have thought twice about saying yes to an invitation like this. He'd done it for Morgan, for Emily, even Spencer without a second thought. But this wasn't them. This was you. But then you gave him that look— raised eyebrows, half a grin, daring him to prove you wrong—and against better judgment, he stepped inside.

The inside of your house was... well, it was you.

It wasn't messy, but it wasn't neat either. It was softer than he expected. Fluffy throw blankets over the couch with heart shaped pillows. On the coffee table, a collection of framed photos—pictures of you with friends, family, and even what looked to be an embarrassing prom photo.

"So?" You moved across the room, draping yourself onto the arm of the couch like a cat in the sun, one leg swinging lazily. "What's the big emergency, Hotchner?"

"I told you," he replied, squinting his eyes at you as if that would somehow change your attitude. It wouldn't. He knew from experience. "The case report. You stapled the wrong attachment to it. I need to know where the correct file is."

"Uh-huh," you said, squinting your own eyes back as if to mock him. "And this couldn't just wait until the morning? You sure you didn't just miss me?"

His brow furrowed. "Why would I--"

You were on your feet in an instant, wagging a finger at him like he'd crossed a sacred line. "Don't you dare finish that sentence, Hotchner!"

He blinked, staring at you like you'd just started reciting Shakespeare for no reason.

"You'll hurt my feelings," you said matter-of-factly. "And then I'll have no choice to pout. You'll feel guilty, you always do. And to make it up to me, you'll bring coffee tomorrow. So honestly, let's just skip all that and pretend you never wanted to finish that sentence."

He exhaled through his nose. "I was going to say, why would I miss you when I see you nearly every day?"

"Good." The smile was back on your face in a way that, annoyingly, made him feel better. "Because it's my day off, and you're forbidden from being mean to me on my day off."

"Are you implying I'm mean to you on your regular days?"

You tapped your chin as if seriously considering it. "Not mean, exactly... maybe a little grumpy sometimes."

Hotch huffed. "I'm grumpy with you?"

"Sometimes," you said with a shrug. "But it's okay. I like all your sides—even the grumpy one."

"I'm not grumpy with you," he replied, shaking his head. "If anything, I'm nicer to you than I should be."

"You big softie."

Hotch felt his lips twitch, and he hated how much effort it took to keep from smiling. He was not a soft person. He wasn't the type to let people get under his skin, and yet here you were managing to do it with a single sentence. Worse, he didn't exactly dislike it. In fact, it felt... oddly welcome.

It was different from how you were at work—though, in fairness, you weren't exactly buttoned-up in the office, either.

"Did you make those?" He glanced briefly at the tray of cookies in the kitchen.

Your face lit up and you practically bounded over to the counter, grabbing the tray and holding it up like a trophy. "Yep! Chocolate chip. Want one?"

Hotch hesitated for a second, then followed you into the kitchen, his gaze sweeping over the space despite himself. He didn't mean to do it—it wasn't intentional—but the part of him trained to notice every detail, every inconsistency, was already at work. Old habits die hard, or something like that.

The kitchen suited you. Soft pastel hues and floral details everywhere. Pink pots and pans hung along the wall, a lace-trimmed over mitt dangling from a hook shaped like a star. Fresh flowers—peonies or roses—he wasn't sure, sat in a vase on the counter.

He shook his head, trying—and failing—to shut off that instinct to analyze. But it was almost automatic, his mind piecing things together, like the organization of the baking tools and the open cookbook, pages slightly smudged.

"Are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna grab one?"

He looked at you, then at the cookies, and finally took one with a small nod of thanks. "You bake often?"

He didn't really need to ask—you felt far too comfortable in this space for the answer to be anything but yes.

"Oh, all the time," you said, turning to put the tray back down. "It's, like, my stress reliever. Plus, it makes the house smell amazing. Not that I'm, like, stressed or anything--just saying. It's a hobby. A cute hobby."

He bit into the cookie, ignoring the sweetness for a second as he glanced around again. The pink gingham tablecloth on the island, the mugs arranged by color.

"Anything else you need? Or can I get back to my cookies and reality TV?"

He glanced toward the TV, where some kind of dramatic argument was unfolding on screen, and then back to you. "You should charge your phone."

"Yes, Daddy," you said, before going stiff. "No! I didn’t mean—like—not that Daddy. Just… regular Dad."

His body went rigid, his jaw tightening as he forced himself not to react, shoving the thought out of his mind before it could take hold.

"Right," he said finally, voice rougher than usual. "Charge your phone."

Hotch stepped toward the door, his hand already reaching for the handle when your voice stopped him.

"No, Hotch's don't leave!"  you said, your voice dipping into a whine that should've been annoying. "I'm bored!"

Keep word—should.

He turned back, brows lifted. "Bored?"

"Yes, bored," you said, flopping back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. "I've already watched two hours of reality TV, ate like, five cookies, and had an entire conversation with myself while I folded laundry. And now you're here, and I haven't had company in forever, and you're just gonna leave me all alone?"

“Forever,” he repeated dryly. “So the 24 hours since I saw you at work?”

"That doesn't count. Work doesn't count as, like, real social interaction. It's work."

He gave you a look—one of those deadpan, unreadable stares that was meant to shut down further argument. That obviously didn't work.

"You're really going to leave me all alone? In my time of need? I thought you cared about me, Hotch."

"You're not in your time of need."

"Emotionally, I am," you said, crossing your arms and leaning back like you’d just made the world’s most convincing argument. "Please, Aaron? Just hang out with me for a little bit. One show. It'll make my whole day."

The way you said his name—Aaron—hit him in a way that felt decidedly too intimate, too casual, too... something. He clenched his jaw briefly, trying to shake off the sensation as he shot you another look.

"Since when do you call me that?"

"Since now," you replied with a shrug, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It suits you."

His brows furrowed. "It's my name."

"Exactly," you said, leaning forward. "We're not at work. You came into my house. It's all casual here. You're Aaron now. Just go with it."

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” he replied, though his voice lacked conviction.

"It does now," you said, patting the couch beside you. "So, Aaron, are you gonna sit down? Just ten minutes."

With a reluctant sigh, he lowered himself onto the couch, his posture still stiff.

"Wow," you said, scooting so close that your thigh pressed against his. "I didn't think that was actually going to work."

You leaned across the coffee table to grab a blanket, shorts riding up with the motion. Hotch's eyes darted away immediately, landing on the far corner of the room as though it held something deeply fascinating.

His hand clenched into a fist on his thigh, nails pressing into his palm. His knuckles whitened slightly as he tried to force his thoughts back into neutral territory, focusing on his breathing instead of the shape of your ass.

By the time you turned back, oblivious, and tossed the blanket over both of you, he'd managed to school his face into its usual unreadable expression—though he couldn't quite fix the pressure building in his chest.

"So," you began, holding up the remote, "what's it gonna be? Reality TV? A baking show? Or, oh, those ones where they renovate houses, but everything goes horribly wrong."

"You pick." He shifted, trying to put even an inch more space between you, but you didn't seem to notice, too preoccupied with tucking the blanket around you both.

"Okay, but don't blame me if you get hooked. I'm just saying, this stuff is addictive."

He leaned back shaking his, but his focus never really landed on the TV. Instead, it stayed on you—laughing at the wrong moments, gasping dramatically at plot twists, and making snarky commentary under your breath.

"You know," you said suddenly, glancing over at him with a sly smile, "you're kind of cute when you're pretending to relax."

"Do you ever stop talking?" he asked, though the lack of bite in his tone made it sound almost too fond.

"Nope," you said cheerfully, pulling the blanket tighter around you. “Consider it part of the package.”

Hotch didn't respond, his attention shifting back to the screen—or at least, that's what he told himself. But as the minutes stretched into fifteen, then twenty, he realized he wasn't in any hurry to leave.

You fell asleep thirty minutes later.

Hotch wasn't surprised. Between the pile of blankets, you'd wrapped yourself in and the way you'd curled up on the couch like it was your safe haven, it was a miracle you'd lasted that long. He'd noticed your eyelids drooping about five minutes earlier, your commentary fading into soft hums of acknowledgment as you sank deeper into the cushions.

The room was quiet now except for the sound of the TV. He shifted in his seat, glancing over at you. You were entirely still, your breathing slow. Your hair had fallen across your face, and the blanket had slipped off your shoulder, leaving your tank top askew.

It was weird, seeing you like this. You, who were always moving and talking and saying things he never really knew how to respond to. Now you looked so soft, completely oblivious to how much space you were taking up in his head. 

He told himself to leave. Just slip out, lock the door, and let you sleep. That would’ve been the smart thing. The right thing. But he didn’t. Maybe it was the thought of you waking up, groggy and alone, wondering where he’d gone. Or maybe it was the realization that you were still his responsibility, even outside of work.

He leaned forward reluctantly, one hand brushing the blanket back over your shoulder. He told himself it was just a gentlemanly gesture, the kind anyone would do, but the second his fingers grazed you, he froze.

You murmured something under your breath, unintelligible really, your head shifting as you face turned toward him. He snatched his hand back like he'd touched something scalding. 

"Come on," he muttered under his breath. He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you easily.

Your head fell against his shoulder the second he straightened. He swallowed. Your bedroom. Where was it? He glanced down the hall. Left or right? The door slightly ajar felt like the most obvious choice, and sure enough, when he nudged it open with his foot, he found himself standing right where he anticipated.

Pinks, florals, lace-trimmed, well, everything. The bed was covered in more pillows than he could count in every possible shade of pastel. It smelled like you—roses and vanilla, with something sweeter lingering underneath, like sugar from a bakery.

But then his eyes snagged on the rack of nightgowns against the far wall, like it wasn't about to cause an existential crisis. 

Lace. Sheer. Satin.

He shouldn't be looking at them. He knew he shouldn't be looking at them, and yet... he couldn't stop. The imagine of you wearing one slipped into his mind before he could stop it. That was a problem—he could see you in them, and now he had to wrestle with that mental image while pretending to be a gentleman.

He bit down on the inside of his check, hard enough to sting, and forced himself to look back at the bed. This wasn’t the time—or the place—for thoughts like that. Hell, there wasn’t ever a time for them. 

He eased you onto the mattress, his hands far softer than he thought himself capable of. He straightened, watching as you instinctively curled into the covers, your hair fanning across the pillow like some picture-perfect cliché.

Then you stirred, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. 

"Hotch?" you murmured, your voice thick with sleep.

"It's okay," he said softly. "Go back to sleep."

You blinked slowly, gaze still hazy. "You're still here?"

"I didn't want to leave you on the couch. You looked too uncomfortable."

Your lips curved into a small, sleepy smile as you sank back into the pillows. "That's... sweet. I didn't think you did stuff like that."

He huffed softly, shaking his head. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me."

Your smile widened lazily, your half-lidded eyes sparkling with amusement. "Mysterious and chivalrous. You’re gonna ruin my whole perception of you.”

"Sleep," he said firmly, though there was no real heat behind the command.

Your gaze shifted past him, landing on the rack against the wall.

"Did you see those?" you asked. He hesitated—too long for it to go unnoticed—and your grin turned sly. "You did see them, didn't you?"

"They're hard to miss," he admitted, his voice carefully neutral.

"Bet you weren't expecting that, huh?" you teased, leaning your head against the pillow. “So? Thoughts?”

"I think," he said evenly, "you ask too many questions when you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

You laughed softly, the sound trailing off like a dream. “You’re dodging, Aaron. I didn’t know you could dodge.”

He sighed, stepping back as though the distance might save him. "You're good at this."

"Good at what?"

"Pushing buttons," he replied. “You’re a natural.”

"And yet, you're still here."

He didn't have the words for that. Because you were right, and he didn't know what to do about that.

Your eyes fluttered closed, your body slackening into the bed, and he thought you were asleep.

Then you spoke again, quieter this time, as if testing the words before committing to them. “Why’d you really come here?”

He stilled. "I told you. You weren't answering your phone. The case report."

The explanation felt flimsy, even to him, and he hated how obvious it sounded.

"That's not it," you whispered, your eyes still closed. "You could've just waited until tomorrow. You didn't have to check on me. But you did."

Hotch didn’t move, his breath catching as he studied you. Your face, relaxed and peaceful, gave no indication whether you knew what kind of mess you were making of him in that moment.

“It’s okay,” you mumbled, the faintest hint of a smile brushing your lips. "I think I like it when you worry about me. Feels nice."

You didn’t say anything else, your breathing softening as sleep took over again.

Hotch stayed where he was, rooted to the spot. Your words replayed like a deadly loop in his head.

He finally tore his gaze away, stepping back and slipping out of the room with careful movements. He closed the door behind him as softly as he could, but even then, the sound felt too loud.

For a second, he lingered in the hallway, staring at door like it might offer him some form of an answer. He'd drawn a line with you a thousand times in his head, a boundary he vowed not to cross. And yet, like you said, he was still here, standing in your home.

He shook his head and turned toward the front door. He wouldn't cross the line—but gods help him, staying on the right side of it felt harder every time.

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[searchingforserendipity25]

actually no, the best lawrellini conclave post-canon/au concept i can summon rn is innocent iv attempting to very earnestly match-make his dean of the college and secretary of state.

breaking their vows Would be a sin but considering the byzantine methods they are deploying to avoid being anywhere near each other inside the smallest city state in the world is:

an unnecessary complication to the new pope's ongoing mission to Make Empathic Changes For Good (Intersectional Version), which is going full steam ahead, with the sort of dedication a man who lives life expecting to be assassinated still, and means to make every day count.

oh, they're professional, of course; but poor monsignor o'malley is left trotting up and down the apostolic palace to share messages between their offices, because they refuse to text for post-conclave paranoia reasons (bellini) and because the expectation of replying in a digital format is a psychological torture for the emotionally-repressed luddite (lawrence). poor ray does not complain, but he has confessed to the pope his ankles aren't what they used to be.

they are old men, they are kind and very capable men. breaking their vows is a sin, of course. but to live is to sin inevitably. wasting good love into discomfort is far worse, vincent benítez thinks. they have to talk it out, at least. if he is to trust them to salvage something worthwhile out of the church, he has to believe they can salvage something true out of their friendship.

just kinda sad at this point, honestly.

the thing is. well the thing is. there is no polite way to tell the supreme pontiff you and your bestie already tried the secret romance thing once. and it didn't take.

they had their friends-to-secret-lovers, their shared office, their upstate drives with autumn leaves rusting and good music on the radio.

desperate embraces in the confessional of the new york cathedral. brushing hands and long glances that turned to long pining that turned to a summer of forbidden romance, turned to the anxiety of hiding their relationship to the world.

the rush of joy turned to unsustainable amounts of guilt, the longer it went on. misunderstandings, really: a lot of assumptions without communication. more resentment than either of them wanted to have for each other. the love was there, a great deal of it, but it was far from enough, when it put into question the work they were doing.

twenty years, give or take, since they last kissed in the pantry of a food kitchen in brooklyn, and put an end to the thing between them. they had their sad break up, their ex-lovers-to-friends again arc.

aldo went to paris, lawrence went to rome: they wrote, sometimes. called, met during conferences, meetings, conclaves.

the late holy pope's managed to get them to stop avoiding each other and get their shit together to pull off his own liberal win election years ago. they're fine now; they're good, they're okay. genuinely, mostly.

twenty years. recent events had made clear how much there was still to be understood between them, but they'd recognize each other's breathing in the dark anywhere. innocent xiv had managed to get them in the same confessional, on false and well-intentioned pretenses.

'it is sweet, really.' aldo says, trying to straighten his cassock, trying for wry irony, trying not to guess at the familiar profile, near enough to touch. 'are you going to tell him, or am i.'

'later,' thomas says. he swallows. it would be the easiest thing in the world, to press a hand against the grid of the partition, to pull it back, tug apart the curtains; for the curve of his adam's apple to move against aldo's palm. 'i'll explain it all.'

aldo snorts. 'maybe not all of it, if you please,' and it is enough to make lawrence quirk his mouth. the quality of the air between them alters, just enough for the closeness not to feel too suffocating.

there's nothing to be told, really. nothing to fix. only a misunderstanding. there is no way to explain the distance is not spite or shame, it is just distance. the measure of grace they give each other, now, after spending too long secluded together.

self-protection, yes; but also kindness going both ways. there is nothing to be talked out. there hasn't been anything to talk about for twenty years. if they give it enough time and enough turns of the rosary, one day that will even be true, god willing.

their eyes adapt to the gloom quickly. this part has never been difficult.

it would be the easiest thing. moving in the dark, pressing close, quieting gasping breaths with a mouth or a hand. he tilts his cheek, brushes the evening's stubble against aldo's. lightly, so it does not leave a mark - he has felt the phantom-sense of it before, he always does when they sit near.

the thing is, the confessional is closed from the outside.

but they are, after all, the secretary of state, the dean of the college of cardinals. between the two of them, they have enough master keys to open anything in the palace from the inside out, if either of them truly wanted to get out.

[poetlus]

PROMISE — ex!kenma x reader

SYNOPSIS: you and kenma don’t know how to be exes, but you also don’t know how to be together. so, you made a promise to yourself: this is going to be your last time.

WORDCOUNT: 1.4k

A/N: hrrnnng not proofread but ive been through all this.. so source: trust me. probably ooc kenma

You and Kenma had been on and off for.. a while. The two of you didn’t know how to be exes. You didn’t know how to move on. There was so much history, so much chemistry. How could you be as comfortable with anyone else as you were with each other? How could you love someone else as much as you loved him?

Despite breaking up over and over again, the two of you didn’t love each other any less; However, you were starting to get tired of this cycle. You didn’t want to feel like you had the world in your hands one day, and nothing the next. It was exhausting being with Kenma, but it was even more so being without him.

So, you made a promise to yourself. No matter how much you missed him, how much everything reminded you of him, how many times you thought about texting him, you wouldn’t. You weren’t going to go back, this was the last time.

The last time.

“Kenma, I can’t keep doing this. It’s so hard to keep this cycle up. It’s hard for the both of us.. You know it.” The boy was quiet, much like he always was when you were arguing. Quiet and passive. You hated that about him, how he would always let you do the talking. You wanted him to fight for you, dammit. Tell you that you were in the wrong. Keep you. You wanted him to keep you.

“If that’s what you want, okay.” He said, nodding. There was no expression in his face– he was never one to show his emotions. Your lip began to tremble and your eyes welled up. Dammit. There you go again.

“This– yeah. This is what I want. This is what we need.” He nodded once more. You turned around and began walking away. You were hoping for him to shout your name, grab your arm, anything to indicate that he wanted you to stay. But he didn’t.

The next few days were spent in your bed. You didn’t want to go anywhere, do anything, in case you saw him. Seeing him was the worst thing that could happen right now. His recognizable two-toned hair, hearing his soft voice, seeing his gorgeous eyes– the ones you fell for when you first saw him.

Those gorgeous, calm, golden fucking eyes.

You wanted to resent him. You wanted to be angry with him and you wanted to loathe him, but you just couldn’t. That boy, no matter what he did, was an angel. He was your best friend, your anchor. Someone you could go to no matter what, and now that’s gone. Now you had nobody.

Sixteen days.

It had been sixteen days since you and Kenma broke up, and the wound was still fresh. You were still heartbroken. You had been out in public and had seen him, and every time, your heart was torn even further. You kept him unblocked on everything, as did he. You were still easily accessible, and yet he did nothing.

You were mindlessly scrolling through your phone when you looked at the clock. 1:14AM. You should definitely go to sleep soon. You were just about to set your phone down when you got a text from an unsaved number.

You decided to answer it, you had nothing better to do anyway.

(xxx)-xxx-xxxx:

Hey

You:

Who is this?

(xxx)-xxx-xxxx:

Lol, deleted my number?

I didn’t think you were serious.

Ig I was wrong

You:

???

Who is this??

(xxx)-xxx-xxxx:

It’s kenma, sorry

I didn’t think you’d answer

Fuck. What were you going to do? You promised yourself that you wouldn’t get back together with Kenma, but you missed him so fucking bad. You were always the first to break no contact, but it was him this time. Maybe something was wrong? You should at least check if he was okay.

You:

Oh

Hi

(xxx)-xxx-xxxx:

Sorry

I thought you wouldve had my number saved

You:

No, I really was serious this time lol

But r u ok?

Yeah, use short messages– to convince him you were being genuine about ending the cycle.

(xxx)-xxx-xxxx:

Ya

R u?

You:

Yup

(xxx)-xxx-xxxx:

That’s good.

You:

Y did u text me?

Kenma:

Wanted to check up on you

And it’s cold outside

You:

?

Why does the temperature matter lol

Kenma:

Ok this is gonna sound completely crazy

But

Im outside

Like of ur house

And I was hoping you could talk to me in person?

But its ok if u dont

But I just wanna lyk im sorry

For everything

Is he being serious? He’s outside?? You peeked out of your bedroom window and there he was, a dark figure sitting on the curb across the street from your house. Were you going to go out there? Maybe just for a second. Maybe just to hear him out.

You:

I’ll be out

Moments later, you walked out of your front door in your pajamas and a hoodie. Feeling the cool breeze flow through your clothes made you shiver.

“Kenma?” You spoke, your voice slicing through the cold night like a sharp blade. He looked up from his phone and sat up, walking towards you.

“Y/n,” He said, almost sounding relieved. He walked up to you and you shied away from him, avoiding being too close. Kenma took a step back in turn.

“So, um, like in my text… I wanted to say that I’m sorry. For everything.”

“Kenma, you have nothing to be sorry about. I–”

“No, I do. I wish I had treated you better. I wish I had made an attempt to keep you with me, I wish I did everything differently. I wish I made you want to stay.”

In all honesty, you were shocked with how much Kenma just confessed. You never knew how much he was holding back, or even how much he cared. You knew he cared, but not this much. You never knew such a blank expression was carrying so much emotion.

“I– Kenma.. You were perfect. You’re an angel.” He furrowed his brow and shook his head, a street lamp illuminating his almost frustrated face.

“If I’m so perfect, why do we break up so much? What am I doing wrong?” Kenma reached for your hand and you hesitantly pulled away, pulling him out of his emotional mind. His facial expression softened and he looked sorrowful. “I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to yell at you.. I should go.”

When he took a step away from you, you muttered a small, “wait” Just barely loud enough for him to hear. He turned around silently.

“I want to talk about what we did wrong. And… how we can fix this. Us. Because I hate being without you, and I love you with my whole heart, I really do. I see you in everything, Kenma. I look for you in every stranger I meet and I think about you in everything I do.” Before you could stop yourself, the words were flowing out like a spilled glass of water– and your tears were spilling, too. You wiped your face with your sleeve and as you’re about to continue on, the warmth of Kenma’s body heat engulfs you.

“Oh, honey.” He says as he pulls you closer to him, letting you sob into his jacket. He begins to tear up, too, thinking of something to say. “Why are we doing this to ourselves?” The boy pet your hair and kissed your head until you got quieter, and eventually pulled away from him

You wiped your face once again and looked at him, the moonlight reflecting off of a single tear on his cheek. You cupped his face in your hands and wiped his tear away with a thumb. Instinctively, he leaned into your touch, letting more tears fall. Despite being with Kenma for so long, you had never once seen him cry, nor show this much emotion in general. You felt more connected to him than ever.

“How are we going to fix us, Y/n?” Kenma sniffled.

“Oh, Kenma, I have no idea.” You chuckled as you looked into his eyes. Those gorgeous, calm, golden eyes.

“I promise, I’ll try my best to fix us.” Kenma took your cheek in his left hand. He held his right hand out with his pinky up. You smiled and intertwined your own pinky with his.

“Me too, Kenma. I promise, this is our last time breaking up. We won’t ever again after this.”The two of you sealed the deal with a kiss and another hug, smiling warmly at each other.

“So…” You trailed off. Kenma looked curiously at you. “why were you outside of my house at 1AM? Were you—”

“No.. I was just taking a walk and ended up here— it’s not like that, I promise I wasn’t being a creepy ex.”

“Okay, whatever you say.” You looked at him suspiciously and then broke out into laughter, filling the silence of the night with your love for Kenma.

[writingnightmare]

hi! Would you be kind enough to do the sfw alphabet for chuuya. I'd be interested to get your take on his character

Of course! Thank you for the request, I had a lot of fun doing this. Found many things I hadn’t thought about yet with Chuuya, I might need to do one for everyone. ♡

ᴵ’ᵐ ˢˡᶦᵍʰᵗˡʸ ⁿᵉʳᵛᵒᵘˢ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰʳᵒʷ ᵗʰᶦˢ ᶦⁿᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ᵗᵘᵐᵇˡʳ ᵛᵒᶦᵈ ᵇᵘᵗ ʰᵉʳᵉ ʷᵉ ᵍᵒ

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇/𝓈: Chuuya Nakahara

𝒞𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉: SFW

𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: None!

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

SFW Alphabet - Chuuya Nakahara ⫘⫘⫘

𝒜 = 𝒜𝒻𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 (𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝒶𝒻𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎? 𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝒹𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝒶𝒻𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃?)

I think Chuuya is a pretty affectionate partner in private, he’s not one to hide his emotions if he doesn’t have to, so why should he? At least when he’s in public, he’s slightly more on the reserved end of things. A soft touch to the small of your back is more than enough for him, or taking your hand in his to keep you close. When he’s working however, don’t expect anything from him, he has a job to do after all, and part of that is keeping his partner at a safe distance.

𝐵 = 𝐵𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹 (𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒷𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒶𝓈 𝒶 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹? 𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓉?)

It would certainly be an interesting friendship. Filled with late night texts, ranting about how someone fucked up at work, without giving too much away. He’s hard to catch in person, but when you did meet up to catch up, it would be impromptu, between meetings.

It takes a while for Chuuya to open up and trust people, so it would take a while to get to that point. In the beginning, you probably struck up conversation when you met at a bar. His colleagues were all too willing to allow you to deal with the drunken mess of a man, who was incessant on calling Dazai to tell him off. For what, you didn’t know.

𝒞 = 𝒞𝓊𝒹𝒹𝓁𝑒𝓈 (𝒟𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒸𝓊𝒹𝒹𝓁𝑒? 𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒸𝓊𝒹𝒹𝓁𝑒?)

Chuuya is a great person to cuddle with; if he’s asleep. This man has so much pent up energy from his daily life, he can’t sit still until he passes out.

𝒟 = 𝒟𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒸 (𝒟𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓃? 𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒶𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝑜𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔?)

In a few years he might settle down with the right person, but it depends. He is loyal to the Port Mafia to a fault. So don’t expect him to give up his job. He’s decent at cooking, but terrible at cleaning. The first time you asked him to help you clean the windows one of them ended up smashed when Dazai called him.

𝐸 = 𝐸𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 (𝐼𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓀 𝓊𝓅 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓃𝑒𝓇, 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒹𝑜 𝒾𝓉?)

100% in person and privately. There is no way this man would be caught dead breaking up with someone over text. After all, he loved them at some point, they deserve respect at the very least.

𝐹 = 𝐹𝒾𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒(𝑒) (𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝒹𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓂𝒾𝓉𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉? 𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓆𝓊𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒾𝑒𝒹?)

He doesn’t really like the fancy titles of it all, but if you want him to put a ring on it, he definitely will. He’s not one for casual dating, his life doesn’t really allow for that long term and it brings a lot of risk with his occupation. So long as his partner is understanding, and just as loyal as he is, he’s happy either way.

𝒢 = 𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓁𝑒 (𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎, 𝒷𝑜𝓉𝒽 𝓅𝒽𝓎𝓈𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎?)

Chuuya is physically very gentle. He’s aware that with his ability, he can cause a lot of damage, lord forbid he do that to you. Emotionally, he’s somewhere in between. He’s a passionate man and a smooth talker, he won’t hide that, but he’s surprisingly good at managing his emotions. When he’s tired, you get glimpses of his most gentle words, expressions of affection you mightn’t hear otherwise. When he’s fired up however, every so often he will boil over and express his anger.

𝐻 = 𝐻𝓊𝑔𝓈 (𝒟𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒽𝓊𝑔𝓈? 𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝑜𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓃 𝒹𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒹𝑜 𝒾𝓉? 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝒽𝓊𝑔𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒?)

Please hug this man. He hugs softly, but firm, like he’s trying to wrap you up and away from the rest of the world. He finds it relaxing when he comes home, his head resting in the crook of your neck, a few moments where nothing is expected of him.

𝐼 = 𝐼 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 (𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝒻𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝒹𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐿-𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹?)

If this man is anything, he’s stubborn. His childhood lacked loved once he was taken, he had to learn how to use the word again. He hesitates to say it, fearing the weight of the word, but also your reaction. He wants to be sure.

𝒥 = 𝒥𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓊𝓈𝓎 (𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝒿𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝒹𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝑔𝑒𝓉? 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒹𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒹𝑜 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎’𝓇𝑒 𝒿𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓊𝓈?)

Chuuya is a confident man, and his faith in you is immeasurable. That being said, the bartender who touched your hand as he passed your drink over, well he was another matter. He doesn’t get jealous at flirting, more often than not it’s those who touch you. It’s an intimate thing for him, so you’d best believe he will be moving over, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he guides you away.

𝒦 = 𝒦𝒾𝓈𝓈𝑒𝓈 (𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝓀𝒾𝓈𝓈𝑒𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒? 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒹𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓀𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊? 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒹𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝓀𝒾𝓈𝓈𝑒𝒹?)

He loves to kiss your knuckles, brush his lips against your cheek, and he does enjoy an Eskimo kiss. For him, he loves when your lips brush his jaw, or when you press a kiss into his scar on his wrist. It’s something that people barely notice about him, but the fact that you pay so much attention to what makes him who he is, it makes it that much more special.

𝐿 = 𝐿𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈 (𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒶𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓁𝒹𝓇𝑒𝓃?)

Chuuya is great with kids, much to his own surprise. One time a small child ran up to him, clinging to his leg with a broken smile, and he just about melted. He crouched down and took his hat off, asking what chaos he was making, until his parents came rushing over to profusely apologise for the muddy hand prints on his black slacks. He didn’t mind though, messy kids are happy kids.

𝑀 = 𝑀𝑜𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 (𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂?)

Sleeping. This man is sleep deprived, to put it bluntly. He comes home late, if he can at all, the Port Mafia does rule the night in Yokohama after all. He’s normally coming home at 3am, so by the time 7am rolls around, he’s still out to it.

𝒩 = 𝒩𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 (𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂?)

The nights that he does get to spend away from work, he wants you to be the centre of his world. A quiet night in, cooking with you before watching a movie on the couch, or a night out drinking or at a fancy restaurant to spoil you, he doesn’t mind. A good mix of both would be ideal for him, letting him recover from his exhausting work, as well as making new memories with you. So long as you’re there, he’s more than content.

𝒪 = 𝒪𝓅𝑒𝓃 (𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑒𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂𝓈𝑒𝓁𝓋𝑒𝓈? 𝒟𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒶𝓉 𝑜𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝑜𝓇 𝓌𝒶𝒾𝓉 𝒶 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑒𝒶𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝓈𝓁𝑜𝓌𝓁𝓎?)

It takes this man a long time to open up, and somethings he may never tell you at all, they’re just too difficult to think about. After a few months, he’ll let small things slip, but it isn’t until about 6 months in that the floodgates burst. Suddenly you’re finding out everything about this man at once. Did you know he writes poetry in his spare time? Or how he’s too nervous to ever choose a tattoo, no matter how cool he thinks they look.

𝒫 = 𝒫𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒 (𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝑒𝒶𝓈𝒾𝓁𝓎 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎?)

Depends. With how hectic his work is, the minor inconveniences build up, and suddenly he’s six glasses in ranting about Akutagawa’s recklessness to Kōyo. With you, he’s easily frustrated, but makes a point to never be easily angered with you.

𝒬 = 𝒬𝓊𝒾𝓏𝓏𝑒𝓈 (𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊? 𝒟𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝒾𝓃 𝓅𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝑜𝓇 𝒹𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔?)

He makes it a point to remember as much as he can about people who are important to him. His phone is full of birthday alerts, three days early so he never misses one. Gifts are pre-planned throughout the year whenever he has time, and you best believe he will have your favourite type of cake in the fridge for your birthday, even if he was called into work that morning. He tries his best to remember as much as he can, and he does pretty damn good.

𝑅 = 𝑅𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 (𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝒻𝒶𝓋𝑜𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓇𝑒𝓁𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅?)

The first night you spent the night at his apartment. It wasn’t the happiest moment, or the funniest, but it cemented in his mind that he wanted to spend as much time with you as he could. He half (totally) expected you to be gone in the morning for work after dragging him home drunk, yet when he woke up, there you were. Painkillers and water sat on his side table, you stood in his kitchen, greeting him with a smile and a quip about how sure you were he gave himself alcohol poisoning the night before. It gave him a level of trust he hadn’t experienced before, not like this.

𝒮 = 𝒮𝑒𝒸𝓊𝓇𝒾𝓉𝓎 (𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓉𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎? 𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓉𝑒𝒸𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊? 𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓉𝑒𝒸𝓉𝑒𝒹?)

He is incredibly protective. He knows he has enemies, and you certainly do too. He will shield you from the outside world as much as he can, but after a while, the cat will be out of the bag. In the beginning he was with you everywhere, until he realised he was likely just drawing attention to you more. Instead, he will settle for one of his subordinates accompanying you if tensions are high.

If you tried to protect him, he would be torn. He’s more than strong enough to protect himself, everyone knows that, but it isn’t often someone would willingly step into the line of fire for him. In the end, he wouldn’t want you too, much preferring he be in the fire line than you.

𝒯 = 𝒯𝓇𝓎 (𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝑒𝒻𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓉 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓅𝓊𝓉 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓈, 𝒶𝓃𝓃𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈, 𝑔𝒾𝒻𝓉𝓈, 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎𝒹𝒶𝓎 𝓉𝒶𝓈𝓀𝓈?)

Dates, gifts, anniversaries, and birthdays are when he shines. He doesn’t get much time to put his effort into everyday tasks, but you give him a set date and he is putting his all into it. Weeks in advance he is booking restaurants, buying gifts, and getting time off work.

𝒰 = 𝒰𝑔𝓁𝓎 (𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝒹 𝒽𝒶𝒷𝒾𝓉𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇𝓈?)

Beyond going to bed at 4am, and smoking, this man bites his pen when he’s stressed and thinking. He never realises that he does it, until someone asks to borrow a pen, and there’s teeth marks all over the end of it. Paperwork never was his favourite pastime. At least he’ll buy a new pen when he sees the marks.

𝒱 = 𝒱𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓉𝓎 (𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓇𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝓈?)

Chuuya is handsome, and he knows it. He is pretty meticulous about his appearance. He takes pride in dressing well, and in dressing as he views a Port Mafia executive should. He makes sure he looks classy, but anything he wears, he needs to be able to fight in.

𝒲 = 𝒲𝒽𝑜𝓁𝑒 (𝒲𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓅𝓁𝑒𝓉𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊?)

Chuuya has struggled with his humanity the majority of his life. He would certainly miss you, however he knows by now that he is perfectly fine in of himself. He doesn’t need a partner to complete him.

𝒳 = 𝒳𝓉𝓇𝒶 (𝒜 𝓇𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓂 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒸𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓃 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂.)

Do not let this man near an animal shelter. He will absolutely spend all day with the dogs, loving on them, critiquing their names (Patch is such a basic name, Chūya insists the pup would far prefer being called Merlot).

𝒴 = 𝒴𝓊𝒸𝓀 (𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒, 𝑒𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒾𝓃 𝑔𝑒𝓃𝑒𝓇𝒶𝓁 𝑜𝓇 𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓃𝑒𝓇?)

Poor hygiene, strong no. He also hates strong perfumes/colognes, it gives him a migraine. Manipulative behaviour from a friend or a partner is immediately a no. Someone who is very loyal, and see’s the inherent value of human lives is important, even if they might not hesitate to take them nonetheless.

𝒵 = 𝒵𝓏𝓏 (𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝓈𝓁𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝒽𝒶𝒷𝒾𝓉𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇𝓈?)

He sleeps like a starfish, and snores in your ear. It feels like no matter which way you turn, he’s right there, snoring right in your ear. Unless you’ve got him locked into a cuddle, I hope for your sake that you’re a heavy sleeper.

[marlenesluv]

charles + gf living together in monaco (hc)

note: saw charles’ story of him playing piano this morning (feb. 10) and felt the need to make this bc my mind spiraled. (this led to more than i expected, maybe marriage. tf is wrong with me) also i wrote the “he won monaco” bit in february 😭 imma say i manifested that.

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader

warnings: none

head-cannon: yours and charles’ lives after moving in together in monaco.

۵ after dating for about three years, charles proposed the idea of you guys moving in together. the two of you decided on buying a new house in monaco instead of picking between the two of yours.

۵ if you thought living together would be a bad idea, you’d be wrong.

۵ it was the best idea you guys had ever had.

۵ no more ‘can you come over?’ texts at 2am because one of you couldn’t sleep. no more keeping clothes in his closest and some of his in yours. no. everything was perfect now.

۵ you shared a bedroom, a space, a closet, and a home.

۵ when you woke up in the morning, you occasionally would wake to charles playing the piano. a beautiful sound that you thought angels would come down from heaven to hear.

۵ you’d sneak up behind him and kiss his cheek as you sat beside him and played for a while with him.

۵ when you met charles, you didn’t know anything about pianos. but after three years, he’s taught you everything and you enjoy the hobby more than a lot of things.

۵ piano became a staple in your daily routines. at least an hour everyday, you sat down at the piano and practiced.

۵ which usually ended with charles behind you, kissing your neck as you giggled, pushing him off, “charles! i’m practicing, stop that.”

۵ maybe you guys even came out with a song on his spotify. a little duet on the piano, which everyone loved.

۵ grocery shopping was always fun. you insisted that charles didn’t need to go, he was busy after all. but he would never miss it.

۵ he probably will grab to the most unhealthy things and you’re just like, “wont your trainer be mad…?” and he just shrugs and throws the cereal into the cart.

۵ you and kika are bestfriends. obviously.

۵ since your boyfriend’s hangout all the time, you guys started talking and hanging out together and leaving the guys to train.

۵ since you and kika became so close, pierre and charles shared a jet more often.

۵ races were even more fun with you had another girl to talk to. sure, you were friends with the other girls, but you and kika had a connection.

۵ and you had always gone to the family dinners.

۵ pascale saw you as one of her own, she knew you and charles were meant for each other.

۵ and arthur and enzo knew that too.

۵ of course, they all expected charles to propose, which after a while, he told them he would eventually.

۵ but before that, you told kika how much you wanted to get married, and she kept telling you, “just wait, i’m sure he will soon.”

۵ and yeah, maybe pierre told kika that charles was planning to purpose after monaco this year.

۵ and he won monaco. he won at his home.

۵ and he proposed to you on that podium, asking you up there to celebrate, and he got down on one knee.

۵ sobbing, of course you said yes. which fans loved and his friends cheered, kika recording the whole thing.

۵ the wedding was gorgeous, and the honeymoon was incredible.

۵ but you both looked forward to going back home.

۵ you yearned for your simple routine.

۵ and, of course, charles threw out the idea of christening the house now that you were officially married.

۵ and christen you did.

۵ the bedroom, the sofa, the shower, the island, the kitchen table, the balcony, the guest bedrooms, and his new ferrari.

۵ anyways….

۵ you also tried to reach charles how to cook.

۵ he burnt the cookies, let the pasta boil over, served raw burgers, and made the scrambled eggs smoke.

۵ so you quickly took over the home cooked meals.

۵ the two of you loved living together, but it was even better as a married couple.

[twst-drabbles]

How about yandere with either cater or vil (maybe both if you dont mind) trying to fight for you anyway they can. Id love if there were tears, bruises and a lot of nsfw if thats alright ¤v¤

Cater 5

Summary: You really should've blocked Cater the moment he sent you those pictures, but there's a morbid part of you that's curious. And so, you end up wanting to give him a taste of his own medicine.

(Got struck with an idea that I thought was neat. Got pretty long so I couldn't stuff as much nsfw stuff as I could've wanted. The stuff that is there is... well it painful nsfw stuff, you'll see what I mean. Either way! Enjoy!)

You've come to know Cater as a liar. A fun liar, the drama queen type that likes to exaggerate things for the sake of either getting more views or just get more engagement out of people. He stretches out stories in such a weird way that it entertains you.

As such, when he texted you that he got his ass beat from trying to "clear your name," or whatever, you thought it was just another one of his stories. Perhaps he got slapped to kingdom come, or his clothes or hair got damaged. The students here in this college are prissy like that, preferring less the messiness of physical fighting and more the magical variety.

Then he sent you a selfie. Took a picture of himself in front of a mirror, shirt open as if to entice you, with belt loose and everything. "Like what you see?"

You never took him for a masochist, but the evidence was all on display.

Dark purple bruises littered his ribs, torso practically warped with those swelled up lumps of skin. The knuckles of Cater's hand were scrapped, a large blister over his forearm, and a long cut that traveling from his wrist all the way to his elbow.

He should be in the hospital, but he was smiling with bitten lips and red eyes, as if nothing is wrong with the world. It was painful to look at and you texted as such.

"Oh come on, it's not that bad! You should see what I did to the other guy. Lookie here!"

…there was exposed bone, glittering with it's drying viscera as the sun laid its gaze upon it. Two of Cater's clones grinned with missing teeth, giving peace signs to the camera as a body laid prone on the grass, face twisted away all the way around into the ground.

Sometimes, you forget how dangerous magic is, and how fatal it can be when combines with the brutal need to hurt and maim.

You did not ask Cater to do this. You're in a college as a magicless half-student, filled to the brim with people who's egos are constantly on the hunt for something to feast on. You happen to be a rather perfect target, a person that everyone can talk shit about because what are you gonna do? You have no magic, no family, no nothing in this world, so therefore, no standing or power to ever defend yourself with.

Naturally you had to complain, and who better to have listen than Cater? He's always hungry for drama and you certainly had a lot to give.

That and you were always under the impression that he wouldn't do anything drastic, at least, wouldn't kill someone.

"Now you don't have to worry about this little hater for a bit, okay? See you tomorrow, love ya!"

…so, what do you do? Simple. You go to sleep, and pretend that he doesn't exist. Because you know what happens when you try and tell the teachers anything? Crowley gets a whiff of it somehow, then silences the situation until things are back to normal. Normal, at the expense of you.

Again, what can you do? You just do what's in your power. Ignore, ignore and ignore.

This college was always strange. You never should've made the mistake of trying to find any sort of familiar comfort here.

Days passed and more photos were sent. You didn't reply, but you always saw because you couldn't keep your curiosity at bay. A cycle of Cater getting himself hurt on his hunts, then him showing off the injuries to you in the form of a collage of selfies in increasingly salacious poses.

In one picture, he was straight up grabbing himself. On that day, you didn't look at his texts at all. And so, he begged you to not block him, to at least mark his messages as read so he can cling onto the fantasy that you're looking at him, you got an idea.

"Send me a clone. One clone. And it better be a clone and not you."

It was the middle of the night, you should've waited until after class to send the text. But oh well, the clone--probably--is here, happy and waiting. Looks pretty bright-eyed and bushy tailed for someone that keeps getting beat up for the sake of your attention.

It was… annoying, irritating.

You didn't wait. You stabbed him with the skewer you forgot to put away, right on your front porch. He fell upon the rotting wood floor and curled over his stomach. His eyes were wide, tears leaking out from the pain. Now if only his mouth would stop those yearning moans.

"Quiet, Grim's sleeping." You tried stabbing his spine but bone is a lot harder to pierce through. Instead, it sank between a rib and through a lung. And Cater, listening to you, covered his mouth. "Hold still."

You didn't like him looking at you, so you grabbed his hair and forced his head to bow at your feet. His throat bobbed, and you stabbed that too. It… wasn't as messy as you thought it would be. There was blood, there was gurgling, but it wasn't a gash.

When you were done, when this clone became a still body, you brought out your phone and took a picture. You sent to Cater without any words.

Thirty minutes later, Cater sent you a voice message. You knew that if you clicked it, you would be subjected to a disgusting session of self pleasure.

"Thank you," he texted, as if you gave him something most delicious. How gross.

"Send me another clone tomorrow." Because, as messy as it initially was, it was fun. And, the clone was self cleaning.

[no-one-hears-me]

everything I do is for him

[animationismycomfort]

burn was done DIRTY in the show

[anxiously-sidequesting]

Asshole Things Ambrose Has Said/Done #8: Describe Cyrus' relationship with Malistaire as "odd" then sends a child, essentially a stranger to Cyrus, with no business with being involved in their family issues, to extract information out of Cyrus on how to kill his brother (a grieving man)

[deviousdiesel]

.

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 3 | masterlist

-

It’s not unusual for someone to mistake you for the baby’s mama.

How could someone not, at least for a moment? When you take the baby to the grocery store, older people gush over him babbling in his stroller, eager to shower him with compliments in baby-talk or tell you how much you resemble the little tyke. After hearing the same comment for the umpteenth time, you tire of correcting people by saying you’re the babysitter only to watch their face fall, somewhat mortified and feeling as though their comment should’ve been directed to the baby’s actual mother. Which isn’t you. 

It’s less typical for someone to mistake you for John’s wife, though that does happen from time to time.

You’ve become a fixture around the neighbourhood since John hired you at the beginning of the summer, and over the weeks, the other nannies and the stay-at-home moms have started to gradually warm up to you. Before long, you’re being invited on coffee runs and playdates with some of the other women, always careful to ask for John’s permission before bringing his baby into a stranger’s house.

“Just text me the address and their names,” he requests while you stand awkwardly in front of him, John sitting on the bed to finish buttoning up his shirt and fixing his watch around his wrist. You would’ve been fine standing on the other side of the door while he finished changing, but he insisted on inviting you in.

“I will,” you promise, nodding along with his words.

“And call me if you don’t feel comfortable. I’ll come get the two of you right away if you need me.”

You swallow. Nod again.

The first time you take the baby for a playdate with a couple of the moms from the park, one catches you in the act of texting John the address of the house as he requested. “Hubby wants to know where you are, huh?”

“Oh,” you choke out, face heating up. “He’s not—”

“Not a control freak, I know. They’re all like that.” Her smile is ebullient, rolling her eyes like you’re in on a joke together when you most assuredly are not. “Why don’t you share your location with him? Mine’s the same way. Here—I’ll show you how.”

She takes your phone and tap-taps something and suddenly you see it in the notifications of your conversation with John. If you bite your lip instead of correcting her assumption about the nature of your and John’s relationship, that’s for you and you alone to know. Your rationale is that any explanation will just make things tense; it’s not like you haven’t seen it happen before. 

It’s far more concerning when John doesn’t correct those assumptions. Particularly when you’re standing right next to him. 

Like at the local water park on a particularly hot weekend, wading in the kiddy pool with the baby nestled tight against your chest in his little swim trunks and floppy hat only for an employee to ask John if his wife would like something to drink. 

“Iced coffee, love?” John asks, taking your stupefied silence as a yes. “Nothing for me, mate. Cheers.” 

Your head spins like a top on that thought until a good while later. The server hands you a glass of iced coffee with condensation already dripping down the sides and John thanks him for you, taking the baby from you and pulling you to his side. You drink your coffee quietly with your thigh flush with his under the water, gripping the glass harder when his free hand squeezes around your waist, laughing at something another parent said to him.

It’s so over for you. There’s no coming back from this. 

The sight of someone of John’s size, a bulky, military man with arms of pure steel dusted with dark hairs, cradling a tiny, chubby baby with a thatch of similar dark hair on his head and big cheeks and roly poly arms unlocks something primal in you. An old, buried need. 

In the family changing room, you stand under an ice cold shower until it breaks the fever slowly consuming you. All you can do is hope it takes. 

In the evening, you sit out on the porch with John at the back of the house until the crickets swell with song, the moon a half-crescent in the sky. A cool breeze makes your shoulders lift a little, huddling into your body to keep warm. 

It’s hard to keep your eyes on the view in front of you and off the man sitting beside you when they want so badly to be running over him. He’s changed out of his work clothes into a soft pair of sweatpants and an old threadbare shirt, the sage green fabric faded after years of being run through the washing machine. It clings to his biceps and the soft pudge of his stomach, a layer of fat over the hard muscle beneath. 

A cigarette dangles from his fingers, thick wrist perched on the arm of the adirondack chair. Every so often he lifts it to his lips for a puff, always breathing out in the opposite direction from you. Considerate of your health, at least, if not his own. 

“Cold, sweetheart?” he asks before ashing his cigarette, and your bottom lip purses when you turn your head to look at him because you thought you were doing a good job suppressing your shivers. 

You stare at him, confused. He cocks an eyebrow at your questioning stare and deliberately glances down, waiting until you notice the way your nipples are protruding through your white tank top. You forgot that you’d taken your bra off earlier for a bit of relief and hadn’t yet had a chance to put it back on. 

“Oh my god,” you squeak, crossing your arms to hide as much as possible, humiliation flooding through you. “I’m so sorry—that’s so—I-I’m so sorry.”

John makes a rough sound when he rises to his feet, knees cracking as he does. “S’alright, hun. Lemme get you something to put on.”

The screen door creaks when he goes back inside briefly to fetch something only to come back a few seconds later with a big, cotton sweater that reeks of him. It looks well loved, some remnant of his younger years, and even from a distance, you can smell the distinct smoky aroma clinging to the fabric. 

When he kneels in front of you, you nearly go cross-eyed at the realisation that even on his knees, he’s as tall as you. The bulk of his waist forces your legs to spread around him. 

“C’mon, arms up,” John commands, barely waiting until you’ve raised your arms above your head before helping guide your head and arms into the right holes. 

Dragging the sweater down the way he does forces it to rub over your nipples, sending a shock through you. If you had any less self-control, your teeth might actually chatter together. 

“There we go,” he says, fluffing out the sweater around your waist before resting his hands on the tops of your thighs, the gesture coming so naturally to him that you doubt he’s even noticed the placement of his hands. “Much better. That’ll warm you up.”

He isn't wrong. You’ve already worked up a sweat. 

Late night rain.

It comes down in buckets, a dark slate rapping hard against the window pane. A bolt of lightning flickers across the horizon off in the distance. White striations across an otherwise dark sky. About thirty seconds later, thunder rumbles. 

You peek from between the blinds, chewing your lip nervously. You’ve never driven in rain this bad, but with supper done and the dishes washed, there’s no excuse for you to stay any longer. Still, the rain comes down so heavily that despite your timidity, you briefly contemplate asking John if you can stay a little longer. At least until it lets up a bit; until your headlights won’t blind you reflecting off the puddles on the drive home. 

Someone else pulls the blinds further apart.

“There’s no way in hell you’re going out in that,” John says from behind you, practically growling his words. Daring you to contradict him. 

You glance over your shoulder to find him right there at your back, staring out the window. He’s so close that you can smell the red sauce on his flannel from dinner and make out the flecks of grey in his beard that are almost masked by the darker hairs. 

“It’s not…that bad…”

“Sweetheart, don’t piss me off,” he warns.

The blinds shuttle back together with a clatter when you finally let go of them. 

“I could—I could take the couch,” you offer. 

“Sweetheart,” John sighs, looking down at you meaningfully.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“I’m not gonna take the big, comfy bed and leave you with the couch.” When you open your mouth to protest, he cuts you off. “And don’t even try arguing. I won’t hear it.”

There’s not much you can say to dissuade him after that. The furrow of his brow lets you know he’s made up his mind; no ifs, ands, or buts. Besides, there’s a not-so-secret part of you that’s relieved that you don’t have to drive home in this weather. You’re an average driver on a good day. You don’t need your last moments before shuffling off this mortal coil to involve hydroplaning on the highway before ramming into the guardrail. 

John gives you a shirt of his to change into for after your shower, which you spend far too long in, scrubbing your body with his shower gel and quivering under the warm water. When you pull it on, you bring the collar up to your nose to smell. The same patent smoky scent, musky like ambergris and leather. Intoxicating. It makes the blood rush through your ear like a conch shell, the ocean swirling behind your eardrum. 

You hadn’t asked for underwear, content at first to keep on the same pair, but after your shower, you cringe at the thought of putting your day-old panties back on. Besides, his shirt is long enough to cover anything indecent. 

He sits on the edge of the bed when you come out, the concern on his brow melting away at the sight of you. 

“Practically a dress on you, isn’t it?” John says, voice a little wondrous. His eyes drag over you, tip to toe. 

You fiddle with the ends of it. “…Are you sure you want me to take the bed?” 

“Wouldn’t be fair. It’s yours for the night.” His lips quirk up at the corners when you frown. “Don’t worry about me—I’ve slept in worse places before.”

“Like where?” you ask dubiously.

“Tents. Abandoned buildings. Shacks. In the back of a moving van a few times. You wouldn’t believe half the places we used to make camp. Definitely no place for pretty girls like you.”

His condescending tone vaguely annoys you, but it’s hard to dig into your irritation when he thumbs the edge of the shirt you’re wearing and you realise that he’s just a few raised inches away from noticing that you don’t have any panties on. You should’ve just put your old ones back on, but it’s far too late now. 

You clear your throat instead. “We could…um…we could share.” 

You don’t know what possesses you to offer to share the bed, but the words are already gone, out of your mouth and in the air. John cocks an eyebrow.

“Unless you don’t want to,” you amend. 

“Don’t know about that, sweetheart,” he rasps. “…I snore like a bear.”

“That’s okay. I’m a pretty deep sleeper.”

John scrutinises you a bit longer, looking for any sign of hesitancy. You know he’d squash your offer in a second if he found any wariness in your gaze. 

“Alright,” he finally concedes, letting go of your shirt and slapping his thighs. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you wake up and can’t fall back asleep because of my snoring.”

After his shower, during which you lie on your side facing away from the bathroom door, stomach fraught with nerves as you consider the fact that he’s naked in the ensuite, you hear him come out and rummage around in the dresser for a change of clothes. You lie beside him with your stomach twisted in knots, your hands shoved under the pillow and staring resolutely at the wall. 

The appropriateness of sleeping in the same bed beside your boss isn't lost on you, but you're too far into this now.

The bed dips when he settles onto the other side, and the sudden absence of light when he switches the bedside lamp off nearly makes you cheep. 

He breathes heavily, you notice, particularly when he finally falls asleep. It’s a deep, rumbling sound—not entirely unlike a bear, though you can’t really confirm that for certain seeing as how you’ve never slept beside a bear before. 

Those are the thoughts that would signal the approach of sleep if you weren’t soon to be engulfed by it. 

Sometime in the middle of the night, you wake up to a rough hand stroking your back leisurely. There’s a hard chest under you, your cheek propped up on a pillowy pec that rises and falls with his breaths. Sleep bobs around in you like a toulouse decanter. You struggle to keep an eye open, certain that there’s something you need to tend to, but then his hand slides down your back again to curve over your rump and sleep drags you back down. 

You wake up again to your breath wafting back into your mouth, your face shoved into the crook of a man’s neck. Humid, hot. You’re lipping at the skin of his neck, little tongue darting out to lap up a bead of sweat, salty on your tongue. 

Your cunt pulses against his leg, toes curling when John drags his hand up your thigh and hitches it higher up around his waist. 

“Baby?” he groans, his voice still rusty from sleep. The sound is a rough burr up your spine. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. “Couldn’ get comfy.”

“You hot?” he asks.

The denial on the tip of your tongue slips back down your throat when he plants his foot on the bed and draws his leg up, pressing the meat of his thigh into your throbbing sex. 

“Here, lemme help you—” he groans, reaching down to ruck up your shirt, dragging it up over your breasts and helping manoeuvre your arms out of the holes. It gets tossed off the bed onto the floor. 

Now your breasts are flat on his chest, smushed against his ribcage. It registers somewhere in the back of your head as inappropriate, but sleep pushes that thought away, focusing instead on the discomfort of moving around when you just want to settle back down and go back to bed. 

It must be the heat making you act this way. 

“Shit—sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes, shifting under you. “M’hot too.”

He plants a hand on your ass and heaves you up his chest, giving him enough room to wiggle out of his boxers. It pushes your breasts right into his face, your nipples mere inches from his mouth. When his tongue pokes out to wet his upper lip, it nicks your pebbled nipple. 

A hard length presses against your butt when you’re slid back down, the tip wet when it catches against your skin. 

“Jus’ ignore it, sweetie,” John mumbles, petting a hand down your back. 

You lie like that for a while, splayed over his body. Want simmering just under your skin. Flustered and exhausted all at once, sleep-drained; not a drop of strength in your muscles. 

The heat is just—

Scorching. Dizzying. You feel featherbrained, slipping in and out of sleep, biting off the whimpers that threaten to crawl up your throat when John tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs to wrench them apart, spreading them around his hips again. 

Distantly, you remember that the man under you is at least twenty years your senior. Your employer at that. A man now palming your butt, sinking his fingers into the flesh and rumbling low in his throat. 

It’s wrong—flagrantly wrong. You know that you should say something, that you should get up and tell him that you’re going to sleep on the couch instead. But your tongue is too thick for your mouth. And your thoughts are a sticky paste. The pulse between your thighs empties out all the common sense from your head. 

His palms are slick on your skin. 

Your breathing grows shallow when a hard length suddenly pushes between your thighs as well. 

When the mushroomed head nudges at your opening, you flinch, heart thumping ferociously against your chest. 

“John—John—” you breathe, panicked. As if to warn him. As if he weren’t planting both feet on the bed and lifting his hips. 

As if it wasn’t his hands, warm on your waist, dragging you down onto the shaft spearing into you. 

Your blood is molten hot in your veins. Sticky hands and sticky fingers curl into his chest hair. Your head thumps against his pecs, too weak to hold it up, lipping at the damp skin of his chest. 

“It hurts—” you bleat, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes. 

“I know, baby, I know,” John pants. He draws his hips back just to press forward again, deeper this time. Filling you up more than before. “I’m sorry, baby—I can’t, it’s just…too good. Shit.”

Resolve in tatters. Shattered like his willpower, like his determination not to fuck the girl twenty years his junior sleeping beside him in his bed. 

His hips pump up into yours, bouncing you in his lap. Each thrust plunging his cock deeper into your pussy. It’d be painful if you weren’t so wet, but you’re dripping, arousal making you leak around his shaft and slickening his way. 

Sleep still rattles around in your brain, but not even the fog of sleep can shake the ever intensifying realisation that you’re fucking your boss. No two ways around it—breasts naked against his hirsute chest; pussy wet and stuffed to the hilt with a big dick. Knocked senseless by it. 

The veins of his cock drag over the viscid walls of your cunt with every thrust. He must like the involuntary noises you make because he loses his rhythm when you cry out, growling out a string of unintelligible curses. His body feels bigger like this somehow, biceps and forearms bulging where they’re wrapped around your waist, hips forcing your legs to spread wide around him, the ache sinking deep into your muscle, into your bones.  

When you look up at him, his eyes are more hooded than usual, the blue of his irises so dark that they’re almost black. 

“Such a good girl,” he grunts, big arms like steel bands around your waist, holding you tight to his chest so you have nowhere to run. “Jus’ let…jus’ let daddy come and—oh Christ, fuck, fuck…—jus’ lemme come and we’ll go back to bed, okay, sweetie?”

“I’m gonna…” you pant, trailing off when he gets a little rough, pumping harder up into you. The sound of your pussy squelching around his length makes your eyes roll back, mouth hanging open. 

“Yeah, yeah, you—you come too, baby. Jus’ need to take the edge off, both of us.”

You squeal when he reaches a hand down to dig his fingers into your butt cheek and it makes you tense up, walls tightening around his dick. One well-placed swat hard enough to make the flesh of your ass jiggle and you come, clenching up so tight that his next few thrusts are slowed by your spasming walls, forcing him to really cram his cock into your hole. 

“Christ, that’s cute,” John growls, his pupils blown out. 

It hurts to come that hard; makes your belly cramp up and everything. Whatever gibberish spills from your mouth gets lost in the aftermath. 

That’s when the temperature goes from hot to blistering. The muscles of his thighs tense, straining with his impending release. Even his grip around your waist gets tighter, his self-control steamrolled under his approaching climax, oblivious to the way you squeal and squirm when it threads the delicate needle of being too much. 

“Sorry, baby,” he apologises, voice treading gravel. “M’gonna mess your pussy up a bit—”

“Wait—wait—” you gasp, trying fruitlessly to lift yourself up, his arms keeping you pinned tight to his chest. “You’re gonna—John, you’re gonna come inside me—”

His hips thrust up hard at your words, one last rough pump that has him digging his heels into the mattress and clenching his jaw, the veins in his neck protruding. You feel it flood inside you, hot spurts of cum right up against your womb. He curses when he comes, eyelids sliding shut, lost in the sensation of emptying himself into you. 

A few last, punishing thrusts that make your teeth clack together. More heat spurting into you. A murmured oh fuck before his legs slide back down the bed, spreading out over the mattress. 

The blanket is somewhere at the foot of the bed, all scrunched up and nearly dangling off the edge. You only start to shiver when the sweat on your back finally begins to cool. 

When he pulls you off his cock, you whimper, a hot flash snaking through you. Oh Christ did he plug you up good. Stringy, viscous cum leaks from your hole, leaving a little puddle on his thigh when you slide off his chest and to the side a bit. 

“Oh baby,” he tuts softly, reaching between your legs to feel where you’re wet and a little swollen. “Sorry, sweetheart…wanna get cleaned up?”

“No…” you rasp, so dazed that you can’t even lift your cheek off his chest. 

Exhaustion has never ridden you this hard before, but considering the circumstances…—perhaps you’re lucky to be conscious at all, is all you mean. There’s not a chance of you having enough energy to do anything as rigorous as showering though. 

“Okay, baby. Little kiss?” John asks in a murmur, lifting your head up by your chin and swooping down for a kiss. Not even giving you enough time to process his words before his mouth is on yours. 

His lips glide slick against yours, tongue slipping into your mouth like he needs a good, deep kiss to ground him. A wet twisting of tongues; a thick finger stroking up your neck. He can’t stop touching you. Running a hand up your spine and curving it back down over your ass. Featherlight touches meant to calm you down. His kisses grow sticky, lingering; each one almost the last until he pulls you in for another. 

“Go back to sleep, okay?” John says, still speaking low enough to push you back under. He smooths his hand down your back again. 

You fall back asleep with a load in your belly and your head in a tizzy. The you of tomorrow is going to have a lot to contend with from the you of tonight.

[fmhobeus]

fwb!suguru who knew he wanted to fuck when he first laid eyes on you. then wanted to take you out to endless dinners to chat his ears off when he first spoke to you.

fwb!suguru who grew to like you without fucking you, almost forgot it was what he wanted you for – a life together or a night together?

fwb!suguru whose dick got painfully hard when you taunted him, rolled your eyes at him or outwitted him. he lived for your sassiness.

fwb!suguru who happened to fuck you on a random night unexpectedly and it changed the trajectory of his life.

fwb!suguru who stayed after every dick appointment. cuddled with you on the bed, watched movies or your favourite TV show, ordered take out and held you in his arms till you both inevitably fell asleep.

fwb!suguru who couldve sworn he wasn't in love with you. he would still fuck other people (and then come back to you, poor baby was thinking of you the whole time)

fwb!suguru whose grown accustomed to your presence. he calls you when he isn't feeling okay, you call him when something bothers you. he's grown used to you telling him all about work, how you got your nails done, how you saw a cute cat near your apartment. trivial details, which coming from anyone else he would hang up, but he looks forward to them with you.

fwb!suguru who eventually stops fucking other people and is just your man, without you knowing.

fwb!suguru who is determined to mark you up in placed people will notice. your neck, your thighs, your collarbones.

fwb!suguru who believes in giving you his all. all of his long girthy dick that pumps you full it should be criminal, his long slim fingers that have made you orgasm so often and hit that deep spot with unbeat ease, his long tounge... oh god his tounge. he thinks maybe even his long life ahead is yours too, all yours. his little kids too maybe? he doesn't like to think too much about that.

fwb!suguru who has to have your pussy checked with his tounge daily. he has to lap up your insides no matter any circumstances. his voice purrs across your body when he talks you through your orgasm.

"mhmm yeah cum all over my face beautiful, I know you want to"

fwb!suguru who gets sick at the thought of you sitting so pretty for another man when you tell him you're going on a date. suguru who looks so disturbed at the thought of another man even looking at his pretty girl who isn't really his.

fwb!suguru who takes you to corporate events just so he can call you his girlfriend, even if it's just pretend. when you question him it's always "easier explanation than a friend i fuck on the regular, isn't it?"

fwb!suguru who knows how you like your coffee in the morning. he knows what you like for breakfast, your comfort food, your hobbies, your favourite movies, your least favourite movies, your icks, your past. he knows you like he knows himself. he thinks of you when he passes your favourite cafe, he texts you when he sees something in the colour you like.

fwb!suguru who is sure he hasn't felt this way before, who is so vulnerable with you that it scares the shit out of him.

fwb!suguru who is afraid, angered at everything about you. he's angry at how you lull him into a sense of security, how you hold him, how sweet your voice sounds when you call him by his name, how you take care of him, how you listen to him. he hates how your pussy clenches his dick for dear life, milking it dry and how you never let a drop of his cum go to waste, licking it up like a little slut. he's fearful too. about losing you. about where loving you the way he does leads. loving you? wait. he loves you? fuck. fuck. fuck. this hasn't been according to plan at all.

[chuluoyi]

LOVER'S QUARREL

- fushiguro megumi x reader

“i can't do this anymore.” you and megumi are just too different; he's stoic, you're bubbly, he prefers solitude, you love being social. it starts with fights, words you don't mean, and ends with an event that would haunt him for a long time to come.

genre/warnings: angst, breaking up, post-breakup feelings, mentions and description of injury and blood, hurt/comfort, fluff in the end (you make up!)

note: dear god i’m finally getting this out of my drafts. loosely inspired by real life events i’ve seen around my friend’s relationship sooo it might hurt a bit 🤏🏻 but who can say no to angst to eventual fluff? tagging @lees-chaotic-brain and @kasumitenbaz (as per request in the ask!), you two are always here for my megumi works, thank you!! :3 and thank you for dropping by for the event!

a part of 1K MILESTONE EVENT

general masterlist

Everyone pointed it out as a joke, that you liked him way more than he did you.

And you used to never let it ruffle you. To you, Megumi’s sternness and silence meant that he was comfortable with you. You never wanted him to change his ways just because now you were seeing each other.

But when you thought it over now, as you stood before him with an aghast expression and knives stabbing your kind, soft heart, you couldn’t help but do a double-take.

You were the one who confessed first. Most of the time, you were the one who initiated dates. You always texted him first, asking about his day, and even when he brushed you off, you would keep being this ball of sunshine and wished him a good day.

You never realized it before… that through everything, it has always been you. Unfailingly.

So how dare he spout this now?

“I can't do this anymore.”

"You... can't?" you spat out, feeling the first tendrils of anger course through you. "What exactly it is that you can't do? What do you even mean?"

"Look," Megumi stared at you squarely, and you thought now, that it was the coldest of eyes, straight and true. "It's always been like this between us lately. It's only right that we end this."

This, he said. He didn't even want to define your relationship anymore.

You scoffed. "And why do you think we always end up this way? Have you ever considered, even once, that it's because you make no effort at all?"

"I'm trying," Megumi quickly replied, almost in a hiss, and you almost recoiled. "But I just see that we'll end up nowhere, that's why I'm bringing this up now."

Oh, that freaking hurts. You boyfriend had just told you that this relationship would go nowhere. Right in your face.

Your eyes stung with tears, yet you fought to hold them back, fixing your gaze on the lamp overhead and inhaling deeply.

"You're... selfish," you stated, filled with ire. "You're always walking around eggshells around me, never telling me what is it that you really want—"

Megumi's unclouded eyes fixed on your trembling form. "We just disagree on a lot of things. You know it and it bothers you. It bothers me too. Rather than forcing our relationship, I think it's better—"

"It's always me!" you yelled then, lips quivering and eyes watering, unable to hold your emotions back any longer. "All dates, lunches—everything!" you locked your eyes with him, in mocking disbelief. "How can you say you're trying when, in truth, I'm the one putting in so much for us?!"

In that very second, Megumi thought that he hated seeing you like this. You were supposed to be the cheerful one in this relationship, and when he agreed to go out with you, he made an unspoken commitment to himself that he would at least not make you miserable.

And yet...

"...I'm sorry."

Came his reply, and you were sure that this was it.

And to rub the salt in your wound, he added, "I can't lie to you and say I haven't thought this for a while too."

As tears welled within you, you wondered and questioned what you lacked that led to this. However, the overwhelming sense of betrayal consuming your thoughts ultimately prevailed over any other emotions.

Now he could've appeared before you as a stranger and you wouldn't bat an eye, as the cold steel in his tone said, "And if blaming me is what it takes to make you feel better, then so be it."

You couldn't pinpoint the source of your sudden boldness, but in the next hot minute, you marched past him, your shoulder harshly colliding with his in a deliberate, almost spiteful manner—which, indeed, was your intention—and then you ran.

Which led to the next scene: you found yourself bawling your eyes out in the girls' lavatory.

Yuji and Nobara saw everything unfolding right before their eyes. They hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but you and Megumi were literally breaking up right the middle of their shared classroom, and it was hard not to follow the discourse until the end.

"Are you okay?" Nobara had come to your side, ensuring privacy by locking the restroom door out of your consideration. You were a sobbing mess, attempting to wipe the overflowing tears away while letting out all your emotions.

"He's..." Your voice faltered amid sobs as you gazed at your steadfast friend, your throat clogging up. "He said... he's been wanting t-to... break up with m-me..."

"That's okay, that's okay..." Nobara brought you to her arms, patting your back in reassurance. "Fushiguro is insensitive like that... don't cry over him now. He's just a wimp, okay?"

"Why is it me?" you asked her, voice brittle, still shaking with tears. "I t-tried everything! Being the supportive girlfriend..."

"If he can't appreciate what you did, then the problem lies with him," your friend stated, traces of irritation brewing in her resolute gaze. And as she firmly grasped your wrist, her next words resonated. "Not you."

. . .

"Do you really have to break her heart like that?" Yuji fidgeted with his hoodie, staring at his best friend with a blend of confusion and sympathy.

Megumi sighed, finally ruffling his hair into a mess, as if expressing his own state of mind. “This is for the best.”

Yuji’s eyebrows visibly creased. “How is this ‘for the best’? She’s miserable, and you…” he assessed him, scanning him from head to toe, “it doesn’t seem you’re faring any better too.”

“The longer she is with me, the unhappier she will be.” Megumi glanced at the bathroom’s direction. “She can deserve better.”

He was always too quiet, too boring, not able to match your energy too. He couldn’t fault you for expecting more, whereas he was just not exactly built for your expectations.

Megumi really thought he wanted it to end. At one point, it even felt like a chore, but…

How strange. Why did it feel like something was clawing at his chest?

Time heals. Megumi knew that by theory, but he really did see it firsthand when he saw you all giggling and happy again three weeks after he initiated the breakup.

With Hakari.

“Yo, what are you glaring at?” Panda asked, but Megumi didn’t pay him any mind.

An upperclassman, Hakari Kinji, was naturally cool and talented. He was laid back, knew how to have fun—all in all, a total opposite of Fushiguro Megumi altogether.

Three weeks. It’s only been three weeks since then.

“Megumi?”

Wait… Aren’t three weeks too fast to get over your ex?

“Megumi!”

“Huh?” he turned to the sentient panda with a jerk. “Oh, what is it?”

He looked at him with a concerned gaze. "Why do you look so scary? It's almost as if you're about to punch someone..."

But who was he to argue? He had no right to be upset now.

"Is it Kinji?" Panda gasped, finally putting two and two together when he followed his line of sight. "Oh Megumi... but you—"

"Just shut up, please," he blurted then, a hint of annoyance in his tone. With that, Panda didn't pursue it further, leaving him with his thoughts.

From where he was at the field, he could clearly see your radiant smile for Hakari. It was clear that the two of you shared a degree of friendship, but Megumi never knew that you two were that close.

...huh?

Why did the sight irritate him so suddenly? Why did his chest twinge again?

What a fool. You're the one driving her away, you idiot.

Suddenly these memories popped up one by one—

Of you suddenly hugging him from behind in an attempt to surprise him.

How he pressed his lips on the crown of your head when you fall asleep on his shoulder.

How you would give him that dopey smile when he pulled you close.

But on harder days after missions gone wrong, he’d ignore you altogether— the slight disappointment in your smile then. How your expression fell when he told you to go. How you slumped and looked back in hopes of him changing his mind.

“Haaaah.” Megumi turned away, unwilling to keep watching you any longer. Why? Why hadn’t it occurred to him before now?

Why did he long for you now? Why not before, when you were still his?

They were right. It seems people tend to desire what isn't meant for them.

What could have been more painfully awkward than being sent into a mission with your ex-boyfriend?

You would kill Gojo for this. Or at least give him the lowest possible score in his teaching evaluation for the year. How could he? Your breakup was an infamous public spectacle, so this setup was undoubtedly intentional!

You were losing your head over this, and yet your ex-boyfriend...

"Keep your guard up," Megumi reminded curtly, in a warning tone. He looked as vigilant and straight as always, as if he wasn't even bothered.

You threw him a dirty look, offended. "You don't have to tell me twice."

This just cranked up the discomfort to an excruciating level. The mix of unresolved tension and memories—okay, you might be an emo, but how were you supposed to be cool with all of these hanging in the air?

Your site of exorcism was an abandoned warehouse, and the cursed spirit in question was supposed to be a grade 3. You two were grade 2 sorcerers now, so you were a perfect fit to exorcise it. But there was indeed this unease in the air that you couldn't put your finger to.

"Isn't it awfully too quiet?" you unwittingly muttered, staring at the darkness of the wall. You couldn't feel any cursed energy belonging to any possible malevolent entity, and that was what unsettled you the most.

Megumi frowned at your line of sight. "It is. Stay close."

You blinked at what he said, and before you knew it, the familiar scent of him being near to you made your entire body burst with this equally familiar warmth. When you looked up to him, seeing the solid sharpness in that dark eyes of his and his jaw set, dead butterflies in your chest rose back to life again, against your heartbreak and better judgement.

Stay close, he said... So he is worried...

And in an attempt to hide how flustered you were, you looked down.

You walked a few good steps, when suddenly he asked, "So, are you with Hakari-senpai now?"

"Huh?" You spun around, your expression a mix of surprise and confusion.

"You two seem close."

Seem close? Seem close... wait, so Megumi had noticed...?

Suddenly, you felt incited and it made you angry. "That's none of your business," your voice carried a sharp edge, hissing. And you knew you were being a bit mean by adding, "You broke up with me, so why do you even care?"

In that moment, Megumi could've sworn his chest throbbed. Your cutting tone pierced directly into his heart, lodging itself there.

You had all rights to be annoyed, and he knew that. Why did that question even slip out of him?

"Nah, nevermind," he mumbled in response, looking away.

Awkwardness lingered afterwards. You hated this, but no, you weren't above being petty. He had broken your heart and it still stung even now. If your intentionally biting words did to him even a fraction of what he made you feel, then you would find a small sense of satisfaction in it.

But you weren't able to ponder about your mess of feelings further when Megumi abruptly yanked your arm, his voice soaking with urgency, "It's here!"

Sure enough, the grotesque cursed spirit with the shape of a giant bee broke through the walls with a bang. The two of you immediately readied your fighting stance. Megumi was ready with his divine dogs, while you with your cursed weapon.

For a while, you engaged the cursed spirit with all you had. You were trying to focus on the enemy, but you couldn't help but notice the way Megumi always looked at you every few seconds, checking for any signs of injury or harm.

Frankly speaking, he trusted your strength and knew that you were a capable sorcerer. You had been paired in a mission before and he knew both your potential and shortcomings. It was just there was something about this place that had his senses on high alert.

And his fears were proven true when you yelped and were flung onto the grimy floor. "Y/N!"

"I'm fine!" you shouted in a rush, scrambling to your feet. However, as you spun towards him, your scream tore through the hall as you caught sight of the bee lurking behind him. "Megumi!"

He got distracted. The bee quickly latched onto him and almost stung him, until he wrestled it off and summoned Nue and exorcised it.

You went to his side that instant. "Are you okay?!"

"I am." But then he winced and almost fell on his knees if you didn't have a secure grip on him. He savored your touch and breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that now you two were safe.

"Megumi! Oh god!" Panic surged through you as you pulled him close. His side was bleeding, and you widened your eyes at the sight.

"I'm okay, I promise," he rasped, looking you in the eyes. "What abo—"

Then you saw it, the flicker from deep from that corner of platform, and suddenly, you grasped the source of the unease that had been lingering within you all this time. It wasn't the bee Megumi had just exorcised—

At that moment, there was no room for thought, one thing was certain: you didn't want him to get hurt more.

He didn't manage to finish his sentence when suddenly you pushed him away with so much force he never thought you had. Everything crashed so suddenly, he didn't have the time to brace himself or grab you with him, as another cursed bee appeared out of nowhere and—

Reality flashed before his eyes as he stared at you in sheer horror. At how the cursed spirit tore your body, sinking its hollow stinger in you.

You didn't really know what happened next. Everything was muffled—the frantic movements around you turned into a blur, along with Megumi's yells. Otherworldly pain coursed through your entire being and your ears rang, then everything in your line of sight became distorted and faded, along with your consciousness. Next and the last thing you knew was Megumi's battered face, a final imprint before you succumbed to the void.

Megumi had exorcised the remaining cursed spirit and staggered to his feet—falling a few times, but he made his way towards you through gritted teeth. You are hurt. He forced himself to get to you and pull you into his arms.

And suddenly, suddenly, nothing mattered anymore as overwhelming terror consumed him upon seeing you. Blood streamed from your abdomen so much that it made a continuous pool.

"You stupid—!" He choked out, voice hitching. You were no longer conscious and it devastated him even more. "Hey, hey? Wake up—hells—"

You, who did everything you could to save your relationship. You, who cried tears for him when he blatantly broke your heart. And you, who put himself first—and now facing the consequences.

It crashed upon him in that very second, the clarity. What was he thinking back then? He still loves you.

"If you die on me, I won't forgive you."

Megumi scooped you in his arms, pressing you close to his chest, the blood seeping from his wound be damned as he looked at your serene face. His heart shattered in the worst way possible and he almost wheezed at the sticky sensation of your blood—and how lifeless you felt in his grasp—but he willed it away.

"Don't," his broken rasp echoed the walls as he took each step to get both of you out of this hellhole. He winced and hissed at his own injury, chewing his lip in frustration, at how helpless he was.

"Don't leave me."

It was like a distant, hazy memory.

Was it a memory though? No. It seemed far too real for that.

The throbbing headache pounding through your skull and shivers that wracked your body pulled you back to reality. There was a heavy pressure on your abdomen and any movement sent sharp pain shooting through you.

You gradually opened your eyes, squinting against the brightness. You were in a hospital gown, an IV was injected on your arm, and the sterile scent made your stomach twist, as nausea creeping through your guts. Your vision was still blurry as you tried to look around to find someone who waited for you. As you slowly turned your head to the side, you saw him, sitting in the chair right next your bed.

Megumi was sleeping in such uncomfortable position, his head resting on the edge of your bed. He appeared peaceful, almost childlike, devoid of his usual stoic demeanor.

Your heartstrings were tugged at this rare sight. He also sustained injuries and yet... he was waiting for you to wake up, here.

Your chest swelled with warmth, which was quickly followed by a sting of heartbreak. Still, you two broke up...

You jolted, and the inadvertent movement sent a wave of pain that seemed to paralyze your nerves, causing you to whimper. The noise woke Megumi from his slumber, as he shot his eyes open in alarm, catching your hand in his.

"Hey... Are you okay?" Megumi worriedly looked down at you with a visible frown, and the grimace of pain on your face, accompanied by trembling lips, was enough of an answer. He hastily scrambled out in slight panic, "I'll get Ieiri-san."

When Shoko came and got you the painkillers, your pain receded somewhat. Through it all, Megumi stood there, casting concerned glances in your way.

"Bedrest for the week," Shoko stated firmly, assessing your wound with a no-nonsense expression. "Your injury isn't minor—it's serious enough that you're strongly advised against excessive movement."

You could only nod in response. Megumi bowed. "Thank you, Ieiri-san." Once the doctor departed, silence settled over the room once more.

“Why did you do that?” he quietly asked then, referring to what you did for him. And when you turned to him, you saw it clearly.

He looked pale, and there was this haunted look in his eyes. It broke your heart a little.

"You were hurt." Your voice came out dry, and you realized firsthand just how parched you were. Seeing Megumi looking down never quite sat right with you. He was meant to be an unwavering presence, someone strong enough to sway your convictions.

However, a pang struck when he countered with stern eyes, "You didn't have to do that."

...he was right. You didn't have to. What he didn't know was that you were still holding on these stupid feelings, which drove you to shield him. It made you ponder: if your roles were reversed, would he not step in to protect you at all?

"Why are you here?" You weren't sure if the bitterness in your tone was evident, but you continued anyway. "You don't have to be here either."

"Don't have to?" His gaze bore disbelief, as if not believing your words. "I'm—"

"If it's because I saved you, Megumi—"

“Do not even think, even for a moment, that I won’t be concerned over you.” His voice, deep and hoarse, struck you to the core, silencing your words. “Never. I always, always want you to be safe.”

Your mind became a blank slate. Suddenly, all that mattered was his voice.

"Don't you realize how terrifying it was? Seeing you like that?" Megumi spat, his green eyes shining with intensity, teeth gritted and fists clenched. "How could you even think that I wouldn't be here—" his breath hitched, and then his lips trembled slightly, "—for you?"

You blinked quickly, a feeling stirred within you—stemming from that cursed, fragile heart of yours to be exact, evident from the rapid thumping in your chest.

You dumbly uttered, "But we are—"

"Oh, Goddamnit." Megumi cursed, and honestly you were taken aback. It wasn't really in him to swear, so this really bugged him. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, and despite the situation, your heart skipped a beat at the sight. Even a mess in a hospital gown, your ex-boyfriend was still undeniably attractive.

He stared at you squarely in the eye, unflinching, steadfast and true, the very image of Fushiguro Megumi you admired from afar and fell in love with in the first place half a year ago. "You don't have to... say anything, if you don't want to. Right now... just hear me out."

And the things he said next... all of them, you could say, caught you entirely off guard.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not trying hard enough, and—damn it, for making you sad. I never, ever wanted to see you that upset."

Megumi drew in a sharp breath, averting his gaze. "And for days, I've wondered if you and Hakari-senpai are now a thing... and you know what? I hate it so much. I know I have no grounds to feel this way, after what I did, but..."

And like a train wreck, his final words hit you hard. Tears welled up in your eyes in immediate response.

“I'm a loser, and a coward too, maybe,” he shrugged, a tinge of self-deprecation in his tone. “And I suck at telling people my feelings, but I love you. I still do.”

A sob slipped out of your throat and you hastily pulled the blanket over your face, much to his surprise. He thought he had worsened things, with the way you were turning away from him.

But then, from beneath the blanket, in a croaky voice, you proclaimed, "Fushiguro Megumi, you're a complete and utter idiot."

And Megumi didn't know that he had been holding back his breath as he chuckled heartily, relieved that you would still take his ass back after this prolonged mess. He knew he still had a lot to make up for and was determined to show it through his actions.

"Maybe I am, yeah."

"That's possibly the longest shit you have ever spouted in one breath."

"Yeah..."

But he got his chance back, and he knew that you would be alright. Both of you are.

On one sunny day...

"Hey, are you alone?"

Megumi glanced up from his phone, only to be met with a random girl standing in front of him, batting her eyelashes with an ambiguous intent. He blinked at her curiously.

"No. Can I help you?"

The girl twirled her hair suggestively. "Ah, you see... I see you all in your lonesome and I think you're quite cute—"

The hell? Megumi frowned, and he was really about to give this bimbo a piece of his mind when—

Oh, oh. Forget that. Megumi's attention snapped to you on the opposite side of the crossroad. All pretty and dolled up with that crop tee and miniskirt he once mentioned would look great on you by a slip of tongue—that accidental comment earned him your teasing quips for weeks already.

"Sorry, I'm here for my girlfriend. Bye."

Abruptly dismissing the girl, he didn't catch how comically offended she was for being turned down in a span of 20 seconds. He took big strides towards you, as you crossed the street, and you immediately beamed when you caught the sight of his face.

"Megumi!"

Ah, this is going to be a good day, he thought. As he gazed at your pretty face, and caught your hand in his, clasping it tightly, reveling in your scent and the warmth of your presence beside him—

He was content, and once again it dawned on him, that he likes you so, so damn much.

"Let's get started on our date, shall we?"

[luvsupa]

a/n two posts in one day… ruh roh… (I miss gojo </3)

ex!satoru who doesn’t really understand the concept of being an ex. he just thinks you want a break from him. but permanently separated? hell no, he could never understand that.

“‘toru… things aren’t gonna work out between us,” you begin as he sits in front of you at your dinner table in your shared apartment. he looks at you with no emotion, as if you didn’t just end things. “we’re growing in separate ways, and i feel i would only—satoru.”

you could scream at him—he’s not paying attention, scrolling on his phone instead. he shows you the order he placed for dinner, coming in twenty minutes. of course, he bought your favorite.

“satoru, can you please be serious for one minute?” you huff, clearly annoyed that he’s not listening while he’s purchasing things he knows will make you swoon.

“i am serious,” he says, placing his phone down to observe your breathtaking features.

“you weren’t even listening,” you say, crossing your arms as you slouch in the seat.

“baby, of course i’m listening—you’re crazy if you think i’m leaving you,” he coos condescendingly, and you roll your eyes.

ex!satoru who, in fact, respected your decision and gave you your personal space, not exactly broken up in his eyes, just a temporary break.

ex!satoru who stays over at suguru’s place for a few months, whining every day and night about how he missed being in your arms.

“i miss her,” gojo says as he pets geto’s cat, miyu, while geto himself groans as he cleans his apartment.

“can you at least help out and stop whining like a bitch,” geto says, adjusting the pillows neatly on his couch. this only causes gojo to frown and embrace miyu in a tight hug, nuzzling his face in her soft fur as she tries to get away from his grasp.

“and let go of miyu, she doesn’t want you holding her.”

ex!satoru who continues to send you money, always sending you hundreds and hundreds of dollars for food, shopping, and especially paying for your necessities. he doesn’t care that you work for yourself—you’re still his baby, and he loves spoiling you. his money is your money.

unknown number sent $500! —go get some food, baby~ ♡

unknown number sent $600! —please unblock me on insta

unknown number sent $300! —i love u, mama

ex!satoru who chokes on his breakfast when shoko says you’re going on a date. gojo, never in his life, was speechless, and that really creeped out shoko and geto.

“satoru… are you good?” geto asks concernedly—even miyu jumps on gojo’s lap, sensing a difference in his character.

“yeah, i’m good…” he says calmly, placing down his utensils to pet miyu’s soft fur.

ex!satoru who does a little investigating of who this mysterious man is, finding his identity within ten minutes. he scoffs when he finds his social media—he’s nowhere near as handsome as he is. what do you see in him?

ex!satoru who sits comfortably in the luxurious restaurant where you and the mysterious man planned to go. little did you know, gojo texted the man, telling him that you’re married.

“aiko?” gojo hears a soft voice call as he turns to look at you. your eyes widen when you see gojo. this has to be some kind of joke—he is fucking crazy. you turn around, going back to the entrance, but gojo grabs your wrist.

“no, no, no, baby, please let me talk,” he pleads, and you fold from the way he calls you baby. oh, how you loved and missed the way he called you baby and claimed you as his own.

he guides you to the chair in front of him as he holds your hand, your pretty acrylics grazing his hands. he loved the way you looked well put together, his baby doll.

“my love, i promise to leave you,” he says, rubbing small circles on your hand. your heart pangs at his confession. “i just want to know how you’re doing.”

“i-i miss you so much,” you say. gojo feels like he’s hallucinating at what you just said. “shoko told me you were having a date today, and i felt so jealous—” you stammer, and gojo blinks multiple times, stunned at what you’re saying.

“this guy aiko asked me on a date, and i wanted to make you jealous,” you continue, frowning at being confused with your emotions. but gojo, on the other hand, is putting two and two together.

“give me your phone,” he sternly says. you stare at him in confusion, but you oblige, taking out your phone from your purse and handing it to him. gojo smiles as your lockscreen is still a baby photo of him. he unlocks your phone—the password still the same, his birthday.

“i was meaning to change the lockscreen,” you quickly state, not trying to look like a weirdo in front of him.

gojo goes into your contacts and clicks aiko’s contact information, calling the number. multiple rings go by, and the man on the other line picks up.

“hello—”

“shoko, i know this is you.”

you look at him and your phone in horror. shoko set you guys up by making a fake number to make you go on a date with ‘aiko’ but really you’d be with gojo.

“ahh, did my plan work? both of you kept whining about each other—it was infuriating. i had to do something,” she says on the other line, gojo clearly hearing geto’s giggles in the background.

“don’t ever do this again,” gojo says as he hangs up the phone. the two of you burst out in laughter, but for you, it’s more embarrassing that you were flirting with shoko through texts!

fiancé!satoru who proposed to you a few weeks later, he’s beyond happy to be in the arms of his baby again <3

[navybrat817]

For your consideration:

Imagine Bucky, the strong and dangerous and stern super soldier that by all accounts is terrifying as an opponent, being unable to stop himself from coming in his pants because of you. Maybe you don't even have to touch him; he gets so lost in the taste of you that he has to start grinding against the mattress, and accidentally comes when you do.

I've had this image in my head for days and had to share it somewhere, sorry 🫠

Nonnie, I love this so much. 🫠

Feral

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky gets a little feral now and then.

Word Count: Over 1.2k

Warnings: Oral sex (f. receiving), implied sex, possessive behavior, slight feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Hope you lovelies enjoy. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky gets in a feral mood every now and then. He may let you know with a text that simply says, “Be ready.” and other days he won't give you a warning at all. By the time you hear his deep growl or see his pupils so blown that the blue irises nearly disappear you know you aren't leaving the bed for the next day. Or two.

Today you don't even hear him coming.

You’re in the middle of a shower when he suddenly shoves the curtain aside, and you’re lucky you don't have a heart attack or slip and fall. A shriek still leaves your mouth when you lock eyes with the ex-assassin and you see the blown pupils, and you're about to have a heart attack for a completely different reason. You hope your schedule is clear because you know he’s going to thoroughly ruin you and you’d rather not try to pull yourself back together for a while.

“Bed. Now.” His growl should make you move, but you’re still under the water and trapped by his massive body.

You don't move around him fast enough and he doesn't care that his clothes get wet when he grabs you and throws you over his shoulder. All he cares about is making you wet. At least he has the good sense to shut the water off before carrying you away. He’s thoughtful like that.

He drops you unceremoniously on the bed, the comforter now soaked as well thanks to your dripping wet body. Removing his shirt and tossing it aside, you get a moment to take in the view of Bucky Barnes looking at you like a man starved. He’s a beautiful canvas of muscles and scars, yet he looks at you like you're a real work of art. You wordlessly spread your legs and invite him to feast on what belongs to him. It would've been rude to keep him from his meal and you weren't cruel.

Not to mention no past lover can ever live up to how Bucky Barnes eats pussy.

He drops to his knees and pushes your legs open more, licking his lips as gazes at your twitching hole on display. He brushes some of the hair from his face to get a better look, and it only makes him look more wild. Untamed. It doesn't take much for him to arouse you, but the way he growls at the sight of you has you feeling like a goddess. You’re on your back, but he’s on his knees ready to worship and you’ll gladly accept his offerings. However he chooses to give them to you.

“I know you’re starving, Bucky. So eat,” you finally tell him, wanting him to have his fill. Whatever puts him in this mood, you’ll go along for the ride.

But before he dips down to feast, he moves up your body like a sleek cat and fastens his mouth to yours. He won't take from you without at least one kiss. You moan low as you kiss him back and feel him grind against you. It surprises you that he still has his pants on, but he’s getting rid of them soon enough.

You can't help but touch one of the scars near his shoulder, making him gasp into your mouth. He’s so strong. So powerful. Life dragged him through hell and he didn't escape unscathed, but he survived.

“Mine,” he murmurs so softly you almost miss it as he kisses down your body. Every kiss is a reminder of who you belong to. You’ll always be his.

“Yours,” you gasp when his nose nudges your clit and he inhales deeply. You remember when the smell of your arousal used to embarrass you, and now you wonder why it ever bothered you since he loves it so much. His metal fingers part your folds and he drags his tongue along your slit with a hum, lapping up your wetness. “Fuck…” you whimper, bringing a hand up to play with your breast.

“Not yet,” he growls, pushing his tongue deep inside.

Your free hand flies to his head and you choke on a moan as you clench around him. If he was speaking more, he’d tell you how beautifully bittersweet you taste, how your pussy is made for him, how desperate you are for him to fuck you with his cock, how you're all he needs. A mix of praise, profanity, filth, and love. Hearing him growl and grunt as he feasts tells you more than enough.

“So good,” he grunts between licks, his flesh hand digging into your shaking thigh when he slips two metal fingers in. You recall gushing all over the metal the first time he made his arm vibrate. He likes having the scent of your arousal on the metal, almost as much as he likes having it on the fingers of his right hand.

You lift your head when you hear shuffling on the bed, your eyes wide when you see his hips rise and dip. You’re all too familiar with that motion. “Bucky… are you…”

“Pussy’s so fucking good. I can't… I can’t stop,” he groans, rolling his hips like he can't stop himself from humping the bed because of how good you taste. “‘m so fucking hard for you.”

Your man’s cock can be sensitive some days. Grinding against him can make him get off in his pants. You went down on him once and just the feeling of your breath against his shaft had him shooting off before you wrapped your mouth around him. And with his rebound rate, you never have to worry if he gets off before you because he’ll still take care of you.

“That’s so hot,” you admit, your mouth falling open when he moves his fingers and tongue in time with his hips. “It’s okay, big boy. Make a mess in your pants for me,” you beg, wanting him to get off to you.

His growl has a bit of a whine to it when he looks up at you, his lips and chin glistening. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you smile, your fingers carding through his hair again. You don't want him to feel embarrassed.

He looks relieved. “Then make a mess on my face first,” he demands, dipping his head back down and making quick work of building your orgasm back up.

Pulling your hips down to meet his mouth, it isn't long before your orgasm tears through you. Your head nearly falls back as the tidal waves crash over you, but you keep it elevated enough to catch the stutter in his hips and the telltale husky moan against your sensitive hole. It almost triggers another orgasm watching him rut before he slumps against the bed like you.

Your head spins. Your heart pounds. And you smile. Bucky Barnes just came in his pants because you came. Yeah, you feel like a goddess and then some.

“You came in your pants for me,” you breathe. “That’s love.”

Your smile only widens when he pulls his mouth and fingers away to unbuckle his pants, your walls clenching when takes himself out. He’s large and thick as he strokes himself, and you can also see a bit of the evidence of him finishing in his pants. It gets you hot all over again, and now you need to make a mess around his cock while he finishes inside you. It’ll satisfy you both.

“Yeah, that is love,” he groans, brushing his thumb over the weeping tip. He still has a bit of the feral look in his eyes. “Now I need to fuck you with my cock at least twice before I eat again.”

Yeah, you’re in for a long and fun weekend.

I need him, okay? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi