#but it's never half as precise or half as quick as these small things are

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XLII. “2am”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce struggles to contain himself after your impromptu meeting.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, arguing/belittling

words: 5k

a/n: i love them together so much AHHH even when they’re being them…

You’d found an old deli, Mallozzi’s, on the east side of the Tricorner bridge. The word sever echoed between your eardrums like a march; it was why you hadn’t called Bruce for backup, even though you were headed to Crown Point past sundown. 

Even the taxis were superstitious; Uber and Lyft hadn’t let you hitch a ride here at this hour, and the taxi driver who did made sure to drop you off on the closest main street—a quarter mile walk to your destination. You’d charged your taser this time, and set your phone to send all emergency contacts your precise location with only two clicks. You’d worn all black to try and blend into the shadows, going so far as to don black eyeshadow, lipstick, and a thick beanie beneath a baggy hoodie. A small insignia of GU was embroidered into the breast, the only thing you’d had the money to buy at orientation two years ago. 

The hustle and bustle was overwhelming downtown, but the lack of it here was eerie. Every splash of your foot in a puddle was loud enough to startle. Fall’s chill crept in with every passing day, a reminder that you’d helped get people off these streets. It helped steel your nerves. If they had endured frigid winters and the constant threat of violence, you could handle one meetup. Especially with Batman on speed dial. 

You winced. Severing.

The afternoon floated around your thoughts as you made your way through the damp streets, interpolated with particularly destroyed buildings that made you run away with stories of how heinous the flood had been. Wiped out this entire neighborhood. Some of it looked flattened. You stepped around a massive hole in the concrete; it started in the middle of the street, its arms reaching the sidewalk on either side. Maybe a pipe had burst in the flooding. Had they truly not had the budget to fix this place up? Never before had you seen such blatant classism; one of the poorest neighborhoods blown to shreds, untouched two full years later. People here didn’t give a single shit.

It had been too easy to convince yourself to come here—the situation at Arkham had perked your ears to something awry, and the timing of this was too convenient. You’d tried responding with some questions: what is this concerning, is this to the right person? but it hadn’t gone through. Whoever wanted to meet didn’t want to risk it being traced. Which only made you curious. You also wanted to challenge the idea that this was the most dangerous area of Gotham; you couldn’t trust a damn thing this city said when they made their priorities so transparent.

Taking this anonymous meeting was also a welcome distraction from having to deliberate on Dr. Crane’s orders, which distracted you from wondering what you’d do when you got home, which distracted you from your mom, which distracted you from staring into the abyss of likely having to start your life from scratch in a small town with no friends nearby, only potholed roads and weathered church buildings to talk to. And Walter.

Which distracted you from another glaring situation: whatever the hell had happened in his shower the night before, and the potential depth of that yearning. Your mind lingered there, haunting you. Taunting you. Last night had made everything real. Clicked so much into place. Why you kept coming back, why you felt so frustratingly drawn to him. Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne… 

Right. Severing.

Mallozzi’s looked like it might have been a great shop in its heyday; now, the shingles were half gone, windows busted, every corner encrusted with mold. Mildew and sawdust singed your nostrils as you entered, the glass door barely opening wide enough for you to squeeze through. A quick sweep of the room revealed you were alone. Stepping over broken glass and copious amounts of rat poop, you managed to find a single stool that hadn’t been ripped to shreds and situated there. Your heart hurt looking around, reminding you of how it felt watching mom and pop shops close up in rural Washington. The countertops had what appeared to be hand-sculpted designs on each square, color-coordinated with the faded faux awning above the destroyed registers. 

Two minutes, then five. The more time passed, the greater your inkling that following this had been a mistake. Would it have been so bad to ask Bruce to cover for you? Climb on a roof somewhere and keep lookout, just in case?

A hinge creaked ten past two. A hooded figure had wedged the door wider than you’d managed, and you thumbed your taser in your left hand. They had both hands tucked into their pockets, head down, and it was impossible to tell if they were a danger yet. Impossible to tell if this was even who you were meant to meet with. They’d given no descriptors, no street name. You opened your mouth, but they spoke first. Stating your first and last name like a bored secretary, with the voice of someone in their late twenties, maybe thirties. You nodded, apprehensive. “That’s me.”

They pulled up a stool you’d avoided, too encrusted in dirt that looked very much like poop, but the stranger dusted it off with the back of their hand and sat. Their hood was cinched tight. You could make out tanned skin in the light from the smoggy moon that danced off the puddles, but that was it. 

“You need to leave Gotham.” It wasn’t said like a threat, but it registered like one. You almost heard it in Bruce’s voice, and for a millisecond you considered if he’d set this up. Sent someone to unsettle you, convince you to leave. Maybe he’d figured you’d be more eager to listen to a stranger than the billionaire vigilante who definitely didn’t have ulterior motives for getting you out of his hair. 

“Why?” Wanting them to think you weren’t easily intimidated, you kept measured. Bruce may have been able to x-ray vision through your chest to see your pounding heart, but…

“If you don’t leave now, you’ll get yourself killed.” A shrill noise of air pulling into cold lungs, a small puff of air exploding between you. “Housing people in Point put a target on your back.” Another breath, increasingly shallow. Like being in here was a trigger. 

“Associating with Bruce Wayne was enough to save you for now, but do not count on it. If you can even trust him.”

As great your desire to follow the Bruce of it all, you narrowed your focus. Claiming to foresee your imminent death was quite the opener. “How do you know I’m a target?”

The stranger shuffled in their seat, teeth beginning to chatter. “Everyone who tries to clean up the city is. Especially young women.” 

“W—”

Their voice was firmer, stronger now. “Listen to me. Crawling around Arkham, City Hall, Bruce Wayne, Oz Cobb. You take one wrong step and you’re cooked.” You noted a subtle gleam in their eyes as they lingered on your sweatshirt.

“Why would they care about hurting me?”

“You’re sticking your nose in their shit.” Their voice was caustic now, frustrated that you weren’t rolling over and following orders. “Look what happened to the mayor. The task force she set up discovered the DA was funneling money to Arkham, yet the facilities remained unchanged. Next thing you know.” The stranger took their hands out of their pockets and slapped them against their thighs. “They all end up there.”

“What do you mean ‘they all’?”

“That’s precisely what’ll get you killed. Stop asking questions.”

Your voice rose without conscious awareness. “If something like this is going on in the city,”

“It is, and you aren’t able to stop it.” The stranger stood up to leave, and you mirrored them. 

“I could use my connections at G—”

“You don’t think we’ve tried that?” They whipped their head around so fast they gripped the crumbling countertop for balance. “You see any other young buck journalists out here? You stick your nose in shit, you’re gonna get shit. I left after my apartment got hit. Never looked back.”

“You were a journalist here in Gotham?” No wonder they’re giving me a warning. 

“And now I hide in bushes all day so they don’t remember I’m alive.”

You knew it was pushing it, but adrenaline was coursing through your veins. “Who is ‘they’?”

“Bye.”

“So other journalists have been killed here?”

“I might be the only one who hasn’t.”

Dr. Vry probably wanted to know about something like this; something to help protect the journalism students, maybe some leads into who had gone missing and when. She seemed so desperate for people to join the program, and this could explain the low numbers for the major. Their refrain echoed: ‘you don’t think we’ve tried that?’ “Why hasn’t this been picked up?”

“It’s Gotham. People die here.” They said it like a recycled political headline. “Especially if they’re tuities.” They gestured to your sweatshirt and the taser in your hand, clues you were only here for the scholarship. “Go back to wherever the hell you came from. And hope that’s far enough.”

“This is why you didn’t want me to bring anyone.”

“If you speak of this, I’m fucking dead. We both are, so I guess that’s some good stakes.” The stranger was halfway to the exit, your thoughts swimming.

You grasped for any drop you could squeeze out of them, certain you’d never cross paths again. “Do you know the names of the other journalists?”

“No.”

They couldn’t leave you with nothing. Make vague, disparaging comments about leaving, then drop you into the pit. Your frustration bled out. “Sounds like you do, but you don’t want to tell me.” 

They turned around, slowly this time. “Yeah.” Their chuckle was dry and humorless. “You’re as good as dead.” You swallowed hard, and they heaved a hissing sigh. “I know you think you’re doing good, but you are nothing but a pebble at the bottom of that goddamn river.” 

Your heart sank.

“You want to do something good? Stay alive, and go make the world a better place somewhere else. They’ll knock you out like a straw house.” The stranger turned around, yanked the doorhandle, and slipped into the night.

You didn’t stay long. The wind cut through your hoodie, and it was a brutal endeavor being alone in such an environment after what you’d just heard. Thankfully you’d written the number of the taxi service who’d driven you, but they wouldn’t answer. After enough phone calls, perusing Scypher to see if tragedy had stricken the city, you decided you’d have to walk until an Uber could meet you on a main street. On this side of town that would take a half hour, minimum. 

You slunk through the alleyways with dim lighting, avoiding ones as dark as the pits of hell. Something about them felt familiar; if they’d been part of the group offered housing, why hadn’t they taken it? Were they completely alone, unable to live with someone under a different name? If their life now was relegated to hiding in shrubs, they probably wouldn’t mind hiding in a warm apartment. Funneling money to Arkham? Lashing out at journalists for looking into it? City Hall, Bruce Wayne, Oz Cobb? Who the hell is Oz Cobb?

A noise down the alleyway scared you into turning around. A few streets over you saw a flickering streetlight, and set off toward it. You struggled to keep your thoughts clear, the decision of whether or not to leave Gotham sitting like a rock. Was it futile to chase this? Had they tried talking to Dr. Vry? Now the president of GU, she had more sway. Who else was locked up in Arkham? Bella Reál had been scrambling to get out. No one cared. The abruptness of Dr. Crane’s covering of the window, his thinly-veiled threats. Severing. 

At his next prescription pickup. A week and a half away. Maybe you could poke around for a week, and if you didn’t find anything you would leave. Maybe you’d still leave, and send any tips over to Bruce for Batman to work through. Point him in some direction, a parting gift, a lead he didn’t have to work himself to the bone to find. Something to make his life a little bit easier.

But what if they did kill you? Would they leave you alone after leaving the city, thinking you were no longer a threat? Would that open things up, now farther away from Bruce Wayne’s reach? Was that article the only reason you were alive right now? Would they hit you after the hype died down? Once you began to fret over if they’d tapped your internet service, you reminded yourself you were wandering alone around dark, ghoulish streets in Gotham City. This wasn’t the place to mull anything over. 

Chasing the streetlights left you unsure of where led to a main road. All the brick looked the same, the monotonous crumby concrete under your feet giving no sense of direction. Intermittent shouts and clanging metal frightened you more than it should have. You were weak. Too soft. Used to leaving cars unlocked on the road for a quick trip. Never carrying a bike lock. Finding yourself in a city where any publicly parked car would be smashed by morning. 

Severing. Your thumb hovered over Bruce’s contact, and your stomach somersaulted. Creeping butterflies, heat rising to your cheeks. For a second the air didn’t hurt your lungs and the darkness wasn’t scary. Childlike crush. Somehow bright and innocent despite the tangle of lies it was covered in. 

You put your phone to your ear. You knew better than to keep wandering; at least no one had seen you yet, noticed you as a target. Mar and Rai didn’t have cars; he was your only ticket out.

“Hey. Everything alright?” He didn’t open by saying your name—like he’d come to expect talking to you. Too enamored by the sound of his voice, the words didn’t fall out of you. Only a few hours apart felt too long. How the hell were you going to leave next week?

He said your name now, a worried edge to his voice. “You okay?”

“Are you busy?”

He paused.

What did you mean by that? He leaned back in the seat of the Batmobile, deliberating. The armor of his suit crunched against it, a noise he was so used to it didn’t register. Half past two in the morning. You didn’t sound distressed. Maybe you’d had a nightmare? Calmed yourself down a bit before calling? 

“What do you need?” He bit back a million questions when you asked for a ride out of Crown Point. He’d wanted you to stay on the line, but you assured him of your safety, though he wasn’t at all convinced. His phone pinged with your location share, and he rushed like every word of yours had been spoken in code. 

He found you at the end of a dark alleyway, one that barely fit the Batmobile with enough space to open the passenger door. It crunched open, not used to being utilized, and you thunked into the seat. He scanned you for injury as you buckled in—nothing. Now persuaded of your safety, chills peppered his skin remembering how you’d caressed him the last time you were in here.

The cabin glowed with a pink and purple haze when you entered. Felt his shoulder pads dig in. The restriction of the belt and his taut leather gloves. The sound of the world shutting off around him. Alongside this crush (he withheld a visible cringe), worry bloomed. He drove under a streetlight and noticed black makeup adorning your face. Black hoodie, black pants. You’d wanted to blend in. 

His hands tightened around the wheel, bracing himself for something terrible. Had you been threatened? Coerced into something? Fell into some shady deal? “What are you doing in Point this late?”

He felt your hesitation like a brick of cement. If you hadn’t been up to something, you would’ve shot back with a defense before he’d finished his sentence. Was this related to how you’d acted over lunch? Withdrawn, sullen? 

“Following a lead.” Out of the corner of his eye he watched your lips purse into a thin line. You had more to say. He didn’t like the feeling inching between you, widening the gap. 

If you wanted to tell him what lead, you would have. What was of greater concern was if you were safe. Though he didn’t think you’d be particularly honest. “At two in the morning?” That didn’t come out right. Neither had his tone; it was verging on scolding. He reigned it in when you turned to look out the window. “I need to know if you’re in danger.”

“Need to know.”

His eyes narrowed, your scoff hitting him like a punch. Where was this coming from? “I can help.” His patience was wearing thin as anxiety bit at him. 

“You are. By giving me a ride home.” You turned your head even further away. Your tone was clipped. He slowed to a stop, his intuition screaming at him. At least he hoped it was logic and sense, not some twisting of this newfound infatuation. 

You looked at him like you were ready to jump from the car, angry, when he faced you. Your shoulders slumped when he met your gaze. He wondered if you could sense how nervous he was. How worried he was. How gutting it was to feel like you weren’t being honest with him. 

“If you’re in any sort of danger, I want to know.” He swallowed, and you looked away. Again. Shit, you were, weren’t you? Why else would you be in this part of town right now? He moved closer, as if it would help you hear him. As if the only problem was you couldn’t make out his words. “Please.” 

“Stop.” You squeezed your eyes shut and wrung your hands in your lap. He thought his heart might give out. “It’s nothing.”

Your cuticles were shredded, your skin flushing light with the force of your grip. Did you want to speak, but felt like you couldn’t? “Did they say not to tell anyone?”

Your lashes fluttered. He leaned closer, wishing he could take off the cowl, but he hadn’t spent enough time in Point lately to know if any security cameras still recorded out here. Your face would be shrouded enough from the shadow he kept you in as he drove close to the alley walls. He softened his voice to make up for the harsh lines and bullet marks in his armor. He didn’t want to intimidate right now. “You can tell me anything. No matter what they told you.”

You were continuously looking back with rose colored glasses at the snarky, mean-spirited man he used to be. How roughly he used to handle you, like he didn’t care if you broke into a million pieces. Nice Bruce, kind Bruce, caring Bruce was impossible to dismiss. How little could you give him where he’d be satisfied? What would make the wheels of this car start turning? He looked stressed and frayed. You couldn’t put any more on him. “A journalism thing. One of the people I think we offered housing, just talked about it.” 

As usual, nothing slipped by him, undeterred by your contrived nonchalance. Why did you have to get in cahoots with the single most focused, discerning person in existence? “This was the only time you both had available?”

“They didn’t want to meet during the day.”

“Who were they?”

“They didn’t want to reveal their identity.”

His brow furrowed, voice raising a few decibels. “You didn’t know who they were before coming to Crown Point alone in the middle of the night?”

“This is starting to sound like a lecture.” Your taser fell from your side onto the ground, and he flexed his jaw. You tensed, bracing for an argument. “I came prepared, okay?”

His tone kept restrained. For now. “What if they’d had a gun? What if they’d brought others?”

“They didn’t.”

“What exactly did you talk about?” 

It was hard not to lie again. It was hard not to tell the truth. Hard being in the car with him. “It’s private.” 

“Are you meeting with them again?”

“No.”

“If you do something like this in the future, let me know beforehand.”

Won’t have to worry about that for very long. Little did Bruce know, you’d be out of his hair before the end of the month. Maybe he’d throw a party. Christen the halls of Wayne Tower with the aimless whimsy of the public getting a peek into his world. 

He bristled at your laugh. You weren’t taking this seriously, and it was imperative that you did. Painfully so. “Will you?”

“Please, I want to get home. I’m tired.”

Begrudgingly, with a plan to bring it up later, he released the brake and started downtown. You drove in silence through back alleys and the occasional tunnel until your guilt got too big. Watching his hands tighten and loosen around the wheel, his blinking speed up. He deserved something.

“Do you know anything about someone named Oz Cobb?”

The car slammed to a halt; the seatbelt clicked hard into place, shoving you back into the seat. “Is that who you met with?”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Is that who you met with?”

His tone scared you. Jagged and deep, like shards of glass. “Jesus fuck, no!” 

“How do you know him?” His eyes were cast in shadow, his face a blob of black leather. Gone was the tentative, concerned Bruce—maybe you liked when he handled you gently. The rosy glasses were falling off your face. Who the hell was Oz to have him act like this?

“I don’t.”

“Have you ever spoken with him outside of City Hall?”

City Hall? You never spoke to anyone there.

“Have you?”

Interrogative. No longer was this a conversation between allies. The car cramped under the weight of his gravelly tone, his armor coming off far more aggressive. You wouldn’t let him know that. “Just drive.”

“Absolutely not.” He wasn’t leaving until you understood. Your frustration was a small price to pay for making you understand that your life would be at risk, that Oz was dangerous, that keeping things like this from him was a death sentence. 

“So you’re stranding me here?”

He made his voice stronger, feeling it begin to shake. “Don’t ever go near him.”

You didn’t say anything.

“I said don’t ever go near him.” He felt nauseous. And faint. Intrusive images of you lying with a bullet through your skull made his vision go in and out. Made him nervous to look at you, though he still did.

“You don’t control me.”

“Promise me you’ll never go near him.” His pulse raced in his ears.

“I can do whatever the hell I want.” If he didn’t drop it this second… His tone was venomous when he next spoke. 

“He’ll kill you.”

You rolled your eyes wide enough for him to see. Now you could see him, his eyes flashing, then narrowing, his mouth tensing into a snarl. “A lot of things could.”

“Promise me.” 

Sounded like a threat. You looked around, pretending to be bored, your blood boiling over as you began to feel like a hostage.

He was on the brink of a panic attack. “Promise me, goddammit!”

You gasped out your response, shocked his voice had risen to such a yell. “Don’t talk to me like that, what the fuck?”

“You’re telling me to let you hold a loaded gun to your head and pull the trigger.”

“Take me home.”

“Tell me you’re not that stupid.”

“Fuck off.”

A wheeze squeezed from his constricted throat. Yeah, he was about to pass out. “If you don’t want me to track you,”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Are you planning to meet with him?”

You stared at your lap. You. Still. Weren’t. Listening. 

“Answer me.”

Your nose turned up at him. “Your intimidation is less effective when you know it’s just you under that fucking suit.”

“You need to know how serious this is.”

“Take. Me. Home.” The steadiness of your voice was fading as helplessness crept in. You turned to look out the window. 

You started hashing at your cuticles. His voice was softer, though marginally. “Look at me.”

“No.”

“You need to listen, please—”

“TAKE ME HOME.”

Bruce reached out to touch your elbow, but you yanked your arm away so fast your wrist slapped against the glass. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not accepting any apology until I’m back.” 

The silence breathed for a few seconds, interrupted eventually by the clicking of gears. After a few streets you recognized the turns, the knot in your stomach loosening. The whiplash of twenty-four hours ago put a lump in your throat. 

A few minutes later he pulled into the signature alleyway. You hustled to unbuckle, the sound of small clinking rattling your ears. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed he was shivering.

“I’m sorry, everything I say is coming out wrong,” his voice was weak and bruised. 

“You don’t own me.” You unclicked the buckle. 

“I know.” A humorless laugh fell from his lips, and you stiffened. He shook his head like he hadn’t meant for it to occur. “That’s the thing, I know I don’t. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

He took off his cowl, sighing as he held it in his lap. A football field of distance sat between you, and he felt it like a hot branding iron. “I’m sorry for not taking you home when you asked.”

Tears stung your eyes. “Don’t ever act like that again.”

Bruce’s face contorted with pain as he watched you bite your cheek and blink back tears. He nodded. “I’m sorry. You’re not stupid. I was way out of line.”

You resumed fiddling with your hands. A light patter of rain dusted the windshield and echoed off the metal roofing. You didn’t know what to say to him. Each time you thought you were past something, it circled back.

“I won’t track you. I already said I wouldn’t. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re fucking mean.” It blurted out of you with a pitiful sob, and you angrily wiped at the hot tears spilling down your cheeks. “I don’t even know who the fuck he is.”

It was agony knowing he’d made you cry. It bled into his inflection, this frail, bleeding desperation. “It won’t happen again. I was, I was scared, his pockets are in the courts, I can’t get him—”

“So you scared me?”

He froze. “I scared you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” You wiped your cheeks with your forearm and popped open the door. 

“It matters a lot.”

You didn’t leave, but you didn’t speak. The two and a half block walk was more intimidating than ever, exaggerating the empty staleness of sitting in his car. 

“He’s the one person in this city I can’t save you from.”

“You don’t need to save me.”

You got out, saying a curt goodnight, and walked south down the alley. Hopefully no one would harass you at this hour. Hopefully getting home so late would mean the hot water would be plentiful. Hopefully you had a snack in the freezer you could eat in the shower, while you sat on the floor and deliberated if your life was worth staying, or leaving. 

Crunches of gravel alerted you to Bruce’s presence. Mussed hair and splotchy black eye paint sweat in a fade halfway down his cheeks. He hadn’t put the cowl back on, his identity on full display for anyone with the thought to look behind them on the sidewalk of the main road. It shocked you out of your melancholy. “What are you doing?”

He looked… uncomfortable, but earnest. His jaw twitched on every syllable. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I mean it. I’m really sorry.” His eyes bored into you, then trailed to the small pools in your tear troughs. “I don’t want to make you feel like this.”

You tore your eyes away from his. You might’ve drowned otherwise. “I’ll see you at the meeting.”

When you got home you scrubbed your makeup off in the shower, buzzing from the constant state of whiplash Bruce kept you chained to. Reactive, and, belligerent, and, apologetic, and intense. He couldn’t fucking talk to you like that. Like you were a petulant child. He was the petulant one. He was so, fucking… aggravating!

He sat in the car for the next hour, unmoving. Half of him felt silly. Pushing off patrol over an argument. The other half was in excruciating pain. He didn’t give you enough credit for what you had endured, and what you had done. It wasn’t like you ran into Point shouting at the top of your lungs, pointing a spotlight at yourself with your full name and address on display. Wasn’t like you didn’t know Gotham was dangerous. Probably still had remnants of the bruise on your thigh. 

He cut the night short. He couldn’t concentrate with the thought of you miserable in your apartment. His head spun. Maybe he was going soft. Being self-indulgent and unreasonable. Cutting patrol short in a city of millions over one person? This was why he kept at a distance. Public service was supposed to be egalitarian; creating any sort of hierarchy was unacceptable. Yet there you remained, and here he was at Wayne Tower with the moon still high in the sky.

He’d never, ever speak to you that way again. 

[cheriecoke]

˚₊‧꒰ა skin — chuuya nakahara

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. chuuya's acting different… but you brush it off and don't think anything of it.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. fluff, suggestive but sfw, f!reader, domestic life, established relationship, implied dubcon, open ending, horror/mystery elements, wc: 2.5k

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈. i'm a bit nervous to see how this will be received, so pls reblog or drop a comment if you enjoy <3

part of my summerween series !

the scent of freshly brewed coffee and your favorite breakfast food are the first things that you smell when you wake up. for a few moments, you think it’s a dream — when’s the last time chuuya cooked this early in the morning? you half expect to walk out there and wake up again later, finding that you’d never opened your eyes at all.

but when you roll out of bed, tug a robe over your shoulders, chuuya is there, a presence larger than life, almost, standing in front of the stove, and you are undeniably awake.

you wrinkle your eyebrows together, glancing at the plates scattered across the counter. in your two years of marriage, this is the first that you’ve seen such a display. chuuya isn’t a morning person, he never has been, and usually something quick is enough to settle his stomach for a while.

“chuuya?” you asked, sitting at the table, his back still turned to you. he’s fully dressed, hair falling in loose waves over his shoulders, burning brighter from the sun filtering in through the window. “what are you doing?” 

your husband turns, smiling at you over his shoulder. as always, it takes your breath away. he is so handsome, sometimes, it makes you forget yourself. “can’t i cook for my beautiful wife?” he asks, sliding a cup of coffee to you on the tabletop. 

you smile, as his hands graze your temple, brushing your hair behind your ear. “you never cook breakfast. you don’t like it.”  besides, this is far too much for two people to enjoy.

he laughs, leaning down to kiss your forehead, then the small, confused wrinkle between your eyes. it slips away as you sit up straighter, capture his lips with your own, tasting the coffee on his mouth.

“but you do,” chuuya says.

you’re honestly indifferent towards breakfast, but you let it slide, tucking your chin into your hand as you watch him work away. if he wants to do something nice, you’re not going to stop him. “weren’t you supposed to leave for a job this morning?” 

chuuya shrugs, “i’m reassigned, i guess the boss wanted to send akutagawa instead. i’ll be staying in the city for this one, so you won’t get the chance to miss me.” 

it makes sense now, why he had so generously made you breakfast. you stand, taking a longer sip of your coffee, before going to wrap your arms around his stomach, smell the hot food that wafts from behind him. “oh, so you had some time to kill?” you tease, running your hands across his abdomen. “and you decided to cook instead of doing… something else?” 

your fingers trace a pattern around the zipper of his jeans, which are steadily growing tighter. chuuya grabs your wrist, tugs your hands away with a pointed look. “yes,” he says, through his teeth. “and you’re making it difficult.” 

you lazily grin back, pressing one last kiss to his jawline before grabbing your coffee again, and standing beside him at the counter. 

chuuya cooks with a precision that you’re not sure you’ve ever seen before, delicately measuring each ingredient, tapping them into the bowls and pans. usually, he goes by his own instincts, and while he is by no means a great cook, he pulls things together in a way that only he could do. now, though, he seems almost uncertain, like he’s silently praying that everything will turn out alright.

“chuuya?” you ask, watching him carefully. his face contorts strangely as he looks over at you, but then it clears up, and he smiles, looking just as warm as he did the moment you walked into the room. 

“yeah, baby?” 

you want to ask him if he’s feeling alright—but that would shatter the mood, wouldn’t it? the serene morning bliss that has settled between you, as it so rarely seems to anymore. and it’s a blessing, not to have to watch him walk out that door and put himself in danger, able to spend more time with you. 

shaking your head, you smile, and kiss him on the cheek softly. “never mind. i love you.” 

“love you too.” he says it back immediately, which is also a little unlike your husband. there is always a pause before, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to maintain this sort of affection, like it’ll be taken away if he dares to speak the truth. he cherishes the love he has for you in that tiny pause, before relinquishing it, shoulders only relaxing when he sees you standing there, safe and sound. 

but it’s been years since you’ve been together. you’re married, settled down — as settled as he can be as a mafia executive. perhaps he’s just relaxed into the fact that your love is eternal, and he's more confident in the notion that it won’t be taken away from him. 

the rest of the morning passes quickly, when you and chuuya find yourselves back into bed, mouths still tasting of coffee, the windows open just enough to clear out the smell of sweat between you, and the pans that have not fully been scrubbed. 

at some point, you feel asleep, and you wake back up, overheated from the sheets tucked closely to your naked body. the sunlight filtering in through the glass is worse than metal of a furnace. your hair sticks to your scalp, and you spend the next half hour in the shower, dreading the looming months of summer and the heat that comes with it.

although there’s plenty of things for you to do while chuuya’s gone, you don’t feel like doing much of anything. just one of those days, you reason, even if it’s hard to rationalize that, when chuuya’s out there risking his life, and you’re inside, mindlessly scrolling through your phone and the picking up books you can’t bring yourself to read.

it’s a blur of a day, between very slowly making your way through the pile of laundry you’d forgotten to fold, and cleaning the sheets that had been washed just a few days earlier. chuuya returns, and suddenly, your foul mood caves into something much more pleasant, that pit in your stomach dissipating. 

you still worry about him, constantly, even though you know he’s chuuya nakahara, and there are very few things on this earth that can challenge him. still, he’s your husband—you can’t help it.

chuuya kisses you as he returns, smiling into it, his fingers curling into the hair behind your ears. 

“i can make dinner tonight,” you say, even though you don’t really feel like it. but he sees right through it, just like you knew he would. you can’t hide much from him. 

“it’s okay. i’ll pick something up. know you haven’t been feeling up to it this week.” 

you smile and kiss the palm of his hand, the leather of his glove cool against your mouth. how nice it is to be so loved by him, to be seen, for even the simplest of signs. “okay. thanks.” 

he nods, leaves to retreat into the bedroom and change his dirtied shirt into a clean one. it’s then, that you notice he’s laid his coat across the back of one of your chairs — unusual, for him to wear it so far into the house. 

you furrow your brow and pick it up, planning on hanging it on the rack by the door. but you notice, then, that it’s an older one, different from the coat he normally wears. the designer is the same, but there’s a hole in the pocket, which tells you he didn’t care enough to have it fixed. 

an odd feeling twists itself inside you again. a bout of paranoia, likely. that’s all, isn’t it? you’re just having an off day, an off week, and you’re projecting that onto your husband, for no reason at all. 

a sigh escapes you, and you shake your head, simply hanging it back up on the coat rack, when you notice his hat isn’t there either. 

you frown, glancing back over your shoulder to the chair, the rest of the room. chuuya hadn’t been wearing it when he’d walked in, and you can’t remember seeing it on the rack before he left this morning. 

which was odd. chuuya never went anywhere without it.

you jump, a vibration pulling you out of your thoughts, your cell phone ringing, buzzing on the table right by the doorway. it’s chuuya’s name flashing across the screen, a photo of him bright under the glass.

“hello?”

“hey, baby.” 

you release a breath at the sound of chuuya’s voice. it instantly relaxes you, even though you, really, have no reason to be so alarmed.

your shoulders sink down, the tension draining from your body, and you smile instead, amused that he’s calling you from just one room over. the affectionate name twists your stomach up in butterflies and knots, and you roll your eyes. “hi, chuuya.” 

“you have time to talk right now?” 

“i suppose.” 

“you suppose,” chuuya replies, snorting. “and here i thought you’d be happier to hear from me. i was about to apologize for not calling you earlier and everything.” 

that’s a weird thing to say, you think. “chuuya, you know, you didn’t need to call. you could’ve just walked back in here.” 

there’s a pause on the other end, a muffled sound in the background, like he’s getting out of a car. “what do you mean?” 

“i mean you could’ve just walked back in here.”

he doesn’t seem to understand, and fakes a laugh. “very funny.” there’s a voice on the other end, and chuuya says something to the sound, before turning his attention back to you on the phone. your brow furrows, eyes drifting over to the door. “anyway, i only have a few minutes, but—”

 “chuuya,” you say, feeling a tiny rush of fear swallow you. something is wrong. there’s no one in your house besides you and chuuya, and he’s been in your bedroom for minutes. you turn back around, facing the front door. "where are you?” 

“huh? i’m in osaka, remember? i told you about the entire thing last night.” he sighs, something between irritation and amused fondness.  “we had a pretty long conversation about it.” 

“osaka?” you repeat. “but—i just saw you. just a few minutes ago. just this morning”

there’s silence on the other end of the line, as chuuya breathes, gathers his thoughts. you can tell, even within a second, that he’s either trying not to panic, or let his confusion give way to anger. “no, you didn’t. i left early this morning, you were still sleeping—”

“who are you talking to?” 

you freeze. it comes from chuuya, but the chuuya that’s behind you, not the one you’re talking to on the phone. there’s a pinched look on his face as you turn, pretending like nothing is wrong. a guarded expression that wasn’t there before. 

your mind goes blank as you stare at him, mouth growing dry. “i—”

“say dazai,” chuuya says through the static of the phone. you’re not sure how he heard the imposter at all, but it settles you, snapping you back into action.

“dazai?” you nearly spit.

it’s not often you chat with dazai, of all people, on the phone. you’re not particularly close. but it’s a good call by chuuya. dazai wouldn’t be keeping tabs on the port mafia member’s whereabouts, wouldn’t know that chuuya was out of town, and akutagawa was never reassigned. but he’s still dangerous. still someone that could be a threat to whoever is pretending to be your husband.

“dazai," you continue, recovering from your questioning response smoothly. "can i call you back later?”

chuuya speaks to you the other line, playing along. “i’m going to call someone to come over there. pretend like nothing’s wrong. everything will be okay.” 

you feel tears prick the back of your eyes — you don’t want chuuya to hang up, but if the fake chuuya finds out you know, it could be an even worse outcome. 

“okay. got it. i'll call you tomorrow then.” 

“i love you.”

you resist the urge to answer the sentiment, and hang up the phone. 

the fake chuuya stares back at you, as intently as you stare at him, neither of you blinking as you put your phone back into your pocket.

“what did dazai want?” he asks, standing straight, his back tense as you take a step forward. 

there are a lot of weapons hidden around this house—chuuya has more than a handful of enemies, and wants to be prepared in case they ever find where he lives. where you live. 

you’d thought it overkill. now, you’re grateful to have at least a fighting chance; if you can only get to the pistol that he keeps in the closet, at the end of the hallway. 

“he’s working on a case. thought i might have some intel. i told him i’d look over the details tomorrow.” 

“i see.” chuuya — not chuuya, you remind yourself, even though he’s wearing his face — nods. he watches you walk closer the closet door, eyes darting between the handle and your body. his eyes flash. 

“you know,” he says, crisply, stopping you in your tracks. “i thought the phone might cause some issues. should’ve blocked the number this morning. amateur mistake on my part.”

“what do you mean?”

“i mean your husband called, didn’t he? the real one.” not chuuya smiles, but it’s ugly, almost as if it’s contorting, melting off his face. “you know he’s been gone all morning. it wasn’t him who made you breakfast, took you to bed after.” 

nausea fills your gut, and you look away, swallowing down the disgust that you feel. you can’t think about that. not now. 

“although, you wouldn’t have known by the way i touched you, would you? how i knew exactly what you enjoy. i have every one of chuuya’s memories now. i know all about him, all about you.” he takes a long stride. you’re both just a pace away from the door, from the gun. if he has any of chuuya’s strength, you’ll lose—you’re no match for that kind of power. 

you just need to hold him off, long enough for whoever chuuya sends over to help you. 

“and also,” the fake chuuya continues lazily, a laugh clipping at the end of his words. “i know about the gun you’re looking for.”

there’s a dark grin on his face that propels you into action. you lunge towards the closet door, throwing it open, and chuuya lets you. he laughs darkly, doesn’t make any attempt to stop you from fumbling around the inside of closet for a gun that he put there. it doesn’t take you long to figure out why.

the gun isn’t there.

thank you so much for reading! ❤︎ title and inspiration come from ep 1.06 of supernatural- tag list: @little-miss-chaoss @erebus-et-eigengrau @soleelia @k0z3me

[thexsilentxwordsmith]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

Warnings: smut, masterbation, send nudes, quick mention of breeding

Sequel to: Think of Me When You Cum Later

Almost an entire day passed without a word from you. Smug as he could fucking be, Simon was certain that it had everything to do with his little impromptu video he sent keeping your hands far to busy to type and God did that fuel him with a new secret passion; perhaps he’d have to send you another before he got back, just to be sure that you were a complete goddamn mess for him when you came to pick him up from base.

If he was really lucky and did his job right you’d have to pull over on the ride home just so he could fuck your brains out in the back seat of your car, so needy you wouldn’t be able to wait the short ride back to his place. You’d both have those window panes fogged up real fucking quick.

But there was one thing the self-assured military man forgot about and that was that you were never one to let him go empty handed. The moment Simon had sent his bit of personal porn for your enjoyment, he should have known that you would not want him to miss out on something special for himself; he needed to see with his own two eyes just how much you needed him. And since he had only made that ache worse for you, he had to have a bit of it back.

It was only fair after all.

So eventually once you were able to clear your head and calm your raging heartbeat, you got to work plotting. It had to be a cinematic masterpiece, something so good that he would definitely have to save for private viewings over and over again whenever he was away; you never did anything half-assed and since it was for him it had to be perfect.

The day had been uneventful and that gave ample time for Simon’s devious mind to wander back to you, wondering how many times you’d viewed that spicy clip and how absolutely soaked your panties were from it. Something about the silence from his phone only led him to fantasize about you being nothing more than a puddle in the middle of his bed, legs shaking from how many times you’d cum.

God, to be a fly on the wall he would have given anything.

BZZ…BZZ…

As if prompted by his thoughts alone, his phone buzzed to life as he sat in his bunk wiling away the hours until sleep finally decided to take over. He pulled small rectangle out of his bag that lay beside his bed with a cocky grin plastered to his lips, ready to read the long string of texts about how his distraction was more than satisfactory. The older phone that Simon liked to take into the field didn’t allow him to preview messages before he opened them, so he had no idea what awaited inside until he clicked the icon; his jaw nearly hit the floor and he had to immediately look around him to make sure that there was no one skulking about that could possibly catch a glimpse of his screen.

This was for him and him alone.

It was a picture… not what he was expecting, but he should have known better after his little stunt that you were bound to do something like this. The message directly underneath it read: “Shit, baby, I can’t seem to stop watching your video. Look what you’re doing to me.”

Nearly choking on his saliva, his heart stopped and forcefully restarted in his chest at the glory of image before his eyes. Goddamn he could not pull his sight away; you had to have gone to a lot of trouble to set this all up, but fuck was it worth it just so that he could see you like this.

There you were spread eagle across his bed, completely naked save for the singular hair tie dangling from your wrist that had become a staple of your everyday attire. Your hand was precisely placed between your thighs, fingers clearly buried in that juicy cunt of yours. Head fallen back, presumably eyes shut tight, tits up with your nipples hard, goddamn you were the prettiest fucking picture he had ever fucking seen.

He was falling head over heels all over again.

The pressure of his cock straining harshly against the zipper of his pants became incredibly painful all of a sudden and he rushed to undo the restraining fabric in a hurry; such a visceral effect that you always seemed to produce in him no matter how many times he saw you bare. Pulling the waistband open he lay there with nothing but his boxers to keep him covered.

It had been a long minute since your body was available for his viewing pleasure and he sucked every last drop of that photo down, transfixed as if he had been put under hypnosis. Eyes scanning every inch of that tiny picture glaring back at him through the darkness, the ache in his chest grew as did the heat so that even though his shirt was off he was still boiling to the touch; fuck he needed you so bad it was agony. There was no lie when Simon had said he was desperate to make you cum, he would give anything to feel you writhe beneath him right now, body burning as he put all his focus into making you slip over the edge as many times as humanly possibly.

Whatever he had to do, whatever sin he had to commit that would get him to you fast enough, he would in an instant just to ride straight to hell between those luscious thighs.

Satisfying your temptation was worth the damnation.

How much time had passed since he become consumed by your image he didn’t know, but now there was something on his phone that was beginning to download. His heartbeat pounded loudly in his ears as he waited on baited breath, barely moving a muscle in anticipation for whatever it was you had sent him. Auburn eyes were boring holes into his phone as he watched that slow fucking progress bar inch its way forward at a turtles pace; Christ, it was going to make him drop dead from the excited expectation of what was to come once it was done.

BZZ... BZZ…

Finally, after what felt like a fucking eternity, the damned thing was finished and ready for him. A video was what waited for his viewing pleasure, slightly longer than the one he had sent the night before. With shaky, unsteady hands Simon dived head first for his headphones in his bag without a second thought, nearly ripping the canvas apart trying to pry them out as fast as his hands would allow. Shoving the buds into his ears as his pulse raced through his veins, he pushed play...

And his blood pressure shot through the goddamn roof.

“Ahh, Simon…” your breathy moan hit his ears first and his brain flat-lined as he nearly came just from just the sound of your sweet tone calling out his name. How long had it been since he had heard you mewling his name in the throws of passion? So damn long it should have been a crime.

The way you had the camera set up he could see it all, the perfect goddamn angle as if he were sitting in the room with you, watching as you touched yourself. Why the ever loving fuck could he not reach through the screen and get to you? That was the worst part of it all; he desperately needed to be the one to make you produce all those pretty sounds.

“Fuck, Simon, I miss you so much,” you continued, your body jerking as your fingers continued to dance around your clit, your toes curling around the sheets. “I’ve been so empty it hurts… need you to fill me full again baby. Reach that ache deep inside that I can’t seem to get. It’s only getting worse without you.”

Simon’s cock throbbed forcefully, pressing harshly against his lower abdomen as the video continued to play; it felt as if he might burst just from the sudden rush of blood to that beastly appendage. Swallowing down a stray groan that threatened to escape his lips and give him away, he nearly gagged on it just to keep it down, but fuck did he want to let loose. He was being consumed by his desire: skin on fire, eyes transfixed on your gorgeous rocking form, mouth agape as he breathed heavy, he took a hold of his engorged member and pulled it free from his boxers before he began to stroke the length; there was no way he could sit here and watch you like this without touching himself.

Back on the screen, your legs were jerking sporadically as you pictured Simon there with you, pumping in and out of you with all that he had. “Need your fat fucking cock to stretch me out good,” you whimpered pathetically, using all that pent up frustration to aid in your performance; it was torment. “Oh God baby, I need it so bad���can’t take it.”

Fuck it hurt to hear your need and not be able to do a damned thing about it right then and there. He swore to himself that by the time he finally got his hand around those curves he was gonna fill you so full that your pussy wouldn't know what to do without him inside you.

Simon hissed under his breath as his grip tightened around his dripping, aching cock, rapid strokes gaining speed so as to perfectly match your rhythm just so that he could trick his brain into imagining himself pumping in and out of your tight, wet cunt. It paled in comparison to the real thing because there was no replicating how you felt wrapped around him, but it would do for now. Together you both worked yourselves on opposite sides of the screen, just trying your hardest to ease the torturous longing.…as if fucking each other across the space between you.

You were completely losing yourself in the moment, unable to hold back all those needs that had been put aside as he was gone. The image of Simon touching himself to the thought of you, his words sounding so desperate, played over in your mind as you worked yourself and you could not stop the way it made you feel, the yearning need for him to completely and utterly wreck your body to the point that even the idea of being with anyone else would never be able to come close to what he could give.

“Shit Simon, I want…

I want…" you had to say it, it was gonna come out anyway…

"I want you to breed me,” you said stammered out the plea as your free hand massaged over your breasts. That warmth was building, rising in the pit of your stomach as you said those forbidden words aloud. “I need you to breed me good Simon, make sure I’m ruined for anyone else. Oh God, please, baby. I need it, I need you.”

Christ that was his fucking kryptonite, his Achilles heel, the one thing is the whole wide world that could stop him dead in his tracks and bring him to his proverbial knees. The minute those delicious words exited your mouth, there was no stopping his ecstasy from overwhelming him to the point that he could he was gone.

Oh he was gonna make sure that sweet little cunt had his name written all fucking over it.

Nope that was it, what little straggling bit of sanity he had left had flown and he could not hold back the pressure any longer from reaching its peak and violently throwing him off the ledge. With a strenuous grunt that echoed in his chest and a few hard tuggs up and down his shaft he came with such force that his body shook his entire cot as he stroked out every last bit of milky white fluid from the tip. His cum coating his lower abdomen, getting caught in the sparse bit of hair the covered the area was making a mess, but he didn’t care; the euphoria currently surging through his veins like electricity clouded any negative thoughts.

The sound of your orgasm your mewls as your rocketed through you played into his ears, the perfect soundtrack to finish out the rest of his own pleasure. You fell back against the mattress, chest heaving with exhausted breaths as your legs shook and relaxed stretched out as the video finished.

Fuck, he was gonna need a cigarette after that, his body still vibrating with the sheer intensity of it all.

BZZ…BZZ…

The phone vibrated one last time, a final text to send him off into the night.

“I hope it was just as good for you as it was for me,” it said, followed by a sneaky winky face. “Sleep tight.”

If he thought he was missing you before, but that was nothing compared to now. It was overwhelming the need he had to have you making those sounds for him again. You had better be ready to getting the car cleaned and detailed because there was no way you weren’t going to be pinned down in the back seat after that one…because you had just made that ache so much worse.

Part 3:

[atzaurora]

Can I ask for a Yeosang x reader where he follows her after concert and wants to take her on a date( she's a fan) and so on the date someone spills a sticky drink so he takes her back to the hotel and let's her shower but brings her clothes and it's gets smutty from when she walks out in just his shirt and panties

[˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗] spilled

❥ 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓: Yeosang

➤ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: fem!fan!reader x idol!yeosang

➤ 𝒕𝒚𝒑𝒆: imagine (smut)

➤ 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑: strangers to lovers, fan x idol au

.ᐟ.ᐟ𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔.ᐟ.ᐟ: 18+/smut/suggestive content, MDNI!!! manual sex, unprotected sex, m & f receiving

➤ 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: Her bias asking Y/N out after the concert was definitely not her plan, but she was more than happy that this was how her evening was going. On the date someone accidentally spills a drink on her dress. Yeosang takes her to his hotel to take a shower, but things take a quick turn after she walks out wearing only his t-shirt.

➤ 𝒘/𝒄: 2.8k

➤ 𝒂/𝒏: I hope you like how it turned out! it might be a bit rushed in some parts but I tried my best :3 I'm working on all of you guy's requests so be a bit patient please, writing takes a lot of time sometimes.

if you have any ideas or wishes let me know, requests are open

here's my [𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕]!

[𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕] here!

[about me] + [guidelines]!

Thousands of fans had gathered under the vast canopy of the stadium, their excitement palpable as the night sky darkened above them. The stage stood like a gleaming fortress of lights and screens, a beacon of anticipation that drew everyone’s eyes forward. You stood near the bottom of the stage, your heart pounding as you waited patiently for Ateez’s performance to begin.

The venue was enormous, a cavernous space that hummed with the collective energy of fans whose anticipation filled every corner. The walls seemed to vibrate with the echoes of chatter and excitement, creating an atmosphere that was both electrifying and overwhelming. Clutched tightly in your hand was your prized possession—a VIP pass that had cost you a small fortune, but promised an evening you would never forget. Your heart drummed in your chest, its rhythm growing louder with every passing second.

Finally, the lights dimmed, and the crowd’s chatter transformed into a deafening roar of cheers. The giant screens flickered to life, casting their glow over the darkened stadium, and the members of Ateez emerged from the shadows, their faces a blend of fierce determination and playful smiles. The beat dropped, and the crowd surged forward like a tidal wave, sweeping you along with it.

Your gaze locked onto Yeosang, your bias, as he took his place in the spotlight. He was a vision—every movement precise, every note flawless. His warm brown eyes scanned the crowd, and for a brief, electrifying moment, they met yours. Time seemed to freeze as he held your gaze, and in that instant, it felt as if he had reached out and touched you, making a silent promise that would soon be kept.

After the concert, as the crowd began to disperse, the adrenaline still thrummed in your veins. You lingered, watching as fans slowly made their way out of the venue, your thoughts a whirlwind of emotions. Then, in a moment that seemed too surreal to be true, you saw Yeosang making his way through the throngs of fans, his eyes searching. It was a daring move, one that could have easily gone unnoticed, but the universe had other plans.

He spotted you standing alone amid the remnants of the concert—discarded merchandise, half-eaten snacks, and empty water bottles scattered across the floor. He approached with the confident stride of someone who knew exactly what he wanted, his presence magnetic.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice cutting through the lingering noise of the stadium like a gentle caress. "Would you like to go out for dinner with me?"

You blinked, your mind struggling to process what was happening. Did Yeosang, the idol you had admired from afar, just ask you out?

"Are you serious?" you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

A soft chuckle escaped Yeosang’s lips, his smile widening as he noticed the flush spreading across your cheeks.

"I know it’s sudden," he admitted, his tone warm and sincere. "But I’ve been wanting to get to know you better. Tonight felt... different."

Your breath caught in your throat, and before you could think twice, you nodded, your nerves giving way to a flutter of excitement. "Yes, I’d love to."

His smile deepened, and he extended his hand toward you, his fingers brushing yours in a way that sent a jolt of electricity through your body. "Great," he said, his voice laced with anticipation."Come with me."

With your hand in his, Yeosang led you through the backstage maze to a waiting car. The ride to the restaurant was a blur, filled with nervous laughter and stolen glances. The tension in the car was thick, but it was a tension that felt charged with possibility. Every time you caught his eye, your heart skipped a beat.

The restaurant he brought you to was a hidden gem, tucked away from the bustling city streets. It was the kind of place where stars dined in peace, shielded from prying eyes by the cozy, intimate atmosphere. As you were seated at a candlelit table in a secluded corner, you couldn’t help but marvel at the surreal nature of the evening.

The food was exquisite, each dish more delicious than the last, but it was the conversation that truly captivated you. Yeosang was attentive, his gaze never leaving yours as he asked about your life, your dreams, and your aspirations.

"So," he said, leaning forward slightly, his eyes full of genuine curiosity, "what’s something you’ve always wanted to do but never had the chance to?" Caught off guard by the question, you paused, considering your answer.

"I’ve always wanted to travel," you confessed. "There’s so much of the world I haven’t seen yet." A thoughtful smile played on his lips. "Where would you go first?" You smiled back, feeling a warmth spread through you at his interest.

"Maybe Europe," you said. "Italy, specifically. The history, the culture, the food... It’s been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember." "Sounds like a perfect destination," Yeosang said, his voice laced with admiration.

"I’ve been there a couple of times for work, but I’d love to go back just to explore, to really experience it." His gaze softened as he added, "Maybe one day we could go together."

The implication of his words made your heart race. After some more talking you excused yourself to go to the bathroom, but fate played a cruel trick. As you stood to leave, someone bumped into you, sending their drink splashing down the front of your dress. You gasped, the sudden coldness of the liquid soaking through the fabric and embarrassment flooded your senses.

"Oh no," you muttered, your cheeks burning as you tried to dab at the stain with a napkin. But the damage was done, and the wetness seeped into the delicate material of your dress.

Yeosang’s reaction was immediate and comforting. "Hey, don’t worry about it," he said, his voice full of reassurance. Without a moment’s hesitation, he added, "Let’s get you cleaned up. My hotel is just around the corner. You can shower and change there."

Your heart raced with a mix of gratitude and nerves. "Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother." "It’s no bother at all," he replied with a gentle smile. "Come on, I insist."

The ride to his hotel was short, but the tension between you two had grown, now tinged with a different kind of anticipation. As you walked through the hotel lobby, his hand on the small of your back, you could feel the heat of his touch, a silent promise of what was to come.

In the plush surroundings of his suite, Yeosang handed you a towel and a change of clothes—a simple, oversized shirt. "You can use the shower," he said, his voice low and intimate as he gestured toward the bathroom. "Take your time."

You nodded, offering him a shy smile as you retreated into the bathroom. The steamy embrace of the shower was a welcome relief, washing away the stickiness of the spilled drink and the lingering nerves. The warmth of the water soothed you, but it also heightened your awareness of the situation—of the man waiting for you just outside the door.

When you emerged, wrapped in his shirt and only your panties, the soft fabric clinging to your damp skin, you found Yeosang standing by the window, gazing out at the city below. He turned as you entered the room, his eyes darkening with desire as he took in the sight of you in his clothes.

"You look beautiful," he murmured, stepping closer, his gaze lingering on your bare legs and the curve of your hips.Your breath hitched as he reached out, his hand tracing the outline of your shoulder. His touch was light, almost reverent, but it sent a shiver down your spine. "Yeosang..." you whispered, your voice trembling with anticipation.

His fingers trailed down your arm, his gaze never leaving yours. "I’ve wanted this all night," he admitted, his voice thick with need. "But I didn’t want to rush you."

"I don’t want you to stop," you confessed, your heart pounding in your chest. The honesty of your words seemed to ignite something in him, and before you could say another word, he closed the distance between you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was both tender and demanding.

The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent as he guided you toward the bed. You tumbled onto the soft sheets, the fabric of your shirts the only barrier between your heated bodies. His hands roamed over you, exploring every curve, every inch of your skin as if memorizing it. He kissed along your neck, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin and leaving behind a trail of marks that would remind you of this night for days to come.

As his hands slid beneath the hem of your shirt, you felt his fingers brush against your stomach, sending a ripple of pleasure through you. He paused, looking into your eyes as he pushed the fabric higher, revealing more of your body. "You’re stunning," he whispered, his voice filled with awe as he took in the sight of you.

A blush crept up your neck, warmth spreading through your body as you felt his gaze, heavy with desire. "Mhm~ Yeosang..." you breathed, your voice laced with need.

He responded with a slow, sensual kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips before delving deeper. His hand traveled up your torso, fingers finding your nipples, already hardened with anticipation. He teased them gently, his touch sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you.

You gasped into his mouth, your back arching off the bed as his fingers worked their magic. The fabric of your panties grew damp with your desire and you could feel his hardness pressing against your thigh, a silent reminder of the pleasure yet to come. The anticipation was unbearable, a delicious agony that left you trembling beneath his touch.

Yeosang’s lips moved from your mouth to your jawline, trailing soft, lingering kisses down your neck. He nipped at your collarbone, each gentle bite sending a new wave of heat coursing through your veins. His hands were everywhere—roaming across your chest, sliding down your sides, exploring the curves of your body as if committing every detail to memory.

He pulled back slightly, his gaze locked onto yours as he slipped the oversized shirt off your shoulders, revealing your bare skin to the cool air of the room. His eyes darkened with desire as they raked over your exposed form, his lips curving into a small, appreciative smile. "You’re breathtaking," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

Before you could respond, he kissed you again, his lips claiming yours in a way that left no room for doubt about what he wanted. His hand trailed down your stomach, his fingers brushing teasingly over your clit through the thin fabric of your panties. You moaned into his mouth, your hips instinctively rising to meet his touch, desperate for more.

He didn’t rush. Instead, he took his time, savoring every sound you made, every tremble that passed through you as he continued to tease you. His fingertips circled your clit with a gentle, maddening touch that left you on the edge, your body aching for release. When he finally slid two fingers inside you, your eyes rolled back with satisfaction, the feeling of being filled up felt so good.

He looked down at you, watching how you frowned as he slid his fingers in and out of your aching cunt. His fingers curled up, applying pressure against your walls, which almost made you cum already. But it wasn't until his pumps became deeper that you felt close to releasing. Yeosang started to hit your good spot over and over, the knot in your stomach tightening.

You shattered, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your cries filled the room, a symphony of pleasure that echoed off the walls. But Yeosang wasn’t finished. He continued to kiss you, to touch you, his voice a soft murmur in your ear, whispering sweet nothings that sent shivers down your spine. His fingers pumped in and out of you continuosly, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge once more.

"Fuck—" you groaned, feeling how the pleasure build up again, his fingers knuckle deep inside your hole. "It feels good, doesn't it?" he asked, but from the way you clenched around him, he knew that you liked it. "Let go for me," he coaxed, his breath hot against your skin as his fingers moved faster, deeper, building you up again. "I want to feel you cum."

His words, combined with the relentless pleasure he was giving you, pushed you over the edge a second time. You came with his name on your lips, a cry of pure ecstasy that left you trembling beneath him. Your body tightened around his fingers, the sensation so intense it left you breathless.

As you lay there, panting, your body still buzzing with the aftershocks of your orgasm, Yeosang withdrew his fingers, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He stripped off his own clothes with a speed that made you smile, the urgency of his movements betraying his own need.

His cock stood at attention, hard and ready, and your heart skipped a beat as you took in the sight of him, fully revealed for the first time. He climbed onto the bed, his body covering yours, his skin warm against yours as he settled between your legs. He kissed you deeply, his tongue mimicking the movements of his fingers, leaving you breathless once more.

When he finally slid inside you, the feeling was almost overwhelming. He filled you completely, stretching you in a way that made you gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. Yeosang groaned, his breath hitching as he felt you tighten around him.

The rhythm you found together was instinctive, each thrust perfectly aligned with your body’s needs. His cock brushed against your good spot with every movement, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you, making you see stars. The world around you blurred, leaving only the two of you, moving together in perfect harmony.

Yeosang’s lips never stopped moving, kissing every inch of you, leaving a trail of hickeys on your skin like a secret map only you could trace later. His hands were everywhere—exploring, caressing, claiming you as his own. Every touch, every kiss, every thrust brought you closer to the edge, until you were teetering on the brink, your body trembling with the force of the pleasure building inside you.

"Yeosang," you gasped, your voice breathless as you felt yourself nearing your peak once more. "I’m so close."

He responded with a low groan, his thrusts becoming more forceful, more deliberate as he chased his own release. "Let go," he urged, his voice rough with need. "I want to make you cum so good."

His words were the final push you needed. With a cry of his name, you came, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed over you, your nails digging into his back as you clung to him. The sensation of you clenching around him was too much for Yeosang and with a final, deep thrust, he followed you over the edge, his release warm as he filled you.

The two of you lay there, tangled in the sheets, your hearts racing in sync with each other’s, the room filled with the scent of sex and sweat—a heady perfume that seemed to seal the bond between you. The silence that followed was filled with contentment, a quiet peace that wrapped around you both like a warm blanket.

After a moment, Yeosang gently pulled out, and you felt the loss of him immediately. But before you could protest, he was already moving, retrieving a soft cloth to clean you up with a tenderness that made your heart swell.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice soft as he wiped the remnants of your combined liquids from your skin.

He smiled down at you, his eyes filled with warmth as he discarded the cloth and returned to your side, pulling you into his arms. "No need to thank me," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Just holding you like this is enough."

You snuggled closer to him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your cheek as you drifted off to sleep, the events of the night playing over in your mind like a beautiful, surreal dream.

As you fell into a deep, contented slumber, Yeosang held you close, lost in his own thoughts of tonight's events.

[livelaughloveluffy]

first love - black leg sanji

a/n: this is totally not another dream scenario that i'm writing into a fic..... sorry to be posting a bit slower, i've just been trying to experiment with and improve my writing and finally felt ready to finish this draft!!

a/n: hopefully this fic was worth the wait!! just a little treat to help you guys prepare for the new year!! also in typical me fashion, this song is just soooo perfect for this fic so here you go.

nothing but fluff here 💗

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you never thought you'd reunite with black leg sanji on this tiny island buried in the corner of the grand line. but you'd recognize that fluffy blonde hair and curly brow from a hundred miles away. your feet moved beneath you before your brain could even register what was happening. and before you knew it, the two of you walked side by side, his hand gently resting of the smalls of your back as he escorted you to the beloved ship of the straw hat pirates.

•♡•

it only made sense for sanji to introduce you to the crew over a meal he prepared. the familiar sight and smell of your childhood crush in his element, assembling dinner with such elegance that his movements could be seen as a choreographed waltz, reminding you exactly who you fell in love with all those years ago.

the table was already set to precision as the crew filed in ready to enjoy the freshly made meal. taking their places to their usual seats, smiling at you as a greeting. you couldn't help but admire the people who had taken care of sanji all this time, letting him pursue his passions, and supporting him along the way.

•♡•

with his mouth full of half-chewed food, luffy mumbles out the question everyone had been wondering "so, how did you and sanji meet anyways? from the baratie?"

with a casual smile and a quick glance to sanji, you began to reply to the captain's question, "it's been so long, i might as well just tell you the truth. sanji's actually the first guy i ever had a crush on."

•♡•

when the two of you finally manage to escape the absolute chaotic freakout of the crew, sanji's nice dinner now growing cold, but not forgotten, as you gazed at the very first boy you'd ever loved. hidden away in the pantry of the kitchen, bodies only half an inch from being pressed together, awkwardly trying to avoid the rapid fire prying questions of the other straw hat pirates.

looking at the cook now, you can't help but be reminded of the version of him you fell in love with as he shyly attempts to look everywhere but at you. his arms cage you in between them as his hands press against the ledge of a shelf to keep as much distance between the two of you as possible.

"you know... it's funny you mentioned that... the whole crush thing.. well not funny but..." even in the dark, you can see the pink flush growing in sanji's cheeks as he struggles to convey his feelings. you watch as the curly-browed blonde takes a moment to calm his nerves. "you're also the first crush i ever had..."

your eyes widen in shock and disbelief. it took you longer than you'd care to admit to remember how to breathe and form sentence just to reply to his confession. all your strength is going towards not dropping to your knees, bringing your voice barely to a whisper you reply "i can't believe you liked me all this time..."

the words spill out of sanji's mouth before his brain has time to catch up. "how could i not? i've been in love with you since we met. you just seemed to glow. everyone else was so dull compared to how brightly you shined. you radiated warmth and kindness, i couldn't help but be drawn to you." you can almost feel the warmth of sanji's blush due to your closeness.

the already-small space between the two of you is almost microscopic as you stepped forward to close the gap. looking up at the beautiful blonde man in front of you, you finally found the courage to tell him everything you wished you said before you parted from the baratie all those years ago.

"sanji.. you know... the first time i saw you, i thought my dream had finally come true. when i was a little kid, my imaginary ideal partner, looked exactly like you. i thought i had wished so hard that i conjured you into reality. i was the princess and you were my prince and it sounds silly now but..."

your rambling now cut short by the sound of sanji's voice, honeyed and slightly gruff, interrupting you with a question. "...can i kiss you?"

you faintly reply "i've only waited 16 years for you to ask.."

and before you know it, sanji's soft lips finally touch yours. his slow and gentle pace was torturous, and soon to be forgotten as your carnal hunger and desire for the blonde turned his kisses ravenous and rough. your whole body seemed to be buzzing at the sensation of his touch. years of lust and adoration only adding fuel to the fire.

hehehe the end...

for now..

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a/n: there will definitely be another installment of this fic, because i'm not nearly cruel enough to leave such a juicy cliffhanger AND make this a oneshot 😌 i had sooooo much fun writing this and i hope you enjoyed it as much as i did!!

a/n: bahaha i'm in peak loser mode tonight, writing one piece fanfic in my new one piece snuggie.... and im loving it *evil laugh*

tags ♡: @twiishaa @3v37773 @irethepotato @peachycat17 @dreamcastgirl99 @sanji-soup @suga-tofu @vamphoria @hamhamhamtaro @kcch-ns @raddelusionaldive @sparkyvibes

want to join the taglist? click here!

a/n: enjoyed this fic? here's my masterlist!!

[pro-depresanti]

~Valentino comes home late and is a bit too impatient to wake you up first~

~🔞🔞🔞~

Tags : somno, dub-con, soft-ish, gender neutral language used for Reader

drabble requested by @celebritxtum

Requests are open :))

___

It's the middle of the night, and you've long gone to bed. You're in Val's room, in his bed, tugged up and sleeping soundly laying on your side.

Valentino usually stays up late, whether due to work, spending the night in a club, or getting carried away with his brand new plaything on the couch. You don't wait for him, and he never makes it a problem unless you get bold enough to complain.

He sneaks into the room in the early morning, heels discarded, and takes in your silhouette under the blanket. He crawls up on top of you, pulling away the covers.

There are hands all over you, deceivingly gentle at first. You feel the heat from his body, the weight on your back that's caging you against the bed, his breath against your neck, fur tickling your nose, fingers pulling down whatever you're wearing from the waist down, a careful grip pulling your leg aside.

You try to stir, still dazed from sleep. You call out his name barely louder than a whisper, confused and disoriented.

He tugs his head under your chin to leave lazy kisses on your neck. "Go back to sleep, it's still early."

Contrary to popular belief, Valentino is a clingy fucker, whether he admits it or not. It's not uncommon for him to wrap himself around you like an octopus with abandonment issues and sleep like that, especially if he had one too many drinks. You figure that's the case this time too and decide to doze off again.

You might have stolen five more minutes of sleep, but then you feel wet fingers wondering up your inner thigh and sinking into you. You whine softly, still half asleep, trying to stir but he keeps you in place.

He stretches you out, fast but careful. His saliva works its magic into your system, your muscles relaxing, tingling pleasure shooting through your nerves. Your breath hitches when he brushes against your sweet spot, again and again with practiced precision.

"There, just relax, I'll be quick," he offers as a reassurance, his voice uncharacteristically soft against your skin.

You're so tired from the previous day, tired enough to actually believe him. You sigh and relax, shifting your body to get more comfortable. Valentino chuckles right beside your ear, pulling his fingers out. He shifts over you, and you vaguely hear the sound of a zipper being pulled down.

You fully awake when he thrusts into you, both of you sighing at the contact. You turn your upper body, laying your shoulders as flat as you can on the pillow beneath. You blindly search for something to hold onto in the dark, finally finding Val's upper arms and grabbing them loosely, your muscles still feeling like mush. A moan slips out of you when he finally bottoms out and starts fucking you properly, like he's been desperate for it the whole evening.

You might have joked about it if you could actually catch your breath.

"Didn't I just tell you to go back to sleep?" Valentino rasps out, half a laugh and half a content sigh. "Or were you just waiting for me the whole time, hm? Can't even handle a single night without me?"

You barely catch what he's saying, but you nod in agreement regardless, hoping it would be the right answer. He seems to be in a good mood, last thing you'd want is to ruin it by 'ignoring' him. Instead you concentrate on the pressure steadily building with every thrust. You weren't horny in the slightest a few minutes ago, but right now you just hope he'll let you cum.

Still, Valentino seems more concerned with chasing his own release rather than yours, but who are you to complain? He grasps your chin and pulls you into a messy kiss, more tongue and spit than actual affection, swallowing down the small sounds you make.

You realize through the haze that he's letting out those moth squeaks that either mean he's really horny or too spaced out on alcohol and drugs to care. It's endearing, really, how you're one of the few who can get him so out of it. You adjust your arms to wrap around his back and keep him close, savoring the warmth.

He pulls back once he cums inside of you, his eyes glowing in the dark slightly as he takes you in, lids hooded like a satisfied cat's. "Have I ever told you how adorable you look when you sleep? Such a pure little thing."

You smile at the compliment, a rare commodity coming from Valentino unless he's using it as manipulation. Not like he needs to abuse flattery on you.

"But," he continues with a purr, as he lays you flat on your back and slides down, all of his hands on you. He finally settled between your legs, his upper arms wrapping around your thighs to keep them open, "this angle isn't too bad to look at either."

He makes a show of slowly uncurling his tongue and licking his lips. He locks eye contact as he sinks down, humming softly. The tiny vibrations travel up your spine and you shudder. Well, at least you'll start your day on a positive note.

[madschiavelique]

F8

(i had written this in june and forgot to post it. after seeing you guys agree a lot with this post about isekaid reader i just had to put it out there)

What if Tav is conscious of the quick saves and the F8s, but not the rest of the team ? What if they remember every moment where their adventure companions stood on the very precipice of death or on the extreme of it ended up soulless, laying on the ground like a bag of cold limbs, deprived of any life ? 

What if they used F8s in the hopes that somehow, on the next try, no companions would receive a critical hit that would bring them to the abominable sight of matte eyes, missing the glint of light that shines when one’s spirit still remains ?

Perhaps then someone else could replace one of your companions in the group? Perhaps by using Withers' hirelings you could prevent the others from being affected?

Imagine one night after a long day,, you’re by yourself next to the campfire for the long rest.

The stars have been piercing the black sky like pins in the web of night for a long time now, and it's your turn to keep watch.

Everything was quiet, so quiet, too quiet. It was a sharp contrast between the little crackles of the fire taking hot splinters into the air, and the raging storm of your mind.

Your eyes are immersed in the flames, as if they alone held the precious strategy that would allow you to overcome the horror of the many deaths you wanted to prevent.

You consider the strategy you might employ for the next day. Maybe start with a small bomb? No, if the range is missed it could cause more area damage than necessary. 

Maybe throw a bottle of grease to slow them down? Except that if any sparks flew, it could get complicated.

Then maybe shoot an arrow of many targets... 

‘Can't find sleep ?

You could have expected any of the companions. But the one who came to see you was Karlach.

“No.” you replied simply, without taking your eyes off the fire.

“What’s on your mind soldier ? You’ve been… absent minded today.”

Absent minded was a euphemism.

You had seen up close all of your companions nearing the party wipe, more than a half of them on the ground trying to get their death saving throws as the rest of the party barely had any health remaining.

And out of the few dialogue options you had for her tonight, between them all, was : 

[PERSUASION] Nothing, it’s a bit of a personal matter, you’d find it very boring.

The rest of the options were either too rude for your taste, or would ultimately lead you to unveil of the true reason you were here. You knew that, it wasn’t the first time you were having this conversation.

The dice to roll was 15, and you had no guidance to get from Shadowheart, nor friends from Wyll. Barely a good bonus, you’d have to deal with it.

The first roll was a miserable 4, luckily for you, you had as many points of inspiration. The second roll was a 10. 

Maybe you should embrace it and tell her ? you thought.

The next was a 7, and the one after was a 14. 

Was the game really pushing you to reveal your situation?

Your last roll came, a natural 1.

“Come on, you know so much about all of us at camp !” she said as she sat down next to you. “Let us know more about you.”

You weren't surprised that it was Karlach who came to talk to you. You'd seen the video of Karlach breaking the fourth wall a while back, before you were transported into the game. But it intrigued you, why should she come at this precise moment of rumination.

“I just wonder... why can't the past just die?” you say, turning to her.

“I guess because sometimes you gotta kill the past yourself ? Or something like that, I don’t know, probably something wise about it. I could ask Gale if you want ? I’m sure he’d bounce on the occasion to talk about something that requires his intelligence!”

“No please, don’t get him up.”

Gale would ask too many questions, too many right questions, and would never get away from the subject. This was the last thing you needed at the moment.

“Why do you wonder that ? Something from your past chasing you ? I could take care of that.”

“I doubt you could.” you scoffed.

“Oh come on, there’s nothing that can surmount us.”

You observed her for a moment, her undying joy and energy feeling so natural. How could it feel so natural ?

“You’re not real.”

The sentence came out of your mouth, dialogue options all gone and unneeded.

She frowned, confused as the joy that inhabited her calmed down.

“What ?”

“You’re not real,” you repeated, the emotions twisting your throat.

“What do you mean ?”

A sort of panic slowly took hold of her as a heavy rumble echoed in the distance, like thunder.

“You remember all these memories, you feel all of these emotions.”

The rumbling grew louder, the ground beginning to tremble. 

“Your anger, your joy, your sadness.”

The camp floor cracked, Karlach standing up suddenly.

“None of them really belong to you.”

Beams of green light passed through the fissures of the cracked floor.

“Because you're not real.”

Your eyes landed on Withers, his gaze urging you to do the right thing.

“F8.”

A moment passed, and before long you were back in front of the campfire.

Back with your thoughts, with your torments, with heavy choices. 

They can't know, at least not yet.

______________

i wrote this while listening to this and gosh it matches so well

[mya-valentine]

Headcanon: Sanemi Shinazugawa with a Thunder Hashira S/O

Sanemi’s intense, no-nonsense personality fits perfectly with a Thunder Hashira S/O, whose own electric energy matches his ferocity in battle. Both are known for their aggressive fighting styles, and together, they’re a storm of power, lightning and wind clashing in perfect, chaotic harmony.

Sanemi is drawn to his Thunder Hashira S/O because of their explosive nature. He admires their speed and precision, and how they can strike down demons with lightning-fast attacks. Their agility in combat fascinates him—there’s something about watching them dart through the battlefield like a bolt of lightning that makes his heart race.

Their fights are a sight to behold. Sanemi’s wind techniques whip through the air in tandem with his S/O’s lightning strikes, creating a tempest of raw power that tears through even the toughest demons. The mix of wind and thunder is both destructive and awe-inspiring, leaving behind scorched ground and shattered enemies in their wake.

While they’re both hot-headed and intense, Sanemi and his S/O often butt heads due to their similarly fiery temperaments. Arguments can get loud and heated, especially when they disagree on tactics or how to handle a situation. However, they never hold grudges for long, knowing that their shared passion only makes them stronger as a couple.

Despite his rough exterior, Sanemi deeply respects his Thunder Hashira S/O’s strength. He’s the first to compliment their speed, precision, and unwavering determination, though his compliments are usually gruff and unpolished. When he says things like, “You’re not half-bad,” they know it’s his way of saying he thinks they’re incredible.

His S/O knows how to handle Sanemi’s brash personality. They don’t let his tough demeanor get to them and are one of the few people who can match his energy without backing down. When Sanemi gets too aggressive or stubborn, they call him out with equal intensity, which Sanemi secretly loves. He appreciates having someone who’s not afraid to stand up to him.

Despite the constant intensity between them, Sanemi and his S/O have a deep connection. Their passion for fighting demons and protecting others bonds them, and though they don’t often express their feelings with words, their actions say everything. Whether it’s the way Sanemi fights alongside them without hesitation or the way they watch his back during missions, they trust each other completely.

Sanemi has a soft spot for his S/O’s quick wit and sarcastic sense of humor. He might pretend to be annoyed when they tease him, but he actually loves it. Their playful banter is one of the rare things that can lighten his usually serious mood.

Even though Sanemi is fiercely independent, he finds comfort in knowing that his Thunder Hashira S/O is by his side. When they fight together, he doesn’t have to worry about them; he knows they can handle themselves. This mutual trust allows them to push each other to new limits, making them an unstoppable force.

While Sanemi isn’t the most outwardly affectionate person, his Thunder Hashira S/O knows he cares deeply. He shows his love through his actions—bandaging their wounds after a fight, giving them his cloak when they’re cold, or standing silently beside them after a tough mission. It’s in these small gestures that Sanemi’s protective nature shines through.

Together, they’re a powerful, unstoppable duo. Sanemi’s wind techniques and his S/O’s thunder strikes create a deadly combination that leaves no room for hesitation. Their shared intensity fuels their relationship, and though they may clash at times, they both know that they make each other stronger, both in battle and in life.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[taxes-evasion]

TICCI TOBY RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONS!! I'm an absolute sucker for this men. Maybe put smth like first kiss here or sum like I love how ppl make first kiss headcanons. TYSM!!

OMFG YES PLEASE!! I also absolutely love headcanons for first kisses ^^

Characters Included: Toby and Reader.

Small Warnings: mental illness, bone-breaking, tics, stuttering, very rapid change of personality and/or mood, hallucinations, violent fits of rage, kisses, hugs and a swear word.

𝑅𝐸𝐿𝐴𝑇𝐼𝑂𝑁𝑆𝐻𝐼𝑃 𝐻𝐸𝐴𝐷𝐶𝐴𝑁𝑂𝑁𝑆 + 𝐹𝐼𝑅𝑆𝑇 𝐾𝐼𝑆𝑆 𝐹𝑂𝑅 𝑇𝑂𝐵𝑌

RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONS

If you managed to have a relationship with Toby: my sincerest congratulations!

Toby is a guy with big trust issues;

As soon as you arrive at the mansion he will most likely be suspicious of you;

Don't be too mean to him for this, it's the voices in his head that make him doubt about everything;

But when do you enter in a relationship with him? Oh, dear God...

He'll absolutely be the sweetest guy (if he's not yandere/if he doesn't have a fit of rage);

He will bring you small gifts such as: flowers, stones that he finds particularly cute or even deer antlers, why not?

All things he finds during missions/walks;

I can't get it out of my head that he will take you to look at the stars on the roof of the mansion and, I confirm that he will;

There is a possibility that, when he realizes that he is losing control, he warns you;

Not that you wouldn't have noticed, I mean, his tics and stuttering will begin to increase;

But it's so nice that he does this;

If Toby isn't yandere I don't imagine him as a toxic person;

If he REALLY cares about you, he'll only forget your birthday, but our boy here has a lot to think about;

But please, remind him of your birthday!

He will gladly give you a gift although late, he'll find the time for sure!!

FIRST KISS HEADCANONS

At first, it will be difficult for the two of you to have physical contact such as cuddle sessions;

Especially because Toby will be nervous;

Given his particularly difficult past both at school and at home, he has never had a romantic relationship with anyone;

So he is totally inexperienced;

(please don't laugh at him);

Precisely because he doesn't have any kind of experience, he will be very stiff the first few times you see him and run to hug him;

His tics will increase slightly;

As time passes, he notices that your pats, hugs, and kisses on his forehead/nose/head calm him down enough;

And he gets quite curious about how your lips would feel on his;

But Toby wouldn't admit it!

He doesn't want to ruin his first and very good relationship because he becomes impatient;

He also cares a lot about you;

But, when does the first kiss happen?

I'm pretty sure you'll start the kiss, Toby wouldn't know where to start or how to approach you;

He'll be absolutely red in the face, he didn't expect it at all and it was magnificent;

Toby will remain quite rigid even at that moment and, to give he his space, you'll probably decide to take a step back from him;

He watches you for a few seconds before dragging you into a bear-hug and kissing you again;

Then the cuddles begin;

Most likely, a few days after this event, he would ask you to kiss him again and/or if he can kiss you;

He'll ask you to teach him how to kiss for sure, and he's actually a quick learner ^^

The stars shone in the dark blue sky, sending Toby calm and serenity. It had been a difficult day and he was very happy to rest and do the thing he liked the most with his favorite person next to him. You.

He was so focused on stargazing that Toby didn't even notice that your focus was on his face.

You smile at the sight of his chocolate eyes lit up by the light of the stars. You and Toby had been a couple for a year and a half and it had been the best choice of your life, really. You loved everything about him: the way he hugged you, listened to you with a lot of attention, his little gifts from the forest for you, everything. However, you didn't think you were doing enough: Toby deserved the best and all the love he could get.

You knew about his past and the traumas and insecurities it had created for him. So you knew what the next step was for your relationship.

"Toby..." his name comes out beautifully from your lips and the boy can't help but look at you. His eyes light up when he sees your face: beautiful, smiling and brighter than all the stars in the sky. His heart melts. He's about to say a few words when his melted heart loses a beat. Your lips on his stop all thoughts. You're so close to him that the only scent he can smell is your own.

But before he knew it, you had already distanced yourself from him. Did he really forget to kiss you back? Fuck...

You were just going to ask him if he was okay but his long, thin but still strong arms pull you into a really big hug. Your head is pushed against his chest and you can clearly feel his heart speeding increase.

"I'm-I'm sorry... I-I've never kissed s-someone be-before..." his breathing increases slightly, you can feel it from his frequent exhales and inhales. "Shhhh... it's all right, you know it's not your fault, Toby." You tried to comfort him, you didn't want this to be a time to remind him of his social shortcomings. It seems to work and you lift your face from Toby's chest to meet his eyes.

A shy smile appears on his lips before bringing them closer to yours. This time he starts the kiss, and it's the best thing in the world. Giggles start pouring out of both your throat and his as you two continue to kiss, and Toby can't help but think about how lucky he is to have you by his side.

Ok... What the hell did I just write? I mean it's my first time writing a prop, if you can call it that :')

I hope it didn't come out a crap :'3

♡

[tallulah477]

The Mighty Handyman

Kinktober Day 7: Blowjob

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Na’vi!Reader

Warnings: AgedUp!Neteyam, Oral (male receiving), Deepthroating, Cum swallowing, Slight nipple play, Slight dirty talk

Word Count: 3.8k

A/N: I've missed 2 prompts so far . . . but at least this one's on time!

Summary: Things have just kept going wrong for you during the last week. Luckily, Neteyam is always around and always willing to help you out. If only you knew how to properly thank him for all his hard work.

Translations:

Tewng - Loincloth

Tanhi - star, bioluminescent freckle

Yawne - Beloved

Paskalin - Sweet berry (term of endearment)

The week starts out like shit.

You’re hunting a yerik, a large buck that’s going to feed a respectable amount of people at the night’s communal dinner. It’s in your sights, head bent low as it nibbles on a golden flower just to the left in the small clearing. The bow in your hand is steady, pulled taunt and ready to fire. With a deep breath, you release the string, but the arrow never reaches the yerik. Instead, the upper limb of your bow snaps in half just as you release it, the arrow flying way to the right and falling short of the animal. The yerik’s head snaps up at the cracking sound and you curse as it quickly turns to run only to be stopped in its tracks by another arrow cutting through the air and piercing its chest with expert precision.

Your gaze flies to where the arrow came from and from the cover of vast foliage appears none other than Neteyam Sully. Beautiful, smart, capable, your crush since forever, Neteyam Sully. His steps are quick as he approaches the dying animal and you can’t help how your mouth and eyes are stuck wide open in shock as he kneels next to the yerik, reciting a prayer to Eywa. 

He turns to you as you walk towards him, a small smile on his face as he greets you with the respectful ‘I see you’ hand gesture.

“I heard your bow snap,” he says, eyes sliding down to the broken weapon still held in your hand. “You worked hard to track this buck and I didn’t want you to lose your hunt. I hope you’re not angry with me for taking your kill.”

Your heart races at his words and the way his amber eyes shine in the sunlight of the clearing. Eywa, he looks so fucking good just standing there in his hunter’s clothes, cummerbund wrapped proudly around his lean torso and arm and leg guards covering his strong forearms and calves. 

Your eyes flick back to his and you clear my throat, face heating up at being caught staring. “Oh, yeah, no. I’m-I’m glad you got it.”

“It’s a good kill,” he says, attaching his bow to his back and crouching down to grab onto the animal. “It will feed many of the People tonight. You should be proud. I’ll help you bring it back to the village, yes?”

Your brows furrow, feet shuffling awkwardly against the soft grass. “Why are you acting as though it’s my kill?”

“It is yours,” Neteyam says. He hauls the large animal over his shoulder, grunting with effort. “It was not my intention to take your kill. You tracked it and it would have been your arrow that pierced it had your bow not broken. You deserve it.”

“It wouldn’t feel right,” You say, voice tight. “You killed it, you deserve the recognition.” 

A quiet hum sounds from the back of his throat, gaze fixed on you as he adjusts the animal into a more comfortable position. Your heart just about leaps out of your chest when he leans forward and nudges your shoulder with his. 

“A combined effort then,” he relents, beginning to walk towards the village. He shoots a goofy and devastatingly handsome grin at you over his shoulder. “Our kill. Together,” 

Oh, Eywa. Have mercy. 

There are moments when you think Neteyam might like you back. Things he does that make it seem like the idea is possible: like when he seems to reserve little secret smiles during group hunts just for you, or the way your name rolls off his tongue, voice soft and low like syrup, like he takes great care in saying it.

Or moments like this when he says out of the box shit like “Our kill. Together,” like he’s purposefully trying to give you heart palpitations. 

“It is a shame about your bow,” he continues, as if he has no idea he’s just rendered you completely stupid thinking about every other thing you’ve already imagined doing with (or to) him. “I can help you carve a new one, if you’d like?” 

Mercy! Please, Great Mother, mercy!

He does help you carve a new bow, deft hands working diligently as they manipulate the wood into the shape he wants. His voice is low and soothing, caressing your eardrums as he describes what he’s doing, fingers pausing from where they’re pressing his blade up to the wood to point to the upper limb, the long digits dragging gently up and down the wood there.   

And honestly? You have no idea what he’s even been saying. If he wants you to listen, he should put his damn hands away. 

“Carving it this way instead of the normal way makes for stronger limbs, you see?” 

“Mhm,”

His fingers wrap around the top of the bow and stay there. It’s only when they don’t move for a while that you snap out of your daze and find his gorgeous face smirking at you. 

“Y/n, are you listening to me?”

“Fuck, oops! Sorry, yes. I mean yes. I mean—uh, no?”

He chuckles, shaking his head in feigned disappointment. “Shame on you,” 

You let out a shaky laugh, thankful that he’s not angry for you basically wasting his time when he was trying to teach you something useful. 

“Sorry,” You say again, carefully taking the bow from his hands. “I’m just tired. Thank you for the bow, Neteyam. It’s really beautiful.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m always happy to help you, y/n,” 

And fuck, if that isn’t the most earnest thing you’ve ever heard. You know he means it, and you try to remind yourself that he would say it to anyone - he is the future Olo’eyktan after all. But he’s looking at you when he says it, not anyone else, and the blush that creeps on your cheeks can’t be helped. And neither can the small smile that plays on your lips as you squeak out a tiny, high pitched ‘thanks’.

The rest of the week is more of the same. Problem after problem that are just minor inconveniences more than anything, but they still send you into fits of exasperation all the same. 

Especially since Neteyam is there for them all.

When you trip over a hidden root on your way to the communal dinner with a basket of fruit in your hands sending all the cleaned fruit, basket, and yourself flying to the ground; Neteyam is there, wide eyes filled with concern as he pulls you up and makes sure you’re okay before helping you regather the fruit with a teasing “You know, if you didn’t want to carry the basket to dinner, all you had to do was tell me and I would have carried it for you. You didn’t have to throw it.”

And when you stumble into Mo’at’s tent, knee bleeding and scraped up from a game of tag with your younger sister gone wrong; Neteyam is already there, mid conversation with his grandmother. He respectfully waves off his grandmother when she goes to put down the stone bowl she's using to crush herbs and grabs the premade ointment from off a shelf. 

“I can tend to her, Grandmother,” he says, moving to sit in front of you. 

His fingers are gentle as they apply the healing paste to your wound. The cuts aren’t deep, just the usual scrapes and bruises one gets when falling to the ground. But the ointment stings, and you can’t help but flinch despite his considerate touch. You try to distract yourself by listening to the deep timbre of his voice as he coos at you and tells you that you’re doing such a good job. 

And then yesterday, you just about died from embarrassment.

You had been working on a new beaded top for a while now. A new intricate design you were trying out but couldn’t seem to figure out how to properly tie it off to secure it. But it was beautiful and as much as you wanted to save it for a special occasion, you were dying to wear it. So when you finished it, you immediately threw it on, intending on just walking around the village to see how it felt and if anything needed to be adjusted. 

The end of your top came in the form of your best friend, Yena. She’s admiring the beading, looking with her fingers because she’s incapable of just examining something with her eyes, when Neteyam shows up. He’s in the process of taking off his cummerbund when he spots you two, a smile curling on his lips in greeting. Yena goes to pull her hand back to wave at him, but her bracelet gets caught on the beads of your top and snaps the whole thing apart when she yanks her hand away too fast. 

The beads go flying and the whole top unravels around you and falls to the ground. With a horrified squeal, you wrap your arms around your chest tightly, panicked eyes darting between Yena and Neteyam’s wide, shocked eyes as they stare back at you, frozen. 

Neteyam is the first to move. He steps behind you and wraps his cummerbund around your front, tying it tightly in the back so that it covers your chest. It’s not perfect, the makeshift top is not enough to fully cover your breasts, but it's enough that you don’t have to worry about a nip slip on your way home. 

You can’t look at him, embarrassment rushing through every fiber of your being, and you run, hightailing it home with your tail between your legs and Neteyam’s battle band pressed tightly against your tits.

All of this leads you here, to the current problem at hand: the broken support post in your hut.

The storm last night had been brutal and, despite the cover of the canopy above, many huts in the village still took damage. Yours included.

It’s not all bad though, you think, your eyes glued to the way Neteyam’s back muscles contract and shift under his cobalt skin as he lifts the partial beam replacement in place. You bite your lip as your eyes trail down the smooth canvas of his back. His shoulders are broad and strong and you just know that he could toss you around like a ragdoll if he wanted to. Your eyes trail down lower, over the line his very lickable spine, and falling to his tapered waist. His tail swishes slightly as he works, back and forth, and you follow the movement, almost hypnotized, and thoughts of Neteyam wrapping that tail around your thigh as he fucks into you invade your mind without permission. 

“Okay,” Neteyam says suddenly, pulling you out of your trance. He pats the temporary beam a few times, admiring his work. “That should do it for now. At least until the new beam is crafted for you,”

He turns to you and you plaster a quick smile on your face, trying to not be too obvious about the fact that you were just checking him out and having fantasies of him railing you through the floor. 

“Great! Thanks so much, Neteyam. You don’t know how much I appreciate this,” 

“Of course,” he says. “I’m always here to help you, y/n.”

“Yeah,” You say, softly. “I’ve noticed.”

“So,” Neteyam says, eyes darting around the rest of your hut, seemingly looking for something. “Anything else I can help you with? Anything else broken? I mean, if you’re going to drop anything or get scrapped up again, now is the time.”

You laugh, pushing at his shoulder. “Stoooop! Don’t make fun of me,”

He chuckles, returning your shove good-naturedly with one of his own. “It’s easy with all that’s happened to you this past week,”

And he looks so gorgeous just standing there, eyes alight with mirth, lips twisting into a playful smile, fangs poking slightly into his bottom lip. You want your own fangs to take their place, you want to capture his lip between your own and suck on the plump flesh until he’s moaning in your mouth. You want to feel him hard against you, hips pressing into yours with the clear evidence of his desire for you. And in that moment, the air is suddenly too thick - the heat of his hand still on your shoulder feels like fire as it soaks into your skin and spreads through your entire body. 

Neteyam’s smile is gone now, eyes intense as they stare back into your own, and it's almost impossible to believe that he isn’t feeling the same insane pull towards you too. For a crazy moment, you're sure he’s going to kiss you, but then he drops his hand from your shoulder and steps back.

“Well, if there’s anything else I can help you with, you know where to find me, yes?” 

You watch, feeling sick, as he gives you a friendly nod and makes his way towards the front of your tent. The word erupts from your throat before you can even think about what you’re doing, desperate sounding and louder than you would have ever wanted.

“WAIT!”

Neteyam freezes, hand reached out for the entrance flap, and he turns to look back at you, confused.

“S-sorry,” You stutter. You step closer to him, heart in your throat. “I just-- I just wanted to thank you. For all you’ve done for me, you know?”

Neteyam’s eyes soften. “Oh, no problem, y/n,”

“So will you let me?”

His brows furrow. “Let you what?”

You step closer still, so close until you are nose to nose, and his eyes widen, the yellow of his irises rapidly disappearing as they get swallowed up by his pupils as he stares back. 

Your lips just barely brush against his. “Let me thank you,” 

Neteyam lets out a harsh breath as you drop to your knees. Eywa does not pick favorites, you’ve heard it said many times before. She holds all her children in her heart equally. But it's clear as you look up at Neteyam’s visage, that everyone else has lied to you. The Great Mother does indeed have favorites, and Neteyam is her most prized creation. And this is where you belong: on your knees before him and worshiping him.

Your hands creep up the outside of his thighs, caressing the toned muscles and feeling how they flex and tense under your gentle touch. Neteyam’s stomach is taut, dipping slightly as his breathing shudders above you. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They stay clenched at his sides, twitching occasionally as if they want to move but don’t know where. And he’s looking down on you, clearly nervous but also in awe, as if you yourself are one of Eywa’s favorites and he’s currently the one being blessed. 

You grin deviously, confidence flooding through you at the confirmation that you had been right - he does like you. Wants you.

Your fingers play at the band of his tewng as you look up at him through your lashes, mouth inches from his growing bulge, so close he can feel your hot breath on it as you speak. “Can I, Teyam?”

“Oh, Great Mother,” he breathes, punched out like the words hurt him. “Please. Please, y/n,”

You press a gentle kiss to his abdomen and untie the strings holding up his tewng. It’s like unwrapping the best present ever as it falls to the ground, revealing his gorgeous cock - long and hard as it slaps against his belly.

Your mouth waters at the sight and you don’t hesitate to press your lips to his frenulum, kissing the hard length reverently and smiling at the way Neteyam gasps. Your hands find their place on Neteyam’s hips again, holding him steady as you nuzzle your face against his cock and feel how it twitches against your cheek.

“It’s so big,” You hear yourself saying. “You carry this around all day long?”

Neteyam lets out an aborted sound at your joke that turns into a whine as you run your soft lips up and down his length, teasing him with just the softest of touches. You press another kiss to the underside of his cock and one of his hands finds its way to the back of your head, cradling it gently.

“Please, y/n,” he whispers. “Please put your mouth on me.”

Obviously, you have no choice but to oblige him. Your head dips down and your tongue runs a wet stripe up the entire length of his cock. Your moan echoes his and you can feel how wet you’re getting in your own tewng at the feel of his hard, hot skin on your tongue. Your tongue traces along the darker stripes decorating his length, lavishing attention on each one, not wanting to leave any unexplored,  and your lips press devotedly to each and every tanhi you pass. In the back of your mind, you're a little sad this isn’t happening outside in the forest, under the glow of the moonlight where the little bioluminescent freckles can shine brightly against your tongue. 

Neteyam’s hand curls in your braids and holds you still, keeping you from your exploration, while the other hand guides his cock down so the head brushes against your lips. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” You giggle, tasting the drops of precum that smeared against your lips. “Was I not going fast enough for you?”

“You’re such a tease,” he says, eyes wild.

His cock slips between your lips and your eyes slip shut as his long, hot length invades your waiting mouth. It starts out sweet as Neteyam slides his cock inside, inch by glorious inch, dragging it against your tongue. He makes it about half way before he pulls out to the tip, letting you suckle on the mushroom head for a moment, the taste of his precum exploding on your tongue, before pushing back in. 

He guides your head in the rhythm he likes, a gentle back and forth along his length, occasionally slipping in another inch until you feel his cock hitting the back of your throat with each pass. You hum around him at the feeling and look up at him, desperately asking with your eyes for more.

“Hah-fuck,” he curses, rapturous expression on his face as he stares down at you. “Fuck, you’re so pretty.”

His confession unleashes a warmth in your chest and your brows furrow in concentration, hollowing your cheeks and sucking harder around his cock. He groans louder, hand tightening into a fist in your hair and you moan around his length at the pleasurable sting. 

“T-take off your top,” he begs. “Take it off. Please, y/n. Please take it off.”

You bob your head faster as you reach behind you for the string of your top. With a few practiced movements, the top is loosened and you let it fall to the floor, revealing your breasts to Neteyam for the second time that week.

“Oh, Eywa,” he moans, eyes locked on your perky breasts. You cup them in your palms and press them together, looking up at him through hooded lids. You squeeze your nipples between your thumbs and pointer fingers, imagining that your fingers are his. You’ve thought about it so many times, how his hands would feel on you. His hands are so beautiful, long fingers that you know would just play with you perfectly, teasing and tormenting the hard buds until you were a puddle of tears and arousal under him. 

He presses his cock deeper into your mouth and you gag, loud and wet around him, loving the way he whimpers as though he’s dying just from the sound alone. You try to take more of him in, pressing against him harder and trying to open your throat, wanting to feel your nose press against his soft skin.

“You’re so perfect,” he says, breathless. “So perfect for me, yawne. Shit!” 

Your nose hits its desired mark, pressing snuggly against the warm skin of his pelvis. His cock is buried in your throat now and you can’t breathe, can’t do anything except gaze up at him through your tears and see what you're sure is a literal god in front of you. 

“Loved seeing your tits yesterday,” he tells you, voice gravelly. “They’re so beautiful. Hated having to help cover them up.” 

You try to groan at his words, the sound cut off by the large intrusion in your throat. You pull back, needing air, but your lips stay connected to his cock by a thick strand of saliva. He whines at the loss, but you make it up to him by dragging your tongue up the soaked underside of his cock before taking him back in your mouth, sucking greedily on the hard flesh like the world’s best tasting lollipop. 

“You’re so perfect,” he breathes again. “Feels so good, yawne. So much better than I ever could have imagined,” His cock throbs against your tongue. “The Great Mother is blessing me for my good deeds.”

You nod quickly, hands reaching up to grip his thighs as you take him back in your throat. He moans loudly, thighs shaking under your hold, both hands fisting in your hair to keep you still, hips finally moving on their own to fuck your face. 

You gag again, choking on his cock, saliva dribbling down your chin and his balls, and you're dying - dying the most perfect death in existence and there’s no other way you would rather go out than by choking on Neteyam’s perfect cock. 

And then he’s gone again, cock dripping and twitching as he gasps for breath. “Gonna cum, y/n. Where...?”

“Cum for me, Teyam,” You pant, chest heaving. Your hand wraps around the base of his cock, stroking firmly. Your tongue lulls out of your mouth just in front of the tip, a clear invitation. 

“Fuck, fuck fuck,” he moans. He cums explosively, thick white ropes shooting out from the purple tip and landing on your tongue, coating your tastebuds. Your eyes roll back into your head as you swallow it up, relishing in his taste and leaning in to run your tongue along the sensitive head just to get every single last drop.

He falls to his knees in front of you, panting and shaking as the aftershocks rock through him. He cradles your face, his blissed out eyes meeting your teary ones before he pulls you into a kiss.

Your lips dance together like they’ve been doing it forever, like they know each other, a sensual press of give and take that leaves you both breathless. He lowers you to the ground gently and hovers over you.

“So,” he starts, voice low and husky. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What else can I help you with? Tell me, paskalin. Put me to work.”

**Special thanks to @pandoraslxna for the prompt!

[zenithangelic]

Holiday headcanons for the Silent Hill protags?

Silent Hill protags Holiday Headcanons:

Harry Mason

Harry is the type to spend hours agonising over the perfect gifts for his loved ones. He puts deep thought into what Cheryl (or anyone he cares about) would truly appreciate, often opting for heartfelt, practical items that also carry a hint of sentimentality.

He enjoys brisk winter walks, especially in the quiet, snow-covered woods, reflecting on life's mysteries while trying to keep his mind at peace.

Harry’s holiday evenings are incomplete without a steaming mug of hot cocoa, preferably shared with someone. He probably makes it with extra marshmallows, even if he’s drinking it alone.

He watches classic holiday movies (like It’s a Wonderful Life) and inevitably gets emotional, though he’d never admit it.

James Sunderland

James has a tendency to dwell on the past during the holidays. Old photo albums and bittersweet memories dominate his thoughts. He might even write letters to Mary, just to process his emotions.

While not enthusiastic about decorating, James will hang up a string of lights or a small wreath if encouraged. It’s a half-hearted effort, but it helps him feel a little less alone.

James finds solace in sitting by a fire or a cozy heater, listening to soft music. He might even nurse a glass of wine or eggnog to help him unwind.

James will drop money into donation buckets or give to toy drives if he stumbles across them. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he feels better afterward.

Heather Mason

Heather’s holiday spirit leans toward snarky. She loves ugly Christmas sweaters and cheeky ornaments, but she also secretly enjoys traditional activities like baking cookies or wrapping gifts.

Heather thrives on the chaos of shopping on Christmas Eve, navigating crowded malls with the precision of a battlefield general. She somehow always ends up with gifts that everyone loves.

Her sense of humour comes through in her holiday cards, which are a mix of crude doodles and heartfelt messages. It’s her way of saying she cares without being overly sappy.

Heather loves winter shenanigans, especially snowball fights. She’s quick, precise, and ruthless in her aim, making her a formidable opponent for anyone brave enough to challenge her.

Henry Townshend

Henry prefers to keep things simple, spending his holidays in solitude or with a small circle of trusted friends. A good book, some quiet music, and warm lighting are all he needs to feel content.

He has a habit of staring out his apartment window, watching snowflakes drift down and imagining the lives of the people he sees below.

Henry often spends the holidays painting or sketching scenes inspired by the season—snow-covered streets, twinkling lights, or cozy interiors. It’s therapeutic for him.

He’ll cook something special, even if it’s just for himself. Henry’s meals are simple but hearty, like a warm stew or a freshly baked pie. Cooking helps him feel grounded.

A/N: I'm so sorry that I took so long with these, I've had an extremely busy month. I know that the holiday season is coming to an end, but I wanted to get these published anyway!

♡If you liked this fic, please consider buying me a coffee! Ko-fi ♡

[danielmolloystits]

looks just like an angel (Armand/Daniel, 1/1)

Summary:

The man in the chair—who Daniel assumes must be the priest, judging by his black button-down and white collar—looks up and smiles as he enters, all gleaming white teeth like one of those ads for toothpaste that four out of five dentists recommend. He has deep skin and dark, curly hair that he keeps having to brush away from his brown eyes. “Hello,” the priests greets him. “Welcome.” “Um,” Daniel says. “Hi.” — The drug den Daniel wakes up in after his encounter with Louis and Armand gets busted, and Armand decides to pretend to be the priest at his court-ordered N.A. meetings. That’s it. That’s the fic.

Pairing: M/M, Armand/Daniel Molloy (Devil's Minion) Rating: E WC: 5,555

It’s 9:52 in the morning. Daniel’s mouth tastes like he ate roadkill for breakfast and his head is pounding so loud he wants to tell it to come back with a warrant. Across from him sits his probation officer, whose name he’s pretty sure is Sarah, wielding a kind expression and a notepad that contains a quick summary of Daniel’s many sins.

So far, he likes Sarah. Sarah is nice. Sarah is telling him how she’s going to get him through this without it destroying his entire life. Well, she hasn’t used those precise words, exactly, but Daniel has been able to glean the gist of it—she’s been saying things like “first offense” and “dismiss the charges” and it has all vaguely sounded like it might not screw everything up for him forever.

So that’s something, at least.

“Of course, pretrial diversion does come with some requirements on your end,” Probably-Sarah is saying, with a look of what appears to be genuine concern on her face. Maybe she’s a good liar, but Daniel thinks there’s a chance she actually cares about the dumb hungover kid who’s half-sitting, half-melting in her office chair. “You’ll need to start attending NA—Narcotics Anonymous, that is—and we’re going to administer periodic drug tests to make sure you’re keeping clean.”

Christ, he’s such an idiot. A stupid fucking idiot who’s just lucky to not be dead right now. His innards churn miserably in agreement with that thought, and Daniel hopes that they’re at the tail end of this pretrial check-in thingy. He really doesn’t want to throw up on this nice lady’s carpet.

Sarah continues, “But if you hold up your end of the bargain, then I’ll hold up mine.” She smiles at him, apparently oblivious to the imminently-threatening hostage situation that is Daniel’s stomach right now. It’s kind of sweet, though; she looks like she really believes he’s gonna make it through this program. Like she thinks he could maybe be somebody someday.

A bright young reporter with a point of view.

“And if all goes well, then after your probationary period is up, you’ll never have to see me again.” She tilts her head at him, and sure, it’s condescending. But, like, in the nice way moms are sometimes. “Let’s try to make sure that happens, yeah?” She passes him a stack of papers that repeat all of the information she just gave him verbally, which Daniel is grateful for, because it’s been challenging to try to pay attention when his insides are so valiantly attempting to become his outsides. “I’ll see you two weeks from now.”

Daniel nods and hurries out of the room, right as the hostage situation devolves into a massacre with no survivors. He swallows against the gastric acid and bits of egg that are currently attempting to escape his throat and rushes to the single-stall bathroom down the hall, sending a prayer of thanks to every higher power he can think of that it’s unoccupied. By some small miracle, he manages to keep his shit together until he is on his knees in front of the toilet, at which point everything he’s put in his body for the past week unceremoniously comes back out.

Idly, he wonders how many public bathrooms he’s done this in by now, how many times he has been in this same stupid situation—his mouth and nose hovering above a filthy fucking toilet seat that’s touched the asses of God knows how many strangers—as the choices from the night before come back to haunt him like an ex-lover after a bad breakup.

Too many, he thinks. Definitely too many.

He looks down at where the informational materials are still crumpled in his left fist, pastel-colored pamphlets with titles like Self-Acceptance and Am I An Addict?, and thinks he could probably use a break from living like this. Thinks maybe this won’t be such a bad thing if it leads to him finally getting clean.

After all, it sure as hell can’t get any worse.

***

Two nights later, Daniel arrives at the church closest to where he’s staying in the Castro, which the Welcome to Narcotics Anonymous pamphlet told him hosts meetings three nights a week. Our Lady of Most Holy and Ardent Redemptions, or whatever. He doesn’t actually remember, but he’s sure it was something like that: all overwrought and Catholic, a name that’s meant to imply you have to absolve yourself for the crime of being born.

As he walks through the vestibule, he’s surprised to find it utterly abandoned, blanketed in a thick layer of silence that clings to the dusty pews and eggshell-colored walls like a film. It’s eerie, almost, this conspicuous absence of life—if it weren’t for the printed-out sign attached to the back of the pulpit that reads NA meeting downstairs in Rosary Room!, he’d assume he’d gone to the wrong place entirely. As it is, he wanders around the nave with a vague sense of unease until he finds the stairs to the basement, then follows the unsettlingly-cheery instructions of yet more signs until he reaches one that says NA Meeting here!!! taped to a mahogany door.

For a moment, he has the absurd impulse to knock, as if he’s intruding on something he shouldn’t be. He shakes himself out of it and opens the door.

Inside, there isn’t much to look at: a handful of low bookshelves pressed snugly against the wall, a long table with a coffee pot and an unopened box of donuts, and seven or eight folding chairs arranged in a circle.

Only one of them is occupied.

The man in the chair—who Daniel assumes must be the priest, judging by his black button-down and white collar—looks up and smiles as he enters, all gleaming white teeth like one of those ads for toothpaste that four out of five dentists recommend. He has deep skin and dark, curly hair that he keeps having to brush away from his brown eyes.

“Hello,” the priests greets him. “Welcome.”

“Um,” Daniel says. “Hi.”

“It would seem you are our only attendee for this evening.” A sheepish little laugh rumbles out from the priest’s chest as he adds, “I suppose sobriety is not so much in vogue these days.” He has an accent, Daniel notes, like maybe he emigrated from England but was somewhere else before that. The way it squeezes around his vowels is dimly familiar.

“Guess not,” Daniel agrees, casting a sideways glance at all of the empty chairs. The poor attendance doesn’t bode great for the overall well-being of the Castro’s citizenry, he reckons; it’s certainly not because they don’t need to be here. “Isn’t NA supposed to be group therapy? Is it still gonna...work?”

The priest chuckles softly again, a light exhalation of air to break the stillness in the room. “Yes, though it appears our session will perhaps be a touch more intimate than most. I hope you don’t mind a bit of individualized attention.” His eyes sparkle, almost seem to shine, as he gestures for Daniel to take the seat across from him. “Please, sit. I’m Father Armand.”

He does. “Daniel.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Daniel,” Father Armand says sweetly, and wow, he has really thick eyelashes. So thick and dark that Daniel wonders briefly whether he’s wearing mascara—though he isn’t sure whether priests are allowed to do that. “What brings you to Narcotics Anonymous?”

“Um.” He stutters, flushed and awkward with the weight of Father Armand’s undivided attention. “This is the part where I’m supposed to say I’m an addict, right?”

“It’s just us, Daniel,” the other man replies, in a low and conspiratorial whisper. Like the two of them are getting away with something, like this is a part of an inside joke they’ve shared for years. “You may say whatever you’d like.”

“What if I don’t want to say anything?”

“That’s fine, too,” Father Armand answers easily, a reassuring smile on his face. “Though we might not make much progress on the issues that brought you here if we sit in silence.”

“Fair enough,” Daniel says. “All right, I guess I’m here because a court ordered it. I’d really rather not be.”

“This is not the outcome you’d have wanted, then, but perhaps it is the one you need.” And, warm and friendly as he is trying to be, the priest’s stare seems to cut straight through him, right down to the ugly things inside him that he endeavors to hide. It is wildly discomforting. “An intervention from a higher power, of sorts.”

“Not how I’d put it, personally,” Daniel says, simultaneously bemused and on-edge. He scratches an itch on his forehead. “More like an intervention from the SFPD.”

“Even the SFPD answers to God, Daniel.”

“O-kay.” Unsurprisingly, the fatalistic religious bullshit is not doing much to set Daniel at ease in this situation. “But yeah. I’m, uh. Here because I got busted. In a drug den.”

“What were you doing in a drug den?”

“Well.” Daniel blinks at him. “Drugs, mostly.”

“Yes, that much is obvious,” Father Armand says, waving a gloved hand dismissively. “But what compelled you to the drug den in the first place?” Then, before Daniel can answer, he continues, “Don’t say ‘drugs’ again.”

Daniel was definitely about to say ‘drugs’ again. “I’m not sure what you’re looking for here, man,” he answers instead, shrugging one shoulder noncommittally. “I like getting high. Not a lot more to it.”

“There’s always more to it,” the priest replies, sage-like and frustratingly stoic. “Whether we want to admit to it or not.”

“Orrr,” he drawls the single syllable out sarcastically, “maybe it’s just not worth telling. I was there because I wanted to do drugs and I got caught, dude.”

Father Armand hums thoughtfully. “Surely something in the evening must have led you there, though.”

“I don’t really remember,” Daniel says, and he’s maybe starting to lose his patience a little. “Probably on account of being radically high.”

“You can’t recall anything about the evening other than its conclusion?” In the dim lighting of the basement, the priest’s expression is difficult to read.

He frowns. “I might’ve met a guy at a bar, before. I think I was at Polynesian Mary’s, maybe?”

“Do you meet guys at bars often, Daniel?”

Immediately, he tenses, a frisson of indignation alighting in his gut at the priest’s thinly-veiled judgment.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He probably should’ve known better than to expect anything approaching compassion or understanding from the Catholic fucking Church. Lesson learned for next time—maybe the Episcopalians are running NA somewhere in the city.

“I meant no offense, Daniel,” Father Armand says, voice calm and composed in stark contrast to Daniel’s rising indignation. “I’m just inquiring as to your habits, to get a sense of where you could benefit from some lifestyle changes.”

“Oh, and I’m sure whatever you think I’m doing with these men is high on that list, right? This is the Castro, dude. Fuck you.”

“You have quite a lot of anger,” the priest comments dryly, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees as though he’s inspecting Daniel. “Is that what drives you to use?”

Is that what makes you fascinating?

“No, seriously, dude: fuck you. I’m not putting up with this shit.” He stands to leave, but Father Armand reaches out and grabs his wrist before he can, his grip unexpectedly steely.

“A reminder, Daniel, that your participation in this process is necessary if you wish to avoid jail time,” he says, still smiling that same, infuriating smile.

Daniel stops in his tracks. “Maybe not. I’ll work something out with my P.O., I’ll–”

“Yes, Sarah, was it?” Father Armand asks. “I wonder how she would react to news of your resistance to the process.”

“You–”

“I’m only here to help, Daniel,” the priest interrupts with an infuriatingly placid smile. “Now, are you intending to cooperate, or shall I go ahead and inform Sarah of your refusal to participate?” He gestures once more for Daniel to sit, his expression replete with a cool smugness. Begrudgingly, Daniel complies.

“Fucking—whatever, fine.” He closes his eyes and exhales noisily through his nose, trying to will himself into a state of calm. When he opens them again, the priest is staring at him expectantly. “I guess I use because I...I get bored.”

“Bored of what?”

“I dunno, dude.” He shrugs. “Sobriety. Life. Everything.”

Father Armand leans in even closer. “Interesting.”

“If you say so, man.” Daniel rolls his eyes. “Mostly it’s just tedious. I mean, all of it.”

“How so?” There is nothing but apparent sincerity in the question, which makes Daniel’s shoulders relax a fraction.

“It’s the same shit every day, isn’t it? Wake up, go to work, eat dinner, watch TV, over and over until you die,” he says, and the priest nods along as he speaks attentively. “At least drugs break up the monotony a little.”

The unnamed malaise you feel on Sunday afternoons.

“Sure,” Father Armand agrees breezily, his eyes never straying from Daniel’s. “If you do them once in a while, maybe. But they’ve become part of your routine, haven’t they?”

Daniel crosses his arms belligerently. “You don’t know me, man. You’re not my fuckin’ friend.”

“I’m not here to be your friend, Daniel,” Father Armand replies, tone clipped and succinct; annoyed, almost. But then, more delicately, he adds, “I’m here to help you get better. The first step is admitting you have a problem, no?”

“I guess.” Daniel slumps back in his seat, running a hand over his face in exasperation. “All right, so let’s say I have a problem. What next?”

“The next step is coming to believe in a power greater than yourself.” The priest’s hands are clasped together, his thumbs twiddling idly as he speaks, “One that is capable of delivering you from your illness.”

“So, what,” Daniel deadpans. “I’ve gotta convert to Catholicism?”

“If you’re so inclined,” Father Armand responds wryly, as if he’s privy to some great secret that eludes the poor, ailing addict. Daniel wonders in that moment how old the other man is. He can’t have too many years on Daniel, surely, but he seems so much older that it’s almost a little unnerving. “However, it could be anything, really; your love for your family, your will to live. It could even be me, if you wanted.”

He says it like it’s meant to be another bad joke, but something about it brings Daniel up short. Like he’s not really joking at all, actually. “You could be my higher power?” he asks flatly, unsettled and using a fair amount of bluster to cover it. “Isn’t that sort of sacrilegious?”

“I’m not suggesting you pray to me; I’m suggesting you allow me to carry some of the pain that troubles you. To share in the weight of the dreary mundanities that lead you to use.” The priest’s eyes bore into his, his tone soft and reassuring. “I assure you, Daniel, God will have nothing to say about it.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

Father Armand smiles. “I want to help you. Is that so difficult to believe?”

And it is, really. But despite his misgivings—practically against his will—a sense of calm washes over Daniel at the sound of the priest’s voice; the crash of a wave lapping gently at a shoreline, soothing the impotent swell of restless irritation that has been building inside of him since he first sat down. All of that rage, those years and years of tiresome anger, snuffed out as easily as the flickering light of a candle. With nothing more than a few words, Father Armand has taken the heft of that burden from him, as effortlessly as if Daniel had handed it over to him willingly.

Rest, now.

Maybe he wouldn’t mind so much after all, he thinks—putting the confusing knot of chaos inside of him into someone else’s hands. Maybe it would be nice to give his will over to something greater than himself.

“Okay,” Daniel hears himself saying, as though from a great distance. He’s hardly even aware he’s speaking. “Okay. It can be you.”

Rest.

Father Armand beams at him then, and Daniel realizes for the first time how beautiful he is; he looks just like an angel in a Renaissance painting, like a portrait of a martyred saint. His eyes seem less brown, now, closer to the rich and vibrant glow of an ember. Of course Daniel can trust him. Of course.

“Excellent,” he says, and his hands extend to clasp around one of Daniel’s. The leather over his skin is cold. “You are safe with me, Daniel.”

Rest.

Mutely, Daniel nods. The part of him that wishes to object is so quickly subdued, as if smothered by an insistent hand.

“Now,” Father Armand begins, the dingy gold of the basement lights glistening off of his teeth, “you’re going to tell me about what happened before the drug den. What do you remember, Daniel?”

I’m the quiet you’ve been longing for.

As the unspoken words pierce through the veil of his cognition, Daniel jerks like a sleeper agent awakened. In between one moment and the next, his mind is inundated with lurid images of an apartment, the apartment he was in before he wound up in the den: a man—if he can even be called a man—who looks so much like the priest is hovering over Daniel, whispering devastating kindnesses into his ear until the fight slowly drains from his body. He tries to hold onto the shape of them, to remember what it was that happened, but the flashes slip through his fingers as easily as soap bubbles off of a dinner plate. As he reaches for them, grasps at them, a pressure builds in the base of his skull like a low roll of thunder, and a scream tears through his shaking body. He cannot hear it over the ringing in his ears, but he can feel it, feel it rattle his chest and reverberate in his bones. It is agony, unending and complete. It is torture.

The only comfort through all of it is the weight of Father Armand’s hand around his own.

“It hurts,” Daniel whines, instinctively trying to shy away from the throbbing fissure in his head by leaning further into Father Armand’s touch. Tears prick the corners of his eyes like pins.

“Does it?” the priest asks, voice steady and still like the face of a mountain. “Good. Pain is your body’s way of telling you to avoid something. If it hurts, move away from it.”

Daniel sobs, and the next thing he knows he is on the ground, having fallen off of his chair; the hard press of the floor underneath him is the only thing holding him up. “Please,” he begs, not really sure what it is he’s asking for.

A cool finger crooks under his chin to tilt his head up. Through his swimming vision, Daniel sees Father Armand looking down at him. “Do you want me to make it stop?”

“Yes,” he breathes, his body curling up into the fetal position like a dying cockroach. “Please.”

The priest frowns, dispassionate. “What would you do for it? What would you give?”

I could be on my knees in a second.

Another burst of pain blossoms underneath Daniel’s eyes and he winces, cries out. “Anything,” he promises, his fingers reaching out to clutch at the leg of Father Armand’s trousers. “I’d give anything.”

“Would you give me money, Daniel?”

He nods enthusiastically even as the motion of it only exacerbates his anguish. “Yeah,” he says, “everything I have.”

“Hmm,” the priest hums. His expression as he watches Daniel is calculating, frigid. Slowly, he lifts one Doc Marten-booted foot to rest on Daniel’s chest. “Would you give me your obedience?”

Instinctively, Daniel’s spine straightens under the weight of his heel, the firm way it presses down on him a strange but poignant comfort in his addled state. The feeling it grants him is not quite relief, but it is something adjacent to it, something that loosens the tightly-wound tangle of anxiety that squeezes his lungs. He craves more of it. “Yes.”

“Yes what, Daniel?”

He swallows roughly. “Yes, Father.”

Lowly, the priest murmurs, “Good boy.” He runs his tongue over his teeth, his gaze growing half-lidded and hungry. “Ask me what you can do for me, Daniel.”

A shudder runs through him, sharp and electric. His mouth tastes of ozone. “What can I do for you, Father?”

The priest grins at him, then, wicked and predatory. “Worship me.”

The words echo around Daniel’s mind like a hollow room, silencing all other thought. Silencing the terrible cacophony that has been threatening to rend his very self in two. He squirms with the ecstasy of it—the unparalleled bliss of reprieve—mewling his acquiescence to the priest’s demand.

He can feel Father Armand’s pleasure at his submission trickling like a leaky faucet down his spine. “Do you feel that, Daniel?” he asks, as calmly as if he were asking about the weather.

Tears are still streaming down Daniel’s cheeks; his nose is stuffed and snotty from crying. “Yes, Father,” he croaks.

“That is solace, my dear boy,” the priest tells him, unwavering and impassive. “I have given it to you, and I can take it away from you just as easily.”

At the thought of the pain returning, a fierce panic slices through Daniel, hot and pointed as a knife in his guts. “No,” he moans, his bottom lip quivering as he stares at Father Armand. “Please don’t.”

The boot presses down harder, pinning him to the yellowed carpet. “You forget yourself, Daniel,” the priest replies.

He whimpers and corrects himself: “Please don’t, Father.”

“That’s better,” Father Armand says with a mean twist of his lips. “Tell me: where is your place?”

And Daniel has played this role before, knows the script by heart. Could recite it in his sleep if he had to. “Beneath you, Father.”

The priest grinds his heel into Daniel’s sternum, then, wrenching a pitiful cry from between the boy’s lips. It hurts, of course, but in a different way than before; this isn’t the horror of his soul being cracked in half and poured over the ground. This is a familiar pain, a welcome one, one that Daniel arches up into like a cat stretching its back.

“Do you like that, Daniel?” Father Armand asks, a trace of amusement coloring his voice. “Do you like it when I hurt you?”

Wordlessly, Daniel nods, because he does. He always has. He’s always pining to feel something, anything. Whatever it takes if it means not being bored.

“Say it.”

“I like it,” Daniel wheezes, forcing the words out from underneath the weight on his chest. “I like when you hurt me, Father.”

“Greedy, aren’t you?” the priest purrs, half-aroused and half-contemptuous.

“Yes.” Daniel hisses, his fingers clawing into the carpet as his body curves to accommodate—to seek out—the press of Father Armand’s heavy boot. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, that he wants this after everything that’s happened today (the past week, some distant part of his mind whispers), but he does. Maybe he simply craves the release of oblivion after teetering over the edge of it. “Yes, Father.”

“I could make you feel good, too. If I felt like it.” He lifts his foot a fraction of an inch, enough to make Daniel’s lungs expand gratefully where they’ve been compressed. Then, slowly, he drags the toe of his boot down, down, down to where the boy is hard and aching in his jeans. He runs his instep along the shameful bulge that presses against Daniel’s zipper, pressing just lightly enough to tease. To threaten. “Do you want me to make you feel good?”

Daniel moans, a needful, pathetic little sound that makes Father Armand snarl. “I do, Father.”

“Do you think you deserve that, Daniel?” His boot pushes down a bit harder, and Daniel writhes into it, gasps at the delicious torment of the priest’s brutality.

“No, Father.”

“Beg for it, then.” Even though Daniel’s eyes are screwed shut, he can feel the burning weight of the other man’s stare boring into him. His boot steps harder still. “Beg for me. Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

Daniel wants to reply, knows that he needs to reply, but he can’t; his mouth is too occupied with crying out, held captive as he is in a state of delirium.

“Pathetic,” Father Armand spits at him. “Must I speak for you now, too?”

He can do nothing more than nod, than accept the fate he has been dealt at the hands of this cruel master.

“You want me to fuck you.” It isn’t a question; rather, the priest speaks flatly, clinically, down at the boy he has pinned. “You want me to bury my tongue in your ass until your voice gives out from screaming and then fill you to the point of breaking, is that right?”

The words are torn directly from Daniel’s thoughts as though Father Armand heard them uttered aloud. As though he can read the twisted desires playing on repeat in Daniel’s mind as plainly as thumbing through a children’s picture book. The noise Daniel makes isn’t so much language as one of desperation distilled.

The boot lifts off of his chest, suddenly. “Stand.”

Daniel does, albeit slowly and on shaky legs that threaten to buckle from underneath him.

Father Armand smiles. “Good boy.” He gestures with his chin in the direction of the table, still covered in untouched donuts and cold coffee. “Bend over. And drop your pants.”

Sweating and trembling, Daniel feels more of a mess now than he did the day he awoke from his bender. Like the screws holding him together have been loosened and he is the lightest touch away from falling to pieces. Nevertheless, he complies, bracing himself on his elbows as he awaits further instruction.

“You’ve been insolent,” Father Armand comments as he slowly comes to stand behind Daniel. He runs the fingertips of one gloved hand over the swell of the boy’s ass. “Don’t you think you deserve to be disciplined for that?”

And Daniel is still beyond the point of language, so all he can manage is a thin, reedy little moan. Internally, he is only capable of thinking the word please on a recursive loop.

There’s a rush of air, then, followed by the sharp sting of Father Armand’s leather-covered palm striking one cheek. Daniel sucks in a harsh breath, an involuntary inhalation somewhere between a hiccup and a gasp. He gets almost no break before he is being hit again, then again, over and over until he can feel the blood rising to the skin from the burst capillaries. Almost as if from another room, he can hear himself crying out. Although the soles of his feet are rooted to the church carpet, he feels as though his consciousness has abandoned his body to wander elsewhere. The pain is practically transcendent in its savage persistence, the only thing anchoring him to this material plane the rhythmic pulse of the blood rushing to his cock.

Father Armand is relentless, and Daniel wonders whether he is going to be punished past the point where he can no longer withstand it. Until suddenly, the abuse stops, and the priest instead permits his cool fingers to trace over the damaged skin. His touch is surprisingly gentle, laced with a fragile sort of reverence; Daniel can hear the rustling of fabric as the priest crouches down, as if seeking out a better angle from which to admire his own handiwork.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, spreading Daniel’s ass open, the word ghosting feather-light over the sensitive flesh. Daniel whines, restless with the effort of keeping himself still against the overwhelming urge to arch into the contact. “What a beautiful little thing you are.”

The praise wrenches a strangled cry from Daniel’s throat, wanton and depraved. He wishes he still possessed the ability to speak, wishes he could beg for Father Armand to please, please fuck him now. Beg the priest to make him full, to try and satisfy the yearning cavern inside of him.

He’d do anything to not be so fucking hungry.

The priest laughs as though he knows precisely what Daniel is thinking and then, with no warning, he is blowing a teasing breath over Daniel’s hole.

The boy nearly screams, his mind still running on the frantic hamster wheel of please, please, please, please, please—

Father Armand interrupts that train of thought by dragging the flat of his tongue over the skin that his breath just kissed, carefully unraveling what little remains of Daniel’s sentience until all that is left in its place is a moaning, bestial creature. A thing composed entirely of impulse, the only thing he understands at this point being what it means to want.

Instinctively, Daniel tries to grind back into the sensation, but the priest does not allow it, his leather-clad hold on Daniel wrought in immovable iron. At the denial, Daniel merely whimpers, no longer able to beg with anything other than his body and sincerely running the risk of going mad with need.

Patience, Daniel, he hears Father Armand admonish, as if from a stereo system inside of his head while the priest licks over him once more. He doesn’t even question it, really, content to assume that the universe is fracturing around him and that reality itself is simply splintering. It certainly feels that way, with how Father Armand’s tongue writes filthy love poems into his skin, with how he fucks into Daniel just enough to torture.

It is not unlike he is drowning, stranded in the middle of a vast ocean and being pulled under by the grasping appendages of the monsters below. He is overcome with a pleasure too fathomless to name, one that threatens to steal the air from his lungs and fill them with something more volatile and fluid. It’s exquisite. He needs it to stop. He never wants it to stop.

Again, Daniel hears the priest’s voice inside of his mind. So very needy, aren’t you? Filled to the brim with unrealized desire, aching for anything that might scratch the persistent itch deep within you.

The words seem to strip him bare, to peel back his skin and the viscera that holds him together until all of his nerves are exposed to Father Armand’s touch. At this point, he is cognizant only of the places where the two of them connect, the world zeroed in like a pinhole on the press of the priest’s tongue against his ass. He has no self outside of this point of contact, he thinks, and he doesn’t care at all. Can’t imagine caring about anything else ever again.

He keens, his hips attempting to roll back once more. This time, Father Armand lets him, allows Daniel to ride his tongue in the way he so desperately craves, and he gasps with the relief of it, his face buried in the crook of his arm as he thrusts backwards to where the priest’s mouth is waiting for him.

Then, one of Father Armand’s hands snakes around to grip Daniel in his fist, and it only takes a few strokes before the feeling of it swells into a feverish crescendo, before Daniel is twitching and spilling messily over the priest’s fingers.

Good boy, Father Armand says, tongue still deep in Daniel’s ass as he works him through the spasming aftershocks. Now, I need you to do something for me.

Daniel slumps onto the table, barely able to hold himself up, and nods limply. Anything. He’d do anything.

Stay still, Daniel.

Father Armand’s mouth moves to lavish a hot, wet kiss to where Daniel’s pulse pounds in his thigh, his teeth scraping delicately over the skin there. Then, there is the sensation of ice piercing his arteries, of numb and cold and bad and wrong.

The world begins to grow dim around the edges. The last thing Daniel remembers thinking before it all goes dark is, Please don’t kill me.

***

When Daniel awakens in his apartment the next morning, he has a bruise on his butt the size of an apple, a killer headache, and a voicemail on his answering machine:

Hey Daniel, this is Sandra. I was wondering why you missed your first N.A. meeting last night; Father Reynolds said you didn’t show. If you need help getting to them, let me know and I’ll help you work something out. Either way, try not to let it happen again, okay?

As he listens to his P.O.—who is apparently not named Sarah—speak, a lot of conflicting thoughts occur to him at once. Most of them are confused, disoriented, wondering what the fuck happened last night and who the fuck Father Armand really was.

But perhaps the loudest of all of them is the realization that that part of him that is so constantly reaching, so constantly starving, is finally contented.

For the first time he can remember, he is satisfied.

[waytooinvested]

Forgotten, Not Forgiven - Chapter 25

This and previous chapters are also on AO3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

‘Ten minutes Ms Luthor.’

Lena acknowledged the warning with a nod, and skimmed through her note cards one more time before heading to wait by the stage door, Jess following at her heels.

It was the final event on their tour schedule before they flew back to National City tomorrow morning, and it was a big one. Representatives from just about every newspaper and media station in the state and beyond would be there, ready to spread the word about the emissions converter far beyond the realms of tech and business executives to (hopefully) inspire the hearts and minds of the public on a global scale.

It was understandable therefore that when her phone rang with six and a half minutes to go until she was due to step out onto that stage, she didn’t pay it much attention.

Lena got dozens of phone calls most days, and while the majority of them were important matters demanding the attention of L-Corp’s CEO, very few were anything that couldn’t wait a couple of hours, especially during a major press event. Still, just to be safe she had given her phone to Jess and asked her to answer and triage anything that came through, and give her any urgent messages. There were only two numbers that she had told Jess to hand over to her directly, and the owners of both knew her itinerary for the week and would never dream of calling her right now unless there was a serious emergency, so it was safe enough to ignore-

‘Ms Luthor, I’m sorry but it’s one of your priority numbers. What would you like me to do?’

Lena’s attention snapped to Jess, and she held out her hand for the phone.

Alex.

Oh well, she had probably just got her times mixed up, and thought that the press event was just ending, rather than just starting. She glanced at the time – still six minutes to go before she was due on stage, she could make this quick.

‘Alex, this isn’t really a good time, can I call you back in a couple of hours?’

‘Lena…’

Alex’s voice sounded strange. Choked up and shaky, and nothing like her usual self. Adrenaline surged through Lena’s system and she clutched her phone, her mind instantly leaping to worst case scenarios.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s Kara.’

Lena closed her eyes.

Of course it was Kara.

‘She got picked up by our ambulance diversion alert about half an hour ago, and now she’s in the med bay. She’s stable, but…’

Alex broke off with another small, strangled sound, and Lena’s stomach twisted.

‘What happened to her?’

‘I don’t know. She was unconscious when they brought her in, and she hasn’t woken up yet. Apparently someone found her in an alley looking pretty badly beaten up and called 911, but no one saw what actually happened. Lena... can you come?’

Lena glanced over at the stage door and the assembled stakeholders, journalists and investors she knew were waiting beyond it, then turned her back on them all.

‘I’m still out of town, but I can be there within a couple of hours. Less if you can arrange clearance for my helicopter to land directly on the DEO helipad.’

‘Consider it done. I’ll have someone waiting to meet you there.’

‘See you soon.’

Lena terminated the call.

She allowed herself precisely four seconds to feel the wave of emotions the news had brought on:

Shock.

Terror.

Grief.

Fury.

Then on the fifth second she put them aside, and turned her focus entirely on what she needed to do next.

‘Jess, we’re going to have to cancel. I have to leave.’

Her assistant gaped at her, shaking her head in disbelief.

‘Cancel? Ms Luthor, we can’t. You’re due on stage in four minutes. Everyone’s here, everyone’s waiting. If we cancel now the whole launch will be impacted – there’s been so much build up, and we won’t be able to reschedule, not with the same reach we have now.’

Lena wanted to scream that she didn’t care, because the woman she loved was currently unconscious and if things took a turn for the worst and she wasn’t there, she would never forgive herself. But she knew that Jess was right. Cancelling now would put a black mark on L-Corp’s reputation that would be hard to overcome, and would doubtless irreparably damage several important client relationships. She couldn’t cancel.

But she couldn’t stay either.

‘Okay… okay, you’re right. So... what if you did the speech?’

‘Me?? But I’m not a scientist, I’m just your assistant, I can’t do it!’ Jess protested.

‘I know. I’m sorry to put this on you, and I wouldn’t if there was any other option, but there isn’t time to get anyone else here and brief them. You’ve been practising this speech with me for days, you know it as well as I do by this point, and you’d have the notes. There are some expected questions and answers on the back, but if anyone asks something you don’t know the answer to just explain you’re here filling in due to an unavoidable emergency and don’t know all the details, but that we will gather any questions and answer them in a press release within the week. And of course you’ll have Raj and Amanda to do the actual product demonstration so you won’t be alone up there.’

‘But what would I tell everyone when they ask why you’re not here?’

‘Tell them I have a burst appendix and had to go to hospital.’

Jess’s eyes widened in alarm, looking her up and down as if wondering whether she should be dialing 911.

‘DO you have a burst appendix?’

‘No. But I promise you this is as much of an emergency as if I did, and it’s easier to explain.’

Jess swallowed hard, looking pale beneath her layer of foundation.

‘Ms Luthor I want to help you but I’m really not sure I can do this…’

Lena put her hands on her assistant’s shoulders and looked into her eyes, trying to steady the desperate tremble in her hands to convey rock-solid confidence in her proposed plan.

‘Okay. Jess, I know I’m asking a lot of you and this is not in your job description. If you really don’t feel you can do the speech then that’s fine, I’ll just cancel and take the hit on the launch. But if you can do this for me, you will get a twenty thousand dollar bonus before the week is up, a ten percent ongoing pay rise, and my undying gratitude.’

It was a lavish promise, but likely only a fraction of the amount it could cost L-Corp if she cancelled the whole event, and right now money was the last thing Lena cared about.

Jess bit her lip, then Lena felt her shoulders straighten under her hands, resolve stiffening her spine.

‘… So I guess I’m making a speech.’

She let out a breath.

‘Thank you Jess. Seriously, thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Okay, I have to go.’

‘Good luck Ms Luthor.’

‘People who have done me favours this huge call me Lena.’

Jess smiled faintly at her and nodded.

‘Good luck… Lena.’

‘Good luck to you too Jess.’

And then she ran.

The journey in the helicopter was agonising, but at least she knew that with every wumph of the rotor she was getting closer to National City and the DEO. For once she didn’t even think about the possibility of crashing. All she thought about was Kara, and what the hell had happened to her to leave her beaten and unconscious in an alley.

Whoever had done this she hoped it had been worth it for them, because Lena was going to track them down, and if Kara didn’t come out of this one hundred percent recovered she was going to kill them. Slowly.

She was about 30 minutes out when she got a text from Alex:

Alex: She’s awake

Relief swept through her, and Lena read the short text five or six more times to convince herself that it was really real and she wasn’t just seeing what she hoped to see. She wanted to grill Alex for more details of exactly how Kara was and what had happened to her, but she clenched her hands into fists to quell the urge to type out her string of questions.

If Kara had only just woken up she would need some time before they started interrogating her, and Alex would want to focus on her sister right now.

Lena would get her turn.

Still, she kept her fists clenched tightly for the remainder of the journey against the temptation, so that by the time she arrived she had tiny, crescent shaped gouges across each palm.

As soon as they touched down she was out and running again, the agent who had been sent to meet her barely keeping up as she dashed past him to the elevator. Now she was so close she found every second of delay unbearable.

The interminable time it seemed to take for the elevator door to close.

The slow descent through the layers of the DEO building that made her want to dash out and take the stairs instead, even though she knew logically that standing still in an elevator would get her to the med bay faster than her own legs could.

But she wasn’t moving, and that left too much space for her to imagine what would be waiting for her when she finally arrived.

Kara, beaten and bruised and barely conscious.

Kara vomiting blood onto her sheets from internal injuries that her body would never normally have been capable of sustaining.

Kara relapsing from a brain bleed and seizing, or slipping into a coma.

Kara broken and in pain and…

At long last the doors opened and Lena burst into the med bay at a run, to find-

Kara, sitting propped up against several pillows, one leg in plaster, a bandaged wrist, and a large white dressing pad on her forehead. Her face was scraped and a little swollen, but she seemed fully alert, and the worst of Lena’s worst case scenarios unravelled and evaporated as she moved swiftly to her bed side.

‘Kara! Oh thank god. Kara.’

It was all she could manage as she drank Kara in, reassuring herself once and for all that she was alive, and alert, and showing no immediately obvious adverse affects from being knocked out.

‘Lena, hey! You came to see me! You didn’t have to do that, aren’t you meant to be giving a big speech right now?’

‘Never mind my speech. Are you alright? Kara, what happened? Did someone do this to you? Who do I need to kill.’

Kara chuckled, clearly not taking the question as seriously as Lena had meant it.

‘No, no I’m fine honestly. Nobody did anything to me, I just-’

She glanced up at Lena and bit her lip, then winced when her teeth met the split, swollen skin there.

‘Ouch! I keep forgetting about that.’

‘Kara, you just what?’

‘I just… fell.’

‘You fell.’

‘Yep!’

‘Down the stairs?’

‘Not exactly…’

Kara wriggled awkwardly against her pillows, as if she thought she might be able to hide from Lena’s stern gaze if she burrowed down deep enough.

‘You’re not allowed to be mad at me when I’m hurt, okay? Alex already gave me the lecture.’

Lena absolutely did not agree to that. She folded her arms and used her very best do-not-mess-with-me tone.

‘Kara Danvers, what did you do? Did you try abseiling by yourself? You promised you would wait until we’d done the safety research!’

‘I wasn’t abseiling!’

‘Really?’

‘Really really.’

But Kara didn’t quite meet her gaze, and Lena’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

‘So what were you doing?’

‘I just… well, I happened to see this video of a guy doing parkour on Youtube, and I thought it looked really fun. I just wanted to try it, it was going really well and I was so sure I could make the jump between those two buildings. It wasn’t even that big of a gap!’

‘You- are you seriously telling me that you got hurt because you literally jumped off a roof. For fun. Without any kind of harness. I’m not missing a subtlety here.’

‘Um… maybe a little bit?’

Lena sat down on the hard plastic chair at the bedside, her legs suddenly unable to support her own weight any longer, and took hold of Kara’s uninjured hand. How was it that she had made Kara promise not to abseil on her own, only for her to do something even more dangerous by essentially doing the same thing but without the rope?

‘Kara. Please. For the sake of my blood pressure, please promise me, no more extreme sports that don’t involve a proper safety harness and a qualified instructor.’

Kara grimaced.

‘Parkour’s not really extreme extreme.’

‘KARA.’

‘Okaaaay. It’s not like I’ll be up to jumping off any buildings for while anyway – it’s going to be weeks before the plaster comes off. I’m going to lose my mind.’

Lena relaxed a little at the promise, and allowed her expression to soften from stern to sympathetic, though she still couldn’t quite take in the fact that the beating she had been so sure had happened all the way here was actually entirely self inflicted.

‘Good. It’s going to take at least that long for me to recover from the shock of you almost dying because you “saw a guy do it on Youtube”. You almost gave me a heart attack.’

‘I’m sorry…’

The apology sounded so genuinely woebegone that Lena didn’t have the heart to stay angry with Kara, despite the fact that she richly deserved it (she jumped off a roof. For fun). She sighed, and stroked a consoling thumb across the back of her hand.

‘You won’t lose your mind. You might be stuck in one place for a while, but I’m sure we can find other ways to keep you entertained while you’re recovering. I’ll help you.’

Kara brightened instantly.

‘Does that mean you’ll do karaoke with me?’

‘What? No!’

‘Pleease? We can do a duet. It would make me feel better.’

She was giving Lena a full on puppy dog eyes look now, complete with as much of a pout as she could manage with a swollen lip and gravel-grazed cheek, and even though adrenaline was still coursing through her system and she absolutely shouldn’t be this easily won over after the shock Kara had given her, Lena couldn’t help laughing.

‘I know exactly what you’re doing, and yet somehow it still works. I will think about it.’

Kara grinned.

‘Yay! Oh this is going to be so much fun.’

‘I didn’t say yes!’

‘Yes you did.’

And, well, she wasn’t wrong. It looked like Lena was going to be taking part in karaoke night.

She could practically feel the entire Luthor line turning in their graves.

‘Okay, okay, you have exacted all the promises from me that you’re getting for right now. What do you feel like doing next? I think I still have a pack of cards in my purse if you want to play a game, or I could probably find a laptop we can borrow to watch netflix. Or do you need to sleep? Are you hungry?’

‘A game sounds nice. And if you’re offering I could go for some jello. That’s what people always eat in hospital shows, and being here is making me crave it even if this isn’t a proper hospital.’

‘Alright, I’ll be right back.’

Lena touched her lips briefly to the uncovered part of Kara’s forehead in a quick kiss that she hoped might just about pass for platonic, then slipped out the room to find Alex waiting for her in the hallway.

Her friend looked pale and haggard, as if she had been awake for two days straight, even though it had only been a few hours at most since Kara had been hurt. She looked almost worse than Kara did, and about how Lena herself felt.

‘She told you what happened?’ Alex asked.

‘Yes. I can’t believe she did that.’

‘It’s a bad sign, isn’t it?’

Lena glanced back at the closed med bay door and beckoned Alex away down the corridor. Kara might have lost access to her super hearing, but she still had sharp ears, and there was no point taking chances. Even once they were well out of range of any possibility of being overheard, she kept her voice low.

‘It’s not good. Without powers it’s sheer luck that a fall like that didn’t kill her, and even that wasn’t enough to overcome the fear barrier and let her fly. If she can’t break through it even to save her own life, I’m not sure she will for anything.’

All the time they had been working together to get Kara’s Supergirl memories back Lena had never seen Alex break down, but now tears spilled down her cheeks and she let out a shaky sob.

‘Fuck.’

Physical affection between them was mostly limited to the odd shoulder squeeze interspersed with minor acts of violence, but at the sight of her tears Lena pulled Alex into a tight hug without a second thought.

‘Hey, it’s okay! Kara’s going to be fine, and we’ll work this out. Lex may be a devious shit, but you and I can beat him, I know we can. We just need to find a way to give Kara more help to face her fears than we have been so far. We can do this Alex.’

Alex hugged her back, hard, and allowed herself a few hearty sobs against Lena’s blazer before straightening up and wiping her eyes.

‘You’re right, we are a kick ass team. I’m really glad you’re here Lena, I don’t know how I’d get through this without you. Whatever happens, you belong here now, you know? You always will. Even after all this is over.’

Lena felt a warm glow at Alex’s words, and hoped that she was right. She wanted to belong with them. But she wiped her own eyes quickly, and tried to stay practical – it was what they both needed right now.

‘So I’ve been thinking about what’s going to happen when Kara’s ready to leave the med bay. With a sprained wrist and a broken leg, she’s not going to be able to manage by herself for a while.’

‘Oh, yeah, well I figured I’d go and stay at her place for a bit. We’ll drive each other nuts, but it’ll be fine. We lived together as teenagers without killing each other.’

‘Yes, that’s one option. Or… Kara could come and stay with me.’

‘Wait, seriously? Don’t you think that might be too much for you given… you know…’

Alex made a vague gesture that Lena knew was somehow meant to encompass her unspoken feelings for Kara, Project Atlantis, their complicated history, and the more recent hiccup over William and his investigation.

‘...everything?’

‘I can handle it. Besides, it makes the most sense. Kara’s apartment has all those stairs, she’d be practically trapped in her own home once she made it up there, and yours only has one bed, plus there’s Kelly to think of. I have a private elevator to the penthouse and a spare bedroom, and anyway, my job allows much more flexibility to work from home than yours does, so I can be there with her 24/7 until she’s well enough to start doing some things for herself.’

‘I… yeah. Yeah, if Kara’s on board that does sound like a good solution. Thanks Lena.’

‘Of course. Now, next problem: do you have any idea where I could get hold of some jello around here?’

[multifandomtrashwritings]

Pros & cons of laboratory mishaps (Pt.1)

Dottore x Fem! Reader (NSFW in future)

I've tried to keep reader as vague as possible, but she's bisexual (for the fem segment) and her hair is longer than Dottore's. Also uses a dendro delusion.

A/N: Does anyone whose into Genshin also have an interest in BBC's Merlin? Because the whole premise of this fic is the troupe of 'magically feeling each other's touches' that is common over there griping me by the throat and shouting 'Dottore'. This part is also mainly intro stuff since Tumblr has a word limit... But I'm posting the smaller second bit with this anyways :)

If there was one thing your time at the Fatui had taught you, it was that you could never anticipate what life would throw at you. When you’d first signed up (mostly out of necessity) and were given a shiny new dendro delusion you could’ve never predicted that it would lead to becoming close with the infamous second harbinger. And yet here you were, regularly meeting with either Dottore himself or one of his many segments to have various tests taken to try and work out why your delusion didn’t drain your life force no matter how much you used it. And more importantly, how to replicate this ‘fluke’ you’d experienced. It was once such routine meeting that set off a chain of events so bizarre, you’re sure only those involved would believe, a chain that led to perhaps the most confusing relationship status one could have.

Ever since you’d discovered that your delusion didn’t drain your life force like they did your comrades you’d been transferred from being a generic recruit serving under whoever had menial tasks at any particular time to working pretty much directly under Lord Dottore himself. At first the decision terrified you, you’d heard the other new recruits’ gossip about how they’d prefer to work under any harbinger but Dottore and the horror stories many brought back whenever someone was unlucky enough to be assigned to the rare instance of Dottore needing a recruit’s help, or more accurately Dottore’s assistants requesting extra help. You’d never been lucky (Or unlucky) enough to have experienced such things firsthand, but it’s all that you could think of as you nervously made your way through the basement level of Zapolyarny Palace with your pathetically small duffle bag of belongings.

Despite your concerns your first meeting with the harbinger went quite well, or rather what you’d at first assumed was the harbinger and later learnt was in fact a segment, Beta to be precise. Beta was the most ‘normal’ of the bunch, having the most social awareness and least extreme emotions. For the first week you only ever saw Beta, and whenever there wasn’t a need for any samples from you, you were pretty much free to do what you liked. As long as you kept up your training to continue to monitor how your delusion reacted to increasing strength.

And that was the routine you settled into happily, spending at least half a day everyday training and stopping by the lab pretty much every other day for someone to take some blood or stick some sensors on you and monitor various things. At first you only ever delt with Beta, and that was fine since the rumors could very well be true about the ‘real’ Dottore and you were happy to stay in your bubble with the relatively nice segment. After a few weeks though you were introduced to another segment. This one was more like what you’d feared, Delta’s mood changed as quick as the snow pelted the palaces windows, and the moon-like mask he wore only served to exaggerate his crazed smiles and intense eyes. Still, Delta wasn’t unbearable, and you soon worked out that playing to his ego was a guaranteed way to make any encounter with him almost pleasant.

The next segment you met was on accident, after you went out to the training grounds later in the day than you normally would due to a snowstorm. You were met with a small child with a familiar mop of mint blue hair and distinct glowing earring sitting in the snow making a crude snowman. The young segment couldn’t be any older than 10 years old and watched you train intently. After you’d finished and were sitting on a bench to enjoy the gardens while you caught your breath he approached you slowly, introducing himself as Epsilon and bombarding you with questions about your delusion and fighting style, having heard about your unique situation from the other segments. From then on Epsilon had decided he liked you, and often watched you train, eventually convincing you to become an informal mother figure for him, which you were hesitant to do since who knows what the actual Dottore would think of it, but Epsilon was persuasive, and you never heard anything after he started regularly spending time in your small quarters with you.

After Epsilon you met the last few segments all at once, due to them all being in the lab when you’d gone in for your weekly blood test. There were four segments milling around the lab, doing various things and you took a moment to observe them as you tried to decide who you were supposed to be asking to take your blood. There was a segment dressed in a outfit clearly reminiscent of the Sumeru Akademiya’s scholars robes, who you later learned was Alpha, a similar looking segment with more travelling style gear called Gamma, a tall segment noticeably much older than the rest with a distinct beaked mask over his eyes and a very complicated looking outfit called Omega and the last one made you do a double take, it was a woman (a quite beautiful woman your bisexual heart told you) but still clearly a segment who you learnt was called Xi. Omega had taken your blood that day and mentioned something in passing about ‘Prime’ who you assumed was the real Dottore wanting to meet you himself at some stage. His words made you worried, but not as much as when you first learnt you’d be working under him, after all Omega was supposedly the closest in age to Dottore and he was nice enough, if a bit awkward at actually conversing with you on personal level, and you were sure he wouldn’t be worse than Delta, who over time had come to tolerate you, bestowing you with the very friendly nickname of his ‘favourite test subject’.

The day you met Dottore you’d had no time to mentally or physically prepare yourself, having been expecting to see Beta or Alpha you’d trudged down to the lab in your pyjamas after waking up late due to a headache. Swinging the lab door open without really looking inside you only realized something was different when no one scolded you for wearing your pyjama shirt into the lab, since apparently it was more difficult for them to pull the sleeves up enough to draw blood since it was so thick and had nice long sleeves. Glancing around the lab to see where the segments were only to realize there were none and instead at the desk in the centre of the lab, the one none of the segments ever used was unmistakably the real Dottore. He was leaned over the desk writing something, and his hair was mostly similar to Omega’s just a bit longer and quite messy. He wore a long lab coat, and it was fully buttoned up so you couldn’t make out what he was wearing underneath, but as you approached slowly he looked up and noticed you making you freeze for a second before forcing yourself to continue approaching. As you stopped just in front of his desk he gave you a quick once over, and you cursed yourself for not bothering to change into more presentable clothing, you may have gotten comfortable with the segments but this was the actual harbinger! And your first meeting at that. To your relief though he doesn’t comment nor seem to have any reaction to your clothing choice, just motioning you over to a stool and silently drawing the few vials that was always taken for analysis. Afterwards though he spoke to you for the first time, his voice recognizable as similar to the segments, but also completely unique. “I intend to move on to testing the effects of some potions on yourself and your delusion. I expect you to prepare yourself to make observations round the clock when the time comes.” He says, his voice smooth, but noticeably tired. You nod quickly, not wanting to annoy the harbinger and he dismisses you, letting you hurry out of the lab and continue with your day.

[jennycalendar]

Khalid, Dry spell

l o l. nsfw under the cut. unresolved pining abounds.

It's only that it has been too long. He wouldn't have let his eyes linger if not for the fact that it hasn't been--well, it hasn't ever been, exactly, but that's beside the point. At the very least he's touched himself--well, what he's trying to say, if only in the privacy of his own mind, is that he hasn't had a moment to himself for some time, and a moment to oneself is necessary more than expected when one is traveling with Jaheira.

Of course he doesn't mean to be disrespectful! The very thought of reducing Jaheira to her body alone sends a pulse of horrified anger through him. It's more that there are other things she does that catch his body's attention--a natural physiological reaction when he hasn't had time to--privacy for--

She had picked him up the other day. This is no small feat; he is not a lithe man. Lean, perhaps, but military training has given him solid muscle and enough bulk that he would not have expected someone as small and slight as Jaheira to even attempt carrying him. He had broken his leg, and even too exhausted to cast, she had found the strength to toss him gracelessly over her shoulder and haul him out of the battlefield at a run. She'd lost her balance as soon as they'd reached safety, tumbled halfway down a ravine, and he'd been terrified that she had been seriously hurt, but she'd sat up on her elbows with bright eyes, too breathless to speak, and touched his face like he was the one point of light in a dark room, and he'd felt--he'd almost been able to believe--

His breathing hitches dangerously even as he thinks about it. Imagines what it would be, her strong hands pinning him down as they do in training, her legs tightly straddling his waist to keep him in position underneath her, her sharp, focused eyes drinking him in. All of these images come only from what has happened before. This feels important--and yet he does not dare presume.

Guiltily, his hand drifts lower. He is alone tonight. Alone, and whenever this occurs, the only thing he can possibly think of is her. He has allowed himself vague, half-formed fantasies before, but none so pronounced as Jaheira, every memory in sharp relief, her firm touch and her supple body. He imagines that piercing, reproving gaze as she instructs him, guides him, with that clipped, awkward patience that always makes him swell with--

With--

It's blessed relief when his fingers close around his shaft, minimized only by the ache of not knowing how she would touch him. Would it be quick, firm strokes, her characteristic brisk precision, her determination to reach their intended destination? Would it be slow, careful, gentle, that furtive warmth that she seems so determined to hide from the rest of the world? His longing for her is such that it overrides his ability to feel ashamed that he wants her to touch him. He wants to touch her. He wants to feel her tremble underneath him, not with fear, but with that relieved certainty of knowing she is safe. She never carries herself like a woman who is sure she is safe. He wants to bring that certainty to her.

His pleasure does not build evenly. It slopes sideways, uncomfortably, his whirling mind unwilling to cooperate and relax into sensation. He drops his hand with an exhalation, almost a cry, through gritted teeth, still painfully hard.

There is a rapid hammering at his door.

Khalid awkwardly wipes his hand on the sheet, then pulls it tight over his lap and calls back, "I-I'm fine!"

From the other side of the door, Jaheira demands, "If you are ill--"

"I'm fine," a mortified Khalid assures her. How did she even hear him?

"There was an irregularity in your breathing, and as your senior Harper--"

"Wh-what are, are you doing out--outside my room?"

A very strange silence follows his question. There is then the sound of rapidly retreating footsteps.

Khalid does not have the energy to dissect this. He is almost grateful for the interruption. It's a relief--a reminder of the difference between fantasy and reality. A hard oak door stands between them, and Jaheira has no interest in stepping into his rooms.

[notdacota]

Let's go away for a while

Summary: Jackal gets sick with flu, his s/o takes care of him.

A/N: I'm sick for past two weeks, but I can't stay at home anymore, so I'm lowkey projecting it on Jackal😿 I'm biggest beach boys fans, so naturally I just had to write something with same title as their song.

The evening settled in with a cool stillness, the kind that made the shadows in the corners of the room deepen and the world outside feel like a distant hum. The Jackal, however, was far from his usual composed self. He was sprawled on the couch, his usual air of cool detachment replaced with the unmistakable signs of someone running a fever. His face, usually sharp and unreadable, was flushed, and his usual crisp posture had collapsed under the weight of the flu.

You had noticed it earlier in the day. He had refused all offers for rest, of course, too focused on the task at hand, whatever it was. But now, there was no escaping it. You were in the kitchen, steeping some tea—ginger, honey, and a slice of lemon. He was still a man who didn’t take kindly to being fussed over, but you knew this wasn’t something he’d shake off so easily. When you returned with the steaming mug, he was staring at the ceiling, his eyes half-closed in a kind of half-conscious daze. For all his attempts to maintain control, he looked unusually vulnerable in that moment.

"Feeling better?" you asked, setting the mug down on the coffee table, close enough for him to reach, but far enough to give him his space. The Jackal blinked slowly, then let out a small, hoarse sigh. "I’m fine," he said, voice rough. It was the same deflection you expected—he wasn’t about to admit weakness. Then he coughed. Of course, you didn’t buy it. You took a seat on the arm of the couch, watching him out of the corner of your eye as he reached for the mug with a lazy hand. He took a slow sip, his usual quick, precise movements slightly off-kilter in his current state. He grimaced slightly as the warmth hit the back of his throat.

“It’s good,” he said, though his tone was strained. “Better than what I’d make myself.” You didn’t respond immediately, watching as he took another sip, then placed the mug back on the table. His eyes, sharp and calculating even when half-lidded, flicked up to meet yours. “I assume you’re not going to let me off the hook with just this?” You gave him a small smirk, leaning back slightly, but never breaking eye contact. "No, I’m not. You’re obviously not *fine*."

The Jackal exhaled sharply through his nose. "I’ve had worse," he muttered, a hint of irritation in his voice. "This is nothing." You raised an eyebrow.

"Right. You look like you're ready to drop dead." He didn’t respond immediately, his usual steely reserve starting to slip just a little as the flu took its toll on him. He looked like he wanted to argue—he usually did—but he was too tired to carry on with the usual back-and-forth.

After a beat, he shifted on the couch, his legs stretching out, and a small sigh escaped him, one that was almost involuntary."You don’t need to stay," he said, his tone a little softer than usual. "I’m just... waiting it out. It’ll pass."

You couldn’t help the small, affectionate smile that tugged at your lips. "You’re really not good at this ‘letting someone help’ thing, are you?" His lips twitched into the slightest of smiles, but it was gone in an instant. “It’s... unnecessary.” The Jackal had always been a man who didn’t need anyone. He was methodical, sharp—always the one in control. But you’d seen him worn down before, and though he hated showing any vulnerability, you could tell this flu was taking more out of him than he was willing to admit. He wasn't accustomed to being in a situation where he couldn't maintain his usual distance from everything.

"You’re impossible," you said, standing up and leaning over to adjust the blanket he had wrapped around himself. "You’ll make yourself worse if you keep this up." He didn’t fight it. Instead, he shifted slightly.

There was a faint flicker of gratitude in his eyes, but it was brief, almost imperceptible. “Don’t get any ideas,” he muttered, though the sharpness in his voice had all but disappeared. You chuckled softly, sitting down next to him on the couch, close enough to be present, but still leaving him with that space he seemed to need. “I’m not going to start making you soup or anything. But I’ll stay for a while.” He raised an eyebrow, his expression still cool, though there was a hint of something else in his gaze.

“Good,” he said, with the faintest trace of a smile. You let the silence settle in between you, not trying to push anything further. The Jackal wasn’t one for idle conversation—especially not when he was unwell—but you could tell the presence of someone else, even in the simplest form, was enough for him right now. After a while, you noticed that he was sinking deeper into the couch, his posture slackening in a way that was unusual for him. He wasn’t completely out of it, but you could see his body succumbing to the fatigue of being ill, his usual sharpness and attention to detail slipping away with every passing minute.

“I suppose you’re going to lecture me on ‘taking it easy’ now,” he said, his eyes half-lidded and his voice a little more drowsy than he probably intended.You shook your head with a small laugh. “No lectures. Just... rest. I’m not going anywhere.” He let out a soft sigh, one that was more content than anything else. And for a moment, just for that brief, rare moment, you saw a different side of the Jackal—the man who was usually calculating, always calculating, now simply existing in quiet, unspoken comfort. You didn’t need to say anything else. The two of you sat there in the soft, fading light of the evening, the only sounds the occasional shift of the Jackal’s breath, the low hum of the house. He might not have admitted it aloud, but you both knew this moment, this bit of peace, was rare. And maybe, just for tonight, it was enough.